Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S4 Ep160: Episode 160: Horror from the Islands and the Cities

Episode Date: March 14, 2024

Today’s fantastic opening tale of terror is the ‘The City That Knows No Peace’, an original work by Lilith Son Of Ander, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all. https://www.reddit.com/user/LilithSonOfAnder/ Today’s second fantastic offering is ‘People Wash Up on the Shore of my Island Community’, an original work in five parts, presented here in its entirety, by the phenomenal Ross Tyson, kindly shared with me via NoSleep and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/googlyeyes93

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. In the vale of night, cities and islands take on a sinister allure. Their urban landscapes and isolated shores becoming the backdrop for eerie tales and haunting mysteries. Within the labyrinthine streets of cities, shadows dance amidst towering skyscrapers, while forgotten alleyways whisper secrets of the past. On remote islands, surrounded by the endless expanse of ocean, ancient ruins and a abandoned structures serve as reminders of a dark history, where the echoes of lost souls

seem to linger in the salty air, such as we will see in tonight's two feature-length tales of terror. Now, as always, before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language, as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin of the city that knows no peace. The city that I live in is old.

Not just by the date of settlement, even before the Spanish conquest, but from the time that the first men sealed the earth with the blood of the other tribes. The Wachichiele tribe were sanguinary people, loathing the sight of newcomers. By the time the Spanish came to this territory, bloodshed was on their mind.

The fight was bloody during the day. The desperate screams of native women and children and shot and pierced by the Spanish swords, mutilated soldiers moaning on their deathbed. During the night, the war drums, chants, dancing and the wailing of the morning were the only sounds to be heard. As history books now tell us,

they were finally conquered with disease, oozing welts and delirious fevers, somehow healed by salvation of the Lord and God of the Christians, and some mysterious white powders under the care of priests brought over the seat, to care for the sick. The Wachichikil were cunning people who would not give up easily. The shamans of the tribe gathered and are said to have cursed those who at that time and those who would walk this land in the future to be rich but miserable, never at peace. If you walk the downtown

streets today and you can feel the spirits of the past, the anger and the sadness that seems to follow each of the inhabitants of the city who go about with their heads bent down in the absence of a smile. Children are solemn. The young and adults are only gregarious when drunk, a pastime all too common in this city, and the old spend their days at church with their thumb and index finger indented with the shape of rosary beads, praying for the eternal rest they all seem so desperate for. as much as town hall tries its best to renovate the dilapidated historical buildings in a matter of months they fall into disrepair again paint peeling pieces of walls tumbling to the ground as people walk by side-stepping the stone not even bothering to glance up to see where it had fallen from the air as heavy as the hearts of the people who live here as a child my family and i would visit this city back when it was still a town during summer vacation I remember being about eight years old, old enough to walk to the nearest corner store by myself, but too young to be out alone at night.

My grandmother, aunts and uncles, will tell me that the Kuko, a man who stole children away to an unknown destiny, would take me I would never see them again, a horrifying idea for such a young child. So I was very respectful of the curfew. As soon as the sun started to set, I made my way back to my great. grandmother's house. One late afternoon, I'd overstayed a visit to an elder neighbor's house a few blocks away, a lady who told me stories of her own childhood at the family farm, which I found fascinating, being a city dweller, and this was new to me. She started to doze off

in the middle of her story, so I decided to tiptoe out of the house, closing the door behind me. As I turned to step off the porch, I was confronted by a dark sky in a silent street. I panicked, not knowing what I feared more, the cucho or the anger of my family, regardless I had to get home. Stepping onto the sidewalk, I saw that the two blocks that I had to walk were dark. Streetlights were off for some reason. A few old crumbling houses on the way looked even darker. A tunnel of darkness. A tunnel I had to walk through to get to the streetlight that marked the corner I had to turn to get to my grandmother's.

Once there, I'd be safe. I mustered all the courage a little child could. I clenched my hands into fist and started to walk at a fast pace. The first block was silent. No people, no cars. No dogs or night sounds. I got to the corner, stopped and ran across the street. I continued quickly, knowing I was almost there.

Suddenly, to my right, and between the... the panels of a broken door, I felt a gust of icy, cold wind. I stopped and turned to see where it had come from. It was the middle of summer. The air had been hot and sticky. There, within the frame of the broken door, stood a man. Beyond him, I saw the house had no roof. I looked back at him. He smiled a crooked smile. Black and yellow, uneven teeth were revealed. Hello, my name is Don Quinteri. What is your name? He said. I snapped out of my trance and ran the rest of the way to my grandmother's house,

slamming the door behind me, startling my parents and the rest of the family who gathered in the dining room. Needless to say, I was grounded for the rest of the week. I burst into tears and ran into the guest room. A few minutes later, my grandmother came into the room with a dinner plate and asked me what had happened. I told her, and she started to lose color. She became very pale, worry started to settle in her eyes.

She told me she would speak to my parents. Everything would be fine tomorrow, and I would be able to go out with my cousins. She kissed my forehead and left me to eat my now cold food. I stopped halfway. I noticed that the laughing and chatting of the adults had died down to whispers. I silently walked to the corner of the dining room, out of their sight, and listened. my grandmother spoke of a time during the revolution when the men would hide their wives and children in the cellars and basements for fear of them being raped or taken away to be used as practised targets by the rebel soldiers that passed through the town on their way to the camps money and valuables were buried in the floors or sealed in the walls of the homes for safe keeping she was a child herself during this time and had experienced being locked in the cellar fear was part of everyday life

the men in the neighbourhood and surrounding blocks gathered in the afternoons to discuss what could be done exchanging suggestions and alerting each other when food was available at the stores they were going teams and bring enough for every one's families in desperate times friends and acquaintances were there for each other but there was one man always taking more than his fair share if a whole family was killed he would look for and steal their money and valuables taking them home never to be seen again Well, the men started to shun him, fearful of his greed. Once a talkative man now, he could be heard in his home pacing back and forth behind his wood-panel door. His fate would have it. By the end of the revolution, he'd been killed. His body left a rot. No friends or family to claim him.

No one to give him a Christian burial. No knowledge of where his money was. His name was Luis Quintero de Rio. as Don Quintero died rich but miserable May God have mercy on his soul She said crossing herself I could hear my own heart beat pounding in my ears I started to shake

Tears welled up in my eyes And I vomited Loudly enough to bring my mother to my side My grandmother was horrified And it asked me how long I'd been standing there I told her the truth She picked me up took me to bed, yelled out for someone to bring a fresh egg and started to make passes over me

with the egg mumbling words I barely understood. My mother stood there wide-eyed, she'd heard of the ritual of curing the evil eye, who could not understand what it had to do with me. Stomach flew, or maybe the cold food, but anything but this ridiculous evil eye nonsense. My grandmother finished and asked for a glass half filled with water. She broke the egg into it, The yoke came out blood red, with two white spots. The eyes, my grandmother said. I was given some tea and started to feel sleepy. My mother in a chair next to my bed,

my grandmother in a rocking chair humming a lullaby. They thought I'd fallen asleep. My mother asked her what had happened. My grandmother continued the story that I had interrupted. Don Quintero's house stood abandoned for several decades, standing the passage of time pretty well, until in the 1930s, three young ladies, the youngest barely 15 years old, moved into it. They'd lost their parents to an accident and had to sell the family home to pay debts and make ends meet. The town had kindly allowed them to stay in the

abandoned house until they could make a stable life for themselves. The house was dirty and dusty, curtains in tatters, some broken furniture that needed to be repaired. So the sisters agreed that while the two older ones went out daily to do odd jobs, the youngest could stay behind and try to make a home out of the house. Well, the first few nights, noises could be heard coming from the living room. Slow steps as if someone was dragging their feet or a chair would be found out of its place. The sisters thought it was because it was an old house, much of it made of wood, and these noises were part of it cooling down in the night air.

By the following week, the noises could be heard during the day. The young girl would run out to the front door and stay there until the older sisters came back at Sunday. Soon the older sisters noticed that the young one was developing dark circles under her eyes. Her smile was gone, her head bent, she was rapidly losing weight. She insisted everything was well. Not wanting to worry her sisters until it became too much to bear. she confessed that she'd been hearing the voice of a man that said,

Don Quintero is here. Don Quintero has to live. But the house was empty. The sisters, fearful of being involved in unholy gossip, decided that when the young one heard the man, she should call out to him and ask, What do you want? Do you need prayers?

How can we help you? When the moment came, She crossed herself several times, prayed to the Lord in heaven, and asked the questions. Held her breath and waited. The voice answered. Three tiles to the north of where the wing-backed chair stands, one meter into the entrails of the earth. You will find three wooden chests. Use all the contents.

Use each and every cent so I may find peace. And then she is. fainted. By sundown the older ones came home to find their sister on the floor and the chair moved to a different place. Smelling salts were found and the young girl awoke. She told her sisters what the man's voice had told her and they began to search. They dug all night until the top of the three chests could be seen. Once opened they revealed coins, jewelry and other trinkets made of pure gold. Well, the sisters embraced each other, shedding tears of joy, no more worries, no more working for others, they would have comfortable lives.

The house was purchased from the town and repaired, with a new business set up and some money in the bank. Life had changed for them. But it was short-lived. Once the need for spending the contents of the chest was done, one had been left untouched, placed back in the hole in the floor, with dirt and the floor tiles replaced, left there for safe keeping. Time went by and the voice was heard again. Don Quintero is here. Don Quintero has to leave. You have not spent the last cent. I do not have peace. His voice followed them day and night, torturing them. They confided in me, my grandmother said. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I had a bit.

inherited the family home, this house, and remember the name from my childhood, our neighbor from around the corner, the name of the man that had been shunned for his greed. I told them to seek for a priest, to have the house blessed, to bring in an exorcist, but they did nothing, not wanting to be the talk of the town. Within the month, they were found by a neighbor, dead in their beds, their wrists slipped, an empty bottle of pills and a bottle of wine on their nightstands. They had been rich, but miserable. But don't worry, my grandmother told my mother. The child is fine. I'll call upon the angels to look over her. Silence fell between my mother and my grandmother. They both went off to bed. I lay there, thinking of the ghost of a man that called out to me. Hello.

My name is Don Quintero. What is your name? Not even in death that he found peace. The last cent had not been spent, and he was still looking for someone to do so. Sleep started to overcome me, and then the dreams began. Stories of a city that knows no peace.

A rich city. A city of misery. Art two. That night my dreams were confusing, children, a school, a cemetery, jumping off a bridge and many more images that by morning I could not place. It didn't matter. It had happened yesterday, and that morning I would have a day of fun and running about with my cousins. At breakfast my grandmother placed a necklace around me, a ceramic eye in a brown seed with a black band around it. Ocho de Venado. The deer's eye protection, my grandmother told us.

and my mother rolled her eyes but said nothing. My cousins came promptly at 9 a.m. All 12 of them, with my grandmother's blessing, we made her way to the nearest park. Come back by lunchtime and stay away from the castle. Well, the last words we heard from her, as we ran off like rabbits being chased by a fox. The park was a paradise, green grass, patches of dirt to carve out streets for the miniature cars. Others played with marbles, and later on we played tag.

Tired, we lounged on the concrete benches. After a while, a couple of the boys wanted to play soccer, but most of us weren't interested. So they sat sulking on a bench until I heard laughter. I turned to my oldest cousin Gregorio and told him to go and ask if they wanted to play. He stood up and surveyed the park, no one to be seen. I insisted and pointed to where I heard the laughter coming from. We all followed him and ended up in front of the castle. He had a look of worry in his eyes.

my youngest cousin Sarah, barely five years of age, piped up. Yes, they're in there, I can hear them. From the sidewalk you couldn't see inside. Years of dust and humidity had darkened the windows. Juan, the bravest among us, started to walk up to a window, and suddenly Sarah started to cry. Mary turned to her and asked what was wrong. She pointed to her right and said,

that man's looking at us he's scary gregorio turned to where she'd pointed and saw nothing he grabbed her and another one of the younger boys called out to us to follow him and we ran back to grandmothers luckily just in time for lunch we were quiet one of my uncles asked what was wrong we weren't a silent group and he knew something was amiss no one spoke no one lifted their head we all just stared at our plates and continued to eat. My grandmother stood by the kitchen door. She looked at me as I sunk deeper into my chair. She knew where we'd been. That night I remember changing into a new pyjama, a gift from my favourite aunt. I stood in front of a full-length mirror

admiring the ribbons and pink kitten images printed on it. I stared at my reflection. The seed that hung around my neck had burst from the inside out. a sharp edge sticking out from it. I removed it, placing it in a drawer and hid the chain with the ceramic eye under my shirt, crawled into bed and lay there thinking about the man that Sarah had called out to. I'd seen him too.

Again I heard my grandmother talking to my mother. You need to leave, she told my mother. They'd gone to the castle. That child's susceptible. She sees things and it'll harm her. My mother, wanting to distract my grandmother from such ideas, asked about the castle, and my grandmother told her the story. The castle was the first children's party hall in town, white brick walls with gold trim, towers so high that they overlooked the town. Inside were paintings of animals holding onto colourful balloons, all sorts of slides and jungle gyms for the children to climb.

television's hung on the walls where cartoons were to be displayed. It was shut down a year after opening, witnessing a tragedy that would shake the town to its core. A politician had held a birthday party for his 12-year-old son. The catering and cake service had been called in from a city close by. Local caterers were old-fashioned, too traditional and nothing was good enough for his son. The day came, a beautiful spring morning, guests as a good. started to arrive, children giggling in anticipation, dragging oversized birthday gifts behind them,

excited to see their friends, proud mothers holding their heads up high as they walked into the venue. Clowns and cartoon characters, blooms and party favours, music and games filled the hall, laughter and chatter. Oh, it was the place to be. Runchtime came around and the children were marvelled by the colourful meal. Sandwiches, finger food. caramel-covered popcorn, sweets and treats that they'd never seen before. Mothers were served chicken cordon-blur, asparagus salad, tiramisu and coffee. The cake was brought out, a towering replica of a sports car, covered in white frosting with flames of blaze on the sides,

tires made of black-tinted fondant, every detail you'd expect of a real car. The children tore into the cake, gorging themselves with the sweetness, licking their fingers, cleaning their hands on their clothes. Mother smiled. How privileged their children had been to be invited to this party.

Then, the paralysis set in. The children started to slump in their chairs, complaining they couldn't move. Mother's chuckled, telling them that they'd eaten too much. Lie down and nap for a bit. It'll soon pass, they said, turning their backs on them, continuing to gossip about all those who weren't invited.

A few minutes later, a chair fell over. The child sitting on it had started to convulse, foaming at the mouth. Some started to draw blood. Mothers cried in horror. An ambulance was called. Chaos ensued. In the end, the floor was covered in blood. Puddles of saliva and limp bodies.

The funerals were held the next day. Thirty-two graves side by side. cries of God, why did you do this to me? What did I do to deserve this? The newspaper headlines read, political rivalry, revenge by local caterers, God has forsaken us. Forensics explained that the food had been prepared with barbiturates and the frosting contained high doses of rat poison. Death was unavoidable. Gregorio had not been invited to that party, grandmother said. said, we were lucky. To this day the souls of the children haunt the castle and will possess any child

that gets too close. God have mercy on our souls. Well, my mother had had enough. Regardless of the fact that it was her hometown, she left at a young age to marry my father, moved away leaving behind the town and its folk tales. She walked into the living room and told my father to change the plane tickets. They'd be leaving the next day. Well, I panicked. I didn't want to leave. My summer ruined. I lay there staring at the ceiling, finally falling asleep. More dreams, more stories. The next morning my grandmother stood on the porch, smiling and wave a goodbye to me. She told me it was for the best. You'll be back next year and everything will be fine, she said. We'll see about that. My mother retorted, closing the cab door.

after the plane took off I looked down through the window the clouds were eerily grey shaped almost like a smile a smile with crooked teeth I pulled down the window shade looked at the ceramic eye in my hand closed my own and said goodbye to the city that knows no peace a rich city a city of misery back at her home my grandmother was tidying up the guestroom she found the burst seeds as she crossed herself and thank God we'd left. It'll be two years before I return. Part three. Two years had gone by. My parents thought it would be good for me to improve my Spanish

by having me take the last month of class in town and stay until the end of the summer. And this time I would travel alone. I enjoyed the freedom, walking to and from school. Gave me a chance to look at the old buildings. Many of the roofs are caved in, doors chained with padlocks. but there was always the one that called to me.

And one day I decided to go there. I had to see it. Don Quintero's house. The entrance now boarded up, just a few cracks wide enough to look inside of it. There was nothing left but the outer walls, empty space where windows and doors had been. I said a little prayer for him,

about to say goodbye to the house. When I started to choke, gasping, trying desperately to breathe. Someone or something had a tight grip on my neck. I felt my knees, grabbing onto the padlock to keep myself steady. Everything started to spin. It seemed like minutes went by, trying to grab hold of something and get back on my feet. Then I felt my face being lifted upwards.

And I saw him. The crooked smile, the decaying teeth. You are back, and this time I will not let you go, he said. He was gone in the blink of an eye. I picked myself up off the floor and turned to hear a neighbor yelling at me. Leave now. The house is cursed. Go on, child.

Go home and pray for your soul. My grandmother saw this shock in my eyes and shook her head. She knew that somehow I was different. Very perceptive. Feelings of empathy beyond healthy. Nothing could be done. Again, I was subject to the evil. eye-eg ritual. The yoke came out blood red. The two eyes, and now the clear part was grey.

I was sent off to do my homework. Meanwhile, my grandmother went to her bedroom, opened the bottom drawer of her dresser, and pulled out a long, gilded box. Inside laying in a nest of silk was a rosary made of pearls, a gift from a family friend on her wedding day, blessed by the Pope himself. She prayed and prayed. I could hear the creak of the rocking chair and murmurs of the Lord's Prayer over and over again well into the night. By the second week at school, I started to feel comfortable. My Spanish was good enough to communicate with my classmates. Being the tombai I was, I befriended the boys in the class, wanting to tag along on their adventures.

Let's go to the second floor, exclaimed one of the boys. Everyone fell silent, looking at each other. Then they turned to me. one of them said I dare you to go to the haunted classroom The classroom behind the stairs on the second floor There's a hole in the wall Blow through it and stay there to the count of ten

They looked at each other again Of course, well me wanting to fit in with the group I said yes The building was big Built in the early 1900s Made of Greystone The first private school in town The owners of several businesses

wanted their children to live the Ivy League experience in preparation for continuing their studies abroad. High ceilings, wood interiors, paintings of war heroes, very tall windows covered with metal mesh for some reason, a fort-like appearance, elegant nonetheless. I stood there. I'd been told not to go upstairs, an area for the older children. When I started to climb the stairs and halfway up I wrinkled my nose the smell of burned flesh hit me, a horrible smell of copper, rot and burned fat. I turned to walk down the steps, but

the group of boys were waiting at the base of the staircase, looking at me defiantly. There was no turning back. I continued to the landing and turned left to go behind the staircase that continued up to the dormitories, now converted into a warehouse for old-class materials and broken desks. As the door came into view, the smell grew stronger. But now the smell of copper was stronger still, more raw, more fresh. I walked up to the door and found the hole, blew into it, and regretting it for the rest of my life. The sounds of screams and wailing, children crying out, help me, help me, mother, please help me. Teacher, help us. Father, save me.

In the background you could hear laughter. a deep masculine laughter The air around me grew hot Unbearably hot I turned and ran back down the stairs Right past the group of boys Who were looking at me like they'd seen a ghost Out of the large church-like doors

And straight to my grandmothers Busting through the front door Running to her and resting my head on her lap She caressed my hair Silent for a moment And then I asked what had happened Begging not to have to go back to the school school. She half smiled and said she'd settle it with my mother. I heard their conversation over the phone.

The same year the school was inaugurated. Every morning during the winter the furnace had been lit. A novelty at that time. Wood stoves were the norm in a household. The classroom started to warm up. In classroom 2E, the children arrived removing their winter coats and dropping them on a desk, spilling onto the floor. Class began and at some point, the teacher felt sick, told the children to read their lesson, left the room locking the door behind her. She was pregnant and nausea came over her. After emptying the contents of her stomach, she felt faint and walked to the principal's office, sat down waiting for the feeling to dissipate. Meanwhile in the classroom, the children were getting restless. Without a teacher to control

the group of 12-year-olds, they started to push the desks aside to make space for an impromptu game of cards on the floor, blocking the furnace pipe and the classroom door. The coats that had spilled to the floor fell close to the pipe and were pushed against it. They quickly started to smolder, small tendrils of smoke rising. The children smelled something in the air, but thought it was from the furnace downstairs. In a matter of minutes, the materials burst into flames, catching the curtains in the wooden floor, which had just been cleaned with used oil by an absent-minded, janitor. The thick stone walls of the building and the fact that the classroom was behind the

stone stairs made the sounds from the classroom impossible to hear. It was a smell of smoke that alerted a teacher in a classroom next to the stairs and that made him check. Horrified, he attempted to open the lock door, burning himself with the brass knob, when at that moment he knew he was too late. The volunteer firefighters wrapped the surviving children in wall blankets. To their horror, they saw how the skin peeled off the arms and legs. When moved from where they lay and placed on the gurneys, pores of blood started to form on the floor. In the end, none survived that day, and the classroom was locked down.

Urban legend says that if you blow into the room, the air stirs the ghostly flames and revives the screams of the children. God have mercy on their souls. My grandmother finished crossing herself. I didn't go back to the school, which allowed me time to do some urban exploring. The town had grown a bit by that time, a few more suburbs, but still had the air of a little town in the middle of nowhere. It rained every afternoon like clockwork, one hour of droplets falling on the hot earth, the smell of petrichore permeating the air. I started to believe it was God's way of washing away the water.

the sins of this cursed town, wishful thinking. One afternoon I was happily surprised to find a boy, not part of the original group of troublemakers, sitting on the porch. He'd come by to see how I was. He'd been worried that I wasn't in his class. Everyone knew each other in town, so it wasn't hard to find out where I lived. I told him about my experience, but he didn't seem surprised. He asked me to come over to his house the following afternoon to meet his brothers

and sisters, and play some board games. I told my grandmother and she approved with a smile. She knew his family and was comfortable with the idea. The following afternoon I walked to his house and found myself surrounded by children. He had two brothers and three sisters. He was the oldest, the youngest being about two years old. His mother came out to greet me and smiled with a bright, white, ample smile. She was wearing a long dress made of colorful material, dangling earrings, leather sandals, and smelled of heaven, roses and vanilla. I had a wonderful time. After the rain, we decided to go outside and play tag in the streets.

Well, at moments I was confused. They always seemed to be an extra boy, dressed very strangely. Little Lord Fauntleroy comes to mind, but no one else seemed to notice, so I just ignored the fact and continued the game, avoiding him. Knight set in, and his mother came out to tell me that she'd called my grandmother, and I was to stay for dinner, and she'd walk me home afterwards. The walk back was filled with her lively chatter.

She was warm and cheerful. Well, I hadn't noticed that the street she'd taken brought us directly to the house. Yes, Don Quintero's house. As we walked by, I shuddered. She noticed, worries set in her eyes. She gripped my hand and started to walk at a faster pace. My grandmother was waiting at the door and I was shooed off to bed

while they sat on the porch chairs and drank coffee. I was invited back to their home several times. Game time always left me cheerful and exhausted. Dinner, as always, was wonderful and the walk back home was filled with laughter. Well, she never brought me back the same way, always avoiding his house. On the last visit before I left for my home,

she handed me a parcel, wrapped in white tissue paper. It felt heavy. I thanked her and said goodbye. I showed it to my grandmother. We opened it. It was a small dagger made of polished obsidian. Grandmother smiled knowingly.

She said it was to cut negative energy. She placed it in my suitcase and we went to bed. The following morning was a rush to get me to the airport. Everything went wrong. Keys missing. The car wouldn't start. I was destined to miss my plane. again grandmother saved the day by placing her rosary in my hands and off we went on the plane i decided to close the shade on the window and not look back i promised myself i would never return or so i thought part four my mother was weary of sending me back to my grandmothers but it was my parents anniversary and they were to take a month-long cruise i argued that i was eighteen now and could stay by myself at home

my father would have none of it. You're safer with your family than on your own. It's decided, he said. I sighed, went back to my room and walked up to my dresser. Open the bottom drawer and pulled out a wooden music box. It had a hidden drawer within it. I tugged at it and finally saw my treasures. The ceramic eye pendant, the obsidian dagger and the rosary.

I closed my eyes trying to shake off the shudder that ran out my spine. Here we go again, I thought, picking up the rosary and pulling it over my head, wearing it like a necklace, remembering to hide it from my parents' inquisitive eyes. I'd been raised agnostic. Religion was not in our vocabulary. Well, this time around Gregorio picked me up at the airport. Grandmother was getting old and was no longer driving. He dropped me off at her house and promised to come back that evening to go out on the town. Here I had the legal age to go to bars. I knocked and after a few moments she opened the door. My heart sank. She was bent over and moved slowly. Her hair had turned white and her eyes looked faded. Time has no mercy and I'd just been confronted with mortality. She smiled at me though and invited me in.

I took my suitcase to the guest room. Nothing had changed. The same bed, chair, dresser and rocking chair in the corner. The same pink bed cover and saddened. pillows. I lay down and was reminded of how soft it was. I smiled and turned to the kitchen from where the aroma of fresh coffee and homemade cake came. We sat down for a couple of hours and chatted about the happenings in the last years. She was very satisfied that my life had been so active and worry-free. Night fell and she excused herself. She was ready to sleep. I told her I was

going out and she handed me the key to the house. Don't forget to lock the door when you come back. And if you use any dishes, remember to wash them before you go to bed. The songs will be restless if the kitchen isn't clean, she said. And this time it was me who rolled my eyes. Gregorio came by at 9 p.m. We were going to pick up the rest of the crew and then go to a new bar in town. It's called El Calabozo del Dr. Creepen, he said. I was excited, my first time at a bar.

We were I found a table and started to talk to each other. So many years had gone by, so much to catch up on. After several drinks, we went to the dance floor, lights pulsating, the beat with the music, while I fell into ecstasy, as I was twirling around to the rhythm of the music. Something caught my eye on the mezzanine. It was him, Don Quintero. I'd barely been a few hours in town, and he had found me. I stiffened.

Or back home, I'd done some investigation about empathy. One article spoke out about how this trait sometimes disappears with age. I'd relied on this information, hoping it was true. I grabbed my rosary then, hang around my neck. In an instant, he was gone. I was walking back to our table. Someone grabbed my arm, and I screamed, only to feel arms wrapping around me in a warm embrace. To my surprise, it was Pablo.

The boy that had had me over to his house time and time again over that past summer. He'd gone from small and frail to tall, dark and handsome. I felt myself blush. We talked a bit, exchanged numbers and said goodbye. The night ended quickly, and we all went home. I remember going into the kitchen to check if there were dishes in the sink. Relieved to see no, I went to bed. The next morning was a rush.

My family was coming to see me, food was prepared more than enough as it is customary here my family slowly started to arrive i'd forgotten how wonderful it was to be surrounded by so many people family i'm an only child so this was uncommon my grandmother sat in her rocking chair looking over all of us smiling life had come back to her eyes she wasn't aware of my encounter the night before and i never told her evening came and the family said goodbye my cousin Mary asked me to go downtown with her the following afternoon and I accepted it downtown was so different here or back home malls strip malls and pristine white shops were the norm but here it was filled with old buildings colonial style thick adobe walls and pink travertine facades 80-year-old shops selling the same type of wares time and time again churches everywhere tradition dictated that during Easter week one must visit seven churches. Some drove, others walked,

and still others who carried some unknown penance, moved between churches on their knees. Sidewalks would end up soaked in blood, blood that streamed down into the drains, a sort of sacrifice, replicating the actions of the first indigenous people. This land was bloodthirsty. We continued our walk until we came across an old theatre,

three stories high, the first floor now converted into a museum. The theatre had been built by a foreign man, early in the 19th century. He'd been eager to bring plays and movies to this dusty, dry old town. Prosperity came with the construction of the building. New products and materials were brought in. People now started to learn about the outside world, greed set into their hearts.

As you can imagine, by now every weekend the theatre was full. People in their finery, drinks, music, applause filling the building at the end of each play. until one fateful night. An invitation to a cocktail party to be held on the third floor. The sheer amount of people, and the use of all the outlets for the extra lamps needed, shorted the electrical circuits. Sparks flew, catching on the guest's clothes, who, in a drunken panic, ran around screaming, enveloped in flames,

tripping and falling on the wood floor, which also caught on fire, and eventually collapsed onto the second floor. The workers and some of the surrounding shop owners tried to help, but were crushed between the two floors. Renovations were postponed several years, and only the first floor had been renovated and secured, now used as a cultural centre. Oh, Mary and I shared a spirit of adventure, and when she proposed we tried to climb up to what was left of the upper floors, I immediately accepted. There was a little metallic spiral staircase left behind, covered in rust but stable enough for a couple of girls to climb up. So up we went,

and as we walked onto what was left of the outer structure, I inhaled sharply. There were still pieces of the wood floor stuck to the sides of the walls, covered in what looked like melted plastic. Mary pointed out that it was the material from the people's clothes. I shuddered the thought of skin that had burned into it. Then I heard his, voice, ever so low and desperate. Oh, now, he bellowed at me. I jumped, startled by a creaking sound and grabbed Mary by the neck of her blouse, pulling her with me towards the stairs. We rushed down, and as I stepped forward from the last step, the staircase crumbled to the floor. We walked out of the museum quickly, with our heads down hoping we weren't caught. Mary didn't even

bothered to ask me what had happened. We were both just grateful that we were unharmed. That night I received a call from Pablo, inviting me to dinner. He picked me up, and, as we drove to the restaurant, I was surprised at how much the town had grown. It was no longer a town. It was a city, new businesses everywhere, fancy suburbs, industrial warehouses and plants, had now covered what had once been kilometres of farmingland. It was a 21st century city. Over dinner, Pablo told me that, with the quick growth the city had experienced, some people wanted to hold on to the history of this place. Older people were being interviewed.

An archive had been set up, and since he was a student and an amateur photographer, the committee had invited him to participate. Of course, he had his camera with him and started to show me some of his photos, and he started to slide through a series of photographs belonging to the graves of the people who died in the 1972 train wreck. 1800 people had perished. As most were unrecognizable, they were buried in individual graves, using different body parts from different people to form one person, but that's a story for another time.

He continued through them, and one caught my attention. I asked him to go back to it. My heart started pounding. It was a gravestone. On top of it stood a small statue of a child, dressed like little little little. Lord Fauntleroy, the same child that had played with us at his house that summer. The story was that he was a son of a well-to-do couple, their only child, taken from them by tuberculosis.

His mother never recovered and was sent to an insane asylum. I told him then about seeing the child at his home and about Don Quintero. He sat in silence. I thought he figured I was mad and prepared myself to go home. He still said nothing. We talked about other things, our plans, our dreams, what we expected of the future, and the night came to an end. Pablo had asked me to go with him on his assignments. I learned so much about this place, fascinating and horrifying.

During my stay, I decided to study architecture back home. The fascination for the old intricate buildings was now deeply set in my mind. And yes, he followed me day and night. I was used to his presence now. He never spoke to me after the day at the museum. Only his eyes were now pleading, beckoning me to stay. But I was ready to leave this city.

A rich city, a city of misery. A city that knows no peace. Part five. Four years later, I returned to do my thesis in colonial architecture. I was so happy to see my grandmother and my family. The reunion was repeated as in past. years, except this time my cousins as I was sitting at the table talking about our lives, our children and careers, and my grandmother sat in her rocking chair, happy to see us all together

as adults. Pablo and I had kept in touch. He'd studied arts, specialising in photography, now an employee for the city archive. I promised to see him the next day. He told me he had some exciting news for me. My grandmother started to doze off, so we decided it was time to say our goodbyes. I woke her and water to bed, returned to the kitchen and left everything clean. I didn't want the souls to be restless. Pablo and I met over dinner. His exciting news was that an intern was needed for renovations on the downtown historical buildings, and he'd put in a good word for me. I couldn't have been happier. I was off to a good start. As we were getting up to leave, I saw him, Don Quintero, standing in the corner of the restaurant.

This time his eyes were blazing. I heard him clear as day. Don Quintero is here. Don Quintero has to leave. I grabbed my sweater and hurried Pablo out of the restaurant. He sat on the hood of his car and placed my head between my niece. What's wrong? he asked. I reminded him of my first encounter with Don Quintero.

He couldn't believe this was still going on. He'd speak to his mother. If I was in any danger, he'd let me know. That night I called my parents with the good news, asking them to send the rest of my things. I started my new job visiting sites, picking up samples of frames, doors and ironwork. After a quick lunch, I'd go to my grandmothers, which is now my permanent residence, and I worked on my thesis. Life was good, I guess, decent salary, industry. interesting job. I bought a truck, lived well, but there was always something missing. My happiness

was never complete. Regardless, my job offered a good distraction, visiting the ruins of colonial homes, planning how we were going to rebuild them, what facades were going to look like. My mind was always busy, the seasons came and went. I fell into a routine until the day my grandmother fell ill. Around midnight I heard a thud, jumped out of bed and rushed to her side. I found her on the floor, wide-eyed and gasping for air. I caught an ambulance, turned to her to tell her. Her eyes widened as she whispered. He is here. At the hospital the doctors told me she'd almost had her heart attack, but aside from that, she was perfectly healthy for her age. It was time to speak to Pablo's mother. Three days later, I was in Pablo's home, sitting in the dining room with his mother.

She told me that the existence of Don Quintero was well known among the older population. The younger ones thought it was just an urban legend, but I was not his first victim. She said that he had attached himself to me because I was innocent. He needed that. Someone scared enough to do his will and to set him free. You have two options, she said. Continue to ignore him or do his will. If you do his will, you'll be subject to the curse of wealth and misery. I was speechless.

I could feel fear climbing up my spine. As long as you carry your grandmother's rosary, he cannot harm you directly, she said. Be aware, though, he will torment you into doing his will. Find strength in yourself, you'll be fine. She finished. She smiled a watery smile, blessed. me and said, may God have mercy on your soul. The following year was an inferno. His tactics grew more and more aggressive. First he appeared at the sights I visited, but now accompanied

by other specters. I'd find myself surrounded by several of them. They would outstretched their hands towards me and mouthed words I couldn't understand. And people were weary of being near me. You have an air about you, they said, shuddering. My grandmother, ever so perceptive, prayed and prayed for me until one day, I'm sure it was from exhaustion. She died in her sleep. The family fought over her belongings in the house, so I was out on the street. Well, I quickly found a hotel to spend the night in, which turned into a week. In the end, Pablo offered me the spare room in his house, and I gratefully accept it.

This accommodation did not seem to suit Don Quinteri, and proceeded to torment Pablo as well. Then the vision started. Every person I saw on the street had a shadow on their back. Literally, they were carrying the shadow. Upon a closer look, the shadows were specters of those who had left the realm of the living. And the specters carried sacks of money. The bigger the sack, the lower the person that carried them was bent over.

I started to pay attention to what was happening in the city. more industries were settling in more and better paid jobs were available people were falling into patents get up work long hours go home eat watch television sleep and repeat the weekends were dedicated to shopping and drinking it was a sickening cycle and then a streak of suicides began every day a person would throw themselves from a pedestrian bridge that was built above one of the main highways the newspaper headlines telling the same stories debt heartbreak, infidelity, depression. What had happened to this place?

The curse was now at full force. More money, more misery, and with this, no peace. I no longer have the strength to talk about everything that's happened, except to say that it got worse. One day the receptionist at the archive told me that the following Saturday morning she was going to Tamascao, a steam bath guided by a shaman, a detox she said.

I could never figure this out, such a religious city and still following indigenous rituals. Well, I accepted I needed to get away. That Friday arrived a bit early, and I found myself standing in front of a very large skin tent. At the door stood a very old man. He looked at me from head to dough and invited me in. As I entered, I heard him say, You are not welcome, leave now. I turned to see him fanning the air with an eagle wing tied with colorful ribbons.

He then closed the tent door behind me. Others started to arrive and the ritual began. There were seven parts of the ritual. Each began with a pouring of water over different herbs placed on red hot lava stones. Steam rose filling the tent. The shaman chanted each time. As the seventh ritual began, I started to hear drums, rhythmical beats. I felt my heart beating in unison and then I started to dream.

Indigenous men and women, tribal fights, the Spanish invasion, time and time again, blood sacrifices, intentional or not. The curse had just been another tear on the eternally bloodthirsty land. One point a towering man stood over me, skin as dark as the ear. He pointed and somehow I knew he was pointing north. I awoke on the cool grass. Others were also there in deep sleep. The ritual had ended. I thanked the shaman, and he nodded knowingly. That night I told Pablo that I was going to go to Don Quintero's house. He decided to accompany me. He had no idea what I had planned. I knew there was nothing left of the house, nothing that would even hint where the last chest was buried.

We got out of the truck, and I pulled a shovel from the back of the seat. Pablo stared at me, shaking his head. No, he said. You cannot. The curse, what will become of you? I said nothing and walked to the middle of the property. He followed me trying to take the shovel from me, and I stood my ground. I looked for some kind of sign as to where to start digging.

The property was flat. Nothing had been left to the house. Even the floor towers were gone. But there he stood in the middle of the property pointing to the floor. I glared at him. I took the shovel and started to dig. Pablo and I took turns until he hit something hard. It was the chest.

I started to dig around it until we could see it completely. We put it out and I started to cry. And what would happen now? I thought of the sisters in their demise. Pablo started to push the chest to climb out of the hole and I started to drag it aside. I couldn't see very well. My tears and the dust had created a film over my eyes, blinding me.

I just pulled, and suddenly I felt the ground shaken, heard a loud crack. I rubbed my eyes and all I could see were clouds of dust. As it started to settle, I gasped. Where the house had stood was a sinkhole, a bottomless sinkhole. I heard sirens. The police had arrived. Neighbors stood at their doors in nightclothes. Questions with vague answers.

I was helped into my truck. Someone called out for help to get my equipment into my truck. Pablo. Where was Pablo? The next day, the newspaper headlines read, tragic accident at renovation sites. One survivor and one life lost. Government has decided to temporarily stop downtown renovations.

No further investigation necessary. An act of goal. Mother Nature was to blame. I stood on the pedestrian bridge, looking down at the rows of cars rushing by to work, to school, to shopping, or whatever the people of this city considered important. How ignorant. How blind they are to reality. Priorities are skewed.

I extended my hand over the rail and dropped the ceramic eye, following it to the ground where it smashed to pieces. In my other hand, I held the documents to the door. my new properties, home and business up north. I then poured from my pocket the keys to my new BMW. I looked up to the sky and called out. Goodbye, Don Quintero. May God have mercy on your soul. I got into my car and started to drive north towards the city limit.

Once I reached it, I pulled the car over. Open the glove compartment, pulled out a parcel, covered in now yellow paper. I took the obsidian knife and drove it into the green. ground. Got back into my car, leaving everything behind. A rich city, a city of misery. A city that would know no peace. People wash up on the shore of my island community. It's my duty to kill them before they wake up. Have you ever just sat on a beach watching the waves crashing into the shore and retreating back out to the sea? Have you ever noticed driftwood or shells being dragged back out? not knowing where they would end up next.

Every morning I sit here, looking out into the ocean where the grey sky meets the dark water on the horizon. I wait. Wait to see one of them wash in with the tide, drifting up onto the hard-packed sand. As soon as I see them I run from my position, grabbing them and dragging their limp bodies further up the beach, laying them to rest in the soft sand near the brush-filled dunes.

and that's when I set to work. It's a ritual I've performed since I was a child, being trained by my father just like his father did for him. I look down at the naked body, always different. Sometimes a man, sometimes a woman, ranging from a younger adult, a decrepit and old. Some have been thin, some obese. Once the drifter was missing a leg,

making the ritual difficult to perform in its entirety. I make do them. I lay them on their backs, feet facing land and head to the water. Their arms stretched out to their sides in a crucifix position. I know I have to work quickly, before they wake up. I've never had the misfortune of seeing it before, but I've been told the stories of what happens if they wait before the rituals complete. The entire island could be erased in the blink of an eye.

generations of work, my bloodline, all for naught. I'm getting distracted, sorry, the ritual. While in the crucifix position, I start the ruins. Beginning with each hand and foot, I carve the same sequence going inward towards the body, from the tips of the fingers and toes, moving counterclockwise from the left hand to the feet and finishing with the right hand. The work is methodical. My knife moves with a determined precision, honed with twenty years of practice. Their blood flows blue, staining the sands with an almost neon hue.

The scent of ammonia lingers with it. When every limb is being carved, I start at the top of the head, moving from the small bump in the middle of their forehead down toward the chest. They bleed much more when I get to the neck, as one of the ruins must cut right across the jugular. Their blood sprays, leaving a shower on the surrounding sand. Some days it mixes with a drizzle of rain, creating a bluish mist that floats across the beach.

Finally, the ruins are finished. The ritual is almost complete. I lay my knife down and wipe my hand across the drifter's throat, making sure I have enough blood to finish. I swipe their blood across my own forehead, leaving a horizontal line above my eyes, then drawing a vertical line under each of my eyes. This is my warping. I alone stand against these terrors, protecting my island community and by extension the world.

The preparations are done. I pick up the knife once more and walk to meet the crashing waves. The final step. My hand dips under the salt water. opening with my palm up. The waves crash in, and as soon as they begin to be poured back to the sea, I swipe the knife across, letting my own blood flow freely and mix with the water.

This is the final offering, the plea to whatever gods are all over the sea to end this monstrosity and keep us safe. The salt water stings as I bring my hand back up, the cold air adding to the pain. My feet slide across the sand, as I walk back to the Drifter. Lifting the knife, still dripping with a mix of my blood and salt water, I plunge it into

the middle of the Drifter's chest, into the diaphragm. The same reaction every time. Their eyes snap open, a final desperate gasp for air, all in vain. I've severed the muscle that allows them to draw breath. They slowly drown, as whatever blood is left in them fills their lungs, screaming curses in a language I don't understand. When the ritual is done, and the last spasms go through their bodies, I grab the can of gasoline and the herbs I keep in a small shack on the beach.

I douse the body, setting it alight and throwing the herbs on top. Like sage for cleansing spirits, the bundle of lavender and capnip smoulders, sending whips of their scent through the air. With this, the drifter is cleansed and the island's safe once more. I head back to the village, taking the beaten path carved into the brush by the generations before me. I exchanged nice pleasantries with others as I pass by.

They thank me for what I do, protecting us from the drifters. I simply nod, telling them it's my duty, nothing more. I make my way to the village square, heading into the courthouse at the other end. Briggs, our mayor, is waiting for my daily report. He looks up from the papers he's signing as I walk into the room. Raleigh, how are you today?

Any happenings at the shore? He shuffles the papers aside and leans back in his seat, motioning to the chair across from him. I sit down in the stiff leather chair, hearing it squeak under me. There was one, older. male. They're coming more often these days. This is the third this week. When I started 20 years ago, we got one every two weeks or so. Should I be worried, sir? His brow furrowed with worry. He was an older man, at least 60. He'd lived on the mainland for a while before coming back to the island

in his younger years, world-weary and in disbelief at what we had to worry about compared to the outside world. They knew nothing of the drifters, the dangers they posed to our world, the heretic god they served. We'll certainly need to keep an eye on it. The records show that more show up preceding times of trouble. The earliest we have on record preceded the black plague. They're an average of two drifters per day, with the highest number being five washing up at once. Your post was manned by five watches around the clock, making sure none went unclensed. We must be vigilant, make sure this doesn't become a problem like then. Do you think there could be something terrible on the horizon? I asked. I was the only one trained in the ritual. My father

had to help me when he was my age, and his father and brothers before him, but I was alone. I had taken no wife, had no living children and my only brother was killed as a child. If they began washing up more often, I was the only defence. As of yet, there's no way to tell. We must simply pay attention. Find someone from the village that shows promise, take them to be trained. You may need help. He answered, waving me off. I got up to walk out. Rally! I turned back, giving him a questioning look. He dug around in his desk drawer before withdrawing a long, thin blade in a black scabbard. He pulled the blade out of the sheaf by a few inches, showing me a startlingly pristine edge with the ruins I use inscribed on it.

He sheathed it again and handed it over to me. This has been handed down from elder to elder. If the time comes when there are too many, use this. It allows the ritual to be bypassed. I bowed and thanked him as I took the saber. In all my research and learning about my position, I'd never heard of this. We'd always been told the ritual was the only way.

I headed out and back to my house, lost in thought as I walked. I was shaken from my daydreaming by screaming coming from down the path in the direction of the shore. Rally! Raleigh! Vail, one of the village teenagers. She was shouting for me in a panic voice, fear rising to overtake any other emotion. Quick, you have to go to the shore. What's going on?

I stopped her as she ran up, panting for breath. She leaned over and grabbed her knees, gasping. Another one, a drifter. Some of the kids were playing in the water and it washed up. She weased. Shit. I didn't even wait for her to finish. When she said Drifter, I took off, sprinting with all the energy I had.

I never washed up past noon, rarely even after daybreak even. Two in one day. This is bad. If one wakes up while I'm not there, ruin would follow. Thankfully, it wasn't far to the shore. As I passed over the dunes, I saw the children gathered around it. The drifter this time appeared to be a woman, old and covered in wrinkles. One of the children had a stick of driftwood they were using to poke at it,

nudging it as the waves lapped around. Stop, I shouted, waving my arms as the children continued poking. They looked toward me, a quizzical glint in their eyes. Get the fuck away from it. And it happened in slow emotion. The drifter's eyes open Their unearthly green hue Like emeralds reflecting a blue sea

Shone through the haze I saw the sharp teeth bear themselves And the hands reached for the nearest child Long claws tore skin And red blood mixed with the ocean spray I heard the boy scream in pain Before turning to a low gurgle As blood filled his throat instead

I wasn't thinking instinct took over and I drew the blade I'd just been given. The ruins reflected the grey sky, the sharp edge of the blade shining like the sea. I jumped at the drifter and plunged the blade between its neck and shoulder, stabbing downward through the chest and into the gut. It let out a high screech, and the wind around picked up, intense howling echoing the drifter's cry. The ocean churned in response,

see if I'm churning into madness where calm small waves were before. Fucking die, I screamed. I plunged my hand down into the wound, covering it in blood and painting my face with it. I withdrew the sword, quickly slicing my palm and dipping it into the incoming wave. The drifter screamed again. Clouds moved in, erasing any light that was left. The weather turned from a grey morning to a small hurry. hurricane in a matter of moments. I knew this had to end quickly. In one deaf movement, I stabbed

upward, bringing the blade out of the water and impaling the creature right on target, and the screams died out along with the wind. Peace had returned to the shoreline. I sat there for a moment collecting myself before turning to look at the gore mixed with the ocean. His throat torn out, had passed. I took him in my arms and carried him up to dry sand before going back and gathering the drifter's body. I covered the boy with my coats and the creature with gasoline. I wanted it to feel the flames of hell. I sat and watched it burn for a while.

Long after, a local doctor had come and taken the boy, his mother screaming in grief as she watched. I couldn't come up with words to say, I was sorry. I was supposed to protect these people. I was the one that should be dead. When the last ashes had fizzled out, I still remained. Thinking to myself what could be done to prevent this from happening again. Little did I know that it would only get worse from there.

Part two. They're appearing more often. There were two more this morning. I was waiting. watching the sea thrash and roll. I'm not sure when I drifted off. The same nightmare that kept me up the night before covered me again, leaving me in fits.

I saw the boy's corpse laying in the waves, blood being pulled out with the seafone. Suddenly the cloud started rolling in, wind whipping up sand and spray. I saw lightning flashed down the shoreline and felt the thunder boom in my chest immediately after. Something was coming. me. The waves grew taller with each one that crashed ashore. When I looked closer, I saw that it

wasn't just water hitting the shore. Drifters, hundreds of them, all tangled into each other in the waves, piling on top of each other as they hit the shore. Leveys made of bodies started to block the waves. Suddenly, the sky opened above me. The wind stopped, the ocean calm. The drifters lay in the their piles sleeping like the dead. The eye of the storm. Just as soon as it started it was over. A million eyes snapped open at once. Their screams layered each other, creating an unholy chorus as they woke and began flooding inland. Right before the flood I caught a glimpse of the horizon. Gray clouds mired above rolling waves. Through the wind and rain I could see something moving against the sky, wading through the depths of the water towards

my home. I'd seen pictures of skyscrapers, and this dwarfed them. Just as it began to become clear through the sheets of rain, a bolt of lightning struck in front of it. And I woke with a start, jumping from the sand and looking in the direction it had been. The flood was gone. The day was grey but still just a dream i shook the sleep from my eyes and resumed my vigil i spotted one washing in with the waves male middle-aged other than the bump in the middle of their forehead and the long claw-like nails he could have passed for a normal islander i set to work and was almost done with the carving when i heard a voice from behind me there's another one i looked up startled nobody else came out here this early after what happened i didn't think anyone would ever come here again i was surprised even more to see that it was veil now nodding towards the shore a ways to my left i followed her gaze and saw another motionless form crumpled there sea-foam washing over

damn it's all i muttered time to kill two birds with one stone i left the one i was working on and walked over to the new arrival. Before grabbing this one, I dunk my hand into the water and slice my palm, completing this part of the ritual ahead of time. As I began to drag the body back towards the first drifter, veil ran up and grabbed the other arm, helping me along. It wasn't your fault, you know, she said, grunting with exertion. I was nearby when they found it. I should have told them to get away before I came to get you. I didn't even think they'd do something like that. don't blame yourself i replied letting go of the new drifter and kneeling down next to the first i took out my knife and plunged it into the diaphragm the piercing scream began then died out quickly the new drifter didn't stir if they're showing up more often you're going to need help she said again still watching as i doused the first one and struck a match teach me i can handle it I didn't answer her, but threw the matchdown and started carving the new drifter.

Small sizzles could be heard as ocean spray and light rain hit the burning body. I could still feel veils eyes on me, intently watching my hands work the knife through skin, carving my legacy in a living canvas. When the ruins were done, I beckoned for her to follow me to the water. She stood beside me as waves lapped over our feet. I looked out of the grey sky in rolling sea, remembering the moment my father brought me out here. How he'd carved the rooms,

then walked me out to the water. Have you ever lost someone, fail? I asked her. She seemed taken aback by the question at first. Then looked down at the water, she pondered it. You knew my mother, she said. You know I lost her. You didn't know your mother.

She died giving birth to you. Have you ever lost anyone you truly knew and loved? I shot back. Then, no, I guess I haven't. I sighed and unholsted my knife, turning toward her. If you take this on, you will lose someone you love. Maybe more than one. That's what we give up in order to protect the island.

Are you prepared to take that on? She seemed scared. Couldn't really blame her. her. She'd seen the aftermath of what happened yesterday. She knew what we'd be dealing with. But underneath the fear, it was desperation, desperation to prove her strength and protect others. I am, she finally answered after staring out at the foaming waves. What do I have to do? You're not of my bloodline, but there are certain cases where others can be allowed in to take over. I looked down at my hand

The cut already clotted with blood I swept the knife across to reopen it Come We have to go further out When we were waist deep in the water I handed her the knife Now cut your palm and hold it open I said

She winced as the sharp edge of steel sliced her hand The blood flowed quickly Tripping into the water and leaving a red cloud I held my hand above hers, making a fist and squeezing so a trickle of blood fell onto her cut. I then opened my own pub, placing it flat on hers so our cuts aligned, and took her hand under the water. She drew a deep breath in through her teeth as the salt water hit the open flesh, but composed herself quickly. I, Rally, Carus, do hereby pass my bloodline on to Vale, Jensen.

Having no living children and having taken no wife, I realize that any day my bloodline may die and our cleansing end. Vale has offered herself as a tribute to the ocean, pledging to protect the island and all inhabiting it from the drifters and the heretical gods they serve. Do you accept this duty, Vale? Yes, she replied. A motion for her to walk further into the water, letting go of her hand. She looked at me asking, how far? Until the sea takes you, I replied. She nodded, walking further.

At about ten metres out, she was completely engulfed, going under the water. She came up moments later, walking back to my position. Her usually wild, curly hair was now limp and soaked around her shoulders. She shone with a new purpose as she rejoined me. you are aware that with this acceptance you may never leave the island being the first and last defence against the unknown you know that the ocean requires a heavy toll for your service and the power bestowed upon you do you still accept i hoped she'd say no but knew in my heart she couldn't it was the same feeling i had thinking back to when i took the oath my father standing in my place

Once you had the notion to take on this duty, it never left you. Yes, she said again. Vail Jensen, by my power and authority, being the last remaining of my bloodline, I surrender you to the sea. Today you are born anew in the salt and brine of the ocean. I withdrew my hand from the water, turning my fingers down so the mix of saltwater and blood coat at my fingertips. I drew the ruin of rebirth on her face, a clockwise spiral ending in a smaller spiral spinning counterclockwise from the centre, the ever-flowing dichotomy of life in the

sea. I swear to serve with my life, she replied, giving a small bow. We'll start your training tomorrow, I told her. For now I will finish this ritual. You will walk back to the village and stand in the square until I return. Tell anyone that asks that you are now my apprentice. Yes, sir, she said, walking back up the beach. I sighed as she left, taking myself back up to where the newest drifter lay on the sand. I kneeled next to it, hefting my knife once more. I placed it above the diaphragm, one hand holding it steady while the other was poised above it, ready to thrust downward. I bowed my head,

closing my eyes and whispering a prayer, protect her. Let me be the father to her I could never be to my own daughter, I muttered. My hand raised up, tensing at the expectation of pain when it hit the knife handle.

I was more surprised to feel the hand on my wrist as it moved downwards. My eyes snapped open to see the drifter grabbing on, holding my hand back. That numbers are infinite. It said, we serve and we will be rewarded. We will devour you, drown you in the blood of your loved ones. We are as vast as the ocean and relentless as the waves. We will break you. The pure hatred in its eyes terrified me. I'd never seen anything like it. The pure drips. spite. It bore through my skin and into my soul. It despised me, and that cold, unfeeling stare almost seemed to freeze the entire world. I forced myself to move as it opened its mouth wide to

scream, making the wind pick up and clouds go dim. My other hand plunged the knife in. It screams turned to wet gurgles as it drowned, choking on blood. I fell back in the sand shaking. After what seemed like eternity, I pulled the knife from its chest and got the gas cannon herbs, beginning the final step of cleansing. I didn't stay to make sure the fire was put out, but instead rushed back up the path to the village, stopping at the first person I saw. Hello, Rally, anything I can do for you, he said. I didn't remember his name but recognized him from the butcher shop in town. I need you to go to the shore. and keep watch.

If any wash up, come get me. I'll be speaking to Briggs in his office. He looked at me quizzically, not quite understanding why I would want an untrained person watching the shore. I ended up losing my temper. Just fucking go.

He tore up the path, leaving a dust cloud behind him. I rushed into the square, grabbing a veil who was standing in the middle, chatting with some of the village women who were congratulating her. We barged into the office to Briggs's surprise. Raleigh, you didn't tell me you'd chosen an apprentice already.

I should have had the final approach. I cut him off before he finished. What the fuck is happening, Briggs? I shouted, causing both him and Vail to wince in return. One of those damn things grabbed me and spoke. They've never spoken before. his eyes grew wide i could see veil bring a hand to her mouth next to me brig sat back in his chair reaching into a drawer and pulling out a tall bottle filled with dark amber he produced three glasses from the same drawer and started pouring i'm sorry for overstepping your authority he said raising the glass to his lips and sloshing half of it down his shirt from shaking hands i'd hope this wouldn't happen while i was in charge I guess I hope for too much

He drained the glass Then got up and walked over to a portrait on the wall Pulling the portrait up and setting it down on the floor He revealed a safe behind it He opened it and pulled out a large leather-bound book Yellowed with age The next item he revealed was an old flint-locked pistol Everything you'll need to know is in there

He said motioning to the book I'm sorry but This is just too much. And he raised the gun to his temple and cocked the hammer. I barely had time to grab Veil and avert her eyes when he pulled the trigger. Warm blood and sharp skull fragments sprayed over us. Part 3. Now I know where they come from. The past 24 hours have been a blur.

I only remember walking Vale out into the square, both of us spattered with blood and grey matter everyone looking at us some screaming some crying i sat veil down on a bench and motioned for a nearby woman to come over take care of her if she's not in shock yet she soon will be i said and turned to walk back into the building also call for the doctor i'll need his help moving briggs the smell had already gotten bad inside copper, sharp. It took me by surprise after dealing with the ammonia-tinged blood of the drifters for so long. I looked down at Briggs's body, small wisps of steam rising from the open wound as cold air drifted in. Cowardly, bastard, I muttered to his body. Probably for the first time since my father had brought me out to the beach. I was scared.

I'd seen the soul drain from Briggs's face. when I told him about the drifter speaking. He knew things I never did, things that he didn't want to face, but what? The book was still lying on the desk where he'd left it, now covered in a messy layer of gall. I grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped it clean,

trying my best to get all the pieces of brain and skull off. Rooms were emblazoned on the cover. Some of them I'd never seen before. I opened the book. and began reading. The pages were old and yellowed with spots here and there from where ink had been spilled and what I think was blood. Their illustrations of drifters, making detailed notes of their anatomy and physiological traits. The next page showed the ruin configurations as well as the carving for the ritual. I just begun to flip through to another when there was a knock on the door.

Rally, what the hell happened here? Garretel, local doctor was standing in the doorway, a handkerchief held over his face. He gazed around the room in horror before settling on Briggs's body. Oh God, Briggs! You know anything about all this? I asked him, drawing his eyes to the book. He shook his head, looking instead at the flint-locked pistol still clutched in Briggs's hand. So he did this to himself?

Yeah. told him about the drifter that just spoke while I was doing the ritual. He handed me this book, then blew his goddamn brains out. I haven't seen anyone that terrified since. Well, your brother. Gareth finished my thought. Go, Raleigh. I'll take care of this. I know this brings back painful memories for you.

He moved from the doorway, revealing that Vail was standing behind him, still with a look of shock on her face. I snatched the book off the desk and walked briskly out, grabbing her arm and turning her from the grisly scene. There were tear tracks through the blood on her face. We walked in silence towards her home. When we finally reached it, I sent her inside to clean up, and sat on the porch to look further into the book.

The first hour seemed to be all things I already knew, about the ritual, the drifter's anatomy, a cipher of the runes. But then something caught my heart. eye. It was another illustration, but this one of a human. Multiple drawings of the same person, but with subtle changes between each one. Initially it was a lengthening of nails and teeth, small gills growing near the nape of the neck, then the eyes turning. I don't know what they used to capture the colour of the eyes in the illustration, but it was hauntingly lifelike. The next page held

notes and more illustrations. Large ships at sea during a storm being wrought by the waves. A figure standing in the water towering above them. Then the ships being torn asunder by the wind and surf. One survivor of cargo ship Fates Rest, a man by the name of William Stedler, noted that before the ship sank he witnessed a looming giant on the horizon. I remembered my dream, the giant looming behind the waves of drifters, a general commanding his army. Stettler swears he saw this figure smashed the ships with his own hands,

causing all on board to fall into the water. Here he says that they were set upon by people that looked just like them, save for a small bump in their foreheads and elongated claws and teeth. Stedler says these figures would drag the surviving crew and passengers under the water, never to resurface.

The book went on to explain how Stettler had survived. He was knocked out by a plank of wood hitting him in the water and managed to wash up on the island, much like the drifters do. When the watchman on the shore at the time found him, he was almost cleansed with the ritual, only save because his blood was red instead of blue. Safe to say this was a surprise for the watchman. Stedler joined the watch through marriage eventually, choosing to stay on the island instead of going back to his home on the mainland. He is responsible for one of the greatest breakthroughs in our understanding of the drifters. Ten years after the accident and Stetler was on duty keeping watch one morning. When a drifter washed in, he moved to retrieve it as he normally would,

but was frozen with fear upon looking at the face. Vail walked back outside, looking at me with concern as she wrung water from her hair. What are we going to do? she asked, sitting down next to me. I didn't answer, still reading and rereading the same sentence. Stedler recognized his brother, Jacob Stettler, who he had last seen dragged under the surface ten years previous. He hadn't aged, and the only difference was the small bump on his head. Vale, I said, looking at her, there are things I'm still learning along with you,

things that may cause me to falter in the coming days and weeks. I need you to promise me that if I hesitate, you will step in and finish the job. I promise, Bell said, still looking concerned. What's going to happen, Riley? Just then someone came running up the path, shouting my name. I recognised the same man I'd stationed at the shoreline, out of breath and wild-eyed.

Please, please come quick. it's going into the village he stopped in front of the house panting and shaking calm down what the hell do you mean I asked jumping from my chair

and how did you know I was here Doc Gav told me who were taking Val home I saw I saw Briggs he almost looked like he was going to vomit when he said it thinking of the mess in Briggs's office

a drifter washed up on shore. I saw it and started coming to get you, but... Well, it spoke to me. It asked where you were, Raleigh, I said, beginning to gather my things and start back toward the village. He stopped me again before I could walk off. No, Raleigh. This one, it ain't like the others, he said, waving his hands frantically in front of him. It's him, Raleigh. I don't know how, but... It's him. Who, God damn it? Who is it?

Vail was shouting at him now, trying to make sense of this whole situation. River! The man whispered, looking down at the ground. I stopped dead in my tracks. I couldn't move. There was no way it could be him. He was gone, dead. His body was never found.

This guy just didn't remember what he looked like. He was confused. Who there? "'Vail's river?' "'Vail asked, getting impatient at the lack of answers. "'I turned to look at her, "'grabbing the ruin inscribed blade from my bag in the process. "'I handed it over to her.

"'You don't know the ritual yet, "'and I may not be able to see this one through,' I said. "'Will anyone please tell me what's going on? "'I can't help when I'm in the dark here.' "'Vail was practically screaming now, "'tearing at her hair. Who in the fuck is River? Why are you so worried about him?

I felt tears forming in my eyes as I looked at her. Hot bile burned in my throat. I almost choked on the words as they came up. The river was my brother. Part four. All rivers lead to the ocean. Silence smothered us as we walked back to the village square. I was beyond loss.

It hit me when I read the book that something like this could be possible, but I didn't think it would happen this soon. Vale was certainly worried, shooting me looks of concern between looking down at the blade I'd given her. Finally, she spoke. What did you mean that he was your brother? What happened? I knew that she needed to know.

knew that she was only asking so she could be prepared. I resented it all the same. I grieved River since the day I had lost him, and it was only compounded by losing Dad days later. Did my dad know about this? Is that why he did what he did? Makes sense, you don't remember it. You would have been very young, I finally replied, the word sounding as if they were coming from somewhere far away. River was out with Dad and I one day, keeping watch.

He was playing in the water while Dad and I were patrolling. He was there one second and gone the next. I don't know if it was a riptide or something else. He was just gone. So you never found his body? Vail whispered. I could feel the chill in her voice. She realized where this was going.

That was 12 years ago, Vail. He was six years old. We never found him. There was a noticeable shakiness in my voice as I started to say what I feared. Dad Dad blamed himself Or maybe he knew the truth Either way

He killed himself that night Walked right out to the beach Stood in the waves and slashed his own throne Dear God Veil led out of a small gasp I found him the next morning Tide was going out when he did it So he didn't wash away

He was just laying there in a tide pool Of his own blood I My voice cracked Remembering that day I could still feel the cold rain Stinging as it hit my skin The wind scraping my face

Sitting in the pool of his blood And shaking him Hoping he'd wake up I just sat there Until I saw a drift to wash up Then I had a duty Something I was the only one fit for Only I could do

Until now The village square was in sight now I could see a crowd of people gathering around all holding onto each other and staring at something in the middle I stopped in the path causing veil almost to run into me she hefted the blade in its sheath and looked at me expectantly as I turned to her

Remember what I told you Step in if you falter She nodded to me as she said it If she was scared She wasn't going to show it her grey eyes like the steel of the blade she was well suited for this if I make any sign of weakness

of not being able to do this kill it I said reaffirming if I can't promise emotion won't get the better of me if I move to stop you cut me down rally she looked shocked at this but

the resolve returned moments later okay We walked the remaining hundred yards or so into the square, the crowd parting as we came. As the last of them moved, I could see what they'd been staring at. A boy, no older than the day he'd disappeared, standing in the middle of the square. He had the signature bump of the drifters and pointed fingernails and teeth. Nothing had changed. He still had the short-cropped haircut that Dad had given him just days before he did.

disappeared, and I could see the small slits at his neck where gills had taken shape. He gave me a sharp smile as I approached. You grew up, he said. His voice was more guttural than I remembered. The innocence of a child's voice was gone, replaced by menace and bloodlust. I've missed you, big brother. River, I replied simply. I could feel hot tears stinging my eyes.

I knew he was dangerous. He could rip me to pieces in seconds if I let my guard down. It didn't change the fact that he was my brother once. He still looked like that six-year-old boy that disappeared into the waves. You don't seem as happy as I thought you would. I was hoping for more of a reunion. He replied. He looked around at the crowd that was still looking on, staring at him in horror.

What? I feel like you're all scared of me. What happened to you, River? I managed to choke out. I was showing weakness. No doubt he would try and take advantage of this. The ocean takes us all eventually, he replied. Some of us earlier than others. You and Dad didn't keep your eyes on me, and now here I am. I've come back for you, though. I wanted to show you all the wonderful things I've learned, all the amazing sights and feelings. They've taught me a lot in these few years I've been gone.

Who? I asked. The others like me, of course. There are quite a few of us, as I'm sure you've noticed in the past few days. We've been busy, recruiting, creating, swelling at our ranks. We bring more to him and he makes sense. them like us. I'm sure I can put in a good word for you all. River, this isn't you. I was talking more to myself at this point than him. I didn't want to believe this was what my brother had become. Didn't want to believe he could be this monster. You wouldn't know who I am, he roared, causing dark clouds to roll in and the wind to rise. I looked around, motioning everyone to stand back. I noticed then that Vail was no longer beside me. Please, brother, let's not do this.

Come back to us. You don't have to be this way, I said to him, trying to look around for Vail without him noticing. I finally spotted her in the crowd of people, slowly moving away through the masses, trying to flank river. I had to keep him distracted. There's no going back now. This island won't exist for much longer. All will be swallowed by the ocean soon enough. He'll join us or drown. Some of you have a choice. Some don't. He took a step forward, opening his arms toward me. I wanted to bring you with me, Raleigh. To extend an offer, I can bring you with me and you can be made new. Quick, painless. I want to help you. I want to help you. I continued.

Vale was almost behind him. Just another minute and she'd be in place. Oh, but I want to help you. River sneered back at me. Vail looked at me and nodded. Now I lunged forward at the same moment she did. Her with a blade drawn, me with my knife. All I could see before striking was River's twisted smile.

veil struck just right stabbing right into his spine my knife found its mark in his throat cutting any sound from him short he managed to get two good swipes of his claws in one striking veil across the face and leaving four long jagged ravines of open flesh from her left eye down to her chin

the other hand managed to catch me in the stomach knocking the wind from me and gouging into my flesh I felt his hand tightened into a fist, closing around whatever internal organs he could. Get some rope! I shouted at the onlookers. Two of them ran toward the nearest building and found a halfway-weaved fishing net that had been left there in the excitement of the day, throwing it to Vail and I. We quickly wrapped it around River, making sure he was bound right before cutting a strip of fabric from my sleeve and stuffing it into his mouth. There, there's no storms if he can't scream, I said, sitting back on the ground and clutching my stomach.

I looked down to assess the damage, I could see heavy bleeding, as well of some of my insides where they shouldn't be. Gareth, where's Gareth? Vail ran to my side, taking off her coat and applying pressure to my stomach. Her eye was swollen shut at this point. she'd be very lucky to see out of it again. Vail, help him, please. I was gasping at this point. The adrenaline was wearing off and the pain taking over.

The last thing I saw before passing out was Vail, tears mixing with the blood on her face, and River smiling at me on the ground. I'm awake again. It's been two days since we subdued River. Gareth patched me up the best he could, but the diagnosis is grim. River managed to do some damage while he was in there. Vail told me she has him locked away in Briggs's office.

Says he's tied up in there, smiling at anyone who comes by. Half her face is covered in bandages. Garth said her eye should heal, but she'll never regain 100% of her sight. I've been researching the book, she tells me. says she's learned the runes and memorized the ritual. She said there's also some talk of an older ritual, one talked about from long ago by long-gone ancestors, something that may be able to stop all of this once and for all.

That God, I guess you could call it, Vail says, the giant that creates them. There's a thought here and there by whoever put this together. They translated from some ancient notes left behind by the first inhabitants, of our island. Whoever wrote this thinks that if two sacrifices are made, then he can be weakened and bound under sea. She went on explaining this further, but I was drifting in and out from pain. Eventually, Gareth came back in and gave me a new dose of medicine. Didn't do much for the pain, but at least it sedated me. I'm in and out now. Vail is working on figuring out this ritual.

If she can crack it, we may just have a way to do it. to end all of this. I just hope I'll live to see it. Part 5. Finale. Hell came to our island. Death came to our island. It was beginning to get dark outside. I was still recovering, hoping for the medicine that Gareth had given me to kick in soon, so I didn't have to feel this throbbing pain nearly as much. I flipped through the book as I waited. The lamp beside me causing the pages to almost glow yellow. There were notes scribbled in the margins wherever they could fit, all in different handwriting.

I had to wonder if these were written by cleansers before me. How old was this book? What happened to all of these people? If they'd had these notes and theories about the end but still couldn't bring it about, was there something we weren't seeing in all of this? I flipped the page again and noticed there were no notes, dribbled for the first time at least a hundred pages. Instead, there was just one stanza of a poem,

like a prophecy being laid out before me written in beautiful script. When the waves ride high in oceans flood, rain and wind howl filled with blood, into the sea, brothers of red and blue, ending water's wrath, beginning days anew. Holy shit, I said under my breath, this was it this was the answer this was how to stop everything rally rally wake up he stirred from the bed against the opposite wall still in a drug stupor gathers had said his condition wasn't promising when river had plunged his hand in he'd sever quite a few of his intestines causing massive internal bleeding gareth did as much as he could but he wasn't outfitted for major surgery on this level Raleigh turned to me, eyes barely open. Josephine, he mumbled, looking at me in surprise. Are you here to take me away? You've grown so much.

No, Rale, it's me, Vail, I said. Gareth had told me he may hallucinate you to the medicine. I found it, Raleigh. I'm not ready, Josephine, he muttered back. Tears stung my eyes, seeing this man broken. He'd protected our island for so long, brought me under his wing without a question. I cried a little more as tears tracked their way across my still-open wounds. They came a soft knock at the door as Gareth walked in, holding another vial of medicine and an armful of clean bandages.

He looked at me, Israeli, muttered for Josephine once more. Poor man, he hasn't spoken about her in years, Gareth said. "'Who was Josephine?' I asked him. He let out a sigh and sat next to the bed, beginning to dress Raleigh's wounds again. "'The only person he ever loved,' Gareth replied. "'Josephine was his daughter.' "'Where is she now?'

"'Whatever heaven you believe in. "'She only lived for an hour after birth, "'past away not long after a mother,' he answered. "'That's why he took to you so well.' You reminded him of what he'd lost. I couldn't hold it back any longer. Tears began to flow freely, stinging my wound even worse than before.

I had no family. My mother died during childbirth. My father killed not long after my conception. The village had raised me, and Raleigh had always been there, offering advice or helping where he could. Now here he was, dying just a few feet away.

Gareth finished wrapping the new bandages and stood up, handing me the vial. Give this to him when he wakes up. He'll help with the pain. He patted me on the shoulder as he began to walk out the door. Raleigh stirred. Gareth, he muttered. Gareth, I need to go. He turned back around, looking to Raleigh. Rest, old friend. We'll be safe until you're ready, he said.

as he opened the door to step outside a scream pierced the air rising wind followed it within seconds help help me please came a voice from somewhere outside he began to scream again but was cut off in a moment drag them to the waves came in another voice this one guttural like the sound of rocks scraping against the ocean floor bring them to panfarlassin so he may shape them in his image image, Gareth said, stepping back inside and slamming the door, there's a horde of them out there. More screams cut through the air, causing the wind to strengthen once more. I could hear rain begin to pound on the roof of the small hut. The walls creaked as they were moved. Raleigh stirred yet again, suddenly more alert. What's happening? Where's the blade? He began to sit up and then screamed out in pain. falling back on the bed. Gareth, I have to get out of here.

Afraid I can't do that, brother, Gareth told him, pacing the room in thought. They've never come this far inland, other than river, of course. I don't like this. They'll find us soon enough. As if on cue the door was kicked open. A towering drifter barged his way in, claws tearing at the doorframe.

screamed at the sight of them, bringing more heavy rain onto the heart. Back away, Gareth, I whispered, moving my hand down to the blade still sheathed at my side. He dove aside, leaving a straight path. I had to make sure I was on target, even with my crippled eyesight. I drew the blade slowly, leaning forward and focusing on the diaphragm area, just like Raleigh had showed me that day on the beach. It ran forward, rushing at me with arms held wide, claws brandished. I lunged forward, stabbing up toward it.

I missed. It screamed in pain as the blade struck in the middle of the ribcage, above the diaphragm. I heard the bone crack as it was cleaved in two. The drifter fell on top of me, teeth gnashing as it tried to recover. I moved my other hand to the hill to the blade, grasping it and starting to soar. downward. The drifter threw its head forward, attempting to bite down on my neck as I moved to the side under it, furiously working the blade lower. I heard the final gasp as I hit my target. The drifter collapsed, twitching. Gareth ran forward to help roll it off me as I pulled the blade

free, spattering blue blood on the walls. Well, are you okay? Raleigh asked, sitting up slow this time so as to not hurt himself. He still winced in pain. Raleigh, thank God, I said, moving over to him. Look, I found how we can stop this. We have to get river. I grabbed the book from the nearby table, flipping to the poem. I shoved it toward Raleigh to read. Brothers of red and blue. That can't mean us, can it? He asked, looking up at me. I think so, I said. I could see the fear in his face. He was putting all this together,

same puzzle I'd pieced together just hours ago. The wind was constant now, a continuous roar, a monster tearing the island apart. A board was torn off the roof, leaving an opening for rain to begin pouring through. Help me up, Gareth, Rally said, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

We need to get my brother. I hefted the blade, getting ready to make our run across the square. Gareth stood, holding Raleigh up on his shoulders. We exchanged a small nod before running out of the hut and into the chaos. The square was bathed in red. Drifters were dragging bodies out of homes, taking no care if they cut them open or not. Anyone that resisted was torn open,

treated as a game by the attacking monsters. I could see one in the distance, grabbing a woman away from her screaming wife, slashing her throat so blood covered the woman she loved. It let out a demented laugh before lunging at the other woman. We made our way through, dodging what we could and trying to cut through what we couldn't. We finally reached the door of Briggs's office, busting it in and charging through. River sat there in the centre of the room, staring to wall. us, a smile playing behind the gag over his mouth.

Grab and run, I said, looking towards Gareth and Raleigh. I took hold of the chair, River was in, and began dragging it out into the storm. We tried to go around the perimeter of the square and toward the path of the beach so as not to be seen. A drift to chase someone out into our path, stopping as it saw us. I charged forward, stabbing it through the eye this time. It fell to the ground shrieking, causing the storm to strengthen. When we finally made it to the path, I saw that we didn't have far to go. The amount of drifters congregating in the island and the chaos they were bringing

caused a storm surge, bringing waves just a few hundred yards away. The dunes were gone. Now the island just consisted of the square in the surrounding area. Oh, it's time, brother. River shouted over the chaos. I looked back to see he chewed through the gag, allowing him to talk once more. There is our God waiting just as promised.

I looked in the distance to see an inky silhouette on the horizon, moving ever closer to our position, with every stride its centre, a towering wave toward us, taking more of the land for its own. Drifters were frothing in the waves, moving closer to the square. It had to be hundreds all crashing on top of each other as they scrambled to be the first of the feeding. They stopped as they saw us. Set me down, Raleigh said.

Gareth gave him a look to confirm what he was asking, then a small nod before setting him to his feet. Riley came over to me then, putting his hands on my shoulders. Whatever happens, I want you to know how proud I am, he said. He deftly slipped the blade away from me, hiding it in his coat pockets. Well, brother, does your offer still stand? Will you take me to the sea? I thought you would never ask, River smiled, showing his sharp teeth.

While he walked over to him, holding his knife to the rope ensnaring him. I will set you free, but you must promise me you will not harm them. Raleigh was wheezing with the effort of standing on his own. River simply nodded in return. With a quick flick of the knife, his restraints fell around him. They walked together toward the water, River shouting to the other drifters in victory. When they were waist deep, he turned to Raleigh. behold pantherlasin emotion to the giant figure features still obscured by the wind and rain that seemed to emanate from it

the great sea ruler of all beneath the waves i bring you a sacrifice the last of the cleansing life he turned to face raleigh looking at him as he did the same i've waited so long Riley. He thrust his hand forward, impaling Riley through the heart. He let out a gasp, leaning forward on his brother. River took him in a great hug, bringing him close. Riley wrapped his arms around him in return. I, as well, I heard him say. He flipped the blade from his pocket and held it to River's back, hugging him tight with one arm before thrusting towards himself. River led out a noise of surprise as he and Raleigh were joined by the blade. The drifter standing around began to scream and rive, causing the wind to rise with them. Suddenly, they stopped.

Gareth grabbed my arm and pulled me back, away from the water as we watched. The two brothers, her blood mixing on the blade and running into the water, seemed to melt away into a pool of red and blue. It only took moments for them to disappear completely, the colour in the water, branching out further toward the crowd of drifters. When they were touched by the blood, the drifters turned to water. With each new mass, a rising wave was formed, holding its place as a wall of water at the shoreline.

I could almost make out the two brothers in the middle of it, still locked in their death embrace, translucent in their new state of being. When all the drifters had been reached, it was a towering tsunami standing at the ready. Panthalasin stood in the distance, the storm still swirling around him. He hefted his fist, crashing it down into the water and sending his own wave forward. The great tsunami rushed to meet it, absorbing it as they collided. It picked up speed as it moved ever closer to the sea god, rolling with fury. There was a loud crash as it smashed into the giant, knocking him from his feet.

Saw it try to get back up again and regain its footing, but as it did, tendrils of water shot forward from the surface, ensnaring him at every possible point. Finally two tendrils, one red and one blue, shot forward to wrap around the ancient neck of the sea, pulling it first to its knees, and then under the surface forever. You've started taking count and burying her dead now. The island is destroyed, houses gone completely. It appeared as though we'd suffered a direct hit from a hurricane. I was walking along the beach earlier when I spotted something shining in a tide pool. As I ran forward to look, I was able to make out the hilt of the time blade.

The blade itself was broken, nothing but jagged splinters after a few inches, but I kept it anyway. It's hard to remember the father I only had for a short time, the man who gave his life for us as long as he lived. I know when the waves crash in, it's him telling me that he's still there, keeping the evil at bay in death as he did in life. Thank you, Riley. 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 wrong 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.