Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S6 Ep353: Episode 353: Unsettling Horror Stories

Episode Date: July 14, 2026

Today’s phenomenal opening tale of terror is ‘Hell Is Other People - A Mortician's Tale’ by Gabriel B221B, kindly shared directly with me for the express purpose of having me exclusively narrate it here for you all.https://www.reddit.com/user/GabrielB221B/Today’s second phenomenal story is ‘The Dark Notes Found in Wyoming’, an original story by James Caligo; shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and read here with the author’s express permission:https://www.reddit.com/user/JamesCaligo/ Today’s penultimate tale of terror is ‘The Day Humanity Raced to Defeat Death’, an epic work by Taxi Dancer, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.https://www.reddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/We round off this evening with ‘The Penance of Captain Silas Jacobson’ by TheOGDBCooper, kindly shared with me for the express purpose of having me narrate it here for you all:https://www.reddit.com/r/DrCreepensVault/comments/ixxsya/the_penance_of_captain_silas_jacobson/https://www.reddit.com/user/TheOGDBCooper/

Welcome to Dr. Creepin's Dungeon. We're affected by unsettling situations because they challenge our sense of safety and control. Human mind is designed to notice threats, search for patterns, and react when something feels wrong, even before we fully understand why. A strange silence and unfamiliar place or a situation that breaks normal expectations can trigger a feeling of unease because our brains are preparing us for something unexpected. Often it's not the danger itself that frightes us, but the uncertainty surrounding it. The things we can't explain or predict leave our imagination to fill in the gaps,

creating a powerful emotional response that can linger long after the moment has passed, as we shall see in tonight's collection of stories. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution, tonight's tales may contain strong language as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. And let's begin. Hell is other people. A mortician's tale.

By Gabriel B. 221B. You must forgive me for not giving you my name. For reasons which will become evident, I think it prudent to be discreet. It is true that my current state puts me beyond the reach of retribution. I have no fear on that score. That said, I left behind a sterling reputation in my little community,

and my own professional vanity would prefer it not to be taken. tarnished. In any event, a name doesn't really tell you who a person is. A signifier, yes, a symbol to be used in a language abbreviated to simple speech. However, you cannot say who you are. And who I am is a mortician. When I say I'm a mortician, I don't mean that it's one facet of my life among many. The mortuary arts are not something which I heave aside at the end of a long workday, putting it out of my mind until duty calls the next morning. I am not a family man, with a nagging wife or whining children to somehow keep appeased. I'm not a hobbyist, eager to spend my free hours collecting trains or reading novels or, heaven forbid, watching television.

No lodge meetings, no church committees, indeed, no outside interests at all. No, I am a mortician. It is my alpha and omega, the sum total of every aspect of my being. Perhaps this was, to some extent, bred into me. I'm the last in a line of morticians stretching back for at least five generations. I'm proud to say that we all were respected in our professions. Indeed, my paternal grandfather had even expanded our family practice to a chain of funeral homes which were quite successful in their time. My father, however, did not have his forbear's ambitions, and he contented himself with that original facility.

He sold the other branches, though between an economic downturn and his own eagerness to be rid of these managerial sinkholes, it was only for a modest profit. With these proceeds, my father chose to broaden the scope of our services with the addition of a crematorium. I well remember the day that my father proudly led me through the completed chamber. I'd never seen anything more beautiful. I was a young lad in my teens at the time. I was enthralled by the stainless steel box which gleamed under the ceiling lights. I was enchanted by the sleek ceramic inside, cool and smooth while inactive, yet pulling our clients into one last fiery embrace when the gas jets flared to life.

I marveled at the simplicity of the resulting ashes. A fine powder coloured a soothing neutral grey. After a methodical pass with a magnet and a spin in the cremulator, which one vulgar assistant of mine referred to as the bone buster, for which he was immediately fired, one was left with a simple pile of inorganic calcium phosphate. It was both inevitable and a joy to follow in my father's footsteps, carefully tending to my small community in the way that only I was able to do. It's with pride that I remember how much my community trusted me. It seems that every few years some funerary scandal will make the news. I know that many of our nation's citizens look upon morticians with attitudes ranging from light suspicion to outright disgust. But not my community.

Being a small town, one's family history still plays a larger part in one's reputation than in the big city. I came from good stock. However, I believe it is also my own qualities which people sensed and appreciated. I will admit that I have. perhaps not being the most socially inclined fellow. From a young age I kept myself to myself by choice to some extent, but reinforced by the natural reluctance of other children to play with the funeral home kid. I suppose I was a bit off-putting, reading books about ancient Egyptian funerary rights,

or holding mock services for dried up worms and empty cicada shells. I have enough self-awareness to realize that there are gaps in my interpersonal knowledge, and that I am sometimes most inadvertently socially clumsy. As an adult, however, no one seemed to hold it against me. They knew my value. They knew that I would look after them. They knew that I would not pressure them into buying extravagant service packages or expensive coffins with passive-aggressive hints of guilt and shame.

They could trust me to bury grandfather with his solid gold pocket watch or mother with her prized church pearls, that these treasures would go nowhere other than the ground. They knew that I looked out for their interests, that I would dismiss with outright disdain those funerary scams such as the vacuum-sealed casket or mandatory embalming. Most especially I wouldn't ask for, and indeed would not try to dissuade, the purchase of an extravagant casket for a cremation. I was happy to perform a cremation, and I was happy to perform a cremation, and I was happy to do so in the simplest container possible. In fact, that was my preferred method.

A simple cremation in a simple container. Simplicity is beauty and beauty, after all, is everything. Don't mistake me. I pride myself as a craftsman and master of my trade. For those that wished for a viewing of my client, I gave my utmost care and attention. I've been highly praised for my work. with the loved ones saying that they could almost see the very breath of life still clinging to my client.

I've even received recognition in the occasional trade journal. When my client had been prepared for viewing, I contented myself with the satisfaction of a job well done. However, that is the only pleasure that I would receive in such cases. While a family sees a convincing illusion that seems almost natural, I see a macabre patchwork of falsehood. The tricks of the trade are, well, not pleasant. Clients at this stage are merely shoddy puppets,

ones that with any inadvertent jostle might show their true natures. They're pickled, sewn, glued and taped, with spikes clawing behind the eyelids and the wire twisted through the jaw. What the family views is natural, I can only see as a mockery of what it is to be human. Still, it is at least a stand, imperfect and ephemeral, but a stand nonetheless, against the real horror, a truly ugly and wholly degenerate process of natural decomposition. It's amazing, really, how quickly the body deteriorates, rotting, bug-eaten, shriveling and liquefying,

revealing the body for what it is, a simple mass of ooze and guts. There is no beauty to be found in decay. Cremation? Cromation is cleanliness. Cremation is purity. It consigns my clients to eternity with ultimate grace and respect. To my mind, the cremation is the greatest expression of beauty, and as such I take a keen interest in it.

There are five small urns that sit upon a shelf above my desk. Though they are in each a different style, They are all of them tasteful, understated, and dignified. Many of my client's families would admire them and request similar such vessels for their loved ones. Most thought that they were simple models to display my range of goods. On the rare occasions that someone would ask if the urns were occupied, and rather indelicately, in my opinion, who their occupants might be, I simply told them they were pets that I'd had over the years.

And they were my pets. for a while at least yes five of them five beautiful girls who I saved from decay whose last official pictures showed them glowing, youthful and happy

two yearbook pictures two prom photos one proudly holding a graduation certificate with a beaming smile I saved the missing posters for each of them the photos filling me with joy every time I saw them I would arrange it all very nicely for them.

There were flowers and candles, and the gentle strains of the last spring by Edward Grieg, would play almost imperceptively in the background. I'd brush out their flowing hair, fanning and arranging the locks, deftly covering any hints of the blood and brain matter that might be exposed from the first stunning blow. I would lay them out in a beautiful white gown

that I'd purchased at an antique store one town over, a gown chosen especially for this sweet purpose. It had a lovely chaste, high-collared neckline that easily covered the ligature marks that inevitably stained their skin. I reclaimed the dress later when I prepared the bodies for the cremation chamber, storing it in a muslin garment bag until such time as I had need of it again. After their service, I would gently place them back into their box. then a simple press of a button, and the great jets would roar and bathe them in purifying flame.

I believe that there must actually be many murderous morticians, perhaps not chronic like myself, but a number who found reasons to seize on the opportunities at their fingertips. Presuming one has been methodical in their initial, shall we say actions, and the rest takes care of itself. body disposal is our job after all, and who would think to look for a corpse among corpses? Of course, in my fantasies, I would commit these immortal beauties to the flames of a great pyre, with fiery tongues lapping skywood and smoke visible for miles, a final great encore before winds swept them into the great unknown.

But I knew to put that aside. Between the missing posters and the fire regulations, I knew it would be impossible. I was still able to receive great pleasure from my beautiful steel retort and was only occasionally disturbed by its one floor. Shall I tell you a dirty secret? A little quirk of the cremation process. As beautiful and as purifying as it is, it's not perfect. You see, while a corpse in a coffin rots,

becoming progressively more putrid and defiled, one is at least able to say, yes, I know who is in their coffin, and more often than not they're right. And the truth is that, no matter how hard one cleans a cremation chamber between uses, a few ashes of previous visitors remain. When the grieving widow is presented with her husband, or a mother her lost son, there's always a straggler, a covert passenger hiding in the mortal remains. In short, a speck from another body always accompanies an urn's primary occupant. The sub-perfection ever alluded me, but I don't dwell on it. I trust in the wisdom of my great-aunt, the owner of a pronounced snaggle-tooth,

who claimed that a single imperfection actually heightens beauty. She accumulated four devoted husbands through the years, so I suppose she knew what she was talking about. Being the only mortician in a small town, almost no one was a stranger to me. In the last month alone, there were three cremations. Dr. Adams, one of three physicians in town, lost emphysema, brought on by his constant cigar-smoking. Miss Lucy, full-name Lucille Fairfax, apparently, though, she was never referred to as anything other than Miss Lucy, an elderly cashier with a quiet manner who worked the till of our grocery store.

I would miss her taciturnity in the checkout line at what was already too loud and crowded a space Who I would not miss was Dr Robert Jenkins I will say this for Dr. Jenkins Or as he insisted on being called Dr. Bob My teeth had never been cleaner since he'd become our town's dentist This however was not due to any particular skill on his part Rather, I began to obsessively brush and floss

after the merriest morsel passed my lips in addition to my usual morning, midday and evening round of oral hygiene. Anything to reduce the amount of time lying helpless in that peeling vinyl chair of his. Before even being seated, my nerves would be stretched to the breaking point. The time spent in his cramped, mint-green waiting room was always over long. Any experienced patient of his knew the reason why. The man could simply not shut up. Oh, from that first handshake as he led you to the chair, he would begin his babbling, usually with a painfully specific pun. Oh, you've really been

procrastinating your appointment this time, Spooky Guy. You must be buried in your work. You'd follow this with a deep belly laugh and a slap on the back that would remain red for days. But it was once he had you pinned down in your mouth at his mercy that the real deluge began. Every single visit he would talk about how he'd attended a seminar in the 80s that recommended using plenty of jokes to lighten the tense mood of a dental appointment. Cue his comedy routine, a roster of tired old jokes that only a toddler could laugh at, even then only once. Oh, I had a patient who said that she flusses religiously on Easter and Christmas.

Was the most popular vacation spot for dentists? Mount Brushmore. His hands would wave wildly through the air, tools flashing under the harsh fluorescent light, while water and saliva would dribble down your chin, the suction tube forgotten. All the while he assaulted your ears with ceaseless drivel, to which even the wine of a drill was preferable.

I looked in a patient's mouth once and said, that's the biggest cavity I've ever seen. Biggest cavity I've ever seen. Guy says, you didn't have to say it twice. And I said, hey, I didn't. I never felt more hopelessly trapped when I was laying in his chair, my jaw screaming from being open for so long, feeling whole sections of my brain die from the incessant jokes.

There was one instance when, at a sudden appearance of a red rubber ball at the end of his nose, I choked on the build-up of water. And I'm happy to say that I made a mess on his faded, wrinkled smock. When I learned from my assistant that he died, when I learned from my assistant that he died, it took all of my effort to twist my grin into something passing for a spasm of pain, to be finally rid of that smug, self-satisfied voice for good. I can say that, aside from my girls, his cremation was my greatest joy.

As it happened, it was to be my last. It was a beautiful spring day when it happened. I'd been in high spirits since before the sun had broken the horizon, for I planned quite the evening for myself. My assistant was to go on a brief weekend vacation, and I surprised him by giving him the afternoon off in order to get a head start. After hurting him out of the door, all that was left of my official tasks

was to transfer the good doctor's ashes into his chosen vessel, deliver it into the hands of his widow. He'd selected a jack in the box of all things to house his earthly remains. His vulgar sense of humour oozed out of him even in death. This time, however, I was able to bear it with serenity. All of my focus was on what lay ahead. I'd recently noticed a lovely young girl strolling past my shop windows every afternoon. It was summer.

Through discrete observation, I learned that she was temporarily working at the local ice cream parlour. When her shift ended, she would walk home with no company but herself, bravely cutting through a neglected field that was quite out of earshot of any potential saviour. I'd followed her a few times now, enchanted by the gleam of her hair in the golden hour's sun and the sprightliness of her steps as she listened to something through her headphones. No caution. No awareness. She reveled in the confidence of youth, certain that all the world was her friend. How could I let such a beauty grow stale?

I decided that tonight was the night. I already had the white gown airing out, and Grieg queued to play. At first, Mrs. Jenkins will be stopping by to pick Dr. Bob up at four o'clock. After that, I'd be done with him forever. That thought added to zest to my already heightened mood, and I chuckled at the idea that the universe had arranged this series of events to produce what I anticipated to be the best day of my life. At 355, I was nearly giddy.

Sat at the front desk, hands clasped in front of me, and the jack in the box at my elbow. At 405 my fingers began drumming on the oak veneer surface of their own accord. At 4.30 I was pacing a groove into the floor. At 5.30 I was livid. I called several times, but there was no answer. Only the voice of Dr. Jenkins taunting me with the pre-recorded greeting of his voicemail. Howdy! You've reached the home of doctor and Mrs. Bob. When you hear the beep, well, you know the drill.

After the fifth time I slammed the receiver down with such full. force that it cracked. It was five minutes to closing by the time Mrs. Jenkins finally popped in. She was full of hollow apologies, and she chattered breathlessly about an influx of relatives and needing to buy groceries. My smile was tight, and my assurances clipped. She stared at the box, glassy-eyed, and her lip began to tremble. The next moment she broke into hitching sobs. She cried fitfully, her breath and her tears coming in such sudden bursts that she sounded like a hiccuping kitten. I tried to mutter the usual soothing sounds that people expect to hear. It made no effect. She simply continued to wetly squeak over the ridiculous jack-in-the-box.

I understand that grief is a strong feeling, and I'm usually quite patient. In this case, I was irate. By the time I'd managed to hurt her out of the door and lock it, I'm afraid that I was nearly shaking with anger. I was walking to my office, or more accurately, stomping, my hands clenched and my jaw tight. And I'm ashamed to say that I let a string of expletives pass through my lips that was more than I'd ever said in my lifetime. I felt myself get hotter, and all of my muscles clenched in my rage.

I was suddenly aware of a surprisingly sharp pain in my chest. The world faded around me. I don't even remember hitting the floor. It was a period of darkness. I drifted, vaguely aware, and yet little caring. It was rather as if I were floating in a lake of black ink. I could have been happy there, or at least peaceful. But all too soon the darkness shrunk around me,

I realized that I was in the confines of a small space. I tried to move, but with shock I saw. soon realized that I had no body with which to do so. I was encapsulated, and I was dead. The ancient Egyptians, my masterful predecessors, those morticians of morticians, likened part of their amalgamated soul to a little bird. This strange creature, when given proper spells and guidance,

could leave the body and begin a dangerous journey through the underworld. Think about this bird. I envy it. Perhaps I had some strange esoteric knowledge. Or perhaps, had I some strange esoteric knowledge, I too could free myself from eternally lingering at my remains. Of course, the negative side of this journey was judgment before the gods. If a heart was shown to be heavy with sin,

it would be thrown into the gaping mouth of a reptilian demon, devoured, and the soul snuffed into oblivion. What I would give for such a fate, for I was not alone in my urn. What does the dentist of the year get? A little plaque. Dr. Bob, my final client. When's the best time to see the dentist? To thirdy.

He'd been the last corpse before mine. It was inevitable that some small particle of his should contaminate my resting place. but in all of the kaleidoscopic facets of a person's being out of any other trait that he possessed where did the whale go to get braces the orchid dants why oh why did I have to be cursed with spending eternity

with his sense of humor I don't know what small secret part of myself might have been left behind for my crematory successor but alas it was not my sanity for I feel it fraying every moment. It's twisting, cracking and breaking under the barrage of drivel that is the sole purpose of some solitary, calcified brain cell of Dr. Bob's. There can be no worse fate for me.

I know that I will soon fall into endless insanity. What are the six most dreaded words in the English language? The dentist will see you now. Well, the old saying is right. Hell truly is other people. The state of Wyoming. Part of the United States know for its diverse landscapes, including mountains, forests, and wide open plains.

It's also famous for its national parks, such as Yellowstone. Tonight, though, we will visit a more secluded part of this state. Without further ado, here we go with The Dark Notes Founding Wyoming By James Culligold I'd crested the hill in the vast wilderness of Wyoming One brisk afternoon It was February

I always habitually did most of my little excursions around winter There was little snow So travelling was less impeded than usual During this time of year I won't bore everyone With why I was out there It was simply the nature hike. Of course, I did have the nasty habit of going off trail and looking around for hidden spots that only get a few visits from other people.

I'd like to be the first to see them and have memories of unique hiding spots that have yet to be discovered. On this particular hike, I found an abandoned road in the forest. Hmm, that's odd, I thought to myself. I was curious about where this road went, so I chose a direction and hoped to. be less than a five-mile walk. Anything longer, and I'll head back. And I don't have to worry about getting lost. I always carry an expensive GPS. I rode in question looked like it had been abandoned for decades and was practically overgrown, but there were still sections of asphalt that remained. Thankfully, no more than two miles in, I spotted some houses up ahead. I was surprised to find out

about there being a town in this area. Now they were abandoned and in some. severe disrepair, each sending a shudder down my spine. Hmm. Had I come across one of those fabled ghost towns? I checked many houses and saw that much of their stuff had been left behind. Everyone in the town must have gone quickly, adding a sense of mystery. Curiosity kept pushing me forward, and I wanted to know more about the fate that had befallen this obscure town, whose name I could not recover when I got back home to type all this out.

I went to the outskirts of the town, finding more houses. that were more reclusive in the woods, and this old 19th-century-looking house appeared to have been boarded up inside. Grabbing my hatchet, I broke in and started looking around. Many other buildings looked like they'd been ransacked, but this one was strangely untouched. I glanced at the dining-room table and saw a stash of papers stuffed inside a bottle. A message in the bottle. How cliche.

Popping it open, I took out the papers and saw that they'd been numbered from one to 11 on the top right. After sorting them in order, I sat down at the table and started reading. August 5th, 1985. Today was a pretty tough workday with the boys. We'd been drilling for nearly six hours now with the machinery, and it was time to give it a rest. The reason for such rest was that the drill had entered a chasm. We weren't aware that there was an underground cave in the area.

And for fear of damaging the equipment, our boss told us to come back tomorrow and get some rest. Zach and Michael wanted to visit my house to get some of my mom's delicious apple pie. I wasn't keen on having my friends over at my mom's house. Being a 24-year-old who has to still live with his parents is not exactly something I'm proud of. Come on, Owen, Zach cried. We deserve some delicious sweets after all this nonsense. The other guys also started pressuring me. demanding that I let them after my mom's apple pie.

Oh, fine, I relented, and walked with the rest of them to return our gear to the trailer. There was a brief celebration as all the guys laughed about getting their way. Man, after working on this stupid hole, I'm going to need something sugary in my stomach, Brian, another co-worker said. I was out of the loop due to my inability to attend company meetings, and I asked, Hey, um, what's this hold for anyway? We're looking for oil? Michael replied with his typical deadpan voice. No, some guys in suits told us to dig here.

Not sure who they were. Didn't tell me anyway. Zach looked back at us and said, they were called Pantheon engineering company. I've never heard of them, I said. From what the boss said, I had to keep knowledge of their operations to a minimum. But they're paying us quite a handsome amount.

Well, I had to agree with Zach on that one. The money we were getting was enough to get my own house. Still, I wondered why they were outsourcing to us instead of using their own company's workers. Perhaps they have too many projects they're working on and have to rely on us outside. They're family-run companies in the area, especially with how obscure our town is. Well, we never even came up on most maps. My mom was as welcoming as she always is. But sadly, she didn't have the apple pie all my friends look forward to.

She had peach pie, which is less popular with the boys. Well, we could kick back, drink a few beers and watch the football game. Guy's night could still be saved. We told Zach that he could call his brother and friends to come over, make the night more enjoyable. Funnily enough, though, I got a phone call around this. time. When I answered, it was my boss. Who was angry with us? He thought when I told you that you could go home for the day, you'd at least turn off the drill. I told the guys about this,

and they looked around. Each one said, but it is off. Zach, the responsible one of the team, replied, yeah, shut it off myself. I told Glenn, our boss, that we'd shut it off and Zach confirmed. Well, I don't know why I hear sounds coming from the drill. There's a screeching sound. Well, I repeated, screeching. Yeah, I'm hearing it right now. Listen. The sound of high-pitched screeches was slowly fading in.

I listened more carefully to hear it more clearly and noticed some more distinct things about the noise. It sounded like someone was speaking that was getting overlapped by the high-pitched noise. I listened more closely until I heard. I pulled the phone away and told Glenn it wasn't funny to prank someone like that. We pulled the phone away, but said that he only heard my voice, muffled by the sound. I repeated my sentence, and he replied, I'm not. Also, I checked the machine. It's not turned on, just like you said.

Yeah, I told you, I snarked impulsively. He sounded more grumpy this time. Hey, don't start mouthing off of me. I don't know what's going on, and frankly, I'm going to call up those pantheon guys and tell them that I want to know more about what they're having us work on. Suddenly, the phone cut out. Hello, Glenn? The line was dead, and I assumed he must have lost power in the area.

Oh, that was weird. I put the phone down and went back to the guys. We were already in the second half of the game, and I didn't think much more about our conversation. Yeah, I was sure Glenn was just messing around with something and blew a fuse back at the project. Michael asked. So, what the old man was?

Did you figure out what that screeching noise was? The phone line cut out. It says something about confronting that company that has us working on it. Jimmy, a Mexican friend, still practicing English, replied, Where would the power cut out? something doesn't seem right. Everyone else seemed to have difficulty understanding his accent, but I was secretly dating his sister.

She'd been teaching me some Spanish, and I was able to understand more of the accent in my interactions with her, not to mention that I've been friends with Jimmy the longest out of everyone in the group. Well, I don't know. You're right about it being rather odd. It's almost coincidental that it cut out right as he talked. I heard some voice coming through the same. screeching.

Michael, ever the type to disregard anything, shrugged it off. That's probably Glenn making it up. I decided to voice my concerns more, but everyone just returned to the game. Sat down next to Jim, he took another sip of my beer. Still, I couldn't shake my feelings of anxiety as I wondered what could have caused the abruptness of the line being cut, and that noise. Thirty minutes still passed, and Zach's brother hadn't arrived. arrived. Or did any others that we'd invite it? We were way out in the backwards areas of town.

In fact, reflecting on the events that proceed made sense why it took so long for us to notice that something was dangerously wrong with the absences. My mum's house is opposite where the digside is. Walking from one end to the other could take you well over an hour. Where is that loser? Zach started to grumble. And I replied, Well, maybe he's held up by his girlfriend. Shouldn't take him that long to shake her off. He went back to my phone and dialed him up. Hey, Harry, what's taking so long?

What? The sudden change of tone instantly got everyone's attention. I leaned in beside him to listen in. These were the words that I heard. Listen, something weird's been going on. I feel like there are people outside the house. A lot of them. But I can't quite look at him correctly.

Like they fade in and out. They have glowing white eyes. It's bizarre. There was a brief silence before he said. Wait, I think I hear him whispering. They're saying something. I'm trying to lean my ear against the door. Katie's freaking out.

Again another brief moment of quiet before he said. They're saying, We see you. What was that mean? Zach looked at me, and I remembered what I'd heard back at the dig site with Glenn. An abrupt crashing of glass and wood broke through,

muffling Harry screaming. His girlfriend Katie could be heard in the background. Harry! Zach and I pulled away from the phone, but I could hear Katie's guttural screams on the other end, followed by the sounds of her gurgling, and then a splashing sound like a water balloon popping. Zach put the phone down and looked at everyone else,

like he'd just seen someone get hit by a car. I have to go out there. Michael wanted to know what was wrong, and we explained everything we'd heard. We weren't about to let our friend go out there by himself. After all, there were five guys. Me, Zach, Michael, Jimmy and Brian. We were drillers, and I'm not bragging when I say this.

We were pretty properly built guys. We worked around heavy machinery. We had this idea that we could take on anything. There was also the fact that we had to go rescue our other loved ones. There was Zach's brother, plus his grandma. Michael didn't have anyone, so that was lucky. But there was also Jimmy's sister, and Brian's parents and little sister. The plan was set.

We tried calling around first, wanting to know who was still available and who wasn't. Zach's brother was a no-go, although he was insistent that his brother was still alive. In the back of my mind, though, I wasn't so sure. Jimmy's sister was fine. She was the closest to my house, which meant we'd be there first. Brian's family and Zach's grandma would be next on our stop. We stepped out and thought it best not to take the car. It wouldn't be able to fit all five of us anyway, because it was a simple pickup truck and could only seek three.

Walking was easier to navigate anyway. We made it to Jimmy's house within seven minutes. Chiro! His sister shouted from the deck of their house. Chairal was Jimmy's real name, but Jimmy was his choice. We would have been fine calling him by his Spanish name, but he liked being called by that name. The two of them hugged each other quickly,

and his sister Valentina and I exchanged brief glances. I wanted to rush in quickly and kiss her, but circumstances wouldn't allow it. Long story short, we were now six people walking along the road into town, the next stop being Brian's family. When we called them back at my house earlier, they'd said everything was fine in their area, so we thought nothing of it. But upon reaching the house,

the front door had been smashed in, like someone had just rammed a rock straight through it. Zach and I were the first to go up, Brian already showing signs of a panic attack. He hung in the back, having thoughts that, well, I could only guess that he was having. As far as we knew, the house had been attacked, but nothing in terms of bodies to be spotted. Zach went into the back of the house, but I went up the steps. Seeing his sister's door closed, I approached cautiously and gave it a few knocks.

I wished I'd known her name at the time. Ryan needed to be more informative in telling us the names of his family members. Um, hello, is the sister of Brian in here? Brian's outside, he's kind of panicking. I twisted the knob, noticing it was distinctly loose like it had been forcibly opened and then closed shortly afterwards. When I gently opened the door, I lost my breath and immediately was seized by a gut-wrenching fear. There was blood and visceral remains everywhere in the room.

God, it was like a balloon filled with it It had been popped in the centre And splashed in every direction It was still fresh and dripping from the ceiling Covering the little bits of pink paint on the walls And her white bed I quickly lost my nerve And ran back downstairs

Only to see Zach Who had the same look of shock on his face They're in the middle of telling Brian Who was crying bitterly Zach checked the kitchen and saw the exact same scene that I'd seen upstairs. None of us could develop the word needed to comfort Brian. Valentina tried her best to hug him,

something he appreciated, but he was still too much disturbed by the current loss of his family. She was only six, he muttered to himself, and I felt so useless. Why couldn't I find the words to help my friend feel better? Even as I write these words now, there was nothing I could say to ease the pain. There's sometimes nothing you can do to help, stricken by the grief that he was feeling.

Zach told both of them to go back to my house, since it seemed to be the safest place. The four of us continued our journey until we got into town. I was worried about Valentina and Brian, but I knew they wouldn't have to walk long before they reached the house. Dired from all the walking, he briefly approached the old diner I occasionally ate at. Amber's Eats. Now, in his distinctive deadpan voice, Michael remarked, What is she even eating? The time for jokes was not now, and most of us groaned.

Zach, who typically always encourages Michael's nonchalant, carefree attitude, even found himself finding this a little ill times, given the circumstances. The restaurant was still open, but surprisingly there wasn't anyone inside. Hello? I called. Zach, Michael and Jimmy sat in a booth in the middle of the 50s-style trailer-themed diner. Beautifully vintage, although considering most of the other buildings in the town

were still trapped in the 1800s, still one of the newer structures. Michael made a remark that caught all of our attention. Isn't it strange we haven't seen any police officers around? Zach agreed, and the two of them kept talking while Jimmy sat nearby quietly. I went up to the counter table, peeking into the little slot where they placed food when it's ready. It was empty, which I had grown more suspicious of. No one was around, yet the neon sign said they were open.

Walking behind the counter, I went to the door and swung it open. The ovens were still on, and food was either burnt or soups boiling in their pots, almost like everyone in the building left in great haste. I checked the other sections but saw that the back door was wide open. Sensing danger, I retreated back to the dining room, about to inform my friends of my discovery. When I opened the door, I said, Guys, we should probably get moving. Nobody else is here.

When I looked up at them, I froze in place. They were still alive, thankfully, but I happened to notice from behind the glass. that a crowd of silhouetted people with glowing white eyes were staring from behind them. Guys, look, pointed and lost my breath. They hadn't noticed until now, and all three jumped out immediately. Michael exclaimed, What, what, what are they? I told them we should all run to the back door of the building.

Noticing that the silhouettes were moving for the front, door. We wasted no time going through the kitchen. And I was only hoping that whatever it was, it hadn't blocked our fat, only exit. We heard the front door open, and Zach pushed everyone forward so we could get out without a second to spare. The first went out was Jimmy, then Michael. I was a little too curious before, and lingered behind them. I wanted to get a better look at whatever it was that was chasing us.

But Zach insisted that I keep moving. I had the unfortunate encounter of slipping in some of the spilled-over soup on the floor. Hitting the ground sent a shock through my body, and paining my elbows and knees from hitting them on the tile floor. Zach was beside me, screaming at the top of his lungs from me to get back up, hiring through the soreness in my joints. I quickly got back to my feet, and looked back for a moment, saw the kitchen door swinging open.

They were now in the room with us. But thankfully, we made it to the back door and joined the others as we ran as fast as we could from behind the building, heading towards a nearby grocery store parking lot. And we got to the store. We started screaming out many different things, most of which I don't remember now. We all agreed that we wouldn't stop anywhere else until we got to Zach's brother and grandma. Michael was quick to say, Zach, I didn't want to say it before, but...

Keep your mouth shut. No, Zach, considering all the things we've seen today, I feel that your brother isn't alive anymore. I said, keep your mouth shut. Zach and Michael were always friends, so to see them suddenly fighting because of shaken nerves was not something that I was prepared to deal with. Zach and Michael have always been stronger than Jimmy or me, so it came down to two weak dudes trying to stop two strong dudes from dukeing it out. But while we were trying to wedge them off each other, one of the many parking lot lights flickered for a few seconds before burning out. I looked in that direction and saw dozens of glowing, white eyes staring at us. They're here. I'm going for my brother.

Zach broke off from the fight and ran in the direction of where his brother's house is. We tried to tell him to come back, but he wasn't listening anymore. In his case, blood is thicker than water. After what happened next, his blood sure did it become like water. Zach wasn't paying attention because he was looking at us as he ran away. It was almost on the main road, but when he looked back at us, another time to see if we still hadn't started following him, likely feeling hurt at our apprehensions to do so.

I saw more of those white lights right in front of him, and we all started pleading for him to come. come back. He looked back to see where he was running to, but it was too late. He ended up crashing into the silhouettes, and they touched him. Still, he tumbled to the ground, moaning and coughing. But he jumped back to his feet quickly, and it looked like nothing had happened to him. He looked at them again, and then back at us, before the most awful thing I'd ever seen happened right before my eyes. And I had literally just seen a family get massacred. His body swelled up immensely. He bloated like a huge, morbidly obese person, but even his head was

getting huge. And, within seconds, he exploded into a massive shower of blood. There everyone cursed, and Jimmy even threw up a little. I thought I'd faint after what I'd seen, but I could hold it together just. I'm glad I did because I saw more. Standing in the center of where Zach had been another silhouette with white eyes and a glowing nervous system and brain inside the silhouette. Wait, is that Zach? I inquired. It was Zach.

He'd become one of those things which we started to call the night stairs. That's what I'll be calling them anyway. Not wanting to get any closer, we ran back to my house as fast as we could. It's the only place that we could think of as a safe place. The town felt so empty now that these things had taken over, but what even are they? Then I remembered. The drilling project that we'd been doing. Because we were so focused on running back to my house, I didn't have much time to reflect on my thoughts until I finally got up to the door and was greeted by my mom and Valentina.

She must have forgotten about our brother still being with us because she instantly pulled me into her heart. Jimmy stared at us briefly before putting two and two together. Wait, are you guys dating? I remained quiet out of shame from not letting him know until now, but Valentina immediately came to defend our relationship. She snapped into him, speaking Spanish the entire time, so I couldn't recall anything that was said. But while that was happening,

I looked to my right out at the woods and saw more of those little yellow balls of light staring at us. The night stairs, I warned everyone, hurrying them inside. Up in the attic, we had plenty of boards of wood that we could use to seal off all the windows and doors in the house. It also helped to push furniture in front of said doors and windows as extra protection. Once everything was settled, all we could do next was waded out and hope rescuers would come for us. Hopefully it wouldn't be that long of a wait. Jimmy didn't seem too angry anymore after getting chewed out by his sister

although I could still tell he was a little perturbed that we'd hid the relationship from it if it wasn't for the fact that some freaky shadows are following us I'd be a little more upset about you dating my sister behind my back she and I've been dating since we were in high school maybe you would have seen the signs if you paid attention more he scoffed up my words angry that it was this many years that we'd been together When I checked outside and still saw the crowd gathering around us.

They weren't attempting to force their way in like they'd done before. Maybe we had a fighting chance. Valentina came up beside me. They both leaned our heads into one another. I held on to her soft fingers. We tried to think of a plan. My mum had called 911, but they'd gone dark. She wasn't sure if there was anyone else to call.

We didn't know the number for the National Guard. Ten minutes passed They were starting to close in I hope they haven't found a weakness in our makeshift defences That sounds really dumb now that I say it We're going to hide in the basement It has no windows

And we can quickly board up the basement door if necessary There are no lights in there So there's no point in keeping these pieces of paper Which I've been passing the time with Oh If anyone finds these notes Please forgive us We didn't know what we were digging for.

It was that company that hired us. God, I hope we didn't just end the world. God, I'm sorry. And that was the last page. I checked the backs of them, but that was it. Yeah, this has got to be a prank. I got up from the table and walked around to the other side of the house. I found the basement door.

Well, what was left of it. I didn't need to go downstairs. I felt a nasty vibe that told me I would not like what I saw. But should this story be true? What happened to these night stairs? What happened to the remaining people that were in these dark notes? And how was this all swept under the rug? I've never once heard about this town or any of this stuff.

Nor have I ever heard of a company called Pantheon, or I found out how they got into the house. It's only a hunch, but I think it has to do with a now torn through back door in the laundry room. Seems like the boarding up did little good in the end. I took the notes with me and hastily made my way out of that town. As a dark history, I don't want to linger on learning more about it. Returning to the road that led out of the town, for a brief moment, in the corner of my eyes, I swear I felt like something was staring at me from the woods.

Slowly moving my eyes, I thought I saw the faint, yellowish glow of a dozen orbs staring at me. By hasten my walk, wanting to put as much distance between whatever I'd seen of me as possible. Now, even as I sit back at home and type out this entire revelation to the outside world, I feel no desire to uncover the truth about any of this. Someone else should take up such a task. I'd rather live quietly and keep my head down. After all, I am naturally curious. Sometimes there are things even I don't want to know about.

The Angel of Death is a concept found in various religious and mythological traditions. It is often depicted as a supernatural being responsible for carrying souls from the earthly realm to the afterlife or the realm of the dead. In some traditions, the Angel of Death is portrayed as a benevolent guide who assists, souls in their transition, while in others it's seen as a more ominous figure associated with fear and judgment. The exact characteristics and interpretations of the angel of death vary across different cultures and belief systems. We will see one such interpretation in tonight's story. Heroes, angels and widow makers, the day humanity raced to defeat death. by taxi dancer

January 22nd, 1982 This was a tough one for Dr. Domani Giovanni Giovanni. It would have been easier if Jessica was elderly, having lived a good, long life, and now waiting to pass to the other side surrounded by loving family and lifelong friends. It would have been easier if Jessica were a young adult, having been in some sort of tragic accident

which left her in a vegetative state, hooked up to machines which kept her artificially alive, and prolonging her pain. But it wasn't. Jessica Angelini was a beautiful little four-year-old girl, in every way vibrant and alive, and lying on her deathbed. Don't cry, Mama, little Jessica seemed to say,

looking at her mother with big, mournful hazel eyes. Though she couldn't speak because of the respirator tubes which ran up her nose and down her throat, little Jessica's tortured and crying eyes pleaded to her mama. Please. Don't be sad, Mama. This only made her Mama cry even more as she held on to the cold and clammy hands of her little girl.

She tried to be positive to put on a brave face of hope for a beloved little girl, but after what Dr. Giovanni had told her, she wept openly and she prayed desperately for a miracle. Her father, Marco Angelini, was a simple construction worker whose modest salary allowed his family to live relatively comfortably paycheck to paycheck. He knelt at the foot of Jessica's hospital bed, hands clasped over his daughter's hand as he begged Dr. Giovanni for solutions which would save his baby girl. Alas, Dr. Giovanni had none. Sweet little Jessica, who contracted an ailment, which affected only one in a hundred and fourteen million people worldwide, or about 70 people annually, and most of those infected were adults.

But little Jessica Angelini, hers, was only the eighth known case of this ailment, striking someone, below the age of ten, she was the youngest on record. Being on the island of Sardinia, the hospital there had no way to treat the sickness, and transport to better facilities on the mainland of Italy was no guarantee of a cure. Worse, this year most of Europe was under severe snows and blizzards,

including the south of Italy, so transportation to the mainland was highly doubtful, if not extremely dangerous. Dr. Giovanni had to tell Jessica's parents this, along with the news that their daughter had only 24 hours left to live. The parents collapsed on their little girl upon hearing this, crying and gently hugging her, while little Jessica tried weakly to caress her parents' cheeks

with soft, fragile hands that had IV tubes sticking out of them. The dying child turned to Dr. Giovanni, and with silence, tearful, pleading eyes, begged him to do something to comfort her parents. Dr Giovanni could only turn and silently leave the room so that her grieving parents could say goodbye however best they could He stood outside the door of the room The lump in his throat making it impossible to breathe

He'd seen the tragic passing of many of his patients Which, for them, that time on this earth had come to a close But this, well, this was different There was a chance A one in a billion chance that something could be done The wind picked up outside and the windows of the hospital rattled, signaling the coming of a rare winter blizzard. So much has to be done in such a short time.

So many people would have to be involved. So many miracles must occur if little Jessica were to see the light of tomorrow. The chances of that happening were nil at best. Better to leave them their private time alone until the end. Domani! The doctor heard his grandfather speaking to him. though he had passed many years ago. His grandfather served in the Italian army in World War II as a combat medic.

Giovanni remembered how Grandpa was severely wounded in Russia, but refused treatment until he cared for the many wounded soldiers around him. He spent seven years in a Russian POW camp before returning home. When we fought, we fought death itself. We never surrendered our fight with death until the spirit had left the bomb. body. Jessica, thought Giovanni, she has a lot of spirit. He'd read in a medical journal that German scientists and physicians may have found a cure. Taking a deep breath to collect himself, Dr. Damani Giovanni marched into his office and placed a call to Germany. It was a long-shot,

a million to one chance, but Giovanni wasn't ready to give up the fight yet. With that, the battle against death began. Hello. This is Dr. Felix Ulrich, Heidelberg University of Medicine. Yes, yes, Dr. Giovanni. How are you? I see. Yes, you are correct. We are developing such a drug which is shown promising results. But I'm afraid that we have not advanced yet to the stage where we can test it on people. I see, I see. Well, how old is your patient, Dr. Giovanni? My patient's name is Jessica Angelini. and she's four years and two months old, replied Giovanni.

What? Four? Oh, I see. I'm afraid that the drug we're working on is formulated for much older patients. I'm sure that you're aware that this ailment attacks mostly older patients, yes? I'm aware of that, Dr. Ulrich, replied Giovanni. But it is the only hope that little girl has. If we do nothing, she will be gone within 24 hours.

I understand, said Ulrich. There was a long silence, and Dr. Giovanni feared that the storm would cut their connection. I shall make some phone calls, Dr. Giovanni, said Dr. Ulrich. I cannot give you any guarantees, but I believe that, in this circumstance, we may be able to offer some assistance. Time will be of the essence. I shall call you back as soon as I can. Thank you, Dr. Ulrich. I'll let the Angelini family know. the angel of death couldn't help but feel a little bemused. Though we always won in the end,

humankind always had that tendency to fight death kicking and screaming instead of simply fading peacefully into the eternal night. This was especially true when a child's life was involved. In fact, many who were not meant to pass over at that time had given their lives to save a child in danger. It was a noble thing which humankind possessed, and the angel of death admired that. still when a person's time had come their time had come

and little jessica angelini's short time on this earth had expired is the angel of death's duty to come take her there was no malice in his heart nor was there any sadness or regret it was just the task that had been given the angel of death until such time as the creator said his duty was completed despite the snowstorm that was raging outside Chief of Medical Sciences Dr. Sebastian Oberman could not miss the opera.

He promised his wife to take her to see Mozart's The Magic Flute for weeks at the theatre and opera house of Heidelberg. Tickets were hard to cumber. However, halfway through the first act, an usher came to his balcony seat with an urgent phone call from Dr. Ulrich. "'This is Oberman,' he said in an annoyed voice,

angry at having been caught away from the show on this his only night off. What is it, Ulrich? Yes, a patient for the new drug. Well, Sardinia, Jessica Angelini is how old? Dr. Ulrich, you know that drug isn't formulated for children. Dr. Ulrich pleaded his case, reminding Dr. Obermann, that this was a rare opportunity to test the new drugs,

seeing as those afflicted by the ailment were few and very far between. and the fact that this was a little girl who would die within a day and whose parents had nothing to lose in finding a cure made this situation one of particular urgency. Okay, fine, said Oberman. Let's say I approve the release of the drug for testing purposes. How do you intend to get the drug all the way to Sardinia in the middle of a blizzard? I believe I have a solution, Dr. Oberman.

Again, it's a long shot, but I cannot continue if you're not willing to release the drug. "'Yes, yes, of course I shall release the drug,' answered Dr. Oberman. "'I will have to travel to the manufacturer's premises "'since I am the only authorised signatory to release it, "'but I will release it to-night.' "'I understand,' said Ulrich, with much relief in his voice. "'Shall I arrange transportation for you from the opera house to the company?' "'I'll take care of that, Dr. Ulrich.

"'You take care of how he's getting to Sardinia?' Yes, Doctor, and thank you. Dr. Ulrich hung up the phone before quickly picking it up again. Hello, operator. I need the number for the Memmingen Air Base central operator. I need to be patched through to the 34th Fighter Bomberwing. I'm sorry, Dr. Ulrich, said Lieutenant Colonel Kiefer Adelberg, the executive officer of the Luftwaffe 34th Fighter Bomberwing.

Tell me again what you are asking. Yes, Colonel Adelberg. of course. There is a medical emergency in Sardinia. A four-year-old little girl named Jessica will die tomorrow, unless we can get our new drug to her. No conventional aircraft will be able to get to her fast enough. So you are requesting that one of our starfighters fly it down to her, said Colonel Adelberg. Yes, Colonel, said Ulrich. There is no other fighter that is faster than the starfighter that is capable to deliver the drug in time. And there is no aircraft as dangerous to fly in weather conditions such as this as the Starfighter, said Adelberg regretfully.

I'm sure you know that the Luftwaffe's relationship with the Starfighter is a challenging one at best. It is an unforgiving aircraft to fly, and already we have lost over a hundred pilots in crashes involving the Starfighter. That is why we call it the Widowmaker. To attempt to fly it in these weather conditions would be extremely unwise. Dr. Urick's heart sank. I see. So your starfighters cannot help us save that little girl's life then. I said it would be unwise to attempt to fly it, said Adelberg.

I didn't say we wouldn't try to help. I need to call the commanding officer, Colonel Dana. We'll need to ready one of our starfighters for the flights and obtain flight clearance with the Austrian and Italian air forces to overfly their territory. Moreover, we'll need to find a Luftwaffe pilot who is suicidal enough to take on this mission. It will take time, Doctor. Meanwhile, Dr. Oberman was making his apologies to his wife, quickly explaining the urgency of why he had to leave,

and making arrangements for a taxi to come pick her up and take her home after the opera. He made one more phone call to the chief of police, and within minutes a city snowplow and a police cruiser were waiting outside of the opera house to take Dr. Oberman to the manufacturers with a new drug. was kept. What would have been a long and laborious drive through the snow-swept streets went by relatively quickly, thanks to the snowplow clearing the way ahead, and the Heidelberg Police Department stopping traffic at the traffic lights to allow them to pass. Within the hour, Dr. Obermann was at the facility and had completed the laborious chain of custody papers and reason for request

documentation. As he was leaving, Dr. Oberman was surprised to find two large Bundeswehr Mancat-1 transport trucks waiting for him on the nearby German army logistics base, their massive tires and powerful engines more than capable of traversing the blizzard conditions. This would be sorely needed for the next leg of the trip, as the Memmingon Luftwaffe Air Base, where the Starfighter was being prepared at this very moment, was a perilous 120-kilometer road march through extreme weather conditions, which was impassable to most other vehicles. The soldiers instructed Dr. Obermann to enter the second truck.

The first truck being used is the pathmaker for the two-truck convoy. The snowplow and the police escorted the military trucks to the city limits. It was nearly 11 o'clock in the evening and the streets were relatively clear. However, the winds were picking up and visibility was dropping to only a few dozen meters in front of the vehicles. The police escort wished Dr. Oberman and his military escort good luck once they reached the automobile. and despite the Autobahn being lined with powerful bright streetlights, the roadway ahead was only dimly lit owing to the raging snowstorm. The two trucks slowly emerged onto the Autobahn

where 120 kilometres of icy road awaited them. The Angel of Death took a brief moment from his labours to briefly admire the tremendous effort that was being put forward by mankind to save the life of a child. Though he felt no regret that, ultimately, all of those efforts will not come to try to do that. truition. Already the Angel of Death

had collected the spirits of 117 souls who had fallen victim to the blizzard and had guided them to their eternal resting place. When a person's time comes, only one thing can stop a visit from the Angel of Death. And in a few hours,

he'd be in Sardinia to take little Jessica Angelini. Still, it was a very slim, an impossibly slim chance that humanity might avert Jessica's passing. The Angel of Death would have to take some measures to not allow that to happen, measures which would most certainly take the lives of those rushing to give the little girl a chance at life.

Again, the Angel of Death felt no a regret at this, nor any feeling of malice. It was simply her time to go. The soldiers driving the trucks had to carefully balance safety and speed. Go too slow and the weather would close in so much at the airbase that it would be nearly impossible to get the Starfighter, an aircraft that was challenging to fly in the best of conditions, up into the blizzard ravaged skies. Go too quickly, and the ice-coated roads

could easily bring the convoy to a disastrous end. Because the row signs were nearly invisible in the white haze, the soldiers in the lead truck relied on their map and the truck's odometer to determine the 100-kilometer point where they were to take the exit off the Autobahn and continue the final leg of the journey to the air base. At the 100-kilometer mark, and even though they'd slowed their speed,

The exit ramp remained unseen until they'd nearly passed it. The young German soldier in the front over-comensated to try and get onto the exit ramp. The big truck's tyres lost traction on the ice-covered road and missed the exit, instead departing the road and barreling down the embankment next to the exit ramp before coming to an abrupt but somewhat cushioned halt in a snowbank which virtually buried the passenger cab of a truck. The driver of the follow-on truck, in which Dr. Oberman and his valuable cargo was riding, slowed even more and inched its way down the exit ramp

until they came to where the first truck rested. Much to everyone's relief, the two soldiers in the truck were already standing outside. The sergeant truck commander already on the radio calling for assistance. We're fine, yelled the sergeant to the driver of the second truck. The truck is only slightly damaged, just stuck in the snow. Maminghammingon is sending a record to pull ourselves. We'll be okay.

Just go and get the doctor to the air base. Now alone, the truck traveled down the much narrower and darkened streets, the only illumination coming from the headlights as visibility seemed to be cut even more as the wind and snow battered the truck. The driver struggling to keep it on the road. After what seemed like days, they finally saw the lights of the expansive air base and the welcoming security checkpoint where Air Force military police were waiting to escort them into the flight operation centre.

Also at the gate, a wrecker was waiting to leave the base. to go rescue the truck which had crashed, as they made their way towards the operation centre, following the flashing blue lights with the Air Force MP vehicle. The soldiers finally addressed the issue which no one wanted to discuss. They looked over at the runway and couldn't see it. Neither could they see the runway marking lights. The entirety of the German military was painfully aware

of the reputation of the Widowmaker, so much so that the gallows humour of the German Air Force had a popular joke that, if one wanted an F-104 starfighter of their very own, all anyone had to do was to buy a plot of farmland, then wait. By 1982, over 200 of West Germany's 900 starfighters have been lost to accidents and crashes. You think they can get a starfighter up in this weather, Sergeant?

asked the driver. The sergeant sighed in doubt. This was an audacious plan from the beginning. This is an audacious mission that we've undertaken. I heard that the squadron commander said that the pilots wanting to volunteer for this mission must not be married. If disaster strikes, at least the widowmaker will not be making another widow tonight. Lieutenant Colonel Adelberg and the base commander, Colonel Dana, were waiting for Dr. Oberman when he arrived.

After the quick greetings, Dr. Oberman was introduced to a Bundeswehr pilot in his early thirties by the name of Captain Dietrich Baor. He stood about five foot nine inches, actually shorter than the average. German male, he stood closer to six feet, and was rather lanky, his flight suit looking to be a bit too large for his frame. His somewhat longish, dirty blonde hair topped a mature-looking, chiseled face with confident blue eyes, which, either audaciously or foolishly, seemed to hold no fear of death. When Dr. Oberman questioned whether the mission could be accomplished, Captain Bauer confidently exclaimed that both he and his aircraft would accomplish the mission, despite the dark reputation that the Starfighter earned.

The F-104 Starfighter had been described quite literally as a missile with a man in it, and in many ways that's exactly what it was. It looked like a needle with a single powerful engine. Unlike the contemporary fighters of the time with a wide, long, tapering wings that produced optimal lift and maneuverability, the Starfighter had very short stubby wings

with a high teetail in the rear, which reduced drag, but, unfortunately, also reduced maneuverability. It was designed to fly high and fast in a straight line, and although it was designated as a fighter, it hardly had any of the maneuverability that would give it a good counting such a dogfight. There's a quick slash and attack fighter. The starfighter could not be beaten,

just as long as it kept its speed up and did not get dragged into a maneuvering dogfight. To be honest, Captain Bauer believed that the starfighter was the most magnificently beautiful fighter in the world, but piloting it was just like. dating a supermodel, being temperamental, high maintenance, and needing lots of attention. The starfighter that Bauer would be piloting on this mission would be a two-seater version, painted in three shades of dark and light olive green, bright white nose cone. Mounted on the wingtips of the almost razor-sharp wings were two unusually long fuel drop tanks for the trip.

Calculations had to be carefully made of the dose for little Jessica, accounting for her gender, age and weight. Because of the advanced condition of her sickness, it was decided to give her a full adult dose, split into two, one-half doses. The heavily reinforced white plastic case, which held the experimental drug, was carefully and securely strapped

into the rear seat of the fighter. As this was happening, the ground crew were busy securing in the heating generators, which was keeping the control surfaces clear of snow and ice. Captain Bauer climbed up the metal stairs to the cockpit, having to hold on tightly or risk being blown off the ice-covered rungs. However, as he was being strapped into his cockpit, he was confident that his aircraft was

flight-ready. Unfortunately, the runway was not, and because of the low air density caused by the blizzard, he would need every inch of the runway to take off. In order to make it possible to use the runway for take-off, the Luftwaffe would need to rely on their allies in the US Air Force to prep the runway. The Americans had a detachment of their mighty C-141 starlifter transports located on the base. After some discussion between Colonel Dana and the American detachment commander, the Americans had one of their giant 170-foot-long and 60-foot-wide transports on the runway, its four engines blazing.

The plan was to have the starlift to roll down the snowy runway and use its four Pratt and Whitney turbofan engines to blow the snow and ice off the runway. then at the end of the runway turn the giant aircraft around and repeat the process on the way back once the transport turned off into the taxiway Captain Bauer would rocket his fighter at full throttle

down the temporarily cleared runway and hopefully be able to get airborne this itself would be a dangerous maneuver because even though the transport would not be taking off the Americans still run the risk of sliding off the runway if they weren't careful and a block runway would

literally be death to the little little baby girl they were all trying to save. The timing had to be perfect. After the American transport began taxying down the runway, the powerful engines blowing a narrow path through the ice and snow, Captain Bauer taxied his fighter into position to take off. Understanding that the Americans were being cautious as they made their first run down the runway before turning the giant plane around to come back unless they slip off the runway, Captain Bauer was getting anxious. This was taking far too long. The snow was already reclaiming the runway as Bauer awaited the command from the tower to launch. He throttled up the engine as the Americans completed their circuit of the

runway and poured their giant starlifter onto the taxiway. The lights on the runway were barely visible and Captain Bauer could barely see a few dozen meters in front of his cockpit. The runway was in conditioned where he had a 50-50 chance of getting off the ground, if he were lucky, as the wind and snow pommeled his fighter. Power knew that he had to go before the runway became unusable again. Where was the damn call from the tower? No, I didn't go on. No, I didn't go on. This is the tower.

Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission. Roger Tower, replied Captain Bauer, pushing full throttle and gunning the powerful engine of the Starfighter. Launching now. He didn't hear the base commander yelling over the radio to abort mission. At the end of the runway, he had covered with ice again. Visibility was pitch black, save for the millions of white snowflakes shooting past his canopy. He fought to keep his fighter centred on the path, which the Americans had made.

The whole time the wind buffeting his aircraft had bound to flip it over. The angel of death took a moment to look down and observe what was happening, not out of admiration or intent to do harm, but because he had a feeling that he'd soon be needed to guide another soul into the afterlife. He stood by watching without emotion as he awaited the inevitable crash to happen. Starfighter wasn't designed to take off in these conditions, but at the high speed he was going, Captain Bauer was committed now. Hours seemed to compress into a few fleeting seconds.

Bauer had taken off from this runway enough times to know when to pull back on the stick and retract the wheels without actually seeing outside. He pulled back on the stick, and the fighter jumped into the sky. the satisfying thumb-clump of the landing gear successfully retracting into the fighter. He was off the ground, allowing himself a half-second of relief. Bauer knew that even though he'd gotten his aircraft airborne, he was still in terrible danger. The starfighter wouldn't survive so much buffeting,

and he knew that he had to get his fighter above the blizzard as quickly as possible. Fifteen minutes. Just hold together for fifteen minutes until we can get above the The buffered him was getting stronger as the pilot struggled just to keep the fighter wings leveled. Had he been not so securely strapped in place, he would have been tossed about inside the cockpit. He was flying on instruments alone,

trusting in the spinning horizon indicator and ultimat to confirm that he was headed in a generally straight-up direction. At this point he was happy with just straight-up, but not only was he losing speed, he was also losing flight control. He could feel his fighter going into, an unrecoverable and fatal flat spin. It was too heavy.

Too heavy. Clutching the stick to his chest, he pulled straight up, ejecting his external wingtip fuel pods. At this point, the starfighter literally became a missile with a man in it. Bauer simply hoping to keep the fighter in a nose-up position and letting the kinetic energy take him above the storm. Just hold together for a few more minutes. Just a few more.

the starfighter shot almost straight up through the black, swirling tempest of clouds. All of a sudden, the whirling blackness of clouds and snow was replaced by a clear, calm, night sky filled with stars. Bright full moon hung in space, illuminating the maelstrom below the starfighter in a surreal, almost mystical whirlpool of deep purple and violet hues. Breathing heavily with relief, Captain Bauer opened the secure challenge. back to Menninger. He'd already decided to launch, whether or not he would be given clearance. Though relieved that he'd just pulled off the impossible, the pilot's relief was tempered by the fact that he'd just disobeyed a direct order

from his commanding officer. Nightingale won to base, Nightingale won to base. I'm at Angel's 36 level, heading 350 degrees and turning due south for Sardinia. He held his breath, waiting for the stinging reprimand from Colonel Dan. which would effectively end his career in the Luftwaffe if he survived this mission. It seemed like an eternity had passed before Colonel Dana came over the radio. Roger Nightingale. Understand that you are above the storm and are en route scheduled.

Godspeed, Nightingale. Captain Bauer breathed a deep sigh of relief, feeling lucky that he dodged another bullet as he turned his fighter south in the direction of Sardinia. He checked his watch. Twenty hours had already passed. He only had four hours left. The easy part was over, and the hard part was about to begin. Hold on, little one, whispered the pilot as he kicked in the afterburners.

Thunder and quake shook the air as the starfighter went supersonic, ripping apart the sound barrier. Hold on, little one. Help is coming. The angel of death observed all of this. Curious, but not questioning why the creator allowed the fortunate pilot to live this far. No matter. His task was to take the life of Jessica Angelini in a few hours. It would be a race then. Despite being a neutral spirit, neither good or bad, benevolent or malicious, the angel of death had a small spark of excitement.

Who would reach Jessica first? The angel or the widow-maker? Dr. Dmani Giovanni quickly picked up the phone when the commander of the Decimamandu Air Base, the joint Italian-German Air Base located in Sardinia. called. Yes. Yes, Colonel Lombardo, this is Dr. Giovanni. Yes, yes, good. The drug is on the way? Good. Please, sir, make all haste. Little Jessica Angelini is slipping from us. Vital signs are getting weaker. Yes, yes, sir, thank you. Thank you. Please, hurry.

You have my word, Dr. Giovanni, said Colonel Lombardo. tell the parents of that little girl that were doing our very best. Have faith, we will get the medication there. Colonel Lombardi hung up the phone, taking stock of the new developments which might make his promise impossible to keep. The blizzard had subsided to freezing rain, but not before overtaxing the main power grid which blacked out a fourth of the power on the island. The base was on emergency generator power, but it wasn't enough to power the runway lights. worse ice sheets had formed on the runway and with the starfighters higher than normal landing speeds an attempt to land under such conditions was only one step away from suicide under normal circumstances

the fighter would have been waved away to another suitable landing zone but in this case that was not an option if the little girl was to have even a chance to live that german pilot needed to put his aircraft down here and it was Colonel Lombardi's duty to make that happen. It was just before dawn, too dark for the pilot to land visually, not under these weather conditions. Colonel Lombardi ordered every vehicle on the base, both military and civilian, to line up along the runway with headlights on bright

in order to illuminate the runway. And to assist the two shovel trucks in clearing the runway, Colonel Lombardi ordered an all hands-on deck, all available personnel on base, to report to the runway. with shovels. Because they didn't have the luxury of an American C-141 to clear the runway, the stalwart German and Italian airmen would have to try and do it by hand.

Because of the blistering speed of the widow maker, Captain Bauer crossed into Sardinian airspace in less than an hour and a half, where a traditional airliner would have taken four hours to make the flight. A tower at Decimomano Air Base informed him of the situation on the ground, the loss of power, the makeshift efforts to illuminate the runway, and finally the icy runway conditions, which they were trying to clear. All of these were justifiable conditions for a pilot to turn back. Decimumanu Air Base Tower told Captain Bauer that that was an option.

As landing under these conditions, and the widow-maker was far, far from ideal. I'm not married, Decimumano Tower, laughed Bauer nervously. Checking his watch, she said. We have a little over two hours. hours to save a life. I'll see you on the ground. As the starfighter descended into the cloud cover, the buffeting began again, though it was not as extreme as it was back in Germany. Emerging below the thick grey cloud bank, Thau had guided his fighter towards the air base, straining his eyes to pick up the runway being illuminated by vehicle lights.

Fortunately, the power was out, and after a while of desperate searching, Bower could make out the dimly lit runway against an otherwise black background. Gain, he would have to trust his instruments when landing. Even under these precarious conditions, Bauer was confident that he could bring his fighter down. The icy conditions, he had no control over. The runway cleared as Bauer lowered the landing gear, and although the sun's rays were peeking slowly over the overcast horizon,

his ability was still very poor. But the landing gear locked in place, Bower held the stick tightly as his starfighter, the world-famous Widowmaker, made its final approach to the runway. The starfighter touched down with a bump which sent the aircraft airborne again. The tailwind was making the starfighter much faster and more difficult to control. It became painfully obvious to Bauer that he'd need more landing distance than the runway could provide. The front landing gear snapped and.

broke off as the starfighter hit the runway again. The entire front part of the fighter slammed into the ice as Bauer opened the speed brakes, dropped flaps, stepped on the brakes, and everything else he could think of to stop the runaway fighter as it careened down the runway, spinning several times to approach the end of it. Dr. Giovanni swiftly snatched up the phone when Colonel Lombardi called. Dr. Giovanni, the colonel said, I'm afraid that the fighter carrying the medication crashed upon landing. But... Dr. Giovanni!

A nurse burst into his office. Jessica has stopped breathing. Dr. Giovanni immediately hung up the phone, rushing to Jessica's room. Call her cold blue nurse. Hang on, little spirit. Hang on. An hour later, Dr. Giovanni, Captain Bauer, and Colonel Lombardi stood silently outside little Jessica's room looking in. Captain Bauer had a heavy bandage wrapped around his head, his right arm in a sling.

Little Jessica's parents sat next to their daughter, each holding one of her fragile little hands. Both her parents had their heads buried in the little girl's chest, crying profusely. We should go now, said Dr. Giovanni. Let's leave them a little privacy. Dr. Giovanni closed the door. Captain Bauer's gaze lingered on the beautiful.

little brown-eyed girl, laying on the bed hooked up to so many tubes and monitors. Little Jessica looked upon the injured pilot with smiling, grateful eyes. Though she still could not speak, she smiled as brightly as she could. Jessica's heart singing with joy that her parents were happy once more. The angel of death left that place, rising into the sky to continue his duties. He was neither angry nor upset that he'd lost the race. If the creator chose to spare someone, the angel of death could not and would not disagree. This was, after all, just a job.

The penance of Captain Silas Jacobson. This is likely the last thing anyone reading this needs to hear. But in the interest of posterity, we've had quite a rough go of it lately. The first realisation that struck me in the pandemics in subsequent shutdowns early stages was that I desperately needed a hobby. All the complaining over the years of not enough hours in a day had upset the cosmos, I suppose. The universe has called our bluff.

The second realisation is what I think many of us came to. Well, maybe realisation isn't the right word in this sense. Reckoning is, I think, more appropriate. I'm in the unique situation of actually being able to watch the chaos engulfing the country I grew up in from above. My family and I live on a ridge in the Appalachian Mountains in west-central Maryland. If I had lived even 25 or 30 years ago, I'd be completely ignorant to the great unmasking taking place around me.

Mother nature has backed us into a corner, and rather than combining our strength to fight her back, we've abandoned dignity and decency in the name of tribalism and genuine hatred. the kind that only hundreds of years can cultivate, regardless of where you stand politically, it is disheartening to say the least. For once I was happy to have grown up in the social desolation of the mountains. Aesthetically pleasing, I can see the appeal, especially if only staying at most a few weeks at a time.

Many come to the mountains to feel soothed, or to be one with mother nature, whether it be during a rigorous 12-mite hike or a leisurely swim at the base of a small waterfall. But the longer you spend up here, and I'm talking years here, well, you learn that you're actually being lulled into a false sense of security. Every step you take is met with a crunch or a snap, one that alerts a truly remarkable number of fellow creatures to your presence. Rodents, deer, birds, bugs, you name it.

It's got eyes on you. The landscape with jagged edges and rugged paths aims to go out of its way to keep us on our toes, more so than other dangerous environments. It's all a reminder that we are visitors and will be thrown out as such if we misbehave or disrespect our hosts. Hiking isn't a hobby out here.

Hiking is all about exploring new places. I knew the ridge and every forked path by the time I was a teenager. God knows I tried, but my wife has had to point out to me that eating is not a hobby either. The same went for drinking and smoking. Those were less funny conversations, but I'm glad she's looking out for me. I'm sure you're wondering why I'm still up here, if I don't care much for it. Many of you will understand this, and many of you will feel. find it inconceivable, but there comes a time when your parents need your help more than you need

theirs. It just doesn't usually happen in your late twenties. I hate to complain about it. I love them dearly. I mean, they didn't ask me to stay, but they didn't ask me to leave either. My father was recently diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. He's been retired for a few years, but my mother has very much a full-time job. It worked all right for a few months after the diagnosis, but my wife and I eventually learned to see past the facade. We offered to break our lease in the Nova area and move into their basement.

Dad took some convincing. Mum did not. Our plans, buying her first home, seeing the world wants it safe to. Her own pause. And that's sad from time to time. You can't choose your family, which is why it's important to hold them close. They're irreplaceable.

But I think I should be able to say that this isn't where I want us to be. My dad, retiring when he did, also had to learn the importance of a hobby. He's a Marine, once so and forever. A man so accustomed to and comforted by order learned the hard way, that retirement and the empty hours it ushers in is a challenge in and of itself. Well, being a history buff is helpful. There isn't really a limit to what you can learn or read into. He took rather quickly to genealogy

and made himself into quite the historical detective. He's managed to track our family back some 500 years and done the same for extended family and even friends. He even published a few books, or using hundreds of pages of transgender. transcribed journals of combatants of the Civil War, a topic which has eternally fascinated him. It's a topic that's become increasingly difficult to discuss lately, for reasons we don't need to relitigate. My father is the smartest, most compassionate and caring man I've ever encountered, in any capacity,

which is why his insistence in specifically telling the stories of Long-gone Confederate soldiers has baffled and sometimes disappointed me. The way he explains it, you can tell it's at least coming from a place of goodwill. He always reminds me that those men in particular fought in a large sense because they had no other choice, and that many of them likely either detested the institution of slavery or had no thoughts on it at all.

I suppose that makes a lot of sense. But I believe we need to be careful with our sympathy. That was a war of right and wrong. and good versus evil, and as much as any fantasy novel would be. My way of reckoning with this is by doing what emotionally unavailable men of a certain age do best, pretending it doesn't exist, and drinking beer, tried and true. But of course, Dad's new affliction meant an end to that hobby, writing and typing are no longer second nature to him.

Well, we might not say it, but we love each other dearly. That being said, we don't share a ton of interests at our respective ages. I needed something to pass time. I may as well do something to bring him some degree of joy. I offered to assist him with his research, despite my objections to his subjects. This mostly involved taking notes to sort of keep him on the right track and completing transcriptions for his final book,

an oral history of the first Virginia cavalry's involvement and movements during the Battle of Antietam. Sintillating stuff, I know. He's accumulated hundreds of old newspaper documents and journals over the course of the last few years through a myriad of means. We take for granted the sheer amount of written historical data around just our immediate area, let alone the whole world.

But to process all of it in one lifetime is unquestionably impossible, so many of us make no effort to even begin. I thought the objective thing to do would be simply starting with the first journal that caught my eye. I shuffled through a few stacks and found the winner. It was a truly unbelievably old journal. The pages had an amber tint, and they looked quite stiff, as did the faded black leather cover. Dust had settled into several layers atop the front of the journal, but not thick enough to cover what grabbed my attention. The top corner of the cover was missing, and in its absence appeared what looked to be the edge of a drawing on the first page.

When I flipped the cover, I realised it wasn't a page attached to the book at all. It had been inserted there. The drawing was unsettling, even though I didn't really know what I was looking at. I think I do now. It wasn't something I would have expected to be in a book like this. It looked to be, oh, I'm not. figure, the general shape of a human, save for the exaggerated length of its limbs and torso. The way it had been drawn, black graphite recklessly filling in the vague outline of the shape,

it looked as though a toddler had been asked to draw a shadow, or perhaps asked to draw something they'd seen in her nightmare. I became anxious the longer I looked at it. I felt as though I'd just or was just about to receive bad news. The feeling amplified when I noticed a single word, written in a sophisticated juxtaposition to the drawing. It looked like classic antebellum-era cursive handwriting. Well, cursive is not a strong suit of mine. The word was clearly, repent.

I asked Dad how this had come into his possession, and if he knew anything of the drawing. Oh, wow, he began incredulously. some bozo tried to pass it off to me at a round table meeting once tried to tell me it was the most important artifact of the civil war era and that someone with a little more influence in the publishing world would be better off with it he was a real nut sounded a bit too southern to be from around here said the journal was proof the union had been aided in the war by the devil or something sinister along those lines he was a real the South will rise again kind of guy. Few of us asked that he not come to meetings anymore, and I haven't seen him since. Guess he must have stashed it in one of my boxes on the way out. He scoffed when he looked to the drawing. He passed it off as the scribbles of a madman and left it at that.

But his story had piqued my curiosity. Be my guest, he replied upon my asking to give it a read. Just don't waste too much time on it. won't be making the final draft. Well, I have no doubt the man my father met that night is a nut, a bozo, and a deplorable racist, but after reading the contents of the journal, I think he's onto something. I can't be sure that what I'm about to disclose to you is real. This man would have to have gone to a lot of effort to write this entire journal

and age it to look so authentic, but I suppose it is possible. If it is real, it is at the very least important. It may not change the way we look at or remember the war. It certainly won't change the outcome. Well, I guess I can't really explain the significance of it myself. You may have to gauge it on your own, but at least for me, it will haunt me until I take my final breath. From what I've been able to ascertain,

the following is allegedly the journal of Captain Silas J.G. of the first Virginia cavalry, chronicling his experiences during and after the Battle of Antitone, the bloodiest single day in the history of the United States. I will transcribe it exactly as it is written. September 17, 1862. Sarah, my love, should this journal somehow find itself in your possession, I ask that you put it down now and read no further. that you remain steadfast in your love for me is all I have left to carry on.

I hope to see you again in the next life, though I fear we shall never meet eyes, hold each other or share a kiss for the rest of eternity. Please remember the man I was. Before this madness, that man is forever yours. I, Captain Silas Jacobson of the first Virginia cavalry, leader of the finest regiment in the Confederacy. I am a coward. I have abandoned my men,

who I have promised directly to their face, their safety on many occasions. It is for this reason I feel my soul has passed a point of no return. I betrayed my men, as Judas did to Christ, but I will only be exchanging one hell for another. The battlefield I fled is unlike any I have experienced in my entire military career. It's akin only to what we've been told in revelations. Oh, a swamp of bodies animalistically twisted and contorted beyond recognition.

All those men, my men, wandering aimlessly in shock, each of them the last to realize they've been stolen her limb. Boys as young as 15 years, with frozen expressions of regret of a life they have not yet lived. indiscriminate carnage among all sides of this war and for what I ask I hate my enemy only because he hates me and he hates me for the same reason at times I too struggle to recall why the fighting began and each time I remember my shame deepens that we are fighting to keep men of God just as we are in chains and servitude is what sickens me most when I gaze across the apocalyptic landscape of battle.

We have done as Egyptians did to God's people all those thousands of moons ago, and I fear we will meet the same fate. In any case, I have been guilty of a great sin. I have taken refuge in the rugged terrain of the Appalachia to the west of the conflict. I am accompanied only by my steed, Gabby. We've made it considerable distance from the fighting in Antietam. It's only now, amidst the serene nature of God's creation, I am able to reflect upon my cowardice. If any of my men still live, they will be deserved of the justice my catcher will bring.

They will certainly be looking for me. I intend to return to the sight of my betrayal and hope to face the noose as a man who has repented his sin. I believe this will be my only salvation. September 18, 1862. It seems the fatigue of battle has rendered me a bit disoriented. I have wandered the path I believe I arrived by from dawn to dusk, but feel as though I am exactly where I began this morning. The trees of the forest appear to stretch as far as an ocean.

I have begun to announce my position, in the hopes I may be intercepted by a passing regiment of either side, but I have not heard a noise besides the quiet bustle of the wilderness. Perhaps I have not respected my mental state after the battle in subsequent need of rest. I'll retire for this day, for this purpose. All I shall do in the time I have left is pray. I do feel his presence here with me. In his creation, these mountains have either hosted battles or men on their way to battles

for so, so long. Oh, I'd forgotten how astoundingly beautiful the region was before the war. I will regret my cowardice for the remainder of my short life, but I am thankful for the opportunity to enjoy a final evening under the stars. Camps of either my brothers or my enemy could not have gotten far in a day's time, if the battle has even ended. I'll find them tomorrow to face my judgment, as I was not able before. September 19, 1862, I would not have earned my title of captain, if not for my tracking skills. I have and will continue to call the Blue Ridge my home, and have never had an issue travelling paths previously untouched by man, but I cannot find my way out of this wood. Gabby and I rode again

from dust till dawn, all in the direction I knew to be east. We must have travelled at least fifty miles of wilderness to no relief. She is tired, I am tired. The mountain is not to be underestimated. This evening I shall make note of the North Star. I must have become so disoriented the day prior that I have driven Gabby and I far deeper into Appalachia than I care to be. The woods are aware of my presence. I feel as though the eyes of each of God's creatures are fixated upon me and my shame. My rations will only last a few days more, and while what is plentiful in creeks and streams, I worry dehydration will take effect. soon, if it hasn't already. For a brief glimpse, only moments ago, I believed I experienced

a hallucination of sorts. In the midst of the never-ending fauna surrounding me, a lone tree appeared to take on a deep black colour. Its appearance has me filled with an unease I have not been successful in shaking in the moment since. But I cannot locate the black tree at this time. I cannot determine whether my fear is of the tree itself or the tree. or it's proof of my impending madness in these woods. I pray this is my final night here. Evening of September 19, 1862. The sun descended hours ago,

but the stars have not appeared in their stead. It's as though a thick wool blanket has been silently and instantly unfurled across the sky. I will continue to monitor, but I fear I must prepare for a reality in which my sense of direction is rent. completely useless. September 20th, 1862.

Madness is setting in. The North Star did not appear to me, as it did to the wise men that glorious evening, and I am left with no idea of where I am or how I can leave it behind. Gabby is becoming restless, as though she knows what will happen if we do not find civilization soon.

Perhaps I have no right to do this, to her, given what I've done to my men. She didn't choose to flee. I did. If I am to save my soul, I am of the mind. I must not allow Gabby to become victim to my poor judgment. September 22, 1862.

I am left with one thought, one explanation after the trials of my last hours as to my inability to escape these woods. I use the word trials, as this is what I have come to. I am not alone in these woods. Gabby has gone. I set her free. It was my hope that a selfless act such as this would end my suffering.

I would finally be granted the peace of the grave should I repent my shame by sparing Gabby's life. But she accompanies me no longer, and I remain here. What's replaced her are continued visions of a lone, tall, absolute blue. black tree, stalking me no matter how many miles I've travelled. It's with me. It moves with me. It sees me. I can feel its awareness of me, and it's deeply unsettling. Because of these visions and the endlessness of the wood, I believe I find myself in a sort of purgatory. I'm not met with the wails of millions of tortured souls, which is some saving grace. If I am in hell,

where I know I belong, it is nothing that the scriptures fall. foretold, no, I am being tested. Faith is the only tether to reality that I retain. I must persevere, I must continue to repent. Freeing Gabby was not sacrifice enough. I will suffer as long as God wills it, if it is a means to his kingdom in the world beyond wherever I am now. September 27, 1862. I believe, but cannot be sure, this is the tenth day of my trial. I cannot begin to imagine the amount of distance I feel as though I have travelled. I feel I've traversed enough land to cover the great state of Virginia dozens of times over. This is, most certainly a trial, but I am no longer convinced it's a trial from God. My visions have not been of a tree,

but of an entity. It is long, foreboding and angry. It is as though a shadow of a man. The moment before the sun descends has risen from the ground and taken physical form. I've tried to communicate with it. It will not respond. Only stare.

The entity has no features upon its dark face, including eyes, but I still feel its sharp gaze at all times. This is what has trapped me here. It is eternally 20 yards behind me in any direction. I have not eaten or drunk anything in three days. My stomach aches and my mouth and throat burn with dryness, but death will not greet me.

I'm no longer certain I'm even alive, or if I exist in any sense. This thirst and hunger should have overtaken me long ago. I have not encountered. is a single living thing that I could gain some sustenance from. No rodents, no deer, no birds, not even. A single ant has crossed my path since I last saw Gabby. Oh, I miss her dearly, but I'm hopeful she's not suffering the same fate I have.

I hope she's not encountered the same or similar entity. It is evil. The feeling it instills in me is proof enough for me. Please, Lord, grant me mercy. I know what I've done, and I know I must suffer, but I need to know you can still hear me, that you can still see me. I need to know this entity is of your creation. I need to know I still walk in what is your domain. October 10, 1862. Perhaps this is the fate that befalls cowards such as I.

Banishment to a place that exists outside of God's reach. I do not know what else. to make of this mountain. The entity no longer looks on from a distance. It lumbers over me, encompassing the entire direction of every move I make. I'm unable to move towards it myself, unable to defend myself against it in any capacity, but it can get as close as it likes to me. I believe it's begun to tease me. If I close my eyes, only for a moment so as to embrace the darkness I can fully actually understand. and I am met with visions which fill me with a dread I cannot describe.

I see who I believe to be my wife, but I can't be certain. I'm not sure I can recall her name. The joy her appearance brings me is instantly stolen from me by that evil. She's with the little girl, my little girl, and the girl's crying, her mother is not. They're standing by a crudely put-together crucifix in the ground, and they are alone. I know this is my legacy. As soon as I begin to grow numb of what's become of my name,

I am forced to bear witness to a vision of something far greater in scope. I return to a battlefield, a place where I feel a brief spark of comfort in its familiarity, before it's ripped away by violence and carnage on a scale, I thought only possible in nightmares. The field stretches in two directions, as far as anyone can see. In the other two directions,

the field ends before being engulfed by a perfect black void. In the field I see men brandishing weapons I have never encountered, weapons capable of evaporating their enemies in an instant, and collecting casualties at a rate I simply cannot fathom. Others are viciously stabbed, shot and gutted, but even these men continue to fight, as though they've not been so much as scratched. I feel the pain of each of their wounds as the violence in dances around me, lining the edges

of the field just before the void. What are like families, they huddle around each other and look on in sheer horror, many of them shielding their children's eyes. Their black, white, brown, and tennie race in between, but the emotion on each of their faces is identical. I feel their pain as well, but it is a pain which no physical wound could bring. I feel that they have been made to watch this mess for an eternity. I cannot take these visions any longer.

I've held out hope in my soul for so, so long. Any salvation I was hoping to find here will never materialize. I've reached for my knife several times now to gauge the entity's reaction. It does not move. I've held the knife in my hand and still the entity remains. Upon completion of this entry, I shall take my own life. I hope this will be my final entry.

October 15, 1862. I cannot determine why I've been allowed to continue to write in the entity's presence. I believe I am being made to feel hopeful so that I can have it taken from me as it has every other part of me. The entity allowed me to believe for one beautiful second that I'd taken my. final breath. I dug the blade into the base of my neck and drew it directly across my throat. I felt my blood run down my chest as I fell to the ground and my vision began to fade. It was euphoric. My sight returned in full as an intense burning sensation consumed my throat. I looked up at the entity which had manifested a crude impression of a hand at the end of its sinewy long arm.

It gripped me by my throat to smoke billowed from my mouth. The entity was cauterizing where my knife had sliced. It will not let me die. It will not allow an end to my suffering. I am completely powerless against it, and this is my hell. The same hell Judas encountered

upon his betrayal as well. This is the fate that befalls all those who turn their back on God. I've led myself and my men into battle against those who would read each other's of chains. I have betrayed my men in fleeing, but led them each into a grand betrayal of our brothers and sisters in Christ. I'd pray that they not suffer the same fate, though. I know it will never make it to God from this place. This will be my last writing for some time. I see no point in reliving what I'm experiencing here if I do not need to.

The entity seems completely indifferent to it. If it simply exists only to curse me with these visions, and I suppose that's what will happen. If it wishes for me to write with my suffering, I'm sure I'll do that as well. January 14, 1881. I'm sure that I'm meant to write now. The entity blessed me today with a final vision of my wife before she succumbed to the cancer which ravaged her.

I was given a wonderful, brief moment of what I remember to be joy as I looked into her eyes as they closed forever. She was beautiful. Though I know this piece she was given me, she's gone to a life I cannot hope to ever know. March 11, 1918. The entity has craced me with a new vision,

a generous vision which allows me foreign feelings of love and joy, while punishing me in a way I only deserve. I returned to the battlefield and immediately met with the presence of my daughter, but she's an old, sharp-looking woman now. It is this moment I feel the swell of relief in my heart. She has grown, so she has lived. She lives ignorant of what happened to me. But my relief is soon terminated. The battle makes its presence known, though in this battle one man is forced to fight untold thousands of waves of airs. enemy competence. I can see my daughter again, but she is far more distraught than any previous soul to line the edges of this battlefield.

She's wailing, a wail which reverberates up and down my spine, twisting each nerve along the way. I look back to the poor soul being brutalized in the field. He's young, no more than sixteen. His body is hit by molten hot lead in droves, but his body remains intact. He is a familiar, innocent face. This is my great-grandson. His life and his grandmothers are consumed by battle as mine was and remains.

My shame has brought a price to their doorstep, all these decades later. Yet still in that time I have not grown numb to pain as this. July 1, 1936. The father never bothers to imagine the death. and burial of their only child. But had I, I am certain I would not have felt the joy and pride I felt today, as the entity allowed me to see my daughter lowered into and returned to the earth. Her interment could not have been more different from my own. Her death has been met with anguish, as mine was met with indifference. Scores of men and women and children of every

age and every colour, all steadfast in their admiration for my daughter. my true legacy. It was the longest funeral I've ever witnessed, dozens of attendees eager to give my daughter a memorable eulogy. I learned of her deeds which led to this reverence. She'd spent decades fighting in a manner far more effective than I ever could. She's laboured to build something truly meaningful out of the ruin of what I'd left behind, a world in which all of God's children can bask in his creation.

I cannot truthfully remember what drove me to fight in the first place, a sense of duty most likely, but it was not with this world in mind. I do wonder if it was my shame that drove her to this life. For a moment, it doesn't feel like shame. With my daughter's passing, all life I knew during my own has gone on to the next. Whatever the entity will show me next,

I do not feel compelled to log it any further. It stands over me, still. The sun never rises above its visage. Perhaps in a hundred years it will communicate with me. Perhaps in two hundred years it will move away from me. Perhaps in a millennia I'll be freed of its limbotic state. But for now I can only assume my hope will be stolen away by visions I cannot imagine. But I will cherish this vision as long as I can remember.

July 2nd, 1936. The darkness of the entity seeped into the sky around me until it had completely enveloped anything my gaze had graced. This was only moments after I'd set my journal to the ground. Before I could process fear, the void shattered in a thunderous clap which shook my whole being. The blackness evaporated and I was greedy with something I'd not seen in decades for this hell. I saw the edge of the wood.

I could hear the rustling of leaves. leaves or the chorus of the birds. I was sent into a state of shock by the earth's sudden wonder, and finally I was met with what I yearned at all these years, an unfamiliar hunger and thirst, one which caused me a pain I'd forgotten. I am dying. I grow weaker each second. I write now only because this record suddenly exists in a world which it may be read, and if it is, I beg you, burn it. It is my hope that my daughter is all that is ever remembered of me, is with that peace I can finally enter the next life. Perhaps I will see her soon. Not that it matters, but I burn the journal immediately after initially transcribing it. I can only hope the wind took the ashes

closer to the woman he loved in life. I'm not sure I have the right to publish this. Even now my heart races as I hover over the post button. Captain Jacobson is at rest, finally, but I do not feel he would want to know if the horrors he experienced changed anyone or anything for the better. I know they should, and I hope they might, but I fear that they won't. 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 favour of you. Wherever you get your podcast from, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast.

That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place, and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.