CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - 7 SCARY Reddit Horror Stories To Warm You up for Christmas

Episode Date: December 16, 2020

LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "How I Lost My Wife" Creepypasta►20:32 "I’m a social worker for psychic children" Creepypasta►46:30 "I Call My Father Every Christmas, This Year He Finally Called Me Back" Creepypasta►1:21:21 "If you follow the rules, you’ll be safe" Creepypasta►1:38:32 "WARNING: Never Camp Outside a Haunted Tree" Creepypasta►1:57:44 "BEWARE the Animatronic Santa at the Hardware Store" Creepypasta►2:13:29 "The Northern Fortress, Once Thought Impregnable, of the Snow Cleric Santa Claus" Creepypasta►2:42:54 "Not All Monsters Live in the Woods" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Stefan Koidl: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/DXo10SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

It was a sailboat coming back into the bay. My wife had asked me to stop on a way home, and so we pulled into the small scenic area on the cliffside road to watch the boats. She would often sketch them, and she did so then on a notepad. I remember eventually looking away from the sailboat to instead admire her, and she, deep in her drawings, didn't see the truck. I saw it only in a flash over a shoulder. I know it hit her, and I'm sorry.

must have been thrown under the cliffside. That was the last thing I remember. The sailboat. And then, I was here. The doctor nodded, finally looking up from his notes. He clicked his pen, absentmindedly for a while. I shifted my weight in the stiff hallway chair and moved the ice back from the bruise on my head to those on my lower back.

I had only suffered a mild concussion and, miraculously, no broken bones. In the time I'd been unconscious and examined, my wife had been taken. into emergency surgery. It was for this reason my gaze again shifted from the doctor to the surgery ward doors behind him. He gave his notes one last look and, finally, seeming satisfied, returned his pen to his coat pocket and followed my gaze.

He answered before I asked and told me my wife was still in critical condition but they would let me know as soon as there was a change. The same answer the nurses had given me. It was already dark outside And I sat there Worrying for hours Questioning the nurses and doctors

Until they began to avoid me Their answer always the same The morning light had just begun to appear When I met him The foreign doctor came in from somewhere And after questioning a nurse at the desk She pointed me out to him He approached me in a great hurry

Handed me a stack of papers And speaking with a slight accent that I couldn't quite place. His words were short and blunt. Your wife is dying. I may be able to help her. He spoke briefly of a condition that she had lost motor function

that she wouldn't be able to breathe on her own soon, that she had brain damage. He wanted to perform an experimental procedure he was pioneering, saying it could at best return a motor function eventually that she would live. He hesitated to explain further, but as I began sight,

planning every form and waiver he had handed me, he instead simply pointed out where I had to initial as well, and then took the forms and quickly went into the surgery ward. Eventually, he came out of the ward, wearing a surgeon's outfit, still moving with great haste. He was moving to another area of the hospital, and a retinue of other surgeons and doctors followed him with equal speed. I stood then, thinking out to call to them,

but they moved quickly, fussing about with a tangle of wires and small machines, passing them to one another as they moved, and there, in between them, underneath the mess of wire and machines, on a narrow operating bed. I saw her. My wife. I cannot describe how she looked lying there, because I cannot allow myself to recall the image. I was certain she was dead. She was broken so terribly that there could be no way she still lived. And, in a moment of noise and a clattering of wheels, they were through the next doors and gone.

I stood there for some time, numb. Eventually, a nurse called out to me, rousing me from my shock. I turned to her, but could not answer whatever she had said to me. She looked at me kindly and said I should head to the cafeteria to get some food. She said they would page me over the hospital's intercom when something changed. I didn't respond and simply sat there as my ruling mind made sense of what she said. No words came to me, and, be able to me. Before she could speak again, the surgery ward doors were again thrown open by a team of doctors.

I spun, not knowing what to expect, but expecting something nonetheless. But it was not my wife. Instead, a team of surgeons, similar to the last group, came from the ward, moving in the same direction my wife had gone. This time, however, they were hampered by a large man strapped down to a hospital bed. He writhed and struggled against his restraints, his eyes wild. Every part of him seems strained, the veins and tendons standing out starkly underneath his skin. He twisted roughly, seemingly trying to fight the doctors off

as they cursed and struggled to keep the bed straight. The man in the bed saw us as he went past, and through his roughly chewed mouth restraint, he called out to me. Help me, stop them, he cried in a harsh voice. But a moment later, he was gone, through the next doors, still fighting all the while. The nurse hurried after the group of doctors, and left alone there still numb, I decided to wonder.

I don't know how many hours I spent in the winding hospital corridors. I passed through the cafeteria several times, but I ate nothing. I had no appetite, no energy. My bruises ate and I had lost my ice pack somewhere. My phone had died long ago, and I marked the time passing as I walked by windows. Morning became afternoon. Afternoon threatened to become night again. Eventually, I found myself near the surgery ward,

I had started, and the memory of my wife bought its way through my clouded mind. How do I describe losing her? How can words describe the death of one so dear? I was unthinking, marvelling at the world as if through glass. The world I had lived in with her, now on display in front of me, untouchable. Her death was incomprehensible, too large for the mind to fully grasp. hers was the death of a nation, the loss of a war, an event that would stand out in mankind's history.

Her tragedy. If you can grasp even a portion of how I felt, of how deep my loss was, then perhaps you too can imagine the height of spirit I felt, seeing her in a wheelchair when I finally returned to the surgery ward. She smiled weakly, but she saw me and smiled all the same. I rushed to her and the colours of the world,

flooded from her, relighting the world. I wept, and though the doctor spoke, I could only look towards them through tears, reverently, as they talked. Ever so gently, trembling, my wife's hand came to my face, and I took it in my own. I felt the roughness of the bandage, and I truly looked at her. She was completely covered in bandages, stitches and dressings. Her hair had been shaved, and the scars formed a web around her head, face, and neck.

Reason began to return to me. Half-blood transfusions, all after 13 hours, she is a miracle. The accent tinted the words as he spoke them, and I looked at the doctor that I had signed all the paperwork for, the experimental procedure. It worked, I said dumbly, still stunned. Yes, but this is beyond my expectations. For her to regain this level of motor function should have taken months.

She's not even begun to heal. She will have to be studied as you agreed to. He said the last few words with emphasis, but I had no intention of refusing. He had saved her from certain death. She would remain at the hospital for several days, but I could still visit her. With the weight of her death lifted from my shoulders,

the weight of hunger, exhaustion, and my own injuries fell on me heavily. I returned home, and the days passed by in a blur of paperwork, phone calls and hospital visits. Her recovery was miraculous. Every day she made incredible strides in her strength and motor skills. By the end of the week, she was her old self, smiling, talking, laughing. Her drawings was as sharp and beautiful as they had ever been.

With the agreement that we continued to return to the hospital every other day for study, she was given leave to return home. The joy that came back into my life was greater than I had ever known until that point. our marriage had always been happy but having nearly lost each other we took nothing for granted we spent all our moments together I played music for her

in the evenings while she used the large canvases she had always been so afraid of wasting family on both of our sides came and visited doing everything they could to make her recovery easier and for those first two weeks back from the hospital I was perhaps the happiest I had ever been once she had most of her stitches out the recovery process slowed, then worsened.

She was beset by headaches that seemed a little worse every day. Small things would affect her severely, such as frequent muscle cramps and bouts of fatigue. It took its toll on her mood as well, and sometimes she would withdraw from me completely, or instead cling to me as if her safety. She began to speak less, and at times became unresponsive. The frequency of our hospital visits increased, and seemingly every one of the them involved an MRI or scan of her head. The foreign doctor answered few of my questions, and I began to fear her recovery was at risk, that she was in danger. Things continued to

worsen until one day, when I was in another room, I heard a scream from the kitchen. I ran into the room to see her on the ground, blood spilling from a clean cut angled across her arm. She was hyperventilating, looking through me instead of at me. I went to her. I went to her and tried to calm her, asking her what had happened. He attacked me, she said, shakily, fear playing across her face. Who, who attacked you? I asked. Looking around the room, I saw no one. No open door or windows, nothing. Troy, she said in a whisper. Tears forming in her eyes, she pointed a shaking hand towards

the bloody kitchen knife, laying near the wall as if thrown. He... He... He wants to kill us. He wants revenge. He said... Her hand went to her mouth covering it. And for a moment she looked scared.

Before doubling over and crying out, her hands went to her head. Who is Troy? Is he still here? I asked. My eyes darting between her and the doorways. Yes, she whimpered. I gathered her in my arms and went to her bedroom, placing her gently on the bed and quickly locking the door.

She cried softly as I got my handgun from the safe near the nightstand I turned to comfort her and the words caught in my throat The cut had been deeper than he originally thought And bright blood had begun to pull in the folds of her clothing My mind raced We had to get to the hospital Quickly I tied off a hand towel to her arm to staunch the bleeding And carried her to the car

Not daring to wait for an ambulance I spoke with the emergency upright on the phone As I spared to the familiar hospital and thanked any higher powers that we were listening for each green light and the closeness of proximity from the hospital to our home. Staff met us as we pulled up to the emergency room entrance and my wife was in poor shape. She convulsed, skin pale, feigned standing out against the skin.

She moved stiffly as the staff transferred her to the wheelchair. I had taken the gun from my waist and tossed it quickly into the car, leaving the vehicle parked halfway in the curb. Inside, I saw the doctor waiting for us. I followed the foreign doctor deeper into the hospital. My wife was treated with the cut, but she was fearing poorly. The convulsions had turned to fit, and she clawed at herself, drawing more and more blood. Eventually she was sedated.

As the doctor began calling for another scan of her head, I stopped him. He made to move past me, and I grouted him by the coat, my fear and anger becoming strength, and turned him roughly to face me. What is happening to her? I demanded. He looked at me with disdain. She is getting worse. He tried to pull my hand from his coat.

My grip was like iron. Why? What is happening? I think she cut herself, I said. He gave me a puzzled lock. With a knife in our kitchen. She said Troy attacked her, I said. The puzzled look vanished from his face.

And instead, his eyes. widened, colour draining from his face. That's impossible, he whispered. I watched him as he lost focus on me. He was deep in thought, my grip on his coat suddenly forgotten. Who is Troy? I asked. He hesitated, and I redoubled my grip, pulling him towards me.

I repeated my question and held his gaze. He seemed to crumple a bit, the hesitation giving way to answers. He is gone. Your wife, her brain, the nervous system, some parts. Here, he hesitated again, searching for the words. Parts of a brain were destroyed. They were dead. My surgery.

It takes parts from a good brain, and it makes them work together. Troy was the other half, a prisoner with a death sentence. But it was not the parts controlling memory, only motor function and feeling. It doesn't make any sense what you said. His confusion seemed genuine. His brain? How can dead parts replace dead parts? Why his?

No, no. A living brain. Living parts. He said. Look on his face spark in my memory. The other man strapped to the hospital bed that day. One who had called out to me. I couldn't believe it.

I hadn't read the forms at the time. I simply signed them. He's dead. He cannot hurt her, the doctor said. His voice was strained and he struggled against my grip, which was now near his neck. I tightened my hold on his coat without having realised it. I released him, my mind still racing. The crashing of broken glass broke my train of thought, and there was yelling in the waiting room we had come through earlier.

I left the doctor and went to see what had happened. There, through the broken, large pain window was my wife. Still, in her blooded clothes, hospital restraints hanging limply from one of her wrists and legs. Bloods speckled the pavement as she walked, stiffly towards her parked car. I raced after her, forgetting the doctor. By the time I made it through the panicked lobby and out the door to join her, she was crouching next to our car. His passenger window smashed in.

I called to her as I ran, and as she stood there, I saw, for the briefest moment, the flicker of memory and her strained muscles, in the way the tendons and veins stood out on the broken, bloodied arm that had smashed the window. She turned to face me, lifted a good arm, and, before I could say anything, the world spun. I didn't hear the gunshot. I didn't feel the bullet hit me. I didn't hear or feel anything at all.

I was on the ground, paralysed, my vision blurred and went in and out of focus. She was talking, yelling at someone. Was it me? More gunshots. Suddenly, I can only see out of one eye, and as I lay there, dying, I saw her, or someone within her, put the gun to her head. My scream died in my throat, trapped, and as the gun went off, I watched the fall. Darkness came, and the light of my world went out a second time.

I awoke to my wife's voice. She called my name softly at first, then louder and louder still, until it shook me and I jolted away. The light above me was blinding, and as the vision in my single eye came into focus, I saw the two surgeons standing over me. I was laying down. I sat up quickly, my vision swimming, my head aching. I tried to speak, but my lips moved numbly, fumbling my wife's name. I tried again with more success. I still heard her.

I called out to her again. The surgeon nearest me had dropped the bandages he was holding, and, was backing away from me. Impossible. The words came from the surgeon behind me, the accent. I turned to him, but my wife was screaming now, the panic in a voice so vivid, I actually felt it. I looked around for her, calling out again.

Where is she? I asked the doctor. He met my gaze. She is dead, one hour ago. No, she's dead. here. I know she is. The panic of my wife screaming bled into my own voice. Another voice was rising against hers. Rougher, deeper, angrier. It threatened to drown her out. I tried to stand by my legs wouldn't support me. I felt augudly to the hard, cold floor. Around me, the surgeons and assistants moved away from me. I pull myself hurriedly to the bed next to mine. I know she's here, I yelled it,

trying to be heard over the horrible rough laughter that now echoed through my very body. My wife's calling seemed further away. She's here, I screamed. And with a great heave, I pull myself upright over the adjoining bed, over the body covered by the hospital sheet. Yes, he said meekly. I felt my strength drain. This was wrong.

I slumped back to the floor. Pain overcame me. I barely heard. him. The accent was audible over Troy's accusations, over his rambling threats and laughter. My hands clutched at the hundreds of stitches winding around my head. I felt the blood. Was it mine? Whose blood was this? I stood on unfamiliar legs, on my own legs. In a way, she saved your life, the doctor said. His hands were clasped in front of mine. I focused our eye on him. I could see the shame, the regret.

the pain the doctor felt was plain on his face. I turned, my hand brushing the sheet hanging off the nearby hospital bed. Perhaps he truly did regret what he had done. He never intended to hurt us. But, despite all of this, my wife was dead. And so, when Troy lunged at him, I did not stop him. I don't know how many days, months or years have passed since that day. Time is hard to keep in the asylum, depending on one hour of more.

control. Sometimes I miss meals or periods of the day when joy is stronger. But on days like this, when I have an arm unbound and I can write on the big sheets of sprawling paper with the waxy little charcoal bits they give me, I can pass the day in relative peace. I haven't heard my wife since that day, and at times I feel myself losing control in greater amounts all at once. But on days like this, when I can write, the day sometimes passes me by completely. But when I have control again, I find there, sometimes in the corner of my paper, a little sailboat cruelly drawn, as if from a long ways off. And on those days, a little bit of happiness comes back to me. The parents have it the hardest.

First they have to figure it out. The powers, the visions, whatever it might be. If they're lucky, they're put in contact with us before it gets serious. if they're unlucky, they can lose everything. One girl, a really nasty job I didn't even get to meet. By the time I turned up, the whole family had been crammed into the oven and the house was burned down. We had to peel them out of it, one by one, like giant fruit roll-ups. I think she was a pyro, but who knows, we weren't there.

We tried to do some outreach, but it's hard with the government mandates stopping us from going public. Although, it's not always how you might think. We're not like the men in black or anything. The truth is that when the supernatural turns up on our doorstep, you will likely choose not to believe it. And if you do, then no one else will believe you. That's what I mean about the parents. They're isolated from friends, family, even each other.

These kids aren't X-Men, levitating remotes or mowing the lawn with their minds. It's stressful, sometimes even terrible. terrifying to live with. It's not easy when a six-year-old tells you the date and time of your death, or you give them a bad row in the following morning, you wake up with an abscess the size of a tennis ball, filling your mouth like a ball gag, and that stuff can happen even when the kid doesn't mean it to.

Their thoughts and emotions just leak out. And kids, they can have some pretty messed up thoughts. We have a pamphlet, more of a book, really, where we run through some of the common mistakes that parents make. It's funny to read if you don't know what's at stake Introducing your gifted child to the concept of death As early as possible is essential to long-term safety Examples of traditional folklore you should avoid discussing with your child

include that the deceased goldfish has gone to live quote in the sea That dogs, cats, rabbits etc are now living on quote a farm That deceased grandparents have Quote, gone to a better place It goes on but you get the gist.

No two kids are alike, but they ruminate on the little things. Phrases like, A better place, can become real to them in a way they'll never be for an adult. They start to picture things, start to think of what it might be like,

what it should be like. But a brain isn't just a long line of thought. It's like a notion and there are depths filled with things out of sight, even a kid's mind. Add in fact that most kids are a lot smarter and knowledgeable than their parents think

and, well, what do you think a better place should be? Have you ever been to a funeral, seen a corpse? Kids know more than you think. They visit grandma in a parlour somewhere. Everyone's crying, everyone's sad, and their mother won't let them open the box to see the old woman who gave them candy every week. Does that seem like a better place to you?

All the black, all the tears, being lowed into a hole in the ground and covered with dirt. One of my early cases was a young girl, sweet as can be. She could, occasionally, tell the future in very specific terms. Her parents, blessed them, hoped it would lead to a better life, but they made the mistake of asking when they die and the answer wasn't what they wanted.

It broke my heart to visit that little girl, to sit and play in the wee with her, laugh with her, and then look back at the kitchen and see her mother standing there with a distant look in her eyes. The little girl couldn't understand why her parents jumped when she looked at them or shivered when she hugged them. They still loved her, but you could see they'd spent every second or every day counting down the moments.

It was up to me to make sure the little girl understood the reality of death. That much I managed. I remember her little frown as she did the maths. She'd been confused for a few weeks by that point, but her parents refused to answer her questions. I answered them all and honestly at that. It's not really a better place. then, is it? she asked.

I don't know, I answered. I'm not even sure it is a place. I shouldn't have told Mommy about the yellow car, she whispered, her eyes tearing up as a little mind grasped such a big idea. Mommy shouldn't have asked, I replied a little too quickly, letting my emotions rise to the surface. I hoped that it'd be the end of it. I figured, with any luck, the mother and father would learn to live with what they knew and not drive themselves mad, thinking about how to avoid it. Most people though, they get so blinded by the specifics that they don't see the big picture. That woman could have locked herself up in a bank vault to avoid being run over

by the taxi her daughter described, only to drop dead from a heart attack a day later. I tried explaining that to them. I tried explaining that worrying won't change a thing, at least it's not supposed to. A few weeks later I returned for another welfare check and guess who answered the door. The little girl looking hungry and ragged. In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors had been thrown open, and she clearly started hacking away at the old tins of

food with a knife. There were even empty packs of pasta where she'd been eating the stuff dry and uncooked. At first, I thought her parents had killed themselves, and she'd been forced to survive on her own for a short while. But when I asked her, I got an answer that made my blood

run cold. I sent them to a better place, she said. You killed them, I asked, wondering exactly what these parents had asked of their own child. No silly, she answered, an actual better place. I pictured the bestest place in the whole world and I made them go there. What's the bestest place in the whole world? A beach, she cried, a beach that goes on forever and ever in all directions and you can eat as much as you want because the grass-grossed fruit and candy, and there's no one to tell you what to do so Daddy never has to go work again, and Mommy never has to worry about being fat, because no one else will

ever see her get bigger, and Daddy will love her no matter what, because she said so, and how did... How did you send them there? I asked. She held up a piece of paper with blue crayon and beige lines scribbled all over the place. It was a kid's interpretation of the beach, an explosion of colours, and poorly drawn shapes that composed the background. The foreground, however, the foreground, however, was something completely different. There were two black and white, photorealistic figures, frozen in time, hands held to the side of the head as a silent scream escaped from their lips.

And the best thing about the better place? The girl beamed with pride. You can never, ever, ever die, no matter how far you fall or how long you hold your breath or even eat loads and loads of poison. Bless her. She looked so proud. of what she'd done. Every now and again, I pull that picture out and look at the girl's parents.

They move, so long as you're not looking directly at them. They push at the boundaries of the page, sometimes even go around the other side. At first, they screamed and screamed, and that was all I ever saw. But, for the last few years, they started just lying there next

of each other, staring at, what I guess might be the sky. I'm not sure. I'm not even sure time moves normally for them. There's something that looks like a tally in the sand. If it is, the count is bigger than anything possible, whether it's days or years. I'll burn it one day. I just need to feel confident it's the right thing to do.

I still hold out hope the girl will come back and pull them out. Worse for where, but ultimately alive. I lost contact with her when she turned 13 though. Most of these kids don't stick ground into adolescence because they don't have to. and the system is rough for the best of times. I wish I knew where they went. I like to think the government rounds them up and finds them a place where they can help the world with their powers.

But most of these kids aren't cut out to be fry cooks, that are alone to super soldiers. Whatever purpose they find in life, I'm not so sure it's for anyone else's benefit. Part of my job is minimizing the threat these kids pose to relatives and society at large. Easier said than done, of course. It's not just that there's all this power condensed into a half-formed brain,

it's what they represent to the average person. In the movies, if some grave digger spots the undead grandma hauling her ass out of the ground and shuffling towards the horizon, all you have to do is spraying with whiskey and hope no one believes him. Their last part holds out, but not the first. Do you know what the average person does when faced with proof of the afterlife? What do you think happens when the average person happens to catch a glimpse of what in grandma's eyes?

Or, God forbid, they get the chance to exchange a few words with the formerly deceased. Kids who speak to the dead can be the worst because it turns out, whatever is on the other side, it drives the average person insane. And I don't just mean, talk to yourself insane. It's more like slit the throats of your family and castrate yourself with a razor blade insane.

You might think you've accepted the idea of nothingness, or the idea of heaven or hell. But the truth, I'm not so sure. sure it could even fit inside one person's head. The glimpse I had was bad enough to net me six months in a mental health facility. It started when some poor boy had brought his grandfather back without even realizing. He just thought about it long enough, hard enough, and it happened. Next thing was I got a phone call from the parents who locked themselves in the bathroom. They needed help. And even though I was on the probationary training, I didn't call up my supervisor.

I just rushed out. Truth is, I didn't want to call my boss. I didn't want to be supervised. I'd been waiting for this opportunity ever since I read about it in the training. I wanted to see someone who'd come back to life. I wanted to know what was on the other side. All the guys talked about it,

about people coming back, but I hadn't really thought they were being serious. It certainly seemed like they were being honest with me. I made the mistake of treating it as a problem that could be solved for X. I thought having an answer would do something, help me in some way. I managed to find Grandpa, staring at the bathroom door, formaldehyde leaking out of his hole and dripping onto the floor.

Those eyes locked at me with an unspeakable hatred, a venomous glare bad enough to make me stumble back, keeping far out of his reach. But it wasn't enough to stop me asking questions. They burst out of my mouth, and I asked so many, so quickly. I don't even remember what they were. I figure most of them boil down to something like, what's on the other side? When the old man spoke,

it was like his voice carried an epoch of suffering and wariness. I was looking at a soul that had been put through the wringer, twisted, washed, cleansed, battered and abused. It wasn't the same soul that had left, that was for sure. But one look in those eyes told you it wasn't lying either. servitude he answered and it was like the ringing of a gong i almost asked the follow-up question but good god something inside me choked me and stopped the words a part of my soul died hearing that word i still lay awake at night thinking about it servitude i don't even know what it means but it has haunted me ever since now it's just like that picture something I bury and try to forget about. I don't want to think about it, nor does your average Joe.

If I let myself start asking questions like, who's doing the serving? My mind just doesn't stop. I spent six months going in circles, reading old case files, hoping to learn more. That word still calls out to me a few times a day, scattering my thoughts like rats before a torchlight. Minimising the harm done by these kids

can be hard when it's at risk of putting yourself in a rubber room. Like I said, the only thing on our side is that 99% of people just don't want to face the truth of what's underneath all the mundane boring stuff we call daily life. That's why so many of these parents are so deeply unprepared. It takes a kind of twisted mind to imagine the world the way a kid does, and more importantly, to think of all the ways you can go wrong. Your goldfish has gone to live in the sea, the tooth fairy will take your old teeth, Santa punishes the naughty. Parents have been indoctrinated since childhood

to think these white lies are fundamental building blocks of parenting. It's impossible to break as a habit. Even parents who know better, reasonable, intelligent people who are doing the best they can will still make a few mistakes here and there. The best they can hope for is that it doesn't backfire and wipe out half the town. That's when the other half of my job comes in.

Clean up. I have to direct the parents to the right type of clean-up crew Most of the time it's guys with mops, buckets and a very strong stomach Other times it's a nasty man in a suit Who knows how to stop the neighbour from posting photos to the internet Damn, once it was a bunch of guys in lead-lined hazmat suits But that was a tough one to figure out We still don't know what happened

But the Geiger Countess they left behind Still haven't stopped clicking talking about tooth fairies in some parts of the world they're very real they weren't always real you understand until some of these kids came along do you know how damn scary the idea of a tooth fairy is to the average child as just say what some kid dreamed up in the eighties is exactly what you'd expect from a being who steals teeth for a living its face is nothing but a pallet of teeth growing all over the damn thing so that there's barely a sliver of gum wider than a finger and the teeth teeth stink. They're all rotting and yellow like a meth addicts. And this thing goes around, taking teeth, and whenever an old one falls out of its, well, I'll call it ahead, but I'm not exactly an anatomist. But anyway, when one falls out, it takes one of the teeth collected from kids' mouths and finds a new home for it. Its muscular arms shake as it forces the root

through the flesh and cartilage, and I swear the sound it makes are cries, but who knows? I always hoped the damn thing would disappear when the kid grew up, but no, it's apparently still out there climbing gutters and drainage pipes using its arms, because the kid who dreamed it, dreamed it with no legs. And that's just one of them. There are a lot of tooth fairies. Like I said, the world is terrifying to kids, and they think things in a way we can't easily predict, but the consequences are all too real. Often for the parents, sometimes passers by, The only saving grace is that most of these kids are well-intentioned. Even the difficult ones, the ones with learning difficulties or emotional problems,

they will show a regret when they realise that their actions have hurt people. That's the most important ingredient in a person. Remorse. People hurt each other all the time, but the vast majority of us don't do it knowingly. And, even if we do know, it's something we figure we have to do. But of course, there are others. kids and people who know damn well what they're doing. I don't know a whole load of them,

just enough to help me identify them in my work, but they're the kids who are ambivalent to the pain they cause because they just don't care. Most of them are narcissists content to chase dreams of money and power because it gives them a thrill. You read about how psychopaths do well in certain jobs like investment banker or whatever?

Great, good for them. The gifted ones I work with are actually quite similar. They're not necessarily any worse than the other kids. They just tend to not be bothered when I explain to them that, after what they did to their little brother, he won't be able to play any more Xbox with them. There's no guilt, no remorse. The really bad ones, though,

they're not just indifferent. They get a kick out of it. It takes a lot of moving parts to come together so that you make a person who enjoys hurting others. I read once that most serial killers have lower IQs because the average psychopath knows damn well that the cost-benefit analysis of murder isn't in their favour.

Murder is hard, and the payoff is usually quite small, and a smart psychopath knows that. Society imposes enough consequences to keep most people in line. But, when they're gifted, well, those consequences just go right out the window, don't they? If I can demonstrate the presence of sadism and a total absence of remorse and empathy in a child,

I can request permission to euthanise them. Some of the first tests we do when finding one, brain scans, questionnaires, EEG, so on, are all about identifying psychopathy. I used to hate it. The kids would ask what we were looking for, but sometimes start bawling their eyes out during the hammer test, my least favourite test of them all, and it always broke my heart to imagine what was waiting for them if I made the wrong decision. I understood, logically, why we did it. I just hated knowing that I had that kind of power. Those kids didn't know. know what waited at the end of the road if they failed the tests. Not even their parents know.

I would have given anything to get the agency to drop those tests. And then, I met Bradley. We had 16 teachers suffered kidney failure in a single year, and that's what flagged his hometown for further investigation. Looking at the injuries some of these teachers had suffered, I was convinced that we were dealing with a teenager who had latent abilities. That kind of cruel spite is usually reserved teenagers, but actually, Bradley was just seven. I first saw him lying on his living room floor, reading a university-level textbook on anatomy. He was something of a prodigy, although he himself admitted he wasn't that smart, until he, quote, started taking bits of other people's minds.

The funny thing was his father was the spitting image of Bradley, his mother too, but you expect that kind of thing, don't you? What you don't expect to see is that the other kids in Bradley's class look a little like him that parents all over the place have been crying havoc to local scientists who simply don't have any answers

they got these photos of the kids just a few years before Bradley moved in and they look different they have different facial structures different hair colour different eye colour it's subtle at first but as time goes on

you see these kids change more and more and it's undeniable who they're changing into and then the complaint stopped because of course the parents start to look a little more and more like Bradley too I'm just borrowing bits of them he told me

most people don't think enough there's all this spare room in the head so I just helped them find a good use for it he infected their minds and without really knowing why he made them a little bit more like him he was a side effect of course but a shocking one

we had to cull a lot of of people to bring things back to normal, and even then, Bradley wouldn't just let us kill his main source of computing power. We had to negotiate, and what he wanted was, well, he really liked vivisection, and he really liked life subjects. He also liked our tools, he said. Some things he just couldn't learn from pilfering the average person's brain, but in our labs, he was like a kid in a candy store. We didn't really think that part through, if I'm honest. Putting him in a room with our scientists was guaranteed to end badly. But Bradley was so powerful.

Without ever really noticing, we pivoted from trying to contain him and started trying to just appease him. He was unlike any kid we'd come across. There was nothing stopping him from tying a colon into a knot just to see what would happen. He got a kick out of it out of seeing people suffer because of his own actions.

We don't let scientists out in the field now, just in case some telepath picks up some useful tips. A burst pancreas here, a brain bleed there, turning her blood into something the consistency of pudding. We still hold annual conferences trying to figure out what Bradley was, what his endgame was. He certainly wasn't interested in any kind of new race or evolution. If we ever implied that he wasn't the only psychic, he'd get very upset. I'll ask my supervisor to that. We didn't know what Bradley was at the time.

We just found him in his home, sure enough, and he was odd. definitely intelligent beyond all reason, but we didn't know. You may feel alone, Bradley, my boss said, but in fact there are estimated to be nearly 100,000 children just like you. There's no one like me, the little boy replied, and his eyes fixed on my boss like daggers. Next thing I know, my boss is shaking, convulsing, blood is foaming from his mouth, his nose, his ears. When they finally got around to doing an autopsy in the old man,

They say that there was barely anything left inside his skull. It had been ejected with force out of any available orifice from the neck above. What little of his brain remained was pulled in the base of his skull, like the final dregs of a milkshake at the bottom of a cup. In the end, he was Bradley's ego that brought him down. After two years of watching him massacre his way through a small town, and then our lab, all while wondering when he'd finally set his sights on some bigger prey, I decided I couldn't just let him carry on.

The thing about kids is that even ones like Bradley, even the smartest, cleverest and most knowledgeable ones, don't really have any experience. There are in an ego the size of a planet, and they often lack that essential humility beaten into most of us by adulthood. In the end, it was a little white lie. That's what saved me.

Saved us all, really. No one's spoken to what's on the other side, I told him. We have never had any gifted person be able to reach out and see what happens after death. He came out of his room the next day and just... I don't know. I didn't feel sorry for him, but damn, I came close. He had a little desk in the middle of our lab's main floor

where he'd watched the scientists and read their minds like most kids flipped through TV channels and walked right up to it and sat down. He looked so beaten, so utterly wiped out. He asked me for crayons, so I gave them to him and he spent a few minutes scribbling something A little house with some trees And the next thing I know

He's gone He just popped out of thin air Like he was deleted from one of life's animation frames He wasn't dead He just put himself into the drawing They talk about him like I trapped him Like I beat him But the truth is

I think Bradley could leave the drawing whenever he wants to. You can see him in that house. He's painting in there, I think. It's all he ever does. Sooner or later, the page will be lost, destroyed, maybe even intentionally. There's no such thing as infinity

when it comes to human life. But I remember the look in that dead old man's eyes, and I remember how it made me feel. Servitude. Bradley must have seen right through into whatever afterlife there is. And he did so with such clarity it had put all the other kids to shame. Now, I think he's hiding.

I think he knows sooner or later he's going to end up on the other side and there's nothing he can do to stop it. All that's left to him is to put as much distance between the beginning of his life and its end. And he knew from experience he can make all kinds of special places where time runs slower than the norm. Don't forget he had all my memories to go through as well. I have no doubt he knew about. that little girl and what she did to her parents.

The Infinite Beach. Thankfully, we think Bradley was a blip. A cloud computing telepath who borrowed from other people's minds that strengthened his own power. That's the kind of feedback loop that could end the world, maybe even the universe.

We're glad he called it quits, although it unsettles me to think of the reason. Someone asked me once what I think these kids are. I'm not sure, but I'm tempted to call them a bug, An error.

Whatever they are, they've tapped into something underneath the banal reality most of us fixate on, the one filled with recyclable cups and microwave TV dinners. You hear that, and you think it must be a thing of wonder to have that kind of knowledge. I just think of Bradley, a literal god amongst humans who took one hard look and fled with his tail between his legs. If I ever glimpse his face in that picture, looking out the window, all I can think is that he looks so goddamn scared

Christmas would come and go every year and he never called back I don't know what it was that made me call him around Christmas perhaps it was all the fuzzy memories I had of us around the holidays how me, him and mom would decorate the tree together

and he would dress up as Santa with a really bad beard that I used to pull away from his chin that always made me laugh he would let me open just one of my presents on Christmas Eve without mum knowing. It was our little secret. I can't say my childhood was broken because of him. It was always full of happiness,

even when he left us. Christmas was what I always came back to whenever I thought to my father. Everything else, including when he left, was just white noise. I never even saw any pictures of him because my mum got rid of them. All I had was this grainy image in my head.

For years, I would pest my mind, mom about him, asked questions she didn't want to answer, and most of the time she wouldn't. She wanted to forget him, and I think in the long run she thought I would too. He left us, Garrett, she said once, impatiently, tired of me asking. I was tired of never getting an answer. He doesn't even have the right to call you Dad. I remember the hoarse conviction in a voice that day. It was years of anger, built up from my father's moonlight flit.

When I was in bed that night, I heard a cry herself to sleep. If you've ever heard your mother do that, you'll know how heartbreaking it is to listen to. It stuck with me ever since. I never wanted to see her that upset or angry ever again, so I never brought him up after that. Someone I've always been able to confide in is my uncle, Alan, my mom's brother. Uncle Alan never had children of his own. It was something he said wasn't for him, but he was treated. me like I was his child, and in return he was like a father to me.

When I was 14, I talked to him about my dad and asked if he knew what happened between him and mom. Relationships are hard, kiddo, he said, shrugging, that's why I'm still single. Really? I thought he was just because you're an old fart. He flashed me a cheeky smile and a wink. I remember your mom and dad being very happy, but something below the surface just didn't work anymore. I don't know for sure, but I think there was someone else. After he left, I gave him a call. Before I could finish, I jumped up for my seat. Wait, you have his number? No, he said a little too abruptly. You're a really crap liar.

Uncle Alan sighed, rubbing his hand over his face, making the skin stretched down under his eyes. Your mom is going to kill me. Uncle Alan gave me his number. after a lot of emotional blackmail and made me promise not to tell my mom. As soon as he did, I couldn't help it. I grinned ear to ear. I was happy to just have his number

and his name in my phone. It's really pathetic, I know. Thank you, I said. He gave me a half-ass smirk and ruffled my hair. I have no idea if he'll answer or if the number is even still in use. Please, Garrett, just don't get your hopes up.

Okay? That night I was upstairs with the covers over my head. The first time I called the number. I never put the covers over my head in my entire life, but it made me feel protected. It was like a fortress that kept my blend of excitement and anxiety at bay. For a while, I just stared at the numbers on the screen and his name above it.

Dad. What would I even say? What do you say to someone you don't really know or really remember? Eventually, I counted back from five and pressed the dial button. I waited in anticipation. Even though it was only seconds, it felt like hours before it started to ring. He didn't pick up the call. After a couple of rings, it went to a default voicemail message, much to my disappointment.

I wanted to hear his voice at least, see if it matched the voice in my memories. When the tone bleeped after the voicemail, I began to sweat. Hey, Dad, it's me, it's Garrett. I don't really know what to say. I started to laugh nervously. I got your number and I just thought I would... I've been thinking about you. I hope you get this message.

I quickly hung up. I didn't receive a phone call back. Year after year, it was the same situation. Oh, leave voicemails. but never get a response. The voicemails got less awkward as time went on, but they started to get shorter too. As I got older,

I just wished him a Merry Christmas, and that was it. After the first time, I waited weeks for him to call me until I faced reality. It was never going to happen. I knew I would never get a response, but I still continued to call him every year anyway.

Yeah, I guess I was probably torturing myself, unable to accept that I was unwanted by him, that he didn't want me in his life. If he did have another family, I wondered if they knew about me. I doubted it. Even Uncle Alan didn't understand why I kept calling him. You know I love you, kiddo, your mom too. You don't need someone in your life like that. I wrote my eyes at him. Always one for cheesy speeches. You have to say that because you're my uncle. He shook his head. No, I'm saying it because I mean it. Forget him, Garrett. He's clearly forgotten about you.

Uncle Alan saw the comment hurt me, no matter how much I tried to hide it. He put his arm around me and said, I should never have given you that number. When I was 19, my mom found out she had cancer. It was too late and there was nothing the doctors could do. She got sick pretty quickly and started to deteriorate just as fast. I dropped out of college to come home and help take care of her. Uncle Alan helped too

When she died All I had left was Uncle Alan The house was left to me Along with a substantial inheritance I hated being alone In the house without her It felt so empty and hollow Without her presence

So I asked Uncle Alan If he'd move him with me Which he happily did I call my dad early November After a death It's Garrett I began My eyes started as well

I just thought you should know that Mom died This is the last time I'm ever going to call you I get the point You're dead to me too After I hung up I finally let myself cry I moved around the house the next day

Bedging out in front of the couch Eating dry cornflakes from the box Uncle Alan came into the living room And jumped over the couch to sit next to me I didn't even take my eyes off the TV To indicate that I'd noticed Okay He said, clapping his hands together.

First things first, you need to get a shower because I can smile you from the other side of the house. Second, you're going back to school after Christmas because I'm sick of the sight of you. And thirdly, we're going to cook dinner together tonight. I continue to munch on the flakes. You can't even cook. He nodded.

Yep, but you're going to show me because you can. So go and wash that stink away and put something other than sweatpants on because we're going shopping. Before I could object, he snatched the cornflakes box out of my hand and started eating them himself. Go on, he said with a mouthful,

Scoot. God, you're so annoying, I said as I drag myself out to the room. When I was out of sight, I smiled for what felt like the first time in months. Uncle Alan was chopping vegetables up terribly when it finally happened. My phone vibrated in my pocket.

When I took it out, his name was on the screen. Dad, my face dropped and I didn't know what to do. I debated just leaving it, but I thought this might be my only chance, despite what I said in my voicemail the night before. Uncle Alan pulled me out of my trance. Everything okay, kiddo. Mind if I take this? I said, holding my phone up so he couldn't see the screen.

Of course, go ahead. I'm nailing this on my own anyway. I gave him a quick smile before stepping out onto the patio. The cold air hit my face straight away. The colder night started to dry in early. I remember how bitter the temperature was that particular night. I took one last deep breath before I finally entered the call. Hello?

Hello, Garrett. It's me, Dad. I didn't know what to say. A swell of emotions clouded over me. I wanted to tell him to go to hell. I wanted to tell him it was good to finally hear his voice. I wanted to hang up. For a moment, all I could hear was my heavy breath

amongst the silence between us. I managed. Look, I know in your last message you said you didn't want to speak to me again, but... Ah, well, let's just say, it's been complicated. Complicated? That wasn't even an excuse.

It was a cop-out. "'No,' I said defiantly. I hung up before he could say anything else. When I went back inside, Uncle Alan had completely butchered the vegetables. "'All good?' he asked, glancing over me. I felt numb all over. I couldn't even tell if I was hot or cold anymore. When I saw the concern on Uncle Alan's face, I braved a smile.

"'Yeah, fine,' I said, raising an eyebrow at the chopping board. Tell you what, why don't you just bore the pastor? Later that night, I lay in bed. It was past 1 a.m. when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from him. Garrett, I know tonight was a shock to you. I apologize again for my silence over the years. Please don't think I didn't think about you or your mom.

I've been a terrible parent and I realize that I want to make it up to you. I'll let you call off, but please call me back. As soon as you're ready. Love, Dad. I caved in and called him back the next morning. The conversations over the next few weeks started off with a few home truths and exaggerations. I told him he was a poor excuse of a man. He ruined my mother's life.

He ruined my life. I couldn't even remember him properly and so on. I let him have it because he was what he deserved. What surprised me was his accountability. He was so calm about it. He was never defensive. He let me get it all off my chest. I made a huge mistake.

I realised that, he said. So you keep saying, I muttered. I know how much making up I have to do. I listen to your voicemails all the time. All of them, over the years. You sound so grown up now. Despite everything, he did at least listen to the messages. It was something, minuscule, but it was a start.

Dad and I ended up talking every day. I would usually go for a walk around the neighbour. so I could talk to him in private. I didn't let Uncle Alan know we were in contact. I didn't know why, considering it was him who originally gave me his number. But for a while, I just wanted my dad to myself. I wanted to get to know him. The week before Christmas, things took a turn, went out to the blue, he said.

How would you like to come and spend Christmas with me? It seems so sudden and so casual, a part of me felt it was too soon. even though we'd been talking for over a month I still felt like I didn't really know him all I knew was that he lived alone in a farmhouse I wanted to say no but my impulses got the better of me I said enthusiastically

but as soon as I agreed I cringed I can't wait to meet you son a few days later I tried to run the conversation over in my head how would I approach Uncle Allen about it How would he react to it? Would he understand, or would he put his foot down? I thought I could go in with the calm approach of, This means so much to me.

You know I've wanted this since I was a kid. Or I could go with the attitude of, I'm a growing man now, I make my own decisions. In the end, I decided to do neither. Call me a chicken, but I didn't want him to sway me or get involved. As great as Uncle Island had been, this was something I had to do. so I decided to write him a letter

I booked a flight out to Creekwood because Dad said he was the nearest airport to where he lived In the middle of the night I packed my bag grabbed my passport and left the letter on the side in the kitchen I waited a little further down the street for my cab I didn't want to wake up Uncle Alan When it arrived I quickly hopped in The nerves finally caught up with me

As the cab drove past my house and out of my street I hoped I wasn't making it a mistake. I landed in Creekwood around 6am. I somehow managed to sleep for a bit on a short flight and woke up feeling like I was in a dream. I couldn't believe I'd gone through with it, and now that I was near him, it felt real. I couldn't believe this was it. I grabbed a quick coffee, which did nothing for my nerves, before I stepped outside. There was patches of snow on the ground, and the airport wasn't as busy as I expected. I looked out for the silver car he said he'd be in, but I couldn't see one.

He didn't actually say where he would meet me. I waited for a while and tried to call him, but he didn't pick up. I suspected he may have changed his mind and stood me up. There was a tap of my shoulder. Gary? I turned around and saw an older man. Distinctive lines creased his forehead, short, salt and pepper hair, tall. He was dressed in an expensive looking coat, far too light for the bitter weather.

He wasn't as I remembered him. Even in those fuzzy memories that were coated in white noise, I still didn't see the man before me. I smiled at the man politely. No. No, sorry, I said, turning my back away from him. Sorry, I meant to say, Garrett. I turned back around and nodded.

I tightened my hands in the pockets of my coat. I didn't know what else to do with them. I wondered if I should hug him. No, too soon, I thought. I considered offering my hand to shake, but before I knew it, he was walking ahead. Come on, he said, you must be freezing. The drive took a couple hours.

I couldn't believe how far out of Creek what he lived. In that time, the conversation between us was light, small talk, the weather, my journey, mundane crap that we were both disinterested in. Luckily, the sound of the radio kept it from feeling more awkward than it was. It began to snow when we passed the sign for silver oaks, and I stared out the window like a curious child, taking in the sight of the massive oak trees. The surroundings made me feel slightly claustrophobic, like it was an endless tunnel of greenery that only seemed to get more narrow as we drove into it. Beautiful, isn't it? Dad said, without taking his eyes off the road.

I nodded. You really have been tucked away from the world all these years, haven't you? I didn't mean for it to sound sarcastic as it can. came out, but it didn't seem to phase him. It's quiet around here. I like the quiet. Once we were past the endless road of trees, I must admit that the whole place looked picturesque,

especially because it was covered in snow. The trees extended up the hill that looked down on the town, and, at the top, there was an old radio tower. Nearly there, Dad said. The farmhouse looked like something from the front cover of a paperback you'd find at a gift store. It was bigger than I imagined. The driveway wasn't that far from the road,

but it seemed like it was completely cut off from civilization. The woods behind the house only heightened my thoughts about it. It made the house look completely isolated. Before getting out of the car, my phone vibrated. When I looked at the screen,

it was Uncle Alan attempting to call me. Do you need to get that? Dad said. I smiled at him. Uh, no, you can wait. Inside, the house was lived in, and very old. It wasn't the type of place I imagined Dad to live at all. Even though I was there to spend Christmas with him,

there was no decorations anywhere, which only added to the grim atmosphere of the inside. The whole place smelled pretty musty. I noticed some of the lining in the faded wallpaper was stained and peeling away from the wall. I walked over to the living room and spotted some photos of a baby on the dusty mantle. Photos of me, I assumed. I've never seen these ones before, I said. Dad came up behind me.

I took them with me when I left. It struck a nerve with me, and I couldn't keep my tongues still. If you've had these up all this time, then why did you never call me back? I put them up after they left. Who? My other family. It was the first I heard of another family. I couldn't believe he didn't mention them before when he had ample opportunity to do so.

The rage bubbled inside me, but I didn't let it get the better of me. I'd only just got there and I didn't want to start an argument before I barely stepped through the front door. And even though my face clearly told him I wasn't impressed at this news, Dad's face was completely neutral. I'll show you to your room, he said, grabbing my bag for me. The upstairs were exposed beams in the ceiling that made the house look bigger than it actually was. There was also quite a few rooms upstairs. All of their doors closed. The one he took me to was very basic, just a single bed and a bedside table. It seemed comfortable enough.

I suppose you'll want to rest for a while, recuperate from your flight. I felt fine, but I grabbed the opportunity to be alone and gather the thoughts flying around in my head. That'll be great, thanks. Dad left the room abruptly without saying anything else. He kept the door open, so I gently closed it as I heard his footsteps trotting down the stairs. It had been awkward since the moment I stepped off the plane. It was all too much. The whole atmosphere in the house was very cold and static, just like him. And to learn he had another family only made me feel worse. I finally looked at my phone to see a text from Uncle Alan. I understand. I understand. Stan, kiddo, you should have just told me, but please let me know you're all right.

I texting back, letting him know everything was great. A complete lie. I crashed down on the bed and tensed as the cold sheets touched my skin. When I woke up, it was dark outside. I looked at my phone and it had just gone past 6pm. The bedroom was like an icebox. I stumbled in the dark to locate the door. I went to use the wall to guide me.

and instantly flinched away. They... They were damp. There were no lights on in the house at all, and I couldn't hear a sound. I made my way downstairs, searching the damp walls for a light switch, but I couldn't detect one.

It was worse outside the bedroom. It was that cold that I saw my breath in front of me. I looked over to the living room, vacant. I wondered if perhaps Dad had gone outside while I slept. Still, I found it unusual, to leave someone who was essentially a stranger in their house, even if I was his son. I saw the lamp next to the couch and went to turn it on. You're awake.

His deep voice came from the kitchen. When I turned around, he was sitting perfectly still at the table. I could just make out his silhouette in the dark, and I noticed both his hands rested, palms flat on the top of the table. You scared me, I said, I broaching him cautiously. Something was off, really off. Why are you sitting in the dark? I get migraines easily, he muttered. Bright light doesn't help.

I'm feeling better now. When I was in the kitchen, I stood across from the table, not knowing what to do with myself. Okay, well, can I put a light on then? Dad was silent for a moment. He cocked his head to one side. The whole scenario, darkness, just sitting there, slow responses. It made me feel very out of ease.

If you like, he finally said. I found the switch to the side of the door. The light hung down just above the table. It reflected off his skin, which looked slimy and grey, completely drained of any colour. He didn't look well at all. Are you all right, Dad? His bink for him dies. peered up at me. Yes, as I said, I feel much better now. He said, are you hungry? Seeing him like that

made me lose any appetite I had completely. I think you should go to bed and rest. He flashed me a sickly grin. His teeth were covered in thick film, like they hadn't been brushed in days. I'm perfectly fine, Gary. My face hardened. Garrett. Oh, he said, moving his hands across the table like he'd lost something. Didn't I used to call you Gary when you were a child? I shrugged, you tell me. Even if he did, he didn't mention it in any of our conversations over the phone. Dad got up from the table, squinting his eyes.

He began pacing the kitchen. His posture was stiff, like he was hanging from a string. Well, I don't... Don't quite remember if... He trailed off to the worktop and turned, so his back-faced me. He stared out the window, and then nothing outside. All I could see from where I stood was our reflections in the glass. I found myself backing away to the door,

when he started rocking his head from side to side. What do you mean, you don't remember? I asked. No, no, I do. I called you Gary. I'm sure of it. Well, Mom never mentioned it, I said. I couldn't tell if I was shivering because of the cold anymore or if it was because of the way he was acting. Dad suddenly relaxed his back and leaned over the worktop.

Do you like macaroni cheese? He said, in the tone I was more familiar with from my phone calls. Even the look in his eyes had changed. It was like the last few minutes didn't even have. happen? He noticed my confused glare. Are you all right, Garrett? Fine, I lied. So, macaroni cheese. I huddled my arms together. Do you have any heat? He nodded. Of course, I'll go turn it on. When he walked past me, I flinched away from him. Uncle Alan takes the gain to see if I was all right. I wanted to tell him that I made a huge mistake.

mistake, that there was something really off about Dad, but I didn't want to worry him. I decided I would book a flight home tomorrow and make my excuses to leave. Dad cooked the meal while I sat in the living room on the musty-smelling sofa. Even with the heat on, the house was still ice-cold. Dinner's ready, he called over. Great. When I sat at the table, I picked my food. Dad didn't touch any of his. "'Aren't you going to eat?' I asked. "'I'll eat later,' he said. "'I pushed the plate away.

"'I'm not hungry either. "'This is nice, isn't it, son?' "'He twitched. "'His eyes had changed again. "'I started to wonder, what was wrong with him? "'He looked worse than he did half an hour ago. "'Dad, I think... "'I think we rushed into this.

"'He rested his chin. under his grasped hands. Rushed? I couldn't meet his stare. I don't think I'm ready for this. I think this is just too much. But you're my son. I love you.

His voice had no empathy or emotion. He was almost like he was rehearsing for a bad TV show. You don't even know me. Yes, I do. You're my little Gary. I slammed my hand on the table. can you stop calling me that? Nobody has ever called me that.

He didn't respond, just gazed at me curiously. I looked at the clock behind him. How little time we had actually seen each other in person and the whole time it felt like I'd been in the company of a stranger, which he was really. I thought the conversations on the phone were a start,

but this person in front of me he didn't know who I was, or at least he confused me with someone else. It was clear enough to me. He seemed so collected and put together whenever we spoke before But as we sat opposite one another He seemed as isolated from me as he'd been for nearly 15 years I should never have got in the car with him

Who is Gary? I finally said He's upstairs Dad said abruptly What? Dad stared down at his plate Gary and Moira I got up from the table Every hair in my body erect who are Gary and Moira

Dad slowly raised his head back up from the plate Blood trickled out of his eye sockets falling over the uneven meal in front of him My eyes widened as he jumped up in the seat of his chair Like he was on hind legs I stepped back as he climbed the table Pressing his hands into the plate of bloody food Knocking the glasses and cutlery to the floor

He was ready to pounce Dad Whatever was before me wasn't my dad anymore, and I started to think he never actually was. I tried to push past the block in my memories. I still couldn't see his face underneath Santa's beard. I never saw those pictures on the mantle before, because they weren't pictures of me. It was someone else, Gary. Dad, or whoever the hell he was, led out a shrill laugh. As he did, his smile stretched out, tearing the skin at the sides of his mouth until he was grinning ear to ear. The blood poured over his

exposed gums. I think I'm hungry now, he growled. I didn't think twice about it. I sprinted from the kitchen towards the front door. Behind me, I had him jumped down from the table. When I reached the door, it wouldn't open. It was locked. My only option was to run upstairs.

Dad leaped from the floor and stuck to the ceiling. He crawled along the beams like a spider, his blood standing the ardex as he dragged himself across it. I ran straight for the room directly opposite the stairs and slammed the door shut behind me. There was an almighty bang on the floor from the other side. When I turned the light on in the room, I saw a shadow under the crack in the door. Dad started to rattle the door furiously. Garrett, he said calmly, open the door.

I backed away, panting breathlessly. Then the smell hit me. I cuffing my arm over the end of my nose. Jesus Christ, I uttered. Dad continued the bang against the door. I looked on the bed behind me, looked at the massacre in the room. Dried blood stained the walls and on the bed lay three skeletal corpses. They were skinless.

I guess two of them were Gary and Moira, his other family. I tried to look away, but I couldn't believe what was before me. Even as I ran over to the window, I kept looking back over my shoulder the corpse. below, the drop didn't look that far down. I figured I didn't have much choice if I was to make it out of there alive. I opened it up, bracing myself for the jump into the snowy ground when Dad burst to the door, eyes wild, shattering the wooden frame. I was about to jump when he leapt onto me.

Before I knew it, my face was being smothered into his bloody bib. I pushed him, wriggled, struggled. It was no use. He was budging off me. I came face to face with his menacing grin His teeth started to fall from his gums Hitting me in the face one by one Below them, canine vangs formed

I screamed as one of his remaining teeth fell into my mouth I instantly spat it out and managed to wriggle my arms out from under him I grabbed his arms and the skin came away like carved meat Underneath there was nothing but muscle The more I pushed the more he laughed And his skin continued to tear away from his face The wet, bloody pieces of flesh fell over me

Until there was no longer any flesh on his face Human flesh at least Whatever looked back at me was not human No longer my dad But a grinning crimson monster Garrett It growled I looked the monster dead in the eyes

My breath stopped as it opened up his jaws Ready to snap his fangs into my skull I managed to use my knee and arms To push it away from me When I stood up he was ready to pounce at me once again. When it did, I jumped out the way and it went flying out the window, smashing the glass. I instantly ran over and looked down below. It wasn't there. It was gone. All I could see was its blood scattered over the snow, making a track to the woods. I ran downstairs and searched

Dad's coat pocket. The keys were in there. Thank God, I whispered. I ran straight for the car. As I started the ignition, the headlights reveal the scarlet creature running on its hind legs directly towards the car like a hound. I pushed my foot on the pedal and crashed right into it. It screeched as it went under the car and crossed underneath it. I drove back towards the drive and sped away from the farmhouse. I was a shaking, bloody mess. I couldn't stop anywhere to get cleaned up, not unless I wanted to end up being questioned by the police. The only thing that kept me going was my determination to get as far.

far away from that place as possible. On the way home, I called Uncle Alan trying to explain what had happened, but he couldn't make sense of what I was saying. I couldn't even make sense of it. It took me hours, but I drove all the way back home. There was barely any gas left in the tank when I made it to the house.

When I pulled up, everything ached. Uncle Alan ran out, and when he saw the stay to me, he quickly ushered me inside. Garrett, what the hell happened? Uncle Alan got rid of the car. I didn't ask how, and even though he didn't leave the story I told him,

he told me to never tell anyone. I didn't have to ask him what he thought happened if I wasn't telling the truth, or just in shock, as you put it. I saw it in the way he looked at me as soon as I came in. To put my mind at rest, Uncle Alan found a picture of my father in an old photo album he had.

It was a photo of my parents on their wedding day. It was him Younger And still Not how I remembered him as a child But definitely my father I still didn't understand How he became that thing

Until I remembered the third corpse on that bed Until I remembered the third corpse on that bed And the way my dad's skin Came away from the crimson monster The only question I had in my mind Was if any of it The phone calls were ever really him and if it wasn't, why did that thing target me?

On Christmas Day, I threw the photo of my dad into the fire and watched the edges curl until the flames broke through his face. Then, he disappeared. The house was right where it should be and hardly stood out at all. It was built exactly the same as the rest, made of red brick in a single story with the basement and based on the window just above the foyer an attic, not quite tall enough to stand in. Better get inside, said Alan Wicked from beside me.

His tall, slender frame against the sunset in the middle of December, blended in well enough with the silhouettes of brown trees and their spindly branches. Best not to keep it waiting. It, I thought to myself, not he? I wasn't sure what to think. I can tell you right now that no matter what I had in my mind, my train of thought would have derailed hard in front. a brick wall when the door opened.

The smell of rot waffed out and stabbed at my olfactory scents with prejudice, a sign perhaps of things to come. Alan stepped in first. His grey suit pants, a bit too long and now stained with mud, left a pair of tracks on the tile floor, covered

in foot pads and rugs. The kitchen was where it really hit me. So, this is where you'll be spending the night. I'd apologise, but everyone has to do it at least once. You're familiar with the ground rule Allen's beady eyes examined me closely, followed every strand of hair and every bead of sweat as I looked to my partner for the evening. Situated at one end of the dinner table was a boy illuminated by the soft orange glow of a cast iron stove.

He couldn't have been older than eight or nine years, and he was very much dead. His eyes had sunken deep into a skull and left black, empty sockets behind. They were barely distinguishable against dark. violet tinge flesh that had become bloated with rot and stained by dirt thrown upon not one but two graves. He didn't appreciate being buried the second time, which is how we got to today. He was dressed in a plaid shirt and overalls, both of which had been cleaned. It wouldn't do to come to dinner dressed like the walking dead, even though he couldn't do much to help it. I nodded at Alan, but I didn't say a word.

He took the hint and proceeded to explain. You will not proceed to leave this room, the kitchen, for any reason, at any time throughout the evening. He began, taking out a hangarchief the dabbed sweat off his forehead, and you will keep the fire going through the evening as well. It doesn't like the cold. He sighed. Further, you will not sleep, nor take your eyes off of it, for any extended period of time. You are permitted to eat what's in the fridge, and a swarm out of cold cuts and soft drinks or bottled water. We do not encourage you to drink anything that comes.

out of the house itself. All things considered, we don't know why it came back or what caused it, and it could be something to do with the house. Maybe it just wanted to be home again, but. He stopped to see if I'd broken out of my stupor, then walked over to the boy at the end of the table and knelt down. This is the only way to keep it here for now. Sensing that I was perhaps a little frightened, Alan decided to perform a demo. He snapped his fingers in front of the dead kid's face. he whispered into his ear, Hey, hey, can you hear me?

But predictably, he received no response. He filled a glass with water and poured it on the kid's head. Nothing. See? He said, hand firmly on his hips. As long as you follow the rules, it's as good as dead. I smiled, looking at him. It just might turn out to be an easy night after all,

so long as I follow the rules. Alan shook my hand, gave me thanks and left me with the keys to lock up in the morning. All the while, I kept my eyes fixed upon my dinner date. It wasn't too hard once you got past the fact that you were looking at a rotten corpse. I fed the fire every now and again. It was hot. My back was sticky with sweat,

and I wiggled around in the chair across the table for a long time. I swayed my head back and forth, kicked my legs and tapped my fingers to the tune of the water coming out of the sink. Apparently, Alan had forgotten to turn it off all the way, so every second it seemed another drop came down and struck the aluminium on the bottom, letting out a hollow echo.

Drip, tap, drip, tap, drip, tap. It went on like this for a while. It was a clock above the dead kid, but it had stopped working a long time ago, around 447. I couldn't tell if it was aim or way. p.m. But I could just about read the hands in the gentle light of the room. I thought about ways to check the time without a clock. Maybe I could see what the stars look like outside and give it a good

guess. I was always good at weird things like that, guessing the time based on where the sun was, or whether I could see the north star. But then I'd have to look away from the dead kid, but not for too long. I mean, I could still blink, right? And it had to have been three hours, maybe four by now. I still had a while to go. It would be nice to know how long. Drip, tap, drip, tap, drip, tap, drip, tap. I decided I'd do it. Just a quick glance, nothing more.

I took a few deep breaths. The kid's body was slouched down like he was sliding off the chair. His jaw had frozen in place long ago, a little slack. I looked him in the eyes, the sockets, and threw my glance at the window. I moved too fast and couldn't see anything. Sweat was running down my face. I looked back at the kid.

Nothing. He hadn't moved. All right, fine, I thought. We'll play that game. I got up from my chair and slowly walked over. Every step I took felt like it was being held back. I could hear my heartbeat ringing my head. I was shaking by the time I got to the kid's body.

but to be perfectly honest I had been shaking since I got here I put my arm out my fingers stretched out and my palm exposed I put my hand on his chest the body was cold but not freezing

there was no pulse no heartbeat no breath nothing whatsoever that's when I decided I'd take it a step further I stepped back and leaned against the wall the outside of the house was brick

but the inside was lined with drywall. I could feel the wall behind me give a little as I rested against it and even more as I pushed myself off it and grabbed the kid by the shoulders. I pulled his body up from the slouching position and sat him up straight. I took a deep breath and said,

I'm going to look out the window for a minute. Don't move. I had no idea if that would work. I was frankly bluffing because this kid had already found its way back out of the grave, not once but twice, and wondered the house. Nobody knew if he would come out or what might happen if he did,

but he never once moved when someone else was with him, watching. So this was the solution, to lock someone inside with him every night, and if I was going to be part of the solution, then we were going to do it my way. I put him back down firmly and stepped back. I moved toward the sink, the drip still coming every second on the same.

second like clockwork. I bit my lip and turned around slowly, keeping my eyes on him until the very last minute before I looked outside. The sky was beautiful. Being out in the small city, there was much light pollution. The dark sky was covered in brilliant stars like a dome set with rubies, emeralds, sapphires and pearls. When I finally realized I had been staring at the window for a while and came too, I whipped around to find the kid sitting there. He had a little. He had a little. He had not moved. I sighed, leaning forward onto my knees and said, good boy. I went over to feed the fire, grabbed a few logs and tossed them in. I watched through the glass door as they went up in flames. The soft glow gave way to a bright yellow one and the warmth became a wall of heat that carried

off the stove. The whole room was illuminated brightly now. My stomach started to growl a while later, so I carefully made my way to the pantry and got a plate of some bread. I grabbed some for the kid too, because, why not? Maybe he was hungry too. It would be impolite either way. When I got back to the room, he was still there, just as I left him. Hungry? I asked. The stench of the place wasn't so much of a bother anymore. At least, I'd gotten kind of used to the smell.

I pulled out some bologna and turkey. The only kind of cheese was Swiss, and that would have to do. There was milk, which I bought. into a glass for the kid. Every kid should have milk, and I grab myself a fizzy drink. Here you go, bologna and cheese with milk. Enjoy it, I said, as I sat down and ate my own turkey sandwich. I lathered it in mustard, in the hope that I could accommodate anything but the taste of stale, rotten air that permeated this house.

I got up and began to wash the dishes. While I was doing so, I started to feel tired. I became more and more content That was, until I heard the thud It was more of a thump-thump and a slam I whipped around hard and fast enough to break my neck And fix my eyes on the kid He was in the exact place I left him

But my hands were shaking furiously anyway I walked over slowly, carefully And snapped my fingers in front of his face Nothing That's when I saw it A log had fallen off the pile. I sighed, threw it into the stove, and went back to wash the dishes. The sky was turning now.

It had become a dark but noticeably more pale blue colour. Closing in on 4 in the morning, I figured. My eyes trailed up the window into the sky and then just above the window on the wall inside the house, right to a splotch on the wall, if only a little out of place. A splotch shaped like a small chart's footprint. covered in mud, and just ahead of it was another, and another, and another, and handprints too. I started following the trail around the ceiling and the edges of the walls, along the crown moulding and into the corners. I started trembling, were these always here? How did I not notice them before?

I looked over at the kid now. He was slumped down in his chair. I rushed over to the fridge, I tore everything out and threw it on the floor, then turned to face the kid. He was still slumped over. I ripped out the shelves, even the drawers. I picked up the kid's body and stuffed it inside. Then I closed the door, pin the chair against it, and sat over by the furnace. I curled up in a ball, trembling. I just had to make it a few more hours.

Just a few more hours. At 6 a.m., they come and get you. At 6 a.m., they would come and get me. and, at 6am, that kid would be locked in the fridge. It occurred to me, after a short while, I should arm myself. I got up and went looking in the drawers for a knife, but the house didn't have anything of the sort. A precautionary measure, perhaps?

I kicked over a chair and stomp on it until one of the legs came off. Nice and dull, but still sharp enough to stab at a rotten corpse. Perfect. I tried to keep my mind focused, but I'd forgotten to turn off the sink, like Alan had earlier. Drip, tap, drip, tap, drip, tap, drip, tap. I got up and turned it off, and I heard it.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Coming from the fridge, from inside the fridge. And that is when I realised it myself. It wasn't tapping with the sink. The dripping and the tapping. dripping and the tapping were following a rhythm. A very peculiar rhythm. The rhythm of a beating heart.

The tapping stopped. Now there was muffled sounds coming from inside. Weeping? I walked over to the fridge. The room felt like it was getting wider but shrinking. I felt trapped. The fire was blazing and the walls were a golden colour having been covered in the light of the flame.

I kicked the fridge. Shut up in there! I said. The weeping died down. I slunk away and sat back down to the corner. My wooden spear gripped tightly between sweaty, clappy fingers. I heard something in the hall, just outside the kitchen. Footsteps?

Couldn't be, I thought. No way. I got up to look. I dared not leave the room. Nothing was out there, at least nothing I could see in the pitch black of the hall. I turned around quickly. and looked at the fridge. The chair still held against the door.

Nothing had changed, but I knew better than to believe my eyes anymore. And my unyielding desire to keep this kid where I felt he belonged, I refused to blink for a while. Sitting next to a raging fire, my eyes had become pained and dry. My head was throbbing. I just wanted to sleep and have some rest.

I blinked finally, the first time in what felt like an hour, then I blinked again, and that third time, I must admit I did not open my eyes for a while. When I did, the fire had died down and the sun had become to shining through the windows in creamy and pale yellow bands. The chair was pinned against the fridge

where I had left it and there was banging on the front door. Finally, Alan had come. They had come and I could leave. I got up and spit on the fridge. I did my time, my one day, and I wasn't coming back. Someone else could get the corpse kid out

of there. I walked down the hallway, which was still cloaked in soft shadow. I'm coming, I yelled. I'm going to be there in a sec. I caught to the door and yanked it open. There was nobody there. Every hair in my body stood an end. It was like I'd been electrocuted or thrown into an ice bath straight after I'd fallen in asleep. I turned around and ran towards the kitchen. The chair was still up against the fridge. I ripped it away. I ripped it away. and opened it. The kid was still inside. I dropped my face into my hands and wiped my eyes.

I pinched my nose and took a deep breath. When I opened my eyes, the fridge door slammed shut in front of me. I fell back against the woodpile, kicking my legs out in front of me, with a broken chair leg extended forward. The sink was dripping again, and again came the tapping. Drip tap. The heartbeat had returned to the house. That's when Alan walked into the doorway to the kitchen.

So, you made it, he said. Didn't follow the rules, though. It's all right, you're not the first, you won't be the last. He hoped someone will one day. He guided me outside. There were a few other people out there, some cops and some paramedics just in case. Not sure if anyone ever needed them. Listen, you'll, uh, you'll want to keep the lights on,

the next few nights, maybe sleep in the living room by the window. These guys out here will be outside your place for a bit. I looked up at Alan, curiously. Why? I asked, dreading the answer. Well, he said. It sometimes visits the ones it likes the most. Just a precaution, I'm sure. It, I said out loud.

It, said Alan. As we walked back to my house, I looked up at the sky. I could see the faint flicker of stars as they faded into morning and, in the glow of the sun on the facades all around us, were tiny smudges,

little footprints like you might expect from a child who'd been playing in the mud. I grinned and gripped the leg of the chair a little tighter. Only the ones it likes, I thought to myself. Only the ones

it likes. It all started when our annual camping trip had taken quite a detour. Instead of our usual spot by Beed Lake, Peter wanted us to hike deep into the woodlands for what he called, quote, a special surprise. I was not happy to find that he led us into a literal uncharted territory. This isn't on the State Park's map. I noticed this as we left my car behind in a clearing and embarked under rugged foot trails that looked more fit for deer than humans. I know, we're going somewhere that's not technically allowed, Peter replied, with an all-too-confident grin.

Peter and Henry were always the outdoorsy types, but I was always more of a city boy. I like my hikes on well-manicured paths and my campsites sanctioned by the government. I know this makes me sound like a pris, but... Well, yeah, I am one. I am at least aware of it. Peter and Henry might have thought putting on a flannel and some old boots could suddenly transform any really armed teenager boy into a rugged mountain man, but I knew better.

I knew that I was a liability enough as it is in the woods, and all the way out here, I might be in real danger. If only I knew how right I really was. I'm going back into my car to put my camera back, I said to them before we got too far in. Michael, no, Peter shouted at me. Trust me, there's a good reason I wanted you to bring it. What is it? I asked.

You'll see. Peter was always a cryptic little turd. Henry started to chuckle to himself, and when I asked him if he knew what Peter was up to, He replied, Dude, I don't even think he knows. The next two or three hours were spent hiking through some of the worst trails I've ever seen.

Something tells me the state parks funding must have been cut and so they left this area to be reclaimed. Peter had to clear us away through the brush as the already fading foot trail had become flanked by thorny bushes and branches that continue to encroach our path as we ventured deeper. I kept asking if we were close to anything

and Peter would snap at me to be more, patient. Neither Henry or I were willing to say it out loud, but we were pretty sure we were lost. Then Peter let out a loud gasp. Oh my God, I think that's it. The swings of his machete had gotten quicker and more decisive. What is it? I asked. You'll see. God damn it, Peter. Stop stalling and tell me. Wait, what is that? Henry interrupted me and pointed up ahead. I leaned around to get a better view and could see a maple tree that looked indifferent. Peter cleared the last bit of brush ahead of us

and stepped into a clearing. Ladies and gentlemen, I present a you. He put his arms around us like he was on a game show and the tree in front of us was the grand prize. The tree of lost souls. There in front of us in the middle of a small clearing was a tree whose trunk was adorned from top to bottom in missing person posters.

What they're? What the hell is this? My tone was a mixture of being confused and a bit disturbed. The tree of lost souls, didn't you hear him? Henry seemed a bit too nonchalant about what we were staring at. Each person on here is someone who's gone missing in a state or national park. Isn't that freaky? Peter was as giddy as a schoolboy.

I went up and scanned the names, and when I found one that I recognised from a true crime podcast, I realised Peter wasn't lying. These posters were real. Do you recognise anyone Sherlock? Peter asked me. Yeah, a few. After giving the tree another once over, I turned to Peter.

Why would someone do this? I don't know, maybe to freak people out, Henry answered. Mission accomplished, I replied. You want to hear something even freakier? Apparently there are trees like this across the United States. No one knows who put them up, and no one knows which tree was the first, but there are dozens of them out there. There's even a map on the internet with all the ones that have been found marked on it. When I saw that there was one near Beed Lake,

I knew we had to go see it for ourselves. Peter loved creepy stuff like this. Me, I was a little less enthusiastic about it. This feels morbid, I said. Yeah, and awesome. Peter failed to see the problem with taking posters of real missing people and pinning them to a tree in the woods. He would go on to explain that these trees were supposedly beacons for paranormal activity, a claim that I immediately thought to be dubious. So, are we camping by the ghost tree or what? Henry butted in after Peter finished explaining, hell yeah, Peter exclaimed, we'll hopefully catch something supernatural in the process. He gave me a nudge, and I suddenly realized why he had asked me to drag my camera and tripod all the way out here. Wait, you want to stay here overnight to try and

catch footage of a ghost? I asked, with an exasperated tone, or a cryptid, the trees attract to anything generally supernatural, whether that be corporeal or not. Peter's earnest delivery of such an absurd statement was almost charming.

All right, well, we better start a fire because it's going to be dark soon, Henry interjected. He always was the pragmatic one. We spent the next hour and a half gathering potential firewood, setting up our tent, and once the fire got going, cooking our instant meals.

As we huddled together by the fire and ate our food, I quickly grew to hate my surroundings. The clearing we were in was small and muddy. If it rained, we would see our campsite turn into a mire, and, with how thick the brush was all around us, that could make fleeing, with a potential

dangerous bog forming beneath our feet, very difficult. And I felt trapped. As it grew darker, our campsite grew smaller in my mind. I felt my claustophobia starting to kick in, as the sun finally set. Any attempt to distract myself from the oppressive darkness

was thwarted by Peter rambling on about stories he heard about the trees. Those damn trees. I read this girl who camped by one in Michigan found massive footprints around a tent in the morning, he said. So what you're saying is,

we might see Bigfoot? Henry asked. Well, we are in the Pacific Northwest, so it's possible. But she was in the Great Lakes area. So my theory is it was a Wendigo that was walking around a tent.

I'm going to go take a leak, I said, while stifling a laugh. I got up from the campfire and turned around to be greeted by complete darkness. Make sure you don't pee on the tree, Peter said. He had been very anal about us not disrespecting the tree, as it was a one-way ticket to get yourself cursed according to him. I heeded his advice, as curse or no curse, I think it's in bad taste to pee on the tree covered in the faces of missing people. I turned my cell phone's flashlight on and walked the eight or so feet into the edge of the clearing.

I began doing my business, and, as I did, my eyes wandered over to the tree of lost souls. Even without all those posters, I could not deny that the tree had an imposing presence. It was tall, looking to be maybe over 50 feet, and had a decent girth to it as well. Pending those posters must have been a real pain in the ass for whatever calmer-hungry predator came here to create this little messed-up monument. I thought at the time that this was some sort of creepy internet fad that grew out of control.

Some people like freaking others out and other people like to be freaked out. Peter was always in the latter group. I didn't want to tell him that I thought this was all a load of ball, but him dragging me out to this awful place had certainly tested my patience for his out-of-control superstition.

I think Peter deep down must have thought this was BS too, because if you had known what might actually happen, I'd like to think he'd never have made us come out here at all. You're peeing a storm over there, Henry shouted over to me. Or that hiking made me thirsty, I shouted back. I briefly turned my head to the tree, and for a split second, I swear I saw a person peeking out from behind it.

When I whipped my head back to look again, all I saw were the faces of the missing posters. My mind must be playing tricks on me. I thought. I finished up and returned to the campsite a bit more on edge. Peter told a few more spooky stories about the trees before we all decided that it was time to hit the hay.

I set up my camera for Peter and pointed it at the tree. I told him that the battery should last all night and that it was set to night vision mode. I can't wait to see what it picks up, Peter Gidly said as we all packed into the tent. We'd be lucky if he catches squirrels, I thought. We all went to bed without another one. word. The next morning, we awoke to the camera being dead. That wasn't super surprising,

but I thought the battery life was better than that. Peter was a bit flustered. He couldn't immediately look at the footage and decided to go around and examine the campsite for clues instead, of which he found none. Well, there's no physical evidence of anything. We'll have to see what the camera caught once we get back, Peter said. I grabbed the tripod and only briefly thought it was strange that it had moved a few inches to its right. I could tell that it did by the marks in the mud, showing that it had been planted and then replanted. I would have pointed this out, but I assumed at the time that I just adjusted the tripod when we were setting it up. We packed up the camp and began the hike back to my car. When we reached it, I remember Henry

proclaiming that we had, quote, survived the tree of lost souls. I got my extra battery from the trunk and gave it to Peter so he could change out the dead one and go through the footage. We began a drive out of the state park and we were about halfway when Peter said, Whoa, that's creepy. The camera shut off for a little and then turned back on. I was going to tell him that it does that when he's about to die, but then he said, Uh, is it normal for the camera to take pictures along with footage? Peter's question seemed innocuous at first.

Uh, No, I replied. I could hear Peter scrolling through the photos, and, as he did, his silence grew more and more concerning. And then like that, he shouted, What the hell? What the hell? That's... His voice trailed off into nervous laughter. Let me see. Henry, who was in the passenger seat, took the camera from Peter, and went silent as he looked over the pictures. They... They just keep going.

I know right, but like, who took them? And that last one? I can hear the sound of Henry scrolling through the photos before suddenly stopping. Henry went quiet for a moment before falling into his own fit of nervous laughter. Oh, screw you guys, you're messing with me. This can't be real.

I swear to God, I have no idea what these are, especially the last one. I mean, how could any of us have taken them? We're in all of the pictures together, Peter said. I don't know, maybe What the hell? I mean, you can set the camera to automatically take pictures overnight, but Peter trailed off, sounding genuinely worried.

You can't set a camera to move itself closer and closer like that. Yeah, but you can do that with auto zoom or something, right, Michael? Peter hesitantly asked, as I tried to keep my eyes on the road. No, I don't think you can do that. At least not with my camera, that is. Now, what are these pictures? as you guys keep talking about. You should see them for yourself.

Henry tried to show the camera in my face. I'm driving, I yelled. Then pull over, Henry yelled back. I let out a long sigh and pulled off the dirt road. I swear to God, if this is just a trick to get me to look at a picture of Peter's hairy knots, I'm going to make you two walk the rest of the way home. I took the camera from Henry and began to scan through the photos. I knew something was off right away.

when I noticed that the album was full. I knew that I took a lot of pictures early in the day, but I didn't think I took that many. It seemed as if most of the pictures were duplicate, as there was this massive stream of, what at first glance looked to be the same picture over and over again. It was of all of us in the tent, sleeping. You guys took these, didn't you?

I was skeptical of my friends immediately. How could we? We were in all of them. They could have set the camera on a timer, but I knew both Henry and Peter well enough to know they can't work a camera like that. Not to mention, someone had to make the camera gradually zoom in as we slept with three straight hours and to take a photo every two or three seconds with a flash on. You can set the camera to do that automatically, but like I said, I doubt either of them would know how to. Not to mention that the zooming in would have to be done manually. Though, I'm not sure if these pictures are gradually zooming in, or if whoever's...

is taking them is just getting physically closer and closer. The frame seemed to be pushing in on me, slowly cutting my friends out as it went. I felt a deep pit within my stomach form as I continued to scroll through the pictures, only for my heart to drop when I reached the last one. It was right up against my sleeping face, and there was a hand in it, a black gloved hand hovering over my face. Please tell me this is a joke. The car went completely quiet

with only the sound of the hazards blinking in the silence. Michael, I swear on my mother's name that I did not stage that. I knew right then that Peter wasn't lying to me. He would not swear on his late mother's name lightly.

I was in the pictures with you, Michael. I didn't do this either. That means... There was someone else out there with us, I finished. I turned off my hazards and rerouted the GPS on my phone to the nearest ranger station. We told them about the tree

and what happened to us. We showed them the pictures and how we were there to capture something paranormal. That detail seemed to immediately disqualify our story in the ranger's eyes, not to mention they were unhappy with us, camping in a closed area of the park, as it was illegal to erect such a monument on

public lands, but that we should never have gone out there in the first place. We almost got a fine, but Peter was able to talk them down to just giving us a warning. After only an hour at the Ranger Station, they told us to leave and that they'd call if they had any more questions. The three of us sheepishly left the station, and I drove us out of the park as quickly as the speed limit would allow. As we were driving back, Henry said, I took one of the posters.

The car had been completely quiet up until then, but as soon as he said that, Peter gasped. You didn't, Peter exclaimed. I thought it would be a cool momento. He pulled the crumpled poster out of his pocket. It was of a man from Minnesota who went missing in the Paul Bunyan State Park. This isn't disrespectful, is it? Henry seemed genuinely afraid that he had cursed himself. No, Henry, the tree isn't cursed all right.

There was just some crazy dude out there with us. The tree is just a tree. We need to go put it back, Peter said. Peter, shut the hell up. I'm done with this tree of lost souls. nonsense. Henry isn't cursed. Curses don't exist. You can't deny that there is something more going on here, Peter said. It was a crazy squatter, Peter, nothing more. Hell, this myth you believed in probably attracted him out there for all we know. He was probably some deluded man on the

internet who got a little too into this urban legend. You should take him as a cautionary tale of why you should never let superstitious nonsense like trees of lost souls control you. My outburst of extreme anger ensured the rest of the car ride was completely silent. I dropped Henry and Peter off at their homes and attempted to apologize to them over text but decided to just wait

and let things simmer. When I did text them that I was sorry about how I acted two days later, I received no replies. I assumed they were still mad and hoped that they would get over it in time. I realized why they had not text me back when two police officers had come to visit me.

They had gone missing after telling their parents they were going back out to Bede Lake to camp. I knew where they were actually going and told the officers about the tree and what happened there. I spent the next several days anxiously awaiting news of their whereabouts. Search teams found the site of the tree of lost souls, but there was no sign of them there. They decided to keep the posters up on the tree

as it made for a good landmark for the search crews. They combed the nearby area for weeks, but nothing turned up. I can't tell you the pain I felt, as I had to accept my friends were probably dead. I think about what happened to them every day of my life. Those woods were dangerous. They could have got caught in a bog or gotten lost in the thicket. Maybe they even could have been killed by that psycho in the black gloves. The police found no signs of any person camping or living in the woods when they were looking,

but the pictures of my camera proved that there was someone else out there with us that night. It's too bad the cops don't believe me. They think we staged the whole thing. Once the search was finally called off, to ensure that no one ever came out to those desolate woods again, they cut down the tree and burned all the posters on it. I still, to this day, attend the forums where people talk about the trees. My friends have become legends in these circles,

and their names are spoken about with an almost religious reverence. The stories of people finding footprints outside their tents or seeing lights in the sky are little to nothing in comparison to the tale of the two teenagers who went missing after trying to return a poster they had taken from a tree of lost souls. My part of the story, and the photo of the black-gloved hand, is but a cherry on top. Part of me wants to be outraged at them

but sensationalising my friend's disappearances. The other part of me knows that Peter and Henry would have loved this. I cried. when a picture of a tree of lost souls found in Montana showed their faces among the myriad of missing posters pinned to its trunk. I could have been right there with them. And I should have been right there with them. The first time I saw the animatronic Santa Claus, it was early November.

My wife and I had gone to the big box hardware store to pick up some gardening soil and new knobs for our kitchen cabinets. I hate being an adult sometimes. It didn't surprise me to find quite a box hardware store. Christmas decorations already displayed prominently near the entrance. The robotic Santa Claus was sitting there on a throne, greeting us as we came in. Its eyes moved back and forth without any discernible pattern, and it waved at us rigidly in greeting, turning its head and look at us as we approached, eyes focusing on ours for

just the second, then moving away. What a creepy-looking Santa Claus, I said to my wife. Who would ever buy that? It looks like something out of a nightmare. The Santa Claus got more frightening as we got closer to it. Despite this movements looking a bit stiff and robotic, it was a little too realistic for my liking. The way the eyes were moving around, randomly, almost sporadically,

looked a bit like a mental patient's gaze as they looked around with paranoia. His pale skin was almost human, but not quite, and I once again wondered who would ever purchase such a thing. I assumed it was for sale, but saw no price tag. I mostly just wanted to get away from it. We got out to the garden section and walked by cacti and succulents. Hey, look, they've got moon cactus, just like the one we've got. I said to my wife, walking by the ones with a pink blossom-looking cacti on top.

You know there's just two cactuses glued together. What? My mind was blown. Yeah, they just cut one cactus in half and glue the other one on top. Bam, moon cactus. That's a bummer. Yeah. We got what we wanted to.

and walked back towards the cash registers, once again passing by the Christmas displays and the creepy animatronic Santa Claus. Geez, I'm glad I don't have to work in this place. That thing really creeps me out. Oh, sweet irony, how I hate you. It was early December, and I was standing in front of the animatronic Santa Claus once more.

Only this time, I was wearing a bright red vest with a name tag stuck to the front. I couldn't help, but look at the Santa bitterly, as it moved its head back and forth, stopping its eyes meeting mine, staring at me for a second, then turning away disinterested. Hey Jordan, move your ass.

Those Christmas borgs aren't going to stuck themselves. I sighed and trudged back over to my dolly, stacked high with boxes of Christmas lights. Working in the hardware store wasn't so bad, I told myself. It wasn't ideal that I'd been fired from my dream job, which I had only started two years earlier, and was now laid off for the foreseeable future. That's 2020 for you.

At least I wasn't unemployed, I told myself. Some people had it worse. I pulled boxes off the dolly and put them up on the shelf, ensuring that they were neatly stacked in perfect straight rows, which would then immediately be torn to shreds by customers once the doors open at 9 a.m. Back in the break room, my boss, Brandon, came over to me. He clapped me on the shoulder like he was an old friend,

ignoring the social distancing policies for employees. The guy who was pretty, Probably ten years younger than me was my supervisor, and a real dick, I have to say. He had a businessman's haircut and a dimpled smile with big teeth that he liked to flash at you whenever he wanted you to do something. He was currently smiling at me in just that sort of way, like he wanted me to do something. Hey, Jordan, listen, bud, I know you were saying you needed this Saturday off, but we're actually going to need to keep you on schedule that night, and I'm going to need you to stay a little late, okay? His toothy smile was bursting at the seams, his eyebrows high with anticipation.

I could practically seem salivating at the possibility of confrontation. He really enjoyed those. He didn't have to admit that for us to see it. How late is a little late? Like two or three a.m. tops. You won't get overtime because you're still under rows for this week. But hey, money's money. Am I right, buddy? Yeah, money is money, I thought to myself.

And I could use the money. even if it was barely above minimum wage. It wasn't like I had a choice after all. I always loved being volunt told to do things. Sure, no problem. I tried not to grit my teeth. So, I stayed late on Saturday night. I wish I hadn't.

There was only one other person left with me in the store that night when Brandon called me into the back room. It was just me and Andy, a nerdy-looking guy, who, like me, was under-employed at the hardware store. His degree in robotics engineering from MIT had amounted to nothing after massive layoffs at his company. He was now forced into late-night labour stocking shelves at the hardware store

for pennies on the dollar compared to his previous job. I had discovered the animatronic Santa was actually his own invention. He'd allowed the store to use it for display. Andy clearly has some real talent in the robotics department. The longer I worked at the store, the more I've realized how sophisticated the technology in the animatronic Santa was. It could actually stand up and walk around,

but that was way too creepy, so they told Andy to get it to sit on the throne and just wave in a friendly manner so as to not frighten the children. Jordan, come to the back office, please. The voice was loud over the walkie-talkie. I wished I could have said I hadn't heard it. Andy would have vouched for me,

but Brandon was a vengeful sort of boss, and I didn't want to make him mad. I'd seen others. make that mistake, and he always found creative ways to punish them. Less hours, worse assignments, bathroom cleaning duty, being forced to work weekends and holidays. He had a whole arsenal of tricks up his sleeves for retribution without it ever looking like retribution. So, I went back to his office. The grin on his face was wide and toothy, and I knew without a second thought that this was going to be bad news.

Okay, I know you guys are going to hate me for this. Yeah, and? But I'm going to need you to stay a little bit later after all. We got a shipment in of those inflatable Christmas lawn decorations, and I need you guys to get them on the shelves before we open in the morning. I had to get up in the morning at 8 a.m. to go do my other job. I was already scheduled to work until 3 a.m. And now he wanted me to stay even later.

Sure, I said, deflated. I knew he was pointless to argue. Whatever I said would only result in something worse happening to me in the end. I just knew it. he was that kind of boss, a vengeful sort, as I've said. I just need to be out of here by 7 a.m. at the latest, so I can go home and change for my other job. I need to be there at 8. You got it, bud. You're the boss. I'll put you down on the schedule until 7 a.m.

No later than that, all right? I'll catch you later. I'm out of here for the night. He was up and had his coat on already, heading out of the door. Oh, and don't forget to tell Andy, he's got to stay too, okay? I didn't have time to break the bad news to him, all right. You guys have a good night. He went into the employee bathroom, closing the door quickly shut behind him, before I could say a word. He always liked the change before leaving the store.

God forbid anyone saw him in his uniform outside of here. I went out and told Andy the news. His face was a mask of anger. He wasn't happy about being told to stay here, and the chicken way our supervisor had made me break the news. I told him Brandon was in. in the back, getting changed if you wanted to catch him before he left. Let that dick of a supervisor talk to him for himself, I thought.

It wasn't my job to break the bad news to employees that they had to stay late. That was not part of my job description. Andy marched back to the staff room to confront Brandon, and I was left alone with the Christmas decorations, now with a lot more work lying ahead of me than before. The weird thing was, Andy never came back. I finished the shift alone, feeling like something bad had just happened. but what it was I couldn't figure out.

That morning after work, I went home and quickly showered, dressed in a different uniform for a different minimum wage job, and trudged off to that place, half asleep. My other job was running the cash register at a burger place, since the hardware store usually didn't have enough hours for me, and even if they did, I still found myself short on cash, hence the 80-hour work weeks. The next shift I had at the hardware store was a couple nights later.

When I went inside, everyone was acting weird. The police were waiting for me when I walked in and said they wanted to ask me a few questions since I was one of the last people to see Brandon. I told them about Andy, in the best light possible, but said that he had been upset and I assumed they'd gotten into a bit of a confrontation and that I hadn't seen either of them after that.

The police told me that Andy was also missing. The rest of the questioning was uneventful. I explained everything I knew, which wasn't much. It sounded like Andy was a person of interest in the investigation, since they were asking a lot of questions about him and his background. I said I knew he was into robotics, and that he'd recently been fired from some high-paying job in that field, but other than that, I didn't know anything.

The police were dissatisfied, put left out of that. Once again, I ended up staying late to stock the never-ending supply of Christmas decorations, And this time it was a different manager announcing it to me with an infuriating smile. Fine, I said, gritting my teeth, despite my best efforts not to. 3 a.m. rolled around and everyone else had gone home. I was once again left by myself to work extended overtime. The large store was well lit, but creepy nonetheless, since I was the only one in it at that late hour.

I finished with the boxes I had and was taking the dolly into the back to get more. when I walked past the animatronic Santa on his throne The thing was moving around still But I could have sworn I had unplugged it I walked around to the extension cord Hidden beneath some white felt That was meant to look like snow The extension cord wasn't plugged in

And yet the Santa was moving around As if it was Weird, I said out loud I figured it probably just had a battery But unplugging it had always turned it off before climbing up to the platform to where the thing was seated, I got close to the robotic Santa and began to feel under the red suit for an off switch.

It was moving back and forth, jerkily. The face suddenly turned and the eyes met mine as I was reaching to try and turn it off. Usually, the animatronic Santa would do this and then look away. This time, though, he locked eyes with me and stared at me, his head cocked slightly as if he was thinking, studying me. Ho, ho, ho, ho. He suddenly bellowed, sending me reeling backwards, terrified.

I screamed in surprise and fell off the platform, landing hard on the floor. My tailbone screamed out in sudden pain like a lightning bolt. Screw it. I got up, rubbing my backside and walked away, leaving the thing on. It was way too creepy to mess with when I was alone at the store at 3 o'clock in the morning. I figured I'd just let the battery die. I stacked the dolly high with boxes, and, after a few minutes in the back room, I went back out into the store.

I pushed the dolly back towards the seasonal display area. The sight of the empty Santa Throne stopped me in my tracks. The animatronic Santa had been there not five minutes before. Now it was gone. Ho! Ho! I heard from down one of the aisles near the back of the store. In the silence of the store, I heard footsteps walking in the distance, boots moving quickly on the tile floor.

I was supposed to be alone. Hello? Is someone there? There was another night stalker who sometimes came in at odd hours. But why would he take the robot centre? Maybe they were moving things around. It was the only explanation I could think of. The store was quiet once again.

Maybe it's not Teddy. Maybe it's someone else. Part of my mind began to race with questions to which I had no answers. I began to imagine the robot Santa Claus up and walking around the store a large knife clutched in his hand waiting around the corner watching me Ho ho ho The sound was much closer It was impossible for it to move so fast

It sounded like it was on the other side of me somehow In the seasonal section where I was headed I forced one foot in front of the other And continued to push the dolly forward The part of my mind's using what I thought was common sense told me not to be worried. This was a prank or a misunderstanding, not something else,

not what I already knew it was. Turning the corner in the seasonal section, I found myself alone once again. I heard footfalls once again on the tile floor behind me. Ho, ho, ho, ha, ha, he. Shaking, I turned around and met the eyes that was so close to being human, but not quite. The animatronic Santa Claus stood.

watching me, blocking my exit. An axe was clutched in his hands, a price sticker still on it. Blood poured from his mouth as he continued to chuckle. I saw now that our old supervisor's head had been hidden in plain sight all along. Santa's pale face had just been a mask, covering the horror beneath.

The mask had fallen off, revealing Brandon's face, with metal wires pulling on the corners of his mouth and eyes to create expressions. I couldn't help but wonder where Andy, my former co-worker was now hiding in the shadows with a remote control in his hand. I assumed he was

looking to take me out. The robotic engineer turned psychopath killer was using his macabre invention to try and murder me. The robot stalked towards me and I saw Brandon's toothy, dimpled grin stretched wider as he approached. The blood beard was no longer white

but stained crimson red as his suit hanging ragged from his face. Ho! Ho! Ho! I screamed and did the only thing I could think of as he came towards me, axe in hand. I reached over and pulled with all my strength, collapsing the tall shelf next to me and bringing hundreds of carefully stacked Christmas items down in an avalanche. The shelf fell on top of him, and he collapsed. The dismembered head of my old supervisor popping off and landing on the floor near my feet.

The eyes rolled over and looked at me. The head, without a body, looked for a moment longer, then blinked. I ran away from him, screaming, leaving the store empty as I fled from there. I haven't been back since. They've been calling and calling, but there's been no mention about an animatronic killer Santa Claus roaming around the store.

They just wanted to know if I want to come in and work extra hours. The new manager says all the night staff keep disappearing on him, abandoning the place mid-shift, and some of the Christmas decorations have been going missing as well. My team had gathered upon a cliff's edge which overlooked the far-spanning glacial plain and which stood the fog and shrouded fortress of the famed snow cleric, Santa Claus.

We had gone through enough reconnaissance of the frosted land and had identified several snow-draped emplacements wherein hid elven lookouts and ambushes. Stealthily, with their own southern breed of guile, we had neutralised these creatures who would have either warned their brethren of her encroachment upon their land or spilled our blood upon the bare snow.

The many snow-capped towers of the fortress rose to the sky And no part of any structure was adorned By a semi-translucent coating of frost As if armoured by the settled ice Every brick of the fortress glimmered In the little light that the sun dared to cast down onto it Along the ramparts which encircled the inner castle Strode Elvin Watchmen

Equipped for their unfamiliar yet assuredly deadly weaponry Ralfleman in ice-wrought armour stood atop turrets Nearly indistinguishable from the fortifications they warded Their eyes, which could see through the dentist accumulation of the ever-present mist, scan the areas around the castle for intruders. Knowing beforehand of the far-seeing centuries, we'd come dressed in our appropriate camouflage, which not only allowed us to blend in with our environment, but conceal our vital functions

from detection as well. Specialty made contacts allowed us to see each other clearly, as if we hadn't been wearing the cloaking material. There were three of us, myself, my brother, and a person who will only refer to. as B. My brother had brought me the job, suggested to him by B for reasons that will be revealed later. As anyone might have done,

I laughed in his face. The mere suggestion of Santa Claus being real, a ridiculous absurdity. But he was patient, and when my laughter had died down, he showed me photographs of the jolly bugger himself and schematics of the fortress, which he said had endured against time

and the thieving curiosities of men, impregnable through countless cycles. The evidence for Santa's existence was excessive and undeniable. I stared, first with wonder, at the images of his reindeer carried sleigh, and his troops of certifiably inhuman and dwarfish elves, marching along his border and other images of the nigh supernatural. And then a chill came over my heart, just as it had come over and settled in the hearts of anyone who dared venture that land.

Because, in one of the images, Santa was not presented as the overly joyful gift-pict. bearer of legend, but as a sinister, blue-eyed sorcerer, casting dark magic over a camp of foolish trespassers. But to assuage my naturally arisen fear, my brother informed me of the loot kept within the vaults of that northernmost hold. Lute, not just of elf-forged items and invaluable gems, but of raw materials and resources alone worth more than the riches kept in any bank across the world. He said that if we could plunder even a fraction of the total keep, we could live fabulously

for centuries, financially unrivaled, sovereignly incontestable. While he had no pictures of the fabled lute, for none had ever made it inside to capture them, he had compiled stories, reports, and reputable conjectures as to the general store within those virgin vaults, all mutually attesting to the immeasurable worth of the contents therein. B, his extremely secretive source, even for our dubious line of profession, had provided us with the necessary equipment and transportation. Really, she had funded the entire venture, and hadn't even so much as bought at any of the more expensive and admittedly unnecessary requests we made for the job. Everything requested had been procured without hesitation.

This, more than the knowledge of our skill, had assured us that we would be successful in our heist of Santa's fortress. We were, of course, disastrously wrong, and no amounts of planning or high-tech equipment would have allowed us to escape the fortress, with even a single coin of that nightmarish cast a lot of. The team, hidden by our camouflage, approached the walls. Blind to our advances, the elven watchman only saw the flows of mist upon the flat, icy expanse as we crept across the main bridge. The bathamance loomed over, ordinarily indomitable, flames flickered in the small walls. Santa, it seemed, relied on torches, rather than modern electricity, at least for the outer fortifications. B. observed the watchmen as they appeared at intervals to the Crenel

tops of the wall, while my brother and I stood silently in front of the port-collis before the main door. Above, the barbekin appeared unmanned. The soldiers upon the wall apparently deemed sufficient enough. We'd brought breaching equipment and waited for B-signal to proceed. When she was satisfied we hadn't been detected, she signalled for us to begin. My brother affixed the thermal charges to the gate, and we huddled to the stony sides while the devices did their work. Quickly, noiselessly, they ate away the metal, until a small hole was made in the frost-blasted gate. We crawled on a bellies through this,

and performed the same action against the heavy wooden door. Santa, according to Bees' intel, had gone away for the day on Samarand, leaving Mrs. Claus, the warden of his keep, and she, busy with their own business, had allegedly confined herself to the dungeon within the topmost tower. In his absence, he had naturally increased security

within the walls, with Christmas not far away. The Bailey, a massive courtyard, in which several smaller buildings were housed, was a swarm with ice-armid elves, who patrolled through the space while sparing their strange weaponry. In and out they went,

entering through the various thresholds and supplemental gates of the wall. The main door, however, was never entered. The strict rule being that it would remain closed whenever Santa was not of the castle. Due to the silence with which we had breached the door,

the two guards stationed directly beyond it hadn't noticed our entry, and we quickly dealt with them before they could raise the alarm. While these often warriors are formidable in battle, they're still diminutive compared to humans, and we managed to neutralise them more through our sheer size advantage than combative prowess. Once the bodies, just rendered unconscious, were buried in the snow, we armed ourselves with their peculiar weapons.

We left them with her armour, even though by the looks of it, it was far superior to our own. We hadn't planned on outright killing anyone, and knew that even these cold-blooded, winter-tempered creatures could eventually succumb to the fatal effect. of the harrowing cold, if left unprotected. My brother and I took the strange blue steel carbines, which had some sort of self-replenishing or never-exhaustive crystals as its ammunition, while B took a short crystal sabre,

the hilt of which showing curling ruins of some ancient European language. Once our adaptive camouflage had extended itself over the weapons, we set out towards the main keep, wherein lied the treasure we sought. The main keep sat up a small elevation of the land with two massive towers at its sides. On each tower, aimed beyond the outer wall, a massive watcher,

although, from what I could see from below, the artillery which these deadly machines fired was a crystallized composition, rather than the woodwork's standard arrows. Several rows of ice-wrought javelins reposed in their banks, their tips lethally sharp, their bodies the size of small trees. Within the javelins pulls the dark blue liquid,

which I suspected transformed the poles into proper explosive artillery upon impact of the target. Operators of the watcher, two each, stood behind their machines and seemed to endure the open air and blasting winds with superhuman resilience as they awaited a call to action. B regarded these interior fortifications with little interest. These guards appeared no different from those on the outer wall, and those had already proven themselves incapable of detecting our camouflage's presences. We continued on, until we had reached the main door of the inner keep. We couldn't use our charges here. This store saw frequent use

And any kind of damage would be reported Immediately and the alarm would be raised Instead we went around the structure Passing by the leftward tower Behind which sat the stables We paused and clung to the keep's wall As we sighted several reindeer stabled within The stable master

A stucke elf encumbered by armour But nonetheless insulated against the cold by his bulk Tended to the massive crimsonide beast B cast a look towards us that said she wasn't sure if we could avoid being scented by those creatures, who, judging by their great size and body-length antlers, were clearly of a more refined breed compared to their slightly southern counterparts. It was impossible to tell if their almost-nightmarish giganticism was owed to some pituitary

abnormality or some dark breed of northern magic. My brother raised the carbine he'd been cradling, but B quickly shook ahead. We had known that the elves would be armed prior to beginning the mission, but we hadn't any intel as to the weapons themselves. We couldn't risk being detected by the sounds of our gunfire, even though the wind echoed loudly throughout the castle's interior. Also, we had only

minimal data regarding elven anatomy, and none of us truly trusted ourselves enough to land what could be described as a non-mortal shot. The thief can be forgotten, if not forgiven. Murderers, regardless of the landing question, are almost always hunted, even

across the world. B, crouch low, something my Mother told me she did when she was in deep thought. A few moments passed, the cold seemed to deepen, and the patrolling elves continued their rounds oblivious to our intrusion. Finally, B rose to her feet, snatching my carbine from her hands, and aimed to reach sights. She scanned the ground below for a few seconds,

then handed the weapon back, and pointed at a spot just beside the keep her few meters ahead. Quietly, I crept at the spot, now in full view of the stables, which sat about 30 metres off to my left. one reindeer stirred This seemed to be a response to a powerful gust of wind Rather than my movement

The spot to the naked eye Was completely unremarkable I stood on a snow-dusted sheet of ice Stonework had been reserved for buildings Without any markings or indications But doing his beard done I peered through the scope of the carbine And saw through its thermal imaging

A substructure beneath the ice A lower floor or basement of the keep to my right I motioned for my brother to take a look through his weapon and upon doing so he nodded his head understanding bees train of thought we retrieved two thermal charges from our pack and waited for the next surge of wind which had always carried along a visually obscuring flurry of snow

thankfully the charges were scentless in addition to the silence we burned a hole through the ice just small enough for us to slip inside one by one the gigantic reindeer neither scented nor sensed our breach of the icy floor and we quickly entered. Once Beard landed, she again took my weapon from her hands. Despite having not wielded one for more than a few moments,

she had apparently arrived at the comfortable understanding of its construction. She removed the crystal core from its chamber, grimacing as the fragility of the stone was felt through her gloves. She held the crystal up to the hole we made, squeezed it, and miraculously sealed the aperture. From within, the icy ceiling was incongruous with the stonework of the low ceiling, but outside it would have looked nearly indistinguishable from the ice floor.

The room into which we had descended was fairly ordinary and housed various crates and barrels, obviously provisions for the castle. Sconsors lined the walls with torches flaring in each, illuminating the interior and warming us. The urge to hover by these welcome sources of heat was strong, but the desire to quickly escape the battlements with our riches was stronger. We progressed down the corridor, passing by vacant rooms, until we eventually reached a set of dark stone steps.

Up these we climbed silently, invisibly, until we reached a hall at the far end of which sat a throne, seemingly wrought of crystals, and set upon a similarly forged dais. Tapestries hung from the walls, the scenes of northern expanses, images of Santa's territory, and other boreal scenery was stitched into their fabrics.

Massive pillars lined the halls, three on each side, and despite the stonework of the building, these were made of crystal. Inside each rested a dark blue liquid similar to the substance I'd spotted within the javelins of the watcher. This worried me,

but I did not bring it up to my companions. Behind the throne sat a large oaken door, taller than even the great chair upon its platform. With our carbines leveled waist-high, my brother and I strode through the threshold after B had pushed the door open before us. Our barrels swept through the interior, but our sights found nobody in which the rest.

Immediately ahead was a great hearth, an inviting fire blazing therein, and tall bookcases sat against the left and right walls. A table, sized to accommodate an ordinary person rather than an elf, stood to the side, with one chair pulled out before it. Atop the table's surface sat several thick volumes, each with spines titled by some language I only dimly recognized as been some flavor of Germanic.

To the right, near the front right, corner the room, and was another door, this one much smaller than the one through which we had passed. Wasting no time for further examination of the fire-warm study, we approached this door, and silently breached it as we had done the last. We had now entered into a torch-lit corridor, and, at the end of this, sat yet another door. Be halted halfway through the corridor and crouched low, although this was not the contemplative rest she exhibited before. My brother and I mimic the to posture and we listened intently for signs of activity. We heard nothing from either wall, but from my head, softly, came the sounds of machinery

of some sort. Rising up only slightly from a crouch position, B crept forward, and my brother and I followed suit. We reached the door, and rather than open it, as we had done to the previous two, we raised their weapons closely to the wood. The thermal imaging of the scopes penetrated the door and showed us a massive room, filled with towering mounds over which crawled large spider-like figures. I handed my weapon to be, and she scanned the room, then handed my weapon back to me. She nodded out her guns, indicating that we were free to fire upon the animate things within.

She then gripped the brass handle, loose the saber in her belt, and pushed open the door. Guns raised, my brother and I entered the room, but neither of us fired a shot. within the room, stacked in great heaps that nearly touched the ceiling, with piles and piles of glimmering gems, shining coins, and strange, yet no less beautiful artifacts. The sheer collective luster of the loot was almost blinding, and the flames of the torches across the walls seemed dim and innocuous in comparison. Crawling upon the treasured heaps, polishing coins, and dusting gems,

were aachnoid automator, constructed of ice and metal, roughly the size of small dogs. Delicately. Effilessly, they mounted and dismounted every mound and precipice, going about their custodial work with finally programmed efficiency. Despite having been clear to engage by B, neither of us wanted the fire upon these mechanical creatures, not due to any recognition of innocence, for they were quite abhorrent, but out of worry for the gems. To mar the service of even a single one was tantam out of blasphemy in our avaricious minds. The batteries that powered our camouflage suits had a projected lifespan of six years. hours before needing to be recharged, and we'd been on the castle grounds for only an hour.

I intimated this to be, gesturing the suits and our weapons, and she nodded. We could gather our loot and make a camouflage escape without needlessly engaging hostiles. The mechanical custodials paid no attention to us as we approached, assuring us of our invisible shielding. We set our bags before the central mound and began piling gems, trophies and coins indiscriminately into the bag. As each object passed from its nestling in that mountain to our bags

who's incorporated into the cloaking and seemed to blink out of existence. Our fingers snatched dexterously, our heart beat with barely contained elation, our eyes flickered with fire-heated and frost and salt stones. When our bags had been filled to the point of bulging,

we hoist them over our shoulders and turn to leave. We had prided ourselves on our undetected intrusion upon Santa's Castle and, with the plundered treasure weighing each of us down, our pride flourished. Even B, who was at all other times solid,

had a wide grin upon her face as she strode towards the door, leaving those brainless, abidutival arachnids behind. We backed race through the corridor, crossed the study, past the tapestry-draged wall of the throne room, and re-ented that storage area,

into which we descended only an hour before. Not wanting to risk unforeseen structural collapse, we made yet another hole in the same spot as the last one, and climbed up through the ceiling. It took a bit longer as we now had to push our heavy bags up to the surface but we escaped the interior without drawing attention to ourselves. Before Beaker disarm me, I dislodged the crystal from my weapon and applied the ice seal into the floor, closing the hole we'd made.

She smiled and nodded and I returned the expression. My brother rolled his eyes and gestured for us to come on. We then made our way back around the keep, planning to return to the main gate just as we'd entered it. But we suddenly stopped short, and the open courtyard before it, as we saw a patrol of elves suddenly divert from their path and march towards the gate. There, emerging from their snowy burial were the two elves we had subdued and disarmed. They shook themselves off and were immediately interrogated by the patrol's leader. Only a moment later, the leader called out in his unintelligible elven tongue,

and an alarm was raised, issuing from seemingly everywhere at once, blared, and the battlements came alive. Before even B could come up with a plan of action A burst of some blue-tinged energy shot through the castle grounds It hit us and I expected the wave to singe my flesh Or at least rattle my bones But the impact against my body was physically imperceptible The impact however was not without effect Immediately blue sparks flared across my body

And the cloaking effect of our gear was disengaged We were left standing completely exposed Surrounded by a veritable army of elves B, prior to the mission, had informed us that these elves defenders took no prisoners, Santa's grim orders in regards to the treatment of trespasses. When we flicked into visibility and their blue eyes turned towards us, we knew there would be no quarter given. B withdrew a sabre, and, without any announcement or diplomatic preamble,

she charged towards the nearby group of elves. I heard a blade sing a song of icy lethality, as it sought through the air and saw it shear through the arm of an elf, that had defensively thrown out the limb. She then danced through her opponents, slicing and thrusting with the solerity and dexterity of a practiced swordsman. Her movements were mesmerizing

when they could be seen, and I might have stood there all day and watched without regards for my own peril if my brother hadn't turned me around. Upon the towers that bordered the keep, the watcher had turned to face the bailey. The crystalline spears were aimed directly at us, and the operators stood behind the artillery,

igniting the charges. The higher thoughts of my forebrain receded, and, in their place, arose the autonomous and practiced functions of survival. My carbine was raised towards the frontlight tower, and my finger depressed the trigger. Finally honed shards of ice shot out of the barrel, just as the first folly of javelins were launched. My brother had also fired his weapon, and through some nigh telepathic intuition of siblinghood he had fired upon the other harcher. We both had considerable practice in the firearm of mankind, and the usage of the elven weaponry

required no adjustments on our part. Our aims were true, and all of the watcher operators were felled by the crystalline shards that spat forth from our weapons. But at least a dozen javelins had already fired, and, in the next instant, after arching majestically through the air, they crashed upon the ground with cataclysmic effect. It felt as if the entire world had been shaken, as its great poles of ice detonated upon impact,

causing the land to heave and turning shrapnel of ice shards through the air and throwing up a frosty mist that blanketed the ground. I was violently thrown to the ground in the terrestrial quake. I heard voices cry out in pain, elven and human, and, after a few moments, my own voice joined that chorus of agony as I struggled to dislodge a large chunk of eyes from my side. No longer needing to worry about detection, I called out to my brother. Thankfully, he answered, albeit with a voice steeped in pain.

I then called out to B, who didn't immediately answer? I heard further moans of pain, and these seemed to be in response to some newer harm, rather than crystalline bombardment. A moment later, hand seized my shoulder, and I was pulled away from where I laid. After a few minutes, I was left alone in an open space bereft of that obfuscating mist. B's stood over me, covered in splotches of steam and blue slime that I knew to be elven blood. Her saber dripped with the same stuff. Nearby, kneeling with her hands pressed to their stomachs, with several elven warriors.

They cried out in agony, and I realized that these had been the fresh noises I'd heard her. earlier. B, unimpeded by the crashing of the spears, had gone on to disembowl and disorientate the warriors. She was truly a warrior in her own right, much more skilled than her companions. B. Nelt over me and began tending to my wounds, but I waved her off and pointed towards the diminishing mist, where my brother still remained. She immediately darted into the haze, her sabre streaking blue blood as she went.

I opened the pouch of my belt and removed the field medical supplies and tended to my wound as best I could. By the time I'd patched it, B and my brother had stumbled through the mist and were rejoining me. My brother had a few small shards embedded throughout his body, but none looked fatal. B held to me stand, and before the elven army could regroup, we hobbled towards the front gate. We passed several stumbling soldiers, and B expertly cut down any who got in our way. My weapon had been damaged during the bombardment and could no longer fire. I carried it with me anyway, thinking it worthwhile to hold onto the undamaged christian.

still source. My brother had either lost his carbine or thrown it away at some point. We reached the front gate, crawled through the blasted hole and, having recovered a bit of stamina, jogged across the bridge towards the icy pain. We heard shouting atop the rampant, but none of us turned back to see what doom was being

prepared for us. Atop the hill in the distance set our snowmobiles. Despite the weight of our invaluable burdens, we ran on, tirelessly, filled with renewed resolve and having survived a direct engagement with the castle's defences. Halfway across the ice field, we heard a sharp, whistle-like noise. B, held it in place, and motioned for us to do the same. My brother and I turned around, expecting to see a volley of chavelins

arcing through the sky towards us. But B, for the first time since the start of the heist, spoke. No, we're all out of range of the watcher, and this isn't coming from the castle anyway. It's coming from directly above us. All three of us looked up, and at first nothing was visible through the gloom of the cloud coverage. But then, second by second, something took form, until we discerned a large shape barreling down towards us. Galvanized by a sudden panic, sensing the approach of some greater doom, I sprinted towards the hill ahead, with my companions close behind.

Before we could reach its base, the hill's crown was suddenly set ablaze as some kind of ordnance struck it. The snowmobiles were instantly and utterly destroyed. I slid to my knees and my brother stumbled to a stop beside me. He stopped with slightly more grace, but defeat had quickly entered the hearts of all of us at the destruction of our only means of escape. Behind us, the vehicle that had launched the missile landed heavily upon the ice. Slowly, dreading this newly arrived terror,

I turned to face the enemy. From a great crimson sleigh disembarked a veritable giant. He stepped upon the ice. with thick leather boots and stood towering over the man-high vehicle in a posture of sovereignty and contempt. The black-mitted hand patted the heads of a few monstrous reindeer who snorted out plumes of vaporous ice from their barrel-like nostrils. Their eyes, reddened by sheer malice, if not by some innate power, glared at us as the master caressed his scalps. The giants wore a red coat with fluffs of white around the collar and the cuffs and trousers similarly colored and fluffed. The great white beard draped from the chin to the breast.

but the uncovered head was bald. Fierce blue eyes, almost black, stared hatefully towards us, and the pale skin that bordered them seemed to glow with some tightened vitality. The white-rimmed mouth scald, the reddened cheeks puffed, the bulbous nose, irritably twitched.

You dare trespass among Castle Warden, home of Clan Claus. The voice boomed across the expanse, and the clouds above seemed to briefly recoil in response to the thunderously bellowed accusation. Utterly stunned by the, the arrival and fearsome appearance of Santa, none of us answered. The legendary gift-bearer's mitts curled into massive, block-like fists, and a icy aura of

blue began to swirl around his gargantron figure. B, for the first time that day, looked truly afraid, and my brother, clinging to my arm, started to audibly whimper. A terror unthought of filled my heart, and I could do nothing but stare at the enraged Castellan as he mustered his power in preparation for some horrible attack. The reindeer nade, callously, mocking as if knowing what dark fate awaited us at the hands of their sorceress master. I closed my eyes then, not wanting to look upon the means of my destruction. A sudden impact against my chest simply sprawling onto my back,

and I initially thought that I'd been painlessly struck by some hyper-lethal projectile. But upon opening my eyes, I saw bees standing above me, her back to the fuming giant. My brother laid on his back beside me, having also a little bit of his back. had been pushed. Before either of us could question her, she said in a grave, unquestionable tone. Go. While I admired her skills in combat,

and her ability to adapt to truly unusual scenarios, I hadn't any real sense of camaraderie toward her. Still, I send her a gaze that said, You're sure? And she nodded, somberly in response. My brother and I then scrambled up the hill towards the blazing wreckage, leaving Peter fend for herself against the dreaded

claws. My brother and I summited the hill, still bearing our portions of the treasure, and navigated around the conflagration. We ran, as men had never run before. Our feet crunched upon the snow, slid across the ice, and trampled rocky admixtures of the two. We never stopped, never looked back, but continued on until we reached the hut we'd used as a way station in our travels towards the castle, five kilometres away. Once inside, we threw ourselves upon the floor, not bothering to unfasten our gear or our packs. I passed out and awoke with a start almost three hours later. I shook my brother awake and he emerged from sleep grogly, drool trailing from his mouth.

Together we open our packs to behold the bounty we'd plundered. Our thoughts hadn't yet turned to the woman we'd left behind. But our eyes did not come to rest on glimmering gems and sparkling coins. Inside both packs sat great heaps of coal. Neither of us looked up from our packs for a while, perhaps thinking that maybe our eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the lighting of the hut or that some sort of illusionary magic was at play. But when I plunged my hands into the pile and such fell between my fingers and my hands were blackened, I accept the grim, so-chilling

reality of the situation. Virtually penniless, we left the North Pole and returned to our Midwestern home. We had waited six hours for the arrival of B before departing from the hut. we didn't dare wait any longer unless Santa or his outriders come for us going back hadn't been something even considered What became of B is presently unknowable And yet it wasn't until after a flight

Had landed back in the States That I remember the absence of an item The small crystalline engine Of the elven weaponry Which I had salvaged from my broken carbine Was missing from my belongings I traced it back through my memory and didn't recall having it at the hut either.

A colonel of hope emerged in my mind, as I consider the possibility of B snatching that small, yet a surely volatile trinket from my possession before sending us away. I'd sensed the great power within the confines of its small structure, and are now confident that if its raw power could be harnessed by a human in battle, B would have been able to do it. I awoke to the sounds of the birds chirping high above, and the soft creaking of fur bows as the breeze rushed by.

My eyes strained to open as the morning sunlight filtered in through the mesh of my tent. It had gotten far too cold last night to sleep without the rain ply on. The thin fabric offered little insulation, but any extra was welcome to help fight against the cloudless night sky. It was dawn on the third day of my six-day backpacking trip, and each night had gotten consecutively colder than the last. The previous night had reached below freezing, as a fine layer of glitter and frost traced the outlines of the long shadows cast the trees. Remaining in the relative warmth of my sleeping bag for as long as possible, I donned

all of my layered gear for the day's hike. Warm, dry socks from my bag had become my best friend on this adventure, as they would inevitably save my feet from countless blisters during the 14-mile stretch I needed to cover to keep on pace. It would be hard going through the dense forest and rocky outcroppings, but would be manageable before sundown. As I stumbled out of my tent, I stretched all my muscles to chase away the last vestiges of sleep and remnants of fatigue from the previous days. Lighting the burner from my small portable stove, I began to break down camp while I waited for some water to boil. Neither would take long, but I felt oddly anxious to get on with the day. Once the tent and bedding were packed, and a meagre meal of reconstituted eggs and hash browns

was eaten, I began to set off towards the east like each morning before. The day itself promised to be truly beautiful, as the sun came fully over the mountains ahead. The world erupted with a soft, warm light that so often accompanies spring mornings. Laisley floating dust and pollen suspended in the air allowed the golden yellow rays to be caught as they filtered through the canopy. The morning progressed. Small purple and white wildflowers began to open up, dancing gracefully back and forth in the small gusts of wind that wound their way through the narrowing valley. All of this natural beauty surrounding me, and yet, I couldn't shake that lingering sense of anxiety from breakfast.

I thought in it for a while, as I trudged over gentle hills and across a shallow stream, that was likely snow run off from the mountains. While things such as my work, social life, or even relationships could produce anxiety in my life, once I had set out on this journey, they had all fallen away. I felt beholden to no one and nothing except myself. Was this feeling a simple regression of those everyday troubles? No, this was something deeper. Those problems were abstract and distant.

This felt much more immediate. It was almost comparable to the feeling of being followed when travelling through the city at night. The eyes of some unseen predator tracking my every move, perfectly content to stay in the proverbial shadows and observe. Without conscious thought, my pace quickened. My eyes began to dart from tree to tree and from rock to stump in an effort to catch some small flash of movement.

This state of being completely on edge continued to escalate in minor increments until I was almost running through the woods. It seemed as if at any moment my invisible pursuer would leap out and strike. I nearly let out a cry as a small brown squirrel startled by my crashing flea ran across the path in front of me. Coming to a stop, I took a moment to catch my breath and to tell myself that I was being ridiculous. The only animals out here that would actively hunt a human would be a cougar or a bear, and neither had been spotted in the area for years. As for another person, I hadn't seen a single one

since the check-in at the ranger station during the first day of my trip. It was completely irrational to think that there was someone else who would randomly cross my path, let alone that person be some deranged menace. While all of these placations I told myself sounded logical,

a hint of that nagging dread remained in the back of my mind. It took me a long moment to decide whether or not to turn back. But eventually I felt victim to my original temptation to hike the valley and explore nature. The rest of the afternoon proved to be rather uneventful. Other than the occasional bird song, or increasingly brisk breeze, there had been no disturbances to the peacefulness of the hike.

Early evening was already beginning to take hold of the world, and while the sun had been shining for hours, I could see heavy black clouds creeping over the mountains. This gave me significant cause for concern, as I hadn't anticipated any storms this late in the season, and the ones in this area were well known for their brutal conditions. The sun had just started to sink behind the encroaching clouds and looming mountaint when I began to hear a noise.

It was distant and farther into the valley than I had gotten. It was so far off and faint that I had to pause for a moment to see whether or not it was real, or just another trick of my imagination. With my footsteps silenced, there was no longer the crunching of the moment. leaves and underbrush, or the snapping of small twigs. Had I not been so engrossed in waiting to see if it came again, I might not have noticed the complete, an utter silence that had fallen over the remaining wildlife. No birds chirped in the cool evening air, and no insects buzzed around my ears with their constant

droning. The quiet unnerved me, as it seemed there was always a subtle background noise to nature. Trying to brush away the feeling, I waited for it felt like an eternity, with my ears trained for the slightest indication of what ever was ever. now seemed like an imagined sound. Almost ready to continue on and find a good place to hunker down for the night, I snapped back to attention

when a soft breeze carried the faintest hint of the sound again. The trees and wind did much to mask it, but it was there. Filtering through the branches and across the rugged landscape came the distant echoes of a scream. Abandoning the notion of setting up camp for the night,

I began to run deeper into the woods. There had been such a dire sound of pain and terror, in that voice, and it sent shivers down my spine. Charging through the branches, over the rocks and logs, I began to shout as loudly as I could manage. I hear you, I'm coming. Whoever this person was, I knew in that moment that they desperately needed help,

and I had to find them. I kept shouting as I plunged through the density-covered forest floor, and the screams kept coming. A million possible situations raced in my head as I went. Had another hiker gotten injured and stuck out here? Maybe someone had been climbing once the boulders littering the area and become trapped under one. While predatory animals hadn't been spotted here, that didn't mean they couldn't be here. As the thought of an animal attack crossed my mind, I slowed for only a moment to draw out the large knife I kept strapped to my belt.

If it really was a wild animal, I would have to be ready to fight back if there was any hope of saving this person. After what felt like an eternity, I burst into a large clearing. The trees had fallen away in a rough circle. leaving a patch of open ground a few hundred yards in diameter. Pausing for a moment, I realised that the screams sounded significantly closer now. It seemed almost as if the source of the agonised cries of horror should be within view on the other side of the clearing. I took off again and felt the soft brush of large snowflakes across my exposed face as I ran.

When I had gotten only about 50 feet from the other side of the clearing, a small blonde woman exploded out from the tree line, letting loose another screech. I stopped suddenly, and the woman was so intent on fleeing that she almost bowled me over, despite being significantly smaller than me. Grabbing up by the shoulders to stop her, I was able to get my first good look at her. In any normal situation, many would describe her as beautiful. A large, striking blue eyes were framed by short blonde hair, her milky white skin seemed the perfect addition to her pale features, until I noticed the dark crimson beads making tracks down her arm. I looked at her again

and saw that on one side the thick-blanned hair was matted down with drying blood and her icy blue eyes were struck wide with terror. Five deep gashes ran across a shoulder appearing to be the source of the blood that now ran over my fingers as I gripped her arm. More slices mar the length of a thigh, though they did not appear to be as deep as the ones on her shoulder.

Her clothes were filthy, caked in blood and mud, with more than one tear shredding the various fabrics. Once I had gotten a hold of her, she began savagely beating at my arms and chest in an attempt to break free of my grip. She screamed again as I weather the blows as best as I could, and I shouted to try to be heard over her. Hey, lady, what the hell is going on? As soon as the words left my mouth, the assault stopped, and her eyes met mine. It's coming, she whispered, her voice quavering with fear.

What's coming? What did this to you? I asked, realizing that an animal capable of doing this would be no small threat to us both. I looked past her into the woods where she had come running from, but saw nothing amidst the steadily growing darkness and falling white flakes. The snow had started to come down heavier now, pulling thick enough to obscure the other side of the clearing where I had entered. It's coming,

was all the woman could manage, repeating the same phrase several times before falling silent again. It's all right. I replied. It won't try anything while we're together. I always like to try and pick off loners, not fight against groups. I told her, trying to sound confident. The faltering waver, in my last few words, betrayed the mountain concern I was starting to feel about the situation.

Come on, we need to find a place to take shelter for the night. The snow is starting to come down pretty hard, and it's almost pitch black out here. Once we're safe, I can take a look at your wounds, I said, trying to project firmness through my voice. grabbing the flashlight from the side of my bag, I clicked it on, casting a harsh white beam of light of the ground. The woman didn't respond, though she made no effort to resist as I took her hand and started leading her back towards the other side of the clearing. Night had fully fallen at this point, and the snow fell in a constant silent barrage. With a poor visibility and the woman's injured leg, our attempt to follow the path of the mad dash I had made earlier was very slow going. What had taken me only a minute to do earlier in my adrenaline-fueled state

now took us almost 30. The woman leaned heavily against me and at some points I was concerned that I would have to abandon my pack and carry her. Small dots of crimson followed in our footprint as blood continued to drip from the deep wounds on her shoulder under the thin layer of pristine snow. I stopped when we had finally made it about 100 feet into the trees on the side of the clearing that I had originally come from.

I gave the light to the woman who I placed in a log while I made camp. She sat motionless and unblinking, barely able to hold the flashlight in a shaking hands. My first order of business was to build a small fire. I was sure that with the torn clothes and the moderate loss of blood, the young woman was lightly freezing. The exhibition of multiple signs of shock and hypothermia

led me to try and engage her while I worked. My name is Ted Warnock, I said lightly, as I used my matches to ignite the few dried twigs I'd found. what's yours? I waited for a response while I blew on the glowing embers causing them to burn brightly for a moment. Silence followed and I blew again.

A small flame danced off and I spoke out again as I began piling more twigs on. I'm glad I was able to find you out here. I haven't seen anyone at all since I left. What were you doing out here? The light from the glowing fire illuminated the face of the woman

who wide eyes stared at the flames and despite the chattering of her teeth, she made nod a sound. I moved to crouch in front of her and placed her hand lightly on her uninjured leg. Miss, can you hear me? I asked in a quiet voice,

trying to get her attention. After a moment of no response, her eyes flicked away from the fire and met mine. A small nod of her head showed me that she wasn't completely catatonic. I smiled and nodded as well. Good, I have to keep working

to get camp set up before this snow gets any worse, but in the meantime, I want you to sit here by the fire and warm up a bit, all right? As soon as I'm done, we'll take a look at those wounds. Another barely besetal nod let me know she understood, and her eyes darted back to the fire. I paused for a moment, staring at her with concern, before getting up again and resuming my tasks. I added more wood to the fire, hoping that the light would keep whatever the hell had attacked her at bay, Setting up the tent was something I'd grown accustomed to doing myself, and within minutes I had it up. I enrolled my sleeping bag and placed my bag in the corner, before rumging through it to pull out the decently well-stocked medical kit I'd brought on the trip. While I hadn't planned on any situation quite as dire as this, I knew that cleaning the bandages now would be the only way the woman would be able to walk out of here on the multi-day journey back.

frowning, I thought about how it had taken me a full three days to get this deep into the valley. The added difficulty of helping the wounded woman would make the journey back much longer. The only comfort was that if this took us longer, the rangers would come searching for me along the same path I told them I'd be taking when I first checked in. In the morning, I'd just have to figure out how far I'd derived from that path in my sprint to finder. Setting the medical kit beside the sleeping bag, I headed back out of the tent, and over towards the blooded woman. Miss, why don't we head into the tent to do this?

It'll help keep you warm and dry in there. I said, trying to put a half smile on my face. A rise darted up to me, and a flicker of uncertainty flashed across them, as if she was worried this was some cool trick. I held out my hand, and, after a moment or two of hesitation, she timidly took it and followed me to the tent.

I pondered while she now seemed a bit paranoid, as we ducked under the flap, and she stiffly lowered herself under the sleeping bag. It must have been part of the shock, I thought. She's clearly rattled by whatever happened out there. The large tears in the fabric of her clothing made it possible to fully access her wounds without the need to remove any articles. I prepped some alcohol swabs and began to wipe slowly and carefully at the deep gashes running across her shoulder. She wins the way in pain, but once I cleaned the area, I could see that at least it was

still bleeding. I sat for a moment, transfixed, as I stared at what were the largest and most odd claw marks I had ever seen. Did a cougar do this to you? I asked, breaking my eyes away, to look over at her face in anticipation of a response. She said nothing, and seemed to not even noticed that I'd spoken. Her gaze was fixing a point straight out of the tent and into the dark forest beyond. The flames of the fire were reflected bright orange in a wide eyes, and a single tear fell down a cheek. A long, vibrant red trail marked its passage across a still face. Realising that a trauma and head wound may be worse than I originally feared, I set back to work, cleaning the wound and applying bandages. I broke the silence again sometime later as I stood up in the tent.

I'm going to feed the fire and keep watch. I'll be back in a little bit to check on you, but if you need anything, just call. I'll be right outside. The girl had drawn her knees to her chest, and sat in the fetal position. Her wide-eyed stare hadn't changed since she first sat down, aside from the occasional slow blink that would let slip another tear. I had told her she could sleep in my sleeping bag and had retrieved the mile of emergency blanket from my pack to take with me outside.

Giving her one last look, I stepped back outside and zipped up the tent. The poor girl had obviously been through a traumatic experience and, as much as I didn't want to leave her alone, I needed some time to process the day's event to myself. There were so many thoughts racing through my head about the logical problems facing us, the possible outcomes, and the dangers we now faced. Turning around, I saw that the snow

had slowed its fall from when we first arrived. At least that's a good sign, I thought. Already an inch had accumulated in places, though the trees offered decent enough cover. I sunk heavy to the ground as I reached for more sticks to add to the small, but warm fire. Wrapping the thin blanket around myself,

I finally allowed the gravity of the situation to hit me in full. Leaning back against a log, I began to try formulate a plan for the next day. It wouldn't be easy, but we would survive this as long as we could keep a level head and make smart, well-thought-out decisions.

One of those decisions was the shove the thought that whatever had done this to were was still out there, out of my mind for the time being. After that one, I threw a couple more sticks onto the fire, and watched as the flames took hold and grew brighter.

Harsh white light flooded from my eyes as I squinted them open. The first thing I noticed was the deep, bone-chilling cold that had consumed my body. Black chunks of charcoal sat cold and lifeless, surrounded by a thin layer of new snow that covered everything. I sat up stiffly, feeling every joint in my body ache. Realisation struck me as I tried to recall my last memories. I had fallen asleep outside by the fire.

The combination of the blanket and the extra wood I had added to the fire made being out the night before bearable. My spot of the fire had been warm, the day had been long, and the adrenaline had finally worn off. I must have drifted the sleep without even knowing how tired my body and mind truly were. I turned my head to look over to the tent, ready to call out to the woman and apologise for not checking in, when the icy chill crept from my bones to every fibre of my soul. The tent was gone. It hadn't been more than five feet to my left the night before, and now in its place was an empty patch of ground devoid of even the snow that covered me.

I stared, mouth agape, and a new wave of a mountain concern began to rise as I noticed the line of bare ground extending into the woods away from where we had set camp. Stiff joints popped and groaned as I forced myself to my feet, my awakening brain struggling to comprehend the information my eyes provided. While I trace a line back to the trees over and over again, it finally hit me. These were drag marks. The tent had been pulled away from the camp in the middle of the night, and I had somehow slept through it. Shear panic filled my mind, and I whiled my frozen muscles to start a stumbling run across the path.

As if, almost on cue, I heard the all-too-familiar scream in the distance. distance. My heart was permeated with dread as I moved as fast as I could, following the drag marks towards the angriest cries. I'm coming, I shouted back, hoping to God that I'd be fast enough. The large knife from my belt found its way into my numb hands, and I pushed myself harder, ready to fight the animal that was surely near. The cries kept coming, sounding louder and more urgent with each moment. The screams came from behind a large rock, the path bent around, and I sprinted as fast as my tired body could manage. As soon as I ran the corner, all sounds stopped.

The sight that awaited me brought me to an abrupt halt, and I struggled to take it all in. The tent lay collapsed, flat on the ground, his fabric shredded and poles splintered. A figure lay near it, unmoving, and partially covered in a thin blanket of snow. Something was different, though. The snow near the figure

wasn't the pristine white sheet that had covered me back at the campsite. It was a dark crimson robe that radiated out in all directions. It stained the snow, heavy red, with long splashes leading away from the body, and tiny splatters dotting the surroundings.

I rushed towards the body of the woman, unsure if I would be too late to savour. In the final few steps, I slipped on a patch of ice and fell to the ground hard. Instinctively looking back, a realization hit me like freight train. It wasn't just ice that I had slipped on. It was blood. The snow near the body was

heavily laden with it, but instead of being the soft mush of wet snow, it was frozen solid and slick. I looked back toward the woman laying on the ground next to me and felt bile rise in my throat. Staring back at me was a single, pale, lifeless eye as the rest of her face was covered by a snowy shroud. She had been dead for a long time now, and I was a little. And I had been following her impossible screams all the way from camp. Even as I lay on blinking on the cold ground, trying to comprehend what was happening, that same piercing agonized cry came again.

Her frozen blue lips hadn't moved a bit, and yet I still heard it. The sound startled me, but just led to further confusion when I realized that it had not come from the dead woman, but up above. Looking up into the trees, my mouth dropped open in absolute horror.

A pale figure crouched on the branch in the tree directly above me. It was completely hairless with dull grey skin that looked ancient and worn. His limbs were disproportionately long and looked as though they hid the wiry strength of a lifelong predator. Each ended in a set of five long and slender claws, knife-like and stained with a brownish red of dried blood. A humanoid face looked down with a squat, flat nose, and eyes that were soulless black pits. When my own eyes locked with them,

it was obvious that it knew I had finally seen him. A white slash of a mouth split its face, resembling a grin. Countless needle teeth were exposed, and, after a long moment, they parted to emit a sound that was jarring to my already fragile sanity.

Instead, of some low growl or monstrous snarl, it admitted a perfect, identical scream to that of the now dead woman beside me. It was in that moment that it dawned on me that I had been lowered here, not by the woman I'd saved, but by this terrifying thing. Snapping out of my trance, I lifted myself to my feet and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. A heavy thump sounded behind me, followed by another sickening exact scream. I didn't turn to look, knowing that the creature had dropped from his perch

and was likely given chase. If I turned, I would surely fall, and that meant it would catch me and tear me to pieces like it did the woman whose voice had now used to taunt me. I kept running, not slowing for even a moment or caring in which direction I went. All that mattered in that moment was getting the hell away from that thing. As I tried to clear a log in front of me, my foot slipped and bent painfully to the side. I fell hard to the ground, scrambling to get back to my feet again, as the adrenaline pushed me through the sharp, stabbing pain I felt with every step.

It grew from a minor inconvenience to a severe detriment, I pushed myself to keep going, I had at least spray my ankle, and it was direly hampering my ability to flee. It felt as though I'd been running for hours, when in reality it had likely been much shorter. When it felt as though another step would cause my ankle to give out, I collapsed to the ground and leaned back against the tree. The screens had kept coming while I fled, but were now much more distant. Feeling safe enough to give myself a brief respite, I scanned the surrounding area looking

for any familiar landmarks with which I could orient myself. All I saw were the tall fir trees in every direction, and I knew that I was absolutely lost. My head fell back against the trees, and I looked up at the canopy, feeling defeated. As the boughs shifted in the wind, I could make out a rough approximation of the sun's location in the sky. It was still early morning,

and I knew that this was the start I needed. My mad dash away from the horrid creature had been headed to the south, and all I had to do was change my direction to head west back towards the Ranger Station. Pushing aside the feeling of despair and defeat, I pull myself back to my feet and set off again. It was slow going, but I had to keep moving.

The scream still sounded fairly distant, but in my current state, I knew it would be gaining ground on me if it followed my change of course. They sounded sporadically throughout the day, always seemed to be coming from a different direction. It was still moving. moving, and it still hunted me.

As darkness fell over the world once again with the coming of night, I knew that I couldn't keep going. If I turned on a light, it would be easy to find me. If I didn't have a light, there was every likelihood that all would hurt myself more than I currently was. I spotted a small burrow between the roots of a huge tree, and reasoned that this would be as good of a hiding place as any. Squeeze myself down as far as I could, I sat listening to the night.

despite the fact that I felt absolutely exhausted, sleep never came. Every so often, another shrill scream would split the still night air, snapping me back to attention. Each sounded closer than the last, moving back and forth through the trees. The nature of its slow pace felt almost taunting, as if he'd already knew where I was

and could come get me at its leisure. I felt toyed with, like a crippled bird being battered at by a lazy cat before its inevitable demise. As soon as light broke over the mountaintops to the east, I forced my wary body up and forwards. It continued on like that for four more days. Each morning I would plod along towards the west as fast as I could manage, and each night I would hide and listen to the piercing cries of that malevolent thing.

They slowly drew nearer and nearer, as each night I was forced to stop, and I knew there wouldn't be much longer before it finally overtook me. That realization came as I hunkered down behind another tree among a patch of tall ferns. I began to cry then as the futility of everything I had done in the last several days came crashing down in a drowning wave. Tears silently fell from my cheeks as the screams sounded again, letting me know my demise crept ever closer. I closed my eyes for just a moment and the cumulative, physical, emotional and mental strain immediately overcame my drained existence. Who knows?

Maybe it'll kill me in my sleep, and this nightmare can finally be over. I mused as my consciousness faded away. I jolted awake, feeling a hot breath wash across my face. My eyes shut open, and the horrifying more of the creature sat mere inches away from me. Its needle teeth spread wide as it opened his mouth in a disgusting mockery of a grin, and the fetid stench of decay and rotting meat filled my nostrils. It clacked its mouth open and shut a few times, before letting loose the haunting scream of the woman it killed.

This time I screamed back. All the pent-up fear, stress and anger, I had felt as this hideous thing pursued me, was released in one defiant outburst of my own. Rage and a need to fight back filled every fibre of my being. In a quick fluid motion, I pulled my knife from my belt and sank it into the creature's chest. I was rewarded with a shrill cry of pain

and surprised from the wounded thing, as well as a spray of thick black blood when I removed the blade. My arm fell again and again, perforating the pale grey leather of the thing's chest. I pushed it back off of me and stood as I watched it shriek and thrash amongst the underbrush. I smiled a wide grin as the ground became saturated with this blood, and it finally grew still. There was a moment of silence in the world, before another voice came from ahead in me. My head snapped up to look at its source. Oh my God.

You killed him. Came an anguished cry from a tall man wearing a ranger's uniform. Drop the knife and get on the ground right now. I stared, dumbfounded at the man as he pointed a pistol at me. Where had he came from? Why was he screaming at me? I looked down towards the eviscerated creature laying in the ferns, but it was gone. In its place lay a young man wearing a once brown ranger uniform,

now stained a deep crimson. My head spun and my vision began to grow narrow, the screaming of the range I became muted and distant. I felt the heavy impact of a bullet slam into my chest and suddenly I was on the ground looking up at the sky. A heavy cloud moved over the sun and my world went black. A soft, constant beeping was the first thing I became aware of. Slowly more sounds faded in and I was aware of the low buzz of idle chatter and people working. My heavy eyelids cracked open and I saw that I was laying in a small bed

with a simple white blanket covering my legs My whole body hurt And as I tried to sit up A lance of pain shot through my right side Looking down I saw a large square bandage Covering my right shoulder And memories came flooding back to me Trying again to push myself up

There was a jangle of metal And my arm stopped suddenly A sturdy pair of handcuffs Connected my wrist to the rail of the bed The noise called the attention of a small woman wearing scrubs and she hurried off as soon as she saw that I was awake. Within minutes a doctor came in and began to look me over. He started asking me questions,

but I couldn't focus my vision and quickly fell back into the darkness. A rough voice brought me back to the waking world once again. The doctor that had been there only a moment before was replaced by a pair of uniformed officers. The one closest to me snapped his fingers a few times. times, and everything started to come back into focus. When I could clearly see their faces and hear the words they were saying, I asked them a simple question.

What happened? The two exchanged a glance before one of them came to stand by the side of the bed and pulled up a chair. We were hoping that you'd tell us, he said, sitting down and pulling out a notepad. So began the first of many long hours of questioning. They'd asked me to tell my story, and so I gave it to them. Every excruciating detail was run through, time and time again. They wrote things down, asked me to repeat parts, and analysed every word.

As the morning light began to steal into the windows of the small hospital ward, they finally left. The medication that the doctors put me on made the world feel fuzzy, and time became immaterial. They passed by in a blurry haze, and I couldn't keep track of it. Many others followed the original officers, asking the same questions and getting the same answers. Sometime later, a man in a black suit came with more officers, and I was finally released from that place. I was brought to a courthouse where I stood trial for the murders of Stephanie Briggs, the young woman, and Freddie Orwick, the Ranger. The jury wasted no time in returning a verdict of guilty on all charges, and I was given two consecutive life sentences with an impossibility of parole. Being placed in a federal penitentiary seemed like it would be the end of the whole ordeal.

But I was so very wrong. Last night, as I lay in my cot, staring at the ceiling above me, I caught the faintest flicker of movement in the darkest corner of my cell. My eyes strained to pierce the inky black, but as a cloud in the night sky drifted away from the moon, a thin beam of moonlight shone through my window to the outside world. It illuminated a set of needle-like teeth, protruding from a mouth, bent into that sickening rendition of a grin.

Long, sharp claws reached along the floor, tapping on the concrete, before sinking back into the darkness and fading from view. When I was a child, the stories my parents told me always involved some monster that lived out in the woods and prayed upon those who were careless in their adventures in nature. Back then, I believed that if you were careful and able to make it out of the woods, that you would be safe from the monsters that roamed within. As with many childhood beliefs, that has since changed.

I can now say, with absolute certainty, that not all monsters live in the woods.