Creepy - Into the Red Horizon

Episode Date: November 21, 2022

Written by: Ajinkya Goyal and Narrated by: JV Hampton-VanSant***I smuggled drugs in the 1980s for a narco kingpin. I brought something home far worse than blood money***Written by: Colt-Leasure***Content warning: animal death***Check out our reward tiers at patreon.com/creepypod***Sound Design by Pacific Obadiah***Title music by Alex Aldea***Intro/Outro Narration by Joe Stofko Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

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the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy posters and urban legends in the world. Whether these stories truly happened or are simply fabrications is for you to decide.

These stories may contain graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised. Creepy presents Into the Red Horizon. Written by Eugenki O'Goyle

and narrated by J.V. Hemp and Van Sant. Four hundred years. A number so absurdly large, it never made sense to stop and think about it. It was just another way for my jailers to tell me I was going to be here long after forever has come and gone. They made a big deal out of it when they bound me. They chanted and rejoiced about me dying in custody, never again able to feel a free breeze on my

face. They surrounded me in a circle, draped in showy robes, and kept their faces in clear view. They pronounced their names proudly, lapping up the praise from the public, unafraid of me ever coming after them. For from that point forth, I was to live and die by their world. word. The last two on my list, the only two that had evaded me, were not a part of my binding. It brought me some satisfaction to know that they, at least, were still afraid of me. I was first shackled up in the center of town, chained to the ground and scarcely able to move. I suppose they meant it as a kind of reassurance to the world that their nightmare was finally over.

And I would be unable to torment them any further. But, even bound, I was feared. No one dared leer or jeer at me, and instead ducked their heads and hurried along as they walked. by. Everyone knew what I had done, and no one wanted to risk being next. I enjoyed their fear. They would remember the fall of their chosen ones for generations to come, and they would remember me as the sword that cut them down. But then, someone, somewhere, somewhere. decided they rather push me out of the public eye.

They wanted to forget what happened and erase my contributions to our history. That enraged me. Not only had they chained me before I could complete my goal, they now thought they could just push me to the depths of the land, slunge me in darkness and expunge the blood from their hands. I had no intention of going gently, but my magic had been saffed. It had been drained from me and used to feed my jailer's strength, so I could do little other than flail as I was thrown in a dungeon,

as deep below the ground as my sentence was long. That was the last day I saw my son. I kept count at first. I stayed angry and restless, and that carried me through. But after a while, it all blurred together. Sixty days out of 400 years seemed the same as 112. which felt the same as 539. By way of company,

I had only the person who brought me my meals at the top of every day. No one wanted the hassle of feeding the monster of siren. For that is what they have taken to calling me. Thrice a day, so they gave me three squat trays every morning. or, more accurately, what I assumed to be mourning, since even the sun was burdened to extend to these depths. Sometimes I wonder why they didn't kill me and be done with it. They were anxious to be rid of me that much was evident. The person who brought me my meals, who had a name in a tongue that had no script,

thought they chained me to be cruel. Death would have been far too easy an end for me, so they left me to rot and die by my own devices instead. They weren't very chatty at first, and I couldn't blame them. Had I wanted to, I might have appeared non-threatening. inviting, almost. But I didn't particularly care. I let my sharpened teeth sink into my lower lips, and I left my hair that I could once light a blaze on command, curl, and mangle as it saw fit. I had a crazed look in my eyes before I was chained, and no doubt that is faded.

in my time away from the sun. In the end, I suppose, curiosity won them over. A lot of stories quickly cropped up about me. While I was chained above, I would hear little wisps of conversation, detailing supposed events from my childhood that had driven me to murder. Not a single word of any of them holding any measure of truth. I had become a novelty in my own right. So it stood to reason that the child, for that's what they were,

and though I was young when I was taken in, they were younger still. Wanted to see for themselves if there was a, any truth to the fictions they had heard. The other reason, perhaps, was company. There weren't many others in my jail, and, although I occasionally found myself sharing, my level with a particularly demonic occupant, most people were sent to the upper levels.

More importantly, most people served their sentences and left. The child merely desired steady company through the long hours they worked. They began with meek hellos, paired with the day's meals, but slowly graduated to keeping me updated with what was going on in the world above me. When they told me the old queen had finally died, I cheered so loudly, I scared them off, and it took several days for them to start engaging with me again. She had been the one to cast the final seal on my magic before casting me asunder,

and though her magic was still very much there, it made me happy to know that she was not. I hadn't heard of her successor when the child told me of her. A mysterious out-of-towner, apparently, who had lived at the foot of our mountains for at least a hundred years, if the stories were to be believed. That sounded suspicious to me, but I held my tongue. The child seemed to like her and her gospels, so I didn't say anything against her. Despite how pathetic it sounds, I was grateful for the company. I watched the child grow up and grow old, and they watched me age.

What was to him maybe a day? I could see it puzzled him, but he never thought it prudent to ask. I think he was afraid of the answer. When he died, I was alone again. I might have even shed a tear. There was also a lapse in my meals. With the new dinner boy, apparently having forgotten they had a visitor, chained so far below all the others.

Two days I went without any food, and on the third I howled and bellowed threats at the wardens that we both knew I couldn't follow up on, but that scared them nonetheless. They didn't miss a single day after that. Somewhere along the line, either while the one who had missed two days was working or during his successor's tenure,

I never got a good look at him, for he was always done. too afraid to approach me. I received a floormate. They must have moved him in while I was asleep, because I was alone when I turned in for the night, but woke up to the sound of someone gnawing on the bone from whatever fresh abomination

had deemed bad enough to serve to the prisoners. When he saw I was awake and staring at him, He dropped the bone. They still remember you, you know, he said matter-of-factly. I studied him before replying. He was lounging against the wall in his cell, a tattered pair of shorts barely extending to his knees

and an open shirt far too small for him draped across his shoulders. He had scars on his shoulders. chest. Not enough for them to be jarring, but enough to no longer blend in with the shadows cast by the single candle that provided us light. I could tell he was trying to be flippant about making conversation with me, but he didn't come off as calm as he had hoped. No one can agree on what you did anymore, but they remember you. He said again. I drew myself up to the bars and stuck my face in the epicenter of the candlelight,

my fangs, for they were more fangs than teeth by then, on full display and smiled slowly. Not wide enough to be friendly, but just enough to scare him a little. I saw him flinch and recoil and let my tooth pierce my body. bottom lip, a thin trickle of blood dripping down my chin. What do you think I did? He wasn't prepared for my response. I could tell he was expecting on my part at being remembered all these hundreds of years later.

He was not expecting a monster, as terrifying as the stories he had no doubt heard. Had it been that long? I had no way of knowing. It might very well have been far less. When he didn't reply, I licked my blood off my chin and tilted my head, prompting him to speak. I know you killed some people, he said unsteadily. I let out a low growl.

Go on. I know you killed some people, he repeated, gaining a little more confidence. I know it happened a long, long time ago, although few can state exactly how long with any certainty. And I know they were supposed to be the strongest of us all. unkillable almost virtually immortal i smiled not to scare him this time but to approve of his assessment well done i slunk back to the ground and let my back rest against the wall staring at my cell instead of him as i spoke They were supposed to be immortal, for all intents and purposes anyway. They were supposed to be able to live hundreds of years and have no weaknesses.

They protected themselves against everything, cast her charm after shield, after a spell, until nothing in the kingdom could hurt them. more than a weed-wood-a-wall. How did you do it, then? The man asked. I turned my head to look at him. He had now discarded any pretense of not caring and was wholly engrossed in my story.

I didn't trust him. I may have been cut off from the world for longer than most people ever lived but I still knew how to judge a person. I didn't trust him, so I just smiled and shook my head. That's between me and the dead. I could tell he wanted to press on,

but he didn't want to risk stepping on any toes. Good. One other question then? He ventured cautiously. I nodded at him to continue. You were sentenced to 400 years. Everyone thought you would die in custody. Certainly, no one expected you to be alive today.

How long ago was it really? How have you not aged? I thought for a moment. and to my surprise a clear figure came to mind. Turns out I had been counting the days this whole time. I just wasn't aware of it. It's been 197 years. Yes, yes, that's right.

One hundred and ninety-seven years. I was taken in when I was twenty-five. I have spent my life in these confines. The man looked startled at my confirmation. You look not a day older, he exclaimed. I smirked. It was true. Sometimes, when the candlelight hit the bars just right,

they shone enough for me to catch a glimpse of myself. I had age that much was evident to me, but not nearly as much as I should have. Why are you here? I asked the man. I had shared my floor before, but rarely and only ever for one night. The guards used a night with me as a form of punishment for the other inmates. It scared them enough such that I never have a repeat visitor. What did you do to deserve a night with me? Oh, I'm not here for a night.

I cocked my eyebrow but stayed silent. He took that as an invitation to continue. I've heard of the wardens using your floor. as a punishment, but that's not why I'm here. I was offered two options at my trial. Three months with you or a year in the regular selves. I stayed quiet. My partner is somewhere up there right now. He begs me to do the year with him, but I wanted to get back out as soon as possible. How come you got a choice? It's become something of standard practice.

Most people are offered a choice for a reduced sentence on your floor. It terrifies us, and the prison has to spend less money on inmates. It's a no-brainer for them. Seeing as how you didn't know, I'm guessing I'm just the first. first who's taken them up on the offer. I nodded in comprehension. Somewhere, I liked that I still scared the powers that be enough for the option to even exist. But it also felt like they were still using me.

A growl left my stomach and echoed in my throat. I didn't let it out of my mouth. I turned to the man. So, what was it that you did? The man considered his reply, then smirked. That's between me and the dead. I'm sure he thought he was being clever, using my words like that. He might even have hoped for a chuckle from me.

or perhaps a smile, anything to indicate he had curried my favor. I didn't like him. So you killed someone. The man's smile faded upon seeing my reaction. No, he said sitting up straight. We didn't harm anyone. We stole from our governor. That's what got us such a long sentence.

I didn't know what a governor was, but didn't particularly want to ask. It was evident it was some type of ruler. I nodded at the man in silent comprehension. I was beginning to warm up to him. What is your name? I finally asked. asked. Corinne, what's yours?

I blinked. I hadn't been asked my name in a long time. The last person to have called me anything other than the monster of Siren was the first dinner boy. Something in me, unclenched. Something I hadn't felt for a long time. time. I missed the child. I think they would truly always stay a child in my mind, even though I was with them to their last day. Fahy, I finally said, pausing briefly between syllables.

It was nice meeting you, Fahy, Corin said three months later. truly It had been a long three months for him I knew as much for a fact He told me stories of his husband And the life they had together Almost every day And I could tell how much it hurt

Him to be without him It was no surprise he chose the quicker sentence The stories irked me at first, but then I warmed up to them eventually. I even missed my daily tales a little when Corinne left. I never told him what happened, the real account, but I think he divined some of it. To my last day, I didn't trust him, but he was a clever man. There was no denying that. He seemed to know there was more to the story than a murderous rampage, and I began to respect him a little for his insight.

Perhaps one day, if I ever get out of here, I'll find him, or his heirs, and tell them the truth. Eventually, those in charge decided a taste of their own teachings might do me some good. They sent an old woman down one day, along with my daily meals, who carried a leather-bound totem tucked under the long drapes of her right arm. I tried to work out why they suddenly cared, and managed to piece together speculation, based on whispers exchanged between guards. There was apparently a war brewing.

Another one. Sometimes I think history requires blood to mark its passing. As if without an incarnadined current, it might cease to pass. The new ruler, who was, if certain other whispers were to be believed, the very same one that the child had an affinity for, apparently thought I could be a valuable asset to them, if I could be controlled.

Still, it gave me something to do and broke the monotony of daily life, so I allowed it to happen with a little resistance. Do you know how to read? Syrin. The old woman they sent down asked me on her first visit. She had asked for my name first, but the one that had been ascribed to me was the one I gave her. My true name felt too personal to give out to her. The question itself was fair. I doubted she knew exactly how old I was, But I was sure her best estimates placed me in a time squarely before the common use of a script.

The reality was close enough, which, admittedly, impressed me a little. Yes, I told her, for I had studied my tongue both written and verbal extensively before my imprisonment. She then handed me the totem under her arm, passing it through my cell's bars. It was a thick volume, and only just managed to squeeze through them. She produced another copy and a blank notebook from the folds of her robes, and gave me the latter, too, along with a stub of graphite. We'll start from the beginning. She said, opening her copy to the totem's first page. I mirrored her actions, but pause as she began to read.

This isn't the script I know, I admitted to her, without a hint of admission of weakness. I wrote out my name, my real name, because she wouldn't know the difference either way. In my language, in the notebook she gave me, and showed her. This is what I know how to read. She regarded my scribble carefully. It was evident to me she couldn't understand it, and comparing it to the script in the totem she gave me only confirmed that suspicion. The two were nothing alike.

We'll begin with that, then. She finally said. The woman, who introduced herself as Carus, was hard for me to get a read on. Her position, as the ruler's envoy, caused her to carry herself with something of an air of superiority, but she spoke without judgment. She taught me the sounds for each symbol. Letters, she called them, and groups of symbols made until I could read this new language well enough.

Then she told me stories of the deities, the ones she knew. They weren't the same I had grown up with, although a lot of them seemed like facsimiles of ours. It was just as well, though. for her latter lessons carried little weight with me. I let her come in and ramble through her teachings without any attempt to scare her off, but I had a project of my own, a far more important one. There was a time when the mere whisper of my name struck fear in even the most perils. of passers-by. Whatever impact I once commanded had evidently been whittled down to not even being a threat to an old woman sent by a ruler to rehabilitate me in her own image.

I decided to chronicle my own history, the true and the false, in both my language. In both my language, and the one in use then to make sure I would never be forgotten. What I did, why I did it, what was really happening all those years ago, and what I finally managed to end. To make sure my impact would one day be found by the right person, and save them from the mistakes my people allowed to pass them by. The champions were the chosen ones. They spoke the will of our deities and carried their power.

They didn't age, not in any time frame we could comprehend anyway. There were 19 of them when I was at the academy, studying magic under Tijuana. teachers chosen by the champions. That was the best thing one could aspire to in those days. To study like the champions had, to work in their stead, and become something that resembled them, not become them or anything that could rival them, but something like them.

The champions themselves, largely stayed in a dome that floated above our sprawling castle, a constant reminder of their power and position. We saw them in our midst only twice, once at the beginning of the year, when only one of them would come down to deliver a welcome speech, and once at the end, when the same one would deliver a closing. Every hundred years or so, they picked another one to join their ranks. It happened while I was at the academy.

Raven, they called him. He was beautiful and strong and frightfully clever, and no one questioned why he was chosen. New selections were inducted into the champion's ranks immediately, but they had an entire year of inductions to undergo before they were considered a champion themselves. During that year, people from the academy went missing. The official line was that some of the family went missing.

The official line was that some of them went home, some of them couldn't cut the difficulty of the program, and some of them ran away. I believed them for a while because we all did. And because there was no way to have known if they were lying. But the ones I knew, the ones that disappeared, wouldn't do that. Not without telling me. When the champions came for me, I was ready. They took me, as I suspected they did all my precursors in the dead of night, when not a single light clicked on and nary an eye cast a look. I put up no fight and allowed them to think they had overpowered me, as they had

everyone before. I lost track of the number of twists and turns they took me through, but was very aware just how deep underground they were going. They might have taken me at least six stories down. They threw me down on a stone slab, spiking my back with pain, and tied me down, limbs spayed. It was only then that they took off my hood, and I could finally see where the heathens had brought me. There was a time when the academy openly taught the dark arts. It was ancient history even then. Having been outlawed and scrubbed from our history, but nothing is ever truly lost. The true records were immensely hard to get a hold of, but the dark arts had always been the object of my morbid curiosities.

and once my friends went missing, I became feverously certain the answer lay with our expunged history. The room they held me in was a sacrificial chamber. The ridges poking into my back made it clear I was tied down on a bloodletting table. They were doing exactly

what I had suspected. They'd been taking students of the academy and draining them of their magic, absorbing it for themselves and killing their captives in the process. They all loomed around me, entirely confident in their position of power, not having bothered to mask themselves.

I looked at each one dead in the eye, refusing to let them think they'd scared me. One of them, Raven, unsheathed a knife from a scabbard, a blade caked with dried blood of previous victims. He took his place at the table, right above my head, and looked at me with a grin. He was enjoying this. He brought the cool steel carefully to my neck, a chill spreading out from the point of contact, before dashing it across in a fine line.

The champions hungrily looked on in anticipation, waiting for the flow of blood that would strengthen their newest member. But I had come, prepared. The moment the knife broke my skin, my body splashed alive with color, the ruins I'd painted on myself humming to life. The incision in my neck healed instantly. I drew in the leftover blood on the knife and soaked up the remnants from the table. Raven, having been the and the hand that made the cut was killed instantly, his blood flowing to me. By now, I was quite literally burning with power.

My scraps melted, and I immediately flicked into action, killing three more where they stood, before they had even realized what was going on. I ripped into another five in that room. This selection, having put up more of a struggle, they'd regain their senses and were fighting for their lives. And they had the lives of countless others fueling their magic. But each kill bled new life into me, and each successive one was made easier.

Fury carried me through, and fear pushed them back until they fled the chamber, and then the building, and then the academy. They scattered across the kingdom, some of them hiding in pairs or small groups, and others having thought solitary, would better protect them. I caught one in a cave he had hollowed in the side of a mountain. I made sure he saw me, then finished him off before he could even exclaim in surprise. I caught another in a village, having disguised herself as one of its inhabitants. I waited for nightfall to cause the least disturbance, then finished her off.

After having woken her up to make sure she knew who spelled her end, of course. For the next few years, I continued to hunt down those that had evaded my wrath that first night, and managed all but two before I was finally captured, pausing, not ending, the tale of the monster of siren. Fahy? Fahy, are you there? Came a small voice, disturbing my remembrance. I ignored it at first, having thought I imagined it. Who today would care to know my true name? Fahy? Came the voice again, somewhere in the walls. Who's there?

I shot back tentatively, making sure to maintain authority. Vickuna. You have a name as old as mine, I pondered. No, not quite as old as mine, but old enough for people to lump them together, I should think. Yes, that is so. When I said nothing, Vekuna pushed on. Is it true? The tiny voice asked.

Is what true? What no one says about the people you killed. Her voice quivered before she added. The champions. I didn't have to ask what she had heard. It was evident in her voice. Yes. I felt no need to elaborate, and Vakuna felt no need to ask.

We understood each other perfectly. She considered my reply carefully. Some say our current emperor has been alive for just under 500 years. I stayed silent. We could use someone like you. To do what exactly? This time Vakuna stayed silent. What color is there magic?

I never said she's a sorcerer. Yet she is, isn't she? She thought for a moment. Orange. Every kind of magic had its own color. The Champions was always orange, a type forbidden from use by the rest of us. No one even halfway sure how to approach their power. I assume you didn't come all this way without having some way of getting me out.

Your sentence end soon, does it not? Yesterday, actually. Vickum. I didn't know a noise that resembled surprise. I didn't know what I would do once out. I know with certainty the world I knew is long gone. So, I decided to stay put until something interesting came along, or until someone got the wrong nerve.

So, your magic? Yes, it's back. I'm still building to my full strength, but I have more than enough to leave. Stand back, I said after pausing to think. I still couldn't see her, but I heard tiny feet scattering, so I assumed she had obliged. I called my magic to me, my fingertips buzzing with a feeling I hadn't felt in four centuries. I felt it come back to me eagerly, coursing through my veins, burning my blood, bringing back to life pockets that I had thought long dead.

My hands glowed with a violent purple, thick entrails of orange engulfing it in smoke. I put one of them to the wall in front of me, where I heard Vecuna, voice. It crumbled immediately. Magic burned through the brick I touched and flowed into every one of its neighbors, until the entire wall was forced to nothing more than a line of ash at my feet. I blinked in surprise, having forgotten for a second how powerful I had once been. and stepped through the wreckage.

Lead the way. For your bonus episode, Creepy Presents. I smuggled drugs in the 1980s for a narco kingpin. I brought home something far worse than blood money. Written by Colt Leisure. Having a pilot license in the 1980s gave me many opportunities. The most lucrative of...

of them were not within the bounds of the law. Most of my free time was in the sky. I carried packages of a certain white narcotic that was in high demand. I spent my free time in Miami. The limitless amount of cash afforded me the best clothing, drinks, and jewelry. I also met my fair share of women at that time in nightclubs. If I was smart, I would have maintained a low profile. My mindset at the time was juvenile.

When you see an opportunity to be flashy, I told a fellow partygoer, why not indulge in that decadence? I knew that one day you were king, and the next during the poor house working a dead-end job, or worse, in the penitentiary. I had to let loose while not at work since I had a few close calls back then. There were times when I landed in Columbia and believed I'd never make it out. I never snitched on any of my superiors or equals.

This is why I still have a pulse today. When they thought I might have been culpable or writing on them, I had to clear my name. I always did. The kind of assignments I undertook was easy for me. For starters, that was a great pilot. Some may speculate how facing near execution should have been a wake-up called a flee to a place far away. What the person on the outside looking in does not know is how good the adrenaline rush feels. The natural high you get when you're living on the outskirts and working against the system the way I did.

The outlaw lifestyle is one of the most addictive elements on Earth. This is especially true when it's abundant. Around December of 1993, I did decide to take a long hiatus. In my mind, I was not giving up. the life. The notion of retirement was nauseating. The thought about putting the brakes on the entire operation was a good idea. The highest boss at the time had died on a rooftop in his home country with a bullet to the back. I didn't trust anyone to take his place. I didn't believe a new leader would be anywhere near as profitable for his subordinates. One day I sat in my apartment

watching television. The phone rang, and I answered. The voice on the other end was hoarse. He sounded as though he finished chain-smoking 20 packs of palm malls. We know you stole one of our bricks, the man said. I went to one of the Brujas. I had him give you a little karmic present and joy. I hung up and tried to forget the conversation, though I knew it was a sign I had to move.

I bought a cabin away from society. It was in the mountains. The views surrounding the estate were breathtaking. In the first six months I was there, I felt a bit isolated. But I knew it was for the best. I had an escape route mapped out if the authorities were over to circle the place. Tapping my phones was impossible, considering I didn't have a phone. I watched old westerns on VHS and read thriller novels during my downtime.

I fished, hiked, and hunted every other free moment. I still grew deathly bored. To go from Avenue heart racing every single day to living like Thoreau is a culture shock. I kept copious amounts of cash buried around the perimeter. It was in everything from shoeboxes to milk crates with pieces of wood placed over their tops. There were no witnesses to watch me shovel in the remoteness. There were stacks of bills stuffed into my mattress, so I rarely had to resort to unearth the currency. I grew out a beer and dyed it a color I'd never been before.

I went into the nearby town and stocked up on everything from top ramen to blue label scotch. A month after the booze had run out, I searched my bed for more money and found I'd tap that particular reserve. I grabbed a shovel and went out back. I dug up one of the boxes and brought it inside. As I laid out the money on the floor, one discolored bill in particular caught my attention. It didn't even resemble a typical Franklin. Upon closer inspection, I saw the bill had dried blood.

A symbol was on it. The mark appeared to be similar to that of a corporate logo, but one that was completely unknown to me. I was willing to wager was unrecognizable to most everyone. It looked as though someone tried to remember how to draw a pinagram and failed. I knew I couldn't spend it in town without attracting attention, so I threw it in my waistbasket. I left, purchased the necessary liquor in town, and came back.

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of rustling. I sat up and stared where the noise was coming from. It was in the corner of the room, where the waste basket was. In the darkness and drowsiness, I contemplated how it was more than likely a rodent. Something seemed out of place when I opened my eyes a little more. The rim of the waistbasket had an usual shading around it.

It seemed as though someone I painted it with a dark, inky liquid. I stood and switched on the lamp. The waist basket looked normal in the light. I shrugged and thought it was a result of exhaustion. I had spent the day splitting wood. I turned the light off, got back into bed, and rolled over. I slept well and didn't wake up until seven hours later. When I went to stand, I saw a shadow on my wall.

It was humanoid and held a staff. I saw the shadow and it had to shake the object in the air. It unnerved me so much that I ran my hand along the wall where it dissipated. I spent the morning trying to shake off the feeling of interminable doom, which had befallen me. I made coffee, eggs, and bacon. As I was frying my food to start today, I heard a loud pounding noise. It came from the eastern part of the cabin. I sat my utensils down and went into my room.

I reached for a very large maglite and knife. I also grabbed a pistol. I held the blade downwards and crept towards the persistent noise. I crouched and waited for someone to crash in through the window. I knew it was likely not a lawman, since they tended to announce themselves. I reasoned it was a stray or an adversary. Remembrances of news headlines about a serial killer being active in the area came back to me. I stared at the wall for a long time.

There was no silhouette through the shuttered casement. The ruckus ceased altogether. With the gun clutched, I went outside and searched for footprints. What I found instead horrified me. This-membered animal carcasses were everywhere. The limbs of elk and the bloodied severed claws of bears were strewn about. I gazed at some of the crimson stumps as the hair on my arms stood up. Whoever had done this

It wielded a hatchet with more brute force than precision I circled the cabin and didn't see any trace of a human I contemplated how it was almost as though someone had dropped the parts off from a plane I scaled the nearby hill to get a better look at the uppermost part of the structure There were streaks and wide swaths of blood coating the rooftop I shoveled the animal remains into many trash bags The smell was abominable. I tied him off and kept them many yards away from my house.

I knew predators would come in the night to feast on the collection. I thought of the possibility of this not being a targeted event. I knew about the kind of damage that flocks of geese could do to an engine, but this was beyond inexplicable. My mind went through scenarios of exotic animals transported via aviation to dictators. Something could have gone wrong with the latches. It seemed like a silly hypothetical at the moment, but I was trying to calm myself down with an explanation.

Even if done on purpose, I couldn't figure out who would complete such a thing and why. My head pounded. I went inside and laid down. I felt myself drift off to sleep. I heard a brief scratching noise, which I dismiss as a tree limb, scraping against the rain gutter. Drowsiness overcame me, and I saw something protrude in the corner of my left periphery. I looked over.

Spider legs, the size of batons, emerged from the waistbasket. I woke screaming and sweating. I glanced over and saw that the waistbasket was normal. I wiped my brow and kicked my feet over the edge of the bed. I took a few deep breaths. I stood and paced. I picked up a paperback and read a few passages. I decided to give sleep another go.

Faithful, another night terror would not follow me. Darkness world roamed me as I melted into the embrace of slumber. I was in my cockpit. The earth below rushed towards me as divided squares of land. I was in the beginning stages of a crash. All I heard was my voice. voice screaming out the word mayday. I knew it was fuel, a result of training-based instincts and desperation. The sweetness of jet fuel, singed flesh, and flames greeted me in an instant.

Scorched metal, debris, and burnt pieces of electronics sunk into my skin. I wanted to shout for help, but my voice grew muffled in the enveloping swarm of land and wreckage. The disassembled morassive of ruined parts flowed around me in rivers of sparks. I crawled out of what looked to be a narrow prism, which I widened with what little ounce of strength I had left. My skin peeled off as I trudged through the dirt and grass. I cranked my head around to look at the ruined plane. The same sigil, which was on the $100 bill, I had thrown away, was visible on the side of the aircraft. I yelled out at the lowering sun before I woke again.

When I sat upright, my hand graced something cold. I looked down. The waistbasket was right next to where I'd lean. I got down on my knees and threw up into it. I had to destroy the symbol. Before the night was over, I'd fish it out and burn it. My decision felt superstitious. Still, my suspicion of the source of bad luck was undeniable.

It's been many decades since that last nightmare. I've never had a repeat of that one. I have had anxiety-inducing ones about planes crashing into me. They occur in isolated and peaceful settings. Another unusual change in my life has been the continual presence of spiders. I've already hired an exterminator to come out and try and rid me of the nuisance to no bail. They lurk in my cabinet. They're beneath my floorboards and in the cracks of every piece of furniture.

I'm always at war with them, though I'm armed with a bountiful amount of insecticides. They crawl on me when I dare pass out. The dead animals also became a recurring incident. Something always took them away in the night wherever I put them in bags. Some may envy me for my reclusive lifestyle and my lack of typical responsibilities. if they only knew the true hell I live in. With a constant worry of how many animal bodies I'll have to clean up the next day and how many visions of obliteration I endure.

They wouldn't trade their normalcy for my existence if they only knew. I still see the shadow of the man who likely cursed me. When I go into town, I see the same symbol. Sometimes it's in a piece of graffiti on a bus bench. Other times it's in an ornament hung on a cab driver's rearview mirror. It taunts me. This morning I walked out and saw words written in blood on my front door, likely with a sharp end of a stick.

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