CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - r/Nosleep REDDIT Horror Stories to start the New Year

Episode Date: January 5, 2021

CREEPYPASTA STORIES-►0:00 "Don't Eat Today's Special" Creepypasta►14:27 "The stranger said that I could keep the contents of the box if I could describe it" Creepypasta►33:04 "I found a survival guide for 2021 in an old bookstore" Creepypasta►50:35 "Confessions of a London Flusher" Creepypasta►1:18:46 "We Knew Something was Wrong When the Trees Began to Move" CreepypastaCreepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...CREEPY THUMBNAIL ART BY►Ivan Roujev: https://www.artstation.com/artwork/oO...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7YCb...►"Personal Favourites"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AEa2R...►"Written by me"- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gX6RA...►"Long Stories"- https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list...FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter: https://twitter.com/Creeps_McPasta►Instagram: https://instagram.com/creepsmcpasta/►Twitch: http://www.twitch.tv/creepsmcpasta►Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/CreepsMcPastaCREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪-This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only-

There's something terrifying going on in the restaurant downtown. I could give you the address. I could tell you the exact location, could give you turn-by-turn directions and how to get there. But I won't. I'll describe how it looks so you can turn away if you ever stumble on it by accident. But that's all I'll do.

I'd rather not have any of you trying to find the place. The restaurant I'm talking about is in a rundown part of my hometown. It's the kind of neighbourhood that consists mainly of closed-up shops, their dusty windows blocked over with old newspaper and cardboard. There are only two kinds of businesses that seem to survive in that place. There are filthy bars lying with slot machines on one hand, and on the other are the sort of second-hand electronic stores that seem to only exist so pickpockets can get rid of stolen cell phones.

I used to take a shortcut through this district on my way home for my part-time job. Normally there was little to see, or rather what there was to see, was either gross or concerning, if not both. So you were better off not paying any tension in the first place. On this particular day several months ago, however,

an illuminated window caught my eye. A simple tablecloth behind a dirty window. It was the bright colour that did the trick. Nothing really special, you may think,

and you'd be right. But its pristine condition stood out in a place like this where an all-encompassing patina of filth was an expected part of any decor. The window belonged to a two-story house, wedged in between some taller buildings. Graffiti covered its walls to an extent that rendered it barely recognisable as a restaurant.

Once, its name must have been painted onto the wall above the window. Now, only a few letters remained legible. Da E. Stroh was all I could make out. I guess that the second word used to be bistro. No idea about the first one. Upon taking a closer look through the illuminated window, I spotted a late table housing a single, lone customer. There were other tables and chairs, haphazily littered around the room,

but this central one was the only table sporting a bright white tablecloth and a guest. Various pots and pans were strewn about on its surface. The air above was filled with soft, foggy steam of freshly cooked food. There were lots of it, far too much for the lone patron. He was a skinny man with worn clothes that seemed far too big for him. His cheeks looked hollow and his arms spindly. Maybe part of the local population of homeless drifters and addicts. Definitely not the kind of person who might be able to afford a meal of this size.

He was facing my direction without ever directly looking at me or the window in general. His attention was completely focused on the food. He shoveled her spoon filled with mashed potatoes and greens. green beans into his mouth, before grasping the nearby glass of water to flood the generous portion down his throat. There was an obvious appetite in the way he hungrily waved down anything he could get his hands on, and the longer I stared at the simple but generous meal, the more I started to grow hungry myself. For a minute or two, I fruitlessly walked back and forth in front of the place, searching for a way to enter.

The only visible door was closed, and it didn't look like an entrance in the first place. It was a plain steel door sporting an electronic warning sign After returning to the window One last time I gave up Went home and proceeded to forget About the whole encounter

I didn't think about it at all Until I passed by the window again A week after As soon as I caught a glimpse of the white colour The memory came flooding back The very same man was still there Or more likely was there again And once more he sat there

in front of a lavish meal. A sweaty gleam was covering his face and I could see the muscles and his neck tense and twitch whenever he swallowed. The only thing that really changed from last week was the food. A simple mix of potatoes, soups and steamed vegetables

had been replaced by more intricate and expensive meals. Plate housed nicely arranged colours of various meats, each artfully drenched in a different sauce and adorned of the few herbs. With a twist of his wrist, the patrons, scoot up a serving of thin, delicate noodles, dripping with olive oil and roasted garlic.

He squeezed the fork against his lips, his jaw still trying to chew the previous load, then open his mouth and shoveled the noodles in, nearly choking in the process. He looked slightly distressed as he tried to swallow the portion while his hands were already scooping up the next load. A tender piece of chicken breast from its roast, dripped in brown marinade. He slightly shuddered as he forced the food down, took a second, to sip on a glass of red wine, then went back to stuffing himself. I watched him for five minutes before moving on. The scent drifting through the window was enticing,

but I had already given up on the notion of finding an entrance to the building. When I came home, I emptied my pantry and cooked myself a giant meal as well. The next time I came back to the restaurant, wasn't by chance. Something about the whole place had piqued my interest, and I was looking forward to seeing whether the same singular customer had returned for a third time. To my disappointment,

something was blocking the view that particular night. A board of some sort was propped up against the window from the inside. I could still see small parts of the room through a small gap. I could see that the light was still burning and that somebody appeared to still be sitting at the place the man had been

those last two weeks, but there was no way of getting a good look at what was going on. With my curiosity left unsatisfied, I went home. The next day I made a detour to return. I just hated to be left hanging like that. The window was blocked again. Over the next few weeks, I developed a habit of dropping by the place every now and then.

Sometimes I got a good view into the room. Whenever I did, I'd find the same sight. The skinny man sitting in front of the increasingly luscious meal. gorging himself on the food. By now, you couldn't really call him skinny anymore, though. He had gained at least a little weight. His cheeks were no longer sunken, and his formerly loosely hanging vest had grown a bit tighter around the waist.

While he had eaten with a healthy appetite at first, his expression had turned slightly pained by now. Every bite had become a struggle. Every motion seemed forced. His nose wrinkled and disgust every time his lips opened. Still, he kept eating. I have to admit, however, that I didn't pay all that much attention to him. The increasingly exotic food was just too bizarre to look away from.

Every time I was allowed a glimpse at the table, I'd see more and more alien items appearing in more and more strange arrangements. Jelly cubes encasing sharp-fanged anglerfish, misshaping eggs the size of my fist emitting a faint glow. Noodles so thin and dark, they look like hair. It became hard to even recognise half the same. stuff is edible in the first place. I watched the man crack open the gigantic body of a purple spider crab,

watched him bite down on the moss-covered mushroom that spat out clouds of yellow spores with every touch, witnessed him sitting in front of a plate of little squirming black bugs that tried to flee from his spoon as he shoveled them into his moor. Giant algae plants shaped and twisted around each other like strands of DNA, needle-covered orange balls that slightly shivered as if breathing. The roasted body of some eight-legged animal. either the remnants of some freak of nature or several animals stitched together

to create a new abominable shape. Soon I ignored the patron completely and just dropped by to see what kind of absurd ideas the cook had come up with this time. And strangely, no matter how bizarre and abhorrent the food looked, it left me wanting to try it myself, left me hungry and searching for something to fill myself as well.

And then, when I finally returned home to plunder my kitchen, I'd end up unsatisfied. As time passed, my chances to catch a glimpse of the goings on inside the restaurant grew rarer. More and more, the window was blocked, and I was relegated to squeeze my head against the corner in hopes of at least catching a little glance at that day's special. Mint's meat shaped to resemble realistic human heads, with hair and teeth taken from various animals, a thin glass that emitted a similarly endless stream of bluish fog,

a red soup that followed the motions of the spoon before it ever came into contact as if driven by some magnetic force. By now, I can't believe that I never noticed anything being wrong with these things when I witnessed them. But back then, I kept telling myself that there existed a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this, that everything I saw was just tricks

manufactured by some creative and probably slightly deranged cooking genius. But this little lie I kept telling myself could only get me so far. It was only a matter of time until the strangeness crossed the threshold. That's what happened last week. Things got a little too weird to ignore

and mentally push aside. There is something wrong with that place. There is something terrifying about the restaurant downtown. Before the day in question, I hadn't gotten a clear view into the restaurant for a month. Just little hints here and there,

but never enough to leave me satisfied. And on that day, finally, the window was free again. The moment I stepped closer, this joyful excitement I felt turned into a subtle horror. There was only a single item lying on the table. It looked like the carcass of a large stack at first glance. A four-legged animal was short, reddish-brown fur and dark huge antlers. At second glance, the alterations that had been done to the creature were unmistakable. I say alterations, because I refuse to believe that a thing like this could come out of any natural process.

It must have been crafted artificially, maybe taxidermid out of different animals. If so, then the creator of this monstrosity did a perfect job of blending the various parts into one seamless hole. Instead of hooves, the stag was sporting forehands, like those of an ape or some similar primate, wrinkled and calloused, but hands nonetheless. its face too was not that of a deer. The nose was flat and thin, the mouth large and adorned with human-like lips. Its skin around these parts hairless and flesh-coloured.

A large hole had been torn into its side. Broken ribs was sticking out, blackish blood darkened the fur around the open wound. The man was leaning over the carcass, his mouth stained with the dark red colour of blood as well. Some entrails are hanging between him and the corpse, and with a motion of his head he slurped them down as if they were spaghetti.

He had changed completely. His formerly lithe body was now encompassed by layers of fat. His eyes had turned into beady black holes, almost as if they had retreated into his skull. His clothes, now ill-fitting in a completely different way, had burst in several places, revealing the hairless, greasy, pale skin underneath. He looked less like a man,

and more like a giant maggot, the way his neck had swollen to the size of his shoulders, the way his arms barely peaked out of the armour of fat surrounding him. And then he looked up, looked away from the meal for the first time, and straight at me. There was nothing but a deep and bottomless hunger. Saliva gathered in the corners of his mouth. His gaze wandered up and down my body.

He licked his lips. I turned and left. It took some force of will not to run, but I managed to keep walking at a slow and steady pace. Maybe running would have been an appropriate response to being looked at like that, but at that moment I was still trying to hold onto reason, was trying to find logical explanations, was trying to laugh all of this off. Maybe I was just confused. Maybe this was a completely different customer.

Surely the blind hunger in his eyes wasn't actually targeted at me. But nothing could quench the growing and easy. and fear in the back of my mind. I didn't want to go back. Didn't want to be forced to look at this creature ever again, but I had to. I just needed to make sure the man was still there, locked in the room.

Just one last time. When I returned today, my worst nightmares had come true. The man was gone. The table was empty. The metal door with the electrical warning sign stood open, leading into a room, and an enticing smell floated through the air towards me. Despite all I had witnessed, I found myself taking a step towards the opening.

Before I could take another, something heavy moved in a nearby alley. Some street cat led her to start a scream that was cut short. A moment later, there was a sound of cracking and munching, echoing from the buildings. This time, I did run. I will not return to this place ever again I will not return to this part of the city ever again I'm even making plans to move far away the scent that drifted out from the open door

is still stuck in my nose and no food I touch can satisfy my growing appetite and then there is one detail about tonight that keeps popping back into my mind right next to the open door somebody had propped up a simple blackboard It read Today is special

All you can eat I was allowed one peek inside the box and then I had to describe the content with complete accuracy to the man If I could Without the slightest error I would be allowed to keep the thing Or things inside

The box, he said Would remain with him And another copy of the item Which I could possibly possess As my own would be newly generated by the box itself. The man had approached me almost at a thin air. I hadn't actually seen from where he had come. I had been walking home from work and had passed through a derelict department complex scheduled to be torn down, but until then, tenanted by the homeless. A logical assumption about

the man's origins would be that he was one such person, but his clothes, which rule in great condition, bespoke of a comfortably wealthy life, not one of squalor. He wore a nice, colored grey cardigan, crisply ironed black slacks, and shoes that, despite the rain-slashed ground, looked freshly polished. His face seemed to belong to someone in their early 60s, and yet he moved with the dexterity and grace more befitting someone my age. There was a certain showmanship about his gestures, as he first introduced himself, and then gave him this spiel regarding the small black box. Now, ordinarily, I would have thought a well-dressed man prancing about in the rain, offering promises of value within

a strange box to be a lunatic, or at least some recently unhinged suburbanite, and while the man's eyes were alive with fiery excitement, they were also clear, focused, not the glazed, cloudy look you'd normally expect to find in the eyes of a deranged man. For once, I had actually heeded the morning's forecast and had brought with me a thick raincoat. I wore this, and the rain's unyielding sheets felt no colder to me than the building's air-conditioning, so I humoured the man and agreed to his proposal. He paid no attention to the rain and had presumably dwelt beneath it

without issue for some time, considering his sudden interception of me. I nodded to the box, he outstretched it towards me and propped open the lid. Inside, almost to the small, perfectly square rim, was a sort of semi-liquid substance

or semi-solid composition. It was like a black jelly and trembled slightly despite the man's perfectly steady hand. It was translucent, and through its murky surface, I saw what appeared to be an even blacker gem within, a core or heart suspended amidst the substance, which somehow radiated a light, or emitted something similar to light,

despite its totally black form. If somehow shadows could be lustrously cast, that gem's radiance was just such a phenomenon. Just as the lid was clamped back over it, The thought came to me that the jelly surrounding the gem was not itself black, but coloured that way by the stygian luster of the gem within it. Well, the man's voice sounded eerily clear, despite the harsh audible fall of rain upon the pavements around us.

I felt vaguely unsettled, although I couldn't bring myself to pinpoint why. The feeling had come instantly, upon the introduction of the idea that the gem could in some way discolor whatever it touched. I have no education in mineralogy, spectroscopy, jewelry, or any subject which might explain the phenomenon occurring within the box, and yet I felt with a bizarre and rationally unfounded certainty that the gem was in some way in a mickle, its properties unnatural. Leaving out the last bit regarding my suspicious thoughts, I related my observations to the man, just as I've described them here. He listened intently, neither commenting nor providing any facial expressions which might foretive. tell of my success or failure.

Once I had finished, he stood erect. He had leaned over intimately close while I spoke and brushed away some rainwater that had settled on the lid of the box. Then, producing a smile that was both reassuring, to the casual gamer in me, and yet deeply unsettling in some vague way, the man nodded in confirmation of my accuracy.

I smiled back, mostly at a learned habit to do so when one is offered, and he motioned for me to hold out my hand. I removed my left hand from my jacket pocket and kept the right concealed in its own, wrapped around my house keys. That smile and the man's general behaviour, including his still unexplainable appearance, had triggered an instinctual alarm within my mind, and I was willing, if not adequately prepared, to defend myself. The man brought the box towards my hand,

slid the lid back and waited for me to grasp the gem. For some reason, the involved motions seemed to bring to me. progressed slowly, even though I hadn't hesitated and the man hadn't drawn the box away. When my fingers finally plunged into that black, or, as I suspected, falsely black, jelly, I felt a sensation of warmth, which, I'll admit, was the opposite of what I expected. The feeling glided up my arm, stopping just on my shoulders. I was somewhat unnerved, but not entirely alarmed, and wrapped my fingers around the gym. It was solid and felt a little brittle, so I gently withdrew it.

Its slightly liquorescent casing gave easily and did not cling to the gem. Once it had been deprived of its core, the liquid's black colour faded to a softer grey, and I was given the impression that some inhuman, yet undeniably existent life had been stripped from the substance with the removal of its heart. The man, still smiling, put the top back on the box, pocketed it, and turned to walk away. I asked him what I was supposed to do with it, and he called out without turning to face me.

Nurture it in darkness, if you have any sense, but don't coddle it. You mustn't depend upon its warmth. And, when it's regrown his placental casing, showed to someone whose day I needs a little blackening. Before I could ask anything else, a great torrent of rain swept through the street, obscuring all sight,

except for the towering forms of the streetlights, and when it cleared the man was nowhere to be seen. Dimly dismayed, I put the rock in a zip-up pocket within the interior of my jacket and continued my walk through the occasionally torrential rain. The warmth that had briefly coursed through my arm faded away. I live with my sister, or rather my sister lives with me. And through my income alone, the rent is paid, the groceries are purchased, and the few allowances of entertainment, internet nip.

online gaming descriptions are obtained. She can work, but refuses to, typically offering the excuse that, because she had a somewhat rough childhood, she is presently unfit to join the workforce until she requires some sort of counselling. When I offered to pay for these sessions, in exchange for the cancellation of one of the aforementioned services,

she says it's not immediately necessary, and I counter with the need for employment being necessary, and this goes on and on intermittently, frustratingly, until I eventually have to go to work again. When I arrived home, soaked and feeling that I had somehow lost something, having despite literally won an object, my sister was sitting in the kitchen, watching some video on the phone I bought her several months ago.

The phone she had already grown tired of and often begged me to replace with this barely superior successor. I greeted her, and she responded by asking what was for dinner. Not feeling in the mood to start up some debate regarding the delegations of duties, I told her she could have whatever she wanted, if she prepared it herself. Lying, I followed this up with the statement that I had already eaten, just so she couldn't nonchalantly ask me to prepare something for her while I cooked for myself.

The burden of rain and the immediate related burden of the clothing it soaks can make one feel unexpectedly tired. As I placed my bag on the table and the living room where I set my things, I realised that I wasn't even hungry, and just wanted to climb into bed and rest. The day itself hadn't been tiring, but the rain and its accompanying bleak weather made the prospect of any other activity unappealing.

I ignored my sister's sour gaze and crossed arms, embarrassingly childish behaviour for someone on the cusp of 30, and went upstairs. There, I stripped my wet clothing and tossed them into the bathtub to train since the dried downstairs was momentarily inoperative, and I hadn't the money to afford getting it fixed. I did remove the gem beforehand and carried it to my room, where I studied it while sitting on my bed.

The glow I had discerned earlier while it had been in the box was now absent, as a heart might cease the beat when it ripped from its chest of origin, thus rendered inert, it was fairly unremarkable, like a physically refined, though jagged, piece of coal. I put it on my bedside, thinking I had been duped, even though I hadn't offered anything besides my time and went asleep. The man's words regarding the gem's dubious ability to produce some sort of growth had completely left my mind during the walk home.

I suddenly awoke to my sister standing over me, her hands reaching for my throat. I joked away, almost knocking my head on the wall against which my bed is positioned. She frowned, her hand still poised as if to wrap around my neck. Ripping the sleep from my eyes, I asked what she was doing,

and she said she had come to ask if I'd order a pizza because there wasn't anything in the kitchen that she'd like to eat. I always keep a mental record at the kitchen stores and knew there were plenty of edible things and even a few decently palpable ingredients that be found amongst our measly supplies. When I explained this to her, she grew angry and her hands twitched

as if she truly meant to throttle me. Then, composing herself in her haughty, petulant way, she turned to leave. But on the way, her eye caught sight of the gym on my table, and before I could hasten her exit, she reached out and seized the odd rock. Her eyes were alight with a sudden avarice.

In a relative poverty, she hadn't been able to afford jewelry, and I had unflinchingly refused to buy it for her. Knowing that my refusal of this item would result in an intolerable, mind-exhausting debate, I told her she could have it before she even thought to ask. Any other person might have

inquired about its origin, properties and purpose. But my sister, only thinking to have and take and indulge, spat out a half-hearted thanks and left the room. Unfortunately, I suffered from the curse of being unable to return to sleep once aroused from it, so I laid awake, mindlessly, only dimly aware of myself and environment. The rain had continued through my short nap, and seemed even to have intensified in the interim. I was thankful that my interaction with a strange man had been brief, or else I might have been seriously endangered by being out there. Our small house, which I alone had inherited from my parents, but to which my sister had declared herself equally entitled, sat in a perpetually dismal little neighbourhood, outside of a dreary,

soul-crushing city. It rained frequently, but the variance of intensity, direction, time and coverage prevented one from becoming accustomed to it. He was always unexpected, always unwelcomed and always sensorily dominating. So, lying there in my state of forced wakefulness, I could do nothing but think about and listen to the contemptible, chaotic rain. But about ten minutes later, even that thoughtless peace of mind was revoked

as a scream erupted from somewhere in the house. I dragged myself out of bed, somehow feeling more tired than I'd been earlier. The scream had obviously been my sisters, and I suspected that she had tried to cook something for herself, and it hadn't gone well. But then another scream came, and I realized she wasn't downstairs, but on the same floor as me, in her room. Terror crept into my heart as I sent to the dyness of that scream. It wasn't some dramatic vocalization of exasperation or frustration. There'd been panic, if not actual horror, in an awful cry.

I rushed into a room praying that she left the door unlocked for once I gripped the knob and threw open the door but staggered back into the hall upon seeing the scene within My sister was sitting on the foot of a bed Her hands clawed at a bare chest And her eyes full of some indescribable horror Stared down at the spot where her fingers were violently digging into the skin

Blood ran down her fingers and dripped onto a lap But she paid no attention to it and embedded within the center of a chest was the black rock. I tied a string to it and put it round my neck, just to see what it might look like as a necklace, and it just sank, sank into my skin. Oh, please help me, I can't get it out, I can't get it out. A nails tore out a chest and bits of flesh went flying.

Blood flicked every nearby surface and her eyes grew maniacally wide, and, inspiring a black horror within me, the gems seemed to burrow deeper with every attempt to pry it free. Understanding at once the correlation between her panic's actions and the gem's further absorption, I tried to convince her to stop, but she was inconsolable, insensate, and continued a frenzic chlorine and shrieking. In only a few seconds, her bloody cavity had been made in a chest

and the area around it had been savagely scraped, raw flesh glistening beneath the ivory skin, and yet she somehow, was not deterred. Now using her fingers as pliers, she reached into the gristly cavity and tried to pull the chemphrey, but it only withdrew from the probing fingers,

situating itself in an unreachable place. In a moment of morbid clarity, which, I suspect, precedes death in many situations. My sister looked up at me, crimson-eyed and hideously distraught, and said, I think, I think, is dreading my soul

from the inside. A light then faded from her eyes, one I hadn't ever noticed throughout her life until he was gone. Her head fell forward, obscuring that newly made orifice. Despite life's departure from the body, the corpse still trembled,

as if something inside were moving about, or attempting to animate it with its own volition now that the former occupants had left. I watched a new horror be born, a sight of gruesome obscenity, of profanity against the life, a black sludge first bubbled from the hole in a chest,

making the head lull as it burst forth. Then the sludge spread throughout the body with a sickening rapidity, like the sudden onset and proliferation of some infectious disease. The body then started to violently shake, the limbs flailed, and the head bobbed left and right.

But the eyes, the rift of life, stared dumbly in whatever direction the head pointed them. In what couldn't have been, More than 30 seconds, my sister's body was completely encased within a semi-solid shell of that horribly familiar black jelly-like substance. And only then, when she had been completely armored in the jet black ooze, did the gem resurface, gleaming, despite no light having fallen onto it. It stuck out from her chest, proudly protruding, glowing with some awful life force. Some impetus of primal courage demanded that I rushed towards its abomination and ripped from its chest that sinister the gem. and yet my body was immovably frozen in fright.

Emotions warred in my mind. I felt compelled to fight, to free my sister's corpse of this defiling object, and yet in my sane and civilized life, I hadn't ever faced the situation even remotely similar. Before me was something I would have thought unreal. If I hadn't seen it come into existence, its resistances and abilities were unknown to me.

Before I could dispel my horror long enough to make my mind towards some action. The blackened figure rose, animated by the dark power which I now knew had existed within that abysmal gym since it first came into my position. My sister's body,

totally unidentifiable beneath that covering of filth, lumbered towards me, silently, a necromatically driven automata of corrupted flesh. Now, looking back on that horrific night, I do regret my cowardice,

but I hadn't any other option, at least not one, which would have ensured my own safety. Before the slime-coated figure could catch me, I stepped out of the room and slammed the door shut. I then ran into my bathroom, pulled on my still-soaking coat, and fled downstairs.

I heard footsteps overhead, stomping about aimlessly, as if the reanimated corpse was attempting to figure out its next course of action. Apparently, its sludge-covered hands were incapable of gripping the doorknob. Figuring that the rain was a more manageable foe than the monstrosity upstairs,

I opened the front door and plunged into the torrential night, forever leaving behind the thing that had once been my sister. I walked for what might have been 15 minutes before a thought popped into my head that stopped me short and reignited the heart-crushing terror which had almost ebbed away. The man who had given me the gem said upon its removal from the box, the box would generate a new one by itself. As the rain poured relentlessly, brutally, I shook in place.

but not from the fragility of those unceasing droplets, but from the unsettling revelation that out there somewhere the man was skulking about, perhaps even offering at that very moment some unfortunately oblivious person the same deal he had offered me. I decided then to not only forsake my creature haunted home, but that dismal city as well.

I found the guide in a bookstore that was closing down. Most books were 50 to 75% off Even the old and ordinarily expensive leather-bound tomes Kept behind glass in the rearmost section of the store I hadn't gone in with any particular book in mind I'd simply meant to browse and pick a few books up with the $20 I'd reserve for the occasion I crossed row after row pulling, inspecting and returning several volumes Nothing too interesting that I hadn't already read

Owned or planned to own in some other more preferable fashion There were other shoppers, most appearing to be casual readers or first-year students. There is a college not far from the bookstore. The shop owner and his assistant were visibly melancholy, so I smiled warmly upon arriving and made efforts not to cross their paths. I'm terrible at consoling people, and figured that my plentiful patronage of the store would be better than any funding words I could offer. I made a few rounds of the store.

It wasn't a large place by any means, before finally settling on a few horror collections, Macon, Blackwood, Lovecraft, Beers, Stroker, and some books of Eastern mythology and mysticism. Satisfied with my hall, I made my way towards the register at the front, but stopped short when I saw the assistant wheeling out a cart on which sat some particularly old-looking books, the single pricing sign listing them all as being 90% off.

Immediately attracted by the discount alone, I asked her if I could take a look at the books, and she happily obliged. She left me with a cart and went over towards a group of shoppers down an aisle. Most were first or second editions of books by authors I hadn't much interest in, but whose values were inarguable

and I felt sorry that the owners hadn't the means or time to sell these books more appropriately priced. My eyes scanned the withered and warped spines, reading the titles with a casual literary appreciation, but finding nothing of relevance to my somewhat specific interests. I had almost left the cart when I spotted on the second steel shelf, a book that seemed of an extremely advanced age, armored in dust with a spinal littering fading, ashen. I withdrew

it carefully so that the row in which it had sat did not totter. The book was averagely sized, oddly enough heavy, and, as I had initially observed, it was of an age much older than its leather-bound companions. Upon brushing away the dust, I saw, with no small shock, that the title read, How to Survive the Haring of 2021. The lettering, once relieved of his ashen coating, glimmered faintly in gold, and was styled in a pseudo-cursive that flowed beautifully across the faded crimson cover. There were no other designs or markings in the book, front or back,

only that bizarre title, whose message seemed an impossible thing, considering the book's obvious age. No authorship had been assigned to the book either and this immediately inspired the idea that the book itself was some sort of joke a thing made to appear severely aged a novelty that would have assuredly been a hit to younger readers if the store had had time to market it

I had no doubt that other copies sat in a box somewhere in the store never to be sold as intended I was about to open the book where I expected to find fittingly contemporary messages of hope, faith, determination and positive thinking, but phrased archaically, styled anachronistically. But before I could crack open that expertly aged guide, I felt a sudden sensation of foreboding,

an ominous and vague pre-science, which not only stopped my hand, but removed it from the book's surface. Through no conscious thoughts of my own, I had withdrawn my hand from the cover, and yet the compulsion had been immediate and incontestable. A fear mounted within me, swelling almost to the point of actual dread, and I considered unceremoniously tossing the book onto the cart and leaving.

But some other impetus, equally powerful, impelled me to not only hold onto the book, but purchase it. I stood there for a while, and the baleful apprehension which had entered my mind faded away, and a curiosity, morbid if not scholarly, took its place. I added the book to the bundle in my basket, and took my hole to the front. Surprisingly, the sum amounted to only $17, and I happily allocated the change to the tip jar at the register. The owner thanked me gratefully,

as if I'd thrown in double the amount I'd brought in and wished me a happy new year. I bid him the same farewell, and left the store pleasantly encumbered with the new literature. It was a nice day, cold, but not uncomfortably so, and sunlight fell plentifully upon the world. I decided to sit in a nearby coffee shop and read rather than go home to my stuffy apartment to do the same.

I walked down the sidewalk, contemplating which book to begin first. Looking back, I now think that I had always planned on reading the strangest book first, that guide which I had believed to be a fake, a bookstore's joke. Perhaps if I'd read anything else, I might have avoided the horror which was born from the pages of that truly decrepit and sinister tone. I sat at a table nearest the window for optimal sunlight, ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea and freshly baked oatmeal cookie, just one, they were quite large,

and laid the contents of my bag onto the table. I went through the performance of considering each book, but my mind had already decided upon the 2021 Survival Guide. I stacked the other books nearby to my left, cleared a space to my right for my food and drink, and placed the book immediately before me, In the brief time that had elapsed, I'd forgotten the intense feeling of apprehension that had come to me when I first considered opening the book. When I reached for the crimson cover, the feeling again returned, albeit to a lesser extent.

But this time, curiosity prevailed, and I endured the unsettling sensation and gently opened the book. I was taken back by what I saw on the very first page. There were lines upon lines of tiny strange runes, scribed in letters that seemed entirely alien to human language. The writing, I'm sure that these letters had not been mechanically printed, was done in a deep red ink, absolutely sanguine against the thick and time-yellowed paper. The spacing, placement and script were all immaculate,

despite my certainty that a hand of some nature had written the words. I was, nonetheless, amazed at the impeccable penmanship, of the author. My eye scanned this first page several times, and yet I could intimate nothing of what it said. So, I flipped it, and was again shown a language entirely unrecognizable. Though no hints or clues as to the meanings of any of the words, and, after flipping to the very end of the book, no cipher was found, with which I might have decrypted them. I flipped pages at random, finding only that odd, unfathomable language, written beautifully and

yet eerily upon the sallow pages. My order arrived, and I set the book aside, not wanting to stain it, which, despite its age, was in a decent condition within. My fruitless scrutiny of its content had changed my mind entirely in regards to its nature. I had abandoned my belief of its literary duplicity. There was no way that anyone, certainly not a small-scale bookstore owner, would have gone through the efforts necessary to create such a thing for the purpose of novelty. The language, though unreadable, seemed to be an inhumanly real one, in a way that is inexpressible.

The colour and feel of the pages were indistinguishable from the pages of other incredibly old books, and the smell was similarly genuine. I ate and drank, absorbed in thoughtlessness, thinking neither of the book nor its enigmatic language, but vexed by an undefinable impression imparted to me by the book. A similar sensation, though to a much sense. unnerving degree might be the apprehension one feels as a child on the day in which school report cards are mailed, confident that your grades aren't abysmal, but nonetheless fearing that some unforeseen or miscalculated grade still might appear and invoke the ire of your parents.

I felt that I was, for the moment, safe, but that certain actions, or certain knowledge to be obtained later, would place me in the way of some terrible yet unforeseeable harm. Once I'd finished my meal, I returned my attraction to the book, this time determined to uncover some meaning or message from its previously inscrutable contents. Minutes passed, I finished my tea and ordered another, this time getting an infusion of lemon grass, citrus herbs and ginger, among other things, and really scan the pages. But my efforts were pointless.

The pages yielded nothing to any interpretation I tried to force. I was about to give up when a woman entered the coffee shop and immediately passed by my table, which I had chosen due to his proximity to the front windows. She glanced down, and in my natural shyness I had averted my gaze. My eyes fell up on the pages. And for a moment, a brief yet clarifying moment, I found some sense in the words. Nothing that I could really reproduce in my own thoughts and language, but there had been for a moment a glimmer of,

Readability Instinctively, through an instinct I hadn't understood, my attention returned to the woman, who'd suddenly worn an expression of confusion, intermingled with intense interest. Meeting my eyes, she asked what I was reading, and I admitted that I wasn't exactly sure. I noticed the logo on the plastic bags she'd been carrying and pointed out that I had bought the book from the very same bookstore, but that it was written in a language totally unfamiliar to me. Her curiosity peaked, she glanced at the chair beside me, and I nodded, granting her permission to join me. One of the cafe staff came and took her order, and once that was done, I slid the book towards her so that she could comfortably read it.

Initially, I'd watched her face as her eyes crawled over the pages. Confusion and excitement illuminated her green eyes, and a mouth twitched, as if the lips were attempting to read long, but hadn't any basis upon which to form the unreadable words. A few seconds of this past, and she sighed in defeat. I laughed, commenting my own inability to decipher a single word of the thing. It wasn't until I had glanced back of the book that the sudden sensation of literacy returned. For a moment, my eyes and her eyes had rested upon the same line,

and I realized, in both excitement and horror, that the script was readable when looked at by two persons. She must have intimated the same, because she turned to me, eyes wide with the very same emotions that I'd felt. We said nothing to each other, but my hand involuntarily turned the pages until it reached the beginning of the book, and my index finger came to rest on the book's first line. The moment her eyes landed on that first word, it was transformed from its alien text, into English, or some interpretation simultaneously readable to us. I cannot earnestly say it was actually English upon the page.

My mind reeled at the idea, the concept that the text was only readable by two readers, but by one in possession of four, or at least four eyes, and covering the secret of that once impassable barrier was exciting, pride-inducing, and yet I felt that I had finally arrived at the moment for which I had earlier felt such apprehension and ominousness. I suppressed the rising terror mentally and even physically with a few sips of tea

and once she had seemed to do the same for herself we began reading the previously unreadable book The enigma unlocked before our eyes The word shifted, reformed Were unmade as if by some cryptographic sense Inborn within us Comprehension came immediately As if we were reading an ordinary book

We read in tandem Effortlessly trailing the lines of without one falling behind or pushing forward. Our eyes and minds were locked together, our thoughts fused in some tether of previously undiscovered hypercognition. We read as one, interpreted as one, thought as one,

and the sense was absolutely incredible, though entirely indescribable, at least in the language with which I composed this account. Pages flew by, and I'm sure that to unlockers, we might have appeared very strange, Our heads practically touching, our eyes moving along with equal pacing as if choreographed. In what couldn't have been more than 15 minutes, we had reached the middle of the thick book,

and by this time I felt the indefatigable return of that monstrous horror. The things we read up to that point were nightmarish, unrepeatable, and though our eyes had easily discerned the words and our minds clearly understood the meanings, our human mouths have been woefully inadequate for the vocalization of the ultra-ealelial. in text. It took a considerable effort to do so, but I pried my eyes away from the words, and they immediately resumed their inscrutable arrangement

and forms in the corners of my eye. My reading partner sighed, exhaustion and terror clear upon her face. I glanced around, not really to see if we've been watched, but just to keep an eye away from the frightful book for a while. No one had seemed to notice our strange captivation. I turned to her and saw that tears have been,

begun to form in her eyes. I felt a similar deluge swelling within the ducks of my own, but tried to keep them at bay, if only to appear, comfortably composed to her. The things we had read, the things the book had foretold,

were appalling, things no human being, regardless of how black-hearted would ever wish upon the species to which he belonged, the only world he knew to be home. And there was still another half to read through. She looked at the book,

Then, to me, her eyes clouded with tears, the once vibrant light dimmed by a potent, insuppressable terror. Despite my own feelings, I wanted, almost yearned to continue on, to read the rest of that darkly prescient tome. But with each page, the horror detailed therein had grown, worsened, and I knew that the trend would continue with each subsequent page. Conceding to her unspoken plea, I closed the book and set it on the table, beside me. She smiled and nodded to me with a gratitude that was almost spiritual infurvency. Together, in silence, we finished our tea. Both of our minds struggling to reconcile the abysmal predictions of that baleful book with the relative normalcy of our present world. In a testimony to the weird unreality or the chilling hyper-reality of the event, I discerned a sliver of

crimson light from the book. My heart seemed to irreversibly contract. My chest felt tight and hot, as I realized that the glowing line was a supernatural bookmark, keeping the place where we'd left off. I did not point this out to my partner, who had regained a bit of a composure and sanity. Instead, hiding as best as possible my distress, I packed my things and left that wicked book in a chair, tucked beneath a table. I will not repeat in detail anything I read. I will not repeat in detail anything I read. I will not subject anyone to the horrific prophecies, the diabolical incidents, the cosmically inimical afflictions to the human race described in those sanguine room pages.

I will only give this instruction, this warning, and pray that it will be sufficient to prepare us for the coming storm if the book is to be believed. This woman and I, whom I have now befriended, as people who've shared a traumatic incident are often bonded, needed to read the book together to decipher its abhorred. vulnerable contents. Similarly, if we are to survive the coming year, we, humanity as a whole, must band together, intellectually, emotionally, perhaps even spiritually, or else we cannot

hope to combat the horrors which will descend upon us from the unmatched tracks of side real space, which will emerge from the molten depths of our own planet, and, quite possibly, arise from our own, allegedly human ranks. Our strength must be communal. You like scary stories, eh? When do you get comfy and let this old timer tell you a ghost story? I was born and I will die in the city of London. The British Empire was the heart of the world for a reason.

And believe me, that heart is still ticking over just fine. Even if it does cost a ruddy fortune to live here these days. I'm lucky. Got in early, didn't I? Couldn't buy a shed in someone's garden if I had to start over? tried a few different jobs when I was a lad, just how it was back then. But the one that stuck was a flusher, working underneath a hustle and bustle deep in the belly of London, in the sewers.

You know how many times you get a clog in your toilet and you have to get a plunger or even a coat hanger to get rid? Imagine that for a whole city. Well, I was London's coat hanger. Sewage technician, they call us now. Daft, if you ask me, nothing technical about it. But I was a flusher, or sewage technician if you want to get all airy-fairy, for over 30 years. So I'm sure you can believe me when I say I've seen some crap.

It's mad what people flush away, and in the damp darkness, everything looks different. Between me and the lads, we had a lot of stories. One in particular stays with me, though. I was that ripe old age where you start realizing you're past your best. before your knees creak and your back gives out and you start finding out what old really is. I'd been around a while. I'd seen it all,

or at least I thought I had. Started out just like any other day. Blockage in the system. City Council couldn't fix it from up top, so they sent us down. Me and Charlie go out in the van, lift the manhole, slap some traffic cones around it.

We have a quick game of rock-paper scissors, and I lose. That means Charlie's top. hotman and I have to strap my gas detector on and head down. Stepping down the ladder rungs, daylight disappears. If you've never been underground, then you're not missing much. It's hot, it's dark, and it bloody stinks. After a while though, you get used to it.

Give it long enough and the stink starts making you hungry. I could murder a kebab, I radied into Charlie when my feet touched the bottom of the catch pit. water was flowing flying through this section. It was a relatively modern part of the network. Everything was made of concrete, cheap and quick. I already knew which way to head. The blockage was further upstream. Keeping my headlight trained on my feet,

I started making my way towards the blockage. Just a sandwich for me today, mate, came Charlie's voice through my radio. I'm trying to look after my heart, not stuff it full of Donomite. Yeah, yeah, I said, no-incolmese. full well how much he'd moan when I had a full tray of it stinking up the van later. He'd been sticking to his gun since his new year's resolution, and I'd always suspected his wife was behind his sudden obsession with diet. Eating had always been the highlight of our day, before she'd twisted his ear. Still, it wasn't going to stop me from stuffing my face with a

tray of greasy meat, chips and garlic mayo. Took in my head to squeeze through a tight culvert, I had to scrape my Haver's jacket against the pipe wall to avoid stepping in the stairs. steady stream of water. Dark shapes bobbed up and down, piercing the surface as they flowed past. Unwanted rubbish, dead leaves and rogue turds. My wrist to glance ahead and saw a pair of rats scampering away from my headlamp. Good thing about rats was they didn't want anything to do with you either. And some of the buggers grew big enough down here to fight alley cats and come out tops.

Eventually I made my way into an old brick chamber, a junction where the pipes split in two. One of the pipes still had the same stream of water flown through and the other was bone dry. No prizes for guessing where the blockage was. What did puzzle me though was why this chamber wasn't on our plans. Normally any junction of pipe had an access chamber, but then by the look of the crumbling brick and dusty mortar, this had been here some time.

As the trickle of water echoed off the walls, I glanced up and my headlight disappeared of the beginning of an access. squinting, I thought I could see more brickwork at the top. It was hard to tell from this far down, but I guessed it had been blocked up and forgotten some time ago. London is one of those cities that was built on top of itself, over and over. All chambers like this were nothing I'd not seen before.

The dry pipe was even smaller than the one I'd just come through. Rather than just took my head, I had to crouch and waddle through with my shoulders sideways. With just the soft beep of my gas detector to keep me company, I found myself hoping the blockage wasn't building up. Normally, there would be at least a dribble coming down the pipe. If something had genuinely plugged the pipe, the job would become vastly more dangerous.

Getting crap on your boots was one thing, drowning in sewage, something else entirely. My fears were put to rest when I heard the faint sounds of trickling water ahead. Turned out, there was no blockage at all. A brick weir had collapsed And took a section of pipe wall with it Water flowed through the collapsed brickwork Into the darkness below

Now the lowest point in the pipe run Anything that could flow down the pipe like it was supposed to Caught in the rubble of the weir So everything was diverted away As I took a closer look I wondered how long it had been like this It must have been some void to take the constant flow of water And not fill up

I clambered over the pile of decaying bricks thankful that at least it was an easy fix. I'd been expecting a fat burg, an unholdy buildup of congealed fat, rubbish and human excrement. I'd take bricks and rubble over that abomination any day of the week. Looks like there's been a collapse.

I radioed in to Charlie, taking my gas detector off and placing it near the opening where the water was still gushing through like a waterfall. That was the next risk that wherever the water was going might have unearthed some deadly release of methane or CO2.

even too much oxygen could cause problems my little gas monitor could pick up any of the big four that could kill me so I left it to check the air as I waited back in the pipe I'd seen some rats come that way so I knew it was safe enough another reason I didn't mind seeing rats down here if they were alive I should be fine too at least for a while big job asked Charlie's crackling voice through my radio

I can clear it I replied just doing a gas check first. After ten minutes of idle chit-chat over the radio, the gas detector hadn't picked up anything, so I started clearing some of the debris, tossing bricks up to the walkway with a clatter. Before long, most of the water was heading back down the pipe, and I used the rest of the bricks to form a makeshift dam

around the collapsed hole. With the problem fixed, I let my curiosity get the better of me, and I had a peek down the hole. My headlamp revealed more brickwork, a whole separate section of Victorian sewers that looked long abandoned. Back in the day,

they didn't just use these tunnels for waste. Canoe boats could pass through transporting coal, clay, silk and anything else, an 18th century Englishman could flog. I have to admit a bit of personal interest in this sort of thing, and with a hole big enough

and easy enough for me to climb down, it was far too tempting not to clamber down for a proper look. There was a whole world down there, a golden egg, of forgotten infrastructure. And once we phoned in the problem, we'd never get to see this again.

It would just be bricked up by a construction team and abandoned once more. Since I knew there were no gases to worry about, I couldn't miss the opportunity to see it for myself. Snatching up my gas monitor, I let Charlie know what I was doing. Just having a cheeky butcher's Charlie. Be careful, mate, warned Charlie.

But I was already halfway down. Shards of bricks clattering and tumbled under my unsteady feet, thus swirling in the air wherever my headlap pointed. Once it drifted to the edges of my light, it was like it stopped existing. Down into the canals, the air was dank and stale. But there was a feeling there too, something I could barely sense. Sewers were mundane to me every day. This was exciting, but more than that was a sensation that I was intruding,

unwelcome. It was enough to make me want to scramble up to normal. but as I twisted my head left and right I saw something the faint glow of my headlamp glinted off something in the tunnel ahead something in the canal itself leaning over the edge I could see that most of the water had drained away

and what would have once held me to deep water now just had a steady trickle of waste water now rats down here just my gas monitor softly beeping every few seconds to remind me it was working I stuck to the walkway and moved towards the shape in the distance, still catching the reflection of my headlamp. As I got closer, I can make out a fairly large and blocky shape. My footsteps echoed, bouncing off the walls and making every sound louder.

The gurgling sewage, the faint drips of leaking water, even my own breathing. Finally, I got close enough to see it. A bathtub filled to the brim. He must have been tossed in the canal hundreds of years ago, but he still looked in decent Nick. I unclipped my gas detector and gave it a cautious wave inside the canal. Nothing. I clambered down to get a proper look. There's a bathtub down here, Charlie, I said over the radio.

Without missing a beat, Charlie's voice shot back. Oh, good, you can have a wash for once. Climbled it down into the canal, I turned my head to shine my headlamp over it. The bath was freestanding with pristine silver feet. Despite their age, they still shimmered in the dim light. Other than being full with century-old canal water, it looked fashionable enough to make my own tub back at home look like a bucket of crap. True to my cockney roots, I let out an impressed whistle as I got close enough to touch.

The water inside, if you could call it water, was jet black. It made the sewage trickling beneath the tub looked clean enough to drink and seemed to devour the light of my headlamp. What puzzled me was it seemed to be spilling over the edges, dripping down, as if it was being filled from the inside. As I gazed into that pitch, rippling surface, spider-leg shivers ran across my back, and I felt cold even in my jacket.

Splashing footsteps made me flinch, and had twisted just in time to see a small shape running away from me before I disappeared into the darkness. Without realizing it, I pressed my back into the canal wall, instinctively trying to escape. Yeah, I'll admit it. I was scared. But even though I'd only caught a glimpse, I knew what I'd seen.

A child. Hello? I shouted down the tunnel. My own voice came back at me, over and over, echoing down the tunnel. Staring into the faded light and squinting, I tried to convince myself I'd just imagined it. But I knew I had it. Pardon. Part of me wanting to leave, part of me wanting to investigate, I found myself frozen, unsure what to do.

If it had been a child, some poor sod who'd fallen down here and got lost, I couldn't call myself a man if I left him down here to rot. I bit my tongue and started down the canal in the direction whoever it was had disappeared. Hello? I called again, keen to hear anything except running water and my beeping gas monitor. I radio Charlie. I think someone's down here, mate. Don't play games with me, Dan, he said back. I'm serious, I said, quickening my pace. I could hear splashing up ahead.

At the edge of my light, I saw it again. A small figure running through the sewage. Hello? I shouted. The figure stopped running and turn around. Barely visible. I could just make out this silhouette. I have a little girl. "'It's okay,' I said, trying to keep the terror out of my own voice, as I raised my hands and took careful steps towards her.

She said something, but she was too far away and it was lost in the tunnels. Charlie's voice crackled over the radio. "'What's going on?' I could see her properly now, a girl no older than night, with long black hair and wearing a dingy, grey dress. She was barefoot. My hands were shaking as I dropped to one knee in front of her and told her everything was going to be okay.

Have you seen my mummy? She asked. No fear or emotion in a little voice. She was dripping wet. Her hair and a dress sewed to the skin. She must have been freezing. And I guessed she was in some state of shock. I can't remember exactly what I mumbled to her.

Something reassuring, hopefully. I remember fighting the urge to ask her, what the hell she was doing down here. The only important thing was getting her out. There's a little girl down there, Charlie. I stammered into my radio as I slid off my harness and took off my jacket. I draped it around the little girl, hoping it might give her some comfort and warm her up a bit. I can't find my mummy, she said in that same, hopelessly tiny voice.

Let's find her then, eh? I said, trying to smile as I held out her hand. No doubt she couldn't even. see my face. The only light in that entire tunnel was coming from the top of my head, probably blinding her. Even if she could make out something beyond the silhouette of a light, she probably could barely see me through that thick black hair, matted and stuck to her face with damp. Still, she took my hand, with fingers cold as ice and as wet as if she just dipped them in a river. I did my best to lead her and shine my headlamp over the musk-covered

brick floor ahead of her, and tried to make her feel safe. Asked her what her name was, told her things were going to be okay now. But all she said were the same things over and over. Have you seen my mummy? I can't find my mummy. I put it down to shock. Until we came to the bathtub. As soon as my headlamp fell on it, she tried to pull out of my grip, not away from it, but towards it.

"'Mummy,' she said happily, and grabbed the hold of the rim, cocking one leg up as if she was about to climb inside. I managed to get my other hand around a waist and pull her back. "'Not in there, darling,' I said frantically as she squirmed and wriggled in my hands, trying to wrench herself free. "'Your mum is not in there.' "'Mummy!' she insisted, grabbing my forearm with icy hands and trying to pull loose. Grabbing her with both hands, I lifted her up and walked away from the bathtub.

She began to cry and beat a little fist at me, wailing for a mother. It's okay, I stammered, crying myself as I pulled her away. It's going to be okay. Once we got out of sight, she seemed to calm down. She hugged me and asked if I seen her mummy. I'm taking you to find her, I promise, I said, desperately, placing a hand on the back of her head and pulling her into my shoulder. Her hair was so wet. It felt like the water was coming out of her.

dribbling onto me. I ignored it, and as we got to the break in the wall where I had entered, I lifted her up onto the edge. She seemed to have forgotten all about the bathtub now, and calmly watched me as I hoisted myself up onto the walkway. I can't find my mummy, she said as I got to my feet and took her hand again. Even after walking, even with my jacket around her, her skin was still freezing.

I worried that she might be too far gone and quicking my pace. urging her up the toppled bricks into the sewer above. We're going to find her, I said through clenched teeth. I promise, we're going to find her. Helping her up the jumbled brickwork, I led her down the tunnel. We're coming up, Charlie, we're coming back up. I could tell by Charlie's voice, he knew this wasn't a game or joke anymore. Okay, mate, I'm ready for you.

Rats scampered away from us as I pushed the little girl ahead. All the while, she said the same things, over and over. Where's my mummy? I can't find my mummy. I was in tears long before we reached the catch pit with a ladder.

True to his word, Charlie was ready. He'd set up the winch on top and the cord was dangling down waiting for us. My highness was too big for the little girl and the ladder rungs were too far apart for her to climb.

I pull the rescue cord down, wrapping in around the back of her legs, try my best to make a makeshift seat that wouldn't hurt her as it pulled her up. I'm not sure if it worked, but she didn't cry. Still, I decided it was best to support her

as Charlie pulled her up. Jesus Christ, I heard his voice over the radio, and far above us, and I could see his face in the distant manhole looking down. She's ready, I said, bring her up, gently.

Where's my mummy? Asked the girl, water still dripping down her face. I didn't understand how that was possible. I must have been with her for 20 minutes. How was water still trickling down her hair? Dismissing it, I focused on lifting her up, taking the bulk of her weight so the core didn't dig in too tightly. As Charlie wound up the winch, I clambered onto the ladder rungs, propping the little girl on my shoulders as I climbed. Mommy, she mumbled, head lolling.

Worrying she didn't have long left, I pushed her up with all my strength, shouting. Faster, Charlie, faster! I looked up the ladder to the opening above where daylight was just beginning to reach us. And the little girl melted. Turned into water before my eyes. Freezing water showered me and the little girl was gone. I almost slipped from the ladder as I tried to grab her. But it was nothing to grab.

Even a dress furnished, turning to black slime as it fell down. All that was left was the cord. I stared up at it as it descended away from me, Charlie still winding it up. My brain couldn't process what I just witnessed, and I glanced down around the tight walls around me, anywhere, trying to find her. But she was gone. Charlie appeared in the hall of daylight above me, shouting, where is she? Where is she gone? I looked down at the concrete catch pit beneath me, trying to make sense of it. Did you fall?

there was nothing down there. Get out, Dan. We're going to say, get out. I don't remember the next part. I must have climbed out because I remember sitting on the street, Charlie frantically asking me what happened where the girl had gone.

I remember watching him climb down the manhole and come back up, empty-handed. She just vanished, I mumbled when we were back in the van. I was still soaking wet, head to toe, drenched in the grimy water of the little girl that turned into. Charlie took me home, walked me indoors,

helped me take my clothes off, and didn't even crack a joke. He made me a cup of tea, and we just sat in my kitchen. Charlie would ask questions, but I didn't really know the answers. We decided to report the collapse, but not the little girl.

That would demand an investigation, and we both sound mental at best, or child killers at worst. Just seeing things, we agreed. We both just put. been seeing things. Eventually, after insisting I was all right, Charlie left me to get some sleep, but I couldn't. I just lay there at my bed, in the dark, trying to make sense of it all. Deprived of my sight, I could almost hear her. That small little voice, the trickling water,

the gentle beep on my gas monitor, those same words over and over. I can't find my mummy. I can't find my mummy. I can't find my mummy. I can't find my mommy. I sat bolt upright. It wasn't just in my head. I could hear her, distant, faint, but it was real. Scambling out of bed,

I switched on my light, trying to find a little girl. I almost tore my room apart looking until I realized where it was coming from. The bathroom, from the plug in my sink, from the drain in my bath, bubbling up from the water in the toilet.

Have you seen my room? My mummy, I can't find my mummy, where's my mummy? I tipped up my laundry basket and shoved everything I could find into my sink and bath, shut the toilet lid and did all I could to smother that little voice. It still came out, a faint muffled voice, calling for a mother. I'm sorry, I cried as I shut the bathroom door and clamped my pillow over my head. I'm sorry. When I finally did go to sleep, I learned a new phrase.

Night terrors Vivid dreams that feel real that come with physical sensations Apparently some people get them But I never had Not until that night That night I dreamed I was drowning Face down in the bathtub

A hand on the back of my head Impossibly strong forcing me beneath the surface I tried to grab the sides But my hands just slipped off I thrashed as hard as I could But I couldn't stop it Somehow the bathtub was

larger, the hand on my head much bigger, as though I were a child, as though I was the size of an eight-year-old girl. I can't say how long it lasted. It felt like forever. They say drowning is a peaceful way to go, but there was nothing peaceful about that dream. When I finally woke back in my own bed, I was drenched in grimy, black filth. I wanted to wash, but, and this is hard to admit as a grown man. I was too scared to get into the bath. I wiped myself clean with a towel, using the kitchen sink and plenty of soap to wash the smell out of my hair. I called in sick the next day. First time I'd done it, and the boss said it wasn't a problem, said I could take as much time as I needed. It didn't help. I tried staying at a friend's house, but I still heard

a little voice coming out of the plug. When I did manage to get to sleep, I had that same dream. It came on and off for weeks after. It wasn't any easier, but it never felt as long as the first time, and I was never covered in anything except my own sweat. Eventually, just like the little girl, it vanished as if it had never been there at all. Eventually, I felt brave enough to take my bundle of clothes out of the sink and bath. I even placed my ear to the plug,

praying that I wouldn't hear a little voice calling out to me. I wouldn't tell anyone the full details, not even Charlie. I told him I dreamed I was drowning, but that was it. What was really strange was, he said he'd had the same dream. Just once, just the first night. And when I asked him if he was covered in anything after, he didn't know what I meant. It took months before I could go back to work, and even then, I couldn't go down. Charlie was good about it.

He didn't flip the coin anymore. He went down every time from then on. God rest his soul. A construction crew patched up the collapsed wall. We tried to seem casual when we asked if they'd seen anything weird, but they said they hadn't, and for a few years, that was it. It became our ghost story, something we'd tell the new lads, that if they saw a little girl asking for a mummy, they should run for the hills.

I wish I could leave it there. But one day, when Charlie came back up, he was white as a sheet and shaking. I had to pull him out of the hole because he couldn't climb out by himself. I saw her, Dan, he whispered with wide eyes. I bloody saw her down there. What did you do? I asked, my own hands trembling,

as I clipped him and took him to the van. I rent like hell. We wrapped it up and I drove him home, trying my best to return the favour as he'd done for me all those years ago, took him back to his wife and wished him well. That night I barely slay. Perhaps I was terrified I was going to have that dream again.

Perhaps some part of me had hoped after all this time, maybe we had just been seeing things, dreamt it up. Charlie wasn't at work the next day. That didn't surprise me. If he'd had the same dream as I had the first night, I knew I wouldn't seem for a week. But at lunchtime we got called back to the depot for some bad news. Charlie was dead.

Peacefully in his sleep was one. what they told us, but it didn't take long for the rumours to start. Choked to death on his own vomit, drowned in his own saliva, murdered, some reckoned. It was hard listening to people I used to call friends talking about it so openly, so trivially. Charlie was a good bloke. I hit my limit when I caught some of them asking, how can someone drown in their sleep? And one of the assholes had the nerve to laugh about it. Well, I launched myself over two tables to shut him up. Not often you see that same man punch out four teeth either. Nobody said anything about it after, not that I heard anyway.

I wasn't around for much longer. Early retirement was what they called it. At the funeral, Charlie's body went underground one final time. I gave my condolences to his family, even gave his wife a hug. Apparently there'd been a police investigation into his death. When his wife had woken up, Charlie's body was covered in dirt, and the bed was wet through, like he'd been killed outside in the rain, rolled around in mud and brought indoors,

but the police couldn't find any evidence. Inconclusive, they'd said. I thought about telling her, there and then, telling her this story. But what good would it have done? It wouldn't have brought him back. It wouldn't have given her any comfort. So, and kept quiet. Maybe that makes me a coward.

Maybe that's why I felt like I've had to tell you lot. So, at least someone knows, even if none of you believe me. We used to tell the new lads, if you ever see a little girl down in London sewers, run like hell. I'd tell them something different now. If you ever see a little girl down in London sewers, let a climb in the bloody bathtub. The circumstances that led to my family fleeing Czechoslovakia in 1954

are always misunderstood. People believe it was because of the increasing despoters. nature of the communist regime or the student protests happening in Prague or because of the food shortages that had plagued the country since the end of the Second World War. However, none of these reasons accounted for my grandmother's rapid departure, mostly because their effects were limited in a isolated village on the northeastern frontier. Rather, it was because the trees began to move. It's a story that doesn't really leave my family. It's one of those strange, old tales that aren't worth telling guests. or friends, largely because they wouldn't be believed. Nevertheless, it isn't something we shy away from,

nor is it some great secret. I'll repeat the story exactly as my grandmother told it to my mother and how she later told it to me. I was 12 years old when the trees began to move. I don't mean move, as in sway or bend. I mean they moved. It was on the last day of September, and me and my little brother were walking back from the schoolhouse along the dirt road, that led into the village. That track of land was, and always had been, lined with poplars, and on a windy day, you could see them gently swaying back and forth, their tall forms happily waving in the breeze.

We were chatting in the way that children do, watching our shoes stirring up the dust from the ground. When I looked up to see that in front of us, a poplar stood in the middle of the road. It was about 30 metres ahead of us, and, identical to the rest, just planted squarely in the sea. center of the path. The banal sight of the tall tree, lightly rocking in the quiet wind,

was set against the fact that we knew this road. We walked it every day, and there most certainly wasn't, nor had there ever been a poplar in the middle of it. We ceased talking immediately and cautiously approached. The tree's yellowing leaves were rustling pleasantly, and its sturdy middle-aged trunk was planted firmly in the ground. Around the base were clumps of turf, where long strands of grass clung to the earth as if they had always been attached to that particular spot on the well-travelled route. The avenue had an even number of trees on each side, but adjacent to the rogue poplar, there was an unoccupied space. Between the poplar's former neighbours was a small patch of dirt, untouched by grass or weeds. We spent no time speculating

on how exactly the tree moved as it did. We simply set off down the road towards the village to fetch someone. Only with great reluctance did our father get out of his armchair, extinguished his pipe and ambled down the path after a long day in the harvest fields. Nevertheless, when he saw the tree, he too went stock still and stared at it for a good minute or so before he told him to fetch Brabeck, the aged village constable. When I returned with the old man, my father had started circling the tree, looking at every inch up and down. Within an hour or so, half the village had gathered around the impossible poplar. Perhaps it was a strong wind, suggested Brabac.

You ever see a tree blown over like that? Standing up pitch perfect? Asked Carla, the baker's wife. No, it's young to this playing a joke. I'd like to see you hoist the grown poplar out of the ground and get it planted into the road, roots and all, said my father. I asked Father Klingiski what he thought it was, but he just pulled on his beard and shook his head. Eventually, he was just accepted as some inexplicable natural oddity. Two young foresters cut it down and Browbeck told everyone to go off home.

While the poplar was mentioned over dinner, the subject was largely avoided. Nevertheless, I couldn't stop thinking about it as I went to bed that night. The morning brought further excitement. A farm labourer on his way to work found a large beach in the middle of the grain field. someone soon found the patch of earth with a tree had originated some 20 metres away it was just standing there surrounded by neat rows of crops that day the 1st of October was marked by a second occurrence this being that a second poplar was found out of place around midday

this one was in the cattle field that bounded the road leaving another empty space in the avenue again old brawbeck was called and again no cause could be established our local party member was called and he, along with a dozen or so villagers, stood around the transported trees scratching their heads. He said that it was odd

but surely not unheard of that there were plenty of odd natural phenomena that had a logical explanation. He said that since the trees were hardly doing much harm, he saw no reason to report it further. The next day, he discovered an oak going right through the middle

of his barn. It had moved some hundred metres from where it had stood on the hill overlooking the village. Eventually, the partyman, Lautka, decided to convene the village committee, and that evening, he was deliberated that an inspector should be sent for. He called the central office in Estrava, and the very next morning, a young man in a smart blue uniform and spectacles arrived in a shiny Veebee police car.

That very same morning, two ashes and a birch were found in the cherry orchid. The inspector was quickly shown the sights of the moving trees as well as the poplar stump that lay in the middle of the road He took several photographs and kicked about the dirt And the places where the trees had vanished from However, upon hearing Brabock's explanation and the testimonies of half a dozen villagers Including myself He smiled and coughed and asked if we were not mistaken as the location of the trees

And that it was not unusual to account the natural movement of the soil and the changing land escape to bizarre occurrences. This was admittedly rebuke, not only by the constable, but by Lautker as well. But what of the poplar and the road, comrade? Asked the old Bribeck. Simply a prankster, no doubt. These are flimsy trees, you know. I shouldn't think you need more than a bit of digging to uprooted.

The only trouble there is finding your guilty party. I imagine that local knowledge is good enough to lead to a likely suspect. What did I tell you? It was only youngsters. said Carla. And the yoke in the barn, Lautke interjected. The inspector

throwed his brow and cleaned his spectacles. A more complicated matter, certainly, but not one that defies explanation. What the perpetrators did there is move in the trunk, which isn't such a hard thing to do through barn doors,

and then attach a few branches with wooden glue. The barn seems to be reasonably old. I don't suppose it was very difficult to sort through the roof and get bows through. That would have taken hours, comrade,

said Brabeck. Then the conclusion is obvious, the inspector cried. There is more than one culprit constable. With that, he retired to his lodgings for having spent the large part of the day marching around fields. It was beginning to get late. He instructed Brabeck to begin looking into delinquent youths in the area and order that no further requests be sent,

for it was a waste of the state's time and energy, which he noted the Lautke would be appearing on his record. With that, we all went to bed, not very enthused about the results of the inspector's assessment. This changed in the morning when half the village was awoken by the scream of a milkmaid. She had set up for work in the early morning when she saw a strange shape in the distance. Upon her closer look, she found to her horror that a beach was standing. In the middle of a cow, the poor creature having been rent apart by the trunk. The inspector was hurriedly called for, and when he caught sight of it, he vomited into a milk bucket.

Having calmed his nerves with a glass of bitters, Prabek led him to the road, where two more poplars had supplanted themselves elsewhere. But it's impossible, he said. I saw them. I saw them yesterday. They were there. Right there. I know, sir, Brabeck said. It's been going on for days. The inspector became very pale, stared at the trees for several. minutes. Eventually, he secluded himself in the committee hall and set about processing the photographs he had taken so as to collect evidence that he only yesterday had declared impossible. Meanwhile, I went to see Father Klinsky at the small, dirty white church that stood at the far end of the village.

The priest was avoiding the inspector. He had only returned from prison five years ago, and he had very little time for partymen. I found him in the vestry, making a large pile of hindlals for the next service. This would have been done by the Sir Kristen, had he not been conscripted last summer. He saw me by the door and bade me sit down if I wanted to talk. Was it God, Father? I asked. God?

We can chalk it up to whoever, little one. That doesn't make it so. Why not, Father? He sighed and wrapped his fingers on the back of a pew. Who is known that mine of the Lord, who has been his counsellor? he said after a minute I don't know father but could this be a kind of test

the tired priest shook his head his face appeared deep in thought and he looked up at the round window above as if looking for inspiration perhaps but the world isn't that simple little one I returned home for supper when my father asked me why I hadn't been

to school I told him nobody had that everyone was staying in the village while the inspector was here my mother scolded me and asked me where I had been. Upon hearing that I had been to see the priest, she struck me over the head. You should know better, she said. But what we do on Sundays is well and good, but you must stay away from Father Klinzky until the inspectors away, my father said.

That night I went to sleep wondering who would move the trees and whether it was God or the unmanageable teenagers from the farm up the road. In the end, don't suppose it mattered. Day broke again, and the inspector rose with his uniform unbuttoned and strode out around the village perimeter. He was followed by Ladka, who took note of six or seven spots where new trees had begun to shift. After an hour, the inspector warily sat himself down on the pavement outside the committee hall. I'm finished, he murmured. The Central Committee will never stand for this.

Loutka determined on a resolution to the new crisis called for a meeting, abandoning the inspector to his wallowing. After several hours of deliberation, the eight members marched up the hills towards the church, where the priest was mending the fence around the graveyard. Now tell us straight, Klinski, did you organise all this? demanded Lutka. You really think that question worth asking, the father said. You, priests are all the same. You're the same as the last one, and you're the same as the last one, same as the next one. You've been undermining the party in this commune from the start, and we won't stand for it. Men don't move trees, Lodka, you damned fool. This would have gone on further, had a second group, led by Carla, the baker's wife,

not met the committee on the hill. The lot of you should clear off, she cried. What the hell do you think he's got to do with it? She pointed, accusatory fingers at several of the Catholic committee men. And you, turning on the father like that, the shame. This is committee business, Carla, Ladka said, although several in his company had begun to shift their feet. Brabeck arrived shortly after and the two groups reluctantly dispersed. Eventually it was agreed that an expert should be gotten in, and so the inspector was persuaded to call his boss in Ostrava to request the scientist from the capital. In the meanwhile, a dozen men led by Ladka cut down every single displaced tree in and around the village.

That afternoon they burned them in the village square and the bonfire wasn't extinguished until late in the evening. The following day a botanist from the university in Prague arrived on the train much to the enthusiasm of everyone. He was an older man in Tweed carrying a large briefcase and a clipboard. He immediately asked to speak with the inspector who showed him the developed photographs he had taken on his arrival. The botanist examined them carefully

before asking to be shown their sights First he was taken to the first poplar stump Armed with the ruler and measuring tape He sits about marking and evaluating the site Once finished writing in a red notebook He cordoned off a small square around the stump And another around where the tree had stood He then began to dig at the patch of earth on the roadside

With a small trowel for a good half hour Most intriguing He finally said No underground structures at all No roots, just earth it has all been transplanted here and then pointed towards the stump. Yes, comrade, nobody here has seen anything like it.

He repeated this exercise with every stump in the proximity of the village, but stopped once he reached the beach that killed a cow. While the dead animal had been removed, the tree had stayed in place, for everyone was afraid to go near it. He withdrew a hacksaw from his case and began to cut into the tree.

Only a few seconds in A spurt of blood came pouring from the trunk Much to the horror of everyone Except the botanist Extraordinary He murmured Absolutely extraordinary

As it continued He discovered that the tree Hadn't punctured a hole in the cow But rather the trunk And the beast midsection had fused Apart from the botanist Nobody dared to touch the trunk After an hour of examination

he turned to speak to the gathered crowd. This kind of phenomenon is, as far as I'm aware, completely unknown to science. It will undoubtedly require further research, but most importantly, am supposed to observe the manner of the transportation as soon as possible.

Has a tree ever shifted during daylight? Rabeck suddenly shook his head. Then, it must be tonight, said the botanist with gleaming eyes. Throughout the rest of the day, the whole village set about placing wooden posts at precise intervals exactly to the botanist specifications. Lautka had started carrying his pistol around the village, overseeing the project,

while the defeated inspector watched them from his window. By the evening, a square mile or so was marked out, and as many lamps as could be found were hung from the stakes. When there were no more lamps, the poles were covered in kerosene-soaked rags and lit a flame. That night, my family huddled around the window as we watched the botanist at work. He conscripted a number of villages to watch a certain quadrant so that the movement of the trees could be readily calculated. It was a long night, and, some time after my parents had gone to bed, I snuck out of the cottage with my little brother to watch the goings on. Although everyone guarding the poles looked wracked with anxiety, the botanist, who stood at the centre of the main avenue, watched the populace with wide-eyed enthusiasm.

He never budged from his position. His only movements were his darting eyes. which continuously scanned the dimly lit area. After an hour of watching him, he suddenly twitched. There, did you hear that? He cried to the nearest watcher. No, sir, they responded, and everything fell stock still, as if the night itself was listening. After only about half a minute had passed, a slow and quiet creek could be heard from the direction of the main road. There it is again, you must have heard it.

The botanist was joined by Latka, who nodded in recognition, his hand on the holster of his gun. It must be beyond the light of sight, wait here, he ordered. Picking up a heavy flashlight in his briefcase, the botanist headed off down the road. We watched the bright shaft of light, the only marker of his movement, bobbing along the track, jerking in pace with his steps. Suddenly, it fixed on one position, and we observed with anticipation, waiting for him. him to announce his discovery. But he said nothing. We heard nothing.

The light was still and distant and some ways up the road. After five minutes, Lautka cried out to him but was met with no reply. Nobody dared move from their place. The whole village was shrouded in silence.

Finally, Father Klinsky came down the church road and hoarsely asked the partyman what had happened. Lautker, frozen in terror, said nothing. So Klinsky grabbed a lamp dangling from a post and followed the botanist's path towards the light.

A minute later, he cried out for help. Three or more men shoveled out of position and followed him to the place where the botanist had stopped. Calls were quickly made for everyone to go back indoors. The huddled group remained by the flashlight for a minute before swiftly coming back towards us. The priest caught me and my brother in the bushes by our cottage and quickly uttered us inside. We saw nothing more until the moment. morning. When I arose, I ran out to find Brabeck and the father, looking out towards a distant poplar. I cautiously approached, and, as I did so, I noticed that the botanist flashlight was lying

next to the tree. Brabeck was holding something in his hand, something bound in a bloody cloth. The old constable withdrew a penknife and gingerly cut into the bark of the tree. Immediately, it started flowing red. That. evening, a meeting was called. Fear marked the faces of all those assembled there. It was made known that the botanist had disappeared, but that his hand had been recovered near a shifted tree. One question that pervaded the room, which was packed with everyone in the village, but nobody wished to speak. Eventually, Lautka stood up. Unfortunately, there seems to be no route of action to take. What are we to do? Twice we have reached out, and twice we've been left with only more

questions about our predicament. What would you have us do, then? asked Carla. Just wait for it all to end? Until our houses are turned to forest? Loutka said nothing. He just looked at the ground. We have to make the call. The botanish is dead and we must report it.

No, said Loutka. If we report it, it's over. They'll wipe this place off the map, tape it off, clear it of all of us. If we don't call someone, we're finished. Carla replied, It'll be the same regardless. For God's sake, man, a man is dead, Lodka, snapped an aged constable. And we will be two if you don't keep your damn mouth shut.

You think the party will believe us? Trees don't walk. They don't move, and they don't murder. Either one person in this room is responsible, or we all are. At that, the hall erupted with noise as arguments began. Blame being spread to every imaginable corner. Brabeck made a feeble attempt to get everyone to calm down. But the commotion continued until Father Klinsky and his booming voice bade all to be silent.

In passing judgments on one another, you condemn yourselves. These happenings are certainly bizarre, but they're like the scientist said. Natural events. No man or woman can bear responsibility for what has happened, and we can pass no blame upon anyone gathered here tonight. We cannot go on like this. We must report it to the authorities. Who are you to say?

cried Lautka. You think because you're a holy fool you can. tell the rest of us what to do and avoid accountability? Listen, Comrade, this man has taught us that what's going on here is natural, all while preaching is superstitious nonsense. We all know you're a hypocrite Klinski. It's him more than anyone else that has tried to frame this a freak accident. I say it betrays his own deceit.

Mermis began to arise from certain parts of the hall, the committee members all looking towards the father. Lauter pointed an accusing finger at the priest. Why is it that no trees come near your church? father. What is it about that ground that keeps them at bay? Perhaps they don't move on their own at all. Perhaps is what you're having us to believe to undermine

the authority of the party. Don't be stupid, Lauter, Carla said. We all heard what the botanist had to say. Look where that got him. And I say, it'll be the same for the rest of us, comrades, unless we teach this Bible thumpber a lesson. This is madness, interrupted Brabeck.

If you won't make the call, I will. And with that, he headed for the door. Shouts arose from one half of the hall, and a committee member flung a buck in the constable's direction. Laotka dashed from the podium to block his way. If you report that death, then we're all done for, he said, and withdrew his pistol from his holster. We're done for already. Lautke cocked his gun and brought to the bear and Brabeck, please and condemnations arose from the nervous crowd.

Put it away, you damned fool, said Klinsky. Loutker swiveled around and aimed at the priest, anger building in his bloodshot eyes. Few had been sleeping recently, but Loutka least of all. The room ducked with every movement of his arm, his shaking movements revealing her patent terror. There is a conspiracy here, he cried, to undermine the party, and to undermine me. Put the gun down, man, said Carla. Get back, step away from the door. The committee members had fallen silent as every.

Everyone else rose and cries him indignation. Laudka's thin body was pressing against the door. The pistol shook in his trembling hand. Brabeck's imposing form stood over him. I am making the report, Laudka, and you won't bloody stop me. The old man seized the door handle. Suddenly, the whole building seemed to shake with a deafening explosion. Brabeck stumbled back.

His hand clasped on his belly. A group of villagers rushed to the constable, grabbing him in their arms and scrambling to cover his wound with rags and hanged. Cuthers. Lautker stood still, his face pale, his mouth open. My God, he whispered, what have you done? said Klinski. There is a conspiracy against the party, began the broken man, and against me. The angry crowd surrounded him, and, raising his gun once more, he found he had in the strength of fire it again, and so fled into the square. His pistol clattered as it hit

the cold stone floor. Klinsky quickly left to make the call while most of the villagers took off in pursuit of Lautka In his flight he had grabbed one of the kerosene torches and had rushed up the hill towards the church Carla led the furious mob after him and they met him in the graveyard that stood before the steeple For a brief moment he turned to face them

And in the dim light All could see that he was consumed with fear Turning the torch around He flung it through the round window shattering the stained glass. The post must have landed on the hymnals, for soon most of us could see the blaze. A few brave the door to smother it,

but it spread around the old structure quicker than anyone could counter, and it was soon made clear that fetching water would be a futile effort. Instead, the crowd seized and gagged the partyman and carried him back to the village centre. While half the village attended to the dying constable and the other had been apprehending his killer,

none had been near enough to see the loo'clock. large yew tree transplanted itself to the middle of the square. To this they marched the doomed man, for he had been condemned as soon as he fired his first and last shot. A length of rope was found, and although my father covered my eyes, I get still hear Lautka's muffled screams as he was hoisted up by a sturdy bow of the hanging tree. By then, Klinski had returned, and, horrified, bade them to stop immediately. Carla and the others shook their heads. No father, she said, not all sins can be forgiven.

Silently, he passed them by and climbed the hill to see his church crumbling into ash. Some say the flames could be seen from miles away. He built long into the night and remained there until morning, by which time Brabeck had bled to death and the sun had risen on a dozen new cherry trees. Some time in the early hours, the inspector had emerged and retrieved Lauka's abandoned firearm from the hall. he wandered into the woods and a few minutes later a second and final gunshot

sent crows flying up into the crisp air later that morning several trucks from the nearest military barracks arrived groups of officers spent a few hours surveying the area they looked around at the strange mess

of thickets that lit up the landscape while their men smoked cigarettes and milled about the village only once an ambulance arrived an hour so later did they cut down Lauka's hanging body from the U and placed it next to those of the inspector and old Brabeck. Father Klinski was dragged from the smoldering remains of his church

and taken into the back of the black van, all the while muttering something about forgiveness. We didn't hear of him again. Eventually, one of the soldiers kicked over an apple crate and called us to assemble. He told us very clinically that each family would be relocated elsewhere in the country and that if we told any living soul about what had gone on, we would face imprisonment.

With that, we were given an hour to pack our lives into suitcases and were then driven into a holding camp. My family was settled on the other side of the country and a town on the Austrian border. During the same week, my father decided that we had to leave. One night, we took our things and made the very dangerous crossing into the west. None of us ever saw our village again, but many decades later, my mother had to be able to be.

had a run-in with an old acquaintance of hers from the next town over, who had told her that in the years following the evacuation, which was chalked up to forest fires, the government had built a large brick wall around the former settlement. To what end? She didn't know.