Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S2 Ep56: Episode 56: Rocky Mountain Horror Stories

Episode Date: November 18, 2021

Tonight's show is proudly sponsored by Manscaped: get 20% Off and Free Shipping with the code CREEP at https://www.manscaped.com/ First up this evening we have ‘Colorado Fishing Trip’, an original story by Liam Vickers:  http://www.creepypasta.com/colorado-fishing-trip/ We follow this with ‘You Look Like my Son’, an original story by Oneirataxia:  http://www.creepypasta.org/creepypasta/you-look-like-my-son Today’s final phenomenal tale of terror is ‘Sharprock’, an epic work by Nicholas Nichols, kindly shared directly with me via email and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.

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please contact Connix Ontario at 1866-531-2600 to speak to an advisor free of charge. BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Daltar Creepen's Dungeon. Well, they say that we should climb mountains, not so the world can see you, but so you can see the world. But tonight's stories make us change our minds about that. Three tales from the Rocky Mountains for you this evening.

Later on, we have You Look Like My Son by Honera Taxia. We round off tonight's stories with Sharp Rock by Nicholas Nichols. But before that, we have Colorado Fishing Trip by Liam Vickers. Now, as ever, before we begin, a note of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. If that sounds like your kind of thing, then let's begin. Our trip started in late February, as my three friends, John, Steve, Max and I drove in my truck, deep into the back woods of Boxwood Gulch

to follow the north fork of the South Platte River. Steve owns a cabin up in the backcountry, so we left my truck there and began our 57-mile hike into the wooded terrain following the river. We had all of our camping and fishing gear packed and enough food to, hopefully, lasted us to three-day journey both ways. As we set out in the early morning,

a few light snowflakes began to fall. The terrain was heavily wooded and uneven, making for slow going. The cool mountain air rustled through the trees, and sunlight streamed through the canopy, making the snowflakes glint and shimmer, as birds chirped overhead, and the river babbled in the distance. It was going to be a near perfect trip. We stopped for a rest a few hours in.

The weather had been slowly worsening since we'd left, but it was only then that we realized how bad it had gotten. The snow was whipping around us in a blinding flurry as the wind howled, making the trees creak and sway, almost threatening to snap them in two. The ground had already accumulated a good six inches of snow. It was about midday, but the sky was black, and I don't mean dark due to the ever-intensifying storm. I mean that in between the gaps in the clouds, there was no blue, just solid black. None of us really made a note of it at the time, as it was hard to notice through the thick cascade of snow and the limited visibility.

After continuing on our hike for some time however, it became all too apparent that something was wrong. In addition to the sky, we also realized that there was nothing in the distance. There should have been some mountains or something like there had been at the start, but no matter which way we turned, the world only seemed to extend. and 50 or so feet around us, then it disappeared into the blizzard. It was night time now, or at least it was dark out, but it was two o'clock in the afternoon. As we walked forward, new things slowly came into view, but everything behind us disappeared, And although we could progress further, we couldn't seem to double back.

Once we left something behind us, we couldn't reach it again. Steve had forgotten his lighter a little while back when we stopped to eat. But when we tried to turn around and go back, we were greeted by a wall of snow and fog impossible to see through. Our flashlight's beams didn't penetrate the fog. They stopped as they hit it, as if it was a physical wall. Curious, Steve reached out and moved his hand into the fog. First his fingertips, and his whole hand disappeared into the haze.

We all stood in disbelief, looking at the wall which was impossibly tall and extended as far as we could see. see. There was no real gradient to it. Things didn't fade into the distance. There was a clear line where the wall began, and nothing was visible beyond that point. We were making a note of this when Steve muttered something. What was that? I asked. I... I can't feel my hand. He said slowly, as if realizing it as he said it. Puzzled, he retracted his hand slowly, scream. His glove was shredded, almost disintegrated, and his hand looked like it had been forced through a wood chipper. Deep gashes revealed white bone underneath, and what fingers were left

were stripped clean. We all panicked. God, this is. is bad, Max cried. Steve simply stood clutching what was left of his hand and hyperventilating. We had to get him to a hospital or he would certainly bleed to death, but we were almost a day's walk from Steve's cabin, which was already remote enough. We were all frantically checking our phones for a signal when the worst happened. Steve fainted. His His eyes closed, his legs buckled, and he fell forward into the fog. None of us noticed at first that when we finally did, all we could see were his legs protruding through the mist.

We immediately, without thinking, rushed to pull him out. We grabbed his legs and strained to drag him back into view. Before we even saw him, however, we immediately regretted doing so. We somehow knew what we would find. The thing we dragged out was not Steve. Not anymore. All of his skin was cleaved off. His rib cage ripped open with his entrails spilling out.

And his face would haunts me to the same. this day. Not merely because it was horrendously mutilated, not merely because his eyes had been torn out, leaving only empty sockets, but because it smiled at me, a big, wide smile that started small, but the gashes in his face allowed it to literally stretch from ear to ear. Max screamed and shoved Steve's mangled body back into the fog. We ran as fast as we could, the only way we could, deeper into the woods. Just as before, the snow and fog parted before us, but swallowed up everything we left behind. As we ran and ran, the scenery around us began to slowly change.

The trees surrounding us were now withered and dead. The grass was flattened and bleached. In fact, everything around us was dead. Colors had all but disappeared, leaving only shades of grey and an intensified feeling of loneliness and death. While we ran, I realized something. Guys, I shouted while I ran, not daring to stop for even a minute. We can't turn around and go straight back, but maybe we can circle around back to Steve's cabin. Then we can get the truck and get the hell out of here.

John and Max nodded their heads and we turned 90 degrees right and continued running. Eventually we ran through what appeared to be a herd of deer, all of which were laying on the ground, gray and lifeless. hacked to pieces, blood soaked on the ground. As we ran through the herd, dodging corpses, it was hard not to notice that their dead, lifeless eyes seemed to follow us. When we felt confident enough that we wouldn't be doubling back on ourselves, we turned towards Steve's cabin, towards safety. We ran for at least another hour. Eventually, however, none of us could run any longer.

Our body simply wouldn't allow it, and we were forced to stop. After some time, Max, John and I managed to get a fire going, despite the snow and damp tinder. We had hoped that it would bring some sense of warmth and security, but we were wrong. The flames were a bright orange hue, bleeding some color into this gray-scale world. It clearly did not belong. Nor did we. The longer the flames crackled and popped, the more we began to hear something, distant and quiet at first, but slowly growing closer, louder and more numerous.

A chorus of blood curdling whales and moans soon filled the air around us. Focused on the fire and pretending to be safe, mesmerized by its beauty, we didn't immediately notice a mangled deer carcass slowly dragging itself out of the fog and into view. Nor did we notice the second, nor the third. Finally, we snapped out of our trance just in time to scramble to our feet in terror as a myriad different animal carcasses climbed out of the fog, drawn to the strange light of the fire. We were intruders in their world. I was paralyzed by fear, unable to breathe.

I turned to my friends to find that they were no longer besie. inside me. They had taken off running, leaving me behind. I turned around to run after them, but something grabbed me by the shoulder. I didn't need to turn around to know what it was. I could tell by the hand gripping my shoulder. A hand that looked like it had gone through a wood chipper. I flailed and managed to free myself before it could get a good grip on me, and I took off running. I didn't look back. No way did I want to see the face of what was once, my friend. I could no longer see John or Max, and I assumed that they must have been ahead of me.

But I was the one with the keys to the truck, and Steve had the keys to the cabin. They wouldn't be any safer if I couldn't meet up with them. So I ran and ran faster, and for longer than any human could possibly do so, under normal circumstances. Finally, after God knows how long, I could faintly make out a structure in the distance. It was the cabin. I felt a twinge of hope. The whales continued to ring out in the night air, but I seemed to have a lead on them at the time. I reached the truck, unlocked it and jumped inside. I scanned the area for Max or John, but could see neither. I couldn't just leave them, but I couldn't wait here forever either. I sat sweating and shaking nervously as the whales grew closer and louder.

I had just about made up my mind to leave, when I could suddenly make out someone sprinting towards me. me. It looked like Max. I started up the truck and motioned for him to run faster. But for some reason, I found myself subconsciously pressing the lock button, locking all of the doors. My instinct told me that something was wrong. I looked down at my hands. They were shaking like crazy. I looked back up and Max's horribly mutilated face was pressed up against the driver's window, staring at me, smiling. He was trying to open the door. I slammed my foot on the gas and drove off, shaking like a madman and holding back the vomit.

As I drove home, the sky slowly brightened back up into a blue hue, and I could eventually see the sun, breaking through the clouds. It was nine in the morning. I began to see other cars on the road, and the people inside waved at me as I waved at them. Nice, normal people. I went straight home and asked my girlfriend to marry me. Just kidding.

I'm sitting in my house now. Door locked and barricaded, windows boarded up, and I'm writing this story, and I felt happy for the first time in a long time writing that ending. But that's not how it ended. I merely wish it worked out like that. The truth is, as I drove, the sky did not brighten up. The sun did not reappear. And the fog still surrounded me as it now surrounds my house. I hear wailing all around and knocks at my door constantly.

When I look through the peephole, all I ever see is something smiling at me. The stench of death is everywhere. The phone doesn't work. The TV and radio broadcasts nothing but static. And I hear the locks on my door being undone at me. night and I must constantly keep watching re-lock them. I'm simply waiting for the night. They get into my house when I forget to check the door or when they break through a window or when I wake up in the middle of the night to see them next to me. Their smiles inches away

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My eyes are in a fervorous affair with the clock, and my focus is none the wiser. The police dispatcher is pleading for me to humor her inquiries, if for no reason other than to keep my consciousness afloat. It is so late, and today has been so challenging. Nevertheless, I'll gratify her with my story, because I'm really in no mood to tell it again later. Mariam Clifington happened into our photo centre again today. These visits are becoming relentless, as are the innumerable poorly photoshopped images on her sand-disc flash drive. Every day it's the same process. She purchases at our photo kiosk.

orders small batches of five by seven and four by six photos and crones over the photo printer as it squeals its mechanical protests. The unfortunate photo specialist on duty is then scolded by dear old Marion as the colour in my son's face is coming out too pale and my granddaughter's dress looks smudge too washed out becomes as recitable as the Lord's Prayer. The project is then gifted to me, as I am the only one who receives her limited mercy.

This is due in part because I'm the only one in the store qualified as a professional photo editor. I also look just like her son. At least that's what she tells me every time she swoones over the photos I correct. I personally never saw the extreme. resemblance. We have similar Hollywood-esque hairstyles, dark stubble, light eyes and a fair complexion, but that's where the similarities end. Well, that's my general assumption. Truthfully, I have never met him. According to Mariam, they don't get along so well these days. Reportedly,

her son has become what she calls a changed person after he split with his own. wife. That always seemed odd to me because nearly every day I'm draining the red out of a new family photo that she zealously adds in a novice Photoshop sessions. It seems the family often stays in touch. Today we discuss more personal topics such as my college degree and her family get-togethers. She told me she was celebrating her granddaughter Grace's fifth birthday today. and was putting together a photo album and baked goodies to send her. Today's photos were of the girl from her previous birthday. She had straw blonde hair, her father's bright blue eyes,

rosy red cheeks and a devilish grin that strongly reminded me of the girl from the movie Problem Child 2. When the topic turned to me being a graduate in multimedia design, she immediately began to give me the shakedown on my talents as a web developer. She wanted me to build a forum-based website just for her family. She wasn't fond of the public limelight social media granted, but wanted regular updates from her son, granddaughter, their prized showhorses, and images from all the reunions they've had over the years.

I'm not a fan of Marion. She may treat me in a more humane manner than my colleagues, but she's always so bitter. She carries an air of importance about her that mismatches with who she is, like a pug in a sweater made of silk. The last thing I want from a client is a beady pair of eyes reflected behind ancient, dark-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, critiquing my every line of code with ignorant words laced with the smell of stale coffee and menthol cigarettes. Her grey-black hair is often wild and tangled, as if she was fleeing her home every morning to her. develop photos which contained the cure for cancer. Despite her lack of self-management, she saw

herself as an expert in managing the talents of others. I inquired about the specifics of her family problems, but I assumed this attitude must cause the bulk of it. The sense of entitlement is something I don't blend well with. After endless barrages of questions about my rates, schedule, and ability to tutor her in Photoshop. I gave her my business card and told her to call me in a few weeks. Truthfully, I am in my two-week leave period and on my way to a better job. And this was a simple method to evade her until I would never have to see her again. She seemed content with my proposal and took my card.

I told her to forward my congratulations to her granddaughter on a five-year milestone. As she shuffled out of our store, I looked again at the refuse pile of discoloured prints. If her family is so dysfunctional, why does she bring in new pictures of her son and granddaughter every other day? Why, as a spitting image of the sun she frequently quarrels with, am I so reasonably treated by her? Those suspicions came to fruition a few hours later when a twenty-something couple dropped off a few rolls of 35mm film. They had matching black hair, the athletic builds of bicyclists, and eyes that reflected deep kindness, but an even deeper sense of fatigue. The lab's business was running slow today, so I was immediately able to process their order

and begin development. The development process is always the same. I feed just enough of the raw film through a machine to attach it to a leader card, which is mechanically guided through the film processor. After it completes its voyage and the developed film is fed through, I place it on the scanner of our printing machine and check the frames digitally for colour flaws and inconsistencies. The picture showed the young couple celebrating another birthday, a boisterous banner which read, Happy Birthday, Mitch, hung above an electric blue neon minibar. The couple was shown holding beer bottles and laughing heartily. The entire set was quite like photos most young couples bring in.

There was a sloppy drunken kiss here, someone air-gatiring on a table there. I began to complacently press the print button after every six frames. Then I noticed a picture of Mariam's son. Even though I'd never met him, I had seen that face. often. It was a face that was branded into the back of my eyes, like the bright red digits of a digital alarm clock in the first few moments of morning consciousness. I was intrigued that these two may also be familiar with the eccentric woman who both frowned upon and adored her family. As I was packing up their photos and bringing up their orders, I decided to make

conversation. So, you know Mariam Clifington. I asked casually. Silence. I glanced upward, and the glance became a fixture. A paleness and shock that matched the exhaustion they both wore in their eyes. Are you okay? I recognized her son in your photos.

The girl spoke, tears welling in her eyes. That's our friend Mitch. Those photos were taken a few weeks ago. He passed last week. This order is for his funeral slideshow. Her boyfriend spoke next, clearly unsettled, but retaining his composure, as he quickly recited what I am sure he has gotten used to explaining. He and his daughter were found dead in Mariam's home last Sunday, poisoned.

The police have been seeking her for the time. questioning. Have you seen her recently? I was flawed. I'm rarely one to lose my call, but I began tripping over my words like they were raised on a high wire. Yes, I mean, she was in here a few hours ago. She said she was celebrating Gracie's fifth birthday. I, she's working on a new photo. They were new photos. The girl spoke next. we need to call the police immediately gracie's birthday was the tuesday before they were found they didn't enjoy visits with mariam but she insisted on being with them to celebrate call them i did i spent the rest of my shift plus two extra hours conversing with a police detective and the couple he asked me to print out the information we had on mariam and if we had any idea of her whereabouts they inquired about the frequency of the her visits, the types of purchases she made from the rest of the store, her current appearance

and general abnormalities in her behaviour. I gave them what they needed, along with surveillance footage from the cameras we'd hidden around the building. They gave me the direct line to their office and sent me off with my assurance that I would call them immediately if Mariam came into their shop again. The drive home felt relatively non-existent. The thought of what had occurred seemed to dominate my sense of time while on the road. Had this lady, who compared me to her own son, been responsible for his death, for the death of his daughter? Would I see her before the police?

I arrived at my house in the same psychological state as when I'd left the store. I nearly broke my angle while stumbling over a package that was placed in front of the entryway. I brought it inside into the light and saw that the sender's name was Mum. I wasn't sure what the occasion was, but I assumed it was a late Thanksgiving care package. Regardless, it was good to receive mail from her. I wasn't sure where her new apartment was. Now I had her address, 6312 Prospect Road.

Inside the package was a tin box of cookies and a neatly wrapped rectangular gift. I hadn't gotten to eat lunch with all of the police activity, so I immediately started tanking through the cookies as if I'd also skipped my last five meals. After my fourth cookie, I decided to wipe the crumbs from my hands and see what the mystery gift was. I unceremoniously ripped the red and gold metallic paper off of what appeared to be a small photo album bound in black vinyl.

I opened it with giddy curiosity. and felt the blood empty from my face. It was a timeline of photos from Marion Clifington's family. These weren't the fun family get-together as I'd recrafted at the photo lab. I hadn't printed these at all. Page 1 Mitch and Gracie are propped against the arm of a tan leather sofa. Daughter wrapped in father's arm.

Their eyes are sunken and rolled backwards, and their tongues are lulled out of their mouths in an unnatural brown colour. There is dried spittle and yellow foam caught in Mitch's black stubble, and a mixture of blood and vomit on the front of Gracie shirt. The blood vessels in their faces are a sickly blue, and their skin is pale and puffy. This photo is labelled Tuesday. Happy birthday, Gracie.

Page two. The bodies are placed in a maroon 2013 Toyota RAV4. They've been cleaned up and posed. Mitch in the front seat. Gracie in the center backseat. Their skinners continue to swell as to their eyes are puffy slits. Their now purple lips have been sewn shut and side-stitched into makeshift smiles. One of Mitch's arms is placed on the wheel.

The other propped against the passenger seat in a pathetic wave. The label, Wednesday, taking Gracie to school. Page three. The bodies are now dressed in swimsuits and are posed around a kiddie pool. Mitch had to be propped up in an unknown manner that is clearly hidden from the frame. He's on his knees at the edge of the pool in blue and white Hawaiian shore. shorts. Gracie is in the pool, positioned on her belly in a striped pink one-piece bathing suit with a matching swim skirt. Their hands are duct taped together and their skin has taken on a sickly

yellow color. They are starting to bruise and darken in areas in which they'd evidently been placed for too long. The label, Thursday, teaching Gracie to swim. page four Mitch is now dressed in a handsome ivory tuxedo which has a few off-color stains where his skin is starting to split open he's at his kitchen table with a full glass of white wine and a lit dining candle in front of him the sleeves on his arms reveal dark bruising where the tape was wrapped with his daughter's arms the day before Gracie is not in this picture but Mariam is she is grasping one of his rotting hands in one of her own with a brimming glass of red wine in the other

she wears a motherly smile that sickeningly matches the sown-on smile of her lifeless son the label friday dinner with the boy page five gracey is propped against the wall the skin of her arms ripped off where the tape was two days prior. Her face is beginning to lose its humanity, but is now coated in makeup worthy of a little Miss Sunshine pageant. Her straw blonde hair is curled and bouncy, and her artificial smile is beginning to tear along the stitching. Next to her is an assortment of porcelain dolls, each made up and dressed with care that is a bit too sophisticated for a five-year-old girl. To the far left of the frame, Mariam's reflection could be seen in a full body mirror, pointing the camera at the twisted salon she constructed. The label, Saturday, Girls' Night

Out. Page six. There is finally a full frame of the house in which this sickening family montage was photographed. It is a modest one-story home. home on the foothills of the rocky mountains. The paint is a simple white, and it is beginning to flake from a simple picket fence that mark the perimeter. There are no other homes close by that are visible from the angle of the shalt. In the left of the frame, the stables of the prized horses, Marion mentioned, are visible in the background.

The gates are wide open, and the horses are nowhere to be seen. Police cars, ambulances and yellow crime scene tape blocks the rest of the view, except for the mailbox. The address on the mailbox? 6312, Prospect Road. The size of the frame indicate motion blur and plastic paneling. Mariam photographed this from a moving vehicle, likely from far away. The label reads Sunday The family gets to see policemen in action on career day

On the final page Mariam is standing in front of my house With the package I just opened The label Thursday Dropping off goodies for my favourite son In that moment of realization weakness took control of my body, not just from the imagery I was subjected to, but from a

sickening feeling that burned in my stomach and intestines. Words from earlier were ripping through my skull, just like my son. He and his daughter were found dead in Mariam's home last Friday, poisoned. I forced myself to scan the backgrounds of those horrible pictures. On the first page in Gracie's lap was the cookie tin I'd just eaten from. This package was not from my mother. It was from a crazed mother who thought I was her son, guided to my home from the business card I'd given her. Now, here we are. I don't think I have much time left. I'm starting to lose focus my eyes are in a fervorous affair with the clock

and my focus is none the wiser maybe they'll get married in elope I'll invite this dispatcher to the wedding if I make it through this I vaguely realise that doesn't make sense but I don't mind I'm so tired and now I can't stop coffee I think I hear sirens in the distance, but I'm not sure if the ambulance has a cure for vomiting blood. Someone is coming up the stairs.

I have to go now. Mariam is here, and she wants to give Gracie swimming lessons. Like many young men, I found myself unsatisfied with the monotony of a normal existence. My heart thirsted for adventure as I floundered about the crowded and dirty streets of New York, nearly suffocating from the unrealistic expectations bestowed upon me by my peers. A recent graduate of Harvard, it was expected of me to find a place among society's elite. Over the past 250 years, my forebears have built the American academic prowess from the ground up, as the 19th century slowly gave way to the 20th, expectations to facilitate.

the continued growth of society flooded my waking hours. Before long I found myself crushed beneath the mounting pressure and at my wits' end with educated society. The pompous attitudes and aristocratic demeanors drove me to the edge of my sanity. Resorting to ill-advised decisions at the tables and brothels, I longed for a reprieve from the poisonous lifestyle within which I found myself captive. Eventually, I allowed my own motions to steer my decisions and that's why in the matter of a few weeks I found myself in the small mining town of Sharp Rock thousands of miles from everything I'd ever known the journey across the nation drained my pockets down to the pole but I'd

never felt so full of energy in my entire life situated within the Rocky Mountains Sharp Rock provided me with a freedom that I often feared I would never experience The towering mountains juxtaposed with the beautiful prairies and sapphire blue lakes, capturing my heart upon first sight. My eyes ate up the gorgeous landscapes with a gluttonous fervour. However, my mouth was unable to follow suit, as I found myself going hungry within a few short weeks. The euphoric freedom was short-lived, as one can only truly appreciate the grand things in life

when there is food in one stomach. the requisite skills to survive among the vast wilderness and the hardened folk that it housed, I began to starve. Panic started to set in as I began to understand the dire circumstances of my situation. It felt as if my stomach began to eat itself, and after a few days without a morsel of food, I reverted to treachery. I began stealing from those that I knew could not do without, but at that moment in time my awareness for their well-being was buried, so deep in my psyche, may as well not even have existed. Desperation had grabbed the reins of my life, and I began to watch from the passenger seat as my existence began to veer heavily off course.

In no grand length of time, I could hardly recognize myself. Covered in grime and emaciated, I felt myself longing for the stuffy atmosphere of New York City's intellectual circles. And trust me, that says more than I could ever. hope to convey, as my disdain for the conceited academics coursed through every fibre of my body. Completely fed up with the enigma that had become my pitiful existence. I slung a rope over my bony shoulder, and slowly made my way to the forest with a defeated gait. I do not believe it was a mystery to anyone in the town as to what I planned to do next. They had all seen it before, city folk like myself, biting off more than we can chew in the wild, lawless west.

With my intentions as clear as day, the rope may as well have already been tied into a noose. I half wish someone would stop me from continuing with my plan, but everyone chose to watch my passing through the town and into the forest instead of intervening. Everyone that is, except for George. "'Ay, fellow. Where are you after?' asked a burly man. An obvious question yet the look on the man's face show that he already knew the answer. Stambering I let out an incoherent concoction of noises, but my heart immediately leapt at the sound of his voice, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me.

The idea of someone acknowledging my sorrows nearly brought me to tears. Overwhelmingly ashamed of my previous intentions, I began to sob. As I precipitated tears at a pace I would have previously deemed impossible, the man rose from his perch atop a rock, and slowly sauntered his way over to me. If I'd seen this man in any other circumstance of my life, I would have been horrified of him, the way his brutish figure closed the gap between us. At this moment, however, I couldn't have been gladder to encounter his enormous self, as he embraced me in a hug.

I let the rope slip out of my hands as I reciprocated the hug, tears slowly saturating the man's vest. I'm George. Everything's going to be all right. What's your name? He asked. His voice deeper than the greatest depth of the ocean. Joseph, I managed to squeak out in between my sobs.

Well, Joseph, I'm certainly glad I found you. There's no coming back from where you were held. it. After an indistinguishable amount of time, clutched tightly to the only person in a thousand miles who cared, I found myself meandering my way through the forest, following George to his camp on the outskirts of Sharp Rock. After a short stroll through the woods, we arrived at the camp. Populated with hardened gunslingers and mischievous thieves, I felt like a fraud among the people of the camp. George introduced me to the band of misfits, and it was evident in their tone that I was not welcome. However, their obvious reverence towards George acted as a buffer between

their unpredictable selves and myself. I greatly appreciated George not divulging my pitiful story to his crew, even though it was obvious that I was a charity case. The men, as removed from proper society as they were, were not stupid, and they were. knew a lost soul when they saw one. In fact, I would argue that their time spent struggling against the elements only proved to sharpen their intellect. George led me over to a tent, the likes of which looked as if it were pitched at the dawn of time.

I was surprised the structure remained standing, as George ripped the flap out of the way, revealing a man fast asleep. "'Mort!' George bellowed, his voice burrowing itself deep into the earth. The man rose abruptly from his slumber, visibly startled as he drew his knife, breathing hard. You knew cellmate, George said, beckoning to me. Mort fell back onto the bed, breathing a sigh of relief, as there was no immediate threat looming at the entrance of the tent. Sitting up again after a brief moment, Mort looked me up and down as if you were going to take a bet on how long it would be before I croaked. The scowl etched along the man's face had enough.

I suppose I can share, at least for a week until he dies. If he dies, you join him, said George. Oh, you and your lost puppies, George, Mort retorted with a slow shake of his head. George only glared at the man before ducking his head out of the tent and walking back over towards the center of camp. "'Every time I think I miss society, "'I run into sorry fellows like yourself, "'and I'm reminded why I left in the first place. "'It's a pleasure to meet you, too,' I grumbled.

"'You weren't born into this? "'No, born and raised in Boston. "'Got out of there the first chance I could, though. "'Ah, so you were once an esteemed member of society?' "'I asked, half-heartedly, "'as I began to prepare the cot with the blankets Georgia given me. Hardly. More like I, uh, co-existed with society. I never felt a part of it. Not did I want to. Society was something that happened around me. Never to me. Too many people like yourself running around.

I grunted, having finally finished making the cot. I didn't feel obliged to respond any longer to Mort. His personality wearing me thin after just a few short moments. I exited the tent without another word, making my way over to the fire where George had elected to sit. The sun slowly dripped its way behind the horizon, bathing the previously blue sky in a bloody golden hue. I did not say anything as I sat down at the fire, but my disgruntled demeanour must have uttered more than words ever could. "'Ah, don't let more bother you,' said George. He's no different to any of the newcomers, always given him a hard time. seemed to forget the hell that I pulled him from.

A real welcome party you folks offer, I mumbled. But it's a better one than you would have received if you strung yourself up from that tree. Any welcome party's better than none, I suppose. None. Well, I suppose it's up to what you believe in. Can't say I'm too surprised. You academics, sure, all think alike. What?

You believe in a little. after life. You're surprised? No, just curious. Well, I'm not too sure what I believe in, but whatever it is doesn't end in death. When you've seen the things I've seen, there's no denying that. Out here under the pale glow of the moon, all of your rules dissolved. There's no telling what horrors or secrets the moon were revealed, only that you'd be foolish to think so narrowly. I shivered, the creeping cold exacerbated by George's sentiment. If this place were as you thought, it would be tame in comparison to his dark reality, George said.

We sat in silence for a few moments, lost to our own thoughts. The sun had finally set, and I watched the shadows from the fire dance across George's face in a chaotic yet mesmerizing manner. Something about the man's face kept me locked in a very long. blank stare. It may have been awkward had I not been completely lost in my thoughts. Something about the man's appearance seemed strange to me, alien even, but I just could not... Suddenly an audible gasp shattered my hazy concentration, my breath catching in the back of my throat. George sat there, seemingly unbothered by my reaction. He simply seemed used

to the shop. Dangling from beneath his cap, were two earlobes. This would have been perfectly normal, had there not already been two ears below the earlobes. George had four ears. It took you long enough. Smarter's you college, lot of, you know, always the most observant bunch.

George chuckled slightly. I truly didn't notice your oddities. I'm sorry, I said, looking downwards. sorry for what asked george well i imagine growing up must not have been easy school must have been dreadful uh growing up was not easy with school i never had a luxury of a tent in school i don't know if i could go as far as to call it a luxury i said ah you would if you found yourself facing the alternatives you ever been to the circus once or twice then you all know what someone with my how did you put it

oddities well someone with my oddities is in high demand all he needs a hat and no one would know any different my mother knew different that's all that mattered plus it's a little bit more difficult to hide this he looked up revealing one massive nostril

followed by him opening his hands, revealing six fingers on each hand. How would I not notice any of this before? George looked as if he were the result of an inside joke among higher deities. He began to divulge the childhood hell that he'd experienced with the travelling circus. However, I do not feel I have the liberty to repeat this story. Not yet, anyway. George's past made even the most ludicrous of upbringings look docile in comparison. Over the course of the next few hours, I felt that I began to know George better than anyone I'd ever met.

He'd seen me in my most vulnerable state and felt that it was only right to even the scales. Over the course of the next few months, I slowly ingratiated myself into the collective that was George's gang, a gang that George never provided with a name, even at the behest of the crew. Now, any rival gangs aware of George's less than ideal history referred to our motley crew as the Travelling Circus, and the name had stuck well before I ever plot my sorry ass with a lot of them. Whether the name bothered George, he would never say, but I can imagine it didn't sit well with him at first, especially after becoming privy to pieces of his story. Nevertheless, George was different from most men.

while many people fall victim to their wretched histories George had used his to fuel the fire burning deep within him regardless of his original feelings of the attempted slander George now wore the distinction with a badge of honour as did the crew never in my life had I met an individual who commanded so much respect not just from his own crew but many others spread throughout the plains and the mountains Well, as a gifted intellectual myself, my less than fortunate parents pushed me into every scholarly

circle they could find, leaving me with no choice but to obey, lest I receive the belt. Throughout my education, I found myself a part of countless intellectual societies, each void of any real and meaningful connection. I'd grown up to accept the fact that I would never truly belong to any collective, least of all, an outlaw gang. Life, however, seems to have a peculiar way of delivering you to the things you desire the most. As outlandish I thought as this may have seemed earlier in my life, I consider myself blessed to have fallen into the enormous hands of George in his travelling circus, even if it ultimately led to my untimely demise. George stepped up to the roaring fire, situated at the

centre of the camp, wheeling cold in tow. The rest of the gang, myself included, had already found our way beside the fire, the creeping freeze of winter slowly infringing upon the crisp fall air. Mort sat to my left, grumbling to himself incoherently as he fumbled with the elk meat roasting over the inferno. Courtesy of Morton Lucas, the hunt earlier in the day it proved fruitful. The savoury smell of the roasting meat wafting around our hungry selves in a devious taunt, as we all knew how long it took to cook the sinewy beast properly.

An irritable man for sure, Malt almost made up for his lack of common decency with his uncanny ability to transform the wilderness around him into mouth-watering meals. The fear I'd come to associate with hunger during my initial inhabitants of the West slowly exercised itself from my thoughts as I became more trusting of the steady food supply and more comfortable in sharing the table with the other folks. "'News from the Union,' said George, "'beckoning towards Cole, who scampered up behind him. "'Cole was a jumpy little fellow,

"'born of the gold rush and raised in just about every saloon "'and brothel west of the Rockies. "'His mother came to the West with all the right intentions, "'but found herself selling her assets shortly thereafter. "'Cole was a product of her occupation, "'and thus had never met his father. "'A quiet man at heart, The lack of any stability in his life only proved to exasibate his personality, turning him into a full reclutes.

At the mercy of an unenvious lifestyle, Cole unearthed the secret to passing through life unheard and unseen, thus ripening his candidacy for an outlaw crew such as the travelling circus. No matter how much brawn, muscle and determination the outlaw life boasted, the services of a quiet, non-threatening individual, capable of eavesdropping on nearly all conversations, was invaluable. It was a battle earlier today, not far from here. No more than ten miles south of lucky, said Cole, partially stepping out of George's shadow created by the blaze. Another massacre, I'm sure, replied Lucas. I still fixated on the roasting elk, a noticeable sadness in his tone.

Half sue himself. Lucas held a deep resolve for the tribe's vote, with whom he shared blood. This was different, replied Cole. I suppose, um, battle is the incorrect term. It was an ambush. Collective of Cheyenne and Arapaho attacked a supply train headed further west towards California. With a brief pause that may have been mistaken for dramatic purpose, where it's someone else speaking, Cole continued.

a supply train led by none other than General McKeever. With this, the crew perked up, finally giving Cole the attention his passive disposition struggle to earn. A McKeever? asked Mort. Filled with arrows, answered Cole. Dead? asked Jeb, seemingly unable to read between the lines. Very, replied Cole. widely regarded as the devil himself by the indigenous tribes general makiva earned himself a dastardly

and feared reputation as the scorn of the natives a ruthless tactician and brutal man mckeva drew the ire of any good-natured folk throughout the nation outlaws academics and natives alike unfortunately for the natives mckeeva's ban lacked such individuals serves that bastard right said Lucas hope it wasn't too quick well we should get a move on before the fields pick clean said Jeb rising to his feet even in my hunger my stomach gave a quick twist as thoughts of sifting through the bloodied mutilated dead flooded my mind we are no longer scavengers George said his voice rumbling authoritatively Jeb sat back down tentatively, allowing George to continue.

But we are not going to let this opportunity pass us by either. Gold over here got wind of a funeral train returning the dead offices to the East Coast. The train will be passing directly through Jordan's cut. Our territory, said Mort, thoughtful. Aye, said George. Where is this headed? Interjected Lucas. rob their coffins.

Ransom? I responded, finally entering the conversation believing I knew George's intention. I, we hold the body as for ransom, said George, a proud glint written across his face. The same look a father might give his son at the success of his son's first hunt. Lucas shook his head.

Those bodies will be cursed. There's one thing I know about my ancestors. they would not let such men walk into the afterlife with ease. Don't interrupt the curse. Cursed. How? I asked. My thoughts revert into my first extensive conversation with George.

Well, if this General McKeever was as hard as the stories make him out to be, I have my suspicions as to what they might do to him, replied Lucas. Why should we have any concern for a curse placed on another man? Asked more. Is it not uncommon for these curses to inflict collateral damage? responded Lucas. What are your suspicions? I asked, ignoring Mort's input, my interest slowly encroaching upon my wariness. Eternal damnation, except not the way Christianity would have you believe.

General McKeever will never go to hell. Instead, they'll bring hell to him, Lucas said. Oh, my educated mind tried. everything it could to ignore the implausibility of what Lucas was saying. However, my curiosity could not be satiated, my expression stating all that was required for Lucas to continue. Well, I'm sure you're all aware of scalping, however, I doubt you're privy to its origins, origins that differ greatly from the common understanding, an understanding rooted in the basic idea that a warrior or hunter is entitled to the trophies of its prey.

trophy collecting has transcended time and cultures alike, but more often than not, its inception hints at a darker beginning, said Lucas. And the natives are no exception. Christianity does not have a monopoly on its belief in hell, although the specific structure of eternal damnation varies across cultural lines. Instead of sending the soul deep into the depths of the earth, many of my forebears believe you could create hell within the body itself, trapping the soul within its own corpse to suffer for eternity. For those special individuals who earn a place amongst the truly evil, the removal

of the scalp unlocks the canvas for which to create hell within the body. Once the ritual is complete, the reattachment of the scalp locks the soul within the newly crafted perdition. Over time, the practice of scalping changed as warriors collected the scalps of their enemies as a testament to their ferocity in battle, as the old ways provided no evidence. But even now, albeit a rare occurrence, some still revert to the ancient practice when deemed appropriate. After a long pause, gracefully allowing us to digest the entire story, Lucas added one last thing.

I repeat myself, do not interrupt the curse. For our own good, let this opportunity sign. Don't pay this any heed. interrupted Mort. Cursed or no, those bodies will fetch us a pretty penny. It's not the first time we've ever been threatened with an Indian cursing. I very much doubt it'll be the last. Although I do not wish to ignore your concern, Lucas, I must stand with Mort. The benefits much outweigh the risks, said George. I would worry more about stopping the rain. out of everyone I would have expected you to not brush this off so lightly,

especially given your, um, less than ideal history. Lucas said to George, seemingly disappointed, even surprised. Now, if George had one flaw, it was his bullhead attitude towards danger. Granted, that stubborn, reckless, even, dare I say, foolish attitude, was the reason he dug himself from that atrocity of a childhood. However, it had also thrown the gang into precarious situations more than once, situations that, by the good graces of luck, we'd always escaped from. George, however, refused to acknowledge the luck involved,

instead deeming it his right to walk away unscathed. And after what that man had been through, men survived, who were we to blame him? How, we even began to believe him ourselves, but when you provoke danger for too long, It has no choice but to bite back. And bite back it did. We slowly made our way up to the bridge,

methodically traversing the menacing path through the mountains. At long last we approached the bridge, the view from the cliffside expanding into oblivion. Far beneath us, fog drifted across the lake, the heavy mist only visible by the moon's glow peeking from behind the clouds. silence enveloped the mountainous surroundings our lanterns providing the only light save for the skeletal hue of the moon we waited in anxious anticipation for the mechanical drone of the train in the distance

our breath crystallizing into swirling patterns before us it never came even in the cold my hands began to sweat the longer I waited as the weight lengthened my adrenaline slowly began to abandon me leaving me cold, dark fear in its way. What had I gotten myself into? Finally, a light appeared on the other end of the tracks, climbing its way through the winding mountain tracks towards the bridge. My heart exploded into a diabolic pace as my grip strangled my pistol. I could sense all the others stiffening as well at the sight of the light.

Interestingly, no noise of the approaching to the air. train reached my ears. Well, I'd chalk that up to the thundering of my heart, as I could hardly even hear myself breathe. Looking about the group, however, it was evident that I was not the only one experiencing this uneasy feeling, but then again robbing a train doesn't necessarily put your heart at ease. Once the train began to cross the bridge, George gave a slight nod to Maud. He began to mobilize the carriage. The goal was to time the blockade so the that it stranded the train helplessly while crossing the bridge. I glanced at Mort as he began to push the carriage from behind the cover of the mountain

towards the tracks. Now, as a band of outlaws, we were no strangers to committing heinous acts, robbing trains being the least of them, but not once since joining it had I ever seen the look that Mort returned to me. It was a look of pure vacillation. I'd never known a man more resolute in his decision-making. the mord, so seeing the reluctance etched across his face frightened me to my call. After a noticeable hesitation, Mort drew the carriage across the tracks at the end of the bridge

and then climbed onto the roof, waving two lanterns. Paying no heed to the wagon blocking the tracks, the train continued barreling towards the blockade. In an attempt to further incentivise the halt of the train, Mought threw both lanterns at the wagon below him, igniting it instantly. Baring down upon the inferno, the train still did not make any attempt to stop. At the last moment, Mort jumped from the burning wagon, just as the train collided with the improvised bonfire, shattering the strange silence with an ear-splitting carnage. I hit the ground no different than I would have if I were one of those unfortunate souls

on the field at Gettysburg. A fireball engulf the front of the train as wouldn't splint to shot out like cannon fire. I lay there dazed and confused, the world seeming to move around me in slow motion. Next to me, Cole observed his chest with near fascination as a spear-like splinter of wagon jutted from his body. He looked at the wound as if it were not inflicted upon him, but upon someone else.

In a pitiful look of confusion, he glanced at me before tumbling over, shoving the debris further into him. I grimaced, looking away. Suddenly I felt my collar yanked upward. Turning, I saw George perched atop his horse like that of a war general. And he may as well have been, since it was evident that he declared war upon that blasted train. My horse stood beside him as he beckoned me to join him on his quest.

Climbing atop the horse, George gave me no time for reprieve as he was already barreling alongside the, train. In a moment entirely devoid of any thought, I chased after him in reckless abandon. The frigid, mountainous squalls tore at my face and lungs as the steed accelerated in frantic pursuit of both George and the runaway locomotive. With the train acting as a barrier between the luminescence of the moon and our frenzied chase, the dim glow hidden within each of the boxcars provided the only light for our pursuit. The inopportune darkness, fed the utter insanity of the chase as I clenched my teeth in violent anticipation at the boulder that never came, and in yet another tale of George's invincibility, we clambered onto

a slightly agape boxcar nearer to the back of the train. The fury and chaos from the preceding chase dissipated almost instantly as we pulled ourselves aboard the runaway behemoth. Small oil lamps hung along the damp wooden walls, providing a muggy illumination of the cargo stored within the box car. I began to wipe my eyes, only then starting to realize how much they'd watered while riding headfirst into the Highland Gales. At any other point in my life, I would have welcomed the calmness that presided over the train.

However, at this moment, something seemed amiss. Something was not right with this train. A quick glance at George next to me confirmed that the feelings were mutual. or you'll be across the country before long at this pace. Get up front and stop the train, George said, obviously doing his best to ignore his creeping reservations. Clearly having less of a grip on my own reservations, I grunted a pitiful acknowledgement,

turning away and heading towards the locomotive. Methodically, I worked my way through the long queue of cars that led up to the head of the train. Each car resembled the last. silent storage cars lined with oil lamps and filled to the brim with various cargo, and each car reverberated a clammy warmth in distinct contrast to the biting cold of the mountains outside. I gradually became aware of a trickling sweat, the source of which originated just above my brow. Each salty bead trickled slowly, and ever so maddeningly down my face until their grip failed,

tumbling off the crest of my chin, clearing the way. for their counterparts. As unnerving as the calmness was, I could not help but appreciate the lack of a firefight that usually accompanied such an act. It was not every day you robbed an unguarded train. I considered myself lucky. That was when I noticed it. The smell. At first it was just the unpleasant smell of burnt hair that wafted towards me, but before long a much harsher, stronger, more potent, and smell reared its ugly head, burnt flesh. The hair on the back of my neck stood on edge, emitting a chill down my spine. I felt my eyes slowly bulge out of my sockets and all my senses heightened as the adrenaline floodgates open wide once again. To my surprise, the smell of smoke

never joined the army of olfactory horror that had taken control of the train. Where had I smelled this before. Venturing deep into the archives of my brain, I dug around aimlessly until finally happening upon a rather unpleasant memory. Lacking the structure of a more robust memory, all I could see or smell was a small crematorium tucked away in the alley behind my parents' old apartment building. That, along with my curiosity, as to why all those people on their little beds entered but would never leave. I remember my fascination as to how they were. I remember my fascination as to how the building could hold so many people if no one ever left. The mind of a young boy remains innocent,

even when the answers are staring you directly in the face. Fake memory or no, the smell was unmistakably that of a crematorium. But why was there a crematorium on a... And then it hit me. And I genuinely wish it hadn't, because what followed has not left me since, nor will it ever. With a newfound sense of purpose,

I continued my way through the last collection of cars leading towards the front of the train. In a few short minutes, the smell went from noticeable to nauseating. Hiding my nose beneath my shirt, I approached the furnace car, sure of what I was going to find. But no matter how hard you try,

nothing can prepare you for the sight of a half-charred, "'especially if your corpse is actually three corpses. "'I staggered back, shirt still covering my nose, "'the intense heat reaching out at me, "'as if it were inviting me to join. "'The crackle of hot coals within became the only audible noise "'as I stood there trying to comprehend the situation. "'Unfortunately, the situation sat far outside the realm of comprehension.

"'Each corpse lay next to the other, "'and different from soldiers in person. barracks, one next to the other, lying on their backs, arms to their sides. At the skin not been melting off their bones, it would have been easy to mistake the unfortunate trio as asleep rather than death. Better yet, the furnace showed no signs of struggle. It seemed as if the poor souls, with the absence of any proper bedding, had opted to take a nap in the cosy confines of the furnace. A nap they would certainly not awaken from or so I hoped.

My every thought grasped desperately at any semblance of reality, only for my grip to falter with each attempt. Maybe they died before being shoved into the furnace, I finally thought to myself, unsure of whether it was allowed or within my head. That seemed the only viable explanation. Standing ajar behind me, the door to the conductor's cabin begged for further investigation.

I stepped into the cab. cabin and staring me in the face was the slender bronze lever that, if pulled, would bring the train to a screeching halt. It was then I finally remembered what had brought me to the front of the train in the first place. Without hesitation, I pulled the lever. Lurching forward at the sudden halt of momentum, I caught myself before bashing against the front of the cabin. outside the window of the cockpit I could see the sparks bursting up from the steel tracks teeming with the shriek of the skidding stop

I could only hope George had braced himself for the sudden stop having stopped the train I allowed myself once again to focus on the incredulity at hand I surveyed the cabin with the hopes of finding even the smallest hint of struggle among the more obvious signs of foul play To my increasing disbelieve, everything seemed in order, and there were none of the tell-tale signs such as bullet casings, blood, or broken objects. Not allowing myself to believe the unbelievable, I became frantic in my search for evidence, only to find myself exasperated by the end of my effort.

Feeling my sanity slipping with every passing second, I finally peeled myself from the foolhardy investigation and began to work my own. way back towards George now that I'd finally stop the train. I walked back through the train in a trance-like state, shaking uncontrollably, my feeble attempts to quell the tremors proving unsuccessful. At long last the screech of the untimely halt of the train dwindled away, placated. Once again, silence slithered its way onto the train, save for the muffled howling of the wind. Further losing my grip on sanity with each step up. I took and each identical boxcar I entered and exited. I tried instead to focus once again on the near convulsions that vie for control over my body.

It may seem silly, but breathing patterns I once used to calm myself during my time at Harvard began to calm my nerves. A few boxcars later, I felt that I once again had control over my body. I continued to shiver and my fear still sickened me, but I felt that my leaking sanity had finally congealed. No matter how hard I tried, however, I could not rid my mind of the charred corpses, staring complacently at the molten ceiling of the furnace. I continued through a handful more, boxcars, until I came to the daunting realization that I couldn't tell which of the cars George and I had originally boarded. With each vacant car I walked through, that distant sense of panic crept

its way back to the surface. I must have passed. our original car ten cars ago, I thought to myself. Where was George? I began to accelerate my pace with each empty car I passed through. I could feel panic unveiling its unwelcome presence once again, a lump forming in my throat and my mouth going dry. It seemed as if my palm stole all the moisture from my mouth, my hands again becoming clammy in my heart beating with rapid succession.

A feeling of dread hoashed over me. the same dread that accompanies a small child lost in the woods. With each new boxcar absent of George, I felt myself growing increasingly frantic. Discipline faltering, my mind wandered to the forlorn corners of my conscience. I allowed my previously resolute demeanour to devolve into harrowing thoughts of George, convincing myself of his dreadful demise. Finally, as I pushed through the next door in my seemingly eternal queue of train cars,

I saw the enormous figure of George squeezed through the door at the opposite end of the car. I called his name a moment too late as the door shut behind him. I began after him, my previous thoughts and fears about George falling by the wayside. I felt a little foolish that I doubted the man's ability to fend for himself.

As I walked through the car, I could not help but notice that the cargo differed from other cars I'd passed through. I did not offer it much attention with my focus glued to the door at the opposite end until it finally hit me. The boxes were coffins. This did not surprise me as I was more than aware of the cargo house within some of the boxcars, but it unsettled me nonetheless. I knew that just beneath each lid made the mangled remains of some god-forsaken young man. Just the thought released a shiver down my spine. As I continued walking,

through the car, a small irregularity with one of the coffins caught my eye, dragging my tension away from the original objective once again. I'm still unsure of how my attention fell upon such a minute detail, but on the side of one of the coffins to my right was a small hole, just large enough to fit a finger. Lying beside the coffin were a few tiny splinters that must have come from the creation of the hole. I would never have noticed these splinters had a not a lot of the first noticed the hole as the splinters were hardly more than lonely scraps of sawdust as hard as i tried to depress the morbid curiosity rising deep within me i could not resist the lid of the wooden coffin slid off with ease tumbling to the floor with a mothled thud staring directly up at me was a relaxed

yet blank stare of a young man ripped from my lungs my breath surrendered itself to the surprise of seeing the young man stare. Obviously, I knew exactly what lay inside the coffin, but why would they leave his bloodshot eyes open to gaze endlessly upon the underside of the lid? I noticed another oddity. Blood caked the right side of the man's face in the inner wall of the coffin, the epicentre of which was the hole that originally caught my attention. Confusion and fear assaulted my thoughts in alternating ways. My first thought, admittedly Dravel, was that the young man was buried alive and could not escape, thus killing himself. However, remembering the ease with which I'd remove the lid, I'd disprove of that theory. Examining the unfortunate soul, I tried my best to distinguish his units.

However, his uniform differed from what I'd come to expect of the military. It seemed more humble, like burying the poor boy was a last second decision. A decision made with the understanding that the soldier lacked the proper burial attire or posthumous attention. This man was not a soldier. He was one of the men assigned to guard the train and its cargo. I finally thought, dread ambushing my conscience in a fury. Suddenly an observation I'd subconsciously repressed, emerged from the depths of my mind. The coffin seemed much deeper from the outside than it did while gazing upon the body it housed.

The man, it seemed, floated on top of some entity within the coffin. An entity, I realized a moment later, in the form of another body. Moving entirely by instinct, I shoved the stiff corpse to the side of the coffin, revealing an older, much more decadent corpse beneath. This man was most certainly a soldier per his traditional funeral gar. His closed eyes resembled a peaceful slumber one. while any mortal wounds the man had suffered remained hidden. I let go of the fresh corpse, allowing it to slump back on top of the soldier.

To my ever-increasing terror, I noticed that the coffin surrounding me also bore similar holes to the coffin I'd examined. This is where the guards went, I thought. My thoughts rushed back to the furnace where it seemed the drivers of the train had willingly offered themselves up to the infernal house within. No matter how fervently I try to downplay the unbelievable events from the past 20 minutes, I could no longer feigned disbelief at the obvious suicides. Suicides that seemed to have occurred without second thought. My academic mind finally reverted to hysteria as the preceding events and discoveries became too much to handle. I ran from coffin to coffin, ripping off the lids only to find that each coffin house not only a properly groomed

corpse, but a fresh, bloody corpse stacked on top as well. The last semblance of sanity fell from my grasp, never to return. After an indistinguishable amount of time, I slowly stumbled out of the cabin, exhausted and disturbingly carefree, all ties to sanity mercifully severed. Leaving bloodied handprints on each door I'd pushed through, I resumed my odyssey through the train and admittedly shell-shocked gate. to my usually sure-footedness. I began to sweat once again,

the salty beads dribbling down my chin end. Well, these droplets were different, more viscous. I was not sweating, but drooling. Upon my realization, I simply let the saliva tumble from the barriers of my lips, the stringy viscosity undulating like that of a pendulum with each step. Peculiarly, my insanity did nothing to quell my awareness, Only instead acting to dissolve my ability to read as would be deemed normal.

Suddenly I reached the final car directly before the caboose. Had I still contained the capacity for emotion, I may have emitted some surprise. I'd finally come to the passive acceptance that the forsaken locomotive stretched on for an eternity. However, the horror-scratch window peering out into the abyssal darkness spoke to another tree. A figure stood out on the caboose, gazing off into the distance, appearing to look at nothing in particular. A figure that could be none other than George. Had I forgotten about George? In my panic and eventual retreat from sanity, I begrudgingly realized that not only had I forgotten about the mission at hand,

but also I hardly even remembered I was not alone. The groan of the wind masked the screech of the hinges. as I pushed through the door leading out onto the caboose deck. Offering a slight acknowledgement of my presence, George nodded, his gaze still fixed upon the blackness beyond, shrouded behind the seemingly random migrations of clouds, the moon found itself held captive by the ever-thickening mists. George's figure remained backlit by the small lamp hung just outside the door,

further rendering any reliable view beyond the caboose, possible. I stood there for a long moment, in the quiet presence of my burly friend. Neither of us said anything, but despite the silence and the void that had replaced my sanity, I found it comfortable to find myself among the living once again. Did you see him? George asked. See who? I responded, finally wiping the drool from my chin. The general, replied George. I

I don't believe so I muttered in response my mind scrambling back through the seemingly impossible memories did you George took his time before answering but the look in his eye as he turned to face me told me all I needed to know

he managed to say now that he was facing me I noticed that he carried what looked like a furry animal in the dim lighting it was a few moments later that I actually realized what he held in his hand. It was a bloody tuft of hair. A scalp.

And I found this at the bottom of his coffin. He said, tossing the scalp towards me. I stood there, staring at the nild and bloody scalp. Speechless. I slowly raised my gaze to meet George's once again. A moment of clarity materialising between the two of us. George gave a brief nod. as if to acknowledge my thoughts.

The reverberating rumble of the train crossing a bridge became audible as the train began to span a valley buried beneath the depths of the darkness below, yielding any guesses as to the bridge's height futile at best. To my eternal surprise, George said nothing else to further the conversation. He simply turned, looking at me with a blank expression, a complacent look plastered on his face. He looked at me and I at him. I held his gaze trying to decipher his bizarre demeanour,

but his expression was airtight. George, I asked feebly, worried for what might follow. For the briefest of moments, a hint of reservation crossed his docile expression, only to return almost instantaneously to its previous disposition. George no longer looked to be in control of himself, in spite of his legendary resolve. Without further hesitation, George cast himself from the caboose,

the complacency never leaving his face, as his would-be corpse fell rigidly, almost peacefully into the night. I was more than aware that I should have felt stunned at the unprovoked suicide of my saviour, but I couldn't muster the surprise, or any emotion for that matter. instead i just stood there staring out at the expanse as george had done moments before slowly one emotion crept its way from the cavern of my existence curiosity and so once again we reach the end of tonight's podcast my thanks as always to the authors of those wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen now i'd ask one small favor of you wherever you get your podcast

from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.