CreepsMcPasta Creepypasta Radio - "The Deer I Buried Keeps Coming Back. Dirtier Each Time." Creepypasta

Episode Date: June 10, 2025

CREEPYPASTA STORY►by Frequent-Cat:   / the_deer_i_buried_keeps_coming_back_dirtie...  Creepypastas are the campfire tales of the internet. Horror stories spread through Reddit r/nosleep, forums and blogs, rather than word of mouth. Whether you believe these scary stories to be true or not is left to your own discretion and imagination. LISTEN TO CREEPYPASTAS ON THE GO-SPOTIFY► https://open.spotify.com/show/7l0iRPd...iTUNES► https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast...SUGGESTED CREEPYPASTA PLAYLISTS-►"Good Places to Start"-    • "I wasn't careful enough on the deep web" ...  ►"Personal Favourites"-    • "I sold my soul for a used dishwasher, and...  ►"Written by me"-    • "I've been Blind my Whole Life" Creepypasta  ►"Long Stories"-    • Long Stories  FOLLOW ME ON-►Twitter:   / creeps_mcpasta  ►Instagram:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Twitch:   / creepsmcpasta  ►Facebook:   / creepsmcpasta  CREEPYPASTA MUSIC/ SFX- ►http://bit.ly/Audionic ♪►http://bit.ly/Myuusic ♪►http://bit.ly/incompt ♪►http://bit.ly/EpidemicM ♪This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

I shot the buck just after dusk beneath a stand of ash trees mottled with rot. The sound of the rifle cracked through the quiet in that empty stretch of forest, and for a second, everything stilled. Then the insects resumed. It wasn't sport, it never was. The thing limped when it moved, back legs swollen at the knee, left antlers split and jagged at the base, eyes already clouding.

From 50 feet away, I could smell the sickness. I've worked enough control jobs to know the signs of chronic wasting disease, CWD for short, before the field tests confirmed it. Wasting is slow. It hollows them out from the inside, leaves them standing in creeks with their mouths open, drinking nothing. The state's mandate was clear. Any deer with visible symptoms was to be put down and reported. I approached with gloves on, took the usual post-mortem photos, and recorded the GPS coordinates,

marked the tag number R-dash-7769, clipped beneath the skinfold near the right shoulder. Standard insert, deep enough that scavengers wouldn't reach it easily. The retrieval team was scheduled to arrive by morning to hold the, the body in for testing and disposal. I stayed long enough to watch the flies settle. Then I hiked back through the thinning trees and drove to the ranger's lot, where I kept my temporary logbook. Entry made, time recorded.

Another task finished. The next morning, I got a call. Nothing there, the guy said through the crackling line. Some bones scattered. No hide, no carcass. I told him I bagged it clean, tagged it myself, gave the coordinates again. Most have been coyotes or a bear. You know how quick they are this time a year. I also knew what was normal and what wasn't. Predators don't clean up after themselves.

There was no fur left, no drag marks, no prints in the soil around the site. They logged it as unrecovered, told me not to worry. These things happen. Still, I wrote a secondary entry in my personal field notes, separate from the agency forms. Mail, estimate, five years, left antler fracture, swollen rear joint. Tracking tag, R-7769 confirmed. No retrieval. Carcass missing.

It wasn't the first time something went off script out here. But this one wouldn't leave me. Something about the way it looked just before I pulled the trigger. Not startled, not wide-eyed. Just still. Later that evening, while transferring photos for filing, I noticed the last one in the series. A frame taken just before I shouldered the rifle.

The bug standing there angled toward me, head tilted. It almost looked like it was waiting. I wasn't even thinking about it. when it showed up again. It was nearly midnight when I sat down with a trail cam footage. We rotate through drives every few days, set up motion-triggered cams across the perimeter to catch anything sick or staggering through the zone after hours.

The forest goes dead quiet at night, but that's when the worst ones move, the late-stage wanderers, the ones the diseases already hollowed out. That was my part of the job. track sick deer and called the population to reduce the spread. We had an on-site lap working on possible treatments at the same time. I clicked through without much focus, just background noise while I compiled sample logs.

One camera had flagged motion across the ravine three nights prior. The footage was grainy, black and white, time stamped just after 1 a.m. A deer across from right to left, dangling downhill through a dried creek bed, limber but slow. I paused on the third frame. Something about the shape caught me. I zoomed in. Rear legs slightly raised, the joint bulged.

Front left antler crooked backward at the base, not broken off, but warped like the core had splintered. I already knew what I was looking at before the shape got closer to the camera. There was a faint glint behind the shoulder. One of our tracking tags, iridescent under infrared, positioned exactly where I had inserted R-7769. It was the same buck, the one I shot, no mistake. Same wound, same tag, same stance. I leaned forward, rewound, and let it play again. But this time I noticed something else.

The gate was wrong. The rear leg didn't drag in the twitchy, spasmodic way late-stage CWD sufferers usually moved. It swung, smooth, unbroken, too clean. There was no tension in the neck either. The head stayed level, even as it walked uneven terrain, as if something else was moving the limbs, but not from within. No bobbing, no tension through the spine. It was as if the body was being pulled forward in segments, carried, not powered.

I went cold. I checked the GPS location embedded in the file. It was within a quarter mile of the same stand of ash where I'd shot it days ago. It has the same elevation and the same forest density. I cross-referenced the tree formations behind the figure. thin lines of leafless branches, a birch with a split trunk, and match them to my phone photos from the calling site. Too close, too precise. There's a coincidence.

And then there's this. Which meant either the shot had missed somehow, or something else was walking around with a dear skin. I didn't sleep much that night. I lay in my cart with my laptop screen still open. paused on the frame of that buck, standing still in the ravine, head low, limbs straight, eyes barely catching the light. It was facing. The camera. The footage kept coming. Each morning brought a new flagged clip. Each time, the same buck, same shattered antler, and the same crooked back leg. Always alone, always after midnight, always brushing at the

edge of the camera's infrared beam, as if it knew just how much it could show without being caught full on. At first, I thought I was looking for patterns out of paranoia, but by the third night, I started marking the appearances on a field map. The dots were scattered at first, too scattered to mean much, but on the fifth entry, I saw it. It was moving in a slow arc. Not a wandering loop, not lost or disoriented pattern. There was structure to it. The deer was following a wide perimeter path around the zone. Not random, not frantic, steady, predictable, as if it was circling something or someone.

I checked the camera's placement again, laid out the route and drew the circle. It wasn't perfect. but it was closing in. The last three appearances had all been a little tighter. I followed the progression and placed a pushpin at the rough centre. It was us, the base camp trailer, which meant either this thing was tracking me or retracing the path of its own death.

Maybe both. I packed a small kit and headed out at first light, telling the team I was following a trail report. That wasn't unusual. I'd done solo follow-ups before, and no one questioned it. I hiked about 40 minutes to reach the spot where I'd put the buck down.

The ash trees were still there. Same slope, same wing-carved patch of dead earth where the undergrowth had never fully returned after the fires a few years back. But there was no blood, no drag marks, not even a disturbed pile of leaves. What I found instead was a shallow depression in the dirt, ringed with brush and sticks.

Not a scrape, not a bedding spot. Something had arranged the space, intentionally. In the centre, a crude pile of gathered debris. Small bones, some snapped bird feathers, the twisted remains of something that looked like a jaw. It was almost organized. It had a rough symmetry, though not in a way a deer should be capable of. They don't build, they don't nest, they don't collect, which meant it was acting on instinct.

Something in it, whatever was walking that body, was aware, deliberate, maybe even learning. I took photos, sent them to my feet. field laptop and marked the area for follow-up, but I didn't send the images to the department. Not yet. I wasn't ready to explain why I was chasing a deer that should have been rotting under six inches of dirt. When I packed up and turned to leave, I swore I heard something shift behind the tree line, not the crash of a startled animal, just the slow, deliberate shift of weight, as if something waited until I looked away. I didn't turn around.

I walked back to camp with the sense that whatever this thing was, it had built something, and it was only the beginning. It was nearly 3 a.m. when something hit the cabin wall, not a scratch or scrape, a thud, heavy and direct. No follow-up, no scurry of retreat. treating hooves, just one single deliberate impact. The sound jolted me upright. I stayed frozen for a moment, ear straining.

Then another noise came, much softer this time. A slight creak of the pine frame settling, or something leaning into it. I grabbed the laptop and flipped through the most written footage. The cabin cam facing the entry showed nothing, just the unmoving trail. of crushed grass and the steel bear box. I clicked over to the rear feed, one I set up mostly to monitor raccoon activity. That's where I saw it.

Not close up, not detailed, but enough. The deer stood just within the infrared glow, upright, not on all fours, standing. Its rear legs were locked to the joints, thin but rigid. The rest of the body sacked forward, front limbs dangling like dead weight.

His chest was bowed, the ribcage compressed. The head hung far too forward before slowly lifting, stiff and unsure. It took one step forward, then another. Every movement was strained, trembling with the effort to balance. It moved like a puppet strung by hands that had never seen a living thing. thing. But it kept its head upright. Even in the poor resolution, I could see it tracking the lens. Its face had changed. The snout was partly caved in, no longer a clean line of bone and fur. Skin slumped over one side, sagging down past the jaw. It looked heavier than before,

swollen or softened, no glint of eyes, just the hollows where they used to. a sit. It didn't graze, didn't sniff. Just stood there, watching. This wasn't a scavenger wearing a carcass. It was an instinct. It was tracking something. Me. I closed the laptop and went to the filing crate under the bunk. I dug out the original kill log, the handwritten one, but not the digital report I filed later. It had bloodlid. on the corner from the tagging knife, but everything else was clean, coordinates, time, tag code, a quick field sketch. And then I saw it, scrolled in the side margin, a faint pencil nearly scrubbed away.

Burn after disposal. I hadn't noticed it. The retrieval crew had never shown. There was an instruction left by the lad team I had missed, which meant whatever that thing was, whatever was walking around in the hollowed-out body of that deer. I had left it there. I had given it time. I grabbed the heavy lock from the gear chest and bolted the front door, pushed the chair under the handle out of some useless instinct. It wouldn't stop anything with real weight behind it, but it made me feel like I was doing something. Outside, the wind had

dropped. No forest movement, no insects ticking against the window glass. It felt like the woods had emptied out, like the normal rules of wilderness had paused. I didn't sleep. I sat in the corner with a camera feed open, staring at the second angle, waiting for it to return. But it never did. Morning light bled through the closed curtains. The printout still sat on the counter, half crumbled. Burn after disposal. I hadn't shown it to anyone. Who would I tell?

I just kept refreshing the trail cam app and waiting for another ping. Nothing yet. My head was starting to hurt, probably from the stress. My sinuses felt swollen and pressure was mounting. Still, I needed to see it again. Not through a screen.

I needed something to confirm it was just a deer, some rational explanation, something my brain could pin down. I hiked back to the clearing in the late afternoon with the same gear and the same boots. The air felt heavier out there, still but watchful. I stepped carefully, scanning the brush around the old kill sight. Nobody, of course. That was gone the first time. But something else had been left behind. Near a thicket, I found a patch of fur snagged along a thornbush.

Dark, coarse, unmistakable. A few feet beyond that, I spotted a smear of something darker on the flat side of a spilled rock, looked dry and waxy. Not rot exactly, almost preserved. I pulled the sample with tweezers, wrapped it in foil, and packed it for the walk back. In my cabin I set up my old field scope. It was an high end, barely better than a biology student's training model, but it could still read enough at low magnification.

I sliced the sliver from the waxy tissue and placed it on a slide with a saline drop. The second I looked through the lens, I felt the back of my neck go cold. There were seams, not cuts, not scar. seam lines, tiny symmetrical striations crossing in a grid pattern just below the surface. The cells weren't tried out either. They were alive, more than alive. They were organized, pulsing faintly. Something was knitting them together as if the tissue had been rebuilt rather than preserved,

which meant it hadn't died the way I thought, or if it had, it hadn't stayed that way. No deer tissue behaves like that, especially not after sitting exposed to weather or scavengers for days. It should have been dust by now. I set up a quick test with what I had, some ammonia-based cleaner and a few protein indicators. Crude, sure, but good enough for basic reactivity.

I placed another tissue sliver in a shrew, shallow dish, added the cleaning agent, and watched. The reaction was instant. Violent bubbling, a hiss of vapor, and a reek like scorched air and formaldehyde. The tissue turned black, curling in on itself like it had nerves. The smell was chemical, but sharp enough to sting behind my eyes. I rinsed the dish and flushed the sample. My hands were shaking.

But I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop asking myself, what regenerative mechanism could survive that reaction? What kind of biology could fake life that cleanly? I searched for anything similar. Fungal colonies, synthetic graphs, parasitic worms that repurpose host tissue. But nothing matched. By nightfall, I was just staring at the wall, mind blank. The camera feed pinged.

I tapped on the app. The clearing cam had triggered. There it was again. The deer stood at the tree line, just standing, but something was different this time. I had to squint to see it, but I couldn't unsee it once I noticed it. The left foreleg was gone,

not chewed or torn, just missing. The skin along the shoulder was smooth. pale under the moonlight, stretched tight like clay. But the thing didn't limp. It stood evenly, shifting its weight like the limb had never been there at all. I zoomed in further, as much as the grainy frame would allow. The deer turned toward the camera. I froze.

The neck didn't turn smoothly. It cracked sideways, fast. and unnatural, the rest of the body remaining still, a snap in the joint or somewhere deeper. But it didn't recoil, didn't blink, it just stared directly at the lens. And for a moment, I had the horrible impression. It saw me. Not the camera. Me, then, it walked off screen, not limping, not so. struggling, just walking, purposefully. I shut the app and sat there until sunrise.

No new alerts came in that night. I stopped sleeping for more than an hour at a time. The headaches were worse now, full pressure behind the eyes, like something swelling beneath my skull. My nose wouldn't stop bleeding that morning. It was just a thin trickle that ran whenever I tilted forward. I couldn't hold food, couldn't hold a thought. I told work I was sick.

I didn't go in. I didn't tell them why. I just wanted to be alone, to figure it out, to run the test again. I kept telling myself this was chronic wasting disease. I had studied it after all. That's why we were here. But this didn't match the spread pattern. No drooping ears, no emaciation.

and the regeneration didn't make sense. The movement, the fact that it stood. I pulled up the trail cam archive. A new ping two nights ago. Camera 12, the farthest one, facing the southern edge where the old logging road ends. At first, I thought it was a poacher. Human shape, movement slow, head tilted too far down. but the figure was shirtless, stumbling, with hands twitching at his sides, knees stiff.

Then he turned slightly toward the lens, and I froze. I recognized him. Not the face, the posture, the build, the way one shoulder hunched slightly from an old break. It was Nathan, one of the seasonal hires who helped with retrieval, and sight clean up. He hadn't shown up to base in over a week. New angle. Camera 13, same clearing, 30 seconds long. The deer came through first, from the left, limping, dragging one hind leg. Then it stopped, just stood there. Seconds later, the man entered from the opposite side, crawling, hands and feet in the dirt.

He stopped a few feet from the deer. Neither reacted. There was no fear, no sound. They simply coexisted, standing and swaying in the same poisoned wind. That was the last clip. No new alerts came after that. I closed the app. I sat there for hours, waiting for another ping.

The room was still, but I couldn't hear birds anymore. more. No buzz of summer insects outside the cabin. Even the trees looked off. The underbrush is too low, too quiet. I chicked my nose. Another streak of blood on the back of my hand. I hadn't even felt it. I felt woozy, so I lay down and passed out. The final trail cam clip was still frozen on screen when I woke. I shut the laptop. My nose had started bleeding again, slow and steady, tracing a warm smear down past my upper lip.

I wiped it with a sleeve of my hoodie, staring at the wall for a moment as my breath came in shallow poles. The air felt too heavy, or maybe my lungs were slowing down. I tried calling Nathan, the assistant I thought I had seen in the footage, A call rang twice, then cut to voicemail. The backup tablets still had access to the DNR field office network.

I logged in and pulled the remote tracker logs. No check-ins for 36 hours. Not from the monitoring team, field counters, or even the auto-flagged deer cams. Nothing. I pinged the emergency contacts. All three admin names came up offline. In the bathroom mirror, I didn't look right. The skin under my eyes was drawn and waxy,

my face pale in a way that light couldn't explain. A red burst had crept into the white of my left eye, capillaries bloomed outward like roots. When I pressed a knuckle to my cheekbone, the pressure dulled slowly, without edge. I didn't need a blood panel to confirm it. Whatever was in the deer, whatever it kept it moving, was in me now too.

And if I was infected, it meant I was on a timer. I didn't bother calling the office again. I didn't report symptoms. There wasn't anyone left to explain it to. If I waited for help, I'd be a walking corpse before anyone arrived. I packed fast. Cold packs, the preserve sample, trail nests. notes, ammonia strips, and field accelerants.

Every drive that had footage, a USB with basic microscope imaging software, enough canned food to last a few days if I needed them. The wind outside had gone still. The cabin didn't creak, no birds called, no insects, just the low hum of trees remembering their weight. The main lab was 70 miles north, D&R affiliated, but independent, It had a backup generator, cold storage, and a sterilization hood. If I could get there before my symptoms worsened, maybe I could finish what I started, trace the spread, burn out whatever had learned to wear skin.

I locked the cabin door behind me, one last glance at the tree line. Nothing moved. But the silence felt. Aware. I got in the truck. started the engine and drove without checking the rearview. If I didn't make it in time, no one would. I reached the lab just past dusk.

The trees pressed in tight along the road, branches clawing at the truck as I rolled up the gravel path. No signs of field biologists or late shifts. Just the wind and the low hum of the backup generator struggling to keep rhythm. The front doors were unlocked. locked. Inside, the overhead fluorescence flickered behind stained plastic covers. A couple balls buzzed in their sockets, casting long, uneven shadows across the tiled floor. The air smelled faintly of bleach and something else, something deeper, damp, iron, sweet. No voices greeted me,

no motion. Just the slow, steady beep of a security door stuck half a jar. in the back hallway. The reception desk was abandoned. A mug of coffee still steamed faintly. The rim stained with a half-finished sip. A pair of reading glasses sat beside it, folded neatly as if someone meant to return. They hadn't. I moved deeper into the facility.

The surveillance room was unlocked, which wasn't protocol. The wall of monitors stuttered with looping footage from around the building front gate, access hall, generator room, exterior trails. One feed caught my attention. A shape crouched in the tree line behind the lab. Not human. Broad-shouldered, hunched, unmoving. Another monitor showed a figure walking shirtless down a staff hallway, bare feet, pale skin.

He was dragging something behind him, a metal pole clattering against the tile. There wasn't a patient wing in this building, no beds, no IV stands, but I knew what I saw. I killed the feeds, no need to watch more than I had to. The freezer lab was worse. The door stood open a few inches, cold air spilling out. Inside, the stainless steel racks were half empty, tray overturned, vials cracked across the floor in a fine glitter of broken glass and thawed residue. The walls glistened with condensation,

fingerprints smeared into the frost. I found a catalogue of samples, similar to the ones I'd collected myself. Had they been working on this the whole time? If so, to what end? I checked the surrounding shells for any signs of tampering. One broken violet spilled down the same. side of the unit. The trail

stopped at the floor, but didn't pool. Instead, it's split, streaks drawn outward by something moving, low, and slow. That's when I saw the prints. Not boot treads. Hoof prints.

But not natural ones. Each was split, yes, but too long, too narrow. The pressure pattern was wrong, centered toward the toe, as if whatever made them had been balancing, creeping. They led away from the freezer, across the lab floor, right to the wall vent.

I stepped closer. The cover was off, bent to the corners. Inside, the duct was streaked dark. A few long strands of fur clung to the inner rim. Not dear fur, something coarser, almost wire-like. Something had already been. here before me, or someone had led it in. I stood there a moment, listening.

Somewhere in the back wing, something metal scraped across tile. Then nothing. I closed the freezer and sealed the remaining samples in my personal cold case. My hands were shaking as I locked the lab door behind me. And now I wasn't sure who or what had ever been running this place. By morning, my hands were shaking. It started small, just the fingers, but I couldn't get a cap of a vial without fumbling.

My vision kept slipping out of focus, not constantly, just in rhythmic flickers. In the mirror above the lab sink, I watched my pupils expand and shrink back and forth like they couldn't decide what they were supposed to do. My gums had started to wake. I tore a sheet from the back of an abandoned chart and pinned it to my jacket. If I lose speech, burn the body, do not touch the skin.

Then I made for the biology wing. Only the emergency lights were working in this part of the lab, casting dim, jittering gold across the tiles. The carts were overturned, papers have been scattered, trampled, or sewed through from a broken pipe. in the ceiling. Breath fogged in the air. It was cold. I pulled the logbook from the wreckage of a desk. Most of the pages were useless. Notes about wildlife counts, nutrition breakdowns, half-finished hypotheses. I flipped to the back. There, wedge between two damp pages was a loose sheet of paper with sharp handwriting. Secondary host showed accelerated symptoms after exposure to decomposing infected tissue, delayed infection correlated with chemical disruption, ammonia

and alcohol treatments. I stopped. My symptoms started after handling the sample, but I had stumbled on using ammonia while doing rudimentary tests. Whatever concoction I had accidentally breathed in hadn't cured me, but had delayed what had happened to the seasonal hire I saw skulking with the deer. It bought me time, a buffer. The others, they worked under protocol, sterile, precise, direct exposure.

I folded the note and slipped it into my jacket. There wasn't a cure, but at least I now understood why I was still walking. And this inspired my makeshift idea. I found one last working auto-clipped. clave near the end of the wing. It rumbled to life when I keyed in the override. I scraped together everything I could. What remained of the preserved tissue, anything I'd touched,

or with gloves, even the container, and loaded it all into the chamber. The inside was coated with black residue, not mould, something else. Maybe someone had already tried this. I set the burn, locked the hatch, and stepped away before the heating cycle could even start. My legs were slower now, not numb, just heavy.

Every step felt delayed, like the signals were moving through sludge. I touched the glass in the hallway. I couldn't feel it. I couldn't feel the chill against my fingers. I left through the back. The woods were still, grey, the clouds hung low, over the canopy, and somewhere behind me, the lab hissed with steam. I didn't know if the sterilization would do anything, didn't know if it was too late, but I had one more thing to do.

I packed everything I needed and worked on the move. Not a cure, just a final step, and started walking where it all began. I didn't follow the trail camera. this time, the clearing where I shut the book, where the carcass vanished, where I should have burned it. I carried everything with me in my pack, an improvised cocktail, cleaning ammonia and accelerants. I cobbled together materials for a makeshift device, powdered rust scraped from the back of hinges of old equipment and aluminium shavings pulled from trail signs. It wasn't a perfect thermite mix, but it would ignite, enough to burn tissue, enough to destroy whatever was rewriting it. The walk was longer than I remembered, or maybe I was slower.

My joints ached, my fingers tingled, the fever behind my eyes pulsed in waves, clouding the corners of my vision. But I was still thinking clearly. I could still make decisions. That meant I still had time. I used this time to make improvised devices crude but functional. The trees changed before the path did. At first I thought it was just fog settling through the branches, but the bark had a sheen, not wet, waxed.

A fine spread of pale threads ran between the trunks, and when I brushed past one, it stuck to my jacket. I reached the clearing. It wasn't a nest anymore. It had bloomed. The glade was a full sprawl of organic spires, sinew and fungal bloom. Long, venous threads ran between trees and into the undergrowth. The dirt looked bruised.

There were thick nodules the size of fists half buried in the soil, throbbing. fungal stalks that had grown into warped, ribbed structures, almost like cages, but I couldn't tell if they were meant to keep something in or out. The smell was worse than any rot I'd encountered, a mix of iron fermentation and something vaguely sweet, like ripe fruit gone sour. The wildlife was gone. No birds, no insects,

but around the perimeter, the ground was littered with corpses. Rodents, a raccoon, something small and canine, maybe a fox. Some of them were twitching. Not breathing, spasming, as if their bodies hadn't caught up with the fact that they were already dead. One of them, a rabbit, jerked his head upright, jaw twitching open. A sound came out, not a breath, a click. maybe an attempted speech.

I didn't stay close enough to listen. This was what it had been doing, not hunting, cultivating. It was rewriting the instructions that told muslin bone how to be. In the centre of the glade was a mound. Flesh, hair, antler, segments of deer skull fused with what looked like vertebrae. human ribs, tangled legs, some still clothed in remnants of field pants. A name patch peaked out, half-used into the tissue.

I didn't go closer to read it. I already knew. I dropped to my knees, opened my pack, began assembling the ammonia. The heat was rising in me now, internal, pressing. I was sweating hard, my tongue was thick in my mouth. The ammonia stung my nose, but I needed it. I poured carefully, trying to keep my hands steady. Just a few minutes, just one successful ignition.

I heard the footsteps before I saw them. Not hooves, not claws, feet. I turned slowly. A thermite charge half assembled in my lap. Three figures stepped out from behind the edge of the nest. People, or what it used to be. My field team, Harris from my old lab rotation, Jenna, the intern who logged samples,

and one of the rangers I used to check in with on morning rounds. Their skin looked spongy, waterlogged, and blotched with grey patches that pulsed beneath the surface. Their veins ran black and branched across their arms and neck. All three of them stared at me through, clouded white eyes, lips parted in slow, shallow breaths that didn't sound like breathing at all. They weren't charging, they didn't groan or howl. They just stepped forward, their arms stiff, their heads tilting, and their mouths slack,

like they were still trying to remember how movement worked. To them, I just looked like another infected returning to the hive. I took a shaky breath, raised a hand without meaning to. I'm sorry, I said. For a second, something flickered behind Harris's eyes. A twitch in the cheek, his jaw shifted. I saw his lips try to form a word, but all that came out was a wet rasp,

a throat too soft to carry sound. There was still sympathy, a glimmer of humanity that was rapidly fading. Then came the deer. They had no such feelings. They emerged slowly, deliberately, and confident from the trees behind the team. The upright one leaned forward with a step, spine trembling with effort, but its limbs moved cleanly now.

Behind it crawled another, shoulder twisted, dragging its weight along the patch of exposed roots. The last one moved worst of all. It dragged a fused limb that wasn't fully dear, part bone, part human muscle, strung together with a wrong tension. They made no noise, their heads cocked with a mechanical curiosity,

all eyes locked on me. And they saw what I was doing. A half puffed out from their nostrils as they redded to charge, hooves bracing to sprint. My hand shook as I reached for the striker. The first scrape gave nothing, the second sparked. On the third, it caught. I lit the smallest flask of ammonia and hurled it at the edge of the nest. It hissed on contact.

The fungal web sizzled, the black-veany thorn. threads pulling back from the chemical burn like they were alive. That did it. The reanimated abominations stumbled forward, not toward me, but toward the patch I'd hit. Twitching, compelled. Pain, instinct, rage, I couldn't tell. But it told me something important. They had a choice.

They didn't lunge at me, not yet. They went for the fire. I didn't give them time to rethink it. I lit the thermite and hurled it toward the center of the nest. The flash was instant and vicious. A column of heat tore through the fungal bed, charring it in a heartbeat. A few deer were caught in the process. The smell made my vision swim.

Something between spoiled meat and plastic insulation. Instinct kicked in. and my old crew sprang into action, rushing to save their colony. The mound in the centre shrieked, not with sound, but with pressure. A thick static hum filled the air. My eyes pulsed, my ears rang. Harris screamed. Not a human sound, just a rupture of voice.

He collapsed midstep. Jenna followed, limbs still jerking on the ground like fish on a dock. The upright deer tried to flee, but collapsed as soon as their connection severed. I lit the final charge, the biggest one, and rolled it into the heart of the nest. It ignited on contact. The second explosion was worse than the first. Trees caught, flames raced up the stalks. The sinew network snapped and curled in on itself.

A line of fungus tried to retreat down the roots, but the fire chased it. But most importantly, all the bodies caught flame, destroying any remnants of this horror. I stumbled back, coughing into my sleeve. My vision smeared, one eye darkened. I wiped it, but my hand came back red. Blood. The glade thrashed like a body in seizure. Then it went still.

I stood there until the flames reached the ridge Until the entire bloom turned black and brittle Until the heat burned the smell away Only then did I turn and walk Burned sick bleeding from both eyes But lighter than I'd felt in weeks Because I'd done something real Because I'd ended it

Or at least made sure it wouldn't spread any further father. And if I was wrong, if something crawled out later, I wouldn't be here to see it. I sat, slumped in the truck, throat raw, eyes blurred. My fingers barely worked. They kept slipping on the recorder's button before I finally managed to press it down. Sample sterilized. The source nest burned. Secondary host transmission confirmed. My voice didn't sound like mine anymore. I waited for a long moment, letting the silence settle before speaking again. My name is Elias Ward, Field ID 7-2601-B.

Contracted Wildlife Biologist, State assigned. I acted alone. I have destroyed all known infected samples. The growth site has been neutralised. There are no survivors. I paused, listened. Nothing but the low wind through the ridge. No movement in the trees, no footsteps in the brush.

If anyone finds this log, do not come looking for survivors. There is nothing left worth recovering. I click the recorder off and let it drop into my lap. My head rested against the window. The cold glass felt steady, almost grounding. The woods outside. was still, chocked in ash and fog. I took the cassette and sealed it in a weatherproof specimen case,

marked it clearly, left it outside near the truck, but not too close. If anyone did find this place, they'd find the truth first. Then I sat back inside and looked at the keys in my palm. I lied. I hadn't destroyed all traces. There was still one left. Me But that would be dealt with shortly A thermite was rigged, crude but functional

Set beneath a seat Tired to the ignition I checked the fuse three times earlier Before my vision went When the key turned the reaction would start Heat, metal, flame Nothing left to spread I took a final breath

No last words, no dramatic farewell. I just turned the key.