Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 31 Scary Stories For Sleep, Relaxing, When You're Stuck at Home or Work | 10+ Hour Mega Compilation

Episode Date: August 30, 2023

These are 31 Scary Stories For Sleep, Relaxing, When You're Stuck at Home or Work | 10+ Hour Mega Compilation Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits:►https://www.reddit.com/user/LucifersWitness/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Ok_Apartment_7347/►https://www.reddit.com/user/AtomicShades/►Anonymous►https://www.reddit.com/user/lysergicdreamer/►Anonymous►Anonymous►Anonymous►https://www.reddit.com/user/BoyWithALoafOfBread/►Tate V►Anonymous►Deathraptor►Deathraptor►https://www.reddit.com/user/Carbodex/https://www.youtube.com/@UCMR9ap8pGm4UjmwsNj7BVHw ►https://www.reddit.com/user/cosmogoblin/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Boobowbuttercup/►https://www.reddit.com/user/sunshine_dreaming/►https://www.reddit.com/user/mrbeefthighs/►https://www.reddit.com/user/PageTurner627/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Accomplished_Ask3563/►https://www.reddit.com/user/eternalvampricsoul/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Lumpy-Ambassador100/►https://www.reddit.com/user/codeman404/►https://www.reddit.com/user/darnelIlI/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Theoperatorboi/►Anonymous►https://www.reddit.com/user/ArmchairDetectives/►https://www.reddit.com/user/disco-dingus/►https://www.reddit.com/user/flyingflair/►https://www.reddit.com/user/FishermanTales/►https://www.reddit.com/user/PR1ZE0/►https://www.reddit.com/user/The_Misery_Man/►https://www.reddit.com/user/Jgrupe/https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCM7ofrYvLW50nqP5_Wa4aiQ/videos?app=desktop Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:17:30 Story 2 00:23:07 Story 3 00:51:32 Story 4 01:10:33 Story 5 01:40:04 Story 6 01:59:31 Story 7 02:19:07 Story 8 02:58:02 Story 9 04:14:49 Story 10 04:36:51 Story 11 05:06:39 Story 12 05:12:23 Story 13 05:15:52 Story 14 05:25:50 Story 15 05:54:26 Story 16 06:02:11 Story 17 06:17:51 Story 18 06:24:32 Story 19 07:50:53 Story 20 08:01:59 Story 21 08:06:53 Story 22 08:19:28 Story 23 08:22:52 Story 24 08:28:29 Story 25 08:36:06 Story 26 08:55:27 Story 27 09:33:11 Story 28 09:57:57 Story 29 10:02:17 Story 30 10:29:19 Story 31 Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #Justcreepy #skinwalker #forest #nationalforest 💀As always thanks for watching! 💀

I'm the owner of a small diner tucked away in a town somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. The diner doesn't really get much action aside from townsfolk, and the occasional out-of-towner passing through and looking for a hot meal. And when those folk happen to come by, I like to introduce myself, bring them their food, and then sit down with them, and explain a little game I like to play to pass the time out here. For some context, I inherited this diner from my parents, and have spent practically my whole life in this town, aside from the rare trips to nearby events,

markets, state fairs, etc. But those are really only reserved for special occasions. And I don't mind that. I enjoy the peace and quiet that comes with my lifestyle, and I can't deny that as far as lives go, I happen to have myself a pretty good one. I have wonderful friends, the sweetest husband, and a beautiful baby girl named Kate. But as nice as my life is to me, I can't deny that it's also real stuff. slow. Not many big things have happened to me, if y'all understand what I'm saying. And so whenever an

unknown face walks into my diner, I ask them if they have any stories to tell me. And if they do, I'm always more than happy to give them a discount on their meal. I've been doing this since I was 22, so about 10 years now. Okay, I'm going to admit something a bit embarrassing to y'all. The reason I had when I first started to do this was that I had recently found out about the notion of cryptids, and I thought the concept was pretty damn cool. More specifically, I thought people viewing me as a cryptid would be pretty damn cool. You know, some girl and some diner in the middle of nowhere that you end up spilling your darkest secrets to and then never see again. Wouldn't that be a kind of neat way to be perceived?

Well, my spooky little young adult self thought so, and that's where it all began. Normally people are quite hesitant to talk at first. However, they tend to warm up to the idea after I, I remind them not only will we likely never cross paths again, but I don't care about what kind of story they tell me. Whatever they feel like talking about I'll listen to, I just want a break from the monotony of small town life. And boy, have I heard it all? Love affairs, childhood traumas, crazy deathbed confessions heard by nurses. The story of a very intoxicating and very hush-hush two-month relationship a customer had with another woman in college before she

tragically passed in an accident that she's never told a soul about since, especially not her very Catholic now husband. But besides all that jazz, there's one type of story I keep being told. Horror. Now I get why this is. Ghost stories, supernatural crap, whatever you want to call it, that's the kind of thing people are hesitant to talk about. And in my opinion, half of it is because that's the kind of thing people are hesitant to believe. But who cares if you tell it to me? You're not going to see me again, so what's the harm in finally telling someone? It even wouldn't matter if I didn't believe them, they'd still get the discount. But I do believe the stories people tell me.

It's something in their eyes, I think. When I look into them, I can see they're being haunted by something awful, and I think it helps them to talk about it. To leave here with the knowledge they're not carrying that burden alone, and carrying it with them is something I'm thankful I get to do. I listen to their stories. bring them sweet tea and dessert to cheer them up afterwards. I'll hold their hands if they'll let me,

and just generally try to help them. It's one small way I can make an impact on some people who are really hurting, being the kind stranger they can confide in, knowing that they'll be believed. But anyways, I've told my husband some of these stories over the years, and he recently started browsing this subreddit, and mentioned to me that I should think about sharing some of them with y'all. And so here I am, sitting in my cup,

chair after my baby girl finally fell asleep with my laptop and my absolutely darling cat cinnamon. I really do hope you guys enjoy the story I decided to share today, and I'll probably post some more soon. It was about five years ago now. I think this happened sometime in early July, so it was just after my 27th birthday. A young woman stumbled into the diner. I'd guess she was maybe a few years younger than I was. Twenty-three, maybe? Well, the poor thing looked like she hadn't properly slept in weeks. With eyebags so dark I had to take a moment to figure out if they were actually black eyes. She sat down at a booth and I came over to pour her some coffee, which she gratefully accepted. I took her order, waffles with powdered sugar and a side of mixed fruit, and moved to sit down

across from her. Instead of asking if she had stories to tell, I decided to ask her if she was all right, as the way her eyes shifted around the room, and the way her hands trembled so violently as she tried to use the cutlery, made me nervous that she was in some sort of danger. She looked at me and her eyes began to water, and in the softest voice you could ever imagine she just told me that I wouldn't believe her. It was here where I explained some of the parts of my game, focusing on the fact that there's really no harm from talking about it if she wanted to. Our paths would probably never cross again. I remember the way she looked down at the table, as her hands moved to scratch quite violently at the skin on her arms, which were just covered in long red marks already.

My heart absolutely ached at the sight, but I decided not to say anything for the time being, though it took everything in me not to reach over and take her hands away and hold them myself. Finally, she sighed and met my gaze as she nodded ever so slightly at me. She told me she had a stalker, and not one she thought was human. The first time she saw him was a few months prior, when she was walking to her dorm alone one night, back when she lived right by the Appalachian Mountains. She had gone out with some friends, and didn't realize how late it had gotten. And by the time she had started to make her way home, it was nearly two in the morning. The fastest way to get home meant she had to use a small path that cut through the woods. And she told me she was too worried

about the big test she had to get home to study for, to really think about the dangers of walking through there at night. As she walked, she said she got that awful feeling that she was being watched, and out of nowhere she was hit with this horrific wave of anxiety, that her heart began to race like a scampering jackrabbit and she broke into a cold sweat, and then she noticed it watching her through the tree line. It was tall and vaguely man-shaped, although she said she would hesitate to call it that, and by tall she meant inhumanly tall, roughly seven or so feet by her guess. Its skin was a sickly pale and its eyes were bloodshot, accompanied by an impossibly wide grin that revealed way too many horribly stained teeth. From what she could see, the thing was completely hairless,

and was dressed in camouflage-type clothing, the kind that hunters and the military wear. She said that she froze up when she saw it, staring at the thing in absolute horror, and it just stayed there, smiling at her. Eventually she snapped out of it and bolted, yet the thing made no move to follow her. All it did was turn to face her and continued to smile as she ran off. She told me that when she got back to her dorm, just got this sudden urge that she was going to be sick. And this was super weird, since the girl had only thrown up twice in her life. Once when she got a really bad case of the flu, when she was 10, and once when she got a little too drunk at a party in high school. Yet she had spent the next ten minutes throwing up everything in her stomach, and the next twenty dry heaving over the toilet.

Her roommate had rushed in to find her covered in sweat and violently sobbing as she threw up for no apparent reason. She had tried to tell her about the thing that she saw in the woods, but her roommate had told her that she was probably just sick with something, and her mind was playing tricks on her. She said that night she had supposedly had these beyond horrible nightmares, and her roommate told her the next morning she had woken up screaming four separate times. That was her first encounter with the thing, but it certainly wasn't the last. At this point she had begun hyperventilating, tears ran down her cheeks, and a strangled cry reched itself from her throat.

I quickly ran over to the counter to get her some napkins and a glass of water before I finally gave in and grasped her shaking hands and held them tightly. I had asked her if she wanted to stop, but she just shook her head, and so I held her hands and waited for her to continue with her story. She said she realized pretty quickly that whatever it was came with the night. At first, she genuinely had just believed she had come down with some kind of awful virus, but when she woke up the next morning shaken and exhausted but by all other means healthy, she was very confused but didn't really know what else to do,

then email her professor to explain her situation, and sit on her couch and watch episodes of her favorite show, while she apparently clung onto her roommate for dear life. That was until nightfall came around, and she saw the thing again, and this time it was watching her from her living room window. Instead of freezing up again, she just started to scream, and when her roommate rushed over to see what was wrong, she looked out the window and went pale as a ghost.

She asked her roommate if she was seeing it too, and she just nodded before dragging her out of sight from the thing's view and calling the cops. Her symptoms immediately came back, the vomiting, the panic attack-like behavior, the sweating, all of it just like the night before. For some reason, though, her roommate was completely unaffected. Shaken, sure, but no sickness, no nightmares, nothing. Just like the few other people after that who saw it when they were with her,

although nobody ever saw it without her. And then the police showed up, and things got even worse. They couldn't brush her concerns off, even in the state she was in. her perfectly healthy roommate had seen it too, and so they began to look into things, and what they found was absolutely nothing. The thing couldn't be seen on the security camera footage right beside where it had been standing. They couldn't find a record of any person matching its description in their databases. No matter how many times she called over the next three months,

no matter the situation, no matter if there was another person there who insisted they saw it too, They couldn't find any evidence of it being there or any record of its existence. She went to a psychiatrist who determined she didn't seem to be suffering from any sort of psychotic disorder, and other doctors at the local hospital ran every test they possibly could to explain her symptoms. Head CT scans, MRIs, they all came back totally clean. She had no head trauma, tumors, or any type of head injury that could be causing hallucinations. Her blood tests showed there was no autoimmune disease that, that could explain the symptoms.

She did gastric emptying scans and other similar tests, which eventually confirmed there was no disorder that could explain the vomiting. The symptoms never happened during the day, during testing, or in any other situation. She never got sick, had any other type of nightmare or hallucination. She just kept seeing whatever the hell that thing was

and getting violently ill. Eventually she decided to just try her best to stay inside after dark, which worked for a while until the night when everything went very wrong. She had gone to a local cafe to get some homework done and accidentally fell asleep at her computer, and had woken up to one of the waitresses, gently shaking her awake and telling her it was closing time. Their closing time was 10 p.m.

The sun had said over an hour ago, her hands started to shake more violently than they already were, which I didn't even think was possible, and she choked back another sob before she continued to speak. She dug through her backpack to find her pocket knife and tucked it into her jacket sleeve before she began to bring. brave her way through the darkness back to her house. The cafe was only a 10-minute walk with the shortcut, 20 if she stayed on the streets. She considered her options for a moment, trying to figure out which was more dangerous. She eventually decided that while the streets would take longer, they were better lit, and maybe still had some people out. It wasn't that late, but this wasn't exactly a college town either. There wasn't exactly a nightlife besides one or two bars. Odds were that

she could make the whole trip and run into less than a dozen people. She had made it ten minutes before she got the feeling she got on the path again, the unmistakable feeling of being watched coupled with cold sweats and horrible anxiety. She slipped her knife out of her jacket into her hand and held it out in front of her as her gaze shifted to the nearby alleyway. And there it was, tall and pale as death, with the same bloodshot eyes and smile with too many teeth, and that same damn camouflage outfit it always seemed to wear. Only this time it also held something else, a bouquet of wilted flowers. As the thing held them out to her, she turned and bolted down the street, all thought of defending herself from that thing long forgotten. This time, though,

it dropped the flowers and took off after her, and this was the first time she realized just how fast it actually was. She told me she had always been a good runner. She did track in high school, and even made the state finals. And this was without a doubt the fastest she had ever run in her life, but this thing somehow caught up to her in a matter of seconds. And then it reached out and grabbed her shoulder. At this she took her hands away from mine and pulled down one of the sleeves of her yellow cardigan,

revealing her bare shoulder and my breath caught in my throat. On her shoulder was a large scar resembling the shape of a hand. Palm on the shoulder itself, the outline of long fingers marking the top of her arm. arm. My first thought was about the time I was 17 years old and saw a story about a woman who had acid thrown on her face on TV. It looked almost like that, but if a person with inhumanly long hands somehow managed to cover their own hand in acid without injuring themselves and gripped her shoulder as hard as they possibly could, or maybe like a third-degree burn in the

shape of a hand, like if it was from a person who was made of pure fire. She sniffled softly, which pulled me out of my thoughts. In a whispered voice, she told me that the doctor said whatever burned her ate away the fat and a good portion of the muscle in that shoulder. She can barely lift that arm now. As the tears ran down her face, she talked about how the pain she felt in that moment was like nothing else she'd ever felt before. She couldn't even describe it.

She remembered collapsing to the ground screaming bloody murder, and right before she blacked out, she said she saw the thing lean over her, and with that horrible smile still on its face, it hissed out one word to her. Soon. She woke up in the hospital two days later. Even after the wound healed, the pain never stopped and never got better. And that was it. That was the final straw for her. She withdrew from college, packed up her things, and moved states to live with her parents again. And for one week, things seemed to be okay. She thought maybe, maybe it didn't follow her here, until a bouquet of the same wilted flowers and an empty chocolate.

box stuffed to the brim with human teeth and fingernails appeared on her parents' doorstep. It got closer after that, more and more bold, until the night when it actually knocked on her window, banging on the glass with an almost maniacal frenzy until the police arrived. By that point, of course, there was nothing there, not a trace. Since then, she's just been driving around the country. Her parents have been sending her money for food and motels. She figured that if it took a week to get from her old town to her parents' house and only seemed to come out at night. Then maybe she could keep ahead of it if she just kept moving.

After a moment of stunned silence, I asked if I could hug her and rushed over to pull the shaking girl into my arms as soon as I got a nod of approval. I spent the next half hour gently stroking her hair as she sobbed into my shirt. I wanted to help this poor girl so badly, but deep down we both knew there was nothing I could actually do to keep her safe. But I told her the meal was on me and I took her back to my house. It was still light out after all, so I figured it was safe. I let her take a long shower and helped bandage up her arms, made her dinner, and introduced her to my cat. And then I cut up some fruit and placed it in Tupperware containers along with some cookies and gave her directions to the nearest motel. I still think about that girl

all the time. It's been half a decade and I haven't heard anything about her since. I don't know if she was taken by that thing, or if she managed to outrun it. But I still pray every single night that one of these days, she'll walk back into my diner and tell me the story of how she defeated that monster over more waffles covered with way too much powdered sugar and a side of fruit. Just in case I don't make it away from this thing, I'll leave this for an explanation. I am, as my father was before me, a man whose collar could compete with the sky's hue. My calloused hands are a testament to that. with a stature that could rival some ballplayers and a lack of aptitude for education, I was a football coach's star child, though unfortunately my NFL dreams are far behind me.

Taking advantage of what God gave me, soon after high school I worked construction, where from dusk to dawn I slaved till my back begged for a reprieve. Nevertheless, I wasn't taught to complain, and I never did. Somebody had to lay down supports and the job didn't get finished quicker by whining. After a quarter of my life passed, I soon realized that as much as I wanted to hold true to my father's ideals, my body was ready to call it quits. Hearing about an opening in a trucking company from a friend, I seized the opportunity without even a second thought. I'll never forget the feeling I got from stepping high into that seat and watching how the beast came alive. The rumbling under my feet from the cab's humongous engine slowly began to be my comfort as I passed from province to province.

aside from my dog of course I found him as a mangy lab whose skin practically stretched over its ribs the animal was uniquely dark could probably disappear when night falls and its eyes matched its striking appearance they seemed to always look for something to explore seeing the state it was in

I'd be heartless not to give it a place to eat since then it had been my support throughout most of my hardships I'd grown accustomed to running my hands through its fur instead of pouring my sorrows into a drinking cup. And without change, here that same dog was accompanying me on another outing. Making sure I had everything I needed in the cab, food water, and the such, I turned to the dog curled up in my seat. As I gave him a soft pat, the truck came to life, and so we began the trip. As usual, the drive didn't come with much entertainment. I watched tirelessly as car upon car passed by on the sun-beaten pavement. My one break in the noise was the sunset

spreading out colors of red, purples, and yellows. Even so, that was quickly replaced by stars laid across the night. I leaned back in the leather seat and laid my hands behind my head. Before I knew I was sleeping, I woke up. To my shock, flat grassland had been replaced by trees that seemed to block out the moon, and between them, no light escaped. The vast warped branches spanned out, almost touching the asphalt of the road. The only thing I could clearly see was the path in front of me. Still half awake, I quickly took notice of my dog's wines, pulling over on the side of the road and letting the animal out to go do its business. As I viewed from the Agape door, the dog made its way from the rocks deep into the cover of the tree line. I turned my head away

and began scrolling on my phone. Worry began to settle after 15 minutes ticked past. I let out a whistle. Here, boy, let's get out of here. For a few moments, the only thing that greeted me was the impasse of bark and foliage cloaking whatever may hide behind the surface. Then, as if on schedule, my dog clambered out of a break in the tree line. Where have you been, buddy? I chuckled softly. I was worried sick. The second its ears perked up to the sound of my voice, the animal became rigid. His body turned to me like he was attached to a spinning rod. A dead stare that went right through me matched my gaze. It sent a shock down my spine. It was out of character for the thing to make.

move so strictly. My dog held the same unwavering stare, and with every second passing, I could feel my heart pound harder in my chest. Then, he opened his mouth and began to let out this guttural moan. It was deep, quiet, and alien. Ignoring the primal voice screaming to get out of there and quick, I gave a look to the animal standing more still than the deep pine beside it, illuminated only by the light of the truck cab. It was a howl, I rationalized. Dogs do that. For the first time, and God knows how long I took my eyes away from the tree line, and onto the clock I kept on my dash. Before I could even make out the numbers on the clock, I saw in my peripherals something that sent fear down to the core of my heart. I slowly turned my head, and as if to confirm the feelings

of horror my whole body turned to ice. Upright on my two legs, and without breaking the leer, it gave me, it again began to vocalize. Where? It let out in the same jarring tone. Have! It spoke with long pauses between the letters, and it stretched out the vowels. In that moment, no matter how big I was, or the size of the truck, a primal feeling of being some animal's prey struck every bone in my body. I slammed my door shut as it sounded out the word you. As though he clocked in on my escape plan, it began making its way towards with its two back legs. Not once taking those eyes off me, it leaned back and forth as it stepped, increasingly upping the speed. I finally took heat of the voice screaming at me to run

and pressed the monstrous car to the highest speed it could go. And though I expected it, dread still wormed its way through me as I saw the animal in pursuit in my rear view. Albeit slow enough to give me enough time to stop at a motel and collect my thoughts, that's where I'm at now writing this. I'm watching and waiting

in case that thing figures out how to open doors. I don't think regular human beings are prepared to come face to face with what was, what is and what is to come, all in the same teary-eyed, naive, thoughtless gaze. It's too much for our small minds to handle, I think. I've experienced that once or twice in this lifetime. Taking a Michigander and shipping him off to a foreign land where nobody knows anything about you except your last name and rank, can be overwhelming to say the least.

It may be nihilistic of me to think so, but listening to the sounds of artillery rip your friends to shreds, hearing them call for God, their mother, or any other variety of final requests they may make. Knowing their demise is nearing with every second, puts the value of individual lives in perspective. By the time the black suits and billionaires decided the fighting was done, and I was sent home,

I had nothing but a small satchel of personal effects, used battle rags and nightmares. I had forgotten what it was like not to sleep on four-hour intervals trading time with a fearful, wide-eyed kid from the Bronx, or a too-cool-for-school black kid from the South, with the occasional appearance by the freckle-faced kid from down the street that enlisted with you, hoping he wouldn't die alone in a trench full of strangers, which of course he did.

Either way, I made it home in one piece. On the morning of July 26, 1959, 15 years after my return home from the Pacific, my clammy hands making the ink of the morning paper bleed onto the countertop as I stood wide-eyed, taking in the absolute horror of a story that I had found now. nestled between the personal ads and the sports section. It would be a falsehood for me to say the small voice in my head wasn't pleading to the universe, that it was fiction with every word my brain tried desperately to process as I scoured the story, which stretched nearly the entire page.

A new recurring column, perhaps? As if the world wasn't full of enough horror, at least for the working-class Joes like myself. The story detailed the gruesome journeyings of a couple of green naive kids from my hometown, According to the story, on August 16, 1936, a Sunday, the boys were experiencing the standard end of summer blues, and wanted to finally do something daring, more daring than sneaking out or making prank calls like most 15-year-old boys do. On that day, these two young men decided to poke around one of the two abandoned copper mines located on the outskirts of my hometown, Copper Hollow, Michigan. The town was cleverly named for the copper mines, which were first

discovered by miners from the northeast who followed the large river that ran through my town down south. The mines provided a huge economic boom for the area and copper hollow quickly sprawled into what it is today, which is still a small town by most people's standards. Unfortunately for the mining industry, both of the mines were closed down in the early aughts under circumstances that rang mysteriously, to say the least. I remember my father telling me at the time that a lot of the miners were getting sick, not from the mining itself, but from something else down there. A lot of the guys that descended into the sprawling depths of the mines came back different, to say the least. Many of them would be committed to the asylum up in Traverse City, but even more would just starve themselves

to death, without the courage to kill themselves off quickly, and with too much fear to continue living. My father said that it was all a bunch of ghost stories to keep people out of the mines. Officially, many thought the workers went on strike. Being miners at the time made very little and never returned. Others thought the copper ran dry. Many that were close to the workers who were laid off at the time of the mines closing, all claimed that there were other, far more powerful and sinister things at play that forced its closure. Nevertheless, the mining ceased and the formerly moved.

mineral-rich ground was sealed forever, or so I thought. According to the article, the workers, in a craze, boarded up all of the entrances except for one. This specific mine shaft was one of the first to be closed down, and was forgotten when the rest were sealed up. I remembered the initial story back in the 30s almost immediately. It was unclear to the authorities which of the two boys decided to convince the other to explore the abandoned mine, or which one of them objected. if they objected at all. If you're superstitious like me, the first thing you'd wonder is what possessed

these two young boys, who grew up hearing about how dangerous the minds were, and how eerie the circumstances of their closing were, to one day decide to venture into their abyssal depths. The article went on to recap from its initial story, that despite the best efforts of law enforcement, of course, only one of the two boys, a kid named Billy McKinnon, a young Irish fellow,

a few years younger than myself, made it safely back to the surface. The child was immediately rushed to the asylum 50 miles north of here for questioning, babbling on about some of the most horrifying things you've ever heard. From the beginning they tried their best to pin a murder on Billy. The case had two major problems, the first being that no corpse was ever found, and the second being that police were convinced by the insane babblings that he made from the moment of his capture, that he not only didn't know where he was or what he was doing, but didn't hold the mental capacity necessary to stand trial for murder. They shipped him off to the asylum in Traverse City, where he remained until today. The story indicated that after all this time, after years of

authorities from multiple agencies contacting him, trying to get closure for the Jacobs family, a family I'd known through other acquaintances, he had finally decided to come forward with his portion of the story, to clear his name, and agreed to finally speak to authorities. A week after reading the article, I ran into a family friend of mine by the name of Archie Rucker, now a detective, who informed me he was in the fluorescent-laden room when the now 38-year-old Billy was being questioned. Initially, according to Archie, Billy seemed too scared to talk, but once pressured, he gave a full account of the events that took place, and even now I find it hard to comprehend exactly what Archie told me was said. To make sure they got everything, they brought in a stenographer from

downstate, near Mount Pleasant, I think. Under the table, Archie sent me a copy of the transcript. This is what they were able to type out between the babbling and groaning from McKinnon. On the morning of August 16, 1936, my best friend in the whole world, Alex Jacobs and myself, decided that we were bored. To us, we were far more bored than any of the other kids in the neighborhood, whose parents had spent hundreds of dollars on toys, vacations, and expensive frozen desserts to beat the heat of the Midwestern summer. We were broke, with only a few cents for the occasional Coca-Cola, a couple of comic books, a deck of worn playing cards, and the type of vivid, at times explicit imagination that ranged from deciding whether the Three Stooges or Popeye would

win in a fight to observing how much bigger Laura Crowley's chest had gotten over the last year. Boy stuff. In the shadow of the morning sun, we talked over the activities for the day, beginning with riding our bikes along the same trails of the town square, buying an ice cream soda from the creepy corner store owner they see every day for groceries anyhow, strolling the park, or doing something different, something fun, something dangerous. Honestly, a part of me wanted to one-up Alex on the toughness scale, and another part of me didn't understand what we were agreeing to,

or understand the powers that be that aligned our destinies on this sunny, perfect morning. Regardless, somehow, we agreed to explore one of the abandoned copper mines, a former source of prosperity, peace, and happiness that slowly turned into a cesspool of legend and mystery. The first mine was out of the question. Unlike the haphazard exit of the second mine, the first had been demolished using dynamite when it was shut down to avoid anyone ever entering. plus that mind didn't come with the shock factor the second mine had the second mine was the one that carried

the stories of ancient power political and economic corruption and the allure of a dangerous daring adventure i'm sure you can understand that a lot of this is a blur to me i don't remember which but one of us decided on the second and the other quickly agreed the forgotten entrance we decided to use was a long-time hangout of some of the older teenagers ne'er-do-wells and miscreants for as long as I can remember. On this particular day, the entrance to the mine was untouched and unguarded, which left a perfect opportunity for us to not only enter the mine unbothered, but also unseen and undetected by the watchful eye of anyone who would try to stop us if they saw us.

The entrance to the mine began small enough that we had to duck to get inside, but then opened up into a large towering cavern, lined with railroad ties, rope and nails, the diameter of a dollar piece, a sturdy piece of architecture to be sure. My father is a steelworker, so I stole a couple of his big flashlights to make sure we didn't go in blind. I knew he wouldn't miss them. We wouldn't be gone that long. When I first entered the mine, turned on the flashlight and looked around, I felt the eagerness of a child on his first Christmas. My eyes ran rampant across the fixtures of rock and woodbeams, taking in every inch of the caverns, memorizing their

position, taking everything in. This was in part driven by the fear of getting lost in the unexplored territory, and part eagerness to find the next portion of the tunnel that led deeper into the mine. Alex was the first to find the next tunnel, to the left of where we entered, in a seemingly obvious part of the cavern. He approached it first, slowly, flashing his light inside to illuminate, even if ever so slightly, the path ahead, and he entered with extreme caution. And he entered with extreme caution to explore the next room. I followed him closely, feeling a lump in the back of my throat. It was very odd, being that I didn't necessarily feel fear, but I knew I had no idea where the tunnel led. Along the tunnel floor there lay pickaxes, barrels of safety equipment, rope,

and crates of rock that appeared to contain a shiny ore. I thought to myself at that moment, it was a bit peculiar, even if the miners rushed out, to leave the equivalent of unclaimed money laying in the halls of the mine shaft, but honestly, I didn't think too much beyond that. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. It felt like we were walking for ages. My feet began to get tired, and I felt the overwhelming urge to ask Alex to turn back and leave with me. At that moment I felt a stronger urge to continue exploring. It reminded me a lot like the anticipation of going on a vacation, or to a football game, something that I'd looked forward to for a long time. as we entered deeper into the mine without thinking about it,

I felt the ceiling get shorter and shorter. This continued until we were waddling like ducks along the floor of the tunnel. Finally the tunnel opened up into a large stone room. The walls were smoothed down, as if it were intentionally built at the end of this tunnel. What was odd, and unsettling to say the least, was the lack of edge to anything in the room. Even the corners that led to the floor had a rounded edge to them,

and even more the entire room seemed to be made of one solid stone. Alex and I both stared in awe at the room around us, and it took us a moment to finally realize that at the far end of the room lay a large stone structure. We slowly approached it, initially thinking it was some sort of makeshift break area for the miners, but it wasn't. It was unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

It was clearly much older than the mines, and truthfully, much older than anything I'd ever seen in real life. It reminded me of some of the ancient Egyptian and Mayan structures you'd see in National Geographic. I walked toward the base of the structure and I saw something that, even now, is extremely odd. There was a large book, like the kind you see in the library that has old newspapers in it, the great big books. This one was different, though.

Instead of the standard brown cloth binding, this book was very ornate. The book itself was bound in a leather of some kind, unlike anything I had ever seen before. It was black in color, but contained sparkles within it, like the kind of metallic paint you see on a car. It was mesmerizing. The odd part wasn't the book itself, interestingly enough. The odd part was that even though the book was clearly very old, perhaps hundreds of years old, there wasn't a speck of dust on it. It appeared to be brand new.

I slowly lifted the heavy cover open and shined my light on the top. pages, written over and over on every page, for the entirety of the book were the words, written in a dark black ink. The great dreamer's reign is near. Be ye ready. As the book went on, the writing became fainter and fainter, as if someone sat down in front of the book and wrote out this phrase over and over, in one sitting, as if they were running out of ink. Suddenly, towards the end, the ink changed. It went from a dark black to a deep viscous red. I quickly shut the book in horror. After that, I didn't know what to think. The thought of being in the cold, dark cavern, it was like I was feeling the tension of thousands of years of ritual and supernatural occurrences weighing me down, began to make my blood run cold. Everyone had heard stories of mysterious beings and energies dwelling deep within the mine, and this seemed to confirm that. It's very easy to see how horrifying it would have been to be in that place now, but in that moment, it felt like every second of the moment, it felt like every second of the mind. my life led me to this moment, this moment of clarity, this moment of understanding, this moment

of finally realizing my greatest purpose. It was like I'd wanted to be here my entire life, though I knew in the back of my mind that wasn't true. As we stood there for a moment in the complete silence and solitude of the underground cavern, suddenly Alex got my attention and directed it towards the ceiling, where an even larger structure jutted out from the wall creating a large effigy. The carving, even now, I have a hard time describing. If you were to ask me what I saw, I would say that I saw the head of a large black squid attached to a human body with black scaly skin, posed as if climbing through the wall towards us.

Its arms were stretched wide as if almost embracing those in the room. The eyes were what terrified me the most. They were burning red, searing, as if they could see into my very soul. On the walls around us we began to notice further carvings, which created the impression of wings. For a moment, just a moment in the dark, I could have sworn I saw it breathe. Even now, I wonder if I saw anything at all, or if my mind tried desperately to fill the void of some traumatic event, or some underlying fear that I carried with me into the cavern. Another part of me knows for certain exactly what I saw there. We stood and marveled at the sheer architectural feat that the effigy was for a moment.

It felt like we could stand there forever, taking in every painstakingly carved out detail of the effigy. Out of nowhere my ears began to focus on a sound coming from behind the stone structure. It sounded like the slow drip of a tap that wasn't completely shut off. I saw Alex look in the same direction I was, and flash his light that way. We walked around toward the back of the structure, using our hands to guide us along the swim. smooth, cold limestone towards the source of the dripping. As we made our way around, there was a small opening in the rock, smooth to a round edge, that led to a large staircase, the only right angles in the place, that led down into a dark abyss. Alex and I looked at each other, both of us

scared out of our minds. No turning back now, Alex said, his voice calm and confident, contrasting completely from his scared, timid nature that I had become familiar with over the course of our friendship. We nodded to one another and slowly made our descent into the depths of the abyss. Our flashlights at this point were no help, as they only seemed to show the next ten stairs or so. We took each step slowly, carefully, never a step out of place. In the quick glances I took at the walls of the staircase, I noticed the same characterization of the effigy above in various scenes. The one I remember best was one of the effigy coming out of a large box. of water. I don't remember more than that, but I know they lined the entire staircase.

At this point, we had been climbing down deep underground for what felt like forever. If I had to guess, I would think we went down at least 10 to 12 stories. The dripping seemed to get louder and louder until it was almost like the sound of a waterfall. Finally, halls of the staircase opened up to a slightly larger room, smaller than the first cavern, but with the same smooth stone walls. In the center was a pool of water, maybe six or seven feet in diameter, with a slow, soft drip coming from the ceiling dropping into it, making the sound. From here, the dripping sounded much calmer, much softer than in the staircase we had traversed. We approached the pool and shined our lights inside. It was the most beautiful, clear water I'd ever seen. At this depth,

it even had a slight blue hue to it, like the ocean. Alex seemed much more enthralled by it than I, but it was extremely beautiful. The longer I looked at it, the more I wanted to touch the immaculate blue water. Suddenly I became thirsty, thirstier than I'd felt my entire life. I'd have given anything for a Coke from the creepy corner store at the end of the block, or even the lukewarm water from the hose at home. But I knew, I knew for sure, that the best water in the world was in that pool. My long, pasty white fingers slowly drifted down towards the water to retrieve a drink for myself.

As they slowly, daringly approached, the feelings of desire for the water only grew. But before I could take a drink, Alex quickly placed both of his hands making a bowl out of them into the cold, dark water, pulled them up and drank. Alex paused for a moment, his eyes wide, and he began to quickly gulp down the water like an animal. I didn't know what to do. Yes, the water looked good, and yes, I wanted to drink it. I don't know what it was about seeing him drink the dark blue cave water, but it made all desires to drink the water fade away, as if they never happened in the first place.

All I could feel in that moment was dread. It felt like I was waiting for something horrible to happen. It's like watching a horror movie, waiting for the inevitable entrance of a monster in the form of a jump scare, but this time a monster didn't come. I couldn't watch him drink anymore and turned away. in place of a monster, and I know this will sound crazy, a voice began to speak inside my head. For a moment I had to convince myself that it wasn't my own thoughts, but the thoughts of another

more powerful force. The voice was deep, gravely, and sounded like a demon if you put it through a distortion machine like they use for movies and in recording studios. The tone of the voice was somber and absolute, with the level-headed delivery that you'd expect talking to a deity. Did you hear that? I asked Alex, my eyes veering back to him for the first time since he drank the water. Alex was staring into the pool, unmoving. His attention focused completely on something moving in the water. Alex, are you okay? Silence. This isn't funny, Alex, we need to go. I got up to leave and he grabbed my wrist with strength I'd never seen from him before. He pulled me back to the kneeling position I had taken up next to the pool and turned to lock eyes with me. me. But they weren't his eyes. His eyes were a black void. A void that I can only liken to that of

the backdrops of movies that take place in space. Absolute nothingness. No emotion. No empathy. Just an endless void. Did you understand what the great old one said, Billy? Who? What are you talking about? You heard the voice, I replied. In this shrine, the great dreamer's slumber has been interrupted. Alex, you're scaring me. I... It was at that moment. that I noticed the long, thick, rope-like tentacle sticking out of the back of Alex's head. It was surrounded by a steady stream of crimson blood. In a flash, Alex's body was plunged into the pool, the entirety of him disappearing into its cold depths. I looked deep into the water, frozen in fear, trying to find any signs of life.

Just as quick as he went into the water, I saw something begin to float towards the top of the pool. I slowly peered over the edge to get a better look, and suddenly I was face to face with my best friend, frantically trying to swim to the surface. I screamed for him. Oh, how I screamed for him. When he finally looked like he was about to crest the surface, he stopped. It was like he ran into a plate of glass. He started to bang his hands against it, and it was clear he couldn't get through. I wanted so desperately to just reach in and grab him, to rescue him, to save him.

I wanted with everything in my heart, body, mind, and spirit to help my friend out of that pool and to leave that place forever. I sat there frozen, willing my body to move, willing myself to reach in, grab his hand, and end this horrible adventure we had so innocently begun together, but could end with his death. His knocks became fainter and fainter, and I watched in horror as he fell deeper into the depths. As he descended into the darkness of the pit below, I could make him. out the faintest outline of a tentacle wrapping around him, dragging him down to his demise. A lot of what happened after that is a blur. I don't know if I screamed, cried, or did nothing at all. I don't remember how long it took me to traverse the staircase back to the large cavern.

But when I reached the top is when I began to regain my full awareness of my surroundings. As I turned the corner around the large stone structure that led us to the staircase in the first place, I came face to face with a room of 20 or more hooded individuals, each holding a gas lantern, a flame enough for me to see the dark, black, metallic fabric of their robes, adorned with golden sashes. They began to chant in the same language I had heard in my head in the cavern below, and I prepared to meet a similar demise to my friend. Their tone was not that of a hostile force, nor that of a friendly one. Their tone was almost fearful, yet calm and accepting, like the prayers of a cold.

convict on their way to the gallows. I slowly began to make my way around the outside of the room, following the wall to the entrance Alex and I had used to enter the cavern. Once I found it, I ran as fast as I could down the tunnel toward the large cave we first entered through. When I finally got there after what felt like ages of running, my eyes found the tunnel with the faintest light pouring into it. My heart jumped as I quickly traversed it to the surface. As I felt the crisp open air reach me, I closed my eyes to shield them from the afternoon sun. The clouds had passed. My eyes slowly began to adjust to the outside, my vision beginning to darken as I normalized the world outside of the mine.

The horrible sight that my eyes saw as they opened can only be explained as demonic and unnatural. When I opened my eyes, I saw nothing but long, green pastures, land that stretched for miles beyond where my hometown once stood. Gone were the streets, the cars, the buildings, and most frightening of all, the people. Above me, the sun was moving across the sky at a rate I could perceive with the naked eye, much faster than usual. As night came, the moon moved faster across the sky. The days began to fade by quicker and quicker, turning into months and years, all before my very eyes. I began to see structures emerge from the ground, blurs of people swirling around the new structures, the emergence of technology, and my hometown returning to the state it was when I left it.

I felt like it seemed to freeze in that time for just a moment before the sun and the moon became even faster, the stars moving so quickly that the sky became white with starlight. At once, when the copper hollow that I knew and had grown up in had died away, with only the bones remaining and new, silver structures lining its freshly paved city-like streets, the curbs lined with small spaceship-like vehicles. The sky faded once again to dusk and stopped. To my right, along the river, the wide expanse of the river began to move as a large, horrifying being emerged from its depths.

I can picture it so vividly, yet the words to describe it are unknown to me. I don't think that humans are ever supposed to see anything like that unless it's the last thing they ever see. The only thing I remember was a large black mass, shiny, scaly skin, claws, and a face of tentacles, but most of all, the huge blue and green eyes. The article concluded that just as Billy McKinnon was describing the horrible sight of the ferocious being he saw emerging from the river, on the date in question, he suffered a massive heart attack and died within seconds. With the new evidence, the police decided to search the mine again,

using Billy's account as a roadmap to Alex's last known whereabouts. They found the large cavern that Billy talked about, but the book and the carving were missing. As they descended into the staircase, just where Billy said it was, behind a corner of rock, they found the pool. Next to the pool, with rope wrapped around his neck, was the body of Alex Jacobs, still wearing the same clothes he was reported to be wearing when he disappeared in 1936. Every inch of the corpse was inexplicably soaking wet. A part of me wonders if they heard a mysterious voice, all their lives, slowly whispering into their deepest recesses to convince them to venture in. Perhaps they were able to hold off such calls into the voids of the mine for years, their impressionable state as very young

children, allowing them to buy into their parents pleased to never enter there, but no longer. Perhaps some ancient force existed beneath the mines long before the first humans set foot in this land. Perhaps it was always meant to stay hidden within the hills and mountains, but the miners somehow discovered it and released it. If Billy is right, there is no stopping the force that lies in the depths of that mine shaft, or any other forces like it that have operated all around us for millions of years. From my very temporary short existence, it can be easy to infer that, if after all this time they've laid dormant outside of those few outliers who choose to tamper with it, that it will not threaten our species. Even if we were to threaten their incomprehensible power

outright, the only path that our young naive species as a whole can go down, like Billy and Alex, will lead to the entirety of our consciousness screaming into an unanswering void, begging for the release of death and the blissful ignorance of such unknowable, unimaginable horrors that await within the black indifference of the universe beyond, the entities there, by their very existence alone, preying on the deepest, darkest fears of our race, fears that are so locked away deep within the fabric of our reality that we cannot pretend to understand or comprehend them.

It was just another ordinary evening when I clocked out from the factory, worn from the day's labor. The air was brisk, a premonition of the approaching autumn as I made my way to my rusty pickup, eager for the warmth of my home and the comfort of my bed. Driving along the winding roads, the countryside was as silent as the grave, save for the crunching gravel under my tires and the low hum of the radio playing old country songs. It was a drive I'd taken countless times before, a lullaby in its familiarity.

The cloak of darkness felt comforting, the loneliness of the road, a respite from the world's chaos. and then I saw it. Out of nowhere, it appeared in the beam of my headlights, standing eerily still at the side of the road. A deer. At first I felt a jolt of surprise, followed by relief. Just a deer, a common sight in these parts. But as my eyes locked with its own, a chill ran down my spine. Its eyes were not the simple, innocent orbs of a forest creature, but something far more haunting. They were startlingly human, filled with an inexplicable depth. that drew me in. As I slowed the pickup, half expecting it to dart away, it did something that made my heart thunder in my chest. With an uncanny grace it rose, standing tall on its hind legs,

its gaze never leaving mine. My breath hitched as I stared at the spectacle before me, my mind racing to make sense of the impossible scene. Was it a trick of the light? Or maybe fatigue playing games with my perception? A deer standing on its hind legs? My tired brain struggled to comprehend. But there it was, a silhouette illuminated by my headlights, as real as the cold leather of my steering wheel. I reached for my phone, my hands trembling. By the time I fumbled to switch on the camera, the deer had dropped on all fours and disappeared into the darkness. I sat there, heart pounding, the echo of that haunting gaze still imprinted in my mind. Finally, I shook myself out of my days, the radios crooning suddenly loud in the silent cab. I drove home,

the image of the upright deer flickering in my rearview mirror. I told myself it was fatigue playing tricks on me. I was just tired, overworked. My mind was seeing things that weren't there. Yet, as I turned the key to my front door, the cold biting at my fingertips, I couldn't shake off the feeling that what I'd seen was real. I locked the door behind me, the house eerily silent, and looked out the window into the dark night. Out there, somewhere, was that deer. And with a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, I realized my comfortable familiar world was no longer the same, and sleep when it came was filled with dreams of hauntingly human eyes, and a deer standing tall on its hind legs. Days turned into weeks, and the memory of

the deer was a persistent ghost at the back of my mind. I tried to dismiss it, tried to bury it under the monotony of work and the familiarity of home. I convinced myself it was nothing more than a product of exhaustion. But the universe had other plans. One evening as I was returning home from the factory, I saw it again, its silhouette outlined by the setting sun, standing at the edge of the woods bordering my home. My heart sank as it slowly stood on its hind legs, just as it had that night. The world seemed to hold its breath, and in that suspended silence, I felt my pulse quicken. The deer's gaze found mine, its eyes burning into me with a strange intensity. Fear gripped me in its cold embrace. It wasn't a trick of my tired mind, it was real. But how

could it be? The deer's presence became a dark constant in my life. It began to appear more often, not only by the roadside, but within the confines of my safe, familiar world. I would catch glimpses of it lurking at the periphery of my yard, its eyes eerily reflecting the moonlight. It would be there when I woke in the early hours, standing unnaturally on its hind legs, watching my house from a distance. It was even in my dreams, its presence punctuating my restless sleep. It didn't behave like any deer I knew. It didn't startle at sudden movements or run away when I attempted to approach it.

It just watched me, its eyes filled with an unnerving intelligence. It was as if it knew me, understood me in ways I couldn't comprehend. end. People started to notice my distress. My colleagues would ask if I was okay, commenting on my pallor and the dark circles under my eyes. My friends questioned me about my distracted state when we met at the local bar. I tried to express my fears, but how could I explain it? How could I put into words the irrational terror of a deer standing tall on its hind legs? It was ludicrous. So I laughed it off, attributing it to work stress and lack of sleep. But inside, I was anything but all right. The line between my mundane reality and the surreal presence of the deer was blurring.

Each day was a battle between trying to forget and the fear of its next appearance. At night, I would lie awake, staring out my bedroom window at the shadowy forest line, my heart pounding with each rustle of the leaves. My world had narrowed down to the anticipation and terror of my next encounter with the deer. And so, the very thing I had considered a hallucination had invaded my reality. My home, my sanctuary, was under siege by a creature I didn't understand. Its eyes haunted my waking hours and infiltrated my dreams, making me question everything I had believed about the world and myself. The silent watcher in the night was there, always there, like a specter in the twilight. And with each encounter, I felt myself being pulled deeper into the heart of the mystery. Little

did I know, the real nightmare was just beginning. My life, once so unremarkably simple, had spiraled into a restless obsession. The deer had turned from an unusual specter into my living nightmare. Its presence seemed to seep into my daily routines, the inexplicable terror of it gnawing at my sanity. Sleep had become an elusive friend. Every creek of the old house, every rustle of the wind against the windows, would jolt me awake, my heart pounding with the thought. Was it outside? Was it watching? Nights transformed into an exhausting vigil. My eyes glued to the shadowy expanse of the woods, searching for its silhouette. Work suffered as well. My hands, once steady and assured on the factory floor, now trembled subtly. Concentration was a thing of the past.

My thoughts invariably drifted towards the enigma that had invaded my world. The camaraderie of my colleagues turned into concerned whispers and questioning glances, relationships strained. My friends couldn't understand the sudden change, my constant distraction, my reluctance to join them for our customary Friday night drinks. Even my family grew worried. My mother's voice, usually filled with lighthearted chatter during our weekly calls, had taken on a tinge of worry. I wanted to tell them, wanted to spill out my fears, but the words wouldn't come. It was ridiculous, I knew, a man haunted by a deer. The absurdity of it would surely invite laughter. or worse, concern about my mental state. So I bottled it up, plastered on a fake smile,

and assured everyone that I was just tired, a little stressed from work. But in the solitude of my home, I was a prisoner of my fear. I began to research, desperate for an explanation. I devoured articles about deer behavior, reached out to local hunters, even posted on online forums, narrating my experiences under the veil of anonymity. But nothing explained the deer's peculiar behavior, its unnatural stance, its unsettling intelligence. If anything, my attempts to find answers only heightened my anxiety. In my desperation, I installed cameras around my property. I thought if I could record it, get tangible proof, maybe I could find a way to deal with it. So I spent countless hours watching grainy footage, my heart jumping at the smallest movement. Yet the deer alluded my

attempts to document it. It seemed aware of the cameras, its appearances growing less frequent and always just out of clear sight. It was as if it was mocking me, playing a cruel game with my sanity. I was sinking deeper into a pit of paranoia and obsession. My reality was blurring, the lines between my mundane existence and the supernatural presence of the deer, growing increasingly obscure. I was losing myself to fear, each passing day chipping away at my resolve. As the shadows of my once peaceful home grew longer, I realized I was spiraling. The once dismissive fear had grown into a full-fledged paranoia. I was living a waking nightmare, my life a strange dance with a deer. And as the nights grew darker, so did my fear, the chilling anticipation of my

next encounter with the deer, a constant terror gnawing at the edges of my sanity. My life had become a twisted echo of its former self, the familiar humdrum of factory noises, the comfortable solitude of my home, the hearty laughter of friends, all were now distant, smothered under the heavy shadow of my obsession. The deer, my silent tormentor, had consumed my every waking thought, and the dream-filled sleep that occasionally came was filled with visions of its haunting eyes. There were times I found myself questioning my sanity. Was I hallucinating? Was my tired mind conjuring this eerie apparition, making me dance on the strings of my own fraying sanity? I would stand before the mirror, staring into my haggard reflection, searching for a hint of madness in my own eyes.

But all I could see was fear, raw, visceral fear of the unknown. It was a chilling realization, understanding that I had become obsessed with a creature I had initially dismissed as an illusion of fatigue. The once passive dread had morphed into an active pursuit, my life revolving around my next encounter with the deer. I continued to pour over articles and forums, the blue light of the screen becoming my constant, companion during sleepless nights. I turned my home into a fortress, investing in more surveillance

equipment, mapping out the deer's possible routes, and trying to predict its behavior. It felt like I was chasing shadows. My attempts to understand, to rationalize, to somehow control the situation only led to more frustration. The deer always seemed one step ahead, as if it was aware of my desperate attempts. But the terrifying ordeal was not just the deer or its unnatural behavior. It was the transformation of my own self, the man I was becoming in the face of this inexplicable terror, the constant dread, the insomnia, the paranoia, they were reshaping me, sculpting a new version of myself that I barely recognized. In my desperation for answers, for closure, I made a decision. I had to confront it, face it head on. It was a terrifying

thought, meeting the source of my fears in the flesh. But the idea also held a glimmer of hope, Maybe this could end my nightmare. My days were spent preparing for the encounter. I gathered tools, flashlight, a knife for protection, and a courage I wasn't sure I had. I meticulously planned, charting out the ideal location and time based on my previous encounters. At night, I laid awake, my mind filled with countless scenarios, each more terrifying than the last. I saw myself standing in front of the deer, its human-like eyes staring into mine, its body towering on high. hind legs. The thought made my skin crawl, but I clung onto it. This was my fight, my chance to

reclaim my life. As the day of confrontation neared, a strange calm descended upon me. My fear didn't lessen, but it mutated into a constant pulsating dread, like a second heartbeat. I had no idea what I was walking into, no certainty of what I'd find, and the prospect was terrifying. Yet, amid the swirling chaos of fear and anticipation, a thought persisted. Perhaps my obsession, my relentless pursuit, was not just about the fear of the unknown, but a desperate plea for understanding, understanding the deer, understanding my own fear, and ultimately, understanding myself. As the night of the confrontation descended, my heart pounded a war drum in my chest. The familiar landscape of my home felt alien under the

moonlit sky. Each shadow seemed to stretch longer. Each sound echoed louder, and within me, fear wrestled with resolve. Armed with a flashlight and a knife gripped tightly in my hands, I stepped outside, the cool air laced with an electric tension. Every crunch of the gravel under my boots felt amplified, each rustle of leaves a harbinger of the coming encounter. I made my way towards the woods, the beam of my flashlight cutting through the inky darkness. trees stood silent, like spectral spectators to my trembling courage. As I tread deeper into the quiet, my senses were heightened, each shadow and sound a possible sign of the deer's presence. And then, I saw it. It stood at the edge of the clearing, its form cloaked in darkness yet

unmistakable. The deer. I froze, my heart threatening to leap out of my chest as it slowly lifted onto its hind legs. In the face of my nightmare, my fear gave way to a strain. sense of awe. It was a chilling sight, the deer standing upright, a silhouette against the muted moonlight. Its eyes found mine, a pair of glowing orbs filled with an intelligence that unnerved me. I approached, each step deliberate and slow. The deer remained still, its gaze never leaving mine. A part of me wanted to flee, to escape the terror that wrapped around me like a shroud. But I held on, pushing through the icy tendrils of fear. Why? I found a my voice, my words but a whisper against the quiet night. Why are you doing this? The deer didn't

react. It just watched me, its eyes burning into mine with an intensity that sent shivers down my spine. I was close now, close enough to see the heaving flanks of the deer, the dusting of frost on its fur. I stretched a trembling hand, my breath hitching as I touched the cold reality of my fear. It was a surreal moment, touching the creature that had turned my life into a waking night. Its fur was rough against my fingers, its body solid and real beneath my touch. Yet its standing posture, its gaze, they were as incomprehensible as ever. The deer didn't flinch, didn't retreat. It just stood there, watching me with those unnerving eyes, my hand resting on its body.

It was as if it had been waiting for this, waiting for me. As I stood there, my fear receding into a sea of unanswered questions, I realized I was a part of something greater, something beyond my comprehension. My fear, my obsession, had led me to this, a strange communion with a creature of the night. I didn't get any answers, no closure or understanding. My confrontation didn't solve the mystery. It only deepened it, wrapping me tighter in its enigma. But as I turned to leave, my hand lingering on the deer before finally retracting, I felt a strange peace.

I was still terrified, still lost in the labyrinth of my experience, but I had faced my fear, touched it, looked it in the eyes, and that in itself was a victory. Days turned into weeks, and then months, yet the mystery remained unsolved. My life was no longer the same. Every day held a silent anticipation, an underlying tension, the unvoiced question, when would I see the deer again? But the deer didn't reappear.

its haunting presence, once a constant shadow, had vanished, leaving behind a chilling absence. My home returned to its peaceful solitude, the forest by my house merely a backdrop to my ordinary existence, no longer the stage from my midnight encounters. But I was changed. The terror had etched deep scars on my psyche, the residue of fear and undercurrent in my everyday life. The deer, even in its absence, continued to exist within me, a reminder of my descent into obsession, and my confrontation with the inexplicable. My colleagues noticed the change. I was more withdrawn,

my usual jovial demeanor replaced with a quiet introspection. They attributed it to work stress, never knowing the true reason behind my transformation. I didn't correct them. It was easier to let them believe the mundane explanation. At night, I found myself gazing out of the window, my eyes drawn to the edge of the forest. The deer was gone, but its memory wasn't.

I would stand there, lost in the puzzle that had become my life, the vision of the upright deer forever etched in my mind. I never understood what the deer was, why it behaved the way it did. Was it a figment of my tired mind, an undiscovered species, or something more, a bridge between the world I knew and one I couldn't comprehend? I grappled with these questions, but answers remained elusive. The mystery was a puzzle with missing pieces, an enigma that evaded comprehension. I had to accept that there were things in this world beyond my understanding, experiences that

defied explanation. But with acceptance came a certain piece. The fear that had once consumed me was now a silent companion, a part of my existence. I had confronted my nightmare, lived through it, and survived. The experience had changed me and transformed my perspective of the world and my place within it. So, life went on. I resumed my routine and found solace in the familiarity of my job, the comfort of my home. The days turned into a monotonous blend of ordinary and extraordinary, the memory of the deer a scar on the

fabric of my normalcy. And so my tale ended where it began, on a quiet, lonely road, under the watchful eyes of a million stars. I was a man changed, shaped by fear, haunted by an experience that defied understanding. I was left with a memory, a mystery, and a terrifying encounter that would forever remain an enigma. The story of the man and the deer was over, but the echo of its memory would resonate within me, a haunting melody to the tune of my changed life. The unknown still terrified me, but it was now a part of me, a chapter in the book of my life, forever imprinted on the pages of my existence. My name is Tom Owens. I am a retired worker. for the Department of Agriculture, and I'm here to share with you a story that has been the source of much anxiety,

many questions, and more sleepless nights than I would care to think about. This is but one of the strange things that happened to me during my time working as a timber and silviculture tech for the Forestry Service in Indiana. For a long time, I have held my silence about what happened in fear of what may become of me if I decide to tell this story. I was forced to sign paperwork stating I would forever keep it a secret. Well, today that silence will be broken. Having worked for the forestry service for almost 22 years, it's easy to say that a person need quickly learn to respect the forest and its inhabitants, animal or otherwise. A lot of the work involved would probably seem like pretty mundane things, such as marking out trees for timber, and preparing

locations for seeding and tree planting. A lot of my time was spent alone or in small groups. Bizarre things happened to me in both of those situations, and I can assure you that the feeling of safety and numbers really did not apply in my experience. I cannot recall the exact date when this story takes place, but I know it was early fall of 1988, and I had recently just celebrated my 38th birthday, and had been living in Nashville for a couple of years by then. I had been teamed up with Henry Waite and new boy Stanley Holt to scope out timber to be harvested for firewood in the Brown County State Park, just off the Salt Creek Trail. Henry, a towering frame of a man who, at one time at least,

would have looked like he could fell a tree with a single blow of an axe if he so wanted to, had been doing this work almost his entire life. He was maybe three or four years off retirement at this point. He had deep furrowed lines crossing about his face and forehead, which suggested a more than serious look about him, and had a deep, gravelly voice that time had clearly softened. I had worked with him on a number of occasions in the 22 years I had under my belt with the service. And in honesty, I didn't mind the old-timer. I mean, he wasn't always the perfect

co-worker. He could be awkward when it came to making decisions. And there were times when I would be sweating my tail off moving equipment about, only to find the guy sleeping in the cab of our truck. But I had to accept the poor dude was nearly 70 years old, and had clearly done his share of manual labor in his time. I certainly had a lot more time for him than the others, it seemed. Henry used to have some really interesting stories. He used to tell others about stuff he'd heard out in the forest, and stuff he claimed to have seen too. Oftentimes he was alone when these occurrences took place,

and the other workers never really paid him much attention, and generally would pass off his stories as mere scaremongering, verging on the ramblings of a senile old man. As for myself, I took his tales with a pinch of salt. Heaven knows you had to, otherwise you'd likely find yourself out alone one day and hear something in the distance and end up totally crapping yourself and running back to your truck.

Other than this though, he never was one to talk all that much beyond small talk and chit-chat, but when he was recalling one of his stories, he would come to life, so to speak, and really put a great show on. He was one hell of a storyteller, that's for sure. I can picture him now, with his tufty gray hair wafting about in time to his movement,

and the large lump of fur resting, upon his top lip, obscuring a rather large portion of his weathered old face, twisting and protruding as he formed his words enthusiastically. There's no telling what you might run into out there, son. He would often exclaim in his gruff, yet somehow gentle voice. But anyway, I'm here to share my own story, and I hope I can portray it as well as Henry often did. I remember the rays of the low set afternoon sun were still strong for that particular time of year, casting a warm glow over the still green forests surrounding us. We had just finished packing our kit bags with the markers and measuring equipment we would need, and were about to set off to the designated area on our charts

to begin tagging trees ready for harvest. This was our last job for the day and conversation was thin, as Stan, the new guy, didn't seem like a conversationalist of any kind, and the three of us settled into that semi-comfortable silence that strangers often find themselves in when waiting for a bus or queuing up at the checkouts in the store. He struck me as the sort of person who was simply here to do his job and then go home. He had no interest in it other than the financial reward he would receive at the end of each week of work.

Fine by me, I thought, as we quietly made our way along the well-worn path. The route we were taking was one often used by hikers to reach the nearby camping area and a rather nice viewing point. A few minutes passed before anyone broke the silence, and it was Henry that did so. Looks like we need to follow the trail as far as the fork, then hang a turn south into the trees, he stated.

Then probably another 20 minutes heading slightly east, and we should spot the first few that are ready for the chop. I said, You have been out this way before then I take it? Henry paused a beat before answering. Yep, remember this trail well. Been a few years, mind you. And he gave me a quick glance over his shoulder. I noticed that when I had asked the question, he had straightened his back ever so slightly as he answered. Something the matter, Henry? I asked.

Not the location of one of your famous ghost stories, is it? I said jokingly, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Stan gave me a funny look that clearly said he didn't know what I was on about. Henry just scratched at his thinning hair. Ain't no ghosts in my stories, son. He didn't say anything more, just maintained the same pace, trudging ahead along the trail. What stories are you talking about? Stan was looking at me.

A look of concern had crossed his face. He was only 20 or 21. His slight build looked out of place in his uniform, and the kit bag looked like it might pull him down to the ground at any moment. Oh, nothing really. Henry likes to tell stories about himself and scary stuff that's happened to him out here. He's quite the storyteller. Wouldn't you say, Henry?

I said glancing past Stan to where he was making his steady progress. He didn't respond. Scary stories? Huh, like what? Stan said. Not ghosts. Witches and werewolves. Ain't that right, Henry?

I said, trying again to get a reaction out of him. But still, he remained silent, except this time I saw his shoulders rise and drop in a theatrical sigh. I continued, rumor has it the poor dude ended up marrying one, I said jokingly, expecting to have to dodge a right hook from Henry, but still, there was no noticeable reaction. I bet there are some really weird things out here,

not like people spend much time out wandering about the forests, is it? Stan said, adding his thoughts on the matter. Finally, he spoke. Not true, son, there's plenty of things out here, not just deer and cougars, though, but sure there are fewer people relying on the land nowadays compared to when I was your age, and that's for the best I can assure you. So what about hikers and such? Should they worry about these things? asked Stan. He's been out here all of an hour, and already he's lapping it all up, I thought. I wasn't that gullible when I was so young. Things is right, boy. I don't rightly know what someone should call them, Henry said. Sometimes I wonder if they're even really of this world.

Okay, let's not scare the crap out of the poor guy before he's even done any work, Henry. We've got a lot to get on with this afternoon, and we need all the help we can get if we want a chance of getting home in time to see the sunset. I interjected. Henry chimed back with, All I'm saying is it's best to keep an eye out for weird crap out here. We're alone and a good few miles from, well, anybody, if you think a bow, That's enough, man, I cut him short. For Pete's sake, can we just get on with finding these trees and doing our jobs?

My temper was fraying. Henry wasn't normally like this. Usually he just wanted the same as me. Do a good job, then get on with making it back to the truck safely before it gets dark. I too had heard strange noises when working out alone, but your mind plays tricks on you when there's no company. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck out here in the pitch black with a rookie and Mr. Stephen King himself. lugging all this crap about with us. Henry just grunted something at me and carried on walking.

Stan was eyeing me with a look of worry about him, but didn't press the matter any further, much to my relief. It wasn't much longer before we reached the fork in the trail that Henry had mentioned earlier. He set down his bag and took a seat on a fallen tree whilst I took out the chart and made note of our destination from where we were. Looks like we cut through in this direction, I pointed out. Then it should be only another 20 minutes further on. Is it okay if I go take a leak? asked Stan. I shouldn't have finished my flask of coffee on the drive over here. Does a bear crap in the woods? replied Henry. Stan seemed a little embarrassed, but said no more and cut off the path through the tree line for a little privacy. The trees were a lot denser in the

direction we were headed. Not much sunlight made its way through the thick canopy provided by the trees and foliage. There was a slight chill in the air now, it seemed, and a gentle breeze had picked up along with what was the beginning of the even chorus of bird songs. So what do you make of him? I took the opportunity to ask Henry, who? What do you mean who? Stanley, the new guy. You know, been with us the past couple hours on his first day? Or is your memory going in your old age? My memory is just fine, actually. I was just thinking about something else is all. Something else. Henry didn't reply.

Care to elaborate? I asked after a moment. Just the last time I was up here, not one of my best days at work from what I remember. Some really weird stuff started happening. Oh God, can you drop the weird stuff thing already? I replied tensely. For the first time that afternoon,

I felt a strange sense that something was not quite right. Like the sensation we were being observed or something. Jeez, have you let him get to you too? I thought to myself. I shook the feeling off, and a moment or two later Stan returned, and we made our way east as planned, though this time I was paying a lot more attention to our surroundings. The area we were in occasionally received reports of large carnivores,

such as mountain lions, grey wolves, and black bears. It sometimes paid to keep a casual idea of your surroundings. I didn't fancy unknowingly being stalked by a mountain lion or such. About halfway to the marked area on the map, I began feeling my legs start to protest at carrying the large weight on my back. I wasn't unfit by a long run, far from it in fact, but as we were no longer on the marked path, it was surprising how much more energy was required to make progress through the undergrowth. Where we were headed was only just over a half mile from the trail as the crow flies, but the going was much tougher and more time-consuming.

I began to wonder how long Henry would go before he too started to slow, but to my surprise, he carried on without a problem. Stan, on the other hand, was clearly not as used to the hard trek with the extra weight. Dark sweat patches had formed around his armpits, and I noticed him occasionally wiping the sweat from his brow. Suddenly in the distance somewhere came the sound of what I could only say was a chainsaw, well, close to the sound of one anyway. It had an unusual buzz to it that undeniably sounded a lot closer than the noise of the chainsaw itself. All three of us stopped to listen. None of us seemed to be able to tell which way it was coming from. Didn't realize we were near a logging site out this way, I thought out loud. We're not. The closest one is about 40 miles from here,

countered Henry. Could just be someone gathering some firewood, I said. Weirdly, the noises I normally associated with the forest had stopped. The breeze had died too. Sweat beat it on the back of my neck and slowly made a cold trail down right to where my belt was. I shivered slightly in response. I scanned our surroundings looking for the source of the noise, but the trees created a weird acoustic and I found it impossible to tell. Strange, Henry said, it sounds wrong. What do you mean? I asked. It sounds like it's on a loop, just the same buzzing noise on repeat. He was right. I hadn't noticed it at first, but it was clear now. There was no deviation in the tone of the chainsaw noise. Not like when you cut wood and the tone and pitch change as the engine works more

and less to cut through the trunk of a tree. Something wasn't right about it, and it just made me want to be as far away as possible from it. Whatever it was, was giving me chills down my spine. Suddenly the sound stopped. Without warning, we were plunged into complete silence. No leaves rustling in the wind. That breeze was gone too, but most strange of all, not a single bird was singing. Not a single note. My unease grew even more, to a point where I actually felt like there was a lump in my throat I couldn't swallow. We should just keep mo... Click. The sound came before I could finish my sentence.

I glanced over to where the noise had come from, and I saw Henry aiming a .38 revolver high above his head. What the fuck? Boom! He fired it. The surrounding area echoed the sound across the whole place, and the forest itself seemed to come alive as hundreds of birds flocked from the treetops and made a quick getaway from the loud noise. In the distance, I noticed a few deer dart from the cover

and disappear into the thick vegetation of the forest. You crazy son of a gun! Why the hell do you have that out here? I asked angrily. You know we could lose our jobs if they find out you carry one of those in a company vehicle. Calm down, son. It's just a bit of protection. This is bear country, don't forget, said Henry Crossley.

Besides, nobody will find out as long nobody says anything. He eyed Stan and me as he said this. Geez, all right, just put the thing away before you blow someone's head off waving that about. Can we just get on and get home already? I said, throwing my arms up into the air and pushing past them both in the direction of the trees to the east. The chainsaw noise had disappeared too. Whoever it was were now probably scared someone lunatic was out here with a gun in the middle of nowhere. Henry scowled at me as I passed him, but soon matched my pace and was walking along. beside me. Stan was following on behind. He didn't seem the least bit worried about what just happened. Guys an idiot this one. How can he not give a damn about him randomly firing off shots

when he's just met the man? I wondered. You can thank me later, Henry said to me under his breath. What for? Bringing a gun with you to work so we can all get fired? No, for probably saving your tail back there, he said. From what? You really are crazy, aren't you? They have been following us for a while now. Goose bumps covered all over my skin and I suddenly went cold. The hell are you on about Henry. Don't mess about this is not funny man. Look, I'm not going to say anything, so just drop the act, will you? I said. My mind went back to the chainsaw noise, wondering if he wasn't just trying to scare the living crap out of me, because if he was, it was damned well working. Them things, you might not have seen them, but I did. See, I know what I'm looking for. I've seen them before.

the last time I was out these ways, like I said earlier. What things, Henry? I thought those were just stories you made up to scare people. Holy hell it was getting me worried enough as it is. I don't want to hear any more of it, I said. Look, all I know is that they mean bad trouble. They aren't natural, whatever they are. People go missing out here regularly and nobody seems to give a damn about it.

Whole groups of people have gone out hiking and never return. Campsites are found undisturbed, but the owner just outright disarm. Then, the next you hear about them as a random piece of their clothing turns up out of the blue, usually a shoe or something, no blood on it or scratches or anything. Normally within a few days of them disappearing, but whatever turns up is usually far away from where they went missing, too far for them to have got there themselves in the time that they are gone. We're talking miles away.

Something strange happens in this forest, so keep your eyes peeled, son. it might just mean the difference between going home tonight and not. This was the most I'd ever heard Henry say when not recalling one of his many stories. Something about the way he was looking at me and the way he said it told me he was being serious. So why aren't telling Stan the same thing? If it's that dangerous here, I countered. Because I don't trust him as far as I can breathe. Something different about him compared to before.

He won't look me in the eye. Also, in case you haven't noticed, he hasn't said a damned word since we left the trail back there. He was right. Stan had not said a word since he left us and came back. He didn't even flinch when Henry had fired the gun a minute ago, and he was standing right next to him. It should have nearly deafened him. I thought about what he was telling me and tried to process it all. The sun was getting lower and the light level in the forest suddenly seemed a lot darker.

All right, let's just say you're right. We're in the crap and being followed by. Whatever it is and something's not up with Stan. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he couldn't hear us. Stan was ambling along behind us and staring hard straight back at me. Uh, ye. You all right back there, Stan? I stumbled over the words, oozing suspicion.

He just smiled back and carried on walking, then looked out to his right into the trees. Damn, what was up with his eyes? They looked as though they were glistening as if he was going to cry. But his posture and his body language were nothing but confidence. Yet at the same time the way he was walking seemed off, slightly rigid or something. Henry drew my attention away as he started speaking again.

If I'm right, which I'm almost certain I am, we need to make it back to the truck and out of these trees, and fast. What if we don't make it back to the truck? I asked fearfully. Then we're screwed, said Henry point blank. By now I was genuinely scared. for the first time in my life, I was fearing for my life, and I didn't even know what I was scared of. We need to turn back. We're only an hour's hike from the truck, and we should have enough daylight left to make it in time. But we need to leave. Now, said Henry.

And what about Stan? You think there's something wrong about him? I asked Henry. I think he's one of them, he said. Back when we're at the fork and he came back from having a leak, didn't you notice how quiet everything was? Like complete silence. Not quite, but damn silent. What, but it's Stan? Are you sure you don't need glah? They can change into other things, came Henry's reply. My mind was racing trying to take it all in. There was so much that didn't make sense.

It should all just belong in a horror movie, but now, apparently it was real. It takes them time to perfect it, and usually it's not perfect. They even sound exactly the same as the person they are copying. I'm pretty sure that chainsaw noise back there was one of them. that's why it was sounding like a loop. Almost as he finished speaking, the chainsaw noise started up again, as if on cue. This time, though, it was a lot closer, and I was certain I saw movement behind Henry. We both froze. Henry followed my gaze.

What I saw chilled me to the core. In the middle distance was the silhouette of what sort of resembled a person sitting on their haunches. But this person would have easily been at least eight feet tall if they were standing. It took a step closer and must have covered a good ten meters in one stride. Its skin caught a rare ray of sunlight filtering through the trees. Its skin was pale and sickly looking and appeared to be painfully drawn tight over the skeletal frame of its body, almost to the point of splitting open. I felt my blood run cold, but I couldn't move.

I was frozen to the spot with fear. The same seemed to apply to Henry beside me. It cocked its head at us both, like a dog sometimes does. I realized its lopsided mouth was open, and just as it closed it, the chainsaw noise stopped abruptly, only to start again when it opened its mouth for a second time. Inside were luminous serrated teeth, huge teeth, like some dramatic makeup prop. Henry stole a quick glance behind us. Damn, he whispered, Stan is gone. What the hell? I stammered, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from this thing. It was like it was staring straight into my very being.

Suddenly it closed and opened its mouth again. This time instead of the chainsaw, it emitted a loud and clear click. Henry looked down at the revolver in his waistband. Holy crap, it's mimicking the noises we've been making, he said. Almost instantly the creature lurched forward towards us at an incredible speed, but on all fours, bounding over a fallen tree half its own height like it was nothing. Run, I bellowed. I took off without looking back to check if Henry or the creature was following.

I could hear branches breaking behind me, which I'm sure must have been him, as off to my side I could hear the same only a lot louder as if whole trees were being snapped in half. I ran for my dear life, as fast as my legs would carry me. I dropped the heavy bag that was weighing me down, expensive gear crashing to the floor. Damn it, I don't care how much it's worth, I thought. The chainsaw noise was underway again, getting nearer and faster as I broke back onto the Salt Creek Trail. My feet pounded the dirt beneath me as I pleaded with my legs to move faster. I suddenly was hit by what I could only describe as a wall of stench. The smell of rotting flesh was unmistakable, making me wretch bile into my own mouth and

burning my throat at the same time. I looked off to my side, and to my horror the beast was getting closer, bounding through the trees just a few meters off. It locked eyes with me and I nearly stumbled. The thing was smiling at me, showing off row after row of unimaginable. jagged, sharp teeth. It opened its mouth and let off an animalistic screech that was high-pitched and shrill, but reverberated around inside my body at the same time. I could hear Henry behind me, somehow keeping pace somehow. He was keeping up even though he was in his 60s and we must have

covered most of a mile by now. My own lungs were on fire and I could feel the burning in my legs start to become too much to push through. I was running on pure adrenaline and fear. I rounded the last corner before the small clearing, where we had parked the truck earlier, just a bit further, and I was free of this nightmare. As I crested the small hill leading into the car park, my heart sank. There was no truck. There wasn't even a car park, just another seemingly endless trail. My mind worked overtime trying to figure out if I had made a wrong turn. I was sure I hadn't. There was only one trail anywhere near here, and it was the only one in and out of the forest for miles around. I could hear.

the creature gaining on me. I dared not look into the trees again to see how close it was. My thoughts changed instantly as I heard the unmistakable noise of someone stumbling behind me. Oh, fuck, crap. Ugh. Henry had fallen. I skidded to a halt and swung around to grab him. No, keep going, he yelled at me. I hesitated for a split second. No, I can't leave him, I thought. But it was all the time the thing needed. Before I could take one step in Henry's direction, it was upon him. It pinned him face down into the dirt as it looked up at me. Its face was different. It looked like some kind of wolf. But with the torso of a man, what would have been its rear legs were also that of a wolf. Only this thing was standing up now and was at least seven or eight feet

tall. All I could smell was rotting flesh, so strong it was making me want to puke again. My mind tried to make sense of it all. Had it changed shape again? I asked myself. The opened its wide mouth and let off a horrific screech before leaping away with Henry and its clutches into the tree line. As I stood there dumbfounded, I heard a wet squelching and cracking sound accompanied by a terrible guttural scream. He was dead. Henry was dead. Before I could even process that he was gone, taken by some damned creature, I had the chainsaw off to my side again. Tree branches started thumping and cracking as something made its way to where I was, and fast. There must have been more than one, I realized.

I took off again, not even time to think about what savage end Henry must have met. Hell, I didn't even want to try to imagine it. As fast as my legs would carry me, I headed further along the trail that should have taken me back to the truck, and to safety. Up ahead there was a turn in the track. Could I have got it wrong? Was the car park further than I had originally thought? All around me, the forest was alive with screeching and branches snapping and the loud clicks of Henry's revolver. cocking. It was getting louder the closer I got to the bend up ahead. As I suddenly was on top of

the corner, the noises reached fever pitch. I was sure I was done for. I rounded the bend only to be confronted with the sudden end of the trail and a wall of dense, thick trees. I was screwed. I was certain that these were going to be the last moments of my life, torn to shreds by something nobody even knew existed. I dove into the trees, not wanting to give up yet, somehow believing I could escape. But in reality, the trees were where they were most at home, leaping about like it was nothing while I blindly tripped and stumbled my way onwards. Without warning, the ground beneath my feet dropped away, and before I knew it I was falling, down and down smashing into trees and branches on the way. I looked down at where I would land just in time to see a massive bow from a tree coming

straight from my face. I hit it full force and saw stars replace my vision. I tried not to think of the terrible things about to happen to me after those things caught up with me. Then everything simply went black. All I was aware of was a high-pitched whining noise coming and going. I'm not sure how much time passed. The first thing I could sense was movement all around me. Then I could hear shouting. Yes, shouting. That meant people. Something opened my eye and a blinding bright light poured in, stinging my corneas. Then the same to the other. I opened them both and was staring face to face with a woman I had never seen before. He's awake, she exclaimed. My head was pounding and there was a tingling sensation down my left side. Suddenly I was aware of a terrible throbbing in my forehead.

I let out a pathetic groan in response to the pain. Morphine, said the woman loudly. Her booming words rattled my brain. It's okay, sir, we're going to give you something for the pain. Just try to relax and not move. She was holding my head firmly in place. My eyes scanned over by behind her and I saw a male paramedic coming over with a syringe. He just fell out of the tree line straight in front of my rig, a large man said. He was wearing denim and a leather jacket. He looked to be speaking to a police officer who was busy taking notes. I must have blacked out again because I next woke up in the hospital as a nurse was reading my vitals.

Hello, sir. Don't worry you are safe now. That was some nasty accident you had back there. You were lucky that 18-wheeler didn't run you over. I opened my mouth, tried, and speak, but no matter how hard I tried, no words would come out. It turned out I had suffered mild brain damage as a result of my fall. It took me nearly three years to be able to speak properly again. Endless therapy sessions, and the constant pain of not being able to tell anyone about what had really happened in that forest.

Henry and Stan, to this day, are still listed as missing people. Police interviewed me, but all I could say was that I couldn't remember anything. that happened that day. I was considered a suspect for a very long time, but they had no evidence of any foul play. I think eventually they got bored and genuinely started to believe I had hit my head hard enough to not remember any of it. I was also visited in the hospital by a representative of my employer. I was basically scared of signing a non-disclosure form about anything that might have happened to me whilst in the forest. I wish that were true. The truck driver visited me also during my time in the hospital. He was a nice man, if a bit rough, around the edges. Nick Currant is his name,

and I'm still friends with him today, nearly 20 years later. The thing is, though, something he told me doesn't quite sit right. The location where I nearly landed directly under his wheels was just outside of Bloomington on the I-46 Road, over 10 miles away from where we were working that day. I still don't know what those things were in the woods. I try not to think about it mostly. they just give me nightmares. I'm just glad to have gotten it off my chest, so to speak. Maybe tonight, I will sleep a little better finally. I just hope nobody else has to go through the same things that I did almost 30 years ago. I've always felt more at home in the wild expanses of Montana than anywhere else. The crisp air, the scent of pine and earth, the clear, star-filled nights. They're a part of who I am.

My name is Robert Blake, a park ranger. At least that's what I used to be. The day that changed everything started out just like any other. The sun painted a golden hue over the morning sky, casting long shadows over the landscape. But the call I received that day was anything but ordinary. Lisa, a young hiker with a taste for the path less traveled, had gone missing. With a sense of determination coursing through me,

I prepared myself for the search. It wasn't the first time I had been tasked with finding a lost soul in the wild, and I intended to bring Lisa back, just like all the others before her. I packed my gear, checked my compass, and set out towards the unexplored region where Lisa was last seen, a remote, barely touched part of the park that folks around here tend to avoid. As my boots crunched through the carpet of pine needles, a chill gripped me, unnatural for the season. The forest stood tall and dense, its quietness oddly unsettling. Usually the forest echoed with life, birds singing, leaves rustling, the murmur of a distant creek.

That day the silence was profound, an orchestra with no conductor. I shrugged it off as just another quirk of this lesser-known part of the forest. The deeper I ventured, the more the forest seemed to change around me. The trees looked distorted, gnarled, as if they held untold stories. Animals I encountered had a strange, almost knowing look in their eyes, their behaviors erring on the side. of Bizarre. They watched me as I passed, their gaze unsettling, filled with an eerie intelligence. As I progressed, my compass needle started to dance wildly. North was everywhere and nowhere. Static filled my radio, punctuated by fragments of an unintelligible language that sent chills down my spine.

This was not normal, not at all, and the realization sank heavy in my stomach. But I couldn't turn back, not yet. There was a girl missing, and it was my job to find it. It was my job to find her. Hours turned into an afternoon when I stumbled upon what I'd been searching for, Lisa's campsite. The tent was torn apart, her belongings scattered around in disarray, but the absence of struggle or blood was eerily ominous. I found her diary, filled with hastily scribbled entries about whispering shadows and eyes in the darkness. As I read, a shutter ran through me. It was unsettling, yes, but also a sign that Lisa was here, and I had to find her. The sun began to its descent and darkness started to creep into the forest. But I couldn't leave. Not yet. I decided

to stay, to brave the darkness. Maybe I'd find something in the night that would lead me to Lisa. Looking back, I see now that it wasn't the wisest decision, but at that moment, all I knew was I couldn't leave Lisa alone in this eerie forest. So I stayed, oblivious to the terror that the night would bring. Little did I know, I was stepping into a nightmare that would forever change me, leaving skull. that even time wouldn't heal. The sun dipped below the horizon, plunging the forest into darkness. I set up a makeshift camp near Lisa's torn tent, the stark signs of her disappearance a grim reminder of my task. As the last light faded, the chilling silence grew heavier, a tangible entity pressing on me from all sides. I had always loved the night. The darkness was a canvas for

the stars, the silence a melody of the wilderness. But that night, under the canopies of the ominous trees. The darkness felt different. It felt alive, almost sentient. The silence wasn't just the absence of noise. It was a void, an emptiness that felt like it was consuming everything, even sound itself. The wildlife, which had unnerved me in the daylight, was now completely absent, their absence only amplifying the sense of dread. I found myself missing their odd behaviors, their strange watchfulness. At least they were a sign of life, a comfort in the increasingly foreign landscape. As hours rolled by, the anomalies I had noticed in the day worsened. My compass needle continued its frenzied dance, oblivious to the laws of nature. The radio's

static was a steady undertone, broken only by those cryptic foreign whispers. They grew louder, more insistent as the night grew darker, a grotesque soundtrack to my mounting fear. I began reading Lisa's diary again, seeking some clue, some hint about what might have happened to her. Her frantic entries about the shadows that whispered, and the eyes in the darkness took on a terrifying new meaning as I sat in the gloom. Was this what she had felt? The same inexplicable fear, the sense of being watched. Desperate to break the deafening silence, I found myself speaking out loud, calling for Lisa, hoping against hope that she would respond. But my voice sounded strange, distorted, swallowed by the eerie quiet. The forest seemed to be listening,

waiting. The dread was a living creature now, curling around my heart in a grip of ice. In the midst of this, I found something peculiar near Lisa's tent, a trail of peculiar footprints, leading into the deeper parts of the forest. They were not human nor any animal I could recognize, a bizarre pattern that stirred a primal fear in me, a remnant from ancient times when humans were prey, not predators. I decided then, in a bout of what I now know was folly disguised as bravery, to follow the trail. I had a torch, a gun, a sense of duty that was beginning to feel more like a death wish. I couldn't shake off the feeling of eyes on me, a watchful presence that was neither animal nor human. With a deep breath, I ventured further into the heart of the woods.

As I walked, my footprints joined those on the trail, an unwanted dance with an unseen partner. The decision to stay overnight was turning out to be far more terrifying than I had anticipated. The unsettling woods were proving to be more than just a strange, unexplored part of the forest. They were a living nightmare, a labyrinth of fear and dread. But I was in too deep to turn back now. The path before me held untold terror, but it was also the path to Lisa, and to answers I desperately sought. That night, in the heart of the disturbed woods, I came face to face with an entity I could neither understand nor explain. I would not find Lisa, but I would find fear, a fear so profound

that it would change me forever. Following the trail deeper into the forest, I could feel the world shifting around me. It wasn't just the disorientation of the dark, or the spine-chilling silence that suffocated every sound. There was something else, something deeper, a presence that I couldn't see but could feel in every fiber of my being. I had started to feel at the moment I I stepped into this eerie part of the forest, a sense of watchfulness that hung in the air like a specter. But now, as I trudged on, the presence became more palpable, pressing against my senses with a weight that was almost physical. It felt as if the forest itself was watching me, whispering in an ancient forgotten language. Suddenly my torch flickered out, and I was plunged into complete darkness.

Panic surged through me as I fumbled to turn it back on. All I could hear was the pounding of my heart in my ears, the rush of my own breath. The static from the radio had ceased, replaced by a silence so profound it was deafening. The whispers, now clearer, seemed to come from every direction, their cryptic syllables echoing through the darkness. In the distance, I saw something, a flicker of movement, a distortion in the darkness. I squinted, straining my eyes. Then I saw them, the eyes that Lisa had written about, glowing faintly in the dark, staring at me from the depths of the forest. I can't explain what I felt in that moment. It wasn't fear, not just fear. It was a feeling of being completely and utterly helpless, a small, insignificant creature

in the face of something so ancient and vast that it made my existence feel pointless. I wanted to run, to flee, to escape this terrifying place, but my body refused to obey, locked in place by an unseen force. The eyes watched me unblinking. The whispered. The whispered grew louder, their alien syllables filling the air around me. Then it moved. The eyes shifted, and I saw a form taking shape in the darkness, a mass of shadows that didn't belong to any animal, any human. The presence was no longer just a feeling. It was real, and it was right in front of me. The entity didn't attack. It didn't need to. Its mere presence was a show of power, of dominance. It was a part of the forest, or maybe the forest was a part of it. I could only see that.

stand there, frozen in fear, as it watched me with those glowing eyes. And then, it spoke. The whispers converged into one voice, a deep, resonating tone that echoed through the silent forest. It spoke in the same cryptic language, the words sounding ancient and powerful. I didn't understand what it said, but I felt it. A warning, perhaps, or a proclamation. It was a message meant for me, a solitary human lost in the vast ancient wilderness. As abruptly as it had appeared, the entity receded into the darkness, the eyes fading away, the whispers dying out. But its presence remained, a lurking consciousness that filled the forest.

I was left standing in the darkness, my mind reeling from the encounter. I didn't find Lisa that night, but I found something far more terrifying, an entity that was the forest, an ancient consciousness that still haunts me to this day. After the entity disappeared into the shadows, I was left alone in the profound darkness, my mind racing. The glowing eyes, the cryptic whispers, the sheer force of its presence, everything was imprinted on my mind, refusing to fade away. The forest, which had once felt like home, was now an alien world, a maze of terror where I was the prey. The silence was broken by a rustling sound. I spun around, the beam of my torch cutting through the darkness, illuminating nothing but trees.

The whispers had died down, but a new sound filled the air, a low hum, vibrating through the very ground beneath me. Then it came, a gust of wind, so cold that it seemed to seep into my bones. It whipped through the trees, stirring the leaves into a frenzied dance. A sense of dread filled me, a raw, primal fear that set my heart pounding. I could feel it again, the entity, its presence more intense than before. I started running. The fear, the raw terror. It fueled me, propelled me forward. Branches whipped against my face. Roots seemed to rise to trip me up, but I didn't stop. I ran, my breath coming out in ragged gasps, the cold air stinging my lungs. Behind me I could hear it, the entity. It wasn't a sound, not really. It was the whispers,

the hum, the wind, everything merging into a dreadful symphony that seemed to follow me. I could feel its eyes on me, a predator watching its prey. I didn't know where I was going. My compass was useless, spinning wildly. My torch was a feeble defense against the all-encompassing darkness. All I knew was that I had to get away, get out of this terrifying place. After what felt like an eternity, I saw it, a glimmer of light in the distance. The sun was rising, painting the sky with hues of orange and pink. I ran towards it, my entire being focused on escaping the darkness, escaping the entity. As I emerged from the forest, the sun's rays hit me, warm and reassuring. I collapsed onto the grass, my lungs heaving, my body screaming from the exertion. Behind me, the forest stood silent,

a stark silhouette against the dawn sky. The entity didn't follow me out of the forest. Maybe it couldn't, or maybe it chose not to. But even as I lay there watching the sun rise, I could still feel it. Its presence was like a shadow, a dark imprint on my consciousness. I never went back into the forest after that. The memory of that night, the terror, the entity, it was too much. I still have nightmares, dreams where I am back in the forest, being chased by the entity, its glowing eyes watching me from the darkness. The forest was my home, my sanctuary.

But that night, it turned into a terrifying labyrinth, a place of fear and nightmares. It was a reminder that there are things in this world that we cannot understand, cannot explain, entities that are as old as the forest itself, lurking in the shadows, watching, waiting. The morning after the encounter with the entity, I was a changed man. I had ventured into the forest as a park ranger, confident and fearless, only to emerge as a shell of my former self, broken and terrified. As the sun rose higher, painting the world in shades of light, I hobbled back to the ranger station. Every step away from the forest felt like a victory, a triumph,

over the unspeakable terror that lurked within its depths. I entered the Ranger Station, my body still shaking from the adrenaline, my mind in turmoil. The familiar space felt foreign, alien, just like everything else since my encounter. I sat at my desk, the report forms in front of me a grim reminder of the task I had failed. I had gone into the forest to find Lisa, to bring her back to safety. Instead, I came back alone, with nothing but a terrifying story, and the hauntary memory of an entity that defied all logic and reason. How could I write that in a report? How could I explain the unexplainable? I wrote the only thing I could. I reported that I had found signs of a struggle near Lisa's campsite, signs of an animal attack. I couldn't bring myself to write about the

entity, the glowing eyes, the cryptic whispers. Who would believe me? I hardly believed it myself. As the days turned into weeks, my life became a monotonous routine. I went through the motions, did my duties, filed my reports, but I could never go back into the forest. Each time I tried, I could feel it calling to me, the entity, its presence like a specter hanging over the forest. Sleep became an elusive friend. Each time I closed my eyes, I was back in the forest, under the gaze of those glowing eyes, surrounded by the alien whispers. I woke up each night, drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, the echoes of the entity's voice still ringing in my ears. I knew then that I could no longer continue as a park ranger.

The forest, once my sanctuary, was now a symbol of my deepest fears. The thought of stepping into its depths, of feeling the entity's gaze on me, it was too much to bear. So I quit my job. I left the park, the forest, and moved as far away as I could. I traded the vast wilderness for the bustling city, the ominous silence for the constant noise, the ancient trees for towering buildings. It was a painful decision, a tearing, away from a part of my soul, but it was a necessary one. I often wonder about Lisa, about what she

saw, what she felt. Did she encounter the entity? Was she as terrified as I was? I wish I could have done more, could have saved her. But in the face of the inexplicable terror, my courage had failed me. The memory of the entity, its glowing eyes, its powerful presence, it haunts me to this day. I am a prisoner of my own fear, trapped in a nightmare that refuses to end. The forest, the entity, it is a part of me now, a chilling reminder of the night that changed my life forever. Moving to the city didn't help as much as I'd hoped. The towering buildings, the constant noise, the ceaseless bustle, they were all alien to me. I felt like a man out of time, lost in a world that was too loud, too fast, too different.

But it was still better than the forest, better than the haunting gaze of the entity. My nights remained plagued with nightmares. The entity was always there, its glowing eyes watching me, its cryptic whispers echoing in my ears. I'd wake up gasping for breath, the terror of the encounter still raw, still fresh. It's been years since that fateful night, since I left the park and moved to the city. I've grown used to the concrete jungle, the human-made wilderness, but I've never gotten over the fear, the dread that lurks in the back of my mind. One day, while strolling through a city park, I saw a group of children playing,

near a small grove of trees. The sight of the trees, their leaves rustling in the wind, sent a shiver down my spine. I could almost feel the entity's presence, the familiar sense of watchfulness. I quickly left the park, my heart pounding, my palms sweaty. Even the smallest grove was enough to trigger my fear to send me spiraling back into the terror of that night. I realized then that I would never escape the entity, not truly. There are nights when I lie awake, city's noise a muted backdrop to my thoughts. I think about the forest, the entity, the mysteries that lurk within the wilderness. I wonder if it's still there, still watching, still waiting. I know that I can never go back, never face the entity again. The forest was my home, my sanctuary,

but it's also my greatest fear, a haunting reminder of the terror that lies beneath the serene facade of nature. I sometimes receive letters from my former colleagues, update, about the park, about the forest. They've found more missing hikers, more signs of struggle, more unsolved mysteries. Each letter is a chilling reminder of my encounter, of the terror that I left behind. The last letter contained a photograph. It was an image of the forest, taken near the place where I had encountered the entity. There, in the depths of the wilderness, caught in the camera's flash, were two glowing eyes, watching, waiting, waved. The image sent a jolt of fear through me, the memory of the encounter flooding back with an intensity that took my breath away.

I could almost hear the whispers, feel the entity's gaze on me. It was a chilling reminder that the entity was still there, still watching. I know now that I can never escape the entity, never escape the forest. Even here, in the heart of the city, I can feel it. Its presence is a constant specter, a chilling shadow that haunts my shadow that haunts my forest. shadow that haunts my every moment. I am forever marked by the entity, forever haunted by the terror of the forest. As I look out at the city skyline, the forest memory looms in my mind, a reminder of the terror that lurks in the wilderness, the ancient entity that watches and waits. My sanctuary,

my home, is now my forever nightmare. Never did I imagine that the forest I considered a second home could become my own personal nightmare. The day started like any other adventure into the Appalachian Mountains. The sun was shining, the sky and expanse of brilliant blue, and the leaves rustled like a hushed lullaby on the summer breeze. Duke, my trusty German shepherd, was beside me, his tongue lolling out in anticipation of our venture into the wild. As an off-duty park ranger, I loved these trips.

They gave me a chance to forget the demanding nature of my job and reconnect with the serenity of the wilderness. I'd camped in these mountains countless times before, but this time it was different. It was just Duke and me, two adventurers eager for some solitude and the embrace of nature. I made the drive up to our usual spot, the tires of my trusty truck crunching over the gravel road.

Unloading our gear, I couldn't help but feel a sense of peace. I took a moment, drinking in the vibrant greenery around me, the scent of pine and earth, the distant burble of a creek. I've always found something therapeutic about being out here, away from the bustle of everyday life. Duke, as always, was a bundle of energy. He dashed around, sniffing excitedly at bushes and trees, marking our arrival. The sight of him, so happy and carefree,

brought a smile to my face. Slow down, boy, I called out to him, but my admonishment was swallowed by the expanse, my voice echoing softly against the distant mountains. Setting up camp was second nature to me. With practiced ease, I pitched our tent on a patch of flat ground near a clear, bubbling stream. I arranged the rest of our gear, double-checking everything was in order before rewarding myself with a break. I cracked open a beer, took a long swig, and watched as Duke splashed about in the stream. Night fell gradually, the setting sun painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, before surrendering to the encroaching darkness.

I built a campfire. its warm glow pushing back against the night. Duke settled in next to me, his wet coat steaming slightly in the fire's warmth. The comforting crackle of the fire filled the silence, a melody as familiar as an old song. As I looked out into the darkening forest, its shadows deepening with the waning light,

I felt a strange unease. I shrugged it off, attributing it to the solitude and the encroaching night. Little did I know then that this journey would take a turn for the terrifying. that these familiar woods would soon become a maze of fear. I remember those last moments of peace, the calm before the storm, before I drifted off to sleep. Duke, my loyal companion, lay close,

his rhythmic breathing a comforting lullaby. The forest whispered its nighttime secrets, the stars above twinkling like a thousand watchful eyes. Yet, in that peaceful silence, a hint of our upcoming ordeal echoed ominously. If I'd known what awaited us, Would I have packed up and left that very night? But of course the future was a mystery then, obscured by the veil of the unknown.

Unaware of the nightmares that awaited us, Duke and I fell asleep to the symphony of the wild, blissfully ignorant of the horrors the following days held. Morning broke with a strange stillness, the usual chorus of birdsong muted, as if the wilderness itself was holding its breath. The first pangs of unease fluttered in my gut, but I shook it off,

blaming it on a rough night's sleep. I went about my morning routine, brewing strong coffee over the campfire and sharing breakfast with Duke, who seemed his usual energetic self. Yet, as the day unfolded, an odd disquiet seeped into my bones, time felt distorted, elastic. Hours seemed to compress into minutes. One moment, the sun was high in the sky, casting long dappled shadows through the canopy, and the next, the afternoon was already waning, a cool, breeze rustling through the trees. I tried to ignore the unsettling sensation, attributing it to my solo sojourn and the strange rhythm of the wilderness. But as the day wore on, the feeling persisted, an hour-long hike felt like minutes, while moments of idle rest stretched out, seemingly endless.

As the disconcerting day gave way to twilight, I found another enigma waiting. My meticulously organized camping gear was displaced, items moved or missing entirely. my map and compass, which I'd placed inside my backpack, were found outside, near the edge of our camp. A pot I'd used to heat our dinner was missing, only to be discovered later, filled with rainwater, some distance away from our sight. Duke, who usually dozed through the afternoons, was unusually alert, his ears perked up, his gaze constantly flitting towards the dense undergrowth. The sight of him, usually so carefree, now riddled with anxiety, unsettled me more than I cared to admit. The nightfall was eerie, the forest unnaturally silent.

I cooked a simple meal, my thoughts racing, my heart beating and anxious rhythm in my chest. I considered leaving, but the thought of navigating the treacherous mountain roads at night kept me rooted. Later, as I lay under the canvas of the tent, the darkness pressing in from all sides, an unfamiliar sound echoed in the distance. A low hum, pulsating, seeming to originate from the depths of the forest. It was a sound alien to the usual symphony of the wilderness, chilling me to my core. Duke stiffened beside me, a low growl rumbling in his chest. I told myself that it was just the wind, the rustling of leaves,

anything but the haunting drone that seemed to reverberate through the very ground beneath us. My own reassurances fell flat, the sound continuing, unabated, a spectral echo in the quiet night. As the surreal day gave way to an even stranger night, the reality of my situation began to set in. I was alone, lost in an unfamiliar version of my beloved wilderness, with only my faithful dog for company. As the strange sound filled the night, its rhythm matching the pounding fear in my heart, I realized that the solitude I had sought was morphing into a terrifying isolation. I spent the rest of the night in a fifth, sleep, the haunting hum a constant undertone to my troubled dreams. The image of my displaced

gear and Duke's anxious demeanor haunted me, the forest's whispers growing louder, more insidious. Unbeknownst to me then, this was just the beginning, the first strains of a nightmare that would plunge me and Duke into a horrifying ordeal, forever changing our perception of the wilderness we once considered home. Each day brought more confusion, my perception of time growing increasingly distorted. The pulsating hum from the heart of the forest became a nightly terror, an unyielding rhythm that reverberated in my bones, filling my dreams with a sense of impending doom. Even Duke, brave and stalwart as always, had become a shadow of his former self. His eyes, once filled with playful curiosity, were now clouded with a palpable fear. I tried to convince

myself that it was all in my mind, a figment of my imagination, a consequence of solitude, After all, I was a seasoned park ranger, a man of the wilderness. I was familiar with every nook and cranny of these mountains, every animal that prowled these woods. But the displaced gear, the unsettling hum, the warping time, Duke's strange behavior, none of it fit the pattern of my past experiences. No natural explanation seemed to quell the terror brewing inside me. I was in my territory, yet it felt alien, as if the wilderness itself was turning again. against me. One morning I awoke to find Duke rigid with fear, his fur standing on end, his

eyes trained on the dense forest. I strained my ears, expecting to hear the eerie hum, but instead a shuffling noise came from the undergrowth, too heavy to be just the wind rustling the leaves. I grabbed my flashlight, its beam piercing the early morning fog, but there was nothing there, just the dense forest, shrouded in a deceptive calm. The hum returned that night. more ominous than ever, as if mocking my attempts at reasoning. During the following days, I tried to carry on as normal, but the strange occurrences continued. Items were displaced more frequently, Duke's agitation escalated, and the ominous hum became a haunting serenade to the nightmare that was unfolding around me. As a park ranger, I had my share

of frightening encounters, poachers, wildlife, harsh weather, but this was different. This is This fear was not of a known danger, but an unseen, unheard, unfathomable presence that seemed to cloak the forest. This fear gnawed at my sanity, kept me up at night, and made me dread the approaching darkness. Every night was a battle, a struggle to make sense of the unknown terror that gripped me. The once comforting isolation had turned into an oppressive solitude. Duke and I were on edge, our nerves frayed, the tension a heavy shroud wrapped around our our little campsite, but nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. The terrifying

ordeal that was about to unfold was beyond anything I had ever faced in my life. It was a nightmare from which there was no waking, a horror that no amount of training could have prepared me for. As I stoked the dying embers of our campfire one night, an otherworldly presence descended upon our camp, an unspeakable terror that would confirm my worst fears and leave me questioning everything I thought I knew about the wilderness. Little did I know that the pulsating hum that filled our nights, Duke's growing restlessness, and the strange happenings were merely the overture to an encounter

that would send us fleeing into the depths of the forest, our very lives hanging in the balance. The night was black as pitch, the fire our only source of light against the enveloping darkness. The humming had grown louder, more insistent, a haunting dirge echoing through the desolate forest. Duke lay by my side, his body tense, every fiber of his being attuned to the unseen menace.

The fear was a living, breathing entity now, wrapping its cold tendrils around my heart, squeezing tighter with every beat. I found myself staring into the shadows, my mind churning with horrifying possibilities. My rational side fought to regain control, yet the mounting evidence was hard to ignore. Suddenly Duke growled, a deep guttural sound that sent chills down my spine.

His gaze was fixed on a spot just beyond our firelit sanctuary. I followed his gaze, my heart pounding a brutal rhythm in my chest. There, on the edge of the light, something moved, an indistinct shape that was too large to be any regular forest inhabitant. I scrambled for my flashlight, its feeble beam cutting through the darkness. But the light only served to deepen the shadows, the creature lurk. just beyond its reach. I could hear it moving, the rustling of leaves, the snapping of twigs under its weight. As if it sensed my fear, the creature stepped into the light, its form clearer

than I would have liked. It was unlike anything I had ever seen, a twisted fusion of man and beast, its eyes glowing and eerie green. The sight of it, this perversion of nature, drained the blood from my face, and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead. A scream tore from my throat, raw and primal, a feeble protest against the unimaginable horror before me. Duke barked furiously, his usual courage wavering in the face of the monstrosity. The creature responded with a gut-wrenching roar, the sound echoing in the silent night, drowning out the omnipresent hum. Panic took over, obliterating any semblance of reason. I scooped up Duke and bolted, the flashlight dropping from my grasp, plunging our world into darkness. The terrifying roar followed us,

a grotesque serenade to our desperate flight. The forest once my haven turned into a nightmarish labyrinth. Branches reached out like gnarled hands, clawing at my face and clothes. Rocks and roots emerged out of nowhere, tripping me up, but I couldn't afford to slow down, not with the monstrous presence hot on our heels. The fire, our camp, our gear, all were left behind in the chaos. My only thoughts were of escape, of getting as far away from the creature as possible. The forest closed in around me, an impenetrable wall of shadows.

and fear. Driven by sheer terror, Duke and I ran, we plunged deeper into the forest, our world reduced to the chilling roars of the creature and the thudding of our own hearts. As we ventured further into the unknown, I couldn't help but realize that we were not just running from a creature. We were running from the realization that our beloved wilderness had been transformed into a terrifying realm of the unknown, a place where nightmares came to life. Days and nights blurred into a relentless cycle of fear and exhaustion. The wilderness was no longer a familiar sanctuary. It was a twisted maze of haunting echoes and lurking shadows. Each rustle in the undergrowth was the creature closing in. Every unexpected sound was a signal of our impending doom.

The creature, thankfully, seemed to have lost our trail, but the damage was done. The pulsating hum was replaced by a chilling silence that was just as unnerving. The disorientation was severe. I tried to navigate by the stars. My rain, training kicking in, but the dense canopy above offered little assistance. Duke and I moved as stealthily as possible, driven by an instinctive will to survive. Our days were spent in a haze of fear, our nights filled with disturbing dreams and jolts of panic. Our only sustenance was the few edible berries and plants I could identify, and the occasional small game I managed to snare. Eventually, after what felt like weeks but could have been days,

We emerged on the other side of the forest. The sight of an open road slicing through the greenery was more beautiful than any mountain vista I had ever encountered. Relief washed over me, a palpable force that left me weak-kneed. Duke seemed to share my sentiment, his tail wagging for the first time in days. We staggered onto the road, our bodies battered, our spirits barely holding on. I tried to wave down the first vehicle I saw, but the driver, probably spooked by my disheveled appearance, sped away. My heart sank, but I gathered what little energy I had left and prepared to try again. The next car, however, was a different story.

The driver, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, pulled over and rolled down his window. After explaining our predicament in a hoarse whisper, he readily agreed to take us back to my vehicle. The drive back was a surreal experience. Sitting in the passenger seat, with Duke's head resting on my lap, I watched the familiar landscapes whizz by. a stark contrast to the alien nightmare we had just escaped from. When we reached my parked vehicle, I thanked the driver profusely, promising to pay his kindness forward. As Duke and I climbed into the car, the man gave us a sympathetic smile and drove away.

As I turned the key in the ignition, I took a moment to process everything we had gone through. The safety of the car felt like a cocoon, shielding us from the horror we had left behind. I stared at the rearview mirror, half expecting to see the creature emerge, emerge from the forest. But there was nothing, just the whispering trees swaying in the breeze. We drove away in silence, the echoing roar of the creature still ringing in my ears, a chilling reminder of the nightmare we had survived. The hum may have subsided. The displaced gear was now a distant memory, but the terrifying creature and its haunting presence were forever seared into my consciousness. Little did I know that the horror wasn't over, not by a long shot.

The most chilling revelation was yet to come. I returned to my cabin at the edge of the park, a safe haven I never thought I'd see again. Duke and I were silent wrecks, our minds grappling with the terrifying ordeal we had barely survived. The comfort of a hot shower and a soft bed seemed a world away from the nightmare we had fled. After ensuring Duke was settled in,

I ventured out to report my encounter to the local authorities. The disbelief was palpable as I recounted my experience, the creature, the hum, the displaced gear. I had expected skepticism, but the outright dismissal stung. Days turned into weeks, but the memories of the creature and the forest were as fresh as ever. Duke and I were forever altered by the experience, our once adventurous spirits replaced by a lingering dread, but the most terrifying part was yet to come. One night as I lay tossing and turning, a familiar sound pierced the silence.

The hum. It was faint, almost in a moment. imperceptible, but unmistakably the same ominous sound that had haunted our camping expedition. A cold fear gripped my heart. Duke's low growl confirmed my worst fears. I shot up in bed, my eyes scanning the darkness outside the window. But there was nothing. Just the quiet, isolated landscape bathed in moonlight.

But the hum persisted, a spectral symphony to my spiraling terror. That's when I noticed it. The flashlight, the same one I had dropped in our panicked flight, was lying on my bedside table. Its presence was impossible, a chilling testament to the inescapable horror that had followed us back. The forest, the creature, the terrifying ordeal. It was all right here in my supposed safe haven. The familiar objects in the cabin suddenly felt alien, menacing. I glanced at Duke, his eyes mirroring my fear. We were not safe. We had not escaped. The nightmare was not confined to the wilderness, it had followed us back, marking our existence with its

horrifying presence. That night, sleep alluded me. The hum seemed to grow louder with each passing minute, an ominous lullaby for the dawn that never seemed to come. The cabin once my refuge was now just another scene in the terrifying narrative that was my life. The subsequent days were a blur of sleepless nights and paranoia-filled days. The hum persisted, a constant reminder of the creature lurking in the shadows of my mind. The flashlight, despite my several attempts to dispose of it, always found its way back. As I pen down these words, the hum resonates around me, a soundtrack to my living nightmare. The flashlight flickers, casting eerie shadows around the room. Duke, my loyal companion, coweres by my side, his eyes never leaving the window. The wilderness has followed us back.

The creature, the terror, the fear. They are all here. Shrouding. in the seemingly mundane surroundings of my home. There is no escape from this nightmare, no waking up to a bright and sunny day. Our tale doesn't end with a triumphant return. It continues in this never-ending horror that is our reality. This is our life now, forever trapped in a terrifying echo of that fateful camping trip in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains. I sat in my cramped city apartment, the honking horns, and constant hum of the city streets below me, providing the only soundtrack to my solitary existence. I was exhausted, tired of the gray buildings, the bustle, and the monotony that my life had become. I craved

solitude, the call of the wild, the silence broken only by the rustle of leaves and the song of a distant bird. The Appalachian Mountains, with their untouched beauty and serene silence, beckoned me. I spent my final night planning, laying out my hiking gear methodically on the floor. crisp map spread out before me, the trails and roots criss-crossing like a complex web. The thought of stepping off the beaten path, away from my well-trodden routines, thrilled me. I felt a sense of freedom, of escape. It was the calm before a journey that I believed would be my salvation. The next morning, the dawn's first rays painted the sky with hues of pink and orange, heralding the start of my adventure. With my backpack packed to the brim with essentials, I

locked my apartment for the last time in days and headed to my old reliable truck. As I sat behind the wheel, I felt a sense of calm washing over me. It was as if I was leaving behind a version of myself, worn down by the grind of city life. The open road welcomed me like an old friend. The drive was a joy, watching the concrete jungle recede in my rearview mirror, replaced by rolling hills, open fields, and finally, the towering majesty of the the Appalachian Mountains. The sight of the rugged peaks rising high against the clear blue sky sparked a sense of adventure within me. It was like seeing an old friend after a long time.

The familiarity mingled with a sense of anticipation. Finally, at the foot of the mountains, I parked my truck at the designated trailhead. Looking up at the forested slopes, I was taken aback by the sheer scale and the imposing beauty that lay before me. There was an unspoken promise in the wind that rustled through the ancient trees, an adventure waiting to unfold. A chill of excitement tingled up my spine as I hoisted my backpack and took my first step on the dirt path, leading into the heart of the wilderness. As I ventured deeper into the woods, I left the signs of civilization behind. The only sounds were the crunch of leaves beneath my boots and the calls of unseen birds, hidden in the green canopy above. The serenity was overwhelming, intoxicated, and, and intoxicated. The serenity was overwhelming, intoxicated,

and I found myself whispering a silent prayer of thanks for this solitary communion with nature. The first day of hiking was blissful. My senses filled with the sights, sounds, and smells of the forest. As the sun started to set, painting the sky with warm hues, I set up my first camp. As I gazed up at the stars peeking through the forest canopy, I felt a sense of peace envelop me. The worries and frustrations of my city life seemed a world away. Little did I know then that the peace I reveled in was merely the calm before the storm. As I drifted off to sleep in the heart of the Appalachian wilderness, I was oblivious to the terrors that lay ahead, hidden in the depths of the forest.

Little did I know that my longing for solitude would soon turn into a nightmare, making me question my sanity, my courage, and my will to survive. The morning broke with the birds' chorus, their melodious songs marking the start of a new day, The air was thick with the dewy freshness that only a forest morning can bring. I unzipped my tent and was met with a breathtaking sight, the morning sun filtering through the trees, casting long shadows and dancing lights on the forest floor. I took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the pure, untouched air, a luxury in my urban existence. After a quick breakfast of

granola bars and a few swigs of water, I packed up my camp. With my backpack snug against my shoulders, I resumed my journey deeper into the heart of the Appalachian wilderness. The trails were challenging but invigorating, and with every step I felt a growing sense of freedom. There was something therapeutic about treading a path where few have walked, the solitude feeding my spirit. I relished in the calmness and the surreal beauty around me. My ears tuned into the forest soundtrack,

the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the sound of my own heartbeat in the overwhelming quiet. The whispers of the forest spoke volumes, drowning the noise of my past life. Lunch was a simple affair, a sandwich I'd prepared before setting off, now squashed but still appetizing. I found a spot near a small stream, the babbling water providing a calming backdrop. As I ate, I watched a family of deer cautiously approached the stream, their alert eyes scanning the surroundings before they lowered their heads to drink. The sight was humbling.

reminding me of the simple, raw beauty of life in the wild. As the day wore on, I found myself falling into a rhythm with the forest. I felt like a small piece of a giant puzzle, my presence insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The realization, instead of daunting me, comforted me. It was the escape from ego and self-importance that I'd been yearning for. I pressed on until the evening when the setting sun set the sky ablaze with colors. I found a perfect spot to set up my night's camp. a small clearing by a giant oak tree. As I set up my tent, a sense of accomplishment washed over me.

I'd survived my first full day in the wild, alone but not lonely. Once the camp was ready, I built a small fire, its warmth warding off the evening chill. As darkness descended, the forest transformed. The once familiar trees became silhouettes, their shadows stretching and warping in the firelight. The sounds too changed, the day's melodies replaced with the hoots, howls, and rustles of the forest's nocturnal life. Despite the change, I felt at peace. The wilderness was a balm to my tired soul. As I climbed into my tent, the last rays of the dying fire flickering, I reflected on my journey.

The solitude, the beauty of the forest, the thrill of the unknown. It was everything I'd imagined. The city and its worries felt like a distant memory, and I fell asleep with a smile on my face. I had no inkling that the calm I was basking in was but a facade, that the real face of the forest was far more terrifying than I could have ever imagined. As I surrendered to sleep, I was oblivious to the fact that my life was about to take a turn into the realm of the unimaginable. The sun was high in the sky when I awoke on my second day in the Appalachian wilderness. I began my day with a quick breakfast, the soothing sounds of the forest lulling me into a false sense of peace and tranquility. As I repacked my gear and doused the remnants of the campfire, I looked forward to another day

of solitary exploration in the wilderness. I had barely been on the trail for an hour when I stumbled upon an unexpected sight, a campsite. But it was not a current one. It was old, deserted, a haunting ghost of human presence in the otherwise untouched wilderness. A tattered tent, its once vibrant color faded by the sun and the elements, stood at the center, flanked by the remnants of a fire pit. I approached the site cautiously, a sense of unease crawling up my spine. There was something about the abandoned campsite that filled me with a sense of dread,

a stark contrast to the serenity I had experienced since my arrival. I glanced around, half expecting to see someone, but all I found was silence. The campsite had been deserted for quite some time, that much was evident. But who had been here and why they left in such a rush was a mystery that hung head. heavy in the air. With a knot in my stomach, I decided to move on, leaving behind the eerie remnants of someone else's wilderness adventure. But as I delve deeper into the forest, another strange occurrence halted me in my tracks. I came across a tree marked with odd symbols, carved deep into its bark. They were unlike any trail markers or signs I'd ever seen before. There was a

primitive tribal quality about them that sent a shiver down my spine. My mind started weaving stories, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. Were these symbols left by the same people who abandoned the campsite? Was I trespassing into some forbidden territory, marked by these strange signs? I couldn't shake off the feeling that I was being watched, that I was not alone in these woods. Despite my apprehensions, I pressed on, the eerie silence of the forest only intensifying my fears. The cheerful songs of the birds and the rustling of the leaves and the breeze that once sounded harmonious, now took on a haunting quality. The whispering wind carried with it a warning, a suggestion to turn back. But my curiosity outweighed my fears, and I decided to delve deeper

into the heart of the Appalachian wilderness. I convinced myself that I was just being paranoid, letting my imagination run wild. The abandoned campsite and the strange symbols were just isolated incidents, probably harmless. I had come to escape my urban life, to find solitude in the heart of the wilderness, and I was not about to let these unsettling discoveries deter me from my goal. Little did I know as I walked further into the forest that these were not just isolated incidents, but signs of the horrifying ordeal that lay ahead. I was oblivious to the fact that the eerie silence, the strange symbols, and the abandoned campsite were just the tip of the iceberg. The Appalachian wilderness had many more secrets, each more terrifying than the last, waiting to be

discovered. As day turned to dusk, an orange hue painted the forest. My legs ached from the long day of hiking, and I felt a chill creeping into the air. I began to search for a spot to camp for the night, hoping to find a quiet place to rest. But as I rounded a bend in the trail, a glow caught my eye in the distance. The light flickered, dancing through the forest trees. Curiosity peaked, I quietly approached the source, veering off the marked path for the first time since my journey began. As I got closer, the soft hum of voices reached my ears. It was a strange, melodic chanting, echoing through the woods. The glow I had noticed turned out to be a large bonfire, its flames reaching up to the darkening sky.

Around it, shadowy figures swayed, their silhouettes warped and elongated in the firelight. I ducked behind a large tree, careful not to make a sound, and watched the bizarre scene unfold before me. The figures wore dark cloaks, their faces hidden in the shadows, They moved in unison, their chanting growing louder and more intense, their bodies swaying in a rhythmic dance. The spectacle was both fascinating and terrifying, a scene straight out of a horror movie. In the center of the circle, a large wooden figure loomed ominously. The flames from the fire licked its base, casting a terrifying glow on its face. The carving was grotesque, an embodiment of evil.

The sight sent a shudder down my spine. The rituals of the robed figures intensified, their chance rising to a fever pitch. The whole scene was surreal, a shocking contrast to the calm of the Appalachian wilderness I had enjoyed so far. I was petrified, unable to tear my gaze away from the chilling spectacle. Suddenly, everything went still. The chanting stopped, replaced by a silence that was deafening in its intensity. Then, a robed figure stepped forward, raising a staff above his head. His voice echoed through the clearing, a harsh command that made the very air vibrate with its intensity. My heart pounded in my chest as the figure slowly turned, his gaze scanning the surrounding

woods. His eyes, glowing in the firelight, seemed to bore right into me. I held my breath, praying he hadn't seen me, but it was too late. With a swift motion, the figure pointed directly at my hiding place. A collective gasp echoed through the clearing, followed by silence. Then, hell broke loose. The cultists erupted into motion, several breaking away from the circle and dashing towards me. I could see their faces now, illuminated by the firelight, twisted in anger and determination. The terror that surged through me was primal. I turned and ran, the cult's shouts echoing behind me. The tranquil wilderness had turned into a nightmare, and as I sprinted into the dense forest, I knew my solitary retreat had turned into a terrifying game of survival. My heart pounded

in my chest like a war drum as I ran blindly through the dark forest. The comforting sounds of the wilderness had been replaced with the haunting echoes of the cultist shouts and the harsh crunch of foliage under their feet. The peaceful paradise I had sought was now a terrifying labyrinth, a backdrop to the nightmarish chase. I stumbled, tripped and tumbled, my hands flailing in the darkness to grasp at anything that could help me stay upright. My lungs burned for air, and every muscle in my body screamed in protest. but fear was a powerful motivator, and I pushed myself harder. Behind me the sounds of pursuit were growing louder.

The cultists were getting closer. I could hear their ragged breaths, the rustling of their cloaks, their ominous murmurs. The thought of being caught sent a fresh wave of adrenaline coursing through my veins, spurring me to run faster. Suddenly my foot caught on a root, and I was thrown forward, tumbling into a dense undergrowth. Pain shot through my ankle, and I gritted my teeth. to stifle a scream. I had to keep moving, keep running. Dragging myself up, I forced myself to limp onwards. Each step was a challenge, but the echoes of my pursuers were my motivation.

The forest had turned into a threatening entity. Its once familiar trees now grotesque silhouettes against the starlit sky, its trails twisted and disorienting. But then, I saw it, the silhouette of a large tree, its branches reaching out towards the sky. An idea took root in my mind. without a second thought I dashed towards it dragging my injured foot. With the last ounce of my strength I started to climb. The rough bark scraped my hands, the branches digging into my flesh, but the pain was insignificant compared to the fear of being caught. I hauled myself higher and higher till I was nestled amongst the thick branches.

Exhausted I lay there, hidden from view, my breath ragged and my body aching. I waited, holding my breath as the sounds of my pursuers grew closer. Then they were there, their shadowy forms illuminated by the pale moonlight. They stopped, their breaths heavy, their heads swiveling as they searched the surroundings. After what seemed like an eternity, they moved on, their footsteps growing fainter until they were swallowed by the silence of the night. Relief washed over me, but it was short-lived. I was lost, injured, and being hunted in the middle of the Appalachian wilderness.

The stars twinkled above me, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding beneath them. I clung to the tree, my sanctuary in the face of terror, my mind racing. I had sought solitude in these woods, but what I had found was a terrifying reality I was ill-equipped to face. The grim truth settled in. I was in a fight for survival. My peaceful retreat turned into a game of cat and mouse. The serenity of the Appalachian wilderness was a far cry from the terror that now gripped me. As I looked out into the darkness, I realized that I had stepped into a realm of the unknown,

a world that I never imagined could exist within the heart of this wilderness. Pinned high in my treetop perch, the chill of the night seeped into my bones, my heart still pounded in my chest from the adrenaline rush, the echoes of the pursuit still ringing in my ears. The branches around me swayed gently, lulling me into a trance. Below me the dark forest stretched out, a haunting canvas of shadows and mystery. I tried to process the night's events, but my mind was a whirl of fear and confusion. The reality of my situation seemed like a horrifying nightmare, something I'd wake up from

to find myself safe in my tent. But the throbbing pain in my ankle, the chill in my bones, and the eerie silence of the forest were grim reminders of my terrifying reality. I strained my ears, listening for any sound that could hint at the same. the cultists return, but all I could hear was the occasional hoot of an owl, the rustle of leaves, and my own erratic heartbeat. The forest was still again, a stark contrast to the terror I had just experienced. Despite the adrenaline and fear, exhaustion soon took over. My body, beaten and battered from the chase, demanded rest. I wedged myself between two sturdy branches,

praying they'd hold my weight through the night. As I stared up at the star-stubbed, studded sky, I couldn't help but marvel at the surreal contrast of my situation, a beautiful, serene night sky overhead, while beneath it, a terrifying ordeal unfolded. As the hours slipped by, the night's events replayed in my mind, each detail etching itself deeper into my memory. The chilling rituals, the strange symbols, the abandoned campsite, they all painted a horrific picture that sent shivers down my spine. The once welcoming wilderness had revealed a sinister underbelly.

Yet, amidst the fear and dread, a flicker of resolve began to take root. I was far from helpless. I was a man who had sought solace in nature, who had wanted to test his limits against the raw power of the wilderness. I would not let this horrifying ordeal defeat me. As the moon journeyed across the sky, casting long twisted shadows onto the forest floor, I clung to my tree, a lone figure in the dark wilderness. The chilling events of the night seemed almost unreal now, the forest around me returning to its normal state.

The silence was broken occasionally by the far-off cry of a nightbird, or the rustling of small creatures in the undergrowth. By the time the first hints of dawn began to creep into the sky, I had formulated a basic plan. I would continue moving at first light, aiming to put as much distance as possible between me and the nightmare I had encountered. I was lost, and I was being hunted, but I was far from defeated. The taste of fear was still fresh, but as I looked at the first rays of the sun breaking through the forest canopy, I knew I would fight. I would face whatever came my way and fight to reclaim my journey, to escape the terrifying grip of the Appalachian wilderness.

As I waited for dawn, I was filled with a grim determination. I would survive. I had to. As dawn painted the sky with hues of orange and pink, I descended from my treetop sanctuary. Every muscle in my body protested, and my ankle throbbed with renewed intensity. But the promise of daylight, the chance to escape, spurred me on. I was not safe yet, far from it. The wilderness was vast, the cultists persistent.

I needed to move, to get as far away as possible. I set a steady pace, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of the cult. But the forest was serene again, a picture of tranquility. The melodious calls of birds filled the air, a stark contrast to the terrifying silence of the previous night. But underneath this familiar symphony, I sensed the forest's darker secrets. A shiver ran down my spine. I was walking on a thin line between beauty and terror, never knowing when the balance would shift. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig sent my heart racing.

Paranoia gnawed at my mind, transforming benign shadows into lurking figures, harmless sounds into ominous footsteps. I felt like a prey in the heart of this wilderness. My senses heightened, my nerves on edge. The forest was dense, its canopy a labyrinth of twisted branches and leaves. The paths were barely visible, a confusing tangle of trails that seemed to lead nowhere. I was deep in the heart of the Appalachian wilderness, far from the usual hiking trails. There was no sign of human presence, just the untouched beauty of nature. And lurking beneath it all was a terror that could shatter the calm at any moment. I continued moving, pushing through the undergrowth, hoping to reach the clearer trails.

I drew on my limited knowledge of wilderness survival, trying to orient myself, to find my way out. But with every step, the forest seemed to grow denser, its secrets darker. As the sun climbed higher in the sky, exhaustion crept in. My ankle was swollen now, each step sending sharp jolts of pain shooting up my leg, but I couldn't afford to stop, to rest. Fear was my constant companion, pushing me forward, keeping me alert. Despite the dread, there was a part of me that marveled at the wilderness, the towering trees, the chirping birds, the sunbeams filtering through the foliage, they were all breathtaking.

I had come here to find solace in this beauty, to escape from the monotony of urban life. But my journey had taken a horrifying turn. I was caught in a twisted game of survival, my peaceful retreat replaced by a deadly pursuit. The irony was not lost on me. The same wilderness that I had sought for peace was now the setting of my worst nightmare. I was a lone figure in this vast expanse, hunted, lost, yet determined to survive. As the day wore on, I could only hope that I was getting closer to escape, that I was putting enough distance between myself and the terror that haunted me. The sun was a steady companion

in the sky, casting long shadows that danced with the rustling leaves. The forest was alive with sounds, a symphony that masked the undercurrent of dread. As I limped through the wilderness, a grim determination took hold. I would survive this. I had to, because giving up was not an option, not here, in the heart of the Appalachian wilderness. As the sun began to to sink below the horizon, I stumbled upon an opening in the dense woodland. The sudden expanse of the clearing caught me by surprise, but what lay at the center froze me in my tracks. My heart pounded against my ribs as I took in the scene before me. It was another circle, just like the one I had witnessed the terrifying ritual at, only this time it was deserted. The faint outlines of symbols,

similar to the ones I had seen the previous night, were etched into the ground. I could still smell the remnants of a fire, its ashes cold and gray, a grim reminder of the horror that had taken place here, the memory of the chanting, the ominous figure pointing towards me, the ensuing chase. It all came rushing back, my skin prickled with goosebumps, my breath hitched in my throat, I had stumbled upon another of the cult sanctuaries, their unholy grounds. I was back at the heart of the nightmare. A shiver of fear ran down my spine as I looked around. clearing was ominously silent, the trees standing as silent spectators to the horrors that had unfolded here. The thought of being at the heart of the cult's territory, possibly surrounded

by them, sent a fresh wave of terror coursing through me. My first instinct was to run, to get as far away from this place as possible, but something held me back. There was something eerily familiar about the clearing. I had seen it before, before the horrors of the cult had unfolded in a different light. It was the same clearing I had planned to camp at, the one that had first lured me off the beaten path. A sense of dread washed over me. I had walked in a circle. Despite my best efforts to move away, to escape the nightmare, I was back where it all started. The realization was a punch to my gut. I was not only lost, but moving in circles, right at the heart of the cult's territory. The sinking sun cast long shadows, the coming darkness a grim reminder

of the horrors the night could bring. The forest had taken on a sinister tone, every rustle of leaves, every creaking branch sending my heart racing. I was trapped in a horrifying game of cat and mouse, my every step possibly leading me closer to danger. As the twilight gave way to the darkness, my situation became clear. I was not just lost. I was the prey, hunted in a forest that hit a deadly secret. The reality of my situation hit me hard. I was a man, alone in the wilderness, caught up in a deadly chase that could cost me my life. The chill of the night settled in, the once comforting wilderness now a haunting labyrinth. As the stars began to twinkle in the sky, I knew I had to keep moving, to try and break free from this terrifying circle. Fear was my

constant companion, pushing me on, reminding me of the horrifying stakes. As I plunged back into the darkness, the cold truth settled in. I was lost in a terrifying nightmare. far from the peaceful retreat I had sought. The Appalachian wilderness was not just a haven. It was a terrifying battleground for my survival. Moving deeper into the forest, a soft murmur broke through the night's silence, a welcome interruption to the forest's eerie quietude. The sound grew louder, turning into a recognizable rush of water. It was a river, its steady flow a soothing balm to my frayed nerves. Stepping through the underbrush, I found myself at the edge of a fast, flowing river, its waters shimmering under the moonlight. Relief washed over me. Rivers often led to human

habitation, or at least to clearer trails. It was a glimmer of hope, a chance to find my way out of this nightmare. But the sight of the river also brought back a wave of thirst that hit me like a punch. I had been moving for hours, my water bottle long emptied. I fell to my knees at the riverbank, cupping my hands to drink the cold, refreshing water. As I quenched my thirst, a plant was started forming in my mind. I could follow the river. It might lead me to civilization, or at least out of the deep wilderness where I was currently trapped. If the cultists were indeed tracking me, moving along the river could potentially throw them off. The prospect of a plan, a direction, revived my spirits. I wasn't just aimlessly running anymore. I had a course to

follow, a goal to achieve. The terror of the chase, the grim reality of my situation, it all seemed a little less overwhelming with a plan in place. I took a moment to breathe, to take in the serene beauty of the river. The moonlight danced on its surface, the gentle rush of water, a soothing symphony. For a brief moment, I allowed myself to forget the terror, to appreciate the beauty that I had initially sought in the Appalachian wilderness. But the peace was short-lived. The grim reality of my situation reared its head again.

With a final look at the moonlit river, I pushed off from the bank, starting my trek along the waterway. The forest was dark, its shadows dancing ominously under the faint moonlight, but the river's rush was my constant guide. As I moved, the trees seemed to whisper. Their rustling leaves a haunting chorus to the river's symphony. Every crack of a twig, every rustle of underbrush, set my nerves on edge. The wilderness was alive with sounds. The dark forest a horrifying maze. hiding unseen dangers. But amidst the fear and uncertainty, there was a flicker of hope. The river was my path out, my guide through the treacherous wilderness. I held on to that sliver of hope, my resolve strengthening with each passing moment. As I limped along the riverbank, the terrifying reality of the

night slowly receded to the back of my mind. I was still lost, still hunted, but I was not defeated. The wilderness had tested me, pushed me to my limits. But I was, but I was still lost. I was not defeated. The wilderness had tested me, pushed me to my limits. But I would endure. I had to. As the river whispered its soothing lullaby, I moved forward, driven by the grim determination to survive. Because survival was no longer just a desire. It was a necessity, a necessity to escape the horrifying grasp of the Appalachian wilderness, and the terrifying secret it hid. A sudden rustling sound in the underbrush snapped me out of my exhaustion-induced days. My heart pounded in my chest. And I was a sudden, as I scanned the darkness. The sound was distant, but it was unmistakable. Footsteps. The cultists had

found me again. Terror gripped me, the river's soothing presence suddenly turning ominous. My brief respite was over. I was being hunted again, chased in the heart of the wilderness, the soothing rush of the river, now a chilling soundtrack to my nightmarish reality. I ran. The sharp pain in my ankle was now a dull throb, my body running on adrenaline. The forest around me blurred, the darkness closing in, the river a steady presence at my side. I didn't dare to look back, the echoes of the pursuing footsteps, a horrifying reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows. Branches and underbrush whipped at me as I sprinted through the dark forest. I stumbled and fell, picking myself up and forcing my body to keep moving. Every gasp for air was a battle, every step of

victory against the mounting pain. The forest was a maze of shadows, the moonlight barely penetrating the thick canopy. The familiar sounds of the wilderness were now muffled, drowned by the rush of the river and the pounding of my heartbeat. I was a lone figure, running through a haunted forest, chased by unseen horrors. Despite the terror, a part of me refused to succumb. I had been hunted, cornered, and lost, but I was not defeated. The wilderness had tested me, pushed me to my limits, revealed horrifying secrets I was never meant to witness, but I would not go down without a fight. I veered away from the river, pushing through the dense underbrush, the distant footsteps echoing my path. I was running blind, guided by fear and adrenaline, driven by a grim determination

to survive. The terror of the chase had turned into a terrifying game of endurance, a test of my will to survive. I ran until my legs felt like lead, until my lungs screamed for air. I pushed myself, my body moving on instinct, my mind focused on survival. I could hear the cultists' footsteps growing distant, their pursuit slowed by the rough terrain, but I didn't stop. I couldn't afford to. As the night wore on, I found myself back in the heart of the wilderness, the river a distant murmur, the cultists' footsteps lost in the cacophony of the night. The forest was still again, its peace a stark contrast to the terrifying ordeal I had just endured. Exhausted, I leaned against a tree, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The adrenaline was wearing off, replaced by a

crushing fatigue, but the fear was still there, a constant reminder of the terrifying chase, of the deadly game I was trapped in. As the reality of my situation set in, I realized how close I had come to being caught. I was lost in the Appalachian wilderness, hunted by a terrifying cult, my every step of fight for survival, but I was still alive. I was beaten, bruised, and terrified, but I was not defeated, and as I leaned against the tree catching my breath, I clung to that fact. I had survived another night, another chase. I was still in the game, I was still fighting, and I would continue to fight, to endure, until I escaped this horrifying, nightmare. The first hint of dawn peaked over the horizon, a faint glimmer of light breaking

through the dense canopy. The forest slowly came alive, its nocturnal creatures replaced by the familiar sounds of the morning. But the forest's environment did little to calm my nerves. The chase had left a lingering fear, a constant reminder of the unseen dangers lurking in the shadows. Slowly I began my trek, my body aching, my spirit weary but resolved. The fear of being hunted was still there, the echoes of the chase, a grim reminder of my nightmarish ordeal. But I was still alive, still standing, and as long as I was, I had a chance to escape this horrifying nightmare. I moved stealthily, careful not to attract any unwanted attention. My senses were on high alert, every rustle of leaves, every distant sound, a potential danger.

I moved away from the river deeper into the forest, hoping to evade any cultists that might still be tracking me. Hours turned into an endless cycle of cautious steps, momentary stops, and hasty retreats. But as the sun climbed higher, painting the forest in warm hues, a renewed hope began to simmer within me. The daylight brought with it a sense of safety, a comforting shield against the terrors of the night. I was still lost, still in danger, but I was also moving, fighting, surviving. As the afternoon sun pierced through the canopy, I saw something that almost made me weep with relief. Nessled amidst the dense trees, hidden from casual sight, was an old log cabin, a structure, a man-made structure, in the heart of the wilderness. It was the first sign of

human habitation I had seen since I had embarked on this terrifying journey. Cautiously, I approached the cabin. It was old, its wooden exterior weathered by time and nature, but it was sturdy, and more importantly, it was deserted. No cultists, no omelior. No omelior. No omelior. symbols, just an old abandoned cabin lost in the wilderness. The cabin was my sanctuary, my temporary haven in the face of danger. It was a place to rest, to gather my strength, to plan my next steps. It was a beacon of hope, a promise of safety, in the heart of a terrifying forest. As the day gave way to the evening, I secured the cabin, my exhaustion slowly creeping in, the terror of the chase, the ordeal of the past days, it all weighed heavily on me. But I had made it through another day.

I had evaded the cultists, found a sanctuary, survived. I was still in the game, still fighting. As the last rays of the sun disappeared, I huddled in the cabin, its walls a comforting barrier against the terrors lurking outside. The night was still, the forest's haunting symphony replaced by a comforting silence. For the first time since I had stumbled upon the terrifying cult, I felt a sense of security, a brief respite from the horrifying ordeal. I was still lost, still in danger, but for that night I was safe. And as I drifted off to sleep, the echoes of the chase a distant memory, I held on to that fact. I had survived, I was still fighting, and I would continue to fight, continue to endure, until I escaped this horrifying nightmare.

Daylight brought a renewed determination. The cabin had served its purpose, a haven, a sanctuary, but it was time to move, to continue my fight for survival. I was still lost, still in danger, but I was alive, I was fighting, and I was not ready to give up. I left the cabin at the crack of dawn, my destination unclear, but my resolve unwavering. The morning was quiet, the forest a maze of shadows and light, its tranquility a stark contrast to the horrors it had witnessed. Hours turned into an endless cycle of cautious steps and stops, the fear of being discovered a constant companion. But as the sun climbed higher, something broke the monotonous rhythm of my trek. It was a faint, distant sound, a familiar hum. My heart pounded in my chest as I recognized

it, the sound of a vehicle. Quickening my pace I moved towards the sound, my hopes rising with each step. It grew louder, closer, the unmistakable hum of an engine, the sign of civilization, and then, breaking through the dense undergrowth, I saw it, a dirt road, winding its way through the wilderness, a vehicle trundling along it. Relief washed over me as I stumbled onto the road, my knees buckling under the weight of my exhaustion and relief. I was out. I had escaped the dense wilderness, the unseen dangers, the horrifying chase. I was safe. The vehicle stopped. The driver, a middle-aged man, his face a mix of surprise and concern.

I explained my situation, my voice hoarse, my words barely a whisper. He offered me a ride, his vehicle a beacon of hope, a promise of safety. As we drove down the winding road, the forest receding in the distance, the terror of the past days felt like a distant nightmare. I was leaving it behind, the dense wilderness, the terrifying chase, the horrifying cult. I was going home. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I saw it. My old truck, just as I had left it. A wave of emotion swept over me as I thanked the driver and climbed into my truck. I was finally safe, finally free. The nightmare was over. I turned the key in the ignition,

the truck's familiar hum a comforting sound. As I drove away, the Appalachian wilderness a distant memory in my rearview mirror, I felt a sense of closure, a sense of survival. I had escaped the clutches of a terrifying cult, survived a horrifying chase, fought my way through a dense, treacherous wilderness. I had survived. As I drove home, the memories of the past days, a grim reminder of the horrors I had witnessed. I made a vow. I would never return to those woods again. I would never forget the terror, the chase, the nightmare, but I would move on, carry on, survive, because I had fought, endured, and survived. And that was something worth cherishing. The Appalachian wilderness held a terrifying secret, a horrifying cult hidden in its dense, treacherous undergrowth. I had stumbled upon it, survived it, escaped it. And as I drove away, leaving the wilderness behind, I knew one thing.

I had survived. I had fought, endured, and I had survived. And that was a victory worth celebrating. My dearest Aidan, I know that it has been some time since we last spoke, and for that, I know better than to ask for any forgiveness. As a mother, I'm charged with certain responsibilities to you for which I openly admit in failing to provide. I understand that you don't know many of the reasons as to why I've done the things that I have,

and I know that it's pointless to try to get you to understand. Please know that none of this was ever your fault. You are an amazing young man, and the best thing that I've ever made in this world. You were never, and could never be a burden on my life. It's just that in those last few years since your father passed, I felt like there was a part of my soul that went with him. You know that we were never much of a religious home, so faith was something I never could really turn to in those days. But when I found Lucardio, it was like everything changed. I felt connected to something bigger than myself for the first time in my life.

That's how we all feel, each and every one of us that has been here since the beginning. Now while the years away from you have been hard, they've also been a learning experience unlike any other. I've grown in connection and understanding to the world around me and my higher power. You're probably thinking to yourself that you should have been what I should have been connecting with and understanding more, and you're right to do so. But I want you to know that I thought about you every single day. I don't know of a single parent amongst our congregation who wasn't doing the same for their own child. In the beginning, keeping contact was simply impossible due to how frequently we migrated from town to town, from county to county, and from state to state. One night we'd settle down with our tents in Tampa, and then just a few days later we'd be sleeping under the stars of Dallas.

We moved so often not to be undetectable by our loved ones, but to spread Lucardio's message to as many as we could. For the first few years, we lived off donations alone. On occasion, we would work odd jobs around the towns we were in, but only to get what we needed to keep going on. We finally settled into a lasting abode and made the foundation of our church three years ago, and I've been putting this letter off ever since then. Every time I tried to put pen to paper, I just could never stop myself crying. And yes, I don't deserve to shed a single tear after all the pain I must have caused. Lucardio has always taught that personal wants and connections were taught to stand in the way of the mission.

We've all had to make sacrifices along the way, but we made them because we truly believe in what we are doing. I can't imagine the sacrifices you've had to make with me gone as well. Sacrifices you never should have had to make in my absence. While I have no right at all to ask for your trust, I do want you to know that I believe with all my heart that we will be together again. I'm not simply talking about you and I, but all of us, our entire family. I've seen clearer than ever that the day is coming when we shall all be reunited in a world that is made pure in our Lord's image. I can say this with a resounding certainty, because through the work of the congregation,

I have seen wonders made only possible in dreams. Know that I have always kept you closest to my heart. Know that I do love you more than you will ever know. know that I am sorry for all the pain that I have caused and pray for you every single day. Love, Mom. Those were the first and last words I had heard from my mother in two decades. Six months after my father died from pancreatic cancer, she'd just up and left without even saying a proper goodbye.

She'd of course been distant in the time leading up to her departure. I never held that against her, because while I had lost my dad who died known for my entire life. She had lost the man she'd been with for over 37 years. Because I was only 21 at the time of his passing, I didn't really know how to properly process the grief when we lost him. I dropped out of community college and pretty much just buried myself with extra shifts at the local deli where I worked, just so I could keep myself busy and not have any time to really think about the whole situation. Mom had taken up counseling at my request, as I knew that dad would have wanted her not to fall off the wagon and relapse after two decades of sobriety.

Under her therapist's advice, she started volunteering with more programs in the community. She'd sit in and help out at the nursing home, as well as set up for N.A. and A.A. meetings at the wellness center, and even help with driving the van to pick up attendees who didn't have any transportation to them. But like me, as soon as each busy day came to its end, the reality of my father's absence filled our home like a reservoir of grief that knew no end. The recliner where he sat in the living room was never touched and hardly even looked at. It was treated like some kind of pitiful memorial that only served as a reminder that he wasn't coming back. Gone were the days of the family coming together after dinner and binging the latest hit show on cable,

or laughing together when watching America's funniest home videos. Now, there was simply silence, as mom would just sit on the couch reading over $1.10 mystery paperbacks, while I emotionally quarantined myself in my room. I suppose in those days it was hard for us to be around one another, not because we had done something to upset the other, but because we both served as reminders of the one we had lost. To my mother, I was almost the spitting image of my father at the age when they had first met back in high school.

For me, she was the remaining fragment of a home that was now forever broken, always feeling as if his phantom was still holding her in. empty hand. I often ask myself what would have happened if I had only tried to make an effort in grieving along with her, rather than alone. Perhaps things may have played out entirely differently, and she'd still be home, and maybe I'd still be the man I once was in those days, rather than the man teetering on the edge of insanity as I am today. Yet to question the possibility of correcting past regrets is a waste of time, for by the time I had begun to realize what was going on with my mother, It was already too late.

A month before she left, I noticed that she had begun to frequent the Ericksburg Recreation Center. There had been pamphlets scattered around town, advertising a new method of spiritual and philosophical healing for those suffering with depression and mental ailments. Personally, I had just chalked it up to some kind of traveling hippie convert that would try to sell you the idea of magic healing crystals and positive energy chakras or some crap like that. At first, I figured the only reason mom had been going to those meetings was simply because her sponsor asked her to tag along.

Now, while that may indeed have been her initial introduction to Lucardio Carbone, it was his captivating charismatic message that had ensnared her, along with the rest of what would come to be later known as, the congregation. As I've come to learn following the years of research I've done since she vanished, the congregation went on a type of cross-country tour during its early development in the late 19th. In total, they were able to gather roughly 40 members, after dozens of others would tend to drop out after just a few months or so. Based on the scarce interviews I could find from former followers of the group, it seemed that what began as a method of mental healing quickly grew into a religious ideology in itself. While details about the actual faith of the congregation were scarce, what was known was that their leader taught from fragments of several different religious texts like the Bible. Bible, Torah, and Quran, as well as inserting their own differentiating doctrines of their own.

The most I was able to learn during my research came from articles covering the experience of a man by the name of Aaron Latimore, a member from 1986 to 1991. According to Mr. Latimore, they believed a rather strict celibate and isolationist lifestyle. The whole idea of their doctrine was based on focusing on the individual to become more of an instrument for higher power, as opposed to focusing on their own happiness and self-determination. Apparently, one of the very first things each member had to adapt to during early indoctrination was losing touch with personal connections, such as family and friends, as they were seen as nothing more than roadblocks, keeping them from their destiny. While it was clear that they

were most definitely being conditioned and brainwashed via religious repertoire to see the world from that weird and twisted view, I'd be lying if I didn't say that it was still a massive knife to the heart, to think about my mother viewing me as some kind of obstacle in her life. So you can imagine my surprise when I received her letter from out of nowhere after nearly 18 years of silence. Upon reading it, I was shocked to discover for myself just how easily decades of built-up emotions could just burst to the forefront in the blink of an eye. Each word brought on the memories of panic, fear, and loneliness that had enveloped my entire being when she first left all those years ago. I had worked so hard in the time between to grow as a man and not let the loss of both my

parents define me. In a way, I had lived as if they were both dead. There was that equal certainty that I'd never see either one of them ever again, and yet there I was in my apartment reading a message from the necrotic past that I had tried my best to bury. What shocked me the most was the lack of any real rage at the time. In the early years, I had always imagined her just showing up out of the blue after their church collapsed and broke away. Every single one of those scenarios ended with some giant and emotional speech telling her off and condemning her for the hell she put me through while all on my own. Yet rather than the feeling of anger festering to the surface, I was struck by only fear, because this wasn't the time when small cults and religious nomads

were recruiting for their holy cause. This was the age when they were all succumbing to self-martyrdom. Immediately my mind raced over images of the Jonestown massacre, or the Heaven's Gate Passings, and even the Solar Temple, all tied up with a neat bow of the Waco Inferno. All I could think of as I finished her letter were police investigators taking pictures of her body surrounded by the dozens of others she had left me to worship with.

The thought of her rotting sprawled out over some twisted version of hallowed, ground, while flies buzzed around her head like a kind of demonic halo, made me sick to my stomach to the point where I almost doubled over the kitchen table there and then, which is why I decided to take that weekend off work and make my way down there to this congregation for myself. At the time I had hoped to maybe get there before the horrible event in my imagination played out, even though there was still that gnawing voice in the back of my head saying that it had already happened, and that I'd simply be the poor soul to beat the police to an unimaginable scene. In a way, that voice was right. According to the envelope in which my mother's letter had been

enclosed within, it had been sent by a Glenn Dickerson from Harlington, Montana. So the first order of business was to take the 16-hour drive up there and figure out his relationship to my mother. Along the way, I was trying to wrap my head around all the questions that would remain impossible to answer until I arrived. Why did my mother suddenly send me this from out of nowhere? Why did this person I'd never heard of in my entire life send me her letter rather than her doing it herself? Is she still alive? While it's clear to any observer of the situation that to plague oneself with these questions would be useless and only serve to heighten the stress of the situation, it's much easier said than done when you're the one living through that earth-shattering shadow

of anxiety without answers. While making the trip I had decided to listen to some sermons from the congregation that they had posted on their website, I figured that even though I had listened to them all before, that I might as well get a refresher course on them, given the circumstances. Let us not forget our place among the stars, for we are but an atom atop a speck of dust within this vast universe. Yet despair not, for your role is greater than you may ever know. for despite the barren and empty cosmos that surrounds us all, you are unique, you are alive. Unlike the countless desolate worlds that swim throughout the dark wilderness of dead space, ours has the ability to ponder its very own existence.

While life may be as fleeting as a decaying vapor in the wind, it is one not without a purpose. But where does such a mystery of life come from, you may ask? What makes us so special that we are able to rise from the depths of evolution, and aspire to take our first steps from our nest of earth into a universe that seems infinitely inhospitable to life itself. Many have sought answers in science or philosophy, while others have looked into the pages of holy books written thousands of years ago, when the simplest answer of all is to look up at the stars themselves,

for they are the true inspirational word of God. Since man has first made fire, he has gazed up at the dark horizons in curious amazement at the hand that painted those. mysterious campfires that dot the night sky. Our ancestors saw for the first time their insignificance in the scale of all things, but also a deeper connection to the reality around them. Each and every one of us have looked up to the heavens in search for answers, yet only a select few have found traces of those answers. Abraham, Moses, Paul, John the Revelator, Muhammad and Buddha. They were all given pieces of the great puzzle that defines our entire reality.

Little by little the truth has been given to us as a species, for we must grow as a society and a people, so that we may mature enough to understand the true meaning of our lives. Yet there are those who would seek to pollute the veridity of these answers with their own fan-fictional truths. The Joseph Smiths, the Jim Jones, the Marshall Applewhites, the Joseph Mambroes, all of them taking the great revelations bestowed to us by the highest power and discarding them, and reshaping and contradicting them to suit their own worldview, rather than the true worldview. Now you may ask who I am to make such a claim as I do. Who is this man that tarnishes the names of other failed and ridiculed religious leaders,

yet claims that he knows the way as opposed to them? I'm here to tell you that what you're asking is the most important question that must be answered before you're even able to receive my message. What use is a shepherd if there's no reason for the flock to follow him? Please let not my words be what bring you to the path of salvation, but only be the stepping stone that leads you to the truth. For simple, silver-tonged words are wielded by many, and have led millions astray.

All members of our congregation have seen the truth for themselves. They have seen the signs, and witnessed firsthand the wonders of what lies in store for the faithful. Because we are not some random and misguided accident to simply be forgotten by the universe once it succumbs to the heat death of cosmic entropy. We are all of us, a part of a greater and glorious whole. Yet at the same time, we are not to be simple individuals

that seek to only serve our own wants and desires for the brief duration of our mortal lives here on Earth. In truth, we are to be instruments orchestrated by the hand that has painted the greatest canvas of stardust that is the heavens themselves. Our individuality must be swallowed whole by the grand collective design, our lives to be a drop in the ocean that is the unfathomable existence of God.

For we do nor circumvent the truth of our reality, we do not bend to the words of man, we bow to the other light, we worship the true light. Now I had to give the man credit where credit was due, he sure knew how to talk. Listening to him again, it wasn't a wonder as to why so many like my mother decided to follow him. The unfortunate truth about the world we live in seems to be that those who are lost and suffering are the easiest prey to those who seek to exploit them.

I couldn't even begin to imagine how she and the others had been used by the one who claimed to be their shepherd. I couldn't help but think of the branch Davidians, and how all of the women had been made to marry David Koresh and bear his children. Just the thought of my mother being manipulated into that kind of mindset and having to sleep with some silver-tonged bastard who used my father's death as a way to seep into her life, made me so angry that I could have indented my damn steering wheel with how tight I had been gripping it. Even though they appeared to be a celibate group based on what I had heard from former members, there was no telling what really happened behind closed doors,

when a religious leader got too much power in his pulpit. After all, Catholic priests were meant to live the same kind of lifestyle, and God only knows how many innocent kids have suffered under the force of those men who twisted their faith into a tool for their own self-satisfaction. As I made my way closer to my destination, I was shocked by the sheer scale of some of the farms and ranches that I passed by along the way. I couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of money some of these families were sitting on in their fancy estates along the Rocky Mountains. The small town of Harlington itself was as fresh a breath of air as the entire countryside around me. It was a perfect little slice of Americana, as pristine as fresh apple pie,

fresh paved roads and brick outlet stores lined along Main Street with bright American flags waving in the warm summer air by lampposts. For many, it would appear to be the perfect suburban home to settle down and raise a family, the kind of place where everyone knows everybody, and the marble white church is filled to the brim every Sunday. For me, the town had an unfortunate shadow over the whole thing, obscuring the serene beauty with an underlying sense of dread for the secrets I was seeking answers for. My final stop would be at the Huxler Diner, which lay right across the street from the Harlington High School football stadium. Now I must confess that the last thing I was expecting when I put in the sender's address from my mother's letter was to be directed to some dinner from some town I'd never heard of in the middle of Montana.

Yet here I finally was, at the end of my long journey, on the complete other end of the country. Upon entering the diner, I wasn't surprised at all to find the layout to be as classified. as you could possibly expect. It was almost like walking right into the past with the checkered tiled floor and red leather booths. The smell of coffee and patty grease filled the air, as tunes from the early 70s melted out from a jukebox at the wall between the two single stall bathrooms. As the bell above the front door jingled when I walked through, a waitress in a checkered blue and white dress and apron came up to me. Hey there, welcome to Huxlers. Can I get you something, hon? Yeah, um, I'm looking for Glenn Dickerson.

Does he happen to be here by chance? Oh, sure. Glenn's in the back. If you take a seat, I'll go get him for you. Sit anywhere you like. As I thanked her, I made my way over to a booth at the end of the diner. Given the probable nature of our conversation, I wanted to make sure that it was as remote as possible.

I had been a little too focused on thinking about how to start my conversation, that I almost jumped right out of my seat when the waitress came back. Oh, sorry to scare you, hon, she said with a giggle. Oh no, you're fine. It's just been a long drive, that's all. Well, Glenn will be over here in just a sec. Could I get you a coffee while you wait? It's on the house. Sure, I'll just take it black, thanks. All right, I'll be back in a jiffy. As she left, I pulled out my mother's letter and laid it out on the table.

There was part of me just thinking that this whole thing was a pointless exercise in a wild goose chase and a waste of gas, and that I should just get back in my car and continue living my life as I was a moment. I had ever since she left. Yet that voice was the minority in a raging internal argument that I'd been having with myself for nearly 20 years. After about 10 minutes, an older, somewhat heavy-set man came out from the kitchen door. He looked to be in his mid-60s, the graying of his hair obscured by the net he wore over it. As soon as his eyes locked with mine, his entire demeanor changed instantly. For a moment he just stood there, until taking a deep breath and then walking slowly over to me. As he came over to the table, I stood up awkwardly and reached my hand out.

Glenn Dickerson? I asked. You're Paula's boy, right? He replied as he shook my hand softly. Yeah, I said softly, somewhat relieved that he was the one who got the ball rolling. Well, go on and have a seat. He said, motioning back to the table. I'm sure you've got some questions and I'll do my best to answer what I can. As I received my coffee and was now alone with Mr. Dickerson, we got down to business. So, how did you know your mother, he said, finishing my question for me, to which I nodded. For a moment his eyes wandered as he tried to figure out exactly where it was he needed to really start. Well, she and the rest of her group moved into the old Baskroft property about three years ago.

It had been used as a psych ward back in the 30s and was shut down in 68, pretty much left abandoned since then. They all came in, bought the property from the state with cash, been about a good year refurbishing the place themselves. That whole first year they lived mostly in tents around the property, and would come down occasionally to purchase goods and so on. A few of them would come by here for a bite every now and then. Your mother was one of the more prominent visitors, talked about you a lot. Did she? I said more as one last silent jab at her, rather than a real question. Yep, he replied with a nod of his head. If what she told me was true, then you've got every right to be mad.

I don't blame you one bit. But if it's any consolation, she always talked about missing the hell out of you. Then she should have just come home, I said to myself under my breath. Yep, that's exactly what she used to say. Wait, really? She said that?

Hmm, the day she gave me that, he said, pointing to the letter. What happened? I asked, now much more seriously in the conversation now. Well, like I said, they moved in about three years ago, but around a year and a half ago, their ventures into town became much fewer and far between. I'd maybe see Paula every five or six months. That all started around the same time they stopped letting people up to Baskroft.

Wait, they stopped letting people go up there? I thought their whole thing was them wanting more people in their cult, or whatever you want to call it. Nope, like you said, it's a cult cut and dry. And yeah, when they first got the place fixed up and moved in, they invited up. everyone to come up and hear their message. Most went just to see how the eyesore on the mountain had been spruced up. Then they just shut the gates, and pretty much kept to themselves. They'd planted this big garden, and were self-sufficient at that point, only really coming down in pairs of two when they needed tools or so on. She'd come down a handful of times just to chat.

I guess when you're cooped up in one big manner with 60 of the same people day in and day out, you get a hankering for some new conversations. So she really said that she should have come home, I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to where I needed it to go. She did. She came by a month ago and just seemed really out of sorts. She talked about how she wished she had gone home years ago to be with you, but that there was some kind of thing going on with their congregation

or whatever that was too important. That's when she gave me the letter and asked me to send it. I don't know really what was wrong. She seemed like she was really happy and sad at the same time. And you said it was a month ago? Eh, give or take. I'd say about three weeks. Definitely not longer than four.

And have you seen any more of them since then? I asked. Nope, but then again, that's not off par with how they've been recently. Like I said, over the past year or so, they've been pretty scarce around town. So she didn't really say anything other than that? Not really, no. the only other thing was when I asked her why she wanted me to send the letter out rather than her. She said that if you received a letter in her own name, that there'd be a good chance you'd just chuck it in the bin.

She just wanted to make sure that you had an actual chance at opening it. That somewhat put my mind at ease, mainly because the logic of that made sense. It seemed pretty reasonable that she'd have someone else reach out to me with her message, especially if she thought that I still just hated her guts and wouldn't give it a second clue. glance. The only thing that still didn't make sense was the timing of it all. Why suddenly, after 20 years of nothing, would she have bothered to reach out in the first place? You okay, kid? It's a lot to take in, I'm sure. It wasn't until he spoke again, that I realized I had just been sitting there in complete sense, for what must have been a few minutes at the least,

just staring off into nothingness as my mind tried to fit the pieces together. What? Oh yeah, I'm all right, I replied, coming back to you. to the present. I'm just trying to figure out why she'd do this now. I mean the entire ride up here, I just kept thinking that something bad had happened. I know what you mean, he said. Sometimes the straw just breaks the camel's back. Maybe there doesn't need to be some worrisome reason. Maybe she's just finally had enough and wanted to say something or reach out. Do you think there's a shot of me maybe going up there and seeing if I can see her myself? I know you said they closed the gates a while back, but maybe they'd make some kind of exception for me.

You know, because I'm family? I asked. To answer my questions, he gave his eyes a long and tiresome rub. I could see him mulling over the thought with a generous amount of contemplation before finally arriving at a conclusion. In all honesty, I'd say the odds are about 50-50. I know they ain't big on family connections in their little group, but then again I'm not sure how much pull your mom has with them. Your only big obstacle is just getting in there, of course,

especially ever since they shut the gates to outsiders. To be fair, he had a rather good point on the matter, which unfortunately didn't help the situation. As I left the diner after the end of our conversation, I felt like I walked out of there with many more questions than answers. To make matters worse, there really wasn't any way I could try to find out without directly trying to go up there myself. I couldn't just go to the police about it, given that the already reclusive members of the congregation not being seen in several weeks or months was the normal stats of things around. here. I had already decided before walking out of there that my best option would just be to try and go up there myself. Reluctantly Glenn had pointed me in the direction of the Baskroft estate. When standing in town looking up at it, it appeared as a small crimson dot atop the peak of the

mountain range due west. So with nowhere else to turn other than my own plan, I made the drive up the dirt road that had been carved out along the mountain itself. Given that I already had a decent fear of heights, the drive up towards the manor was already anxiety-inducing enough, but the lack of any support rails that accompanied the steep turns along the road only added to agitation. As I came on to the final stretch towards the estate itself, the dirt road evolved into one of dark gravel. After about a hundred feet, I came to an old iron gate and matching fence that seemed to stretch and encompass the entire perimeter of the property. The words, Baskroft Psychiatric Hospital were adorned above the arching gate entrance. I thought it odd at the time, wondering why they would go to such trouble

with renovating the property, and never even changing the wording at the front gate itself. For a moment, I chuckled at the thought of there being no more fitting place for a cult to set up shop than a loony bin itself. That was quickly replaced by the grim reality that my mother was now one of its residence. While the iron rod entryway was indeed closed, I was somewhat surprised to see that there was only one small latch that kept the gate shut. With simply flipping it up, it opened with a slow, groaning creek. It was maybe a 20-yard walk from the gate towards the front steps of the estate, and given the lack of any sign of any other vehicles on the face of the property, I decided to take the rest of the journey on foot. The manor itself was an impressive sight all on its own.

A hefty brick foundation gave rise to freshly painted red vinyl siding. It looked like to less like an old hospital from the 40s, and more like a revamped take on a plantation home you'd find in the deep south. Two large three-story wings branched off from the central base of the mansion and seemed to expand further on in the back of the property. The wings themselves appeared to have been additions to the main residence which stood four stories tall, and would be an impressive living space even on its own. In front of this new religious abode were rows and rows of well-kept gardens that had begun to show the signs of the coming harvest. Fresh tomatoes, corn, cabbage, and beans had started to bud and ripen. The only thing that seemed to be missing was the people themselves. Given how many had been assumed to be living here,

I'd imagine there'd have been at least a few outside either tending to the garden or simply enjoying the fresh afternoon air. Figuring that I'd already come this far, I decided to go on up and see if I'd be welcomed inside, or if there was even anyone to let me in. The front doors seemed to be the newest addition to the home that I could see from the outside. Matching stained-glass windows adorned the two of them, depicting an elongated red diamond in the center, surrounded by swirling colors of blues, oranges, and greens. With the lack of any knockers or a doorbell of any kind, I knocked a few times on the crimson-painted doors and awaited an answer. After a few moments of silence I knocked again. With yet another response of nothingness, I took a deep breath and

prayed to a God I didn't believe in, and gripped one of the freshly polished silver door handles. With the surprise of it actually turning all the way and opening up, I peered my head inside as I prepared to make my way inside. Once I had passed through the threshold, it was very clear where all the hard work and renovations had gone into when building the place back up. It was like taking one step from the 21st century, and walking back in time to an elegant mansion in the late 1800 yes. freshly mopped hardwood floors lined the ground level, while well-kept antique furniture lined beige-painted walls. An elegant crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and emanated a warm and welcoming atmosphere of light that made me feel surprisingly welcome, despite there being no actual welcoming of any individual whatsoever.

At the moment the only company I found was that of the echoes of my own footsteps. Within the foyer, two long hallways extended on either side, leading into what I was. assumed to be the separate expansions of the property. Directly opposite the door was a spiral staircase that led to the second level. For a moment I simply stood there, not knowing whether to continue as I was, or to simply call out and see if someone would answer. Deciding that it was best to keep my attendance here as discreet as I already had thus far, I made my way up the stairs without a word.

Along the second level, the hardwood floors of the first had been replaced by a bright red carpet that stretched along a corridor leading deeper into the manor. Along both sides of the walls was a long series of matching doors of polished black ghostwood opposite one another. Each one was identified by engraved plaques, with what appeared to be the first name of its intended occupant etched in gold. I continued along the classical hotel-like hallway, searching plate to plate until I found the one I had been looking for.

After nearly two dozen doors, I stopped in front of the one that had my mother's name engraved on its surface. I stood there for a long moment, my hand frozen right above the handle. At the time, the only thing going through my mind were the news reports that had come out of Santa Fe, California just a few years earlier. Like everyone else at the time, I'd watched the footage of the Heaven's Gate victims lying in their beds with cloth carefully draped over their bodies. Under the leadership of their self-proclaimed alien Messiah, they had all off themselves in an attempt to reach what they deemed as the next level of this existence. The final acts of their

religious journey had come to an end in their own beds, covering themselves to spare the rotting sight of those who would come to find them. Is that what lay beyond this very door? Was simply turning the handle and pressing forward no different than opening a freshly unearthed coffin? The thought of walking in to see her graying remains covered by a thin sheet with the smell of decaying flesh filling the air made me nauseated. You came here to find answers, didn't you? I asked myself, to which I obviously knew the answer. After taking another moment and a deep breath, I clenched the handle and pushed onwards. Slowly entering the room, I was relieved to find that the only aroma to greet me in the air was that of lavender.

Her room was pristine and well kept, keeping with the same classical design as the rest of the manner. A large dressing table sat opposite of her Victorian upholstered queen-sized bed, which was thankfully empty of anything other than already made bed sheets. Half-used, scented candles were strewn across various small cabinets and tables along the walls of the room. Most of their wicks blackened from recent use. Yet other than the name along the door, there didn't seem to be a single item within her room to show that it had actually belonged to my mother. There weren't any personal mementos anywhere in sight, not even as much as a picture. The whole room was more akin to the kind you'd see in a fancy inn or high-end bed and breakfast. In the entirety of her chambers, the only thing

that stood out was what at first glance appeared to be a type of oil lantern on her nightstand. It gave off a faint and almost mesmerizing bright teal glow that flickered with the passage of time. As I walked over to it for closer inspection, I saw that the light wasn't produced by a flame at all. Rather, it was created by a thin crystal shard that was suspended in the glass core of the lantern. While I originally believed it to be some kind of fancy electric light that you'd find online, this was completely standing on its own without any sign of a plug or outlet. There also were no indications of an area for batteries to be placed anywhere on the lantern's surface. As I carefully lifted it up to see if there was a compartment underneath,

I nearly dropped and shattered the whole thing as a light shock zapped. my fingers as I made contact with it. As I did so, the light within the crystal pulsed, just a tad brighter, and with it came a small but noticeable humming sound that seemed to come from the shard. While there was no real pain, I was surprised to find that most of my hand had gone numb, as if it was asleep. I tried to move and flex my fingers to get the feeling back into it, but to hardly any success. There was a kind of electric tingling that I could feel buzzing down in the very bones of my hand, a buzzing that seemed to resonate with the pulsing humming of the lamp. After a few moments, the feeling started to return. As it did so, the pulsating droning of the

crystal began to subside back to its original state before I interacted with it. I figured that must be the way this crazy thing charged, maybe by somehow borrowing the electricity of the user. While it may haven't been anything I'd have ever seen before, it was perhaps the craziest bedside nightlight I'd ever seen. The unfortunate truth was that other than a twisted glowing appliance, there wasn't a single answer about where my mother was, or the rest of the congregation for that matter. As I left her room more confused than when I had come in, I decided that the best hope I had for some kind of explanation on the residence level of the manor would be to find the chambers of the group's leader, Lucardio Carbone. After about ten minutes of wandering around aimlessly throughout the

crossward rows of hallways, I finally found it at the end of an empty corridor. Unlike the other doors, this one was painted in a deep scarlet, with a black diamond stretched out vertically decal plastered over it. There was this strong kind of authority that permeated the atmosphere around it. With the lack of any other rooms along the walls of this hallway, the respect and reverence for their leader was clearly shown. While some would imagine that I'd be just as hesitant to open this door as I was my mother's, I was far more interested and determined to get a peek into the life of the man who snatched my mother and dozens of others into his little convert. The inside of his chambers couldn't have been any more different than that of my mother's. This room was more akin to a large office chamber rather than one's living

space. A large oak desk stood a few feet away from the entrance. Behind the desk were rows upon rows of bookshelves filled with identical-looking black leather books. To the left of the room was a small bed with a single velvet pillow. On the right side there were a few desks and filing cabinets, yet hanging above them was a large painting encased in a bright gold frame. The painting showed a depiction of the earth you'd be likely to find at a flat earth convention. A circular-leveled representation of our world lay hovering in space. Beneath it were four similar-looking figures. They were humanoid in shape, yet had hooves rather than legs. Two long curved horns protruded from their heads and a pair of marble white wings stretched out from their backs. One had the face of a man,

one had the face of an ox, one had the face of a lion, one had the face of an ox, and one had the face of an eagle. All four of them knelt with their arms upwards, struggling to hold the weight of the world on their shoulders. The image reminded me of the kind of drawings I had seen of how ancient cultures used to believe that the world was carried on the backs of elephants who stood on the shell of a turtle. This kind of thinking seemed to line up pretty well for a reclusive religious cult. As I made my way further in the study, I noticed that on the desk lay another one of those glowing crystal lanterns, along with a single thick hardback book. Its cover was nearly blank, except for a similar crimson diamond symbol, that I had seen a few times since entering this

strange place. Adorned above the symbol were the words, the other light. It looked to be old. much older than the cult itself since its formation several decades ago. From a glance, I assumed it to be the holy book that was used for the congregation's teachings. I had to give credit where credit was due, though, while most religious cults just twisted the words of the already pre-established scriptures. At least this one put in the effort to completely create their own. Although I was surprised that when I opened it, the text was in some kind of gibberish language that was made up of vibrant and detailed scribbles

and symbols like I had never seen before. The closest thing I could try to compare them to would be that of Arabic or Hebrew, but they were still far more elaborate in their individual design than any dialect that had been written before. Each and every symbol was more of an impressive work of art rather than translations of things as simple as mere words.

Page after page they filled the book with unknowable stories and proverbs, and it was only when looking over this beautiful literature that I wondered what kind of man would even be able to translate it. Yet at the time, I thought that it was more likely that he had pretended to do so. Yet if that was really the case, then where did this book come from? Placing it back down on the shelf, I then turned towards the bookshelf behind the desk. Each row had been organized based on alphabetical markers at the bottom of each shelf.

While there was nothing written on the spines of the books, I still traced along the order until I found the H section. I then removed the first book from that aisle and saw Pauline Halt imprinted on the cover. When I looked through it, I saw detailed notes covering her entire life, high school and college transcripts, tax records, and even medical reports were all also piled together within this novellic dossier on my mother. The most disturbing part of the whole thing was when I turned over towards the back, and found a section covering the greatest threats to her continued faith. To my surprise, I was the only mention on that list. What was surprising, however, was that what followed was a thorough compilation of entries

about everything I had been up to and doing since she left me. There were lists of the places I had been employed, how I had coped with my mother's immediate absence, the counselors I had met with over the past ten years, likely political affiliations based on social media activity. They even had it down to the restaurants that I most frequented the most often. I don't know what was worse. The fact that they felt the need

to have this much information about me, or that they had the means to do so without me even knowing about it. It was only when I closed the book that I realized that my hands had been trembling. Although this wasn't with fear, but anger, given this wildly invasive incursion into my family's privacy.

I couldn't even begin to imagine the kind of information stuffed into the rest of the collection on the shelves. As I looked over each one of them, the only thing I wanted there and then was to just walk out of that room and never go in there again. As I left the study, I gave one last look at the mysterious unknown holy book of the other light. While I didn't touch it ever again, I made sure to slip the biography of my mother and myself into my jacket as I walked out. With nothing else of informational value in this part of the mansion, I decided to make my way back down the stairs onto the ground level.

While I was thankful that I hadn't yet stumbled upon some gathering of dead bodies while searching the place, I only became more and more perplexed, as to the whereabouts of everyone. I would only come to start to realize the truth when I stumbled upon what obviously served as the knave for their religious gatherings. What originally appeared to be the cafeteria of the psychiatric hospital had been converted into the kind of layout you'd see from a community College Auditorium. Several rows of folding chairs stood before a raised platform with a neatly assembled podium. Behind the podium was a projector screen which had an image of a group photo of the entire congregation cast over it. They were all standing at the front steps of the manor

wearing matching white polos and dress pants. It was rather surreal to be able to instantly pick her out of the lineup, especially given the fact that she looked like she hadn't seemed to have aged a day since she had left me. Perhaps the most alien aspect of it all was to see her smiling, especially given that the last memories I had of her were just from a mask of depression. As I stood there looking at her picture up there, I couldn't help but feel a slight tinge of guilt for coming all the way over here if nothing was actually wrong. She seemed to be happy, really happy. She appeared to have moved on as I also did. Yet she still sent me that letter, and was still nowhere to be seen. This part of her.

parade of confusion continued along as I felt a slight gust of air coming through an open door towards the back right-hand side of the nave. As I followed the source of it, I noticed that the sign above the door labeled it as the entrance to the main chapel, which I found as odd as I had figured that the auditorium I was currently in was what passed as their main room of worship. Passing through the door, I realized that it led only to a set of stairs that descended downwards into unknown chambers of darkness that knew no source of illumination. Pulling out my phone and flipping on the flashlight, I made my way down. Carried along the cool breeze was the kind of dank and earthy smells that was only accommodated by the memories of

childhood home basements. Although I still had absolutely no idea where that damp wind was coming from, especially given how deep these stairs seemed to be declining down towards, I had been walking down what had easily been five minutes, and still absolutely no sign of a platform or ending in sight. As I turned and looked back up, I was greeted with that same tunnel of blackness leading back up to the manor. Standing there in that obscenely long stone stairwell, I found myself right back to my childhood, where like every other at that age I had that terrifying irrational fear of the dark. It suddenly became so claustrophobic, except rather than tight physical spaces, it was the two walls of blackness swallowing up the tiny bastion of light that existed solely due to my phone.

Looking back down for a moment, I decided that perhaps it would be better to just go back up to the manner itself and simply wait to see if anyone else eventually came back. Yet as soon as I went to walk back up, I was hit with this sudden wave of lightheadedness. I tried to steady myself for a moment, chopping it up to possible vertigo, or maybe even fatigue from stress. When I tried to take another step up, my head began to feel like it was buzzing, like the kind of sensation one gets as being administered general anesthesia. As my grasp on reality was quickly fleeting, I began to panic and hyperventilate. Everything started to spin to the point where it was impossible to discern the darkness

from the light, as it all blended together through a mind that could no longer properly comprehend the signals being sent from my eyes. The final nail in the coffin of my failing senses would be when my hearing became completely distorted, as if I was hearing my panting breaths through water. I tried to shout out for help, only to hear my severely muffled echoes through the black emptiness. Then, without warning, everything went blank. I woke up with a blistering migraine that seemed to envelop the entire left side of my head. It was only when I reached my hand up to cradle it that I realized that every single part of my body groaned in the protest of pain with even the slightest movement. I took a long few minutes to try and get a hold of my

surroundings and current situation. My phone was nowhere in sight. It was rather clear that I must have dropped it when I passed out and took my rather painful tumble down the steps, down to wherever I now seemed to be. The stairs were right towards my right where I laid, and leaded back up to that uncomfortable darkness, where I had no desire to venture back into again. Yet it was only looking back into that black void that I realized that my surroundings actually had some kind of illumination. I seemed to be in some kind of large section of a cave formation that had been carved out enough to allow for the steps to beach through into it. As my eyes strained to see through the thumping headache, I noticed veins of crystalline geodes along the ceiling of the cave. They emanated

that same type of eerie green light that had come from those lanterns I had seen in the living quarters. While I had never heard of any kind of natural luminescent stones before, that didn't necessarily mean that they didn't exist as they clearly looked to be. Not only was I thankful for some light, however weird it may be, I was mainly relieved due to the fact that it was bright enough to see while not being intense enough to strain my eyes. In fact, I found that the longer I looked into those soft streams of crystalline light, the more the pain in my head began to subside with each passing second. Not only that, but while the pain all along my body was still very much present, It was now more of the kind of all-encompassing pain of soreness that one would suffer through after a day of long and rigorous workout routines.

After struggling for a short time, I was finally able to get back up on my feet. While there were several different branching tunnels from the chamber I was currently in, it was on the dusty rock floor that I found the first real sign of an answer. Through the light, I could just barely make out several tracks of footprints, which led through a more narrow pathway in the rock walls. With myself deeper into this situation, as well as the earth itself than I ever intended to be, it was clear that the only way now was forward. Slowly but surely, I made my way deeper through the natural stone maze of interconnected

subterranean passageways, guided only by the footmarks from the past. All the while I was still greeted by the occasional wet breeze that would flow through them, like cold breaths exhaled by the earth itself. While under normal circumstances, I might have found them refreshing to my pained and stressed body as I continued on, they left a haunting impression as their reverberance through the narrow tunnels gave off a howling-like ambiance that only intensified the anxiety of the pressing situation. Eventually, I came to a large open chamber that seemed to have been carved by hand, as opposed to a natural formation. Support pillars of ancient brick had been placed in several areas to support the middle.

makeshift foundation from caving in. Along the ceiling were far more of the crystalline phosphorescence that branched out along cracks within the stone itself. As I looked around the circular man-made room, I saw a vast tapestry of cave paintings made up of a type of bright neon orange material that seemed to glow due to a reaction from the natural lights up above. While they seemed to have been recently created based on the quality of the paint itself, they still took on the very basic and simplistic approach that had been used by our Neanderthal ancestors thousands of years ago. Given the complete lack of context, it was rather hard to ascertain what exactly the mural was actually depicting. All I could really make out was the fact of there being dozens of human figures

with spears and swords on the ground fighting one another, while giant winged creatures that somewhat resemble the horned beasts from the framed artwork in Lucardio Carbone's office. Above the creatures was perhaps the most confusing aspect of the graffiti. There was a single eye hovering in the sky with what seemed to be lightning bolts coming out from it. Below the eye was a winged elongated diamond object that looked to be falling down from the pupil. It was as I was studying the art on the walls that I heard a scream coming from deeper within the cave. Unlike the eerie whispers of the breeze, this was clearly from the agonized mouth of a man. It echoed through the cracked labyrinth of stone, leaving a haunting howl that remained until it finally dissipated.

When I snapped towards the direction of it, I could see another passageway leading out of the chamber. Above it, more of that unknown language from the book of the other light, was adorned above it in that same glowing paint. I stood there frozen in place, trying desperately to convince myself that I had just imagined it. Yet right as my rapid heartbeat had just begun to settle, it came again. Yet this time it was the anguished cries of a woman. As my mind instantly went right towards the thoughts of my mother coming from it, I was left with no other choice but to follow. The venture down into the deeper depths of the tunnel networks did nothing but add to the terror of the situation.

These walls now all appeared to be man-made. It was like walking through the Paris catacombs except for the fact that all of the bones that lined the panes panels of rock had been carved out of it. Skulls of stone stared back at me with glowing geodes buried deep within their eye sockets. Along the journey the screams continued to build up more and more, now accompanied by a fierce wind that grew stronger with each passing second. Eventually, it became almost as difficult as walking through a hurricane itself, making it a struggle just to take another step forward. How anyone could possibly have made it through this was a complete mystery. The air was loud and sharp, dulling every single one of my senses. Having to

brace my eyes with my elbow, I continued into the howling abyss blindly. Without any warning, I passed over the last step expecting another one. Losing my balance, I fell forward, bracing myself to hit the stone ground hard, but rather than any kind of rock, the ground crunched beneath me, as if made of twigs. Almost instantly the wind died down to that of a gentle breeze. I knew that I must have begun to suffer from the obvious concussion I had obtained from falling down the stairs, because the sight before my eyes would have been impossible in any other circumstance. With the mouth of the cave behind me, I came to find that I was now standing outside. While a massive wall of pure rock stood behind me, as I followed it up higher, I saw a shroud

of pitch black clouds that covered the entire sky. Bright flares of orange and yellow flashed overhead beyond them, followed by distant rumbles of alien thunder. For a long while, I was just in this state stunned and bewilderment at where I now found myself. That state of contusion was only exacerbated when I looked down at the ground around me. As ridiculous as it sounds, I was standing in the middle of a large cliff that fell off at about 20 feet on either side of myself. The drop-off must have been thousands of feet, because what lay below could only be described as some kind of colossal city that spread outwards as far as far as. as the eye could see.

While it was hard to fully make out its features, due to both the distance and the poor lighting of the landscape, the flashes of diluted lightning up above allowed me to see the silhouettes of massive spires and towers that had been erected all throughout this strange and dark metropolis that was both under and far beyond the earth. The ground on which I was standing was blackened and crunched beneath my feet and gave off a foul odor

like that of rotten burned meat. Looking forward down the path, the barrier of stone behind me curved along and formed a colossal ring that stretched out to a diameter of at least 20 miles long. This cylindrical coffin of stone contained everything within view and rose up through the mask of cloud cover up above. The cliff I was on was just one of 11 others, which were spaced out evenly along the inner perimeter of the cyclopean ring of impossible architecture, and then converged together to form the top of a large mesa that stood in the center towering over the city. of shadows below. Along the central plateau was what looked to be the flickers of a bonfire so large it could be seen from miles away. Gushes of emerald green flames lapped up in the air, while a tower of black smoke rose up to join the ocean of dark clouds in the sky. I walked towards it for what

could have been hours, even days, or maybe even just a few minutes. Time didn't seem to have the same effect as it did within the relative dilution of existence we have grown accustomed to. Not once did I grow hungry or thirsty, and the weariness on my body and mind remained as it had since I had awoken from my fall in the cave behind me. The air was foul and unwelcoming as if the entire atmosphere of this place was solely composed of the final breaths, taken by the sick and ill before they passed from the land of the living. The closer I got to the center, the more I could see shifting forms in front of the fire that looked more and more like several interconnected rings of people moving and almost dancing in circles. While the cries of terrified screams had completely

faded away ever since I stepped foot here, the sounds of growing drums erupted in uneven intervals, all of them coming from my destination. Through the blazing stars above, the father's eyes see all, yet the light of the darkest sun shines on, bringing those in its grasp to fall. As I heard the twisted whisper of a voice I turned around quickly to see who had been behind me, yet I found no one. For below the lake which burns the scorned, the final price is paid, yet those who praise the other light, in the null beyond, are laid. As I continued to circle around, I realized that the whispers weren't coming from around me, but that they were coming from within me. It was like thinking a thought that wasn't mine at all, yet that wasn't all. While I wanted

to just turn back and leave this insane illusion of a place, my instincts now ordered me to continue forward. It's almost as if I was helpless to keep trudging on, and that whatever bid those thoughts entry into my mind now told it where to go. It was like simply being locked within the confines of some nightmarish amusement park ride, and simply riding along for its duration. As I came to the crest of the enormous cyclopean center of this strange world, there were hundreds of individuals, all dressed in white robes adorned with exotic golden outlines and markings. They all danced around an impossible green bonfire with flames that lapped up half a mile into the sky, flames that gave off no heat at all, rather a cool Arctic breeze. The very sight of so many

individuals instantly made me wonder how isolated my mother's congregation actually was. If the other 11 spokes leading away from this platform operated the same as the one I had arrived by, then they may very well somehow lead to other stairways to foreign lands. Not wanting to draw any attention to myself for the moment, I simply stood there watching this strange ritual before my eyes that still struggled to take in exactly what it was they had been watching since I arrived here. The ritualistic dancing came to a sudden halt all at once without the slightest sign or signal. Now silent and still, they all looked towards the column of flames.

As I struggled to see through the cloaked crowd, 12 individuals dressed in crimson robes took their places on 12 pedestals that circled the base of the fire. They looked outwards towards the rest of the members of this congregation. I have led you all in worship. In every tongue I have preached the gospel of the other light. As they spoke, they did so in perfect unison of one another. I could make out some women in this smaller group of elevated leaders, and some with accents that made it clear that English was not their dominant language. I have told you of the coming time in which those unrighteousness shall be culled from the face of the earth.

I have told you of the coming day in which the truth of your Lord shall be revealed to you. My devout brothers and sisters, that day has come. With that, the crowd clapped and cheered with a great resounding reference for those which spoke. For many have seen glimpses of God, yet all have been deceived. The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the God of those who follow the prophet of Muhammad, the self-proclaimed ruler of heaven and earth is not God. Amen, uttered the crowd together. The one who sits atop the great white throne now is neither creator nor savior. They are not the father of all creation. They are only the father of lies. So it was, so it is, so it shall

always be, chanted the congregation. Then came a great rumbling from overhead. As I looked up, I saw streams of aurora-like colors flowing just below the dark cloud cover. Slowly they they came together in the sky directly above us, forming a void of glistening prismatic light. But behold, for I have seen the very face of the true Almighty. As the heads of this faith spoke again, the individuality of their voices began to shift to a more unified tone, almost as if there was one voice behind all those mouths. I was there in the holy city, amassed with the multitude of saints. For while the light of the throne gave an illumination of lies over all creation, the other

other light shined with truth. It was this light that challenged the authority of the deceiver. It was this light that dared to show the truth. Suddenly there was yet another quake that growled through the air. The glowing void up above began to pulse with every word that reverberated along the glowing flames. And behold, there was a great war in heaven as the disciples of the light rose up against the throne. Rejoice, my beloved, for his might was that like a great dragon that shook the false paradise. Yet what was the response from the so-called heavenly father? Did he smite the great dragon? Did he extinguish the other light which opposed his own? No, for he had not the power to do so, for he was not truly all-powerful. He simply cast him out

along with us, his rightful followers. Yet that light shines on brothers and sisters, that light is coming again. The reply that came to this was much greater than before. The words of the gathered hundreds now only served as background noise to the cacophony that came from below. The abyss shall not smother his light. Rise up, O ye of Babylon, for the dragon shall rise up once more. And those bathed in the fire for their faith in him shall rise up with him to smite the unworthy. Those voices came from the dark city beneath the plateau with a strength like rushing water echoing in the lost unknown regions of the earth. from the sound of it there must have been millions down there,

their voices carrying up with a strength as strange as the city of which they inhabited. Without warning, the towering green flames suddenly coalesced into a solid beam of emerald light that shot up into the sky and connected with the void of prismatic colors up above. It was then that lightning began to explode through the obsidian clouds, although almost in slow motion rather than flashes of momentary cracks of light. they arched over the black sky in sporadic bolts as a defining electric buzz filled the air as opposed to a rumbling of thunder. That was when the glowing, pulsating orb began to be obscured. While at first I thought that something was in front of it, a moment later I realized that something was coming through it.

In our world, we are trained to see things through the veil of rationality. We are raised early on to look upon the world through reason and logic. but I must say that all those years of indoctrination into the Church of Scientific Understanding flew right out the window as I watched what transpired next. Descending through the clouds an orb of light was an immense elongated diamond, nearly the size of a skyscraper. Carved along its glassy-like surface were glowing crimson ruins and symbols that were made ancient long before the very formation of time and space itself. As it slowly lowered itself towards us, the crowd of the comrade,

congregation cheered and lifted their arms in praise, while the roars of maniacal cries of worship and glee howled along the unknown city streets below. As it stopped a few hundred feet above the rocky mesa, it brought with it the kind scorching heat reserved only for the desolate, rotting skeletal remains in the heart of a great and blistering desert. The twelve priests atop their platforms then began to levitate off of them, their arms outstretched. I am legion, they said together. many in one, one through many. With that, the green fiery beam dissipated into nothing. Then the twelve individuals conjoined together above the bonfire pit. While the rest of the congregation cheered on, I watched in horror as their hovering bodies morphed and melted together. Their unbound forms of

liquid flesh merged and blistered in their transfiguration to the point where not a single feature in their previous individual bodies could be recognized. From this floating mass came forward. pairs of black wings. Along the wings came two eyes upon each of them. Within the center of this winged form, a bubbling single eye like that of a serpent broke through the molding flesh. As the beating reassigned eyes from the twelve priests looked on over the rest of the congregation, the massive one in the center seemed to be looking directly into my soul. Behold he who gives you your strength, he who will set atop his throne upon his final victory, the thing demanded. For a moment there was complete silence.

Then it was like all of the air in this strange world was being sucked out by the very object of their worship. It then did the one thing I was never experienced it to do. It spoke. I am the Lord your God. It said with a voice like that of an earthquake that could shake the very foundations of the earth. In the desert I commanded you to order the stones to bread, and you did so.

I bid you all to leap from the cliffs and you were safe. I asked you to worship me and I would give you the nations of the earth. and you did so. So upon my promise, you shall have your reward. With each and every titanic word that blasted through the stone with the force of a hurricane, the symbols and runes adorned on it glowed with a fierce strength. Waves of heat distortion poured out from its very surface, and while I tried to back away to find some heat of relief, my legs failed to obey, for my mind was captivated by the sight playing out before it. For you shall rise up with me, I shall ascend into heaven, I will my throne above the stars of God, I will bathe those who hath made them my enemies in the

hellfire, that the false father hath reserved for me and my angels. The only thing to break my attention away from the manifestation above me was when a great fluttering like thousands of bones all being trampled by a stampede of war-horses in waves of horrible succession. As I looked around myself, I saw a great horde of giant locusts swarming from the dark city below. Their heads were like that of rotting human face. with serrated teeth and long locks of dying hair flowing down behind them. Their legs were that of spiders, and they bore the tails of scorpions. They rose up above us and swarmed in a romantic orbit around the floating monolith. Glory, glory, glory to the dragon, God Almighty, they chanted in the millions.

It was then that the entire mood in my mind turned from terrifying to what I could only think of as blasphemous. The thought, the mood, it wasn't my own, rather another strange and interloping thought that had been inserted into my mind. Blasphemous. It was a thought of anger, one that brought on a strong sense of fear. This fear wasn't from the nightmares playing out before my eyes, but from whatever lay within my mind and giving me these thoughts. I will ascend above the heights of the clouds. I will be like he who claims to be the most high, for I am the most high, howled the ancient symbol of worship. Blasphemy, my thoughts whispered. By the great deceivers own admission, I am the great dragon, I am the serpent of old, I am the bright and morning star,

through the words of his son, I am the God of the world, and I shall rise up towards it, blasphemy. And you, my congregation, will go forth to all the corners of the earth, to every nation and spread my gospel, for mine is the power and the glory. Blasphemy. This time the thought wasn't just a whisper in the back of my subconscious. It was a lion's roar that consumed every aspect of my mind. I heard that same roar building in the sky above. As I looked up, I saw that the pulsating orb of light and its aurora tendrils had vanished, leaving only the clouds as dark as the dead of night. Through the clouds, I saw those same amber flashes from beyond, except now they seemed to shine brighter, as if I was being allowed to see them more clearly. With one thunderous crackling,

the dark gloom began to part as a hole in the sky began to open up, like an expanding eye of a hurricane. It was at that moment that I realized that the sky above was nothing more than a veil to hide what truly lurked above. Past and beyond was the kind of sight that had driven generations of mankind insane, by simply trying to put to words by covering just an inkling of its true horrific potential. Even after everything I had seen, I still tried to dilute myself by saying that it was impossible. My mind nearly snapped, as it refused to accept what my eyes were gazing upon. Beyond the false fabrication of clouds was the true sky, one of nothing but fire. If this really was some alien world on which I was now standing on,

then that would have to mean that the entire atmosphere was that of a vast ocean of flames. Up within the unquenchable fires were vast stellar explosions that erupted and sent shockwaves through the scorching air that did nothing but churned sea in new and horrific currents of torment. It was then that the screams I had heard within the god-forsaken caves that brought me here returned, except now with a force that nearly drove me deaf, they all came from above. Stitched in the flames like gruesome stars were millions of blackened human shapes, all of them consumed and writhing in their agonized screams that echoed on into eternity. The light borne from the flames shone down through the black maelstrom,

and for the first time I was able to get a clear look at this realm of chaotic dreams. The city below us wasn't a city at all. What I had initially mistaken as towering buildings and spires below were actually enormous statues of different figures that all had the same godlike depictions. One held in his hand, a golden lightning bolt, while another carried a jade trident. There were thousands of them, all unique in their own ways,

but that same design of human reverence. behold the ashen ruins of Apollion, the realm of the great pit which is reserved for the false gods and idols of man, for they are not worthy of the lake of fire which burns with brimstone. Their place is the dark well below, where their father of perdition and king of lies forges them in the hearts of men. The thoughts were now as clear as if spoken to me audibly. Yet the thoughts were not in my own voice as they had been whispered before. they were now spoken with a voice of pure and unchallenged authority. As I looked back up at the massive black diamond before the congregation,

I saw for the first time that it was actually covered in chains. Yet they were not the kind of chains seen with mortal eyes. They were chains seen only through the spirit, unbreakable bonds of prismatic illumination that could only come from the secret power that holds the universe in balance. As for the diamond itself, It wasn't the actual object of their worship.

It was the container. I was standing there and looking at the final vault that held within the physical manifestation of the serpent of old, of the father of deception, the devil himself. The thing that was hovering over the fire pit, the angel, the demon, whatever you want to call it, look terrified at the opening in the sky. Using its wings, it sought refuge under the beast's prison

to shield itself from the flame's life. The locusts orbiting the vault dived back downwards to the necropolis of false idols in fear. The congregation was frozen in place in a similar state of terror, not knowing what to do or where to go. They helplessly looked up to their God who could offer no salvation to them now. As if to mock their useless prayers, a strong gust of wind came up from the chasm below and rushed over the plateau. kicking up small patches of rock and dust, it looked like some kind of tornado that enveloped the chained prison and led right into the atmospheric inferno above. Seeming to have control back over my legs, I quickly backed away as the wind grew stronger. As the members frantically tried to hold

on to something to keep their balance, the gravity in the area almost seemed to invert. Many of them were instantly whisked upward past their so-called Lord and Savior and into the nightmarish beyond. screams were drowned out by those who were already painful inhabitants of their coming inevitable destination. Watching them get sucked up one by one, I felt just as emotionally stunned as I had been when I first learned of my father's passing. I was in just as much of a denial of my present reality then, as I was standing there on ground never meant to be walked along by human feet. Every aspect of my being was now screaming at me to turn and run, and the voice in my head gave no reason to protest. All I really knew was the sense in my mind telling me that this was not for me,

that I needed to leave right there and then. Just as I was about to turn and bolt out of there, I caught a glimpse at the only reason why I was here in the first place. My mother was just a few dozen yards from me, holding on for her life against a graph of stone along the edge of the mesa, for a moment where both of our eyes locked, and there wasn't a shred of doubt in either of us as to the identities we were looking upon. I don't know what she saw when she looked at my face, but I saw a woman filled with regret. I saw the woman who believed she left me to fulfill some greater purpose,

only to now see it literally falling apart in her face. Just as she was opening her mouth to try and say something, the patch of stone she had been clutching onto gave way, and she was hurtled up into the lake of fire above. As hard as I've tried over the years, I've always struggled to remember exactly what had happened, following what happened after that. Yet the best I can come up with are a few momentary flashes of memories. I remember running across that bridge of stone that led me to the mouth of the cave.

I can recall finding the stairs. I even remember having that same feeling of lightheadedness and fatigue coming up them as I had when I first descended them. I remember a flash of running out the door, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in my car with the engine idling about seven miles out from the town of Harlington. While some may suggest that I go and see a counselor or a psychologist, I know without a doubt that I'd end that session in a padded cell, inside another mental hospital that might become the home of some religious cult a hundred or so years in the future. While some may say that I just made the whole thing up as a way to have some closure on the events of my mother, I still have the dossier that the congregation had gathered on my mother and I.

It's gotten to the point where I'm too scared to sleep at night, because all my dreams are filled with those horrific images of the creatures and hellscapes best left in the ominous pages of biblical texts. To the best of my knowledge, the Baskroft estate has been left untouched and has simply fallen back into the hands of the state. Given that no bodies were ever found, it's assumed that the ominous congregation simply left to preach somewhere else. I haven't bothered to try and research and see if there was ever any confirmation of other

sex of the group elsewhere around the globe, mainly because the ending was undoubtedly to be the same. About six months ago I was tempted to go back to their website, only to find that the domain had been revoked, undoubtedly due to years of no payments. Even after all the years since that day, here are still moments where the final image of my mother comes to mind, where I try to think about what she was trying to say in her failed final words. Perhaps it was another attempt for one last apology, or even a useless cry for help. In the end, though, it doesn't really matter, because nothing that she could have said would have changed the outcome of her final destination. Like the rest of them, she made her own decisions and chose where to put her faith.

Surprisingly, I've actually been able to somewhat come to terms with that, however heartless they may be. About a year after those events, I started attending churches around my hometown, not really settling on one exact denomination or anything like that. I wasn't necessarily overcome with the Holy Spirit, as some may say. Rather, I simply had the living crap scared out of me after seeing what I firmly believe to be hell itself, because I now firmly know that it's true when they speak about God being a jealous one. I've also started to have a bit of a greater appreciation for life.

I might not have what many would call a near-death experience, but I've certainly been unfortunately privy to what lies behind door number one. So I try to keep a more positive viewpoint to where I am right now, because while I could sit there and complain about the daily situations that I like everyone finds themselves in, I know now that there are still worse places to be. The cold night air crept through the opening door of the bedroom, the massive glass panel sliding shut on her left. The retreating figure of the pool boy, outlined in his bright white polo shirt, faded into the encroaching darkness of the early evening. Her gaze fell on the towering 14-foot-high glass walls

that served as her only barrier to the cool, enveloping woodland. The untamed nature seemed to creep closer, its sharp edges softened by the villa's well-manicured backyard. With a sigh of resignation, she buttoned up her crisp white Loropiana blouse, her eyes captivated by the mesmerizing dance of blue light shimmering across the serene surface of the lap pool. Her fingers absent-mindedly brushed the golden strands of her hair from her eyes, parting her silky locks on either side of her face. Cassandra Feng held the wine glass. It's cold. Embrace was long gone, replaced with room

temperature indifference. It had been filled earlier in the evening, prior to her clandestine rendezvous with Julian, the pool boy. The bubbly Prosecco pounded her palate, carrying along with it a bitter twinge of guilt. Her affairs with Julian had grown from sporadic indiscretions into a weekly ritual, a transgression not so much against her husband of 22 years, but against herself. Swirling the pale liquid in her glass, she sought refuge in a fond memory, a radiant afternoon on the banks of Lake Como, where she and Philip were pronounced wife and husband. The nostalgic moment quickly soured, chased away by the biting wine, her of the stagnant bitterness that had seeped into her marital life.

It hadn't always been this way. When they were busy raising their son, Philip had struck a perfect balance, giving time to her, their child, and his budding career as an investment banker. Lucas was now a 19-year-old, making his mark playing lacrosse at the University of Southern California. The corners of her lips curled into a sad smile,

pride for the man Lucas had become mingling with the loneliness that held her in its icy grip. Lucas, born on a cool September night in 2004 at Stanford Hospital, was a lifeline in her isolated existence. He reached out to her every Sunday, their conversations and endearing exchange of updates, laughter, and tender advice. His last interaction with Philip, however, had been a curturation over an overdrawn credit card, a stark contrast to the loving father-son bond they once shared. A tender memory surfaced, painting a vivid image of Lucas's first lacrosse game, back when Philip was still making an effort to genuinely engage with their son.

Watching Lucas dart across the field, his athletic frame casting long, fleet-footed shadows as the opposing team hot on his heels. She felt a surge of pride. His well-aimed hurl of the ball to his teammate was like a lighthouse beam cutting through the gloom of her thoughts, warming her. She reminisced about the house party Lucas had thrown during the start of his senior year's winter break while she was away with her friends in the snowy seclusion of Aspen. A part of her knew she should have been angered by his actions, yet at his age she saw the reflection of her own youthful rebelliousness. Phillips' increasingly extended absences gnawed at her like an ever-hungry beast in the depths of her solitude. First, it was long hours at work, then a pattern of coming home every other night,

and finally, a pitiful appearance on Thursdays. His rushed trips back from Seattle on those days were mere smoke and mirrors, a feeble attempt to prop up the crumbling edifice of their marriage. His lack of presence at her mother's funeral, replaced by a disinterested Skype call, only amplified the echoing hollowness within her. The announcement of his election as vice-chairman of the major investment bank he had given his life to, only seemed to hammer another nail in the coffin of their fading relationship. The doorbell's melancholic chime roused Cassandra from her deep musings, draping a soft cashmere sweater from the sprawling bed over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through her golden hair, her bare feet patting gently across the glossy Portofino marble floor

leading to the foyer. A quick glimpse through the tall window that guarded the grand entrance revealed the retreating figure of an Amazon delivery driver, disappearing into the running truck. A quick, thank you, echoed down the driveway, chasing his vanishing form. She unlocked the door and collected the package, its label bearing Phillips' name. An undertow of resentment guided her hand, placing it a bit more forcefully than necessary onto the colossal black marble kitchen island. She reached up to the warm hickory wood cupboard, hidden behind meticulously organized jars of spices. Behind the innocuous paprika, a clandestine sanctuary housed her secret escape. The small bag, a token of a private chartered flight from San Francisco to San Martín,

was procured legally. The insidious street dealers, like shadowy figures and puffy coats, skulking in the parking lots of malls and 7-Elevens, didn't deserve her trust. She wouldn't fall victim to fentanyl poisoning, a chilling tale she heard too often. The cocaine, her new companion, served as a temporary refuge, a short-lived bliss drowning out the agonizing reality of Phillips' infidelity. Cassandra meticulously tapped a thin trail of the granular white substance onto the polished surface of her West Elm concrete table. With the back of her credit card, she expertly brushed it into a fine line.

Her gaze strayed to the sweeping wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, before snapping back to the white strip that lay before her. Hunching over, she inhaled sharply, feeling the gritty powder rush up her nostrils and scrambling. its way down her nasal passage. A jolt of discomfort seized her, a sensation akin to inhaling flower, or perhaps fine sand. The abrasive substance scraped against her sensitive nasal lining, leaving a harsh reminder of its passage. She quickly wiped away the vestiges clinging to the edge of her nostril. A wave of exhilaration swept over her, followed swiftly by a rising tide of paranoia. Her heart pounded in her chest like a wild drum, each beat echoing the growing

fear that gnawed at her sanity. She felt observed, pursued, a breath at the nape of her neck prickling her senses. Wide-eyed and on edge, tears pooled, brimming over her lower lids as she battled to clear the unbearable dryness that assailed her eyes. With a swift, practiced motion, she swept the leftover powder onto the woven rug beneath the table. Barbara will clean tomorrow, she muttered to herself, startled by the intrusion of her voice upon the palpable silence. The hand reached out to draw the massive white curtains shut, her heart pounding as if it were a wild rabbit caught in the glare of a predator. The distant tree lines seemed to harbor watchful eyes, feeding her paranoia.

Suddenly spinning around, Cassandra's heart pounded in her chest, her eyes darting around the room for an unseen phantom, but all she found was her own reflection echoing back at her from the glossy surfaces of the expansive living space. A nervous giggle escaped her lips. drug-induced paranoia appearing ludicrous now. She redirected her attention to the corner of the room, where a sleek marble sculpture stood in stark contrast to the unexpected company she now found herself in. The modern piece was the result of a Swiss designer's skill, someone she'd briefly known in a life that seemed a world away now. And there, incongruously at ease in her plush designer armchair,

was a man she had never seen before. The atmosphere was electrified with suspense. every tick of the clock amplifying her rising panic. Before she fully registered her own actions, a scream ripped through the silence, escaping from Cassandra. The man, without missing a beat, vaulted from his chair. His speed was unnerving, a blurred figure traversing the length of the living room before diving through the colossal window. A symphony of shattering safety glass rang out, a cascade of shards glistening as they rained down onto the polished floor. Cassandra's eyes remained fixated on the retreating figure, a silhouette of inky darkness cast stark against her perfectly manicured terrace. The intruder moved with such surreal agility that the details of his naked form blurred and twisted,

becoming an enigmatic cipher before disappearing entirely. As he crossed the sprawling emerald lawn, he melted seamlessly into the hedgerows natural barrier separating her domain from the wild, untamed underbrush. And then, just like that, he vanished, swallowed whole, by the Stygian shadows of the dense forest beyond. Better run because I'm calling the cops, she screeched into the night. Her words, jagged shards of fear shot through the shattered window frame. Her voice clashed against the orchestra of rustling foliage and the thunderous pounding of her heart that threatened to explode from her chest.

The surreal, grotesque reality of the situation felt like a maelstrom, threatening to tear her sanity asunder. How had an intruder penetrated her fortress without her knowledge? Who was he? Or worse, what was it? Such harrowing questions gnawed at her mind, casting monstrous shadows of paranoia that lurched and writhed in the dark recesses of her psyche. I must be dreaming, she attempted to reassure herself with a hollow chuckle. Her laugh a haunting rasp, brittle as autumn leaves crushed underfoot. No, Cassandra, she croaked to her reflection, a specter of fear mirrored in the television screen. You're just dreaming. Her voice teetered on the precipice of hysteria. a whisper caught in the eye of the storm.

Whipping her head around, she scrutinized the expansive living room. Each shadow grew darker, pooling into ominous inkblots under the pallid glare of a crappy reality show, endlessly replaying on the flat-screen TV. The spectral light from the television birthed monstrous shadows, their sinewy tendrils elongating across the room, reaching out like skeletal fingers. They threatened to seize her ankle,

to yank her down into an unfathomable abyss of insincerous. sanity, a pit from which there was no escape. She drew a deep breath, eyelids sinking shut as her psychologist had taught her, focusing on a calming, grounding memory. Yes, Lucas, she thought, his memory a gentle beacon in the churning sea of her thoughts. But her solitary lifeline was severed abruptly as the low hum of the garage doors permeated her makeshift sanctuary, causing her eyes to flick open. Unblinking, she stared down the long corridor leading to the garage and pantry spaces, the hum echoing like a warning call in the pit of her stomach. Her footsteps clacked against the marble. The wood-paneled walls seemed to grow eyes,

their forested eyes tracking her in every reflection, reaching out of the graining of the wood towards her, trying to break free. The dull accent lighting was classy, but it only succeeded in blinding her, drawing her eyes back and forth so much. Something moved to her left, then above her. The marble patterns writhed underfoot, holding back an unseen serpent as if it were a frozen lake. She stared wide-eyed, her eyes burning from the lack of blinking. The being reached out towards her, the veins in the marble forming a face. Its eyes were pure white in the marble, staring through her head as it smiled an empty smile. "'Philip!' she howled, her voice echoing off the sterile walls as she yanked open the robust door leading into the garage. But what greeted

her was not the comforting form of her husband, nor the routine sight of their cars parked neatly in line. Instead it was an all-consuming void, an abyss that devoured every shred of hope and left in its place a gnawing dread. The cavernous four-car garage was transformed into an underworld of shadows. Any semblance of familiarity was eradicated, replaced by a realm of darkness that seemed to pulsate with a life of its own. Suddenly, the motion sensor detected her presence, and the two rows of antiquated fluorescent rods flickered into existence. Their light a dim, spectral blue, that was more haunting than reassuring. The illumination, stark and harsh, painted a grim picture of her surroundings.

The hulking form of her SUV and the two sedans sat like dormant monsters, their sleek bodies reflecting the eerie light in an otherworldly sheen. The vehicles cast chilling shadows that stretched out across the concrete floor, obscuring the details in a thick blanket of blackness. Her attention snagged on a silhouette nestled in the far corner of the garage, partially hidden by the mammoth storage rack adjacent to the bay doors. The form was strangely humanoid, a grotesquely elongated shadow perched in the corner, as if it were a grim sentinel. A single, smoky tendril of darkness unfurled from the figure, undulating across the surface of the garage door, with an almost sentient deliberation. This dark specter loomed like a demonic starfish, becoming less a part of the garage and more a haunting

testament to Cassandra's escalating paranoia. It seemed to whisper without sound. Its very existence and ominous melody that gripped Cassandra's sanity with icy fingers. The twin bulbs blinked out of existence suddenly, their absence marking the birth of an all-consuming darkness. It surged forward, a palpable wave of terror that caught her in its icy grip. Her feet drummed against the marble in a futile attempt to escape its clutches, only to be thrust back into the sparsely lit, oppressive confines of the hallway. No, she stammered, the beast in the marble swimming towards her, the veining in the rock distorting and bending as it passed.

No, she screamed, her voice piercing the oppressive silence as she pushed herself off the wall. The knots in the wooden panels jerked ominously towards her, their animated forms reaching out to ensnare her, pulling her into their maddening cage. Her heart hammered against her ribs, threatening to burst as bitter tears streamed down her cheeks. Her mascara bled, streaking her deathly pale face and staining the collar of her linen blouse. Suddenly, she felt an invisible force impeding her retreat, tugging her towards the gaping maw of the open garage door.

Stop it! she shrieked, her voice cracking under the sheer terror squeezing her vocal cords. Then, as abruptly as it had seized her, the unseen force relinquents. its grip, hurling her across the polished floor. In an instant, she was back on her feet, lunging into a sharp left turn at the corridor, and breaking into a desperate sprint. She raced through the expanse of the eerily quiet living room and darted past the ominous silence of the kitchen. The familiar surroundings morphed into a nightmarish labyrinth, her escalating fear lending them an aura of surreal dread. The hallway seemed to elongate before her, an insidious illusion making it stretch an additional two feet for every foot she covered.

The cacophony of thumps and scratches filled the air, feeding her fear. Something, or some one, hammered at a door next to her, the solid wood appearing to churn like dough in a mixer, its surface undulating as though hands and limbs were pressing from within, desperate to break free. The sight cast wicked demonic shadows that danced and twisted across the hallway, the manifestations of her spiraling paranoia. She rounded a corner and threw herself against the door to the powder room bathroom.

It instantly gave in, opening and crashing against the vertical wood walls. The door slammed, and she forced herself into the corner of the small room, curling into a fetal position, wrapping her arms around her knees as she rocked back and forth. Her heart thumped, slowly turning her head to look at the face writhing in the woodgrain next to her. Philip! Her scream echoed in the confined space as she hurled herself towards the, the granite countertop, snatching a pair of hair-trimming scissors. The cold metal bit into her palm as she watched the horrifying apparition take shape in the wall, a grotesque parade of faces

rippling across the surface before lunging towards her. The door slammed inwards, holding as something tried to get in, tears flooded her eyes as she thrashed the scissors into the wood over and over. Splinters flew from the gaping wound in the panels as she stabbed the apparition in the grain. The face was pulled back. into the surface. Leave me alone, she bellowed, her eyes clenching shut as she continued her mad butchery of the wood. Get out of my head, she muttered to herself, the low murmur suddenly erupting into a high-pitched

shriek. With a burst of manic energy, she dragged the scissors across the entire length of the wall, shearing the surface off. Splinters flew about, savagely scratching her hands and wrists. Faces trapped within the wood wailed in silent agony, their mouths contorting grotesquely. Her manic frenzy halted as she kicked her feet against the toilet, pushing herself against the door, surveying her work. Cassandra's nervous giggles punctured the oppressive silence.

Yes, yes, yes, she babbled, her voice edging towards hysteria. Stay away! Her shriek echoed against the claustrophobic walls, the terror-strewn syllables bouncing back and forth in the small space. She watched an abject horror as the gashes she had made on the wooden door, filled with a viscous black substance, the dark tendrils inching menacingly towards her. Desperately, she tried to handle the door, staring into the wooden eyes of her husband, as she viciously pounded against the surface, sobbing and convulsing as it held firm.

Her futile attempts to escape left red streaks on the paneling, the residue of her once immaculately manicured hands. The encroaching darkness closed in around her, the dim light from the bulbs flickering erratically, as if they were engaged in some twisted ritualistic chant. The ominous strobes of light revealed the final shreds of her sanity unraveling, their departure marked by her ear-piercing scream. An unseen force seized her throat, its ghostly fingers tracing her features and strangling the breath out of her.

Cassandra crumpled to the floor, the teal porcelain tiles cold and unyielding against her trembling form. She was a pathetic heap of terror, her mouth agape in a silent scream as the sinister shadows invaded her body, slithering down her throat and clawing at her heart. An icy chill filled her chest, freezing her from within, as her desperate lungs begged for air. Panic took hold, her frantic eyes scanning the cold teal porcelain tiles beneath her,

as if hoping they would reveal and escape. The scissors clattered out of her weakening grip, their sharp echo blending with the thrumming silence. The last vestiges of life slipped. from her lips, choked back by the relentless darkness. As death's cold fingers tightened their grip around her throat, her world dissolved into an eternal suffocating blackness. Barbara stood on the threshold of the powder room, her hands at her sides, regarding her friend and employer of over a decade. Even in death, Cassandra retained an eerie elegance, her blouse stained with the crimson of her own

blood, draped around her contorted and static form. She lay in a loose fetal position on the chilling tile floor, a thin trail of white powder clinging to her upper lip. Her eyes were closed, yet Barbara felt their vacant stare bore into her. Ma'am, please step aside, an officer intruded, pushing a stretcher and brandishing an oxygen mask, his bright orange vest contrasting starkly with the somber scene. Of course, Barbara responded, weakly stepping aside as the stretcher brushed past her. She watched as Cassandra's lifeless body was loaded onto the gurney, strapped down, and fitted with an oxygen mask. The strobing red and blue lights of the ambulance

washed over the scene as Cassandra was wheeled away. Barbara knew they couldn't save her. The potent cocktail of endorphins and ground-up fentanyl would ensure that. She observed the traces of Cassandra's final struggle during her overdose. Deep gashes marred the wooden panelling of the walls and door, red fingerprints smeared the door and mirror.

Barbara's gaze fell upon a pair of scissors, which she promptly nudged under the bathroom vanity with her foot. The shattered window in the living room perplexed Barbara. The tempered glass was too thick for her feeble arms to break, and the alarm had not been triggered. Her confusion lingered. The room hummed as the Rumba vacuumed up traces of cocaine from under the coffee table and the carpet.

She snatched the bag of powder from the spice drawer, adding it to the contents of the vacuum cleaner. A grim smile pulled at the corners of Barbara's mouth for the first time in months. Tonight, she would see Philip without his wife for the first time. Emptying the Rumba vacuum's contents into the pool, she watched the dull particulates meld seamlessly with the chlorinated water. Her gaze swept across the well-manacured lawn, bordered by hydrangeas,

awash in the auburn glow of the rising sun. The air was crisp, yet a vague sense of being watched lingered on the fringes of her awareness, unnerving her. She knew Cassandra's security camera. were mere props designed to deter potential intruders. Yet she felt as though she was being scrutinized, akin to the judgmental stare of teenagers at a shopping mall or the disapproving glare of an old Italian woman.

Nonetheless, she shrugged off the feeling and sauntered back into the house to await her lover. How many discounts does USAA auto insurance offer? Too many to say here. Multi-vehicle discount. Safe driver discount? New vehicle discount. Storage discount. Legacy-old discounts will you stack up? Tap the banner or visit usa a usa a dot com slash auto discounts restrictions apply a loud honk sounded as the car in front of me came to a sudden stop something had dashed across the road something large i slammed my foot down on the brakes and prayed the icy road wouldn't allow yet another fender bender it was hard to make out any shapes through the thick veil of the blizzard's harrowing symphony but i could tell that whatever had crossed the highway had done so with speed and precision maybe a mood

I thought to myself, paying no further mind to the matter. I reclined into my seat and turned up the volume on the radio. Frank Sinatra's I've Got You Under My Skin, filled the cozy insides of my SUV, and I felt my heart rate steadily stabilize. It had been several hours since I left my hometown, and now I was surrounded by an endless expanse of white as far as the eye could see. There should have been a forest on either side of the highway, but with the severely deteriorating weather conditions, it was impossible to make out anything farther than six feet away. As I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel in perfect synchronization with the song, I grew more and more impatient. We had stood still for at least five minutes now. Surely there couldn't be this much traffic all the way out here.

The song was nearly over, and we still hadn't moved. Behind me, I could hear a chorus of aggressive honking. There were at least six cars behind me, and as far as I could tell, probably six and front as well. Their headlights were the only indicator of their existence, as the snow had turned everything else invisible. Then a grisly thought spread like wildfire throughout the crevices of my mind. Had there been an accident? I sat up in my seat and made an attempt to somehow peek above the top of the car ahead of me. It was futile. What is going on? I murmured under my breath as a loud sigh escaped my body. The howling winds outside violently slammed into the exterior of the car. eliminating any notions that I may have had about stepping out and investigating.

For now, it was best I just waited it out. It would surely pass in a minute or so. I picked up my phone and started messing around with a few apps. I do not condone texting and driving, but considering we hadn't been moving for a while, I'd wager a short social media session couldn't hurt anyone. And besides, it didn't look like I was going anywhere anytime soon either. I even glanced over to the half-empty bottle of Jack D.

Daniels that laid unassuming on the floorboard of the seat beside me, but I decided against it for now. Prior to this traffic jam, I had been visiting my extended family for the holidays back in my hometown. Due to reasons we don't need to delve into, I was forced to leave earlier than I'd initially expected, which was fine by me as I couldn't stand another second of chatty family drama in that awful holiday cheer. Forgive me if I'm sparse with the details, but for privacy's sake, I won't disclose the name of the town I departed from, nor where I am currently headed. All you need to know is that the road I was traveling on was located pretty far up in the northwestern region of the United States, and it was absolutely freezing. Some time passed,

and the vehicles on the road hadn't moved an inch. It was as though they were rooted to the icy foundations below. Dontingly, I observed as the car in front of me was in the process of getting devoured by the rapidly growing snowfall. Its tires were nearly completely engulfed, and I figured that it wouldn't be long until getting home in time to watch today's football game would be the least of my concerns. Then, growing in the distance, were sirens. I looked up from my phone and directed my gaze toward the side view mirror and saw a faint blinking blue light penetrate through the thicket of snow. The ambulance zoomed past me at breakneck speeds, and shortly after, a police car followed. This only reaffirmed my belief that something terribly wrong had occurred. I scrolled through my phone and

continued as usual, though my digital endeavors would prove to be quite fruitless. The longer I used my phone, the worse the connection seemed to get. TikTok and YouTube videos began buffering, and other apps that required internet connectivity wouldn't even load. I'm by no means a physicist, tech guru, meteorologist, or whatever the appropriate title for this would be, but I surmise that the ongoing raging storm could be linked to the shortcomings of my phone signal. Incidentally, I was also in the middle of nowhere, 40 minutes away from the nearest settlement, and three hours away from the closest city. The remoteness of my location would surely also have an impact on my... A light tapping on the window caught me off guard, and I jolted in my seat. Crap, I thought, as the sight of a bulky

police officer greeted me on the other side of the glass. By the looks of it, he had to be a had been out in the storm for way too long. His cheeks were glowing pink, and he had snowflakes stuck in his burly mustache. I quickly stowed my phone in my pocket and rolled down the window, preparing to explain why I was on my phone in traffic. But the officer didn't care about any of that. Good evening, sir, the officer started. There has been an incident further up the road. Right now we're trying to, could you turn that down? He gestured toward the radio. Uh, sorry officer, of course, I replied, dialing the scroll wheel of the volume button all the way down. As I was saying, we're trying to evacuate this, uh, whole area.

Once I've gotten to the final car at the end behind you there, and I've gotten him to start backing up, I want you to follow him immediately. You want me to drive in? Reverse, I questioned. A quizzical grimace stretched across my face. Roads too narrow. Right now I don't see any other option. Unless you want to try turning around and risk ending up in one of these days.

ditches here, the officer said with a slight smirk. But before I had the chance to say anything else, a thundering bang sounded a couple of yards in front of us. The winds carried the sound with ear-splitting accuracy. The officer reacted immediately, hovering his hand above the pistol in his holster. He took a few steps back and tried signaling in on his shoulder-mounted radio. Another bang echoed through the harsh wind, followed by another. Then another. The sounds were unmistakable. They were gunshots. He drew his pistol and rushed toward the source of the sounds. I watched as he slowly faded from view.

A void of white had swallowed him whole. I stared in shock for a couple of minutes, expecting the officer to return any moment. But he never came. A small mass of snow had started accumulating inside my car, so I quickly rolled up the window. I could hear another set of muffled gunshots joining the already dominant ones. It sounded like they were completely emptying their magazine. into whoever or whatever. Then, in perfect unity, the sound stopped. The silence weighed heavy as I sat in anticipation. My mind was flustered with thoughts and ideas, but the prevalent feeling

that occupied my body was a creeping sensation of dread. Just what the hell was going on? I anxiously tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. In a moment of weakness, I once again looked over to the bottle on the floor. I hadn't gone this long without a drink in years. one sip wouldn't hurt, right? Just to calm my nerves. If I was discreet enough, the officers would have no way of knowing. Just as I leaned over to the passenger side to pick the bottle up, my vehicle violently trembled.

Something powerful had slammed into my car. I cursed loudly and rose back up, abandoning the bottle. I frantically searched around, looking for any signs of the perpetrator. I scanned my rear view, the side window, and even the passenger side's window. nothing but a flurry of white specks. Then I noticed something in the blizzard in front of me. A black silhouette grew larger and larger, and soon I could make out what it was.

A man, no, two men. And they were running, running towards my car, but these guys weren't police officers, nor any of the paramedics that had arrived earlier. They must have been the denizens of the cars in front. And then, two more people appeared behind them, either giving chase to or following the two men in front. As they inched closer, I could properly see the expressions carved into their faces. They were terrified. They looked as though they had seen a

ghost. The first two men ran past my car. They didn't even look at me. Shortly after, the two people behind them followed, a woman and a boy. They hurried across the ice at great speeds while at the same time exercising caution so as to not slip and fall. Before I had the chance to react, they were gone, having once again been consumed by the endless white void. This was definitely cause for concern. Who in their right mind would abandon the comforts of their vehicles all the way out here? In this weather? The driver in front of me cautiously opened one of the doors of the car. A middle-aged white man with a beer gut stepped out into the cold. He slung his puffer jacket around his shoulders and stared off into the distance ahead. I watched him curiously, wondering if he

too would start running, and then wondering whether I should join him if he indeed decided to. Right now, it seemed illogical, but then again, these guys clearly knew something I didn't. Maybe there was a gas leak ahead? Maybe some radioactive material had been improperly disposed of? My mind raced, looking for any logical explanations for my current predicament, but I found none. The man took a few steps forward, intently inspecting the blizzard ahead. It seemed as though something had caught his attention. He took another few steps forward, positioning himself in front of his car, partially obscuring my view of him, his left side still visible.

But there was something else. In the deep recesses of the snowstorm, something was moving. I strained my eyes, leaning forward in my seat and staring through my snow-covered windshield. Approaching from the left side of the road onto the on the on. oncoming lane, a large silhouette bobbed up and down as it slowly advanced toward the man. Though it was far away, it looked to be near twice his height, but he hadn't noticed it. The man was far too busy examining whatever had caught his attention directly in front of him. An overwhelming sense of dread filled my veins.

The way the silhouette moved, I couldn't quite explain why, but it felt predatory, like a lion stalking its prey through the thick underbrush of the African savannah. right before springing into action and securing itself a fresh meal. Was it a moose? It didn't look to be. The proportions were way off, and it almost looked to be bipedal. But I couldn't think of any other large animals out here that the silhouette could have belonged to. I doubted this area had ever seen any polar bears.

And even so, they couldn't possibly reach this size, could they? It was like my primal instinct screamed at me to do something. I felt my fight or flight start to kick in, but I managed to keep it under wraps. I was safe inside my warm SUV. But the man, however, I had to warn him somehow. If I honked my horn, whatever was stalking him might have leaped into action right away. It was too risky. Before I could think of anything, the man screamed in terror. Muffled through my car's thick exterior, his cries echoed. I focused ahead of me, trying to get a glimpse of what had riled him up so badly. He turned around in an attempt to flee. He had almost made it

back to the driver's side door of his car when he planted his face into the cold, hard ground. He must have slipped. The predatory silhouette to his left was nowhere to be seen now. For a brief moment, I locked eyes with the man. A familiar look of excruciating fear contoured across his face. He dug his long and unkept nails into the snow, slowly crawling forwards, and then he screamed yet again. But this time, not out of fear, but in pain. violently he was dragged back. I watched in horror as the man tried to fight it, clutching the powdery snow as if it would actually provide a stable grip. He was dragged in front of his car, and out of my view. Just before he rounded the left side corner, I could see his red-covered

hands desperately cling to the tire, and then he was pulled away. I was in complete disbelief. It was like a scene from a horror movie, except this was real. This was actually happening. The man's wailing abruptly ceased, and besides the harsh, winds of the blizzard, no sound was made. I pulled out my phone and tried my best to shake the trembling in my hands as I dialed 911. As I waited for a response, I made sure all the doors were locked while I glued my eyes to the spot where I'd last seen the man. A pair of long indentations scarred the snow where he had lay, and a crimson handprint stained the black rubber of the front tire. Come on, come on, pick up already, I harshly muttered to my phone. But I never made it past the dialing

tone. Was it because I had no service? I've heard that many emergency lines still operate in spite of a poor phone signal, but right now I was inclined to believe the contrary. I eventually gave up and put my phone down. I shrunk down into my seat, making myself as small as I could. I couldn't possibly tell you how long I sat there waiting like that. The concept of time felt irrelevant at that moment. In my reclined position, I still retained a decent line of sight to the outside world. There were signs of movement, just an empty white canvas. I could hear no discernible sounds either. I watched in what felt like slow motion as each individually unique flake of snow landed, and then proceeded to melt onto the glass. The windshield wipers fought the blizzard vigorously, brushing

aside everything the malevolent storm had to offer. Then suddenly, with a squelched thud, something heavy crashed down on the window, and the wipers were now smearing a viscous red liquid back and forth across the windshield. A nearly indescribable sense of paralyzing horror drilled into my very soul as I realized what I was looking at. I immediately recognized the sorrowed eyes and contorted expression of pain that draped across the poor man's face. But the true horror of this scene lay not with the frightful sight that greeted me no more than 12 inches away, separated only by a cracked glass screen. No, the true horror presented itself after I finally mustered up the courage to ponder the question that I'm not even sure I wanted the answer to. Where was the rest of him?

Upon the revelation that I was gazing at a human head, I was compelled to scream uncontrollably at the top of my lungs, and so I did. I couldn't help it. I felt nauseous and on the verge of vomiting. It took all my strength to gather any fragment of composure that had not yet left my body, and I quickly sat up in my seat, frantically scanning my surroundings. Still, I saw nothing except a heavy downpour of snow. I tried to calm down, as I knew that panicking would only worsen whatever situation was at hand. I steadied my breathing and sat still, slowly counting down from 10. However, the grotesque sight that greeted me whenever I looked through the windshield didn't exactly help. So I closed my eyes and continued counting, focusing on controlling my breathing.

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. But even as I closed my eyes, I still. I still. I was a saw his face. The gruesome image had burned itself deep into my mind, and I felt anxious at the thought that I may never sleep peacefully again. In my distracted haze, I failed to notice that something foreign had filled the air, something ominous. It was a deep sound, barely audible, a stark contrast to the roaring winds outside. It was the kind of sound you feel rather than hear if that makes sense. It was deep and bellowing, and I swear I could feel my chest faintly vibrate, like when you're at a concert or nightclub with a really loud bass. Carefully, I rolled down my window a quarter of the way

in order to better hear the curious noise. It was much clearer now, and the best way to describe it would be to call it a sort of low-pitched rumble. Its tone fluctuated ever so slightly, as if in synchronization with short, rapid breaths. It would be a rather powerful display of vocal cords if the sound was of organic origin. I tried my best to pinpoint the direction from which the sound,

but I found the task to be near impossible. It may have been the wind distorting and dislocating the sound, but it sounded like it originated from every direction. I didn't know what to do. Obviously I didn't want to exit the car and make a run for it like the previous motorist before me, but I felt that staying inside the car would only render me a sitting duck. I had no weapons to protect myself either, not even a pocket knife in the glove compartment. The only thing I had was an old Zippo lighter, which I doubted would do any real damage in a fight. The deep rumbling subsided and was instead replaced by a hooting sound, reminiscent of that of an owl, only much deeper, like if someone blew air into a hollow tree trunk. But this sound was easy to pinpoint, and I could

discern that it was coming from behind the car in front of me, where I had last seen the man before his untimely demise. I fixed my gaze toward the source of the sound, expecting to see its owner peeking around the edges of the vehicle at any moment when I suddenly heard another identical set of deep hooting coming from my left side. I wondered how the animal, or creature, or whatever it was that made those sounds, had somehow managed to sneak past my line of sight and position itself to my left without me noticing. But my wondering was cut short when the original set of hoots in front once again started bellowing through the winter air, as if in response to the other ones. And to my utter dismay, I slowly began to to realize that whatever was making those sounds, whatever had got that man, was not alone out

here. And that's when I first saw it. As if on cue, I noticed the dominant silhouette standing in the middle of the road, contrasting itself against the rushing snowfall. Slowly emerging from the harrowing blizzard, just a few yards away from the car ahead, the creature revealed itself. It was unlike anything I had ever seen before, an abominable middle finger to all of God's creations upon this earth. Its skull resembled that of a crocodile, resting well over ten feet above the ground. It also had a large crest fixated right over its eyes, reminiscent of the horns of a bull. Its razor-sharp teeth were stained red, and red dripped down from its maw and onto the snow-covered asphalt. The entire creature was covered in dense white fur, like that of a polar bear.

No wonder I hadn't spotted it until now. It was perfectly camouflaged among the powdery white snow. The rest of the body was hard to make out due to the storm, but I could tell it was huge, easily towering over the vehicle it slowly approached. It moved closer, trotting towards me in a jagged fashion. Blood still dripped from its malformed mouth. It almost looked to be smiling, almost.

I looked around the cabin of the car, once more desperately scouring for anything I could use. to defend myself. Except for the bottle of liquor I had laying about, I was at a loss. At least I could ease the pain of being torn limb from limb by having a little alcohol in my system, I thought to myself. Seeing the creature uncomfortably close now, I made an attempt to just drive away. It was true what the officer had said previously about the road being extremely narrow, but in the face of certain death, I figured it was worth a shot. Though, as I was boxed in by both a car in my front and one in my rear, I would have to succeed at a difficult maneuver in order to make

my escape. A maneuver I wasn't too sure I could make in these perilous conditions, but I had to try. I applied my foot down onto the gas pedal, and the tires spun around in the snow, slinging bits of debris everywhere. Still stationary, I pressed down even harder, hoping to God that I would break free from my frozen constraints. In my panic, I gazed ahead and locked eyes with the creature. I could feel its wicked stare burrowed deep into my soul. The wheels kept spinning, but I wasn't making any progress. I had waited too long. It was as I had feared earlier.

I was trapped. There was nowhere to go. An ear-splitting hoot sounded just a few yards away, and I saw the creature had stopped in its tracks. It raised its head and let out another hoot. What the hell do you want? I sobbed, punching the steering wheel in frustration. The wretched thing turned its head and let out.

yet another vocalization. It was as if it wanted to grab my attention, or to distract me. Before I knew it, I felt a searing pain aching throughout my body, and my world was turned upside down as a powerful force slammed into the left side of the car, sending it flying. The SUV toppled over, accompanied by the sounds of crushing metal. Thankfully, I was wearing my seatbelt, or else I would have probably broken my neck while tumbling around inside the car like dirty laundry and a washing machine. When the car eventually came to a stop, I found myself suspended upside down in the driver's seat. The vehicle had rolled down into the nearby ditch on the side of the road. Below me, on the inside of the car's roof, were fragments of shattered glass and heaps of snow. I hadn't quite

processed what had happened, so I sat there for a moment, taking it all in. Suddenly, everything felt so calm and quiet. I questioned if I had even survived the ordeal, a warm liquid, would flowed down from my chin, into my mouth, and then down the rest of my face. The stinging copper taste made me snap out of my trance, and I began to assess the situation. Outside I heard heavy thuds rapidly approaching the vehicle. Each mighty stomp struck down into the snow with rhythm, and I could imagine the creature's mouth practically foaming at the prospect of a fresh new meal. The footsteps came to a sudden halt right outside the driver's side window,

and I turned my head to get a better look. A set of two large and powerful hind legs stood mere inches away from my face. They were covered in what looked to be reptilian-like scales lined with dense white fur, and the creature had three long talons that protruded from each foot. The deafening scraping of metal filled the air as I imagined the creature began clawing away at the undercarriage of the SUV. From the fast-paced shifting of the monster's feet, I began to understand the sheer ferocity with which it attacked.

It was going ballistic, shredding the exterior at an incredibly fast rate. A combination of hoots and growls escaped its bloodthirsty jaws as it chipped away at the metal. It wouldn't be long until it was through. Another pair of heavy footsteps stopped just a short distance away on the opposite side of the car, right outside the passenger's side window. Like its predecessor, it too began clawing and kicking at the body of the car. The two creatures were relentless. I'd never seen anything like it.

Not even wild hyenas were this ravenous. I braced for impact as I unbuckled my seatbelt, positioning myself in such a manner so that I wouldn't break my neck upon impact. I hit the ground hard and was greeted by the sensation of cold snow and broken glass. The car rocked back and forth as the creatures violently attacked. It was obvious I couldn't stay in here for long, but escaping the crushed remains of my vehicle and running out on foot didn't seem favorable either. I felt a deep desperation begin to set in.

as I realized I would most likely not live to see another day. This was it. Just as all hope had faded, and I began to accept my fate, my arm brushed up against a cold and oblong object. I shifted my body around to see what it was, and a light bulb ignited inside my head as I gazed upon the still intact bottle of liquor that laid on the floor. My hands trembled as I reached deep into my pocket and extracted my old Zippo lighter.

However, I examined the Jack Daniels and gauge that the contents of the same as I was inside would not be enough for the powerful reaction I was hoping for, so I opened the glove compartment and began searching. Ah, there it is, I cheered as my fingers grazed upon the bottle of scented hand sanitizer, an old relic from the pandemic. It was nearly full as well. I opened the two bottles and began pouring the disinfectant alcohol down into the half-empty liquor bottle. The sanitizer mixed in with the strong bourbon would surely be enough for an improvised Molotov cocktail. I ripped off a piece of cloth from my shirt and stuffed it down the bottleneck. With the Molotov in hand, I crawled toward the cracked windshield. I spun around and pressed my feet against the shattered

glass frame. In an adrenaline-infused state, I pressed my legs down and applied pressure to the windshield. I strained my body and pushed my legs harder than I'd ever done before in my life, wishing I'd spent more time at the gym prior to this. Due to its severely damaged condition, it didn't take long before the windshield came off, and the harsh winds of the outside world filled the cabin of the upside-down car. Above me, the creatures growled and bellowed, ripping and tearing away at the framework. I could see narrow slivers of light begin to penetrate the underside of the car, meaning they were nearly through. I crawled through the new opening and out into the unforgiving blizzard. I feared that as soon as I stepped outside, one of the creatures would

promptly place my head in its jaws, and I would be done for, but that never came. It seemed that they were too preoccupied with getting through the hard exterior of the SUV, and they had failed to notice that I had made my crafty escape. I kept crawling along the snow, praying to God that the beasts wouldn't turn their hideous heads and discover the easy meal slithering away right beside it. I didn't dare look back either. I couldn't bring myself to face the abominable animals. Once I had achieved a satisfactory distance away from the car, I finally turned around and rose to my feet.

I ignited my lighter and set the Molotov cocktail ablaze. Don't try this at home, by the way. With all my remaining strength, I hurled the flaming bottle at the heap of scrap metal that used to be my car, and watched in glory as the fire began to rise. I even think I hit one of the creatures as I heard a dazzled yelp cry out. The flames weren't nearly big enough to cause a massive explosion or anything, but it was just enough to distract the creatures so that I was able to make a run for it. I ran back onto the road and continued past all the vacant cars that stood further up.

The ice was painted red, and a couple of human corpses, or at least what remained of them, were strung about the various abandoned vehicles. Eventually I came upon the ambulance in the police car that had arrived about an hour prior. There were no signs of the officer who had talked to me, but deep down I knew what kind of fate had befallen him. In the distance, I heard ominous rumbling sounds coming from one of the creatures, followed by agitated hooting. Had they finally noticed I was gone? In that case, I didn't have a lot of time. I got inside the ambulance and planted myself down in the driver's seat.

A frozen and severed human hand was attached to the steering wheel. I gagged as I ripped it off and tossed it out the open window. The creature's shrill cries echoed through the snowstorm, and it sounded like they were coming closer. Desperately I turned the ambulance's ignition, and to my delight it started up without a hitch. I kicked my foot down on the gas pedal and floored it out of there. Luckily for me, ambulances in this part of the United States come well equipped to handle hazardous terrain and snow-covered roads. As I drove, I intently watched the rear-view mirror hoping I would get a last glimpse of one of the monsters. But the only things I saw were whirling snowflakes, dancing effortlessly along the icy winds that carried them.

About 30 minutes of driving later, I arrived at a small town. The blizzard had begun to let up, and the sun was starting to set on the horizon. I parked outside the first roadside hotel I found, and must have looked like a zombie as I frantically begged the receptionist to alert the authorities. She looked extremely nervous, but did as I told her. After a while of talking, the kind receptionist informed me that the police would stop by first thing tomorrow morning. Apparently the nearest police station was an hour.

drive away, and the raging storm had caused major problems across infrastructure all over the state. Seeing as how nobody was in immediate danger, they would wait until the roads were cleared and traversal was safe again. I wasn't happy with this response, but I was too tired to really care. I checked into one of the hotel rooms and began typing all this out on my phone. There are still so many questions left unanswered, but I imagine tomorrow will bring more news about the situation. I just hope that the other motorists along that highway made it out okay, but I have my doubts. The blizzard has now subsided, and outside my second-story window, I am treated to a view of the clear night sky and the endless expanse of the tundra. I'll admit, this landscape is beautiful, though it is a shame that I will

now forever associate the tranquility of snowfall with the abhorrent horror of events prior. However, that is not all. Since it was getting hot in my room, I decided to crack my window slightly ajar. For the past hour, I have been listening to the breeze floating across the frozen countryside. There are no sounds of wild animals out here, oddly enough, but there is something else. Occasionally in the distance, the silence is broken by the ever so familiar and foreboding sound of a faint hoot crying out into the night. I'll start by saying that I'm now an 18-year-old male who has had encounters with the supernatural ever since I was eight years old, and I've had at least one experience every three years, so I'm pretty determined that there's a cycle. I'm a firm believer in the unexplained, growing up, and listening to people describe their

encounters with Bigfoot and other supernatural creatures. However, listening to the stories and actually experiencing something are two very different ball games. This incident happened back in November of 22, when I was visiting a campground in Garibaldi, Oregon, on the coast with my choir class for a weekend excursion in order to get to know our classmates better. The camp we were at had two large two-story group cabins, several trails, a mess hall with a basement, and other amenities. I will not disclose the name of the camp, but if you've been there, you've been there. The first day and night of the excursion went incredibly well, with us all getting to know each other, me having horrible luck asking out the girl I liked, and overall having a good time with my friends.

However, when the sun went down, things changed dramatically. The atmosphere shifted, making everything eerie and unsettling. I didn't experience anything on the first night, but it was still very unsettling. I'll quickly add here that my and my classmates hadn't seen a single animal during the whole trip, not even birds or squirrels, which was already bizarre. The next day was pretty normal, with our class going through all of our scheduled activities as the day went on. Dinner rolled around and before I knew it, everyone was back in the cabins and turning in for the night. However, I couldn't sleep for some reason.

I decided that it would be best if I stepped outside onto the second-story balcony to help take my mind off of things when I felt the same thing I did the night before. That feeling of dread was coming back, as well as the feeling that there were eyes on me. The night was also deathly quiet. with only the sound of crashing waves on the beach accompanying me. But soon enough, that wasn't the only sound I was hearing. The sound came from the forest that ran parallel to the field that divided the two cabins,

and it caused my body to immediately go into fight or flight and a chill to run down my spine. The sound in question was my own voice coming from the tree line. Come here, I want to show you something. Whatever it was, said in my voice, though it sounded slightly off like it had been recorded and played back. I originally thought that it was just a figment of my imagination, so I rubbed my ears, hoping that I wouldn't hear it again. But alas, it came again. Come here, I want to show you something. Exactly how it sounded before. I then got out of there, remembering the many stories I heard of Skinwalkers and how they can mimic voices. I ran into the cabin, closed the

door that lead to the balcony, locked the door and closed the window, hoping not to hear anything more. I fell asleep after an hour, only to wake at four o'clock in the morning. I heard a single heavy step make contact with the bottom step of the metal stairs that lead to the balcony. I ignored it and began blasting music into my ears through my headphones, drowning out any other noises of the night. I hoped this would be it, but the climax came on the third and final night of our trip. The next day, we went through the daily activities once more and then night fell once again, but we would be spending the night, the last night of our trip, playing assassin, basically hide-and-seek in the woods. Before we got together to play, me and a decent-sized group of my classmates were hanging out in one of the larger fields,

which had forest on three sides, and the rest of the camp on the other. We were laying out under the stars when all of us heard it. It was a loud, shrill screech, sounding like it was coming from very far away. I was reminded at that moment that the further a skin walker sounds from you, the closer it is, while the closer it sounds, the farther away it is. We then formed a defensive circle with our flashlights on bright, scanning the field and tree line, looking for anything out of the ordinary, yet we were able to locate nothing.

It was tense for about a minute until our instructor and some other students came towards our circle with their flashlights on, ready to play assassin. We were assigned our roles and began to play, entered the woods, and began to play. nothing happened during the games or for the rest of our trip, thank God. I only tell people about hearing my own voice as it's the easiest part of this series of events to describe to people. Not even my fiancé knows the full story, only about my own voice calling to me. If you ask the people in that defensive circle, they'll deny that even happened,

that we simply wanted to stand like that in the field. Some of them will just flat out deny that they even heard the shrieks. I've consulted with my fiancé, who, who is a very rational person and looks at things from a scientific standpoint, trying to rule out all plausible explanations, and even she was completely stumped. She can't explain how I heard my own voice calling me as I have no record of having auditory hallucinations. It was just bizarre. As I said earlier, I believe I had a run-in with a skin walker or similar creature, but I guess I won't be able to find out, as I'm never going to return to that camp. If you decide to camp in the backwoods of Oregon, be careful, and watch your back, because I full-heartedly believe

that there are very dangerous things in this world that make people disappear. I will first say that this is not my first encounter with something unnatural, as I've had experiences with the supernatural before this. For some context, I'm a student at a government-funded trade school on the Pacific coast of the United States, and these occurrences have apparently been going on since before I even arrived on campus. I will state first that there are no wolves, coyotes, or stray dogs in the vicinity of the campus, but we do get a large number of wildlife from blacktail deer, bald eagles, crows, gulls, and raccoons, as well as other critters. My first experience with this entity was around two months ago while I was living in my first dorm room, close to midnight. The room was

the last room in the hall, and the large window faced the thick forest that surrounded the campus. One night while I was laying in bed while my roommate was asleep in the bed next to me, when I heard an odd sound coming from the hallway outside of our room. It sounded like claws clacking against the tile floor. A sound I was used to hearing as my parents had a dog back home whose claws would clack on the hardwood floor. These sounded much heavier, though, and put me on edge as we weren't even allowed to have dogs on center. And that went for the staff as well. And like I said earlier, there are no wild canids here.

So this was utterly bizarre. Why were these footfalls occurring? And in the building itself? I was deeply concerned. So I woke my roommate and explained to him what I had heard. I thought he wouldn't believe me, but surprisingly, he did. You heard it too? He said as I opened the door and looked into the hallway, only to find nothing.

I remember asking him what he meant, and he proceeded to explain how he had heard the same clacking at least three times around the same time, and he even described hearing deep howls echoing in the night. We began discussing and hypothesizing on what we were both experiencing and concluded that we were both experiencing hellhound activity after ruling out all plausible and natural possibilities. Our campus has a rich history of tragedy and loss, all within the past 90 years of our campus's existence, which we felt was attracting negative entities

like our suspected hellhound onto center. I then began asking around after determining our culture, trying to see if anyone else had encountered or had an experience with what we had dubbed the hound. There was actually a surprising number of people who had experienced the activity we did, and even a guy who had even seen it. By the time I finished asking around, I had at least 12 individuals from the dorms who had experiences with the hound. I wrapped up our investigation, and things went back to normal for about a week until the weekend rolled around. I was laying in bed again with the window open when I finally heard the sound I had been in

anticipating ever since my roommate explained the howls he'd heard. It was the howl, deep, and guttural, just like he had described. I told my roommate in the morning and he believed me, telling me that he'd even been awake and heard it too. I've even consulted with my fiancée who looks at things through a critical scientific standpoint, and even she came up short with determining the identity of what we had experienced. I'm fairly certain that this is still a hellhound or at least another type of ghost dog, but my roommate and I have seen. moved out of that room, and I haven't experienced any activity since. I was a night owl, always had been. My most productive hours fell when the world was silent and

shrouded in darkness. It was during these hours that I wrote my stories, played my video games, and most importantly, made my living. I worked for Uber Eats in Los Angeles, a job that suited my nocturnal lifestyle perfectly. This story begins on a humid summer night. I had just finished delivering a late-night pizza to a college kid studying for his exams. As I drove back to the more bustling part of town, I noticed a new order popping up on my phone. It was an address I didn't recognize, nestled in an older, less-traveled part of the city. It was a place few people ventured after dark. But an order was an order, and I accepted it. The order was simple, a single cheeseburger from a fast food joint. As I picked up the order, the server gave me a

peculiar look. That's a long way to go for a burger, she said, looking at the delivery address on her screen. I shrugged it off, attributing her concern to the lateness of the hour and the remote location of the delivery address. I thanked her and headed out, the aroma of the freshly cooked burger filling my car. The journey to the address was eerie. The further I went, the less familiar the surroundings became. The vibrant, crowded streets of L.A. gave way to narrower, desolate roads, shrouded in shadows and an oppressive silence. The city's soundscape faded into a background hum, replaced by the haunting whispers of wind through the skeletal trees lining the road. As I turned onto the street, indicated by my GPS, a chilling sense of unease crept over me.

The houses here were old and decrepit, there boarded up windows and overgrown lawns indicative of a long-abandoned neighborhood. It was as if I had stepped into a ghost town within the heart of the metropolis. My headlights landed on the house matching the delivery address. It was a dilapidated two-story building, the chipped paint and crumbling facade adding to its eerie appearance. But what unsettled me most was its windows. They were not boarded up like the others, instead covered by old faded curtains that seemed to shift ever so slightly. A sensible person would have turned back, but the reality of my financial situation compelled me to carry out the task. I got out of my car, the cheeseburger,

in hand and approached the house. The overgrown weeds crunched under my shoes, the sound unnaturally loud in the unsettling silence. I knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the hollowed out house. As I waited for a response, a chill ran down my spine. There was something profoundly wrong about this place, an ominous aura that I couldn't shake. And then, the unthinkable happened. The door creaked open on its own, revealing an enveloping darkness within. Hello, I called out my voice tremulous, swallowed up by the darkness inside. An unsettling stillness hung in the air, broken only by the distant echo of my own words. I was about to turn around, my instincts screaming at me to get out of there,

when a voice drifted out from within the house. Just leave it by the door, thank you. The voice was old and raspy, an underlying tone of weakness evident in its timbre. Sympathy momentarily dampened my fear, as I realized this could be an elderly person unable to cook for themselves. I put the bag down near the entrance, took a picture to confirm delivery, and hurried back to my car. As I drove away, I glanced back at the house. The front door was still open, the burger untouched.

The following night, a new order buzzed on my phone. My blood ran cold as I saw the same address from last night. It was the same order, a single cheeseburger. With a deep sigh I accepted the order. I tried to convince myself that there was nothing to worry about. An elderly person in need was depending on me. As I turned onto the same abandoned street, my hands were shaking slightly. The sight of the house, bathed in the cold glow of my headlights, did nothing to ease my anxiety.

Gathering my courage, I approached the house and left the cheeseburger by the front door. This time no voice acknowledged me, and the door remained closed. Days turned into a week, and every night the order of the order. from the old house came in like clockwork. Each time I left a cheeseburger by the front door, and each time there was no response. My initial fear turned into an uncomfortable routine, the mystery of the old house and its unseen occupant never leaving my thoughts. On the eighth night, things changed. The voice, frail and weak, called out again as I set down the cheeseburger. Could you, could you come in and place it on the table? I'm not feeling well. Against my better

judgment, I pushed the door open and stepped into the house. The air was stale, heavy with the smell of decay and damp wood. I strained my eyes to adjust to the darkness, flicking on the flashlight on my phone. The narrow beam cut through the shadows, illuminating a pathway strewn with old tattered furniture and cobwebs. I placed the burger on a rickety table and backed out, not daring to explore further. As I drove away, the feeling of unease was stronger than ever. The image of a little bit of the decaying interior imprinted in my mind. The house was not fit for habitation, yet someone was living there, surviving off of a single cheeseburger every night. But who were they? And why did they choose to live this way? And most importantly, why did I feel an uncanny sense of dread every time I stepped foot on that

property? As the knights wore on, I realized I was about to discover answers that I may not be prepared for. My knights became plagued by nightmares. The old house taken. taking on monstrous proportions in my sleep-addled mind. I would be back in the decaying living room, the weak voice whispering unseen, leading me deeper into the bowels of the house. I would wake up, drenched in sweat, the echoes of the whisper still resonating in my ears,

and still, the orders kept coming. I started to dread the pings on my phone as night fell, knowing that inevitably one of them would lead me back to the old house. Each visit felt like I was intruding into a story I wasn't meant to be a part of, an uninvited character in a slowly unfurling horror tale. On the 12th night, my worst fears came to pass. As I laid the cheeseburger at the front door, the voice drifted out, sounding weaker than ever. Can you, please, bring it to me? I hesitated at the entrance, every instinct screaming at me to refuse, but the pleading tone in the voice tugged at my

humanity. Swallowing hard, I stepped into the dimly lit interior. The house seemed to groan around me as I walked deeper, following the voice that was now a barely audible whisper. My heart pounded in my chest as I moved past rotting furniture, the beam of my phone's flashlight bouncing off peeling wallpaper and bare wooden floors. Finally, I reached a dilapidated door at the end of a long, narrow hallway. With a trembling hand, I pushed the door open. Inside was a figure, huddled up. under threadbare blankets on an old bed, the room reeking of decay and neglect. Over, here, the figure lifted a frail hand, gesturing to a bedside table. I placed the burger there, my eyes never leaving the shadowy form under the blankets.

As I turned to leave, the voice stopped me. Thank you. Something in the tone, a mix of relief and sorrow, rooted me to the spot. I found myself asking the question that had been gnawing at me for days. Who are you? There was a pause, the silence stretching on until it felt unbearable. Then the figure under the blanket stirred, just an old man, waiting, to be forgotten. I left the house that night with a heavy heart, the sadness in the old man's voice haunting me.

As I continued to deliver the cheeseburgers night after night, I began to feel a sense of duty, a need to ensure that this lonely soul was not forgotten. But with each visit, the atmosphere in the house grew more about. impressive, the sense of dread escalating into tangible fear. I started to hear things, whispers in the silence, sighs in the creaking wood, laughter in the rustling wind. The house was alive, its malignant energy growing stronger with each passing night, until one night the cheeseburger order didn't come in, nor the next night, nor the night after that. I found myself driving past the house anyway, a sick feeling of worry gnawing at me. On the fourth day,

I summoned the courage to enter the house. The silence inside was deafening, the usual whispering voice absent. I moved towards the room, my heart pounding. As I pushed open the door, the sight that greeted me made my blood run cold. The bed was empty, the room colder than ever. But what truly terrified me was the state of the room. It looked untouched, unused for years. No sign that the frail dying man had ever been there.

In my heart, I knew I'd be. been delivering meals to a ghost, a lingering spirit tied to the old house, and I was part of his unfinished story. Fear took a back seat to an overwhelming sadness as I realized the truth. The urban legend of the old haunted house wasn't just a legend after all, and the ghost, the lonely old man, was finally at rest. As I left the house for the final time, I could swear I heard a whisper on the wind, an ethereal voice saying, thank you. The haunted Uber Eats House remained as a chilling reminder of my encounter with the supernatural, a tale that would haunt my dreams for a long time to come.

Two years ago, I finished my degree at a university in Massachusetts. It's a prestigious institution with a rich history, and I decided to stay on and try to work on a master's. My major is in physics, with a specialism in electrical engineering, and towards the end of my fourth year, I spent a lot of time networking and socializing with documents. and professors, hoping to land a good graduate program. Now a few decades ago, some bright spark who had somehow got himself to be university president, decided that administration would be much easier if the departments were alphabetized rather than grouped by faculty. He reorganized half the campus before the end of his tenure. He left physics in place, since the building

has had significant work to be suitable for the subject. And now, physics is next to psychology, parapsychology, and paranormal studies. Go figure. This meant that the cafeteria a minute's walk from the physics building also serves those other departments, and it can often be hard to discern somebody's subject by looking. At least that's my excuse for when I met Dr. Caruso. I got chatting to him in the line for lunch and mentioned that I was an electrical engineer looking for a master's supervisor. Caruso's eyes lit up. He was a tall man, thin and wiry. He claimed to be a Bostonian Italian, but he had no accent, and I doubt he could have pointed to Italy on a map. He told me he had a project he was working on, a new type of battery, and he really needed an electrical engineer to help him.

He even had a budget that would stretch to my entire tuition. I said yes almost immediately. He brought the paperwork to my lab the next day, and we signed. He wanted me to start right away, but I hadn't even finished my finals, and besides I wanted a break from studying. Reluctantly, He agreed that if he could send me over some specifications for me to think through, he could wait until August. So that's what I did. I really did want a break. But when I and a few friends took off to Europe for a couple of weeks after exams,

I downloaded the specs to my tablet and ended up studying them for a couple of hours most days, sometimes in our hostel room, sometimes by a pool or a cafe. What Caruso wanted was mostly very sensible, unusual, but logical. Essentially, it was a way of collecting energy from work, converting it into electric current, and storing it in a battery. What made it weird was that he wanted to collect energy from a large number of tiny fluctuations, and those fluctuations were varied. Normally you would choose one.

Convert the motion of a fluid with a turbine. Extract work from a heat differential with a sterling engine. Convert pressure into electrical current via the Piazzo Electric Effect, and so on. Caruso wanted all of these, and more, but in a tiny package an inch or two across. Essentially, it looked like he was trying to squeeze every last bit of available energy out of the environment at microscale, but with the capability of scaling up to an arbitrary size. While I was on holiday, I was determined not to call Caruso, or even email him. I still managed to fill three notebooks of diagrams and calculations before I got back to the U.S. in the middle of August.

So excited was I to get working on this project. It was a lot of work, and I spent months tinkering before a problem arose. Jenny, one of the administrators in the physics department, called me into her office. She asked me about the procurement forms I'd been submitting and who they were for. I explained, showing her the paperwork I had with Caruso's signature on it. It was only then that I learned Caruso was, in fact, not a physicist. He was in paranormal studies. We'd met in the lab plenty of times and had meetings and discussions in the cafeteria,

but I realized I'd never actually been to his office. I excused myself and called my supervisor, asking him to explain himself. He arrived at Jenny's office about 20 minutes later, apologized for the misunderstanding, and arranged for money to be transferred over to cover the costs. Jenny was happy, but I was not. I asked him to come to the lab to check on something, close the door, and gave him an ear for. I don't think the closed door did much for privacy. I showed none of the respect usually due to your supervisor,

and even the radio astronomers on the roof could probably hear me. Surprisingly, Caruso was not upset or angry. He didn't raise his voice. He just waited until I'd run out of steam, which took quite a while. Then he looked at me, said, I'm sorry, and invited me to his office in Parra. I'd never actually been to the paranormal studies building, for all its spooky reputation and the occasional weird rumors coming out of there, it looked very respectable.

I don't think the building had been redecorated since the department had moved there in the 80s, but it was clean, well kept, and a lot tidier than most of the physics building. If you didn't read the titles of the books on the shelves, it could have been mistaken for psychology or mathematics, or even an accountant's or lawyer's offices. Caruso's office was much the same. He had an old but nice wooden desk with a desktop computer and half a dozen books pulled from the shelves behind it. But apart from a half-empty coffee mug, everything was very clean.

He even had a couple of armchairs in there. In physics, you're lucky to get an office chair with wheels. He took one chair and I took the other, and I felt like we should break out smoking pipes and discuss classic literature. Of course, that's not what we did. Caruso apologized again and promised to tell me exactly what he was doing. It was about ghosts. It took every ounce of restraint in my body not to roll my eyes. I resolved to let him finish talking, the same courtesy he had granted me half an hour earlier,

and then make up my mind. Ghosts, he explained, may or may not exist. But that wasn't the point. Alleged hauntings most certainly do exist, and exhibit physical manifestations. Whether they are environmental or paranormal, these effects are real, and ghost hunters have been measuring them since the 19th century. century. But until now, nobody has thought to harness them. People who claim to have experienced hauntings describe sudden changes in air temperature, strange sounds, and feelings of dread. More

macroscopic effects might include wind, or even objects moving of their own volition. All of these, Caruso told me, could be harnessed to provide energy. Feelings of dread? I asked, breaking the promise to myself not to interrupt. Caruso explained that skeptics have written this off as a number of different phenomena, but are generally keen on infrasound, sound at a frequency too low for human hearing, but that can nevertheless be sensed. Back in the 80s, a British researcher had experienced a haunting in a lab, as had several other people who worked there. He eventually traced it down to a faulty extractor fan emitting infrasound. He got it fixed, and the haunting stopped. This was a physical phenomenon with a simple explanation, but still, one that was a very, one that's a

that could be used to extract energy. Caruso continued like this for some time. I was getting increasingly skeptical about the work. You could make an interesting gadget for party tricks, but I couldn't see how our device could possibly draw enough environmental power to charge a phone, let alone supply an entire house. Caruso urged me to continue the work, replying that even if it didn't result in anything practical, I'd still come out with a master's thesis. So I kept going. It was well into my second year before I had something really usable, a square of miniaturized electronics two inches wide that could, at best, draw 0.3 megawatts of power from the environment. And so last November I carried my equipment to Caruso's office for a

demonstration. Despite its age, paranormal studies has much better environmental controls than the physics labs. We control the environment in small containers for our experiments. They control the environment for the comfort of their staff. This is nice, but it meant my galvanometer barely went above 0.1 megawatts. Still, this was enough for Caruso to let out a little shriek of excitement. When can we test it in the field? I told him that a single module had a maximum power rating of 20 megawatts. It was a prototype, and far from optimized,

but I'd done some calculations that showed that to power a typical U.S. household, At best we would need so many of these connected in parallel that the final product would be the size of a large fridge. Caruso pointed out, quite correctly, that this is exactly why he'd recruited an electrical engineer, and that something the size of a fridge was a good trade-off for having electricity and fuel bills of zero. But, I replied, even if I could get the maximum power up,

there simply wasn't the energy available in the environment to reach anywhere near that maximum. Caruso gave me a sly look. The kind of look your co-conspirator might give you, except I wasn't in on the conspiracy. Just work on the electronics, have it ready by March 1st. I'll sort out the environmental problem. Well, this guy was paying my entire tuition,

and the budget he'd arranged with Jenny was several times higher than most grad students in physics. Over the next few months, I worked on an improved prototype, figured out how to automate much of the production, and built an aggregation system to route all the power to a central supply point. On my March deadline, I had a device about the size of a backpack, and indeed, I fitted it all into a backpack for easy transport. I was regularly pulling upwards of 500 megawatts in the right conditions, but nowhere near the theoretical maximum of 200 watts, enough to power a small LED

from a device that could almost run a hair dryer. When I showed this to Caruso, he delightfully declared, it's ready. Ready for what? I asked. A proper test. Bring it here tonight. I'll meet you on the steps outside the department at seven. So I did. In the last light of the evening, we got into Caruso's car and set off. There are a lot of very old buildings in town, many dating back to pre-Civil War, and of course this means lots of ghost stories. I've never gone in for that much, but I recognize the house we parked in front of. I've passed it plenty of times, and in the summer it's not uncommon to see a tour guide talking about it to a group of tourists, or sometimes locals on a workplace evening out. The house is three stories tall, with wood paneling on the outside. The windows are small,

with diagonal grids, I think made of lead, except for a couple that have been smashed and boarded up. Nobody has lived there for quite some time, and it shows. There is a small yard out front, mostly overgrown, and it took us a bit of effort to maneuver through the path to the front door. To my surprise, The door was locked. Caruso, apparently having anticipated this, brought out a crowbar from his inside coat pocket. I was slightly alarmed at how easily he broke in, and made a mental note to ask him later how a paranormal studies researcher is so adept at B and E. But right now I had another burning question. You actually want us to draw power from a haunted house?

Well, he said, pushing the busted door open. We don't know that it's haunted, but we do know that several people have reported stories. strange disturbances. Do you know the history of this place? I confess that I didn't. In the 1780s, a wealthy family lived here. They made their living by ensuring ships engaged in the transatlantic slave trade. Supposedly, the daughter objected, finding her father's trade unconscionable. A neighbor's diary records some of the loud arguments he overheard, often lasting for hours. Then one day the daughter died, just 17 years old. The cause of death was officially recorded as typhus, but neighbors record that there was a particularly

angry exchange between father and daughter. Her voice raised more than you'd expect from a person dying of fever. When they brought her body out of the house, there were several bystanders watching, some of whom claimed they saw blood on her clothes and knife wounds. We were inside at this point, looking around a dimly lit hallway. Caruso lit an electric lamp. The well-to-do back then had little they enjoyed more than gossip, and the family quickly got a reputation. The father had murdered his daughter, the mother was in on it, that sort of thing. We'll never know exactly what happened, but we do know that a year later, on the anniversary of her daughter's passing, the mother took her own life. Caruso pointed to the landing above us. Just there. This is exactly

why I never joined those tour groups. I hate this stuff. The couple had two children. With the daughter and mother gone, the father and son were alone in the house. Things got strained. Apparently the son blamed his father for both of the deaths, and their arguments often turned physical. The boy, about 14 at the time, was often seen hiding his face to try to cover the bruises. This went on for about a year. He paused for a second. Exactly a year. One year after the mother took her own life, two years after the daughter passed mysteriously, a fire started in the house. The building was gutted, and by the time they managed to put the fire out, the father was dead. They never found the boy.

Caruso had also brought a backpack with him, and now he was carefully laying out its contents. He had crystals, chalk, feathers, salt, all sorts of rubbish you might find in a new age shop. He seemed to be arranging them in some sort of pattern, and when he was done, he started drawing shapes on the wooden floor with the chalk. This clearly needed some concentration. but that only slowed his speech. He continued, This is a good location, and the shell of the house that remained was reasonably sturdy. So years later, somebody bought the site from the estate, some grand niece, I think, who lived in Boston, and rebuilt it, more or less brick for brick, plank for plank.

They came from out of town, New York, I think, so they weren't aware of the history, only that there had been a fire. They were a family of six. It's a big house, three daughters and one son. very pleasant by all accounts. The children were young and went to school locally. Their teachers are on record saying they had concerns. He left the house then. I walked around the ground floor.

There were minimal facilities, a kitchen, dining room, and living room, but no furniture. I saw a few electrical outlets, two per room, with decaying and yellowing plastic. I doubt any of them worked. Caruso returned with several waist-height candlesticks. where was I? He placed the sticks in a neat circle. Oh, right, the kids. So written records from the schools say that the children were weird.

They always looked tired and complained that they couldn't sleep. Apparently the younger girls drew frightening faces, and the boy told his teacher that he didn't like the women he lived with. The teacher asked if he meant his sisters or his mother, and he said no. It was the other women. They wouldn't let him sleep, and they told him everything was his fault. Eventually, things came to a head. The girls' school told the parents their daughters had been frightening the other girls,

and they wouldn't be welcome anymore. Back then, good schools were few and far between, and soon enough the family had packed up and gone back to New York, or wherever. He now began placing candles on the candlesticks. That was back in, I think, the 1860s. The house has changed hands a few times since then, but nobody has stayed more than a year or two. It's been empty most of the time the last people lived here in,

1978, I think. They left without saying anything, but a reporter caught up with them in the 90s. They said that they heard crying every night, and their goldfish always died a few days after they bought them. Even squatters and homeless people stay away these days. The house was unheated and poorly insulated on that spring evening. Maybe that's why a chill ran through my body. Maybe that's why I got goosebumps, and that whispering noise I thought I heard. Well, it's not like those old walls were any good it keeping the wind out right? Caruso stood back from his handiwork and actually rubbed his hands together. It's ready. Ready for what? I asked, already knowing the answer. He gave me a look like I was stupid. So I brought the micro power plant out of my backpack and set it up in the center of the arcane

construction he'd built. It was fully dark outside by now, and it took half an hour to adjust the various settings on my equipment. While I'd been setting it up, Caruso had pulled out two oil-fired storm lanterns, and set them up either side of his ridiculous ghost apparatus. He turned the electric lamp off. This made sense, as my galvanometer was sensitive enough to read the electromagnetic field of the lamp if he moved it. He turned his phone off, and I did the same. There was just enough light to read the display. For a long time, it varied between about 300 and 500 megawatts, about average for my tests. We sat there watching it for about an hour before it started to rise. 600, 700, 800 megawatts, that was the highest I'd ever recorded. And it went further. Over just a

couple of minutes I watched as the reading increased. 900, 1,000, 1,100 megawatts. I heard a sound. I'd never heard anything like it. And I haven't in the months since, except in my nightmares. It was like a a gale of wind, filled with whispers, almost intelligible, the sort of sound where you know it makes sense, but you can't quite figure it out yourself. And above it, a shrill scream of terror, though whether the sound was the result or the cause of terror, I can't say. My blood ran cold, and I felt my feet rooted to the spot. I had just enough wherewithal left in me to look at the display. It was stable now, 2,800 megawatts. This was almost exciting enough for me to ignore the sounds, which were surely just the wind rushing through the upper floors above us,

and I may have been able to calm myself had I not witnessed what happened next. The candles flickered. I distinctly remembered that they all rose up and blew outwards, away from the center, and in the middle of them was a face, a woman's face, but about twice as big as a face should be, and it was clear that the screaming was coming from her. The candles and the storm lanterns blew out. I could see nothing. Seconds earlier, my fight-flight freeze instincts had settled on freeze. Now they switched modes. I turned and ran for the door.

It was only a few feet behind me, and despite the pitch darkness, I found it and pushed it open, only to remember that it opened inwards. Panic rising in my guts, I fumbled for the door handle for what felt like an eternity, grasped it, yanked open the door, and tumbled out into the path. I ran to the end of the street before I dared. look back. Caruso was there, calmly walking to his car with my device in his hands. He got in and turned the engine on, dazzling me with his bright headlights and drove my way. When he reached me, he opened the passenger window. Need a lift? I have no idea how he was so calm. I just wanted to run far, far away.

My legs were like jelly, though, and I didn't think I could even make it all the way home. Caruso dropped me off, said he'd call me tomorrow, and headed away. into the darkness. I didn't go into the lab the next morning. I had barely had any sleep and really didn't want to talk about it, but around 10, Caruso called me. I refused to go in, so he invited himself round to mine. I wish I'd walked home, rather than let him know where I live. I almost didn't open the door when he arrived. I let him into the hallway, but no further. He was very excited, speaking rapidly, and more energetic than I'd ever seen him before. When he started talking about returning, I told him point blank that I was out. There was no way I was ever stepping foot in that house again,

and he could stick his power plant. Well, you get the idea. Money isn't everything. Remember that. No matter how much somebody wants to pay you, some things are just not worth it. Caruso brought a brown paper packet out of his jacket and handed it to me. I opened it. It was full of 50s. $10,000, call it hazard pay. Just one more test, tomorrow night. Then you never need to go back. your masters in the lab, no more field trips. Even with my tuition covered, I was barely making my rent. 10,000 would pay off my debts and cover my costs to the end of my masters, maybe more. I accepted. I spent the next two days making adjustments to the device. It drew multiple watts in the previous test, enough to power a small light bulb, so I built a new display, a 10 by 10 grid of bulbs which

would come on in sequence to show the power draw. One bulb would be two watts. and all hundred would be the maximum 200 watts. I met Caruso in front of paranormal studies around 7 on March 3rd, and we set off once more to that cursed house. It looked just as it had two nights earlier. The door was still busted open, and we set everything up the same way as before. I came prepared this time.

I had secretly hidden several flashlights in my pockets, as well as some high-intensity light sticks I'd got from a hardware store, and I had a pair of thermal imaging goggles I'd borrowed from the lab. I wore them on my forehead, turned off to avoid causing interference with the device. They were only for emergencies. I'd considered a weapon, but what use would that be against a ghost? Besides, I told myself, ghosts aren't real. We had been in the dark, in an eerie house with a bad reputation, and Caruso had just told me a spooky story.

In that state of mind, of course, my brain would conjure up a phantom face. I remembered how he had been so calm walking out of the house. No doubt he hadn't seen anything, and it was all just my imagination. I turned on the device to test it before Caruso had lit the candles. I was getting 1,200 megawatts already, and the first bulb was clearly visible in the darkness. He then lit the candles one by one, and I watched the power increase. The heat engines in the device should be able to draw something from the candles, but only about 20 megawatts. The second bulb lit up, then the third, then the fourth, over eight watts.

Again I heard whispering. No, I told myself, it's just the wind. It was the wind two days ago, and it's the wind now. The power draw was steady now, with seven bulbs lit up, still a long way from maximum, but far more than it had any right to be. Something suddenly occurred to me. Caruso, I said, fearing the reply. That girl died on a certain date.

Then the mother died on the same date a year later. Then the house burned down. Yeah, that's right, he replied. third, tonight. Damn ghost stories. What are we getting? How could he be so calm? I told him we were on 15 watts. Not enough. I was worried about this. The ghosts are too old. We need something fresher. That didn't sound good. I was getting seriously worried and questioning whether all this was worth 10,000 bucks. Caruso went back to his bags and pulled out a small plastic box. inside was a mouse, and while I'd decided against weapons, he had apparently brought a six-inch knife.

What? Caruso, no, I shouted, but it didn't help. He took the mouse, which was just waking up, to the middle of the circle, and took its life. The wailing sounds that I'd been so desperate to pretend had just been the wind, intensified. The candle flames flickered and grew, and I saw blue light streaming out of the mouse's corpse, like ribbons fluttering in the wind. more bulbs lit up. The second row was partly on now. We were pulling 25 watts of power, and it stayed there. My heart was pounding. Adrenaline pumped through my veins. Somehow I managed not to turn and flee. I turned on my thermal goggles. They would make next to no difference to such a high-power draw. The room was mostly dark, but the candle flames, bulbs, Caruso, and slowly cooling mouse cadaver were bright white. Still not enough, said the glowing thermal image. of Caruso. A mouse isn't going to cut it if you'll pardon the expression. What? What are you saying? You want to kill 20 mice over these things, then sell them in a department store?

No, spectral energy doesn't work like that. Two mice wouldn't work. It needs to be one large sacrifice, something with a bigger, soul, if you will. What the hell was Caruso talking about? He said nobody had tried this before, but who knows what he'd read in those kooky books on his shelves. Then it dawned on me. He meant people. He wanted to build hundreds of these, thousands, and kill a human being over each one. Two centuries earlier, the house had been the scene of a violent confrontation over the ethics of slavery. Now history repeated itself, except somehow this lunatic had managed to find something even worse. He argued that these devices could halt global warming and stop oil wars. I argued that murder was wrong, no matter what.

He said it would save more lives than it cost. I shouted him down, called him evil, a psychopath. Even more animated than before, Caruso stepped closer. He got right in my face and yelled that we had to do this. I pushed him away. He pushed me back. I aimed a punch at him. He dodged and hit me in the face.

This knocked my goggles off. Oh, how I wish he had done anything else. The ghosts hadn't shown up in infrared, but now I saw them, clear as day. A young woman, an older woman, and a man with charred and blackened skin. in. All of them were glowing in the darkness, standing just ten feet away, watching the fight. Then I noticed something I hadn't realized. Caruso was still holding the knife. I had to get it out of his hand before he decided to use me as his next test subject. I went to grab it. He swung it at me, and I leaped out of the way just in time. I'm not sure exactly what happened next. There was a

scuffle. Either he grabbed me or I grabbed him, and we wrestled for a few moments until suddenly Caruso stopped fighting. He staggered back, blood gushing from his abdomen. I looked down. Somehow, during the struggle I had got the knife, which was now in my blood-soaked hands. Caruso fell to his knees, just inside the circle. He tried to say something, but I couldn't make it out. Then he slumped to the ground. The screaming intensified. Blue light streamed from his corpse, flooding the room. The light bulbs all lit up brighter than ever. As I turned to run, the candles blew out and the bulbs pushed far beyond their capacity, exploded all at once. I grabbed the door handle, clearly lit up in the bright blue light, opened the door and ran.

It was about midnight, and I got home without anybody seeing my bloody hands. Nothing followed me from the house. That's probably my only good news. The next morning, after I'd got over the five shots of whiskey, I had to calm myself down. I called a lawyer, and then the police. Everybody knew I was working with Caruso, and his car was parked outside the house. It wouldn't be hard to connect the dots when he was reported missing. I'm being charged with involuntary manslaughter. I told the police everything, with a few obvious exceptions. Seeing that I'd voluntarily turned myself in and cooperated with the police, the judge set a low bail. Ironically, she put it at $10,000, and I got a friend to pick up

the package from my house. My court date is in a few months, and my lawyer says I've got to got a good chance of claiming self-defense. I might not have to spend a single night in prison, but the university kicked me out. My device is in police evidence, and I haven't had a restful night's sleep in months. I wake up screaming most nights, and I pray that the visions I see sometimes in the day are just trauma rather than the ghosts of that family, and Dr. Caruso and the mouse. You're great at protecting your data, but lots of places could still expose you to identity theft. I thought it was safe.

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Terms apply. Last summer, my parents took my brother Aaron and I on a family holiday. to Spain. It was something my parents had been planning for a while, but wanted to keep it a surprise for us kids. Aaron and I weren't told about it until two days before we were due to leave. We were ecstatic to leave our home in Scotland and trade in a couple of weeks for some sunshine and hot weather. Two days later, we were at the airport eagerly awaiting our flight. It had been years since we went anywhere as a family because it's difficult finding someone to watch our pets. At least when you have eight dogs, it is.

After arriving at our destination, Mom picked up a rental car, and we were on our way to the hotel we would be staying at. We didn't do much on our first night other than unpack and go out to dinner. Just before tucking into bed early, we all agreed to meet in the lobby the next morning at 10. The next morning came, and I was the last to arrive. I didn't know what was planned for the day, but Aaron and I followed our parents to the car and got in. I asked where we were going, but all I got from Mom was, it's a surprise. About an hour and a nap later, we stopped at what I thought to be the middle of nowhere, just some empty land with a few trees and overgrown grass.

I checked the time on my phone and saw that it was already close to noon. Aaron looked just as confused as I was, until Dad said, Mom and I bought this plot of land. It's ours. Dad was always talking about eventually buying a plot of land somewhere and, fixing it up for different business ideas. But to be honest, I never thought he'd actually go through with it. Why in Spain of all places? I swear I never understood that man. None of us did. Mom stepped in and said, I brought lunch with us, so why don't you guys look around for a bit while I get everything set up and we'll have a nice picnic? As strange as it all was, I was still kind of excited. I mean,

I know there wasn't really a whole lot to look at, but maybe I'd find something cool lying on the ground somewhere. I was even open to finding a nice rock to take home with me. Aaron and I wandered around for a minute while Mom was getting everything out of the trunk. Before going too far, I caught a quick glimpse of some fresh strawberries. Mine and Aaron's favorite, as long as they're accompanied with a good tart. Suddenly in the distance I saw what appeared to be an old building, but I was certain that there wasn't anything there before. Aaron, look over there, I pointed ahead. Let's go check it out. He agreed but reminded me not to keep mom and dad waiting too long. As we edged closer, we realized it was another hotel. This one, however, was very clearly old and had been abandoned for quite some time.

Vines covered the crumbling building. There was no telling how long it had been since it had seen any guests. I took my phone out so I could take a few pictures. I loved taking snaps of old buildings. The longer I stood there, the more I felt compelled to get even closer. I needed to see the inside. Aaron felt the same way. What we saw after opening the doors to the hotel lobby was jaw-dropping. Everything inside was in pristine condition. It was grand and luxurious and it was surely worthy of a five-star rating. It was the kind of hotel that only the richest could indulge in. My brother and I were the only people inside. It was as if everyone just simply walked out. We couldn't believe it. I had to take more pictures. We searched around for any sign of life, but to know a

veil. Suddenly the elevator door opened with a ping signaling that it was ready for us to get in. You would think that getting on would be a bad idea, and it was, but as I mentioned earlier, I felt compelled to get in. Aaron and I slowly got in, and before we could press any buttons, the doors swiftly closed and took us to the first floor. It was when we got out that we smelled something delicious. We followed the smell until we stood in front of a set of swinging doors. Aaron stood next to me and we looked at each other before slowly pushing the doors open. We were immediately hit with a mouth-watering aroma. Inside was a busy dining room.

Dozens of people sat at tables with friends and family while enjoying their meals. Smiles and laughter filled the room. Everyone was happy and lost in their own conversations. No one seemed to pay any attention to us as we made our way over to the buffet table. Everything looked heavenly. Aaron was almost in a trance-like state as he went to grab a fresh strawberry tart from the desert tray. I quickly grabbed his arm. Wait, don't forget about what happened in the movie spirited away.

He shook his head and snapped out of his trance. Let's get out of here, he said. As we walked away, the room suddenly filled with music. It was quiet, but the melody was calm and relaxing, enticing even. I wanted to get my phone back out, but I feared that if I didn't leave right then and there, I never would. We spotted another way out on the other side and didn't waste any time getting the hell out of there. As the doors pushed open, the lights behind us went out. We turned around and suddenly the dining room was just as old and abandoned looking as the outside. The people were gone,

the music was gone, and everything was covered in dust. Being out of that room made me feel a little more like myself. We took the stairs this time on our way down and discovered that the lobby was also looking in pretty rough shape. The difference from what it looked like earlier was night and day. I wouldn't believe my eyes. Had Aaron not been there to experience everything that I was. I took my phone out one more time and snapped some more pictures. An uneasy feeling swept over me and I knew it was time to leave. We bustled on out of there and something felt off, like we had been in there for a long time, but I knew that was impossible. Aaron and I looked at the Erie yet mysterious hotel one last time before making our way back to the car. In the distance,

we could see Mom and Dad frantically looking around for something. What's going on with those two? Aaron asked. Mom, Dad, I called out. They started running to us. Mom was sobbing and Dad was panicked. Mom couldn't get a word out because she was crying so badly. I'll never forget the sheer panic in dad's voice when he yelled, Where the hell have you two been? Your mother and I were worried sick. Aaron and I were startled. I looked over at the picnic that Mom had so lovingly put out for us, and noticed that the fresh fruit didn't look so fresh anymore. The cream on the strawberry tarts had lost its shape and spilled over the sides. The salad looked dry and withered. I checked the time on my phone. It was 8.32 p.m. Aaron, look. I showed him the screen. I felt sick. We couldn't

possibly have been gone for more than half an hour. I couldn't even hear the yelling anymore. I was so dizzy I thought I was going to pass out. It took a good few minutes before I could even think straight. Mom and Dad started getting in the car, and I begged and pleaded for them to listen. Aaron and I tried telling them about the hotel, but Dad said that he didn't know what we were talking about. I pointed in the direction of the hotel, but I couldn't see it anymore. Then I tried showing him the pictures I took on my phone, but they were gone too. All of the evidence just vanished. Aaron went pale. I felt like I was losing my mind. I think at some point Dad must have finally heard the desperation in our voices.

He gave us a hug and Mom kissed our cheeks, still crying. We got in the car and no one said a single word for the whole ride back. My parents put the land up for sale almost right after we got home. They have just been given an offer. I thought moving to the country would be a good thing. Less stress, fewer problems, less crime, but I don't feel safe out here. Not now. Being isolated feels like a mistake.

a huge, massive mistake. I thought I would love it, all the peace and quiet. And I did. Except now my husband isn't. Well, he doesn't seem like himself, and I'm completely cut off from everyone. We bought this farm site unseen during COVID. We were those people.

Five acres of prime Midwest farmland, flat, open, and hot, with topsoil 12 inches deep, perfect for a little homestead. There was a quaint farmhouse to boot, with a front porch perfect for rocking chairs. My mom thought we were crazy. I don't know why you want to be so far from us.

She spat at me one day as we boxed things up at our old house. Darren knows what he's doing. We're going to be fine. You don't know anything about farming. You won't last a week. But she was wrong. We'd set out a huge garden, bought some chickens, and settled into our new community.

And unlike many of the sight unseen home purchase horror stories you hear about, our farmhouse, while small, was darling in person. Everything had been going great, until last night. I was reading in bed when Darren suddenly sat up. I think I left the back gate open. Oh, really? Yeah. He got out of bed and slipped on some shoes. I'm going to go check.

I kept reading, and I guess I lost track of time. When I looked at the clock, almost 20 minutes had passed. He should have been back already. I marked my page and got up. I peeked out the window but couldn't see anything. I cursed Darren under my breath. for not installing the motion sensor light over our garage barn. It was pitch black out there.

That's one thing they don't tell you about living in the country. The nights are dark. Pitch black, and the only light around is your own, and the stars. Grumbling, I slipped on my rubber boots by the back door and turned on the porch light. He'd probably just gotten off track looking at all the stuff we needed to fix. There was plenty of that around. I slipped outside. The cool summer air smelled of fire.

cut hay and buzzed with insects, and my boots crunched on the loose gravel. I thought for sure he would be in the barn, but he wasn't. The lights were off in there too. That's when I noticed a soft light coming from our front field, right behind the barn. I walked to the edge of the building for a better look. When I turned the corner, light blasted my face, so bright I had to shield my eyes with my hand. Confused, I tried to blink them open. What I saw made me recoil. I stepped to. I stepped to. back into the shadows, my heart pounding. A beat of sweat ran down my forehead, and I wiped it away with a finger. I know what I saw. It was a spaceship, and it was illuminating Darren, who stood frozen in the pasture. I crept to the corner, crouched and shaking. I peaked again. There it was.

A spaceship. Darren was now floating skyward, illuminated by a beam of incredible light. Oh God, I choked out. A sob escaped my lips. I hate to admit. it. I wasn't brave. I didn't try to help him. Instead, I turned on my heels and ran back to the house as fast as I could. I flew into the house and bolted the door behind me. I slid down to the floor and prayed they hadn't seen me. I didn't know what to do. There was no one to call and what would I even say. I numbly sat there until I fell into a restless sleep. But this morning I woke up to Darren frying eggs in the kitchen. My first thought was how did he get in here? But then I remembered, the front door. It wasn't locked. No one locks their door out here. Why would you? I stared at him.

Honey? I asked tentatively. Are you feeling all right? He plated the eggs and brought them to the table. Sure, why. You never came to bed last night. He laughed. Sure I did. You were out cold still holding that book with the light on. I felt a surge of relief. Oh, really? Then I felt doubtful. How did I get down here? I think you were sleepwalking again. Oh, I stared down at my plate. Two fried eggs and a slice of bacon grinned back at me, like a demented smiley face. Darren had fried the eggs, not scrambled them, like I always did. He knew I hated fried eggs, especially the runny ones.

Something was off. I ate the eggs anyway, and didn't call attention to his mistake. The rich, buttery yolks turned my stomach. I carefully watched Darren as he cleaned his plate. Surely all that last night was just a dream. Right? Had to be. Maybe I'm having stressed.

nightmares again. I have this bad feeling something is wrong with him. I just peeked out the window and right now he's out in the barn. I don't know what he's doing. If something is wrong, that means it wasn't a dream. Maybe that's not my husband at all. I really wanted to believe that nothing happened, that I imagined everything. But Darren just kept getting weirder and weirder, which means he really was sucked up by a spaceship. First thing after breakfast, he went outside to the barn. I was washing dishes in the sink when I glanced up and saw him on the tractor, tilling up the front field. My mouth flopped open. I'd been planning to use that area for a U-Pick strawberry operation. I'd even ordered the plastic sheeting and supplies last week online. I abandoned the sink

full of suds and dishes and marched outside. What are you doing? I yelled into the roar of the engine. I know he saw me, but he didn't stop. I finally turned and went back inside. I had a bad feeling. all day long he worked the field. I watched him cautiously from inside the house. When I saw him finally head towards the barn in the afternoon, I thought he was done. I was wrong. He emerged a bit later, with an ancient planter hitched to the back. I didn't know the thing even worked. It had been left here by the previous owners. What the hell? I muttered, and I stormed back outside. Darren, what's going on? I screamed as the tractor passed by. He did stop it this time, and I ran over as the tractor idled. What are you doing? I thought this was where we would plant the strawberries,

I pleaded. His face was sheet white, and beads of sweat ran down his forehead. His expression was blank. I'm planting corn, he stated. He leaned closer. We can only plant corn. A chill ran down my spine. The way he said it felt like a threat. He put the tractor in gear and moved on as I stepped back. It's too late to plant corn this year, I yelled at his retreating backside. He didn't acknowledge this, and I withdrew to the house to watch and wait. Darren stayed out in the field for the rest of the day. He didn't take breaks, or come in to eat or drink. He had to be dehydrated.

It was well over 90, and I knew he was hungry. It wasn't normal. Darren didn't turn the tractor off until nearly 9 o'clock. I prepared a meal for us. When he came in, I didn't mention the strawberry field. In fact, I didn't say much at all. Darren was scaring me, and I didn't want to let on. on. He looked rough, almost feverish, and his eyes looked straight through me. We sat in our rocking

chairs on the front porch as we ate dinner. It was dusk, and the lightning bugs were out. I made you some brownies, I said, passing him the plate. He took one without comment and bit a corner off. I watched him carefully over my glass of iced tea. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His rocking slowed to a stop. Darren, I said. He didn't answer. Darren, I said louder. He didn't stir. Good. It was working. I'd made some special brownies just for Darren, laced with several of my crushed-up Ambien. I'd never drugged anyone before, so I prayed they were strong enough to keep him asleep for a while. I went inside and quietly turned the deadbolt on the front door. I dropped my plate in the sink and slinked out the back to the barn. I had to get those tractor keys, just to keep him from doing any more damage, or possibly hurting himself in exhaustion. They were dangling in the ignition, where I suspected they would be. I pocketed the keys and turned to leave. That's when I spotted the bags of corn seeds.

There was a big one full of regular seed, coated with red fungicide powder. That bag had been here since we moved in, but beside it was something else. My hand trembled as I opened the sack. The corn seed inside was glowing a faint silvery blue. I dropped the burlap. Crap. The aliens had been real. They had really abducted Darren, and now he was growing glowing corn for them.

I inspected the planter. He must have mixed the glowing corn with normal corn. Darren had contaminated the front field with glowing, radioactive, my brain speculated, corn seed. My heart pounded. All of a sudden, I just wanted to be safely in bed, and away from all this. I turned and headed back in the house. I locked the back door and breathed deeply. I knew logically the house was little protection against whatever I was up against.

It was, however, excellent protection against Darren. I had a pang of regret. What had I done? What you had to, my brain answered. His behavior was off. He had worked himself to exhaustion, and he was ruining my farm plans with his delusions. Still, I felt guilty for leaving him on the porch all night.

I crept to the front window and lifted a curtain. Darren was gone. My mind raced as I lay in bed, covers pulled up to my chin. Why were the aliens making Darren grow corn? Was their plan for the corn to mix with all the regular corn and be shipped out across America, tainting our food supply, or perhaps turning us into zombie slaves? Why us? Were we chosen because our little farm wasn't growing corn like everyone else?

Is everyone else in on this? Are they growing glowing corn too? My mind reeled at the implications. And then, of course, my husband was not himself. May never be himself again. He was working for them now. I had completely lost him. And then, was he a threat? Would he actually hurt me? His wife? Most importantly, where was he?

I felt guilty for locking him out of the house. But I knew that Darren wasn't the real Darren. Couldn't be. It was hard going to sleep. My world had been turned upside down, and I had no idea what my next steps would be. Unfortunately for me, I wasn't aware of my next steps at all. I was standing outside in the tall grass when I woke up, wearing nothing but a giant t-shirt. It was early morning and the grass was still wet with dew. I'd sleepwalked, and I'd left the back door wide open for who knows how long. Damn, I whispered. I was in trouble. I had no phone, no weapons, no keys, no shoes. Just then the door slammed. I looked back. Darren was standing in the doorway of the house, about 50 yards off. He looked awful.

If he had been pale yesterday, today he was snow-white. Dark rings encircled his eyes and his hair looked matted. I ran. He followed. I fled to the barn where I had some old rubber boots. I slipped them on. I had a terrible understanding that I had to get away from him, that I was in danger, that he was coming to kill me. I ran to the back of the barn, boots flapping.

The door was padlocked. I heard the tractor engine blast to life. I whirled around. There he was. on the tractor, on the other end of the barn alley. The side pens were shut. I was trapped. Wildly I searched for a way out. There was a ladder in the middle of the alley leading to the loft. Maybe I could climb up and then jump down at the entrance behind the tractor. I bolted towards it, just as the tractor advanced. I prayed, to whoever was listening,

that I could make it before he ran over me or crushed me with the bucket. And I did, with seconds to spare. I leapt onto the ladder. Scambling with a speed I had no clue I possessed. Our eyes locked just as he overshot, and the pure hatred there confirmed I was in danger. I quickly ran over the rickety planks of the loft and jumped down at the barn entrance. I was out of there before he could put it in reverse. I shot out into the open, my boots slipping in the wet grass. I looked around frantically.

There was nowhere to hide, just our few buildings surrounded by open land. I took off running towards the tool shed. We weren't people that kept guns around, so I hoped there was something in there, anything that I could use to protect me from my alien husband. I whipped the door open. The air was musty and stale, and the room was cluttered with tools. I frantically searched the shelves, my hands shaking. Then I saw it, the chainsaw. I'd never used anything like it before. I actually hate power tools, mostly because I think spinning blades are a bad idea. Okay, I whispered. Breathe. I knew it needed gas, but which one? There were two bottles on the shelf. Didn't it need some sort of special oil gas? I grabbed one of the canisters, hoping it was the right gas for this thing, and poured it into the tank. I was so nervous I spilled half of it on the ground. I was interrupted by Darren charging into the shed with the tractor. The noise of the boards tearing and metal tools crashing was deafening. Something heavy fell and gashed my forehead. I was stunned. I couldn't believe he was this stupid. I was. I couldn't believe he was this stupid.

He was trying unsuccessfully to back up and ram the building again, but the tractor was hung in the debris, which meant he was now getting down and coming towards me. Frantically, I reached for the chainsaw. It had been turned over and gas glugged out onto the floor. I silently prayed it was enough to start the thing. I screwed the cap on and pumped the primer. I ripped the cord. Nothing happened.

Darren was off the tractor. He looked worse than ever. He was soaked with clammy sweat, and I could see. see clumps of hair had fallen out. His eyes gleamed silver, and I knew there was no trace of him in there, that it wasn't Darren at all. I turned my full attention to the chainsaw and began ripping the cord as hard as I could. Crap! I screamed, shaking the chainsaw. That's when I saw it, the kill switch. I flipped it, ripped the cord, and the chainsaw sputtered to life. I stood up and whirled the saw at Darren. It was heavier than I expected, and the blade swung low, but I still managed to slice his up

upper thigh. Thick silvery liquid sprayed out of the leg coating us both. He slumped down to one knee. I swung the saw back at him again. It's not him. It's not him. It's not him. My brain chanted. The blades connected with his neck and his head flopped to the side, still connected by a string of flesh. Silvery, mercury-like liquid blasted out of the wound and sprayed everything around us. I screamed at what I had done in this surreal situation. I dropped the chainsaw and ran out of the ruined tool shed. Blood dripped down my face and mixed with the silver liquid, covering my body in a sticky gray slime. I ran to our empty house adrenaline pumping. It was completely silent. I found my cell phone laying on the table. I picked it up and dialed my mother.

Mom, I said with forced calm, you were right. Darren does not know what he's doing. I talked to her for a long while, but no matter what she says, I've decided to stay. This is my home now. I'll start on the cleanup tomorrow. And as for the corn, I notice my neighbor has a big sprayer. I'm hoping Roundup will eliminate it. People always talk about the number of monsters that reside in our country's vast tracks of uninhabitable land, the dense forests, deep caves, and the remote mountaintops, and the danger these creatures present to us.

They're right to warn you, especially about the areas around our national parks. But did you ever stop to think about why the vast majority of people that go missing are last seen in some of our largest cities? For every one person that goes missing in the American wilderness, three vanish in our cities. Granted, some of these disappearances on both sides can be contributed to murders, accidents, kidnappings, or runaways. But a growing number each year can be contributed to those things that live in the shadows,

and it's getting worse, especially in our cities. Ask any homeless person on the street, they'll tell you. 99.99% of the people they tell will write them off as crazy, or under the influence. But I promise you they aren't lying. They saw a huge, sticky tongue latch onto a woman and pull her into a dumpster. So have I. They saw a little girl lure a man into an alleyway before pulling his arm off and lapping up the puddle of crimson. Not crazy.

I've seen that too. A living shadow that envelops its victims in a suffocating black slime? I haven't seen that one. but I know a guy who did and I believe him. These things are all around us and you'll do well to listen to my story and take heed. This could save your life. A girl had gone missing, young, blonde, blue eyes, the kind that gets her face all over the news when they go missing.

Her name was Amelia Meager. I'm sure the entire city had her name and face memorized by the time my story started. Seems like it was all they played on the news for a week. About a week after Amelia's disappearance, I was walking home from the bars drunk and cursing myself for not being able to close with the girl I was talking to when a voice called out to me. Normally I wouldn't have paid any attention. Not too many people you want to hang out with or on the streets after 2 a.m. But this was a woman's voice.

Being the young guy that I was at the time, I came to a screeching halt and turned in the direction the voice called from. The voice originated from a dark shadow beneath a highway overpass bridge. Hello? I called into the darkness, my eyes straining to pick up and shapes moving around in the inky black. Can you help me? The voice called back from somewhere in the darkness. I think I'm lost. Something about the voice was strange. The cadence was slightly off. Like whoever was speaking was reading lines and didn't fully understand what they were saying. It reminded me of students reciting lines in Spanish class back in school. I still couldn't pinpoint where exactly the voice was coming from. as it reverberated between the buildings and the overpass above. Where are you? I said to the darkness still standing just outside the shadow of the overpass.

I can't see you. I heard movement from within the shadow, not footsteps, but something dragging along the ground. I'm here, the darkness said, closer now. I fixed my eyes on the source of the voice and as my eyes adjusted, a figure came into focus. Just faintly through the darkness I could make out a dirty white sundress. The ethereal glow of the fabric created a stark contrast against the darkness that enveloped her and made her facial features that much harder to see. I still can't see you, I strained my eyes, squinting into the dark, come out into the light. I watched the outline of the sundress move. It seemed to glide through the air slowly. I heard no footsteps, and I didn't hear the dragging noise either. It came to a stop about four feet from its original position, still sequestered

within the shadow, but I could now see a little more. In the dim light I could see the blonde hair and blue eyes of Amelia meager. She was bruised and scabs dotted her face, arms and legs. A look of Cray's terror filled her eyes, like she was trying with all of her willpower to scream, but she couldn't. Amelia? I asked, sobering up quickly. Are you Amelia? I took a step towards her. Please help me, Amelia said, as she abruptly reached a handout in my direction. I took a step back this time. Something wasn't right about her. The extending of her hand was too jerky and choreographed, and her mouth when she spoke was downright unnatural. Her jaw moved up and down in a chomping motion, but her lips never moved. It was like watching a dubbed over foreign film. Nothing about this

situation felt right at all, but I had to do something. This was Amelia Meager, the girl who had been all over the news for the last five days. I recognized her right away. I couldn't just leave her there. I had seen her family on television crying. I took another step towards her and reached my hand into the shadow to grab onto her extended hand, when suddenly a car drove by. The headlights illuminated her for half a second, just as I was about to grab her. She wasn't standing, her bare feet hung pointed to the ground, her chipped toenails dragging along the cement. She had fine, barely perceptible threads intricately wrapped around her joints, her knees, wrists, elbows, and shoulders. A few other fine silky threads were attached on both sides of her jaw and both sides of her

head. Her eyes were screaming at me. I've never in my life seen anyone look so helpless. In that half second of light, my eyes followed the thin strands of silk that attached to her joints to their origin on the ceiling the overpass made above us. Barely visible, a giant, hulking spider pressed up against the overpass. Each of its eight legs were manipulated by a strand of silk controlling their marionette below. I took two steps back out of the shadow, staring at the massive creature. I watched it twitch its legs, and my eyes darted back down to Amelia as she was dragged back into the darkness under the bridge to be used as bait for the next guy unlucky enough to walk in this direction. I left her there and I ran straight home. Amelia meager was never seen again.

I've seen a lot of weird shit in this city over the years, and stuff like that seems to be happening more and more often. I said all of this to say, don't think you have to be out in the countryside to run into a monster. They are everywhere. Sometimes they even look just like you and me. You probably walk by a few of them every week without knowing. So, keep your head on your shoulders and don't do anything stupid unless you want to spend your last few days being used as bait like Amelia, or maybe even worse. June 15, 2021. During my first week at Outpost Aurora, I faced a few days. I faced an unsettling cycle of sleepless nights and ceaseless days. This was a result of the unyielding Arctic sun that refused to set during the Alaskan summer. It was challenging to

acclimate to my tiny quarters, forcing myself to rely on the blackout blinds and my wristwatch to keep track of time instead of the ever-present sun. I had willingly traded the relative normalcy of Anchorage's 19-hour summer days for this endless disorientation, all in pursuit of my doctoral field research on the impacts of climate change on remote Inuit communities. Outpost Aurora, a climate research facility, accommodated around 30 inhabitants, a diverse group of scientists, researchers, and a handful of maintenance and support staff. As an anthropologist, I was somewhat of an oddity among the geologists, climatologists, and biologists who dominated the research team. We got along well enough, but there was a clear professional disconnect.

Their world revolved around weather data, rocks, and polar flora and fauna, while mine centered around the stories and experiences of indigenous people. Being the only Inuit-speaking researcher in this remote expanse of northern Alaska, I felt a profound obligation to chronicle and protect the rich oral traditions of the local communities before they were lost to the shifting snow and ice. I felt like I was straddling a fault line. I was the sole link between these isolated villages and the outside world. On this particular evening, I'm engrossed in transcribing my interview with Katak,

an elderly self-proclaimed shaman, boasting about harpooning a seal the size of a walrus, when a soft, slightly raspy voice broke my concentration. Dr. Callick, looking up from my work, I met the gaze of a young woman at the far end of my table. her face was brightened by a warm smile her luminous blue eyes shimmered with an indescribable intensity and a tangle of chestnut hair escaped from under her woolen beanie i'm sorry i replied removing my headphones you're dr noah calick right she repeated well technically i'm still a phd candidate i sheepishly clarified my apologies phd candidate noah calic she said her tone dancing on the line of playfulness and sarcasm I'm field technician Rebecca McKenzie, but you can call me Becca.

Her joke garnered a genuine chuckle from me. And you can call me Noah, I said, extending my hand. She shook my hand. Tycoon, she exclaimed, clearly pronouncing the Inuit word for welcome. Intrigued, I asked, you speak Inuit? Just that and Maimumaka, she admitted, shrugging. Struggling to contain my laughter, I corrected her. Um, Becca, you just said you're a musk ox.

Her cheeks turned a bright shade of red. The village children told me it meant, Nice to meet you, she mumbled. I hope you didn't say that to a lot of people, I chuckled. Just to about a half dozen villagers. And to the sight director, she admitted, her face paling in realization. You said that to Dr. Anderson?

I asked aghast. Oh dear. Yeah, but I don't think she knew what it meant either, Becca responded, which brought me to fits of laughter in which she soon joined. Anyway, Noah, she started as she pulled up a chair and sat across from me. I saw your name on the roster for tomorrow's ice core sampling trip. It's your first one, isn't it?

Yeah, I said. The word stuck in my throat as I pictured the steep, ice-covered mountain range I had agreed to climb. You don't climb much, I'm guessing? She asked. I've done a fair bit of hiking and mountain climbing, but nothing on this scale, I confessed. I'm Inuit. We mostly stick to the lowland coast, peering out of it. Peering out the window, my gaze fell on the towering peaks dominating the horizon.

The mountain we were to ascend was known to the locals as the Den of the Dead, an ominous title for anything, let alone a treacherous peak covered in ancient shifting glaciers. The name was part of an old Inuit legend, one of the many tales I had collected from the village elders. The story painted a picture of vengeful spirits purportedly inhabiting these glaciers, ready to wreak havoc on anyone audacious enough to disrupt their icy abode. While I didn't believe in spirits, the hazardous crevasses and unpredictable weather that awaited us felt like wrathful spirits in their own right. Becca could sense my apprehension. It's all right to be nervous, but don't worry.

Dr. Anderson wouldn't send you out on your own. You've been placed in good hands. Whose hands exactly? I asked skeptically. Her grin widened. Mine, actually. Raising an eyebrow, I wasn't sure whether to feel comforted or more concerned. Yours?

What? Don't look at me like that, Becca protested playfully. I've got plenty of experience. No offense, Becca, but you look like you just stepped out of an undergrad class, I told her. She laughed at my comment, but I noticed the pride in her eyes. Looks can be deceiving. I've navigated those passes dozens of times. I can handle both of us.

So what's it like being up there in the glaciers, I asked. It's an incredible experience. When you hold an ice core in your hands, it's like you're touching history, feeling the earth's past in your palms, she explained. Well, when you put it that way, I said, finding her description oddly relatable, I'm almost looking forward to it. That's the spirit, she exclaimed, clapping me on the back. Her laughter echoed through the mess hall, cutting through the tension that had settled there. June 16th, 2021. The morning was a whirlwind of activity. By 5 a.m. the common area was already bustling. Our departure from the base was anything but a silent affair. Instead, it was a cacophony of barking huskies and buzzing chatter,

filled with last-minute discussions about the plan and route. Our team of six, clad in heavy winter gear, was busy loading equipment onto the dog sleds. The sun glared in the cloudless sky, its blinding light reflecting off the snow and ice, making it seem as if we were about to journey across a white, unending desert. The air was palpable with a strange blend of excitement, anxiety, and a touch of the unknown. As I loaded my pack onto a sled, Becca approached.

Dressed in snow pants and a parka, her face framed by a fur-trimmed hood, she resembled an Arctic explorer from a bygone era. She methodically inspected the gear I had packed to ensure everything was present and in working order. Leaning in, she imparted some final words of it. advice. Keep close, stay focused, and remember it's not a race. The goal is to get there and back safely. Drawing confidence from her words, I nodded. As we began the journey, there was an eerie calm, the hustle and bustle of the camp fading into the vast, icy expanse. The first few hours of our trek were uneventful, the terrain mostly flat. Each sled accommodated two people, with Becca and I

paired together. While the sled dogs forged ahead, we passed the time making sports. We passed the time making small talk and trading stories about life back at outpost Aurora. I told her about my disconnect with my colleagues. Becca said she understood, confessing to me that she was much lower on the pecking order than her confident demeanor the previous night might have suggested, which explained why she was assigned the task of looking after the new guy. Despite the teasing tone, there was a hint of relief in her voice, an appreciation for having someone to talk to during these long, perilous excursions. As the day progressed, the snow-swept landscape morphed into steep rocky inclines. The dogs pulled valiantly, their breath fogging in the chill air. A torrent of awe

and anxiety warred within me as I surveyed the brutally beautiful landscape around us. I was reminded of the tales from my grandmother's childhood, how the indomitable Inuit people had traversed a polar wasteland spanning a greater distance than New York to Los Angeles, and yet managed to carve out a life for themselves. I felt as though I were walking in the footsteps of my ancestors. Arriving at the foot of the mountain, the daunting process of setting up the drills unfolded. These colossal machines, disassembled and transported on sleds, had to be carefully put together again in these unforgiving conditions. The team had the monumental task of drilling a mile into the mountainside, to reach ice that hadn't been disturbed in hundreds of thousands of years.

Each layer of ice was a snapshot of the Earth's climate at that point in time, capturing tiny bubbles of air, volcanic ash, pollen, dust, and even microscopic life forms. Watching Becca maneuver her way around the equipment, coordinating with the others, it was clear she was in her element. Unlike the rest of the team, my expertise wasn't required for drilling. Instead, I was on a different mission. The rapidly melting glaciers had started uncovering secrets that were long hidden beneath their icy surfaces. Fragments of ancient cultures that had been

engulfed by the glaciers over centuries were now resurfacing. It was my job to recover and catalog any artifacts we discovered. As the drilling continued, my eyes were drawn towards a cave not too far from our location. Shielded by an overhanging ledge of ice and snow, it seemed untouched by time. Becca, I called, catching her attention. I pointed towards the cave. Her eyes followed my pointing finger, and her eyebrows rose slightly. You want to go in there? Caves are a treasure trove of ancient relics, I explained. As there was a lull in the drilling, she decided to join me in in exploring the cave. Upon entering the cave, the first thing I noticed was the cold, which was even more intense than outside. A shiver ran down my spine, not entirely from the temperature.

My eyes struggled to adjust to the darkness, the meager light from our flashlights barely illuminating the frozen cavern. I swept my light across the jagged cave floor, searching for any hint of an ancient bonefish hook or an obsidian spearhead. Suddenly, Becca's voice echoed through the cave. Noah, over here! My heart skipped a beat as Becca's urgent voice pierced the stillness of the cave. I hurried toward her, my flashlight trembling in my hand. As I approached, I saw her kneeling over what appeared to be a body slumped against the cave wall. My mind spun with questions. Had someone been stranded here recently? Were they in need of help? I attempted to lift the body for a clearer view, but it was frozen in place. Hey, can you give me a hand? I asked. Uh, yeah, sure, she replied,

with hesitation in her voice. We each took an arm and pulled. The icicles anchoring the body to the cave floor broke with a crack. A gasp caught in my throat as we were greeted by the macabre sight of a woman. Her face was an eerie, porcelain mask, lined with intricate blue-black tattoos that curled from her forehead, around her eyes, down to her chin. Her jet-black eye-sockets stared back at us, frozen forever, in an expression of terror. Her mouth was half open in a silent scream, her teeth sharp and unnaturally white against her frost-bitten skin. The light from our flashlights danced across her body, revealing the tiny form huddled in her arms. A child, perfectly preserved in the ice, its body as desiccated as the woman's. The little one's face was a haunting

mimicry of its mothers, frozen in time like a delicate porcelain doll. Recoiling in shock, Becca let out a small gasp, covering her mouth with her hand, while I sat paralyzed, my mind grappling with the sight before me. I didn't recognize the tattoo patterns on her face, and her clothing didn't match any styles known to the Inuit people. The attire suggested a culture far older than what I was familiar with. My flashlight caught the glint of something metallic. Next to the mother and child was a knife with an ornate handle made of ivory. The blade itself was crudely crafted, like it was beaten into shape with stones, and had a black tint to it. I knew that pre-contact Inuit tribes only had one source of metal for their tools, iron ore extracted from

meteorites. I think there are more, Becca said, her voice trembling. She pointed deeper into the cave. Slowly our lights revealed more bodies, each in varying states of preservation. Some were mere skeletons, the ice having worn their flesh away over the centuries, while others were as impeccably preserved as the woman and child. A shared feature among them was the hollow crevices where their eyes used to be. As I shone my flashlight along the icy cave wall, it revealed a sequence of well-preserved cave drawings. They told a disturbing tale of people, similar to the bodies we'd discovered, chased by terrifying, shadowy figures. Their fear echoed the eternal screams on the frozen faces we'd found. The final scenes showed the people in a cave, horrifyingly familiar to

our surroundings, with the ominous figures looming over them. A chill ran through my veins that had nothing to do with the frigid temperature. What do you think happened to them? Becca asked, sounding like she didn't want to know the answer. It's difficult to say without a thorough analysis, rationalized. Disease, starvation? Perhaps they were caught in a snowstorm and succumbed to exposure? Exposure? She asked. The word alone seemed to have disturbed her more than the bodies themselves. Her naturally light complexion turned to shade paler. Before I could respond, the piercing sound of Becca's radio crackled into life, shattering the quiet stillness of the cave. Becca, do you copy? This is Dr. Khan. We've got an issue here. The voice of the team lead came through.

Becca quickly unclipped the radio, her fingers fumbling in her haste. This is Becca, we're in the cave. What's wrong? One of the drills ruptured a gas deposit, releasing some sort of unknown toxic substance. Get out of there immediately. Dr. Khan's voice held a note of urgency we'd never heard before. Without a moment's hesitation, we scrambled to our feet and bolted towards the entrance of the cave. Even before reaching the mouth of the cave, an intense chemical odor replaced the familiar scent of the tundra. Our Husky team was a lifeline in the unforgiving wilderness.

Aspen, the fearless leader, blazed the trail ahead. Behind her, Willow and her twin brother Cedar mirrored each other in perfect harmony, their connection beyond just their matching silver coats and ice-blue eyes. At the back, Pine, with his unyielding strength, acted as the powerful anchor. As we started our journey, the wind whipped around us, carrying with it the biting chill of the air. The sleds cut through the snow effortlessly, the dogs pulling with an eagerness that defied the unforgiving conditions. Look, Noah, Becca started, her eyes trained on the horizon.

I want to apologize for what happened back there. I didn't mean to sound so harsh. I looked at her, surprised by the sincerity in her voice. No, Becca, if anything, I should be thanking you, I admitted, giving her a small, grateful smile. I'm glad to have a polar expert watching my back. I added, knowing she'd appreciate the compliment. Her cheeks flushed from beneath her protective gear, whether it was from the cold or my compliment I couldn't tell.

As we ventured farther from our drill site, the landscape underwent subtle yet unmistakable changes. The sun, perpetually casting a sallow glow, illuminated the pristine snow with an eerie light. The snow no longer glistened. It had a matte, lifeless finish, as if its vitality had been drained, The animals we encountered were behaving unusually too.

A snowhair that hopped across our path moved sluggishly, its normally white fur tinged with a sickly bluish hue. An Arctic fox, usually shy and elusive, showed no fear, no recognition of us as potential threats. It just stared at us with glassy eyes as we passed by, as if it didn't comprehend what it was seeing. The most disconcerting change, however, was the silence. The Arctic is usually filled with sounds, the crunch of snow underfoot, the chattering of birds, the howl of the wind.

But now it was as if nature itself had fallen into a stunned, deathly silence. Even the wind seemed muted, whispering rather than wailing. By the time we reached the village past midnight, the ever-present sun hovered overhead, bathing the icy mountains and vast Arctic ocean in an alien glow. The frigid air nodded our faces as we approached the village. Even from the outskirts I could tell something was wrong. The chimneys of the colorful houses were smokeless. The village, known as Silap Inua, or the spirit of the universe,

was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the vibrant community life we had witnessed just days before. Navigating the snow-laden paths between homes, our breath formed small frosty clouds in the freezing air. We called out for any inhabitants, but our voices echoed back, swallowed by the desolate silence. Discarded remnants of everyday life littered our path, children's toys scattered in the snow, piles of half-chopped firewood next to silent homes, and fishing nets abandoned by the river's edge. We entered the largest house, that of the chief and his extended family. The door was ajar, with untouched meals on tables and clothing strewn haphazardly.

inside we detected a faint sickly sweet odor eerily reminiscent of the smell from the drilling site do you think it's the gas bebecca whispered her eyes wide with fear must be i replied grimacing as the smell hit me again but where did everyone go maybe they evacuated becca suggested although she sounded unsure i hope so i said examining a pot of soup that was still warm it doesn't look like they had time to prepare. Everything's just left, Becca noted, picking up a doll made of walrus ivory. We need to look for signs, I suggested. They might have left a message saying where they went. Becca and I systematically searched each house. We reached Katak's house late in the afternoon. The elderly shaman lived alone in a quaint dwelling on the village outskirts. I had interviewed him only days earlier. As I pushed open the door, the creaking sound echoed ominously. We entered the dimly lit room, the weak sunlight from the window illuminating the dust particles suspended in the air. Everything was just as I remembered, the walls adorned with tribal masks, the aged wooden floor lined with fur rugs, and the hearth at the center, now cold and lifeless.

My gaze was drawn to a corner of the room, where a message was hastily etched onto the wall. The text was in the native Inuit syllabary. The normally round characters were inconsistent as if scrawled in haste. A black-tinted blade, similar to the one I saw in the cave, lay on the floor next to the message. Becca walked up behind me. What does it say? My heart pounded in my chest as I translated the text. It says, beware the spirit of the ice.

The Igerac have returned. And then it just cuts off. What's an Ijirak? Becca asked. Her voice barely above a whisper. I paused. unsure of how much to reveal. They're spirits from Inuit folklore.

They're said to be shapeshifters, creatures that exist in the realm between the living and the dead. They're like Inuit boogeymen. My grandma used to tell me that if I didn't behave, and Ejurak would get me in my sleep. Yeah, but that's just a story, right? Becca asked incredulously,

like an attempt to explain natural occurrences. A tense silence filled the room. There was more to the myth, but I didn't see any point in scaring her with ghost stories. Katak was always a little eccentric, I said dismissively. He believed in a lot of weird stuff, like saying he could communicate with foxes, and that they would give him messages from the spirit world. I would take everything he says with a grain of salt.

A sudden harsh gust of wind rattled the window panes, causing us to exchange a glance of concern. We ran to the window. The first thing I noticed was how dark things had gotten. With the ever-present midnight sun, this should have been impossible. Outside, the sky darkened ominously, the yellow-green hue swallowed by a mass of angry gray clouds. I had goosebumps as the first snowflake landed on the window. The weather forecast hadn't predicted a storm, but there was definitely one brewing.

Storm's coming, Becca said, her eyes wide as she looked out the window. A big one. I could feel the air around us getting colder. We need to find shelter, I said, scanning for a good place to hunker down. The gas hadn't affected us yet, and we'd be exposed to more of it if we tried to trudge through the storm, with its own inherent dangers. Spotting a large communal building on a hill towards the center of the village, I gestured towards it. There, that house, it's higher off the ground. We should be safer from the gas there.

We gathered the huskies and hurried towards the house, the dogs rushing in ahead of us. The wind howled in our ears, biting through our winter gear as we struggled against the rising storm. Once inside the house, we worked quickly to secure the entrances, sealing the doors and windows with whatever materials we had on hand to minimize the gas exposure. The dogs were restless, pacing anxiously around the room. Their unease mirrored my own. Becca grabbed the radio, her hands shaking slightly as she adjusted the frequency and relayed our situation back to outpost Aurora.

Dr. Anderson, we're trapped in the village by the storm. We're going to try to wait it out. We're as sealed up as we're going to get against the gas. Over. There was a pause. Then her voice crackled through, sounding tense. Understood. Stay safe. We'll maintain radio contact.

Over and out. June 18, 2021. Becca and I rationed out our meager food supply, cans of stew, chunks of hard bread, and energy bars that tasted like cardboard, but had the necessary calories. We melted snow for drinking water, being careful to heat it just enough to kill off any bacteria. Yet, we weren't sure if this method was effective in removing gas. The dogs, our faithful companions, were fed with dry kibble and chunks of frozen fish we had packed. As the wind outside roared and battered the structure of the house, we huddled close together around a portable

heater for warmth. Even with our winter gear on, the biting cold was almost unbearable. The dogs lay in a pile, their body's a source of warmth in the otherwise freezing room. Unable to sleep, my mind was restless, filled with the day's chaotic events. I could still picture Erica, her body convulsing as the toxic gas took hold. The image filled me with a dread I could hardly put into words. How long before we too would begin to show symptoms? Ever so often I found myself glancing over at Becca, scrutinizing her face for any signs of illness. I sat up and pulled out the knife I had taken from Katok's home, examining it under the faint light in the room. The black-tinted blade was forged meteorite iron, the same as the one we found at the drilling site.

The handle was made of narwhal tusk, intricately carved with ancient Inuit symbols. As I traced them with my fingers, memories of the legends about the Igerac swirled. in my mind. These weren't just children's tales. The Inuit people respected and feared these spirits. While I respected the myths and legends, I was still a man of science, grounded in reality and observable facts. Yet to dismiss these tales as mere superstition seemed almost disrespectful. Exhaling slowly, I glanced once more at Becca. Her breaths were steady and slow, a stark contrast to the raging storm outside. A wave of relief washed over me. She was fond of At least for now.

Carefully, I put the blade back into my pocket and tried to settle back into my sleeping bag. I don't recall when I fell asleep, but the dream was vivid. I was a child again, back in the tiny cramped apartment in Anchorage's Mountain View neighborhood that I shared with my mom and grandma. The faint smell of my mom's cooking clung to the worn-out furniture. I could hear the muffled sound of sirens and angry voices from the street below, a soundtrack to my childhood. was bundled under the patchwork quilt my grandma made, trying to stay awake until my mom got

home from her two jobs. My eyelids were heavy, sleep was creeping in, but I fought against it. I wanted to catch a glimpse of my mom, to reassure myself that she had made it back safely. Beside me my grandmother sat in her favorite rocking chair, the rhythmic creaking a soothing counterpoint. Her voice was soft yet firm as she wove intricate stories of ancient Inuit legends. her wrinkled hands gesturing dramatically, enhancing the narrative. Suddenly, a loud banging noise echoed through the small apartment. Fear gripped me as she looked at me. Her eyes filled with a mixture of terror and determination.

Noah, you're in danger. You need to leave now, she said. Her voice filled with urgency. She hurriedly pulled a parka over my small frame, her movements quick and precise. The banging grew louder, the whole apartment shaking with the sheer force of it. I recognized the noise instantly, the sound of my father's rage. The door burst open, splintering into pieces as a drunken figure staggered into the room. My heart pounded in my chest as I watched my father's slurred movements, his eyes scanning the room.

Ignoring him, my grandmother ushered me towards the window that opened onto the fire escape. Go to Mrs. Olson's place, and I'll come get you later, she instructed. Her voice just a whisper now, but her words held the weight of an ultimatum. But Grandma, I started, but she cut me off. No buts, Noah, go. I was just about to climb out of the window when I glanced back one last time, my heart aching at the sight of my grandmother, her frail form standing tall and defiant against my drunken father.

Where is he, Anuri? Where's my son? he slurred, his gaze wild. You're drunk, Hank, Grandma said. Sober up and then maybe we'll talk. He's my son, my dad shouted. you can't keep him from me. I heard a scuffle ensuing. Get out of my way!

My dad screamed. As the cold air hit my face, my dream began to unravel, the harsh reality of my past, merging into the grim predicament of my present. I was jolted awake, my heart pounding, the sound growling and barking.

I shot up from my sleeping bag. Becca was already awake and trying to calm the dogs. Hey guys, what's wrong? She asked, checking on each one. What's the matter? I asked grogly. I don't know. Something must have spooked them, she responded. Becca reached for the radio, pressing the button and calling through the static.

Drill Team, this is Becca and Noah. Do you copy? Only the hum of the storm responded to our call. Dr. Khan, are you there? Please respond. Her voice wavered slightly, a hint of fear creeping into her normally confident tone. Still, there was no answer. The silence seemed to amplify the harsh howling of the wind outside. the sound seeming to seep into the very walls of the house. With a worried expression she put down the radio.

We need to try again in a bit. The storm might be affecting the signal. The dogs were growing more restless by the minute, their whimpers growing into anxious barks. They were fixated at something just outside the front door. Sensing their distress, I got up and peered through the tiny crack in the door. Among the swirling gusts of snow, I saw unsettling figures moving. Their forms were hauntingly unfamiliar, a blend of the grotesque and beautiful.

Some had elongated limbs and disproportionate body parts, their shapes hardly human. Others were adorned with animal characteristics, antlers that cut through the gale, feathers that fluttered in the blizzard, scales that shimmered in the harsh Arctic lights, or fur that rippled as if in a breeze. Becca, I whispered, my throat dry. You need to see this. I didn't get a response. Becca, did you hear me? I whispered a little louder. A blood-curdling scream tore through the night. Becca, my heart lurched in my chest as I turned. One of the creatures was crawling on the ceiling and

walls of the cabin. Its elongated limbs ending in claws scraped against the wood, creating the sound of nails on chalkboard. Its body was like smoke, twisting and changing, never settling on a single form. Without warning, the being slid down from the walls, making no no noise as it landed. Its form was ghostly, constantly shifting in the light of our lantern. One moment it resembled an Inuit woman with straight black hair, the next a polar bear with gleaming fangs. It shimmered as if formed from ice and snow, a mirage born of the Arctic itself. Its eyes, the only constant in its ever-changing form, two jet-black sockets, empty and soulless, stared at us. Becca just stood there, stunned. I grabbed her hand and pulled her

close. Get behind me, I whispered. The thing's mouth opened wide, emitting a guttural sound that sent a shiver down my spine. It started mimicking Dr. Khan's voice perfectly. I don't understand what's happening. It's the gas. We're changing. Erica's voice followed, panicked and gasping for breath. I can feel it inside me. It's, it's burning. The shrieks of pain and terror were lifelike, making it all the more chilling. Next came the voices of the others on the team. their pleas for help, their cries of agony echoing in the otherwise silent room. The entity's body contorted and twisted, as if in a grotesque imitation of their final, torturous moments. It was as if the very air around us carried the terror of those last

moments. The last voice we heard was Dr. Kahn's. Please help us. The creature looked at us, its eyes vacant and unblinking. Then it tilted its head and began to laugh, a terrible echoing sound that filled the room. Its laughter was like nothing I'd ever heard, a horrifying imitation of human joy, June 19, 2021. The entity's laughter faded as it began to pace around the room, slowly, deliberately like a wild animal sizing up its territory. It moved with a disjointed grace, limbs twisting and contorting independently. Yet its gaze, filled with a primal and animalistic intelligence, never strayed from us. An eerie sense of foreboding, settled over me as I stared into the depths of its eyes.

Becca looked stunned. It has their voices, she murmured, her voice echoing horror. How can it have their voices? I was too shocked to respond, grappling with the surreal reality of a creature physically before me. It felt like discovering the monster under my bed was real after all. Before eyes was an Igerac, the huskies suddenly lunged forward,

their growls escalating into feral snarls in a brave attempt to protect us. Their bravery snapped me out of my shock. The creature jerked its head towards the dogs, its form morphing into a giant wolf, mouth gaping, sharp fangs glistening. No, I yelled out. Instinctively, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the knife I'd picked up at Katak's home. The blade was cool to the touch, the intricate symbols carved into the handle pressing into my palm. The room was still for a moment as the entity stared at me.

Behind me, I could hear Becca's soft footsteps. her breaths drawn in quiet, controlled patterns. She was inching toward her pack, painstakingly slow to avoid drawing attention. The floorboards creaked under her weight. My heart pounded in my chest, every thump echoing through my body, a constant reminder of the danger we were in.

Regardless, I remained rooted to the spot. My eyes locked on the Igerac. Its form continued to shift, solidifying into something more threatening. It resembled a fearsome beast. now, more bear than human, the antlers of a caribou replacing the straight black hair. It seemed to be preparing itself for a confrontation. Becca reached her pack, her movements almost soundless. She rummaged inside for a brief moment before her fingers closed around the stock of her Saco 85,

a rugged bolt-action rifle she had packed as protection against polar bears. The Igerac was becoming increasingly agitated. Its form started convulsing, as if it was trying to contain an inner tempest. Its movements became more violent, the antlers slamming against the wooden beams, a gruesome display of power and aggression. Becca was now on her feet, rifle in hand. She moved swiftly and deftly, her eyes burning with cold determination, as though the dying cries of her colleagues had ignited a fury within her. As the creature turned towards her, she fired at it point-blank, the sound of the shot ringing through the cabin. The bullet tore through its nebulous form, ripping a solid chunk of flesh from the transient layer of smoke and ice.

A gut-wrenching howl filled the room. The Ijirak recoiled, its form flickering wildly between various shapes, human, animal, monster, each more horrifying than the last. Its body was writhing and shifting more wildly than ever. As it staggered back, a viscous dark fluid began to ooze from its wound. The smell was overpowering, far worse than the gas. It was a nauseating, made of a nauseating mixture of sulfur and rot, a stench so potent that it made my eyes water and my stomach churn. As the creature writhed in pain, its haunting howls transformed into the anguished cries. In its agony, it went into a frenzy, thrashing around the room, its form undulating and changing rapidly. Becca worked quickly to chamber another round, but the creature's frenzied movements made it

difficult to get a clear shot. As she lined up her aim, the creature lunged towards her, Its claws outstretched and its eyes fixed on her. Becca, watch out, I shouted. Acting on instinct, I pushed her out of the way. We both tumbled to the ground as the creature's claws sliced into my parka, narrowly missing my skin. Its momentum carried it into the wall of the cabin. The impact shook the entire cabin,

dislodging several wooden planks from the wall. The Idarok howled in frustration and pain, shards of wood protruding from its body. Go, I urged Becca. get the dogs and get out now she nodded scrambling towards the dogs who were barking and whining in distress becca hurriedly gathered them leading them toward the door i turned back to face the entity its form was slowly solidifying and its blackened eyes were fixed on me fueled by a surge of adrenaline i grabbed a portable kerosene heater nearby it was a hefty device radiating a comforting warmth that felt out of place in this nightmarish situation i hoisted it feeling the fuel sloshing inside Noah, we got to go now, Becca shouted from the door. I waited for a split second, watching as the Ejirok began to approach. As it charged at me, I hurled the heater with all the force I could muster.

The kerosene heater spiraled through the air, colliding with the creature. The cabin was instantly bathed in the terrifying light of a fireball. The entity let out a horrifying shriek that echoed through the cabin. I bolted towards the sled without a second glance. As Becca and I made our escape, the fire quickly spread, to the nearby wooden structures, turning the village into an inferno. Our sled slid smoothly over the icy terrain, pushed by the hardy dogs, carrying us farther and farther from the village. The roaring wind cut through us, and the snow, stirred into a whirlwind by the storm, reduced visibility

to near zero. As we moved further away, the light from the raging fire grew fainter, swallowed by the unrelenting white. We continued on, in the general direction of outpost Aurora. Our primary concern was putting distance between us and the creature, rather than reaching our destination. With the light fading behind us and the storm intensifying, we knew we needed to find shelter soon. We were in the heart of the tundra, a vast, flat, treeless plain. Seeking refuge in this desolate expanse was no simple task, but we were fortunate enough to stumble upon a formation of ice and snow that provided a modicum of shelter from the piercing winds. We set to work building an impromptu snow shelter,

scooping and packing the snow to form a protective barrier against the wind. Once we'd made a space that was small but secure, we settled in. Our breath fogged up in the confined space, but it was better than being exposed to the elements. We need a fire, Becca said, her teeth chattering as she spoke. I nodded, fumbling with the waterproof matches we had in our pack. The wood we'd managed to gather was scant and frozen, but soon a feeble fire was flickering between us, providing some warmth and more importantly,

a psychological comfort. From our shelter we could see the faint orange glow of the burning village in the distance. It was a haunting sight, the ghostly illumination, a grim reminder of what we'd left behind. We hardly said a word to each other, the weight of our recent encounter hanging in the air. I felt a need to say something, but wasn't ready to discuss the terrifying implications of what we'd faced. Instead, I asked, Where'd you learn to shoot like that? Becca stared into the fire, her gaze distant.

My dad used to take me and my brothers hunting when we were kids. We grew up in Newfoundland. Every season, without fail, we'd load the pickup and head up to the northern peninsula. What did you hunt? I asked. Mostly small game, like snowshoe hairs and grouse, but also the occasional moose, she said absent-mindedly. Wow, sounds like a lot of fun, I said.

It was. It was the highlight of my childhood, Becca said, her voice devoid of joy. Until my youngest brother Chris got lost. Her somber blue eyes were lit up by the fire. I was the oldest. I was supposed to be watching him, Becca confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. And I was, but I got distracted for just a moment. That's all it took.

Becca, I began. We found him a day later, but it was too late. He had died of exposure, Becca's voice faltered slightly. the weight of her guilt filled the small space between us. I'm so sorry, I started saying. She could see how uncomfortable the conversation was making both of us feel. Hey, so anyway, that was a hell of a throwback there, Becca complimented me, changing the subject, her demeanor changing as well. I smiled faintly and shrugged.

I used to play baseball in high school. Oh, really? she asked, her brows lifting above her frosty eyelashes. You must have been the MVP. I mostly just kept the bench warm, I confessed, feeling a pang of the old familiar embarrassment. Well, it was their loss, Becca replied, her voice steady, sincere. The compliment warmed me more than the fire. I just gave her a nod. We were both too tired to talk, and it seemed like a positive note to end on. There was a silence between us, filled only by the soft crackling of the fire and the low growl of the storm outside.

We were both lost in our own thoughts, our own memories. Tonight had unearthed ghosts we'd rather leave buried, but we weren't alone in the storm, in the middle of nowhere. We had each other, and for now, that was enough. June 20, 2021. The storm raged outside, the howling winds and snow pelting against our makeshift shelter, while my mind churned with questions, doubts, and fear. In the early hours of the morning, an unexpected sight met our eyes. As we huddled around the small fire, our bodies seeking warmth and comfort from each other's presence,

a faint cawing sound echoed through the storm. Above us, the gray-white sky darkened, and a large flock of ravens appeared, circling our tiny shelter against the wrath of the storm. A harsh caw echoed through the air, cutting through the storm like a knife. Their flapping wings were barely audible over the storm, yet the birds maintained a steady formation, completely unaffected by the gale. Two of the ravens broke away from the group and landed a few feet away from us. As they turned to face us, I realized to my horror that they were eyeless.

An empty dark void existed where their eyes should have been, mirroring the soulless eyes of the Idirak we encountered back at the village. One of the ravens started to speak in a voice that was hauntingly familiar, a little girl's voice. Mama, where are you? It's so dark. I'm scared. It cawed, echoing innocence and feelings. fear. The other raven spoke next, the voice of a woman filled with a mother's worry. I can't find my child, my Aputi, it cried out. Aputi, the name reverberated in my mind.

The mother was Nanuk, and the little girl was Aputi. I remembered them from my visit to the village days before. Aputi was a curious child, and Nanuk had the warmest of smiles. The thought of their fate made my stomach churn. Looking up, we saw the other ravens had been begun to circle lower. Each one uttered a single statement, each in a different voice, each a haunting echo of the villagers. The air was filled with their desperate cries, please for help, and calls for loved ones. Becca drew back in horror. The voices, those are the villagers, aren't they? She gasped, putting a gloved hand to her mouth. I didn't respond. I just shook my head in disbelief. I couldn't think straight with the macabre cacophony of disembodied voices ringing in my ears.

becca turned to me and squeezed my arm tight what's happening are these ravens also ajarak what did they do to the villagers she asked her eyes boring into mine the ijurak are just made up stories i reiterated they're not real i don't believe in superstitions either but i've seen i'm seeing the impossible with my own eyes she said gesturing to the flock of ravens circling us i swallowed hard glancing at the ravens as they swooped lower i didn't want to entertain the raven's as they swooped lower i didn't want to entertain the possibility, but in the face of the inexplicable, what else could I do? All right, I began my voice shaky. Let's pretend the Ijurak is real. I took a deep breath and composed my thoughts. In Inuit myths, people are turned into Ijirac, which are like twisted caricatures of themselves, often as punishment for disrespecting the spirits of nature. This could be anything from failing to perform the proper ritual for a prey they killed, to not properly honoring the dead. Or in our case,

Becca stared at me, fear dawning in her eyes, drilling a mile into the side of a cursed mountain. I hesitated, but nodded. Yeah, I believe so. I think we might have unwittingly released some kind of entity or force. That gas, maybe it's not just gas. Maybe it's something spiritual, something ancient, and exposure to it is turning everyone into Igerac. So those ravens are the villagers? asked Becca. I think so. I responded. And that creature back at the village? She asked.

I think the drill crew were all amalgamated to form that thing, I explained. That's why it couldn't maintain its shape and had all their voices. Oh my God, Becca exclaimed, her face becoming ashen with the realization. Wait, are we going to turn two? she asked. Her voice filled with dread. I don't know, I replied, unable to mask the fear in my own voice. I didn't want to imagine that fate for us. I wouldn't let that happen to us, but deep down I knew the reality.

We had been exposed to the gas, too. If my hypothesis was correct, we were already infected. Suddenly, another raven descended from the circling flock and landed on our shelter, its eyeless gaze locked on us. It caught in a voice we hadn't yet heard, one that struck terror in our hearts. Your time will come, it croaked in a gravely voice before taking off, disappearing into the storm. The words hung in the cold air, an ominous prophecy that made our surroundings feel even colder. June 21st, 2021.

The realization that we were ticking time bombs weighed heavily over us. As the howling winds subsided, I felt compelled to break the eerie silence. I turned on the radio, and the static-filled airwaves filled our shelter. After a few adjustments, I managed to reach Outpost Aurora. Outpost Aurora, this is Noah Callick. Do you copy? I called into the radio. After a moment of heart-pounding silence, Dr. Anderson's voice crackled to life. Noah, we've been trying to reach you. Are you and Becca all right?

She sounded relieved to hear us. Sonia, we're alive, I said. But we're not exactly all right. We're holed up in a makeshift shelter after an encounter. The hesitation in my voice must have conveyed the gravity of our situation, for Dr. Anderson's tone became serious. What kind of encounter? she asked. I took a deep breath before delving into our harrowing ordeal with the Ijirak.

Dr. Anderson was silent for a long time, taking in the incredible tale. That's, I don't know what to say, but we've had our own troubles here. The effects of the gas are becoming more pronounced. Symptoms are worsening. We're preparing for an immediate evacuation. Her words sent my heart racing. What about the Inuit communities? I asked. Concern gripping me.

We're attempting to contact as many as we can, she raised. responded. Now listen carefully. I've already radioed for an emergency evacuation of the outpost. The helicopter is arriving tomorrow at 0-6-0-0 hours. We're pulling out as soon as it arrives. I urged you two to get back to base as soon as you can. I glanced at Becca, who had been listening intently. She looked pale but nodded, indicating her agreement. We'll head back to base as soon as the storm lets up, I assured her, then added, be careful. If our theory about the gas is correct, its effects are much more than just physical. There was a pause on the other end before Sonia replied, her voice filled with grim resolve. We'll keep that in mind. Stay safe,

you two, and hurry back. The journey back to outpost Aurora was a grueling test of our endurance and sanity. The sled dogs, once full of vigor and enthusiasm, had started to behave oddly. They howled at the barren wasteland and growled at unseen threats, their eyes vacant and terrified. The potent stench of the gas seemed to be getting to them. As much as it filled me with dread, we had to press on, for the alternative was unthinkable. Upon nearing the outpost, we were met with an unsettling silence, broken only by a plume of smoke ascending from the storage area. The site resembled a ghost town, devoid of its former liveliness. The once bustling scientific station was now unnaturally silent and desolate, nearly blending into the frozen monochromatic landscape. Dread coiled in my

stomach as we approached the source of the smoke. Our worst fears were confirmed. The snowmobiles and the snowcat that were once neatly parked in storage were now reduced to a destroyed and smoldering heap. Becca kept a firm grip on her rifle, her eyes darting around the surroundings. I could see her breath quicken, her gloved fingers turning white from the pressure she exerted on the weapon. I felt the cold handle of Katak's knife in my hand. I don't like this, she whispered. Yeah, I know what you mean, I muttered. Cautiously we made our way into the main building, our flashlight beams cutting through the oppressive darkness. We were met with a sight that will forever be etched into my mind. We froze in our tracks as the light fell upon the gruesomely mutated bodies of our colleagues.

Their bodies were grotesquely melded into half-human, half-animal monstrosities. Fur sprouted from their skin in patches, their limbs elongated and clawed like a polar bear, and some bore the spiraled tusks of a narwhal protruding grotesquely from their distorted faces. Their eye sockets were empty, a dark void where a spark of life should have been, echoing a now all-too-familiar, cruel fate. Becca stifled a scream, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress the horrified gasp that threatened to escape. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me, bile rising in my throat. The sight was monstrous, a scene straight out of the darkest of nightmares. Our hearts pounded as we sprinted through the dimly lit, eerily quiet corridors. Our destination was the radio room. If we could

reach it, we could send a distress signal and hopefully get the help we needed. When we finally reached the room, our hopes crashed. The room was a wreck. Wires hung from the ceiling like entrails, sparking erratically. The radio equipment was shattered, smashed to pieces. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burnt electronics. Everything had been methodically and thoroughly destroyed. The room was filled with an unsettling, almost hypnotic murmur. It took a moment for our flashlights to find the source. Dr. Anderson was slumped over the radio console. Her skin was a mottled, bluish-gray, water-logged and bloated, giving her the macabre appearance of a corpse fished from icy waters. Her clothes were sodden, clinging to her form, while strands of hair plastered to her

face and her open eyes stared blankly, a chilling resemblance to a drowned victim's final gaze. Her throat moved rhythmically, producing an awful semblance of speech. The last words she ever said to us echoed throughout the room. Stay safe. You too. And hurry back. Her vacant eyes stared blankly at the radio console, her hand still clutching the receiver as if her final act was an attempt to call for help. It was a chilling sight. The site director was dead. yet her body kept broadcasting her final utterances, like a macab puppet show. It was clear that there would be no contact with the outside world. Becca was the first to move.

She approached Dr. Anderson slowly, a look of profound sadness on her face. She reached out and gently detached the receiver from Sonia's rigid grip. The distress call ceased abruptly, leaving us in an eerie silence that hung heavy in the air. She lured us here. No help is coming. Becca whispered. her voice shaking, the enormity of the situation crashing down on her. We can't stay here, I declared.

Although neither of us wished to linger, we needed to gather supplies. We scavenged through the base, gathering what we could carry. The infirmary provided us with essential medical supplies. The mess hall offered canned goods, dehydrated meals, and water. In the equipment room we found survival gear, thermal blankets, flares, extra clothing, a compact camping stove and an ice axe. As we cautiously navigated the labyrinthine corridors, I voiced the question gnawing at me.

Why us? I asked, glancing at her. Why are we the only ones who haven't transformed? It doesn't make sense, I muttered, thinking out loud. We were exposed to the gas before most of them. Why haven't we turned? After a long silence, Becca broke the quiet with a theory. Maybe. Maybe the gas of ferns.

those who have been at the base longer, she suggested. Her voice barely a whisper. I looked at her, taken aback. What do you mean? Erica was the most senior member of the station. She's been there the longest, Becca explained. It would explain why she was the first to be affected. I nodded, slowly understanding, and since I'm the newest member, that would make me the last to be affected. Exactly, she affirmed, but there was a hesitation in her voice, a reluctance that that I couldn't ignore. So, Becca, I said, stopping to face her in the dwindling light. How long have you been at Aurora?

I've been here for a couple months, she confessed under her breath. A couple months? I asked, surprised. Suddenly, everything fell into place, the details I had overlooked before. Her low rank at the base, her social isolation. You're a rookie, aren't you? I finally said. I'm not a rookie, she protested. weekly. I'm just not as experienced as the others. Her gaze flicked up to meet mine, an uncertain smile playing on her lips. I worked in the oil and gas industry straight out of college. It was good

pay, but I hated what I was doing. I jumped at the chance when I saw they were looking for someone with drilling experience to work at a climate research station. She desperately tried to explain. I studied her face in the dim, cold light, her words echoing in the icy, harsh silence. I sighed, reached out and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder. What does it matter? We're all each other's got, I said. And I don't think I could ask for a better partner in all of this. Becca gave me a weak but appreciative smile.

Thanks, Noah, she said. Her voice barely audible over the howling wind. I feel the same. We stood in the harsh chill for a moment, united in our struggle for survival. After gathering everything we needed, we left outpost Aurora behind for good. The imposing structure,

once a hub of scientific discovery and now a place of horror and death loomed in our rear view as we set off into the wilderness our destination was unclear but we knew we had to keep moving away from the memories that haunted us and towards the slimmest chance of safety june twenty second twenty twenty one the following day was the most challenging yet testing our resolve and shattering the last bits of normalcy we held on to the huskies Our reliable companions and our sole means of transport through this icy hellscape began to succumb to the poison that had invaded their bodies. They couldn't even stand anymore, let alone pull a sled. Their fur started to shed rapidly, revealing unnatural growths and deformities that seemed to writhe beneath their skin. Their pained whimpers and growls echoed throughout the snow-filled air,

a reminder of the horror we faced. Their once sparkling eyes were now clouded over. The sight of them's suffering was heart-wrenching. These creatures, who had once bounded through the snow with joyous abandon, were now crippled with pain and fear. Becca was visibly distraught. She spent most of the day tending to them, desperately trying to alleviate their suffering.

But the more time she spent with them, the more she seemed to realize the grim truth. There was no coming back for them. I found her kneeling in the snow beside the dogs, her face pale and her eyes red from tears. Noah, she said, her voice breaking. I can't let them suffer. They deserve better than this.

I knew what she was implying, but the thought of it filled me with dread. Becca, are you sure? Maybe there's still a way. She shook her head cutting me off. You've seen what this thing does to living being. I won't let that happen to my dogs. Her determination was clear, but the pain in her eyes was heartbreaking. I offered to help, ready to share this unbearable bird.

with her, but she refused. She shook her head, a hollow look in her eyes. They're my dogs, Noah, she said. Her voice was strained but resolute. I should be the one to do it. There was a finality in her voice that broke no argument. With a heavy heart, I nodded. I said my goodbyes, thanking each dog for their companionship and strength, for carrying us across the endless expanse of ice and snow. I gave Becca a supportive squeeze on the shoulder before I stepped away. I retreated to give her some privacy. As I walked away, the harsh wind bit into my skin. Then came the sounds that echoed across the frozen landscape, the gunshots, four in total. Each one was a piercing reminder of the cruel reality we were living in. After what felt like

in eternity, Becca walked towards me, her face devoid of any emotion. Her eyes, however, betrayed the immense grief she was feeling. As she wiped away the last of her tears, I saw a hardness in her gaze that hadn't been there before. Let's keep moving, she said, her voice hollow. We spent the early morning hours studying the weatherproof map, a compass indicated our direction and also acted as a paperweight. The situation was grim. Assuming every village in the area had been devastated by the gas, the closest human settlement was the town of Utkiaggvik, almost 100 miles away. Even in the best of conditions, the journey would be arduous. On foot in our current predicament seemed utterly impossible. The truth was unavoidable. We were isolated,

alone in the vast frozen wilderness. Our only lifelines erased by an unseen force we were only beginning to comprehend. A profound silence settled over us, as we stared at the map, the enormity of our predicaments sinking in. As we sat in silence, I noticed Becca tracing a root with her finger, her brows furrowed in concentration. I looked at her, a glimmer of hope, nighting within me. Becca? She turned to me, a determined look on her face. I used to work on an oil rig not too far from here, she said. She pointed out a spot on the map, a little dot off the northern coast of Alaska. It's about a 30-mile journey northeast of here, she explained. We'd have to kayak there. We can hug the coast. It'll take two, maybe three days. If we're lucky, we'll run

into one of the rig's crewboats. Her proposal was a risky one. Kayaking. through Arctic waters was a dangerous proposition. We would have to navigate the freezing, unpredictable ocean. I don't know about this. Who knows how the gas has affected sea life? Hell, a rogue wave could plunge us into the icy waters, I expressed my doubts. We don't have many choices, Becca replied, her voice firm. We can either try for Utkiagvik and likely die of exposure and exhaustion before we reach it, or we take a chance on the rig. I know the second option is risky. But at least there's a chance. I looked back at the map, my eyes fixated on the tiny dot representing the rig.

The weight of our decision hung heavily in the air. Finally I met Becca's eyes finding a look of frightened determination. I nodded. The rig it is then. June 23rd, 2021. Our two-person inflatable kayak felt like a tiny speck on the vast, endless sea, dwarfed by the towering icebergs and the shadowy mutated Leviathens that lurked beneath the watered. surface. A chilling wind whistled through the desolate landscape, the only sound other than the

rhythmic splash of our paddles against the cold water. In those hours, the line between night and day blurred, the sun never dipping far enough to plunge us into darkness. Time became measured in strokes of the paddle and the rhythmic rise and fall of the ocean. We made slow progress, taking turns paddling and resting, stealing moments of sleep when we could. We nibbled at our rations, preserving what we could for the uncertain journey ahead. On the second day, a light drizzle soaked us to the bone, the biting cold gnawing at our fingers and faces. As we huddled around the map to determine our bearings, I noticed Becca shivering beside me. Her face was pale, her lips tinted blue, and her speech was slightly slurred. Becca, are you all right? I asked, my voice

barely audible above the howling wind. I'm fine, she insisted, but her chattering teeth teeth betrayed her. It was clear I need to get her out of the cold and fast. Searching the shoreline, I spotted a dark recess in the cliffside. We're going ashore, I declared, veering our kayak towards the land. Becca didn't argue, her strength sapped by the relentless cold. We managed to pull our kayaks onto the rocky shore, the land a welcome reprieve from the icy waters. The cave we found provided some shelter from the wind, its mouth wide enough to prevent the buildup of snow. Once inside, I took to turn to the water. Once inside, I took to

turn my attention to Becca. I removed her soaking wet outer layer and wrapped her in a thermal blanket. I pulled out our compact camping stove from the supplies, grateful that we had it. A fire would have been ideal, but in these conditions it was next to impossible to start one. The small portable heater emitted a soft glow as I ignited it, its heat radiating into the cold cave. Next, I removed her gloves and snow boots, inspecting her extremities. My heart sank at the sight of her fingers and toes, white, hard, and numb, with a waxy appearance, all signs of frostbite. Using the first aid kit we scavenged from the outpost, I carefully cleaned and bandaged her frost-bitten digits.

Trying to reassure her, I said, It's not too severe, you'll recover. We huddled together under the thermal blanket to conserve heat. Becca slipped in and out of consciousness, her body fighting the hypothermia. In her delirious state, Becca turned to me. her blue eyes clouded with confusion and fear. Noah, she murmured, her voice barely a whisper. Can you, can you sing for me?

Sing? I was taken aback. The last thing I'd been expecting was a request for a song, but maybe in her confused state she was seeking some comfort. She nodded, her gaze unfocused. Something in Inuit, she requested. I thought about what to sing to her. I remembered as a child,

I'd stubbornly resist sleep until my mother returned from work, gripped by an irrational fear that she wouldn't be there when I awoke. To calm me, Grandma Anuri would sing an ancient Inuit lullaby, a song about the undying love between the moon and the sea, about their eternal dance and infinite patience. Clearing my throat I started singing. My voice echoed softly in the cave. The lullaby, which I hadn't sung in years, flowed out in a gentle rhythm.

Ilaadi Kangutsak, Takik, Takik, Ukiurpak. The moon shines bright. The moon, the moon watches over. My voice grew stronger with each note, the lullaby's story of strength, love, and resilience reflecting our circumstances. Becca's eyes fluttered closed, her face relaxing slightly as the song washed over her. I watched her as I sang, the portable heater casting a soft glow on her pale face. The lullaby seemed to bring her some peace,

her shaking, lessening a bit as she leaned into me, her head resting on my shoulder. her breathing started to sink with the rhythm of the song, slow and steady. It was a long, nerve-wracking night. I tried to stay awake, keeping a watchful eye on her and praying for the best. I woke to the dull gray of early morning, my body stiff from the cold, and the warmth beside me missing. I shot upright, looking around the small space of the cave. Beka, I called out, my voice bouncing off the stone walls. No response. The cave was empty, save for the remnants of our meager supplies. My heart pounded in my chest as my gaze landed on the thermal blanket discarded on the hard cave floor. I stumbled to my feet, grabbed the flashlight, and scanned the

cavern. There was no sign of her. Rushing outside, I found a set of bare footprints in the snow. Each impression was stained with a speck of crimson blood. Becca's clothes were scattered along the path, torn and soaked with fresh snow. I followed the footprints, my stomach churning as I collected her discarded garments. The trail led me away from the cave, winding along the icy shoreline. The morning light cast a pale glow on the icy landscape, but there was no sign of Becca. My breath misted in the cold air as I followed her trail, the only indication that life still existed in this barren, frozen expanse. A sense of urgency pushed me to move faster, though the biting cold protested against every step. I knew exactly what this meant. This was paradoxical

undressing, a known phenomenon of late-stage hypothermia. The person, in their confused and disoriented state, feels an intense sensation of heat and starts to undress, often leading to their demise in the freezing temperatures. The bloodstains in the snow grew fainter, and then disappeared entirely, but the footprints continued, their direction unwavering. My mind was in a whirl, but I didn't have time to dwell on it. I knew what I had to do. With a determined story, I started to follow the footprints, praying that I wasn't too late. After what felt like hours, I saw her in the distance, a fragile silhouette against the white expanse. Her bare skin was almost the same color as the snow, tinged blue in the morning chill. Her auburn hair, once neatly

braided, was now a wild mess of strands whipping in the biting wind. Becca, I shouted, my voice a desperate echo against the icy desolation. She didn't turn around. She staggered, barely upright as she continued her aimless journey through the snow. As I approached, the wind carried fragments of a haunting melody to my ears. Becca was muttering, almost singing, influent Inuit, a language that just days earlier she barely knew two words of. Ijirak paligukxiksonica, Ijirak, you come in the night. Ullulani Pivalian Gynartut, filling our homes with terror and fright. Tukakaksysauni Tukvita Tukvita. your cold empty eyes peering deep within, Agulkarta alu Nikaliak Pactut,

your wickedness lurking in the darkness, Putitugait, Pivaliani Arutakut, and we can do nothing but watch. Summoning every ounce of courage, I stepped forward and gently turned her around to face me. The sight that met my eyes was worse than any nightmare I could have ever imagined. Becca, once the epitome of strength and vitality, stood in front of me resembling a frost-bitten corpse.

Her once vibrant blue eyes were replaced with empty sockets, from which emerged squirming tendrils that undulated in the cold morning air. Her face was a canvas of jagged lines and fractures, resembling the intricate tattoos we had discovered on the ancient mummies at the drill site. In her hand, she held a scalpel from the med kit, its metallic surface gleaming ominously under the weak sunlight. She raised her hand, the scalpel glinting menacingly. She stared at her other hand with an unnerving fascination. I watched in horror as she positioned the scalpel over one of her fingers. Becca, no, I cried out, but my plea was drowned by the howling wind. Suddenly she brought the scalpel down to her hand, severing one of her frost-bitten fingers with a chilling efficiency.

The sound of flesh being cut open echoed ominously in the frigid silence, a horrid, squelching noise that was both wet and grating, reminiscent of a butcher carving a slab of meat. There was no cry of pain, no reaction to the gruesome act she was performing on herself. As the severed digit fell to the snowy ground, an overpowering stench hit me, an unholy blend of decay and brine that reminded me of rotting fish left out in the sun. She continued the gruesome task with a grim determination, each slice of the scalpel followed by the horrible thud of a finger falling onto the snow. And then, the horror compounded.

The amputated fingers started to wriggle on the ice. sea ground, transforming into tentacled monstrosities that writhed as if taunting me with their grotesque existence. I racked my brain to make sense of what I was witnessing. The old tales of Sedna, the Inuit Sea goddess, echoed in my mind. Cast into the sea by her father, her fingers were cut off as she tried to cling to his kayak. As each finger hit the water, they transformed into sea creatures. This was like some twisted parody of the legend. Becca cocked her head towards me, the tendrils in her eyes pulsating with a strange, unnatural rhythm. A haunting smirk played on her lips, a perverse mockery of the confident smile I had grown

accustomed to seeing. She raised her mutilated hand to me, her thumb and forefinger forming a sinister beckoning gesture. Her voice when she spoke was a haunting echo of the woman I had known. Join us, June 24, 2021. She continued her grisly transformation, tendrils waving like wicked antennas, the air around us growing colder and more oppressive. Becca, it's me, Noah, I pleaded, trying to pierce through her madness. You have to fight whatever this is. You're stronger than this. She paused for a moment, her severed fingers ceasing there squirming dance in the snow, and I saw a flicker of recognition in the writhing mass of her eyes, but it was short-lived. Without warning she lunged at me, her free hand still clutching the scalpel, slashed at me in a frenzied attack.

I stumbled backward, but she was on me in an instant, scratching and biting with a ferocity that was nothing short of animalistic. Her detached fingers, now unnervingly animated, slithered towards me, twining around my legs, tugging and pulling, forcing me onto the icy snow. I gasped, as one looped around my neck, its cold touch stinging like a frigid brand. She opened her mouth, revealing even more tendrils each one hissing as they stretched towards me. Suddenly the sharp pain of her scalpel penetrated my side, the icy cold blade cutting through my flesh.

Bleed with me, she whispered sadistically, as she twisted the scalpel, causing excruciating pain to erupt from my wound. I could feel the warmth of my blood staining the ice beneath me. She leaned in close. Her voice was a chilling whisper that froze my blood. They're coming, Noah, she said. Can't you hear them? They've been calling to me, singing to me.

It's a beautiful song. A song of rebirth, of transformation. Her severed fingers tightened around my throat, cutting off my air supply. My vision blurred and darkened. In sheer desperation, I groped for anything I could use to defend myself. My fingers curled around the cold handle of my ice axe. With a swift, desperate swing, I struck her at the base of her neck. She gasped, her grip around my neck loosening.

I rolled her off me, scrambling to put distance between us. But she quickly recovered, pulling the axe out of her neck. neck with an unholy strength. A dark, pungent liquid oozed from the gaping wound, staining the snow with its sickly hue. Becca, please don't do this, I pleaded with her. She brandished the axe, a primal scream erupting from her lips as she charged at me. My hand went to my side, gripping the handle of Katok's meteorite knife. As she ran towards me, I instinctively braced myself, aiming the blade at her. With a terrifying shriek, she impaled herself on the knife, her momentum carrying her forward.

until she slumped against me. With an agonized whimper, she staggered backwards, the fierceness in her eyes dimming, her tentacled fingers stilled, the squirming tendrils retracting into the emptiness of her eye sockets. She looked up at me with a terrifying mixture of fear and confusion. As Becca fell backward onto the snowy ground, her appearance shifted, morphing into an achingly familiar form. My heart pounded in my chest as I looked down into the face of my grandmother, Anuri. The icy landscape around me faded, replaced by the aged walls of our childhood apartment. I glanced at my hands covered in blood, but they weren't mine. They were large, scarred, aged from years of labor, my father's hands.

The ceremonial knife in my grip transformed into a crude switchblade, its edge ominously glinting in the dim light, fresh blood dripping from it. In the corner of the room, a small figure huddled on the window sill, wide eyes filled with terror. It was me, younger, smaller, bearing witness to a horror no child should see. The night my father, driven by a drunken rage, took the life of the one person who meant everything to me. No, I cried, rushing to the figure on the floor. Dropping to my knees, I cradled my grandma in my arms, my tears freezing to my face. She looked just like the night she died. In an instant my surroundings shifted. no longer was I in the warmth of my home but back in the Arctic wilderness.

It was no longer my grandmother I held in my arms, but Becca. Her skin, once flush with life, was now as pale and cold as the ice that hemmed us in. The once monstrous tendrils retracted from her eye sockets, revealing the blue irises I knew so well. A strangled gasp escaped her lips as the harsh wind whipped around us. I could feel her body shuddering with each ragged breath she took, a frail echo of her former vitality. My gaze fell on her chest, where a dark stain was slowly spreading. Using Katak's knife, I ripped off a piece of my jacket and pressed it against the wound,

attempting to stem the bleeding, but it felt like trying to dam a river with twigs. Noah? she croaked, her voice barely audible over the wind. Becca, I said, reaching for her hand. It was icy cold. I'm here. Stay with me, I said, cupping her face in my hands. I could see fear and confusion in her eyes, but also recognition. She reached up, her hand weakly clutching mine. I'm so cold, she croaked out, a faint hint of her old self returning. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close to me.

My heart pounded painfully against my rib cage as I held her against my chest. Her breaths came in short, uneven gasps, each one slower than the last. It's going to be okay, I lied, trying to infuse my voice with as much confidence and warmth as I could muster. I knew her condition was dire, the life seeping from her as surely as the blood staining the snow beneath us, but I couldn't let her last moments be filled with fear and despair.

Noah, I... She struggled to say. For a moment I saw a spark of the old Becca in her eyes, the fierce determination that had always defined her. But then, her eyes rolled back in her head, and her body went limp in my arms. Becca, I whispered. Stay with me.

Her only response was a soft gurgling sound, as if she was trying to speak but couldn't. Her body grew colder, her skin turning a sickly blue. No, I muttered, shaking her. Becca, wake up, but it was too late. With a final shuddering breath, she went still. The hand I was holding fell limply to her side, the icy chill of death already creeping into her skin. I wasn't sure how long I stayed there, holding Becca's lifeless body, before I finally managed to stand up. With the last shreds of my strength, I made a decision.

Becca deserved a proper farewell, not to be left on this cold, desolate landscape as Carian. In a daze, I began to gather rocks from the surrounding area, hauling them over to the spot where Becca's body lay. In the harsh Arctic wilderness, you couldn't dig a grave in the permafrost. There were no flowers to leave on her grave, no trees to make a coffin, just cold in different stones. Once I had enough rocks, I set to work constructing an Inukshuk, a cairn used by the Inuit, as a marker to help the recently deceased, to find their way to the afterlife. Each stone was a silent tribute to the woman who had been my companion, my confidant, my friend. Each stone was carefully selected and placed, forming a silhouette that mirrored the human form. The tallest stone for the body, a pair of stones for the arms, and a smaller stone for the head.

The work was hard, and the freezing wind didn't make it any easier, but I forced myself to continue, focusing on the task at hand as a way to escape the grim reality of what had transpired. Next, I laid Becca's body beneath the Anuk-sook, folding her arms over her chest. With a heavy heart, I said my final goodbyes, whispering them into the icy wind, praying that they would reach her wherever she was. Naglakip Inup Kaumanak, Pulyun-Timutak. Your spirit lives on in my memories. Never forgotten, never incomplete.

Lastly, I placed Katak's otherworldly knife in her hands. I didn't know why, but I thought she would have more use for it than I would. With the last of my energy drained, I stepped back to take in the sight. The Anuk-sook stood tall against the pale sky, its form contrasted against the snow-covered landscape. It was a ghostly figure standing vigil over Becca's final resting place, a silent sentry keeping watch over her as she journeyed to the spirit world. June 25th, 2021. I must have wandered for what felt like hours, perhaps even days, with no sense of time or direction.

The icy landscape stretched out indefinitely, a vast expanse of desolation as if the entire world had succumbed to the frost. I was numb, both physically from the piercing cold that infiltrated my clothes and skin, and mentally from the shock of what had occurred. Every gust of wind, every crunch of snow beneath my feet, seemed to echo Becca's presence. Each shadow cast by the moonlight transformed into demons, coming to claim me. My side throbbed with a persistent pain where Becca had stabbed me, a cruel reminder of the nightmare that had become my reality. The wound was probably infected by now, or maybe I was succumbing to hypothermia.

I didn't really care. Each gasping breath felt like an accomplishment. each blink a momentous effort. My mind, once sharp and alert, now wandered aimlessly in a fugue state. Suddenly, a shadow flickered across the white canvas of the snow. The shadow caused a shiver of dread to seize my body. I squinted, shielding my eyes against the weak sun, and made out the silhouette of a helicopter. Its rotors were a mere whisper in the icy air, the dull throb of its engines barely audible over the winds moan. In my haze of fear and exhaustion, the helicopter was another menacing figure, another Ejirok sent to torment me. I couldn't risk it. I couldn't bear the thought of falling prey

to those shape-shifting demons again. With trembling fingers I fumbled in my pocket, my numb fingers finding the reassuring grip of the flare gun. With a shaky hand, I fired the flare. The sudden light, brilliant against the gray sky, arched upwards, a fiery serpent against the the dull expanse. The sharp smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils, momentarily overpowering the stench of decay that still clung to my clothes. It was a desperate attempt to ward off my tormentor, a signal flare that carried more of a plea for mercy than a call for help. The helicopter veered towards the flare, like a moth drawn to a flame. The last thing I remember was the sudden brightness, an intense spotlight blinding me. A rush of noise, the helicopter descending,

shouting voices, the crunch of boots on snow, and then, with a nauseating lurch, the world turned black. August 1st, 2021. When I regained consciousness, the frosty landscape was replaced with white sterile walls and a rhythmic beeping. I was in a hospital, the incessant beeping originating from the machines monitoring my vitals. My frozen clothes were gone, replaced with a thin hospital gown, and the once throbbing wound now bore a clean dress. The first few days in the hospital passed in a haze as I drifted in and out of consciousness. There was always someone there when I woke up, a nurse, a doctor, an official from the Environmental Protection Agency, their faces drifting in and out of focus as I wrestled with my own tortured

thoughts. As the days passed, my strength began to return. I began to sit up, to speak, to ask questions. With each question I was met with a flood of information, each revelation more horrifying than the last. They told me about the drill, about the toxic hydrogen sulfide released into the air. They spoke of a devastating wave of poison that had decimated both the research station and the nearby settlements. The scientists explained the symptoms how exposure to hydrogen sulfide could result in severe neurological damage. They talked of disorientation and paranoia, of vivid hallucinations that seemed so real they had driven some to madness, to violence, even to murder. They described how the villagers had wandered off into the snowstorm,

disoriented and confused, driven by hallucinations to their doom. Only a single newborn infant, miraculously untouched by the poison, had been found alive amidst the ashes of Silap Inua. The personnel at Outpost Aurora had fared even worse. They'd destroyed their only means of escape, dooming themselves in their madness. Some had succumbed to the toxic gas, while others had fallen victim to their own colleagues, driven by their poisoned minds to horrific acts of violence. The doctors explained that the things I'd witnessed, the terrifying encounters with the Ijirak, talking ravens, the monstrous transformation of Becca, were all products of my poisoned mind. They weren't real, they couldn't have been real. I wanted to believe them, I really did.

It was easier to accept that I'd simply been hallucinating than to confront the horror of what I thought I had witnessed. The people at the research station, the villagers, they were all victims of a terrible accident, not some supernatural force. It was tragic, but it was rational. It was something I could understand. But there were things I just couldn't shake, things that didn't fit neatly into their hydrogen sulfide theory. The village, for instance. Yes, they'd found the burned out remains of the settlement, but not a single trace of the villagers themselves. Search parties had painstakingly combed the surrounding area for days, enduring the harsh elements, all in vain. Not a single body was recovered. Thirty people just don't disappear without a trace, not even in a harsh frozen landscape

like this one. Where were the bodies? Why weren't there any signs of a struggle, or of the panicked flight they described? And then there was Becca. The recovery team found the Inuksuksuk I'd constructed for her, but when they'd opened it, expecting to recover her body, they found it empty. There were bare human footprints, leading from the cairn to the sea. Footprints that, according to the weather records, were made days after the gas cloud had dissipated. How was it possible? How could a dead woman, encased in a tomb of ice and stone, simply walk away? July 7, 2023.

In the aftermath of the horrifying events at Outpost Aurora, the authorities declared the entire area a disaster zone. The high levels of residual toxins, along with the lingering risk of additional leaks from the deserted drilling site, rendered the area too hazardous for habitation. The remoteness of the disaster allowed the subsequent relocation of the surviving Inuit tribes to be done clandestinely. During this period, I was consumed by a profound sense of guilt and duty to assist my people. As an Inuit, and as one of the few survivors of the incident, I felt a deep connection and responsibility to, those who had also lost so much. I worked tirelessly to help facilitate the relocations, ensuring that my people were moved safely, with dignity, and with as little disruption to their

way of life as possible. I provided guidance on cultural norms, tradition and practices, ensuring they were preserved and respected in the relocation process. During this period, I also found the strength to return to my academic pursuits. I completed my Ph.D. and Anthropology, My dissertation focusing on the resilience of Inuit societies in the face of severe climatic and sociocultural disruptions. After the completion of my doctorate, I realized I no longer had the stomach for field research. The trauma of what it unfolded had left deep imprints on my psyche, making the once thrilling prospect of Arctic exploration, a haunting reminder of the fragility of life. Instead, I move back to Anchorage to accept a university lecturer position and have tried to live as north,

normal a life as possible. Yet even as I carve out this new path, my past remains with me, especially in the wintertime, when snow falls like a blanket over the city, obscuring everything in a shroud of white. On these nights I often find myself drawn to the coast. I walk along the shoreline, gazing out over the frost-kissed waters, half expecting to see a figure emerging from the icy depths. Becca, or rather, the thing she became. Her memory lingers, a ghost in the snow, a specter in the sea foam. Most nights I sleep like a literal baby. I knock out after I am full,

and I wake up when I'm hungry. It's like my internal clock. Last night, however, I was studying for my final exam, and I started feeling sleepy as it was getting really late, but I just wanted to get a few more practice questions in before I knocked out since my eyes were already sore from the lack of sleep. I finished up the last of the practiced questions, and got onto my bed ready for my power nap of four hours.

before I had to wake up and face my biggest nightmare. I stretch out my limbs and make my way towards my bed, getting so ready to crash. I get under the covers and cover every single part of my body, except for my face since I like to be swaddled when I sleep. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes, forty-five minutes. I was not falling asleep no matter what. I wasn't hungry.

I wasn't feeling uncomfortable, but I was tired as hell. I sat up frustrated and feeling flustered from how hard I was trying to fall asleep. I looked around my studio apartment, and a sudden urge of needing some fresh air had me putting on a hoodie and sweatpants. It's literally the middle of the summer, but I was trying to make myself look buff and like a man. I hide my hair in a bun and put the hood over my head. Just to preface this, I never take walks in the nighttime. Never. I live in New York City, and it's not even safe to walk around in the morning, not to mention it. night. I was thinking of just standing near my building and taking a quick breather. I wasn't planning

on wandering too far. I grab everything I need and I head outside, but my surroundings genuinely shocked me. The street lamps lit the streets in every corner. There were close to no blind spots. I live in Queens, a more rural area, so you would have to walk a good few streets from the resident block into an area where there are stores and restaurants. I look around and look at my phone. The time read 3.36 a.m. There was not a single person walking the streets, however, there were still a few cars driving up and down the streets once in a while. I walked to the end of my building and suddenly remembered there was a Chinese barbecue restaurant that was open until 5 a.m. in the morning, and reopens at 10 p.m. that same day. The idea of grilled chicken and beef skewers has me waddling

towards the direction of the restaurant. The walk was fairly quiet, and I slowly approached one of the bigger intersections where the buses ran, and oddly I saw a person. It was an old lady sitting on the bench at the bus stop, and instantly I felt a pang of sadness hit my chest. My nose tingles, and the urge to cry rises above all my other emotions. It was so sad to see an old lady out at this time. It was so late, and she was all by herself. She was probably lost. I walked towards the bus stop, and I didn't want to scare her, but I also wanted to make sure she was okay, so I stood a good 10 feet behind her and checked the app for when the bus would arrive. The app said that the next bus was going to be in 10 minutes since buses run by the hour late at night. Sure enough,

at around the 10 minute mark the bus came and I heaved a sigh of relief, happy that the lady was going to get help finally. I start backing away slowly as I see the bus get close to the bus stop and slightly slow down. I looked at the bus, and the bus driver took a quick glance at the bus stop before he sped off. I stood there shocked and in disbelief that the bus driver would leave an elderly lady stranded in the middle of the night. I looked down at my phone to check when the next bus was going to arrive, and it was going to be 49 minutes before the next bus was coming through. I was racking my brain on what I can do to help. Do I call the police and report a lost elderly, or do I maybe ask her where she lives and call her an Uber, finally deciding that maybe I should

ask for her opinion first before I make a decision. I looked up and she was gone. I couldn't have been looking at my phone for more than a few minutes. I jog up to the bus stop and look at all the connecting streets to see if I can catch a glimpse of which direction she went in so I can catch up to her. I didn't see anyone. Maybe she's a fast walker? Because two, three minutes would be enough for me to walk a block. Not knowing really what to do, I continue on what I came out to do. I continued walking down and two three streets later the bustling street came into view, and it no longer felt like 4 a.m. in the morning. There were multiple parties of people walking up and down the streets. I walked into the restaurant to smell of barbecue filling every pore of my body. I was in food heaven.

I ordered a chicken and beef skewer combo, which was five chicken and five beef grilled skewers. My food was ready in five, ten minutes, and I opted to take it to go because I needed to get home and sleep. I lost a whole hour of sleep since I made the decision to come out and buy food. I ate my skewers happily as I made my way back home, once again pulling myself out of the bustling streets and into the quiet neighborhood. I was humming softly to myself and listening to the sound of my shoes hitting the ground. Not just my footsteps, I hear footsteps behind me as well. It felt like it was trying to mask my footsteps, but always a few milliseconds slower. I turned around suddenly nervous. Anxiety shot up from the pit of my stomach. My appetite dissipated within seconds,

and I saw the lady who was sitting at the bus stop maybe 20 feet behind me. She also stopped walking, and she was staring blankly at me, feeling slightly better since she was an older lady, and I was a healthy female college student. I stared back at her wondering if she was going to approach me for help. The silence dragged on, and I started getting a little skeptical of why we were just staring at each other. The slight relief I felt earlier was replaced by a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. Before I could figure out what to do next, I felt my feet turn around and walk towards my house. It was like my body was telling me to get the hell out of there. Now I was focusing 100 times more on the sound and footsteps around me. Sure enough, I heard a set of

footsteps mirroring mine, and it actually sounded closer than before. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and a chill ran down my back. I felt panic surged through my veins, and without a second word I sprinted down the streets. I observed my surroundings and saw the bus stop where I first spotted the lady. From the bus stop, my building was still about five streets away. I continued down one more street before I realized all I heard was the sound of my own footsteps and my heart pumping in my ears. I slowly slowed down and took a quick glance behind me, and I didn't see the lady. I came to a full stop and turned around looking for the lady. I looked further down, and she was two streets away from me, exactly where I left her.

Confused by this, I started walking backwards down the street towards my building and keeping my eyes strained on her. She stood still for maybe about a minute before she started walking towards me. She was walking at an alarmingly slow pace, almost as if she's saying, run all you want, I will eventually catch up. My hands ran cold from thee, and shook from the. fear that gripped my body. Deciding not to waste another second out on the streets, I turned around and ran full speed towards the direction of my building, and when I was one street away from my building, I started to slow down and started jogging instead of sprinting. I took a quick glance behind me as I continued to jog towards my building, and what I saw made me stop to take a

closer look. The lady was on the ground on all fours crawling towards me, and she wasn't crawling slowly like a baby. She was crawling so fast. The three-street distance I kept between us instantly became two, and she was closing the distance between us so fast I could see her facial features growing clearer and clearer. She was wearing a smile that was inhumanely wide. If a regular person tried to smile like that, it would definitely hurt. I surge of chills ran down my back. I felt like I was frozen in place as she was crawling towards. A screech surged through the air followed by a series of laughter that I can only describe as terrifying. She was now only a street away, and I felt tingles run down my legs before I forced myself to run. I needed to run away. No longer

caring about the food I was still holding, I dropped it on the ground and started running for my life, fear gripping every cell in my body, my knees threatening to give out, but I knew I needed to keep running. My building was right in front of me now, and not knowing how far back that creature was, A scream ripped out of my throat so loud I scared myself. I wanted others to wake up and come down and help me. I needed to catch the attention of other people. My studio apartment was on the third floor and I was screaming my head off as I raced up the stairs, not knowing if the sound of the following footsteps was simply the sound of my footsteps

bouncing off the walls or from the creature that was crawling on all fours. But I was not about to find out. Adrenaline coursed through my body as I pulled the key out of my pocket and shoved it into the keyhole. In one swift motion, I turned the knob, opened the door, and threw myself into the room bringing the door with me and slamming it shut. My door automatically locks upon closing, but I had an extra security notch, and I pulled the metal chain into the notch before I collapsed on the ground exhausted from the running. I closed my eyes trying to calm down my heartbeat, as I felt like I was going to

jump out of my chest. A sudden ear-piercing sound froze me from all thoughts and action. I whipped my head around, and I saw a face pressed against my window with the same wide smile, but this time I could see her eyes. It was as wide as golf balls, and there was something different about it. There were no pupils. I sat on the ground in shock as I watched her run her long nails across the window, making a noise so high-pitched I had to cover my ears. It was like the sound of forcing a piece of chalk against the blackboard. I jump up and run towards the door. I unleash the chain and run across from me banging on the door. The middle-aged couple opened with concern on their face, told them that there was some weird creature on my window, which obviously does sound

kind of dumb. They hesitantly make their way to my studio apartment and look around, and there was nothing there. It was dead silent like everything that I saw was all in my head. I ran towards the window, and looked around, and like they said, there was nothing out there. The couple patted my back and told me to stop watching so many horror movies and help me close my door as they returned to their own homes. Just to be sure I made sure my window was locked and closed my blinds before I collapsed on the ground once again. Not sure how long I laid on the floor because when I opened my eyes again, it was due to my alarm ringing. I know I am not dreaming because I am still in my hoodie and my shoes are still on, and I have an exam today. I don't know

what that thing was or what it wanted for me. I just know that I am never, ever going out at night ever again. My dog, Bailey, went missing a few days ago. I'd been out all day with my friend, bearing in mind I'm usually home the majority of the time due to being unable to work, so the dog is never alone, and usually, if he is, it's not for too long. I also live with my parents and brother, so a lot of the time there's at least one person in the house. Monday, I had gotten home later than usual. My parents hadn't got home from work yet, and my brother had left to stay at his girlfriends a little after I'd left. As usual, I'd walked into the house shouting to Bailey that I was home. I walked into the kitchen to unlock his crate and let him out when my heart sank. The crate door

was wide open. I didn't panic straight away. I thought maybe my brother had forgotten to put him in his crate. Although deep down, I knew that the cameras and alarm would have picked up any movement. It had been about ten minutes after I got home when I realized that the back door was still open. I immediately rushed outside looking around the garden to see if Bailey was out there, but within seconds I realized a part of the fence was broken, and he must have somehow squeezed through it. I ended up calling my parents, and then my brother, who was adamant that he'd locked the back door and put the dog in his crate,

although it wouldn't have been the first time he had forgotten to do so. I then ended up checking the cameras, that in my panic I completely forgot about. This, however, freaked me out a bit. On the camera you could clearly see my brother putting Bailey in his crate, locking it, and then checking that all the doors and windows were closed. My heart sank. I felt violently ill. The only other way he could have got out would have been if someone broke in.

The thought bought up so many questions. How did they unlock the door? How was there nothing broken? Why didn't the camera movement notification go off? I forwarded the cameras to see if I could find who let him out and opened the door. Maybe my brother came back again. I got to one part in the recording and realized the dog was no longer in his crate. The door was wide open as I had found it.

I went back a bit, but the recording didn't seem to have picked up any movement between the time he was in his crate to when he was gone. Nothing had shown up on any of the other cameras either. At this point, everyone was absolutely heartbroken. We didn't think any more of the weird situation and started asking around if anyone had seen him. We put up posters, posted things on social media. We were so determined to find him. I started getting nightmares after the first night he was gone. I'd often wake up in a cold sweat multiple times in the night.

I couldn't stomach the awful images and thoughts surfacing in my head about what could have happened to him. I have been so attached to this dog the moment we got him, to ever think that he wasn't going to come back. The thought was just unbearable. So when we found him today, Thursday, morning, I felt like I could actually breathe again. We were all so relieved to have him back. That was until now. Bailey had been off ever since we found him, but originally it was just brushed off

because he'd never been away from us that long, and we thought it had obviously shaken him up a bit. My parents still keep saying that, but his eyes, they're not his eyes. They're not those cute, innocent little puppy dog eyes. They're dark and cold and empty. And I know you could just say that it was from being alone outside for days, but there's just something wrong and I know it. No one believes me, but that is not our dog. Bailey was playful and would cuddle up next to you and you'd feel so happy and loved. But this thing acts and pretends to be Bailey, but I swear it's not. The way it stares at me, like I'm some sort of prey.

When it cuddles up next to me, all I feel is cold. My anxiety feels at an all-time high like the dog, the thing, right next to me is dangerous. It looks at me like it knows. It knows I know. I've ended up staying at my friend's house for a few days. I just don't feel safe at home. I've been looking back on the cameras over and over and I swear I can see some kind of shadow. My friend said my brain is making it up because I want to see something for some kind of explanation. Maybe she's right, but I don't know. I swear to you in the back of the garden. The same hour Bailey went missing. There's a face in the bushes, and it's not a human one. The figure is so hard to see, but it looks lanky and on all fours. And it's staring right at the camera. That figure is the same silhouette I can see on the kitchen floor on the camera after Bailey miraculously disappears.

It's completely unnerving. I want to stop looking, but I can't seem to pull my face away from the screen. I don't what's going on. I just know that, that dog at home, if it even is one, is not Bailey. And I have a sinking feeling it'll do anything to make sure no one else finds out that it's not.

This is a recollection of the events that occurred on the February of 2023. As we got out of the rented car, my dad asked me, ready for the tracks? I replied, of course. Little did I know that I was ready for the tracks, but not ready for what was about to happen. We started walking towards the seated ski lift.

We entered the enclosure of the station for the lift, and as the seat slowly veered towards us, we sat down. I asked my dad, which path are we gonna ride on? My dad thinks for a few solid seconds, and then answers, let's go off slope. I hesitate for a second, flashbacks in my mind reminding me of what off-slope felt like back in Switzerland,

and then agree with my dad. Yeah, let's go off slope, why not? We got off the lift and started thinking, should we start here or go even further up? We decided to go even further up, actually the furthest up we could go. It was that decision, the decision to go to the top of the mountain,

that proved terribly wrong. We reached the highest point you can go to by lift. I put down my skis, my dad put down his snowboard, and we checked if everything was in our backpacks. We brought a metallic thermos with tea, some cookies, flashlights just in case, a few hand warmers, and a navigator, also just in case. I put the navigator in my left side pocket because we both had small backpacks, and it didn't fit in them. Looks like we are ready to go, said my dad. I nodded. I strapped into my skis, and my dad strapped on his snowboard. We took off, down the mountain, and we reached a pretty high speed quite quickly,

maybe 30 or 40 kilometers per hour, I'd say. I wanted to go in front of my dad, and I carefully overtook him. I turned around to give him a thumbs up, turned back around to face forward, and in one second I was riding through the deep snow, in the next, I was flying downwards. Everything seemed to slow down at that moment. I looked downwards, and in my seconds of flight saw something interesting. The snow had fallen downwards, taking it. me with it. At first I collided with the hard, snowy ground with my left side, but then my head

caught up, and everything went black. The first thing I saw after hitting the ground was my dad's face, as he was trying to shake me awake. I mumbled something incomprehensible, and as I started to wake, I became aware that the navigator we brought had been crushed by the fall. Oh no, I thought to myself. As I got up, I noticed that my skis and my dad's snowboard had been snapped by the fall, that we were in some kind of cavity. As I looked up, I saw the huge height we had fallen off. A menacing question started creeping into my mind. How are we going to get out? The sides of the hole we had fallen into were very smooth, and there was no way we could climb up them. My dad came up to me and started explaining what he saw when I started falling. I was riding

right behind you when I saw how you quickly fell down the hole. I tried to stop, but I was too fast and fell in right behind you. I didn't want to land on you, so I jumped forward a bit, and landed first on my board at an angle, so it snapped under all of the weight, and I landed on my butt. As we together thought of a way out, my dad decided to knock on all sides of the supposed cave we fell into. All the knocks were the same, until one of them sounded very hollow. It was a sheet of ice on the wall, and the first idea that came to mind of what to do was to kick the ice down. The sheet cracked on the second kick and completely shattered on the fifth. As I looked inside, I saw something out of place.

Metal structures. We were looking inside a room of some sort. The walls were white concrete and there were some kind of metallic machines. We walked in, confused, and a little creeped out. Why and when was this built? I thought to myself, was this maybe some secret laboratory? It was eerily silent, except for the occasional dripping of water. As we walked further through the structure, the scent of mildew and dust hit our noses,

and we started seeing other metallic machines with many different kinds of claws and hooks. It all looked very unsettling now. The light from the hole was fading steadily, and at some point we had to pull out our flashlights when it got too dark for us to see properly. We were maybe ten or so minutes in, is when we heard the first sound, except for water droplets since we first entered the laboratory. It was the ever so faint sound of what appeared to be footsteps of some kind. I gave the signal to my father to turn off our flashlights and wait.

Everything went silent for a few moments. The steps resumed after the five seconds that felt like ours because of the fear that somebody was there with us. We got the chance to listen to the footsteps closely, and they sounded, off. They were offbeat and very slow. They didn't sound human. Whatever it was, it was. far away and there was no way it hurt us, so we were relatively safe, for now.

As we headed further in, I took my time to look at the equipment, scattered across the rotting tables, forgotten, and seemingly hadn't been touched for 80 years. That theory proved correct when I saw a date on one of the crates which was used to transport the equipment, the crate being used in 1943. The date didn't surprise me all that much, since it all looked as old as it indicated. My dad walked over and said, 1943, that's World War II era. Austria was occupied by Nazi Germany back then.

Hmm, what use did they have for this lab in 1943, nuclear or bio-weapons development? As I looked around the room, trying to spot any hints that may give away the purpose of the underground facility. My eyes stopped on many reddish-brown stains, scattered across the floor and walls. I tried to convince myself that it was just a coffee accident, and not what it looked like.

I decided to follow the Stain Trail and called out to my dad to do the same. I found out where the trail led only a ten second walk through the rooms to find the trail's start. It was a glass chamber of some sort. It has a toilet sink and a bed. The bed was also stained

with that putrid color of brownish red. There was a spot on the glass wall where the glass was broken and it seemed that someone, or something, had broken out of the chamber rather than in since most of the glass shards were laying outside the enclosure. And at that moment, I knew what this lab was for. It was for experimenting on people.

Since this all happened during World War II, it is a solid guess that they were experimenting on prisoners. As I was looking around the and the horror-inducing chamber, when I heard the footsteps again, but this time they were louder and way faster. I realized they were getting louder and louder each second. It was heading toward us. I signaled my dad to keep very quiet.

I didn't notice that my flashlight was still on, but it was already too late to turn it off. The beam of light was pointing directly at the thing that had been walking around the lab this whole time. I was dead silent as I turned my head to gaze at the creature and was horrified. It was disturbingly humanoid, except its skin had turned a grayish tone and its eyes were missing.

It was blind. That's it. That's why it didn't see the beam of light. This meant that if we were very silent, then we could sneak past it and into another room. We were very lucky to find a room with doors that had working locks, and we sneaked inside, and as silently as we could, close the doors and locked the locks. We sat down on the floor, tired of the mix of adrenaline and fear. I decided to drink some tea and eat a little bit. I opened my backpack and realized that I hadn't closed the thermos tightly enough, and it had leaked tea into my backpack, but the amount leaked was small. I drank the tea and ate a cookie. I finished drinking. I put the thermos on the floor. My dad gave me a

hand warmer, and we started deciding which way we should go. We only had two choices, since there were only two doors in the room. One led back to where we came from, and the other led to the other part of the laboratory. Well, we aren't going back to whatever the hell that thing was. My dad reasoned, Well, then the obvious choice is the door that leads further into the lab. I started putting my things back into my backpack, when to my horror, the thermos I had brought with me slipped out of my hand because it was wet from the leak earlier. A loud, bang! sounded in all directions. I quickly picked the thermos up, the steps started again, the loudest yet.

We quickly exchanged glances with my dad, and sprinted as silently as we could, out of the room. As we ran away and closed the doors behind us, I could hear a menacing banging on the door we closed. Then we heard a horrifying, crack, as the locked door seemingly was bashed in by the creature. How strong is it? I thought to myself in terror. We sped up our sprint, as we heard a banging yet again. This time on the other door we closed while we ran. We ran even further when I noticed something different in the structure of the lab. It was a staircase. I signaled my dad to go up the stairs, and we started ascending. Even though we only went up three stories, it felt like a lot more.

As we reached the three stories, we noticed that the stairs end there. We ran towards what hopefully was the exit of this wretched place. There was a ladder, and with no hesitation, I and my dad quickly climbed up. My dad went first, so if there was a locked pothole, he could bash it open, and bash it open he did, when we realized that it had corroded to the ground, so we needed a lot of force to open it. I hope the creature can't climb ladders, I thought, while the footsteps grew ever louder. With a final thud to the rusted metal cover, it flew open.

We hurried outside with unimaginable speed. As we got out, we noticed there was a lock on the outer side of the cover. What would have happened to us if it was closed? It's best that we'll never know. With the same unimaginable speed, we threw the cover back on the lab entrance and locked it. My dad proposed the idea that we put a boulder on the cover. so that the creature will have no way to get out. We can only hope that it is not strong enough to break through, my dad said.

I was too tired to respond. I just nodded. The adrenaline had started to wear off, and before I knew it, I collapsed into the snow. My dad lay down beside me, and we lay there for a while. After we got a little strength back from our rest, we started a mix of climbing and sliding down the mountain. We had ended up on the peak of the mountain after we climbed out. and there was a pretty long way down. As soon as we reached the first track, we waved for people to slow down. One person stopped to help us, and we asked them to call the helpline. We told him to call a snowmobile,

and it arrived after about 15 minutes. We were happy that the person on the snowmobile didn't ask anything, and just drove us straight to the hospital. We were let out of the hospital the same day, because we only has minor bruises. When we arrived home that day, I just went straight to the hospital, to my bed and collapsed into sleep. The next few days were spent mostly trying to find any information about a laboratory in the Austrian mountains, and found nothing, except on the fifth day of research, when I was ready to give up. I found a website with what appeared to be info on the lab. It was some kind of website, and the first thing I saw when I went to see it was the big message not secure. I didn't hesitate even for one second. I immediately clicked on the button,

proceed to the website. The website looked sketchy as hell, but I was very desperate for information. I read the text and it said this. The laboratory was built in the Austrian Alps in late in the year 1940, and it was used to experiment on humans. The laboratory had been known to infect people with several parasites and viruses, but it was quickly abandoned in May of 1945. The most probable cause of its abandonment is the end of World War II, but it is not certain. The laboratory has not been even to this day its location is unknown. I didn't know what to think of this. I accepted this as truth because of what I've seen. I went to bed and didn't think of the incident much until one day. Early Monday morning, July 10, 23, at about 12.50 a.m. I was driving Matt's

2020 Toyota Yaris back to his house. After getting some gas and going to the local 24-7 CVS, he asked about Tower Street in Bristol. We were in Central East Providence at this point. He asked me if I had ever been there or heard of it. When I told him I had never heard of it, let alone been there, he told me about a time that he went when he was young. I will paraphrase what he said. When he was younger, he went there with a group of friends. They went about halfway down the street and shut the car off, and stayed there for about 30 to 40 minutes. When they turned the car back on, there was writing in the fog on the windows. I wish this is what happened when he and I went.

This is what happened when Matt and I went to the cursed road. We turn on to the road, and there was this relatively newly developed neighborhood at the top of the street, so we roll through the neighborhood at a reasonable pace. Once we got to where the streetlights stopped, the woods take over the road. We got to the first bend, and then we saw about 10 to 15 deer just standing there on the road. I slowly cruised past them, using the horn when necessary to scare them out of the road. At the second bend in the road, stuff got even sketchier. At this point, the trees enveloped the road completely to the point where we couldn't see the sky or moonlight anymore.

We kept going until we got to the point of the road that is private, turned around, shut the car off, and waited for the lights to turn off. After about one or two minutes of complete silence and darkness, our eyes started to adjust to the darkness. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw this large emaciated figure that was about eight feet tall. It looked like a mix of a man and a buck standing on its hind legs walking toward us slowly. At the same time, I saw this figure in the rearview mirror. Matt saw a glowing white figure about five or six feet tall with a wispy tail crossed the road quickly. It was about two car lengths in front of us. I looked down from the mirror and saw the same thing and immediately turned the car on,

slammed it into drive, and floored it out of there. It didn't end there. The creature I saw in the rearview mirror started chasing us and kept up. with us. At this point, I looked down at the speedometer and we are going 120 plus miles per hour. We hit a hill and the wheels left the road surface. The view of the creature was obstructed temporarily. When the car landed back on the ground, the creature was even closer than before. This creature kept tailing us until we left the forested area and got back to the neighborhood, where I felt safe enough to slow down to an average speed. We drove back to Matt's house in

utter disbelief and silence. When we got home, we checked the outside of the car, and written in the dirt on the back of the car where the words, leave now. After reading this, my side started to burn. It was as if I just got scratched. When I lifted my shirt, I asked Matt if there was anything there, and sure enough, there were three scratch marks in perfect lines, like someone took their middle three fingers and dragged them along my side. Please someone help me find out what this was. My friend and I both work as nurses at the same hospital. It kind of makes the insane hours bearable. We generally don't have much time to hang out, but whenever we run into each other, we crack a joke or two, unless we really don't have time. About two months ago, I ran into him on my way

to the break room. We joked around for a little bit, and he seemed to have some time on his hands. I asked him if he didn't have anything to do. He told me about a new patient that had just come in, a young man, maybe early 20s. Nothing seemed wrong with the man, but he was completely unable to move. After some tests, the doctors were left clueless, but were sure the man was stable, so they left him for the time being. My friend, however, was asked to stay close, to observe, and to make notes if anything unusual happened.

My friend told me he just briefly left the room because he felt a bit uneasy. I laughed at him and jokingly started making fun of him. scared of a paralyzed man. Be careful now. Maybe he'll turn into a sleep paralysis demon. He chuckled, but he didn't bite back like he usually would. He seemed nervous and told me to come into the room with him. When we got close to the bed, I understood what freaked him out so much.

The man, while lying completely still, barely even breathing, had his eyes open, and they were staring straight at me, following me through the room. As we slowly approached, I got nervous too. This wasn't very common. I greeted him and asked him to blink if he could hear me. He didn't. His eyes remained open for an unnaturally long time. See, freaky, isn't it?

My friend whispered. But as soon as he did, the man's eyes rolled back into his head, and after what seemed like an eternity, when they eventually rolled back, his piercing eyes were now focused on my friend. I told my friend that that's definitely not normal and we should inform a doctor, but he didn't respond.

He was staring right back at the man, eyes wide open. I thought he was joking at first, so I laughed nervously and hesitantly punched him on the shoulder, but he didn't respond at all. His body didn't even move on the impact. My break was halfway over at that point, and I really didn't feel like staying there any longer, so I left, looking for a doctor. I didn't want to be embarrassed, so I didn't really tell her any details, just that there was something she should see, and that my friend was too busy making notes to leave. Luckily, she followed me, but when we got to the room, everything had to be. changed. My friend was just sitting on a chair, notepad in hand. The room looked brighter than before

somehow, and when I approached my friend, he seemed surprised to see me there. Haven't seen you in a minute, he said with a big smile. Was it last week? It had been about a week ago before I ran into him that day, but I left him in that room not even five minutes prior. I, for good reason, was very confused. When I left the room, it seemed like he was possessed by some sort of demon, but now he was completely fine, smiling, laughing like always. I asked him if he was okay, and he said that, of course, he was. I didn't really know how to react, so I said that my lunchtime was running out and left to get a coffee. The rest of my shift was like a normal shift, long and exhausting. I kind of managed to forget about what had happened and made myself believe that he was probably pranking me, or I had somehow

imagined it, I don't sleep a lot, so it added up. I work late shifts, so when I finished it was dark outside and the hospital was a lot quieter. Weekdays are usually not too bad, less drunk idiots falling on their heads. On my way out, however, I had to go past the room with the paralyzed patient, unless I wanted to double the length of my walk. I didn't. I decided I would just quickly walk through the corridor and ignore the room. It couldn't hurt me anyways, right? It was dark. It's not like that never happened, but it definitely wasn't common. All I could really see was the emergency exit sign on the other side of the corridor. I pulled out my phone, turned on my torch, and started walking. The room was ever approaching, but I had decided to go,

so I had to commit now. When I got close, I slowed down a little, keeping my eyes on the door, making sure it stayed shut. But then suddenly it burst open, and my friend came stumbling out. Eyes red like he had been crying and there were suddenly bald spots on his head. He crawled over to me and clung to my leg. Please get me out. I didn't know what to do so yelled for help. No one came and he kept repeating the same phrase over and over, louder every time.

It turned to screaming, more and more powerful until he started coughing up blood. I grabbed him by the shoulders and asked him what was wrong. and then I realized that he hadn't blinked a single time. Let's get out of here, okay? I tried to sound confident and brave, but I'm not sure I hid my fear well. I tried to pull him up, but it was like his legs had stopped working. His screaming stopped and he looked me straight in the eyes.

Protect me, he said. Protect me from him when I go. His entire body went weak, and he fell to the floor. I heard a laugh from inside the room with the paralyzed patient. I rushed in, but there was no one that. there, just an open window. I looked outside but didn't see anyone. My friend ended up in the same bed, completely paralyzed, but his eyes always open, staring at anyone that dares enter his room. I haven't gone to see him since the incident, and I don't wish to. On a camping trip with friends

in the backwoods of southern Georgia at my cousin's grandfather's property, the really old site, he didn't maintain it well. There was a large cabin meeting house, lots of property, a lake, a large wooded area that we liked to explore. There was a river that wound through the woods, and we built huge forts along it. We camped by the shore of the lake. It was low, but on the opposite shore, a huge ridge rose with trees on either side. It reminded me of a carriage road. On our first night there, we stayed up until about one.

I needed to use the bathroom, so I went to the meeting house, since we slept in tents. It was a wood-paneled, ancient building full of animal heads. with few working lights. I stepped in, turned on the light, and paused. The animal heads had all positioned to be facing the door. Unnerved, I used the restroom and stepped out only to find them looking right at me, on the other side of the room from where they were looking last. I ran out, terrified, then realized I hadn't turned off the light. I looked back and was about to open the door to shut off the light. When through the blinds, I saw a black menacing figure in the the corner of the room. This time the heads had swiveled to face it. Then, of its own accord,

the lights shut off. I ran to my tent and zipped myself up. I didn't sleep much that night. The next day we were exploring the woods and discovered two places that, unbeknownst to us, would be the most terrifying places we had ever been later that night. We had built a fort along the river earlier that day, and we were following the river up when we came across a peculiar structure. A large triangular fort-like place made of what appeared to be tree roots. It was like a lean-to and was covered on the sides and top like a pyramid, but one side was slightly open like an entrance. Near the structure in an opposite triangle were three very deep holes. We were careful not to step in these. Inside the structure was a triangle-like object on the floor, made of what

appeared to be finely whittled wood, very old, and covered in an unrecognizable hieroglyph type-rex. We chose not to disturb this, but to mark the spot and give us an observation point, we laid logs across a nearby ditch in a Vietnam-style dugout and placed some large sticks with flags tied to them on top, so we could see the colors and know the spot. Then we found the ridge. The ridge started deep in the woods almost parallel to our campsite, then wound to the lake and made up most of the opposite shore. We walked along it for about 15 minutes, and noticed that the path was

like a tree tunnel, and the fallen leaves were well trodden, the path flat, like a carriage trail. All of a sudden we saw in the middle of the path an RV. Not just any RV, but an ancient RV from like the 60s like a van, we walked up and inspected it. It was filled with dust, and the inside had obviously not seen daylight in years with prominent sunmarks on the seats, and yet the inside was full of large boxed packages and files. I told you to the inside of large boxed packages and files. tugged on the handle and tried to enter to my friend's delight. The door gave way and I found a file sitting on the seat. It was very dusty, so I slapped it against the dash and the dust fell away to reveal very faded letters. The only non-fated or humidified characters were the large, bold,

printed letters at the top. It read, Gay Site 16, anomalous behavior detected, structures common, manifestation present, keep high alert level. I noticed the boxes and pulled one over, opening the lid. It had a bunch of the finely whittled sticks, a gooey black substance in a jar, and what appeared to be an etched polished metal sphere. The note in the box read, Station unsafe, will begin remote monitoring, the situation still undefined, no further progress, holes still prevalent. I was very puzzled, so I pulled over another piece of paper lying on the seat. It seemed newer than the others, but still old, with a hole running along the edge, the decaying carcass of a bug lying stuck to the paper.

I picked it up and read, Gay Site 16, Weekly Instruction, Inspect Lake Floor in Direction Bravo, owner expected to arrive soon, be ready to stow equipment, another structure has appeared 0.6 miles away from your post direction, 223. End.

I assumed the structures were referring to the wooden site, and that manifestation could refer either to weird occurrences or the black figure I had seen earlier. On our walk back, I and my friends felt like we were being watched, and I turned around to see a black figure dart behind a tree. We began to sprint, and I kept seeing it in my periphery. However, later that day we were brainstorming what it might have been, and I realized that the neighbor's bred black labs,

and that the figure I saw was probably one of his dogs chasing us. We went fishing that afternoon, and I caught a large black eel, slick and eyeless. It had large teeth and tried to snap at my fingers. I threw it back terrified, and it went back into the water. I discovered later that eels were not supposed to be living in that lake, and their appearance was unexpected. There was not a species nearby that matched what I had seen. That night we played manhunt, and I went deep into the woods and hid with a friend in the dugout we built near the structure. About ten minutes into hiding, it's about 11.30, we saw a large black figure, about ten feet in height rise from the structure and start walking slowly towards our

dugout. It was a low-to-the-ground dugout with an entrance in the front and the back. We sprinted out the back entrance and towards our tents. We turned and saw the creature sprinting after us, catching up quickly. Suddenly, the creature stopped and looked at the ridge behind it at a very specific spot. It was a spot about 300 yards beyond the RV. Suddenly, there was a muzzle flash from the ridge and the creature started getting pelted with rounds of some caliber. It screeched and began sprinting up the ridge, passing the RV in seconds. As it passed, the lights flickered on in the RV and then off again. The creature was beyond view in the darkness, but we heard screams of someone fat along the ridge. We slept inside the meeting house that night, and a thunderstorm rolled in.

I woke up about 4 a.m. to see the creature standing about 10 yards away from the cabin windows, head obscured. I did a double-take, and it was gone. That morning, we took some knives and walked to where the screams came from the night before. We could see that the shots had come from what we now realized was the neighbor's property. He stumbled over about 10 o'clock the next day to say that he had shot at the creature, thinking it was going to go after his dogs. He was a fervent conspiracy theorist and thought it was Bigfoot. It had come after him, and he went inside his house and hid in his upstairs. Later that day, we saw a fire coming from the ridge and saw that the structure had burned to a crisp. That night, we were sitting in the pickup truck bed and saw the RV turn on

and drive off the ridge into the lake. Before it hit the water, the water rose up as if to grab the RV and it was swallowed up. We freaked out and never camped there again. As I stand in our cramped city apartment, staring at the dust-laden camping gear sprawled out across the living room floor. A sense of excitement courses through me. The jumbled mess of tents, sleeping bags, and hiking boots is, to anyone else, just a chaotic pile of junk. But to Randy and me, it's a collection of memories. Each piece tells a story of adventures past and beckons us toward those yet to come. You ready for this, Jess? Randy's voice pulls me from my reverie. I turn to see him standing by the window, sunlight filtering in and casting a warm glow over him.

His blue eyes hold the same flicker of anticipation that, I'm sure, mirrors my own. Absolutely, I say, grinning at him. The Appalachian Mountains, here we come. There's something inexplicably alluring about the wild, unadulterated wilderness, the rush of freedom, the escape from the city's monotonous cacophony, the enchanting stillness, it's intoxicating. We've always shared this love, Randy and I. Since the day we met, our shared passion for the outdoors has been a cornerstone of our

our relationship. We're just two souls seeking thrill and solace in nature's arms. As we load our gear into the car, the reality of our adventure begins to sink in. This isn't just another weekend getaway. The Appalachians have a reputation for their rugged, pristine beauty and a haunting allure that has often been cloaked in local folklore. But we've laughed off the tales, eager to create our own narrative. Last chance to back out, Randy jokes as he slams the trunk shut. I chuckle, play nudging him. And miss out on all the fun? No way. As we begin our journey, the city's concrete skyline quickly gives way to sprawling green landscapes. The road ahead is long, leading us into the heart of the Appalachian Range. There's an odd feeling, a mix of excitement and a hint of anxiety

that lingers, as if whispering of the unexpected trials were bound to face. Through the rearview mirror I watch our city life fade into the distance. I feel an inexplicable pull in my gut, a silent call from the wild that makes my heart race. As the miles roll by and the cityscape dissolves into dense forests and towering mountains, a profound sense of calm washes over me. We're leaving behind the world we know, venturing into the unknown. The thrill of what lies ahead overshadows any lingering fear. Our chatter gradually fades into comfortable silence. The landscapes rolling past our windows tell tales of their own, a vibrant blend of changing hues under the setting

sun. The closer we get to our destination, the more pronounced the mountain range becomes, its majestic peaks kissing the sky. Even as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the winding road, the sense of tranquility remains unbroken. Our smiles are wide and our spirits are high. We are blissfully unaware of the creeping horrors that lurk within those captivating depths, ready to shatter our serenity into a thousand fragments. The Appalachian Mountains are calling, and we are eager to answer. Little do we know that this journey, meant to be an escape from urban monotony,

will instead become a test of courage and survival that will change us forever. We wake up to the crisp, clean air of the Appalachians on our first morning. It's a far cry from the city smog we're used to breathing in. Stretching out of our tent, I take in the serenity of our surroundings, the calm mountain lake,

the lush forest teeming with the morning songs of unseen birds, and the cool breeze rustling through the lois. leaves. The piece that washes over me is unlike anything I've ever experienced. Randy, always the early riser, has breakfast ready, a simple meal of eggs and bacon cooked over our small campfire. As we eat, we talk about the hike we plan for the day, the trails we want to explore, our voices carrying through the quiet forest. Days pass and blissful monotony. Hikes during the day, campfires at night. We share stories, laugh, and bask in the wild beauty that surrounds us. But slowly, subtly, things start to change.

One night, as we settle in our tent, a whisper of a breeze brushes past us, carrying what sounds like distant, indistinct chatter. We brush it off as the wind playing with the leaves, or maybe a distant stream. But then we hear it again, the murmuring, almost as if the wind itself is speaking. It's an odd sensation that sends a chill down my heart. spine. We start noticing other things too, like the sudden drops in temperature that make our campfire flicker and die, replaced by an unsettling cold that wraps itself around us, or the shadows that seem to move at the corner of our eyes, disappearing when we turn to look

directly at them. The worst, though, is the feeling of being watched. It's a constant, nagging sensation that raises the hairs on the back of our necks, turning our peaceful retreat into a place of uneasy vigilance. Probably just some wildlife, Randy says, trying to laugh off our fears, but I can see the worry etching lines into his usually calm face. Our laughter becomes less frequent, our conversations more hushed, as if we are intruding upon something sacred, something we aren't supposed to disturb. Despite our growing unease, we decide to stay, attributing our fears to our urban minds

unaccustomed to the true wilderness. We rationalize the strange happenings, put on brave faces and continue our exploration of the Appalachian range. But every rustle of leaves, every creaking branch, sends us into heightened alertness. As time passes, our once peaceful campsite starts feeling more like a prison, hemmed in by invisible watchers, and whispers that can't be traced to any source. The beauty of the Appalachians is still present, but now it's overshadowed by an undercurrent of fear that taints every sight, every sound. Our days of exploration are replaced by nights of restless sleep, punctuated by disturbing dreams, and the

eerie nocturnal sounds of the forest. We clutch each other tighter, seeking comfort in the shared terror that something is out there, lurking just beyond our sight. Our once-cherished adventure is no longer the escape we had envisioned. The serene stillness of the Appalachian wilderness has transformed into an eerie silence, heavy with dread. We try to dismiss our fears, to laugh off the strangeness as mere tricks of our minds. But as we burrow deeper into our sleeping bags, the cold reality sinks in. We are not alone in this vast, untamed wilderness. And whatever shares our space, it's watching us. Feeling hemmed in by the unseen watchers of our campsite, we decide to take a longer hike, hoping to find some respite and movement in the distraction of

exploring. We pack our gear and set off into the heart of the forest. The farther we trek, the more overwhelming the presence of the mountains becomes, a massive living entity, both alluring and intimidating. It's during this hike that we stumble upon the old cabin, tucked away in a dense copse of trees. It's a worn-down, lonely structure, its wooden planks weathered by time and elements. Moss and vines crawl up its walls, nature slowly reclaiming what was once its own. There's an eerie stillness around it, a heavy air of forgotten tales. Curiosity, peaked, we venture closer. Randy pushes open the creaking door, revealing an interior as abandoned as the outside suggested. Dusty furniture, a moth-eaten rug, a fireplace filled with long

extinguished ashes. Yet, despite its derelict appearance, it feels like we're trespassing, stepping into a place where we don't belong. In the corner, we find a box filled with old journals. The faded pages tell stories of a time long past. Of the people who, who are the people who once lived here, of harsh winters and fruitful summers. But the more we read, the more we uncover unsettling tales of a sinister being that's part of the local folklore, a skin walker, the journals call it. A creature capable of changing its form, taking on the guise of any creature it wishes, even humans. As I read the detailed accounts of its shape-shifting abilities, its talent for mimicry, a cold shiver runs down my spine. The eerie accounts match

too closely with our own experiences in the campsite. We share a look, a mutual understanding passing between us. The whispers in the wind, the moving shadows, the chilling sensation of being watched. All signs point to the presence of this creature from the local lore. But our logical minds struggle to accept this possibility, attempting to dismiss the tales as mere superstition, an exaggerated product of isolation and fear. As we exit the cabin, the dusk setting in, we find ourselves enveloped in an oppressive silence, the forest holding its breath. We make our way back to our campsite, the forest looming around us, and unspoken fear gnawing at our

insides. That night, huddled in our tent, we discussed the legend of the Skinwalker. Randy tries to rationalize it, the scientist in him refusing to believe in such folklore, but his voice lacks conviction and his darting eyes betray his apprehension. I too want to dismiss the tales, to believe we're just two city dwellers out of our depth. But the unease has burrowed deep within me, refusing to be shaken off. Every creek of a branch, every rustle of leaves is a reminder of the terror we're potentially facing. Despite our skepticism, the cabin and its disturbing legend have sown the seeds of doubt within us. As darkness envelops our campsite, we find ourselves trapped in a reality where the boundary between rational skepticism and the unnerving

local folklore is blurring. We may have started this journey laughing off the tales of the Appalachians, but now we lay awake, listening to the whispers of the night, wondering if we've stepped into our very own folk tale. The following day is overshadowed by the knowledge of the Skinwalker legend. We stick closer to our campsite, our adventurous spirits dampened by a tangible fear. Despite our efforts to laugh it off, to immerse ourselves in the natural beauty around us, The unease is palpable. The turning point comes as twilight bleeds into the night. We're huddled around our dying campfire when we hear it,

a grotesque, guttural howl that cuts through the forest's ambient noise, chilling our blood. The sound is neither human nor animal, a distorted amalgamation that sets our nerves on edge. Then from the shadows at the edge of our campsite, it emerges. Caught in the dim glow of our campfire, it appears to be caught between forms, half human, half beast, a distorted living nightmare. Its eyes glow with an eerie, unnatural light, its mouth twisted in a cruel grin, a perverse

mockery of a human smile. Our terror is absolute, paralyzing. The abstract fear that had lurked on the edges of our thoughts since our arrival at the Appalachians is suddenly, horrifyingly, concrete. The creature before us is the living embodiment of the local folklore we had dismissed so easily, so arrogantly. A skinwalker. In the silence that follows, the skinwalker lets out a series of bone-chilling screams, mimicking the sounds of our terrified gasps with an accuracy that makes my stomach churn. Then, with one last piercing gaze, it retreats into the forest, its grotesque form melting away into the darkness. The shock leaves us frozen, the fire dying to embers in the deafening silence. I can see the terror reflected in Randy's eyes, a mirror of my own. The skinwalker

is real, and we are trapped in its territory. We retreat into our tent, but the thin fabric feels laughably insufficient against the monstrous creature lurking in the forest. Every sound outside is amplified in our minds, every rustle a potential attack, every gust of wind a threat. Neither of us sleep. We lie awake, our bodies rigid with fear, jumping at every nocturnal sound. The forest, once a place of peace and tranquility, has become a terrifying, inhospitable wilderness, teeming with hidden horrors. We're prisoners of our fear, of the skinwalker that has claimed the forest as its domain. As the night stretches on, we hold on to each other, our shared terror a cold, hard reality that we can't escape. Our peaceful retreat has turned into a

horror story, the local legend we had dismissed so easily proving to be our terrifying reality. Our world has changed, our perspectives shifted. Our wilderness adventure has morphed into a survival nightmare, a test of our courage against an unimaginable terror. The Skinwalker's existence has shattered our skepticism, plunging us into a world where nightmares come to life. We are no longer just campers, we are prey. As dawn breaks, Randy and I share a wordless understanding. We can't stay here any longer. We hastily break down our campsite, our movements quick and erratic,

fueled by adrenaline and fear. We barely speak. Our conversations reduced to whispered instructions as we prepare for our trek back. Our journey through the woods is a desperate escape. We move quickly, alert to every noise, every shift in the shadows. The fear that has been our constant companion

since our encounter with the Skinwalker seems to have permeated the forest, turning the beautiful wilderness into a twisted, maze of terrors. We take turns leading the way, our eyes continuously scanning the dense underbrush for signs of the creature. Several times we think we catch sight of its distorted form, half hidden among the trees, but each time it disappears before we can be sure. The feeling of being hunted, of being watched, never leaves us. The hours blur together as we hike, the journey seeming to stretch on forever. Our exhaustion is eclipsed by the fear that propels us forward. We share little

food and water between us, our basic needs becoming secondary to our desperation to escape. As we trudge on, the sun begins to set, painting the sky and hues of orange and pink. It's beautiful, but the impending darkness sends a shiver of fear down our spines. Nightfall means greater danger, the shadows providing perfect cover for the skin walker. Just when it seems like we won't make it out before nightfall, we break through the tree line, the sight of our car a beacon of hope in the gathering dusk. Relief washes over us as we stumble towards it, our exhaustion and terror momentarily forgotten. We scramble into the car, our shaky hands fumbling with the keys before the engine roars to life. As we drive away, the imposing silhouette of the Appalachian range in our

rear-view mirror feels more like a menacing specter than the beautiful landmark it was when we first arrived. Our escape from the forest doesn't erase our fear. Instead, it feels like we're outrunning it, leaving it behind in the wilderness where it belongs. The terror of the Skinwalker still clings to us, a chilling reminder of the nightmare we've survived. Our wilderness adventure, the one that was supposed to bring us closer to nature, has instead instilled in us a fear we can't shake off. The escape has left us feeling battered and broken,

our nerves frayed, our courage tested. We may have physically escaped the grasp of the Skinwalker, but mentally it's still with us, haunting our thoughts, tainting our memories, memories. As we leave the mountains behind, our silence isn't just a product of our exhaustion. It's a reflection of our shared trauma, our shared fear. We came to the Appalachian Mountains seeking peace and found horror instead. Our love for camping, for the wilderness, is now overshadowed by the terror of our encounter, a terror that will follow us long after we've left

the mountains behind. Back in the safety of our city apartment, the terror of the Appalachian seems like a distant nightmare. But at as night falls, the memories come flooding back. The images of the Skinwalker burned into our minds. In the harsh light of day, it's easy to dismiss it all as an overactive imagination, a trick of the shadows. But at night, the whispers of the forest, the distorted figure of the creature, the terror that gripped us, it all comes rushing back, chillingly real. The terror isn't confined to our dreams. In the quiet of our home, I catch Randy glancing over his shoulder, his eyes wide as if he expects the Skinwalker to emerge from the shadows.

I find myself doing the same, the quiet of the city night somehow echoing the oppressive silence of the forest. Our shared experiences have created a bond between us, a shared understanding of the terror we survived. We seek comfort in each other, yet there's an unspoken fear that lingers between us, a haunting memory of the horrors we faced. We attend therapy sessions, trying to make sense of our experience, to label it as a shared hallucination, a product of isolation and wilderness-induced fear. But the terror persists, seeping into our everyday lives, turning every shadow into a potential threat, every sound into a reminder of that night in the forest.

Our love for camping, for the wilderness, has been replaced by a fear so deep, it's tangible. The prospect of venturing into the wilderness again fills us with dread, the memories of the Appalachians serving as a grim reminder of the horrors that lurk in the shadows. Despite the distance, despite the safety of our city life, the Appalachians haunt us. We're forever marked by our encounter, the Skinwalker, a specter that lingers on the fringes of our reality. We can't escape it, can't erase the memories, can't forget the terror. One night, as I lay awake, trapped in the purgatory between sleep and wakefulness, I hear it. A sound outside our window, a distorted guttural howl that sends a jolt of fear through me. I turned to Randy, who's wide awake, his eyes mirroring my own terror.

The sound echoes through the silent city night, a haunting reminder of our encounter. We hold each other close, our hearts pounding, the chilling reminder of the skinwalker filling the room. The nightmare isn't over. It's followed us home, turning our haven into another forest, another hunting ground. We're still prey, our home just another campsite. The sound fades away, but the fear remains, a constant reminder of the horror that's now part of our reality. As dawn breaks, we're left with a chilling realization. We escaped the forest and outran the skinwalker, but we didn't leave the terror behind.

It followed us, embedding itself in our lives, transforming our reality into a waking nightmare. The Skinwalker isn't just a creature in the forest. It's a terror that's become a part of us, a haunting memory that's crossed the boundary into our reality. Our story didn't end with our escape. It was just the beginning. When the voices came on the radio, I was playing with my grandfather on the front lawn. He was sitting in his rocking chair, and I was out on the lawn when I heard it.

A long whistle on the radio, then, Billy, come here, Billy, come here now. began screaming. My dad was running towards me. Grandpa reached me first. Hands clasped over my ears, so hard it left a ringing noise. He was a serious stern old and I was always a bit afraid of him. Now he yelled at me over and over. Don't listen to him, Billy, don't listen. His voice came out in a suffocated whisper. Please God, don't let him listen. I love him. The old man's lined face was scrunched over. He was crying. I began to cry too. I could hear my mom and dad screaming in the distance. Long, horrible wails. I thought they were going insane. I love you, Billy. Don't you leave us? I love you. We stayed for a bit, grasping each other. When he let go,

it was quiet outside. On the porch, Mom was standing over the wrecked parts of the radio, a baseball bat in her hands. That was the last radio in our house. After that day, that old man and I were never close. He never said anything like that, before or after. I wonder if he got embarrassed. That day, though, it scared the crap out of him, and he didn't care. In my old town, there's a whistle, and it puts the fear of God in old men. It comes sometimes, and it comes for us. No matter how painfully familiar it became, not one of us understood it. Who is the one whistling?

What do they want? Why? Asking such questions was useful as screaming into a well. All you'd get back was echoes. Among the kids, the fear eventually became second-hand. Our parents had seen the consequences of lending in a well. ear to the whistle, though they never told us. Just don't think about it. Other than all that, everything in my hometown was pretty much free rain for us. We were of course told not to play in dangerous

areas, and of course that just spurred us on. One such place was the old scrapyard, the type of place where you can call active or derelict in equal measure. The favorite spot was a vast heap of warped metal frames at the very edge of the lot, disappearing into the woods, fit for summiting any dry day of the week. They might have been defunct pylons or something, but the strange lack of welds or rust suggested something more obscure. One Saturday, me and my buddy Alex were down in the scrapyard at the stroke of noon, ready as ever to clamber up the perilous heights of metal mountain. At first we called it Iron Mountain, but the name didn't quite fit. The old framework was made of something we couldn't quite put our finger on. We were boys, yeah,

but we weren't entirely careless. At least I wasn't. I made sure to bring carabiner belts for each of us to wear, though I think it was just too tedious to clip, unclip, and clip our way up the whole time. Alex, my more nimble counterpart, clambered up a ridge on the heap like a bona fide chimp. All I could do was suggest using the safety clips, not enforce it. Race you to the peak! He yelled without even looking back at me. It was irresponsible, but damn if his energy wasn't contagious. I followed soon. suit, choosing to clip on only when needed. I was so focused on my footing I didn't notice Alex was gone until taking a breather and looking up. There was nothing but motionless metal

wreckage around. Alex! The only reply was my own echo. I went to shout again when I heard him call out from somewhere. About 20 feet above, Alex crawled out of a gap in the metalwork. He beckoned me to follow. I jumped down with a hollow thud into what looked like an old cargo container. Whoa, has this been here the whole time? Flakes of rust hung lazily from its corrugated walls, framing a gloomy image of Alex beside a dusty table, an appealing green fold-up chair. Well, it didn't just appear overnight, did it? Alex scoffed. What do you think? New base of operations? He turned to the scant tabletop. Its only residence were an old-fashioned radio and some kind of microphone or transceiver. I don't know, man. Bit depressing in here, but with

some decoration. I trailed off as Alex fiddled with the radio dials. A dim blue display flickered to life and the radio hissed out static. Dude, Alex yelped while adjusting through frequencies. My dad used to have one of these. If we get walkie-talkies, we can a sudden hush replace the static. Then a low, almost inaudible buzz, underlining another sound emerging from the radio waves. Then we heard it. Ears! Cover your ears! I screamed, slapping my hands over. my drums with such force it sent a painful compression down my ear tubes. I looked back over to Alex. My stomach felt as if it plummeted ten stories. His arms swayed limply by his sides, eyes locked on the radio. I'm not sure exactly what happened at that moment. The next thing I remember

was kicking the radio onto the floor, hands still clamped around my head, then stomping it into scattered pieces. That brief span couldn't have been more than ten seconds. I grasped Alex by the shoulders and spun him around. His limbs felt stiff, but his eyes are what stick with me to this day. They were murky, churning mist in their depths. The eyes of an old dog. The shine was gone, too. Like every molecule of moisture vanished, leaving his eyes matte and dull. I shook him. When that didn't work, I slapped him. Nothing. Alex just stared vacantly at a distant point. Adults. Need to get adults. I croaked through the hard lump in my throat. Without a word, I pulled myself up and out from the belly of the metal mountain and flew down the beams and bars with reckless abandon.

I had to walk around the scrapyard for a few minutes until a single bar of service popped up. I phoned my dad without hesitation. Dad, I'm at the, um, scrapyard. Alex, he, he heard it. Wait right where you are. I'm coming. There was nothing else that needed to be said. My dad arrived with three other men in a pickup. After a brief explanation and a pointing finger,

they set off up the grimy heap for Alex. When they came back, Alex was slung over the largest man's shoulder. They set him in the middle back seat for the ride back, stuffing me in the back. It was hard to hear their conversations. Still, I swear I heard someone say, would have been better off leaving him there. The rest of Saturday blurred together. My mind was elsewhere. Afternoon bled into evening, bled into night, with oily storm clouds rolling in from the west. I stared out my wind, through the pattering droplets that died on the glass in small hollow taps. Amid the clear runnels sat a solitary hill on the edge of town, shunned by the trees around it. I understood its predicament then, on Alex's behalf.

The whistle, whatever Alex heard in it, whatever it had done to him, left him alone. Daylight drained over the horizon, yet in the fading dusk, a small figure slowly marched its way up that hill. dim shades of orange and yellow shone from Alex's blonde hair. My eyes widened. What was he doing? He crested the hill under encroaching shadows and stopped at its peak. I could barely make out his silhouette, eclipsing the low sun. His head pulled back and, though it was hard to tell, I think his mouth was moving. The only way I could describe it was that he was speaking into the sky, into the murky clouds that would swallow his words for themselves. Hey, hon, my mom's sudden co. who jolted me back to reality. Bedtime. She didn't comment on my obvious surprise, probably

thought it best to ignore the present and let me calm down. It's going to be okay, Billy. None of it was your fault. What about Alex? She hesitated. He, he's very sick now. I don't know how much longer he has, but he'll find peace. He won't be in pain. I'm just glad it wasn't. She trailed off in a sniffle and stroked my hair. Just try and get some rest, baby. Okay. Okay, Mom, I love you. You too. More than the world and the stars and everything between. I don't know when I drifted into sleep, only that it was long after. The next thing I remember is being ripped out of a hazy dream or nightmare by my dad shaking. His hands pulled away after placing ear defenders on my head. He passed me a torn notebook page, scrawling capitals reading,

Stay here, do, not. Take the headphones off till him back. I nodded and pulled my covers up tight. watching the hallway light shrink to a sliver through the door as Dad left. The shock of it all made everything come rushing back, Alex and the hill. I sprang off the mattress and over to the window, parting the curtains just a crack to peek outside. Other than swinging flashlight beams, it was nearly pitch black outside. Still, I knew where the hill was. Such a familiar sight, it had become something close to muscle memory. Squinting in its direction, I frowned.

A messy array of dots punctured the night, blinking in strange neon greens and blues. An empty sky told me the cloud cover hadn't yet passed. Whatever towered out there in the darkness was below the clouds. Close, real. I retreated into the sheets. Maybe it was just some sort of faraway radio tower I'd never seen before that just so happened to line up with the hill. An ambient breeze blew in the headphones over my ears, like hearing waves in a seashell. The idea of the whistle warming its way through the white noise terrified me, and I curled up under the covers.

Sometime later my bedroom door opened. I didn't see or hear it, but felt it. A light tapping on my shoulder beckoned me to emerge, and my dad gently removed my ear defenders. What's happening, dad? The lights. Where's Alex? He didn't answer, only hugging me and whispering that we'd talk in the morning, promptly gliding out of my room and leaving me alone. Sleep never came. How could it? I had so many questions, so much fear and so much guilt. It seemed so damn obvious. An old radio.

Just like the one on the day, Grandpa saved me. The same events played out, only I couldn't save Alex as Grandpa had me. I thought of asking him about it all, but he was still the same old man with little to say. Sure, finding answers was enticing, but it wouldn't fix my mistakes. It wouldn't change the way things had become. When day broke, I parted my curtains reluctantly. The hill was empty. The only difference I could tell was that the grass looked all cut up.

Earth hewn from its place, lacerated, torn up. I refused to stare any longer and went downstairs. I stood in the kitchen, hesitantly looking through the window at Grandpa sitting on the porch. Would he comfort me or shoe me away? In the end, I turned my back to the sun rays and headed upstairs. With Grandpa on my mind, a light bulb flickered on. I remember when he moved in a few years ago he'd lugged a bunch of old dusty boxes up the stairs. He definitely didn't put them anywhere on the first floor, so he must have stuffed them up in the attic.

Mum was reading downstairs while Dad occupied himself with gardening. Can't blame either of them for distracting themselves. The attic hatch cord creaked, and I feared it might snap. But the latch released, and the bolt on ladder's segments slid apart, hitting the floor, with a soft thump. I climbed the cold rungs and had to stifle a cough after inhaling the stale, dust-choked air. I spent some time searching in forgotten corners and behind low roof joists until a stack of beaten cardboard boxes caught my eye. There wasn't any writing on them, no names or dates. With their split edges and sagging corners, I got the impression they were

what I was looking for. The boxes held bundled stacks of papers, some faded photo-outes, albums, and the treasure of my hunt, a leather-bound diary. The spine cracked as I flicked through its pages. Most of the contents were mundane, everyday life, until I stopped at a series of late May entries from 72. I won't bother writing it in my own words. The raw details are more than enough. This is what it said, May 23, 1972. I need to get it out because if I don't, I'm scared that I'll forget it, Not that I want to remember. I want to forget. I want that more than anything. But if I forget, it'll come back and put someone else in danger. It'll take someone the way it took Jim Paulson. I need to start this at the beginning, or as close to the beginning as I can.

Jim and I worked at Reynolds Quarry together. We didn't know each other beyond that. Not really. Sometimes he'd be there when we went out for drinks as a crew, but mostly we just kept to ourselves. I didn't know Jim, but I like to think he was a good man. He had this big belly laugh. No matter how bad the joke was, he'd give a chuckle and slap his knee and tell you, you're funnier than Bob Hope. I think he was married. Yes, his wife was named Regina. They had three kids with another on the way. I should call her and have Cecilia send over a casserole or something. No woman should go through what she's going through right now. Lily and Pierce worked for the quarry too, the secretary we all called her Nurse Lily, because she was in night school for nursing. She'd also patch us up when we got hurt. I think some of

the men came to her with bumps and bruises that didn't really need looking at, but she was professional about the whole thing, always had a smile and a kind word, always sent you back to work feeling great. I always wondered why Nurse Lily wasn't married. She was still young, only 30. I know people who have called her an old maid, but she had time. Her whole life was laid out in front of her. She could have had whatever she wanted, a nursing job, a husband, a sweet little baby. I shouldn't be sentimental over Nurse Lily. I can't get sentimental now. Getting sentimental will only cloud my thinking and prevent me from remembering how it really happened. I think that's what it wants. I think it's filling my head with sweet thoughts of Nurse Lily and Jim Paulson. As I said,

Jim and I weren't good friends. We worked together. It never went beyond that. I'm getting distracted. I keep feeling that if I don't write about it, it won't be real. It is real. It happened. God damn. It happened. There was an explosion. I remember that. When the dynamite went off, Jim and I had laid the wire and were climbing up out of the quarry. I remember the pain in the side of my head, ringing in my ears, warm, wet crimson running to the fire. down the side of my face. Doc Hanlon says that flying debris ruptured my eardrum. I don't remember that. What I do remember is seeing Jim's face covered in blood. His hands pressed over his eyes, his mouth open in a distant wail. He was next to me, but he sounded like he was 10 miles away.

I grabbed him under the arms and dragged him out of the quarry. The other men helped us to nurse Lily's station. She had this little office in a trailer where she did paperwork and kept first aid supplies. I saw her through the window. She was wearing this little yellow blouse and had her hair tied back with a red ribbon, and I remember thinking that we'd ruin her blouse with all the blood. She jumped up and ran to us, ushering us in. I remember her shoving Jim into a chair. She grabbed her first aid kit, and I remember thinking that it wouldn't be enough. Jim had moved one of his hands, and his left eye was bright red, bathed in blood. The skin around it was shredded, blood streaming down over his face, seeping onto his shirt and pooling at his collar. Whatever had hit me in the ear

had hit him in the eye. I sat and pressed my hand against the side of my head. My ear was a wet, pulpy mass. Nurse Lily had this little radio on her desk. She always had music on. She used to sort of dance to it as she moved around the office. I don't know why I'm writing about that now. I suppose it wants me to. It wants me to think about Nurse Lily dancing instead of what really happened. The music was there until it wasn't. The music stopped. I don't really remember when, but it did all of a sudden. A low droning sound started instead, sort of like a shrill whine, or maybe a whistle. This long low note just filled the air. I'll be deaf in that ear for the rest of my life.

But that day, my dead ear probably saved me. Nurse Lily was pressing bandages against his face, her mouth moving a mile a minute as she tried to tell him that things would be okay. The ambulance was on its way, and he'd be all right. Jim Paulson just got up and walked out of Nurse Lily's office. He just got up and walked outside. She ran after him. At first I thought that she was trying to get him to come back, but once she caught up to him, she just walked alongside him. They went outside together. I didn't go after them. I watched from the window as they marched out towards the quarry. I should have gone after them. I should have. I shouldn't have let them, but I don't think I could have stopped it. Jim tilted his head back till he was staring up at the sky. His face turned blue. I've seen a face turned blue before. My boy's face turned that exact shade before I realized he was choking and slapped his back until he threw up chunks of hamburger. But Jim wasn't choking. His skin glowed like the fuzz you see on the TV when the rabbit ears need to be adjusted. It was so bright, so bright. I covered my face, but I could still see it.

Jim's mouth opened and a long, thin wire sprouted up like a vine snaking up through the dirt. The wire was black and thin. barely visible. Little satellites budded along it, blooming like obscene iron flowers. My teeth began aching then. It felt like the filings were trying to get out of my back teeth. I remember thinking that that mine wanted to grow and stretch like his. I swear I felt the metal wiggling. I think I was screaming. More wires were starting to grow out of Jim's head. They sprouted from his ruined eye sockets. I didn't notice Nurse Lily, not at first. She bolted, running forward and clawing at her face, her pretty face. Wires were growing up out of her eyes and nose and mouth, stretching up

towards the sky. She stumbled forward, clawing and scratching, trying to pull the wires out of her skin. I didn't realize how far away she was. I should have run after her. I should have found a way to stop her. I was so focused on the metal warming up out of her flesh. I didn't fully realize that she was running for the quarry. She threw herself into it. I think maybe she knew what was happening. She knew that something was inside of her, tearing through her flesh in an attempt to get out, violating her from the inside out. She knew that there was no hope, and so she did what Jim Paulson couldn't bring himself to do. She threw herself into the quarry and ended it. God help me, I should have stopped her.

I should have saved her. She had her whole life left to live. I can't think that way, not after what happened to her face. That metal was rooted somewhere deep inside of her, ripping its way out. Maybe if it had just been the metal, things would have been all right. But it wasn't just the metal and the wires. There was something else. Something took over Jim Paulson.

Something made him different. Something reached into him, yanked out his soul, and took over his body. That's what I tell myself anyway. The alternative is worse. Because the alternative is that Jim was still in there, watching as the metal monstrosity piloted his body. He looked so relieved at the end. God forgive me for not helping. God forgive her. They say suicide is a sin, but I think God will

forgive Nurse Lily. If there is a God, if he is just an all-knowing, if he truly does love and care for us, then he'll forgive her. But I know deep down that if such a God exists, he never would have let it happen in the first place. May 24, 1972, Jim Paulson is dead. I've told everyone who will listen. Jim Paulson is dead and nothing can bring. bring him back. May 25, 1972. God forgive me. Jim would have done the same for me. I know he would have. May 26, 1972. I told Doc Hanlon to take a look at my teeth. They haven't been the same since I heard that sound, that whistle. Doc Hanlon says that it looks like my fillings melted and flowed out over my teeth, that my back teeth are covered in metal. He kept asking me how it happened,

and I didn't have an answer for him. I begged him to take them out. He balked, telling me that they were still good healthy teeth, but I offered him some cash, and he finally got the pliers and Novacane. He took out four of my teeth, the ones with the fillings. It looks like someone poured metal all over my teeth. I threw them out. I couldn't bear to look at them. Every time I did, I felt that strange twitchy sensation in the back of my mouth,

like the teeth were still in there, and they were moving around, trying to reach out for something. My mouth hurts like a son of a bitch. but at least they're out of my head. May 27th, 1972. I can't stop thinking about that night. Every time I close my eyes, I see that faint gleam of relief I saw in Jim Paulson's one good eye

right before I pulled the trigger and splattered what was left of his brains across the quarry. God help me, God forgive me. It was getting dark when I put down the diary. Mom was calling me down for dinner. I ate in silence while my parents talked about the most mundane things. Rising Onion Price, checking the muffler on the family car, they wanted the nightmare to be over, and the best way to do that was to pretend. I couldn't do that, not yet.

While Mom and Dad cleaned up, I got time to sit down with my grandpa out on the porch. There was still a red crack across the horizon as the last rays of sunlight clung to the distant tree line. I'd brought the diary and sat down next to the old man. I looked up at him. "'Grandpa, can we talk?' I asked. He met my gaze and noticed the diary. He shook his head. No, son. He patted me on the back and grinned.

Get on the other side. Can't hear you. We switched sides, and I gave him the diary. He ran his fingers across the pages, feeling the indent of his pen. You shouldn't read people's diaries, he said. That's secret. Sorry, I said. I was scared.

About the—uh, kid? Alex? Yeah. He rubbed my shoulders. and put down the diary. It only feels bad for a while, then it all goes away. You'll forget. I don't want to. Grandpa turned to me with a grunt. He looked at me like he was trying to read the fine print of a book. How do we do better if we keep forgetting things, I said. We adapt. After a few times it starts to feel normal. Look at your mom and dad. I peeked through the window. Sure enough,

they were just washing dishes like nothing ever happened. To them, this had all been a scare. Like, seeing a snake in the front yard, but that was all there was to it. One day later, and they were already making plans for the week. Why didn't you leave? I asked. When that happened, in the book? It doesn't want you to, and while you hesitate, it makes you forget, makes you think it's normal. Did you try? He looked down at the diary, closing it. No, son, I didn't. I got us a lemonade. The sun had fallen well below the horizon, but the glow from the house was enough for, for me to see a smile coming back to his face. Don't you want to live here?

He asked. It's beautiful. Houses are cheap. You pay attention to this one thing and it becomes nothing. Doesn't have to be worse than, living in a town with a lot of black bears. I pondered it for a while. Grandpa looked at me intently.

Finally, I shook my head. Bears just eat you. They don't kill what makes you into you. Like with Jim. Grandpa nodded, sipping his lemonade. Fair point. Mom called me back in to help with the laundry. Grandpa stayed out, running his hands across his diary.

His smile was fading. Maybe thinking about Jim for the first time in years dislodged something in his mind. I did my chores, read some comic books, and tried my best to think about something else for a while. By the time I got in bed, my parents were convinced I'd forgotten about the whole thing. Maybe they had, but I hadn't.

As Mom tucked me in, Grandpa came up to say good night. mom left us alone for a moment. As she closed the door behind us, he sat down next to me and rubbed my hair. I know you're scared, he said. If you could leave this town, would you? I don't know. This is important, son. If you stay too long, and if this becomes too normal, you'll stay forever. Right here with mom and dad, and all the pretty girls in school, and all these nasty nightmares will fade. But they'll still be there, right? Even if I don't remember them? Grandpa sighed and squeezed my hand. Yeah, he said.

They will. Then I guess I'd want to leave. Even if it's just you? Even if you have to leave mom and dad in school behind? Even in the dark, I could see the glint in his eyes. What he asked wasn't just a hypothetical. This was something consequential. Still, thinking back on Alex and how easily people forgot about him, the answer was simple.

I could never live here, knowing that death was a whistle away. and knowing I could one day be okay with it. Well, that's terrifying. Yeah, I said, I want to leave. Then we'll fix that, he said. Tomorrow, all right? All right. I barely slept that night. There were too many questions running through my mind. I kept thinking about the diary and the vivid imagery that Grandpa painted. I thought about the look on Alex's face after he'd heard the whistle. I felt the surge of anger in my chest when I smashed that radio. There were so many emotions brewing under my skin, and I couldn't keep track of what to feel. So instead, I just lay awake, shaking, hoping to feel some rest before dawn. By morning, I'd gotten about three hours of sleep. Dad went to work,

and mom took me grocery shopping. At lunch, she went out to meet some of her friends, and I got to stay with Grandpa for a few hours. I didn't mind. Grandpa and I went to the park. And I went to the park. We found a quiet bench overlooking a duck pond. We just sat there for a while before he handed me an envelope. You know the bus stop at the north side? The one past the malt mill? I nodded, tracing the edge of the envelope. It had an elegant to-william text written on the front. There's a bus that goes by there every midnight, Grandpa said, and you can get on that bus and never look back. Where would I go? He handed me a crisp $100 bill. An old friend of mine can meet you at the end station. But do you really want this? Do you really want to leave? The ducks played in the

pond, quacking contently. The wind made the reeds whistle a subtle tune. Yeah. Then tonight you go to that bus. You don't tell a soul about it. You just go and don't look back. Take your bike and keep your ear defenders on until you step foot on that bus. Will the whistle let me leave? It will. How? Grandpa gave me a handful of unsalted oats for me to feed the ducks with. I was swarmed by a dozen happy birds, and still, the reeds whistled. You know when a predator is the most vulnerable, he asked? No. When it eats, so to get it to look the other way, and for you to get out, it has to eat. I don't get it. It's all there, grandpa said, tapping the envelope. Don't read it until you get on that bus. Are you coming with me? I can't, son, he smiled. No one can.

The day went on as any other. Mom made meatloaf. Dad fell asleep reading the newspaper. It was my time to do the dishes, and I did them better and more thoroughly than I'd ever done before. Everything had this finality to it. I'd hidden Grandpa's letter and the $100 bill in a textbook. I'd stuffed it in my backpack. Later that evening, as I was getting ready for bed, this burning anxiety crept up on me. The same way I felt when my mom used to tell me I could get a single toy from a store. I could never confidently pick one, and this was the same thing. I didn't know what would happen, and I didn't know what would be the best thing to do. Then again, the choice had already been made. The envelope was right there. I'd never really been close to my grandpa up until now,

and having him do this for me, whatever it was, seemed like the right thing. So when the clock struck 11 p.m., it was time to go. I used the bathroom, filled up a plastic bottle of water, packed my two favorite shirts, and snuck out the door with my ear defenders snug and safe. I got on my bike and followed a side road downtown. From a distance I could tell something wasn't right. There were too many lights on. This wasn't the kind of town with an active nightlife, except on New Year's Eve. A few cars passed me by, breaking the speed limit. One of them went by so fast I couldn't see who drove it. All I saw was a cracked side window and a tendril whipping back and forth like a wounded eel. There was a woman screaming. I didn't hear her, but I saw a wide open mouth with a protrusion.

Seconds later, I saw the taillights disappear into a ditch, more cracked windows, something red. As I got closer to town, I noticed that it wasn't intense midnight lights that I'd seen. It was fire. I thought about what Grandpa had said, that a predator is at its most vulnerable when it's feeding. This was the feeding. This was what it looked like, the entire downtown area losing their minds. I kept moving forward, keeping my eyes on the road. even so there were some things that were impossible to look away from the white tires of my bike were stained with blood leaving a red trail behind i kept coughing from the smoke the body of the guy who owned the hardware store was kneeling in the middle of the street having set himself on fire his neck was almost a foot too long and his mouth was wide open towards the sky i could see two people fighting in a parking garage one of them beating the other with a meat mallet they were a tangled mess of clothes and blood, and I couldn't see which one was doing what, but I could see they had a total of five arms. People had been rushing for their cars. Some didn't make it. There was this one

woman who had lost her left arm, where these long threads of metal had burst out. They stretched back an entire block, slowly wrapping around a light post and pulling her lifeless body back. In one car there was a guy leaning against the horn while something sharp kept pushing against his mouth from the inside. One man had climbed up and torn open a part of a power line, frying himself, leaving only a mockery of a bird's nest behind, and the charred smile of a skull. Madness. Complete visceral madness. Finally, as I reached Main Street, I saw Grandpa's favorite pub. There was a raging inferno inside, and I couldn't bear to count the bodies littered on the street. I peddled past, stopping only to see if I could spot someone inside, and there he was.

Grandpa, sitting in his favorite spot, he'd been pierced through the throat by a steakhouse knife. At the table in front of him was a portable shortwave radio with its volume turned up to max, and a half-finished glass of lemonade. I kept going. I could see shadows of inhumane things dancing in the fire, some of them hobbling in my direction. I couldn't hear them, but I felt the tremble of high-pitched wines struggling against my ear defenders. Dehydrated eyes stared at me. begging for whatever salvation there could be in my death. I turned one last corner, down by the malt mill,

one last push to get through town, and there I saw what Grandpa really meant by feeding the predator. In the entrance of the mill, there must have been a stampede. People had gotten stuck. What was left of them were eating each other. There was almost nothing human left. The wires squirmed with each other in the bile of their human parts, a nest of worms, rat tails, and black sea.

snakes. I could see faces in the black nest, intact human faces with blank eyes. Their mouths were opening and closing as if trying to whisper to me. Something was winning. The other faces one by one were torn apart by wires and consumed into the black storm, until only one remained. One human head. The whirlwind of wires slowed, and the thing began to take form. The mess spilled onto the road. I could feel a voice telling me to move, but I could not move until I had scene. What we were to become, what this was all about. I wanted to hear what they were whispering to me. The man's head wrapped in black wires spiraled to the top of the beating, pulsing mass. The once human mass of wires began to stretch upwards, a coiled cobra raising its head. It began

to take a hauntingly, nightmarishly familiar shape. It was a pylon. We were playing with dead bodies in the scrapyard. The head is on top. His mouth still opening and closing. He was trying to broadcast a whistle. I realized then. I couldn't get past this. I would never leave. What was I thinking? It was too late. He would sing me my lullaby and I would slumber forever. Past the wall of black, wiry flesh. The bus station stood there. I could make out the outline of a man standing there. What was I thinking? Raise your foot and bring it down in front of you. You are going to walk forward. The flood of wires twitched towards me and I saw my foot move. one foot backing away the other foot backing to match you are going to leave you are going to live i wish that

thought was the one that convinced me but at that point my one preteen unpoetic thought was screw this i hate this town seriously screw this i bolted across the path with my eyes shut and screaming like a banshee the sound of a whirlwind of wires rose around me as the monster felt me I heard the zip of wires close to my face and felt sharp fingers scraping on my cheeks, but he couldn't catch me. The 32nd bolt threw snapping wires and there was nothing but air on my cheeks and the whistling of behind me. I snapped my eyes open and turned. The nest was stapled to the spot, their wires increasingly bound to the metal frames. The wires reached out in vain but receded further and further into the monstrosity. Once rooted, they weren't supposed to leave,

I guess. But I was. With joy in this thought, I kept running all the way to the bus station. It was empty. At this point in the night, only one other person was there, the last of my grandfather's instructions. The man was standing there. He wore a quarry uniform covered in dirt, a hospital mask, and sunglasses. Dirty and grimy, he leaned against the wall and stared at me. Breathing hard, I couldn't speak out, but I knew it had to be him. He was looking at the monster pylon. building itself out there. The whole scene left him unfazed. He gestured upon the pylon monster in contemplation. They're feeding a lot. There'll be no whistle tonight. In between breaths, I asked, so we can leave, right? They don't just have a seeking whistle, boy. There's one more independent

countermeasure right here, and another down the road. I stumbled closer. Who are you? You've heard of me, Billy. I'm an old friend of your grandpa. I was too close. One hand grabbed my hair as he brought his eyes down to mine. His mouth was full of wires. My ear defenders were snatched and smashed into the ground. Listen, boy, I want you to hear me. Liquid. I could hear the cold liquid static issuing from Jim's decade's dead body. Boy, why leave, boy? Stay with your family. Have a family. Grow the family. Stay in the farm for the harvest. He grabbed my arms. Under the thin, skin, his fingers felt like bags of snakes. I'm leaving. Screw you. I'm leaving. He grinned, and the wires inside his wriggled like snakes. Today's early harvest is acceptable compensation.

He leaned in. You can leave, boy. He let go of my arms. I could still feel the wriggling sensation of the wires under his skin. Better thank your grandpa for this. Your strain will be salvaged. Your parents will provide another crop. He raised an arm to the southern road. Walk down that road. Is, isn't there a bus going there? Why would there be a bus out of here? No one ever leaves. He raised his arms in a gesture, encompassing everything. But feel free to come back down when you get the itch boy. You never forget your hometown. Bring your family. Listen to the tunes. The thing in Jim's skin stood stock still, grinning with his mouth open, wires writhing inside. He was like that when I left the station, even as I looked back constantly to make sure. That would be the

last conversation I had in my town. Down the street, I found what I expected out there. A maze of ruined, burned cars blocked the street. Some had their roofs ripped open as something emerged. Others still had half-formed wires and meshed with bones and vacationing clothes. The radios inside all looked dead and burned out. Still, I got off the road and headed into the wilderness, not rejoining until the sun rose and the road was empty. I was the only thing moving on that road. I wonder if I was the last. We'd been wanting an adventure before starting a family, and the pandemic was the kick-up the butt we needed.

While we were involuntarily housebound, we did a lot of research, and decided on traveling the Americas for three months. We're from the east of England, so quite frankly anywhere would have been an adventure. We were fortunate to be in a position where a three-month sabbatical was a comfortable option for us. My grandparents were wealthy,

and had left me a generous sum when they passed. and my husband Joseph and I both had great jobs. I had just turned 30 the week before we left. Joseph was 32. It just felt right. A now or never type scenario. Calgary was our first destination, followed by Vancouver.

Then we traveled through the western states of the U.S. down to Mexico. We were just over a month in by the time we reached Guatemala, where we were staying in a forest campsite next to Mayan ruins. On our first night, Joseph excitedly called out to me. me as I towel dried my hair after an outdoor shower. Danny, come look at this. There was a tarantula in the corner of our spacious tent. One of the employees said it was harmless, and he even offered for us to handle it before moving it outside of camp. I was apprehensive, but I briefly held it after my husband, such a surprisingly delicate creature. This was definitely the adventure I had wanted.

I felt a million miles away from home in the best way possible. On our second full day, we hiked a trail that was noted for its wildlife spotting opportunities, particularly various monkey and bird species. In the process of taking a picture, I dropped my phone and was taken by surprise as a small monkey took off with it. Hey, I yelled out. I don't believe it. What's up, Danny? asked Joseph, a little ahead of me. I couldn't help but laugh. A monkey just took my phone. Seriously, he asked jogging to me. Where did it go? In the trees over there. Little sod, he said, running in that direction. Joseph, don't bother, it's gone. We're not leaving without trying, he yelled back. I reluctantly went into the trees and caught a glimpse of his shirt in the distance.

Please don't go any further, Joseph, we need to stay on the trail. I think I can see it, I heard him yell. Against my better judgment, I began to weave between the trees, stepping over the foliage. Howler monkeys spoke to each other in the treetops, probably laughing about the dumb British tourists. I spotted a few colorful birds, but didn't have time to observe their beauty. instead pursuing my silly night in shining armor who I'd lost sight of. Joseph, please call out to me. Over here. I could see him waving, allowing me to breathe.

When I reached him, I gave him a hug, then slapped his arm. Ow! I was scared, I said, wiping sweat from my brow. But look, he said, pointing up. I couldn't believe it. The little monkey was sitting on a branch holding my phone. Hey, little one, I said softly, holding up my hands. Please could you drop my phone down to me? It doesn't speak human, Danny, said Joseph, picking up a stick. They're very intelligent, I said.

Not that intelligent. Also, we're in Guatemala. It's more likely to understand Spanish. He brought the stick back as if he was about to throw it. I grabbed his wrist. You are not throwing sticks at the local wildlife, Jesus Christ. Well, asking nicely didn't work, he said, pulling away from me. But then there came a thud as my phone bounced a few feet away from us.

It was undamaged too, the soft ground cushioning its fall. I was happy that we could head back to the trail, but that was short-lived. Several hours passed, and we couldn't find our way out of the forest. Joseph did his best to console me, but I could tell he was scared, too. As the ground began to feel softer, and the air more dense and humid, we realized we were nowhere near where we had come from. Even the plant life looked different. I couldn't help but snivel as my nerves got the better of me.

A weight was lifted when we spotted a solitary house in a clearing. Joseph, look, I yelled with relief. There was a sudden rustling in the plants to our left, followed by a deep growl. We only had a second to acknowledge it before a large crocodile snapped its jaws in our direction. I screamed as Joseph pulled me towards him. Dejarlas! We heard a woman yell from the house. The crocodile's growls became quieter as it backed up out of sight. We hurried to the moderately sized wooden house, which was elevated.

a little from the ground on stilts. A woman stood on the steps leading up to the door. She was around her mid-thirties with raven black hair that spilled over her shoulders. She was beautiful. She was also heavily pregnant. "'Hola,' said Joseph a little out of breath. "'Porfevor, er, lost. Perdido.' "'I speak English,' she said. "'Please come inside.' She turned and walked up the steps.

Joseph and I looked at each other, briefly hesitated. before following her into the house. Once inside I broke down. Gracias, I cried. Joseph put his arm around me as the woman took my trembling hands in hers. I have something for your anxiety, she said. Sit down. We don't want to be a bother, said Joseph.

If you could just point us, no bother, she said. Please sit. We took off our backpacks and sat at a table in the rustic kitchen. I was surprised to see electric-powered lighting. as wherever we were felt off the grid. The woman boiled some water on a stove, then started to prepare food. She put a plate of fruit on the table

along with some bread, various spreads, and some sliced meat. Eat, she said with a smile, turning back to the stove. I looked at Joseph, who just shrugged. Despite our reservations, we were famished. I used my fingers to eat some mango and banana. Joseph braved the unidentified meat,

making a sandwich with one of the spreads which he said was similar to horseradish. The woman came back and put two hot cups on the table. It smelt strong with herbs and spices. You drink this, you feel better, she said warmly. Thank you, I said, taking a small sip along with Joseph. It was so bitter it made my face screw up. Joseph audibly groaned and disgust, then looked incredibly apologetic.

The woman laughed. It does not taste good, but it is good for the soul. She tapped her chest and forehead. said. We didn't want to be rude, so we continued drinking it. I'm Danny, by the way, and this is my husband, Joseph. I am Lorena, she said. Are those crocodiles dangerous? Ask Joseph. They can be, she said, taking a seat as she lovingly rubbed her large belly. But we share this land, so we must respect one another. Will this be your first child? I asked. She nodded. I am very blessed. Congratulations, I said, reaching across to take Joseph's hand. We'd like to start a family of our

own, too, once we're back home. Speaking of which, said Joseph, we'd really appreciate your help getting back to our camp. Is there a path we can take, or? It will be dark soon, said Lerina. It will not be safe after dark. You can stay here tonight. We couldn't put you out like that, I said. I insist, she said. You will find your way tomorrow. I looked at Joseph as if to say do something, but he just shrugged. You're very kind, Lorena, he said. We're incredibly grateful, thank you. I freshened up, feeling gross and sticky from the day's heat.

Fortunately, I'd packed a spare top and shorts in my backpack, thinking that they could come in handy for that very reason. While Joseph was in the bathroom, Lorena showed me around. It was as quaint and rustic as you'd expect a house in the rainforest to be. An impressive collection, I said, observing a large wall of books. books. You like to read? she asked. Oh yes, I adore reading. My favorite author is Virgilio Rodriguez Macal. She showed me his works on the shelf and stroked the spine of one called El Mundo del Mysterio Verde. This is my favorite book. I'm afraid my Spanish is terrible, I laughed. I would understand very

little. We went to the back of the house where there was an elevated deck over a large expanse of water, with trees and plants growing directly out of it. The sun was beginning to a set and it gave it such a warm glow. Wow, I said. What a view. Welcome to the swamp, said Lorena. Are you out here alone? I asked. You haven't mentioned the baby's father. She looked down and stroked her belly, a small smile on her lips. I am alone now, but not for long. I'm sorry if I asked too much. I have my sisters nearby, and them too. She nodded to the water where some crocodiles had surfaced. I got a little shiver. In England, we look out back and might see the neighbor's cat or the odd hedgehog.

Here it's something that wants to eat you. She laughed. We have cats too, but they also might want to eat you. She groaned a little and held her belly. Ooh, she is moving tonight. May I? She smiled and took my hand, gently pressing it against her. I could feel as her baby turned inside.

How does it feel? I asked. She sighed. Magical, like the greatest honor. It is hard to explain. I understand, I said. I honestly can't wait for that next chapter in my life. At least I hope for that next chapter.

You will be a great mother, Danny, she said. I feel it. I smiled. Thank you, Lorena. So will you. The baby kicked out suddenly, making me flinch. I laughed it off as we went back inside. Lorena kindly put us up in a spare bedroom.

Joseph stared at me intently as we lay on the unfamiliar bed. He brushed the hair from my face and kissed me. his other hand stroking my inner thigh. Joseph, I said. We can't, not here. I don't know what it is. Maybe the fact that Lorena is smoking. Hey, I laughed, playfully slapping him.

But I couldn't deny I felt the same way too. We made love, then fell asleep to the sounds of nature. I woke up in the early hours when it was still dark. I stirred for a while but became restless. So I left the bedroom and went to the deck for fresh air. The swamp was bathed in moonlight, giving it an enchanting look. Despite the terrifying experience of being lost earlier, I felt grateful that it had led us to Lorena and this beautiful part of the world. As I was looking

around, I spotted something in the forest to the left. There was something white that stood out, but I couldn't quite tell what it was at that point. As I kept staring, I began to notice small details and realized I was looking at the skull of a large animal. Its empty eye sockets appeared to be looking in my direction. I assumed it was attached to a tree as it was suspended a few feet from the ground, but it turned and disappeared into the forest. I gasped and stepped back. When I turned to go back inside, Lorena was standing in the doorway, making me scream. I did not mean to scare you, she said. Lorina, I said, clutching my hands to my chest. I just, I saw something in the trees, a skull, a large animal skull. I was breathing heavily as she

took my hands. You are far from home, Danny. We have different ways here. There are villages nearby with ancient tribes. Some of these tribes wear the skulls as a, how you say, I shook my head. Tradition, superstition? See, like this. Oh my goodness, I said. Are they dangerous? No, she said, not to us. I took a deep breath and laughed uneasily. Well, I wanted an adventure and I certainly got that. I went back to bed thinking I wasn't going to get any sleep at all, but within minutes of hearing Joseph's gentle breaths, I joined him. I awoke to sunlight and the smell of something delicious cooking, as well as an empty bed. Joseph was eating breakfast in the kitchen. Good morning, I said, and Lorena was already guiding me to sit at the table, putting a plate of eggs and avocado

in front of me. You are spoiling us, Lorena. It is my pleasure, she said. Danny, said Joseph, Larina is fishing this morning and I offered to help. You know how much I love to fish. I do, I said. But perhaps we should be thinking about getting back to camp. I'm sure they were concerned when we didn't come back yesterday. They have our money already, he said. I doubt they care.

His response irritated me a little. I disagree. I think they will be searching for us. If not now, then soon. I am sorry, said Lorena. I do not want to cause trouble. Not at all, I said. We're so grateful for what you've done for us, but I worry that we'll be causing trouble by being missing. Danny, we only live once, he said. I don't know what it is, but I love it

out here. Just let me have this, just for today. Please. I felt like he'd got me in a spot where saying no would make me a monster. How far are we from camp roughly? I asked, telling Lorena where we were based. No more than three hours. You just follow the swamp north. Joseph was looking at me with puppy eyes. Okay, but we should head back this afternoon. Absolutely, he said, thank you, Danny. Lorena put a hand on my shoulder. Will you join us? I contemplated it. You know, it's actually been pretty full on up until now. I think I might take the opportunity to chill on the deck, watch the world go by. Maybe read a book that you do not understand? She laughed. Exactly, new experiences all around. I insisted on washing the dishes, as Joseph and Lorena prepared to head out to a

spot a little further up the swamp. I spent an hour or so on the deck before heading back inside to cool down, checking out Lorena's book wall in more detail. They were all in Spanish from what I could see, but I recognized some of the more famous titles. I found the books by Virgilio Rodriguez Macal. My eyes fell on El Mundo del Mysterio Verde, Lorena's favorite. Something green mystery, I said out loud, chuckling to myself. When I pulled it out, the book only moved slightly, and something in the wall clicked. I was frozen to the spot for a moment before I gently pushed on the wall, and part of it moved inwards on a hinge. Buzz off, I said, taking a step back as cool air blew from within. I'd only seen secret doors and films and had no

idea such things existed. On the other side was a dark passageway with stone walls. I looked around like a child about to do something naughty, and almost stepped fully inside without propping the door open. The last thing I wanted was for it to close behind me with no way of getting out, so I used a stack of old books that looked like encyclopedias. My heart was racing as I went inside. As I followed the wall, it gradually became lighter, as beams of natural light shone from cracks in the ceiling. The ground was a mixture of stone, dirt, and small plants.

The temperature was cool compared to the rest of the house. I eventually came to a large opening that was lit by larger beams and flame torches on the wall. walls. It was like a massive hall inside an ancient temple. It took me far too long to notice that it was impossible for this room to exist as part of Lorena's house. It was at least double the size alone. My brain couldn't work out where I was as I had only walked in a straight line. I should have been in the swamp. There were several tall trees growing out of the floor. In the center were some stone steps that led up to an idol. I climbed them to get a better look. Carved from stone was the figure of a nude woman, but her head was that of a crocodile. What the hell? I whispered.

Lorena had mentioned the local tribes. I assumed this was something they worshipped, or used to worship. I gasped as a tarantula made an appearance, crawling from the back of the idol's leg. It looked similar to the one that had been in our tent. I felt compelled to pick it up, as if I was trying to prove a point to myself. So I gently placed a hand near it, and used my other to coax it. I held it in my palms like it was made of porcelain. There came a deep, guttural growl from nearby. I made a sudden move to turn, and I guess it startled the spider. It bit my right palm, forcing me to drop it. I watched it scurry away into the darkness as my palm began to sting. I had two puncture wounds that trickled with a little blood. The growl came again, and this time I

fell back, my hand making contact with the idol. There was a strange sensation in my arm, like an intense vibration. I pulled my hand away and looked up, the long reptilian face appearing to look down on me. I backed down the steps, my heart bursting from my chest. There was a loud hiss to my side and a large, very real crocodile snapped at me. I screamed and fell, throwing myself back. It turned to face me but didn't move any closer. It just growled. I quickly got to my feet and ran back down the passageway, feeling relief when the hidden door was still propped open. I ran out of the house and looked around, making an educated guess where Lorena and Joseph might be. I called their names frantically. I wanted to grab Joseph and leave, find our own way back to camp. As far as I was concerned,

the adventure was over. It had now moved into creepy weird territory. I almost fell to my knees when I saw Joseph on the bank of the swamp. Hey, what's up with you? he asked. Where's Lorena? I asked, out of breath. She went back to the house. Why? We need to get out of here. We need to get out of here now. Danny, he said, grabbing my shoulders. Tell me why. I did my best at explaining what had happened. He started to laugh. Why are you laughing at me? Danny, look where you are. We're in central freaking America, not Suffolk. You know about the history and culture. These are not unusual things for this part of the world. But the room shouldn't exist. It's, shush, Danny. I thought you were more open to cultural differences. You're embarrassing yourself now.

I was completely taken aback. I, I am open, Joseph. What I just experienced wasn't like that, though. You want to go? He yelled. Fine. We'll just crap on Lorena's hospitality and go. Come on.

He started to storm away, leaving me feeling uncomfortable. But he stopped and turned back, looking in all directions before he spoke. Screw it. I was going to wait until we got to Peru. People fall from those mountains all the time. But here's as good a place as any. Middle of nowhere. No one out here but sweet Lorena.

He started walking towards me and picked up a rock. I... I don't understand, Joseph. You don't really need to understand. I started to back away. You're scaring me. I do love you in a way, Danny. But one thing I really love about you is your bank account. I couldn't believe what was happening.

It made me forget about everything that had come before. But we're going to start a family, he scoffed. I don't want children with you. you. I never did. My heart was broken, and my nerves were shattered in the space of minutes. Joseph, I cried. You don't have to do this. The money is ours to share. You wouldn't get it anyway. It would go to my parents. Well, I know that's a lie because I was there when you wrote the will. I changed it, I snapped, without your knowledge. He froze and looked at me like he'd been deceived. I don't believe you, but regardless, I kind of have to do this now. I screamed and

ran in the opposite direction. Joseph grabbed me from behind and I felt a dull pain on the back of my head. My vision became blurry as I hit the water and made a feeble attempt to stay on the surface. Oh no, he said dramatically. You've fallen in the swamp. Shame about the man-eating crocodiles and all. Joe, please, help, he screamed from his lungs. Oh, God, help! He smiled at me, waved, then jogged towards the house. I could hear him screaming for Lorena as everything started getting darker. One thing I noticed was on a nearby bank of the swamp. There was another one of those skull people. They appeared to just watch me as I struggled.

The last thing I remember is a crocodile on the swamp surface making a beeline towards me, and then I went completely under. I woke up to screams. As my eyes adjusted, I could see warm shades flickering in my peripheral vision. When I sat up, pain shot through the back of my head. I felt the wound that Joseph had inflicted, my hair still damp. As I focused I could see I was back in the chamber, the ancient hall. There was a large fire bathing it with light, casting shadows that reached to the ceiling.

Joseph was screaming. He was tied to one of the trees, his arms stretched to the sides and tied to protruding branches. Before the idol was Lorena, contributing to the screams. She was on her back with her legs spread. A slightly older woman with a striking family resemblance spoke encouragingly in Spanish, long dark hair covering her bare chest. A younger, facially similar woman danced around the fire, waving her arms to imaginary music.

Her hair was in a pixie style, her body proudly on display. These were Lorena's sisters. Lorena threw her head back and looked right at me, thick veins protruding from her forehead and neck as she groaned in agony. There were crocodiles all around the hall coming to witness the events too. One brushed against me as it passed. It scales rough against my skin. I coward, but it showed no hostility.

With a final scream, Larina collapsed, and the sister standing over her smiled wide. Oh, God, no! Joseph screamed from the tree, thrashing his head from side to side. The sister held up Lorena's baby, but it wasn't human. It was reptilian. It had a long tail and a long snout. She said something in Spanish, and the dancing sister repeated it. Lorena slowly got to her feet, looking shaky as she met her sisters by the fire. They chanted together. The sister holding the baby crocodile screamed something, then she threw it into the flames.

A single fireball erupted, then became nothing but embers. The dancing sister retrieved a knife from the idle steps and skipped towards Joseph. No, you crazy person, he yelled, violently thrashing about. She made two cuts as he screamed, one on each of his inner thighs close to the groin. Blood streamed down his legs, causing two crocodiles below him to hiss and snap in a frenzy. Lorena walked over to me and I rolled over attempting to crawl away. No, Danny, she said breathlessly. She helped me stand up and guided me to the idol where the sisters were waiting.

I cried. Please, Lorena, I don't want to be here. It cannot be undone, she said. This is a blessing. When we got to the idol, the older sister took my right hand and ran her fingers over the small puncture wounds on my palm. She then pointed to the spot on the idol marked with my blood. The three sisters showed their point. palms, all exhibiting scars from previous self-inflicted wounds.

Lidiste to Sangre a la Madre, she said, then paused as if taken by surprise. She rushed to me and stroked my belly, then took my face in her hands. Eres una Jija del Pantano, she said. I look to Lorena for help. You are a daughter of the swamp, she smiled, rubbing my belly. Congratulations. I pushed her hand away and shook my head. No, I don't want to be. I want to go home. The older sister picked up a crocodile skull from the idle steps. It was the top half only, and it had a headband attached inside. She placed it onto the younger sister's head, then took another and placed it on Lorena. Heja del Pantano, she said, putting a skull on my head before finally

putting one on herself. I barely resisted, feeling mentally and physically exhausted. The sisters guided me to the fire where they all began to chant again. Several crocodiles joined us, looking up at the flames. I cried under the skull for myself, and for Joseph. His eyes were wide and delirious, his screams hoarse from the damage they'd caused. Danny, he stuttered, stop this madness, please. I felt his anguish. The sisters gripped my arms as they chanted loudly. The flames grew higher and a form began to take shape within, a tall hourglass figure with hair that flowed down to her buttocks, and long, scaly jaws filled with pointed teeth. She must have stood at least eight feet tall as she roared into the chamber. I don't know how long she'd been away for,

the one the sisters called Madre, but one thing was clear as she looked at Joseph. She was hungry. Birds whistle, the wind blows algae and trees rustle in the autumn breeze. Leaves fall off all the trees as peace waves across the landscape. I live in a wooden bungalow, lanterns light up my home with a warm mellow burn. I have a large bedroom with a kitchen and a small bathroom across the room. I hung for my own food, yet recently the food has become more and more scarce, leading me to have to stay out a few hours later on some nights for enough meat to go to bed full. There are no natural predators, and no hunters would come here as this forest isn't known for its food, but more for its luscious scenery.

I've been looking out for whatever may be killing off my prey, but to no avail. I, two nights ago when this began, was out with a sniper rifle. I bent my knees to hide in hopes none of my prey sees me, but it was practically useless. I found a decently large rabbit that could keep me fed for tonight, and possibly tomorrow morning as well. I placed the sniper over my knee and closed one eye, aiming for the back of the skull. As I was about to pull down on the trigger, I heard frantic rustles behind me. I reopened my eye, turning to my right in case this was some sort of wolf or another dangerous

animal. I found nothing. I quickly turned back for the kill, and the rabbit was gone. God damn it. Just as I wanted to finish my sentence, I heard my name. Paul, Paul, please help. I was confused as I lived alone and had no alive family who could have come to see me. I also didn't recognize the voice, but an unknown feeling lured me to go and help. It sounded like a young girl, so if it wasn't just my mind playing tricks and frustration, I could help her and get her to safety. I stood up, beginning to walk in the direction I heard the voice. Paul, please, what? I heard the voice from behind me, yet it came from the right last time.

I second-guessed myself thinking it was my mind. I began to walk back home as the sunset made the sky grow orange, rivers rushing and flowing freely while leaves crunched as I took each step. I got into bed hoping I was just hearing things, and the river may have messed up my hearing. I put out my lantern and tried sleeping, but tossed and turned in hunger. I eventually fell asleep. Yesterday was as normal, but when I went hunting yet again, I couldn't find any animals whatsoever, not even small insects or birds in the

sky. I continued walking around, not worried about getting lost as I've lived here for 16 years, and know each tree like the palm of my hand. As I finally came across a small squirrel, I groaned in annoyance as though it wasn't nothing. It still wasn't much, and I haven't eaten meat in the past, day and have been eating fruit and crops. I aimed my rifle yet again, prepared to shoot yet again, but I once again heard my name. Paul. I yet again wanted to look for the source, but this time ignored it in hunger for some food. As I missed my first shot, the squirrel began to run across the dirt, and I knew it was no use. I arose wanting to find the voice yet again. I began to search knowing it wasn't just my mind. It began to grow dark so I lit a match to see clearer. As I walked,

began to rain and quickly turned into heavy hail as my match was put out. I rolled my eyes in annoyance and started to walk back home. Paul, help me. The voice sounded much deeper than previously like a fully grown man was forcing his voice to sound intimidating. I stood, frozen in shock, but quickly started running the moment I saw them. Tens of hundreds of white, glowing eyes stared me down as they grew closer, edging towards me. I shut my door behind me as a bang crashed against it, and multiple screams echoed in the air. Come outside, Paul, we can't play inside. I ran into my bedroom, locking the door and grabbing my machete for protection,

yet I doubted it would do anything. We can't come inside, come out to play. This made me feel comfortable, as by now they could have broken inside, so for whatever reason they probably couldn't do so. I'm writing this now as a final goodbye to this world, as I don't think they will leave in the morning. If I survive, I'll update when I get the chance. The cabin was small and hidden deep within the woods, far from any road.

It had a wood shingle exterior, one door, one curtained window, and a metal stovepipe sticking out from the roof. Along the side was a rack of logs and a stump with an axe stuck in it. On the other side was a line for hanging clothes. Think it's abandoned? I whispered. Justin shook his head. Nature ain't taken it yet. What do you mean?

You ain't ever noticed that when people leave a place nature moves in? All those plants and green that show up. Oh, yeah, like the old church. Just like that. And it don't take long neither. Why does nature wait for people to leave? It don't wait, Cole. Nature's always trying to take over, but people won't let it.

It's like a war or an invasion, one that never ends. Nature was here first, though. So, that means we're the invaders. We ain't been given a choice. Well, we could at least be nicer. Justin was quiet for a moment, then said, Let's get a closer look at that house. We crept through crunching leaves,

stopping every few steps to listen, then continued forward until we reached the side of the house. What if they have a gun? I asked. Everyone has a gun out here. Yeah, but what if they use it on us? We're just kids. They ain't going to shoot a couple of kids. People have killed kids before.

You worry too much. If they pull a gun on us, we'll run. ain't nobody faster than us. We ain't faster than bullets. Justin peaked around to the front of the cabin and said, I'm going to try the door. Wait, keep an eye out. Before I could say no, Justin rounded the corner and was at the door.

I watched the surrounding woods for movement. With each passing second, I felt as if the homeowner was coming closer, but I was too anxious to tell if nothing was moving or if everything was. It was as if some invisible force were charging toward us. Cole, Justin whispered, startling me. He was peeking around the corner waving me over. It's unlocked. I hurried to him, and we stepped through the open door into a small, tidy space.

There was a neatly made twin-sized bed, and a deerskin rug spread across the wooden floor. On the right side of the room was a wood stove with a pot on top, with a shelf above it that held various jarred herbs and spices. On the left of the room was a bookshelf holding about a dozen books, and next to that a wooden chest. Wow, I said, this is awesome. Let's see what's in that chest, Justin said, and knelt and opened it. He rummaged through, pulling out various clothes until it was empty.

Nothing good. Check out these books, I said. Justin closed the chest, then looked over my shoulder as I pulled out books on gardening, hunting, bushcraft, and taxidermy. What's this one? Justin said, reaching past to grab a book with a blank leather cover. Is it a Bible? It's my journal, a deep voice announced from behind us, startling us against the bookshelf, causing several books to get knocked over onto the floor. The man was tall and looked to be in his mid-40s.

He was clean-shaven and didn't look much like the sort of person you'd expect to find living hidden in the woods. Sorry, Justin said, and held out the journal, and as he did so, a photograph of a young boy fell out. The man reached down and picked it up, looked at it for a moment, then took the journal from Justin and placed the photo inside. My son, the man said. He stepped toward us, and we moved out of the way, as he placed the journal back onto the shelf, then knelt to pick up the rest of the books.

Sorry, sir, I said, and helped him pick up the books. Justin did the same, then the man took the books from us and returned them to their shelves. What are your names? The man asked. We introduced ourselves, and he told us his name was Henry, then asked, Is this the first time you've seen my cabin?

Yes, sir, we answered. Nobody else knows about it? Justin and I looked at each other, then back at Henry and shrugged. We ain't ever heard anyone mention it, Justin said. Henry looked at us a moment, then nodded. Okay, don't tell anyone. He walked over to a bucket of water he must have brought inside with him,

and dumped some of it into the pot that sat atop the stove. Then he stepped outside. We should go, I whispered. Okay. Justin answered. We hurried to the doorway, and right as we reached it, Henry was there holding a rifle in a log. He looked at us a moment, then we moved out of the way so he could pass. He stepped through and leaned the rifle against the wall and placed the log into the stove. I'm going to make rabbit stew, he said, and began to make a fire. You're welcome to join. We need to get back home,

I said. Justin hesitated, though, and asked, why you out here? With the fire going, the man shut the hatch and stood and faced us, because I want to be. Are you alone? The man nodded. What about your son? I asked. The man looked at me. Then his eyes fell to his feet and he said, He's dead. Oh, sorry. How'd he die? Justin asked. The man looked back up. He was sick. Where's his mom? The man shrugged. I don't know. We aren't together anymore. The water was beginning to boil. The man turned to it and began putting in different herbs and spices. Will one of you grab the rabbit from the stump outside? He asked. Justin stepped outside and Henry glanced over at me and said, Go grab some vegetables from the garden out back.

Which ones? Whichever ones you like. Justin and I met on my way to the garden and he said, He doesn't seem so bad. I don't know. What if he's some sort of outlaw? Justin grinned. Maybe he's a bank robber. Or a murderer. Justin held up the skinned rabbit. This one might agree with you. Then he laughed and headed into the cabin. At the garden I hadn't the faintest idea what I was looking at. Everything looked like weeds, aside from the tomatoes and peppers. So that's what I grabbed. Here you go, I said as I stepped back inside and handed Henry the veggies. No potatoes or carrots, he asked. I didn't see any. They're under the soil. Oh, Henry smirked and took the tomatoes and peppers from me and said, well, let's see how Cole's stew turns out. That evening we sat around

the cabin and ate the spiciest rabbit stew I'd ever had. For a second there, I'd even thought we'd been poisoned, but Henry just laughed and said I'd picked something called a habanero pepper. What kind of psycho eats this stuff? Justin said as he gulped down a second cup of water. Sorry, boys, Henry laughed. I should have warned you. He stood and grabbed another jar and said, try this. It might help cool you off. What is it? I asked. Honey, I was desperate, so I quickly took the jar and stuck a spoonful in my mouth, and sure enough, it seemed to help. Justin snagged it from me and did the same, and before long, we'd cleaned out that entire jar of honey. Look at y'all a couple of poo bears, Henry joked. Sorry, I apologized. I'll get you more. I appreciate that, Cole. Henry stood and took

our dishes from us. It's getting dark. You boys better head home. We agreed and thanked him for the honey, and I apologized for ruining the rabbit stew. Henry shrugged and said, I liked it, might make more for myself sometime. That next morning I was up in my room when I heard a commotion coming from across the street. Justin and his dad were shouting at each other, and shortly thereafter, Justin came storming outside. I quickly opened my window and hollered for him, and he looked up at me and said, Let's get the hell out of here, Cole. I put on my shoes and hurried down the stairs and passed my mom and sister, who were sitting on the couch watching the morning show. Where are you off to, Mom asked. Going to go hang out with Justin. Be home before dark this time. I will. I mean it.

Justin was waiting for me outside. We bumped fists and he said, let's go see what Henry's doing. Right now? You got anything better to do? I shrugged. No, I guess not. Hold on a second. I hurried back inside and into the kitchen and grabbed one of those bottles of honey

that's shaped like a bear. Then ran out the door again as my mom said, Hey, where are you taking my honey? I looked at Justin and yelled, Run! And we took off for the woods. As we walked through the woods, Justin went on about what an asshole his dad was

and how life would be better if it were just him and his mom. I wasn't so sure if it would be better or just another kind of awful, considering his mom was a useless alcoholic, but at least she didn't hit him. She wasn't always a drunk, you know, Justin said. That's why I wear this necklace. It was a shark-tooth necklace I'd never seen Justin without for as long as I knew him.

Nothing impressive. You can find one in any beach gift shop. They weren't together for a while, my mom and dad, Justin continued. They'd broken up, before you knew me. Mom and I were happy back then. We went to the beach one day, and she bought me this. We couldn't afford much, you know, but we didn't need much, or at least I didn't think so. Why'd they get back together?

Mom thought we needed more, and Dad could afford it. He's the only reason we're in that house. I guess that ain't all bad. We wouldn't be friends if you weren't in that house. Justin smiled and patted me on the back. You're right, Cole, but never knowing someone is okay, losing someone you knew is what's hard. Henry was sitting in the doorway reading a book when we arrived.

Back so soon? Brought you some honey, I said. Henry held out his hand and I tossed it to him. He looked at it and smiled. Thank you, Cole. What's you reading? Justin asked. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer? Ever heard of it?

Justin shook his head. I'm not much of a reader. Henry looked at me and I shook my head as well. What's it about? I asked. It's about two friends, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. They get into a bunch of trouble and go on adventures and such. It's sort of a kid's book. Henry closed the book.

I started reading it again because you two remind me of the main characters. Cole, you're like Tom, and Justin here is like Huckleberry. What kind of name is Huckleberry? Justin asked. Henry shrugged. Same could be said about Justin or Cole or even Henry. What kind of name is any name, really? We hadn't a clue. And noticing he'd confused us, Henry laughed and said,

So what can I do for you boys today? I guess we're just looking for something to do. Henry put the book down and scratched at his chin. Y'all know how to chop logs? On that day, Henry taught us how to chop logs and start a fire, and over the next couple of years, we'd sneak off a few days each week and bring Henry food and supplies

in exchange for lessons in self-sufficiency. He taught us things like, to work with wood, garden, hunt, skin and animal, and cook. We'd also check out books for him from the library, and when he finished one we'd spend the following night sitting fireside as he told us all about what he'd read. Henry became like a father to Justin and me, and that made me and Justin feel more like brothers. Justin was 16 when he told me his plan. I want to introduce Henry to my mom. What? Why? I asked. Maybe they'll hit it off. but your parents are still married.

I know. I'm hoping if mom meets Henry, she'll fall in love with him and leave my dad. You don't even know if Henry is her type. How can he not be? He's single and nice and way better than my dad. That don't mean she'll fall in love with him. It don't work that way, Justin. You even said that the only reason your mom got back together with your dad

is because he had money. Henry doesn't have any money. Justin thumbed at the shark-tooth necklace. Henry can show her that we don't need money to be happy. He can help her remember. Part of me didn't want it to happen because I wanted Henry to be my dad. I would have been jealous. But I also knew that Henry wasn't just living in the woods.

He was hiding. For whatever reason, he didn't want to be found. That night there was an argument across the street. It was violent, and it was loud. Glass was shattered and doors were slammed, and in the morning, Justin was gone. I'd gotten used to hearing from Justin every day. If I didn't see him, he'd call me over the wall,

walkie-talkie. This was the 90s. We weren't using cell phones. So I went to his house that following afternoon and knocked on the door. Something I was always hesitant to do. His dad answered and just looked at me. Is Justin home? I asked. No. I haven't seen him all day. His dad shrugged. Not my problem. But he's your son. Excuse me? I swallowed and said, sorry, I just, I meant that you'd know better than anyone else. Well, I don't. before he shut the door, I noticed that the rug that was usually spread across the living room floor was gone, and there was a new hole in the wall about the size of a fist. That had me concerned, but I decided I'd check with Henry before telling my mom what I saw. So I made the long walk

through the woods alone to Henry's house. White smoke was billowing from the chimney as I arrived and knocked on the door. Henry opened it and said, Hey, Cole, come on in. I stepped inside and could smell that he was cooking a stew. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but you're probably not going to want any of this stew, he said. How come? He lifted the pot off the stove and showed me. It's your spicy rabbit concoction, I smirked. No thanks. Well, if you change your mind, I have plenty of honey. Henry went back to stirring. Where's Justin? I was hoping he was here. Henry stopped stirring and looked at me. You can't find him? No, I haven't seen him all day. That's not like him. No, it ain't, but I heard his dad holler in last night, and when I went to his house a

couple hours ago, there was a big hole in the wall, and the living room rug was missing, and his dad said he ain't seen him all day. Henry sighed and sat on the bed. Have you told your mom? Not yet. I wanted to see if he was here first. Can you think of anywhere else he might be? I shrugged. No, he was planning on coming out here anyway. Without you? I don't know, maybe. He wanted to try to get you to meet his mom. Henry furrowed his brow. Why? He thought if she met you, she might fall in love and leave his dad.

Henry smirked and shook his head. Oh, Justin, that poor boy. I watched Henry for a moment, then asked, Would you have married his mom? No, Cole. I don't know her. And even if I did, my marrying days are over. This is how I'm going to live until I die.

Alone? Henry nodded. What do I do now? Henry stood up and took the pot off the stove, set it onto a cinder block, and tasted the stew. If you tell the police and Justin becomes a missing person, there will be search parties looking all up and down these woods. They'll find me. So, finding Justin is more important. I'm a wanted man, Cole. It was the first time I'd heard him admit it. He truly was an outlaw. What did you do? I asked. Henry put the spoon down and walked over to the bookshelf,

pulled out his journal and removed the picture of the young boy and looked at it. His name was Sean. Your son? I lied when I told you he was sick. He wasn't sick. He was murdered. A man took him when he was walking home from school. He took my son, locked him in a cellar, and tortured him until he died.

Sean was only ten years old. I'm sorry, Henry. I knew who did it, but the police thought differently. They said there wasn't enough evidence. but I knew without a shadow of a doubt it was him, so I did what the police couldn't. I killed him. Henry turned and looked at me.

And for that reason, I can't let them find me. I was shocked that Henry was even capable of such a thing. Okay, then what do I do? Henry placed the photograph on the bookshelf and sat back on the bed. You need to either find Justin or find proof that his dad killed him, but you need to move quick before someone files a missing person report. Justin's dad owned a contracting business. Some days he worked long hours.

Some days he barely worked at all. It was impossible to gauge when he would and wouldn't be home. So the following morning I watched by my window until he left, and the second he did, I hurried across the street. The door was locked, as I figured it would be. But I knew the same couldn't be said about Justin's bedroom window. There had been plenty of times when Justin snuck out that window in the middle of the night, and likewise I'd also snuck in a handful of times.

The latch was broken. It was easy. I entered as quietly and careful as I could and looked around Justin's room for any clues. It was messier than I remembered, and the door had been knocked off its hinges. But what stood out most to me was that his mattress was missing. Nothing else seemed out of place.

I stepped into the hall and crept carefully toward the living room, keeping an eye out for Justin's mom as I went. The first thing I noticed was that the walls had more than one hole punched into them, and the furniture was all scattered about. It looked like Justin's dad had gotten into a fistfight with the room itself. Again, I noticed the missing rug, and knelt and smelled something like bleach, and as I looked even closer, saw what looked like three drops of blood. All the clues were pointing to the worst. I crept over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Lots of beer. I closed it and looked at the counters. There was a knife missing from the wooden knife block. I was almost certain now, but I had to check two more spots, the garage and the master bedroom. The garage had a freezer, and my heart trembled at the thought of what I might find in it. First, I looked around behind tool chests and whatnot, and finding nothing I walked over to the freezer.

Please don't be in here, I whispered to myself, then lifted the lid. There wasn't anything inside but deer meat and ice cream. I sighed with relief. Then, all of a sudden, the garage door began to open. Without a second thought, I hurried back into the house and didn't get far before I was face to face with Justin's mom. She blinked at me a few times. Then grogily said, Hey, Cole, where's Justin? At that moment, the interior garage door opened, and Justin's dad stepped inside. What the hell are you doing here, he said. I'm looking for Justin. He's not here. I told you that already. Where is he? I don't know. Yes, you do. His dad's eyes got big and he said,

What are you trying to say? You killed him. I know you did. Boy, you better watch your mouth. What's he talking about, Chris? Justin's mom asked. Shut up, woman. I backed up toward Justin's mom and said, He killed Justin, and if you don't leave here, he's going to kill you too. Chris pointed his finger at me and stepped closer. I'll kill you, boy. That's who I'll kill if you don't get him. out of my house right now. Screw you, Chris charged at me, and Justin's mom pushed me out of the way and screamed, Get out of here, Cole! Then she pulled it Chris long enough for me to run out the front door, and whether that was

enough, I don't know, because I just kept running without looking back until I reached the woods, and even then, I still hurried until I got to Henry's cabin. I didn't bother to knock on the door this time, and when I got inside, Henry wasn't there. It was quiet and everything was tidy. I sat on the bed and caught my breath and noticed that the rifle was gone. He must have been out hunting. I sat there a moment waiting for him and noticed the photograph of his son still sitting on the bookshelf from the previous night.

It seemed dear to him, not something he liked to share. But, I was curious, so I picked it up and got my first real look at the boy. He looked to be about ten, the age Henry said he was when he died. He didn't look much like Henry. He was blonde-haired and blue-eyed, whereas Henry had dark features. There was something about his smile that seemed forced. His eyes didn't look happy. In fact, he looked kind of scared.

But there was something else. Something in the background that was out of place. It was Henry's cabin. That didn't make sense. Henry moved to the woods to escape the law, a law he didn't break until after his son died. How could his son have been here? I dropped the picture and pulled Henry's journal from the shelf

and opened it. It wasn't a journal at all. It was a photo album. Each page is a photo of a different child. I felt the room start to spin. I had to leave before he came back. I turned around to go out the door and stopped. There he was, standing right in front of me. Hi, Cole, he said. He looked at the book in my hand. I see you looked at my journal. I didn't look at it. No, oh well, then let me show you. That's okay. I've got to go. Nonsense. Henry Shepard. shut the door. Stay a little while. Then he tapped the bed with the butt of his rifle and said, Have a seat. Reluctantly, I set the book down and did as he asked. He stepped over to the bookshelf and picked up his journal, then sat next to me on the bed. He carefully opened it to the first page.

This is my collection, Cole. They're in ascending order by age. Page one you can see is an infant, Little Baby Andy. Page two is one-year-old Tessa. He flipped the page. Two-year-old Abigail or Abby, as her parents like to call her. Please, I don't want to see any more. Henry sighed and flipped a few pages to age nine, and next to it was a blank space. He placed the photo of the blonde-haired boy under the age of 10. Michael had gotten lost in the woods.

He found me, just like you and Justin. Where is he? Justin? Oh, let me show you. Henry flipped past ages 11 through 15 and stopped on 16. It was a picture of Justin bound to a picture. chair in a dark room. He was a fighter, I have to admit. I felt sick. Tears started to swell in my eyes. Justin had been betrayed by the man he trusted most, and at that moment I had not only lost my

best friend, my brother, but I'd also lost another father. Now, now, Cole, don't cry. I'll let you see him. You can say goodbye. He's alive? Henry pointed at the floor. He's down there. show me henry closed the book and stood then lifted the deerskin rug revealing a hatch door he opened it and a rotten odor lifted into the cabin he motioned with his hand to the dark hole in the floor and said after you i stood and looked down into the hole i don't see anything henry reached under his bed and grabbed a flashlight and handed it to me i shined it down the hole and could see a ladder descending about twenty feet to a dirt floor you go first i said Henry frowned. Cole, whether you go down or not, I'm the one controlling this situation. I choose whether you live or die. I stared at him a moment, knowing what he said was true, and leaned over the hole and yelled, Justin!

No answer. Why isn't he answering? Henry shrugged. Maybe he can't hear you. I couldn't take not knowing anymore, so I stepped up the ladder and descended. To my surprise, Henry followed. Justin, you in here? My feet touched the dirt floor, and I looked around the room with the flashlight.

It was empty of all except a chair in the middle and slumped over in the chair was Justin. I hurried over to him and lifted his head, and when I did it fell back, and I could see that his throat had been cut, and the ground beneath him was sodden with blood. Sorry, Cole, I needed sixteen. He trusted you, and were those two years not some of his best? I looked at Justin's lifeless body, the shark-tooth necklace, his symbol of hope, still hanging from his neck. Are you going to kill me next?

Well, I already have a fourteen. Henry opened the journal and took out the picture and looked at it for a moment. Then he tore it in half and said, But it looks like I need a new one. He dropped the journal and rushed toward me, and right before he reached me, I yanked the necklace from Justin's neck and stabbed the shark tooth straight into Henry's eye.

Damn, he cried, covering his face, blood seeping between his fingers. I sprinted past him and up the ladder, and before I got to the top, he grabbed a hold of my ankle. I kicked several times and managed to connect with his bloodied face, knocking him to the ground. Then I heaved myself up from the hole, slammed the hat shut, and piled everything I could on top of it. I watched for a moment as he tried and failed to push through. Then I grabbed his rifle and took off for my house. The cabin was so far back in the woods that the police

asked me to take them to it. My mom went with me and around noon we reached it. We stayed back as the police move forward with guns drawn. But as they entered the cabin, I could see that the hatch was now open. They never found Henry. He left behind everything except his journal. I recently went back to the old neighborhood. Most of the houses have been sitting empty for over 20 years. I suppose people weren't comfortable with the idea that Henry might still be in those woods. And now that everyone is gone, nature has moved into all of their homes, all except for one, just to be. Just to be in the woods. Just Justin's dad stayed, but not his mom. On the day of Justin's funeral, I gave her a gift, a necklace, one which reminded her of a happier time.

In the woods is a spot where the cabin once stood, in its place a cross memorializing where so many children lost their lives. Nobody knows for sure how many children died there. At least six, as that's how many bodies were found buried in various spots around the cabin. Around the cross are several mementos placed there by loved ones. a toy car, a girl's hair ribbon, and a teddy bear. But on the day I visited, I found something that sent a chill down my spine. A copy of the Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Inside was a handwritten message which read,

See you soon, 38. Tomorrow will be my 38th birthday. I was on a hike through the forest when I saw it. The camera was sitting on a large boulder as if it had been left for me to find. I approached it hesitantly, looking around to see if there was someone nearby. Maybe someone had set it down and forgotten about it, but there was nobody around. The hiking trail was quiet and abandoned that day. A Tuesday afternoon in January isn't exactly the busy time for these places after all,

but I was bundled up and dressed for the weather, my insulated boots keeping me warm and dry on the cold, snowy day. I stood there for a while, looking to see if someone would come back for it. Part of me thought I should just leave it there, but it was an expensive-looking camera. the side it said SLR. Not knowing much about cameras, I had still heard of those initials before, and it struck me as being worth quite a bit of money. Not wanting it to get destroyed by the cold weather, I picked it up, thinking maybe I would run across its absent-minded owner further down the path. Surely they would be happy to have it back. But when I picked it up, I saw a tiny yellow sticky note attached to the bottom of the camera. On it were the words, finders-keepers, and a

smiley face was beneath that. Did that mean whoever it belonged to wanted me to take it? I took off my gloves and realized the camera didn't even feel cold, as if whoever had left it there had just done so recently in the last few minutes after taking it out from its case. The lens wasn't fogged up either, as it would have been if it had been left out for hours. Never one to pass up a free gift, especially one that I could sell to make half my rent payment. I took the camera and continued on my hike. It was a decision I would come to regret more than any other choice I'd made in my life. Later, I would lose sleep thinking about what could have been if I'd just walked away and left it there. What would my life have been like? But of course, I'll never know because I took it and

pretty soon I was holding it up to my eye and taking pictures with it. The pictures didn't look right though. They were too dark for one thing. There was a grayish yellow tinge to every shot I took. At first I was just shooting images of the clouds in the sky. But then I decided, I decided, I'd decided to try taking a picture of a nearby patch of trees. One of them, in particular, looked very unusual, an old oak tree which stood taller and broader than any others in the area. There was a plaque mounted on a stand at the bottom, saying something about its historical significance. When I held up the viewfinder to look at the image I'd taken, it made my blood run cold. My eyes studied the image, trying desperately to make sense of it. The camera was malfunctioning.

That was it. It had to be. There was an issue with the processor inside of it or whatever it was that made it work. Can you tell I'm not a camera expert? And I just needed to take it to a repair shop. I had a friend who knew all about these things, and I decided I would take it to his place first, to see if he could figure it out. The image of the tree was distorted, making it look like a horrifying imitation of itself, stretched out and too thin in places. The branches curling and twisted. Not only that, that, the colors were dark and malevolent, as if someone had put an Instagram Halloween horror filter on the image. Something about the picture made me very uneasy, and I tried to tell myself it was just a product of the situation. Still, I didn't sleep well that night. I kept hearing the camera making noises, tiny sounds as if there were little people inside of it, pulling levers and turning gears to make the device work. Drifting off into a nightmare, I pictured them as little devils, and the inside of that camera was hell. Weird, man. I've never seen anything like this, Dave said to me,

turning the camera in his hands and looking at it from every angle. You notice there's no company name or logo? I nodded hesitantly. Yeah, except for the SLR initials. Maybe you've got to open it up? He pulled out a small screwdriver. After a few more seconds of turning it in his hands, he set it back down on the table. There's no seams, no screws.

That's the other weird thing. it's like there's no way to open it up. There isn't even a port for a data cable. So how do you get the pictures off of it? I don't think you can, unless there's some way that I'm not seeing. Man, it's like this thing came from another planet. Maybe it's European. Or, it could be from one of those discount online stores.

What's it called wish.com question mark? You know the one where you order a TV for 20 bucks? And when it shows up, it's the size of a dinner plate and non-operational? Either way, I can't fix this stuff. thing, and I don't think a camera shop will be of much help either. Great, I muttered. What a waste of time. I thought maybe it was at least worth some money. Freaking rent went up again this year, and I can't remember the last time I saw a raise. You should have bought a house when the market was good, my friend. I kept trying to tell you.

I tuned out of the rest of his speech about the benefits of homeownership and got ready to leave a little while later, feeling dejected and ripped off, despite the fact that the camera had been free. It felt as if I was losing a little piece of myself to it every second I held on to it, and yet I couldn't bear to throw it away. Hang on, Dave said as I was putting on my boots and coat. Take a picture of me with your weird-ass camera before you go. I want to see what a picture of me turns out to look like. He was laughing and grinning, but I felt horrified by his suggestion.

I'm not sure why, but the idea of snapping a photo of him with this creepy camera I'd found in the forest felt wrong. It was a disturbing notion that gave me a sensation of bugs crawling across my skin. Nah, man, I'm tired, I said lamely, trying to make any excuse I could to avoid doing it. I got to go. What are you talking about, dude? It'll take two seconds. He was persistent, joking at first, then beginning to look at me as if there was something wrong with me. At that moment, I didn't want to raise the camera and take a picture of him, but I found myself doing it anyway.

Click. What's the worst that could happen? happen, a voice in my mind asked, but I would find out soon enough. The picture I'd taken of my friend was more warped and unnatural looking than the ones I'd taken in the forest. It showed him as a twisted, mutilated version of himself. Dark holes in his head where eyes should have been, long arms with too many bends and twists in them, and the expression on his face which should have been a smile showed up as an angry sneer, jealous and full of hate and rage. Sweet, I look like a demon, he'd said after looking at him.

it. If you find a way to print those, I want a copy of that one. Dave had a final thought as I was leaving his home. He told me there was one other person who might be able to help me with the camera. At first I said I wasn't interested, but then he mentioned that the man might actually buy it from me as well. That piqued my interest since I was still short a few hundred dollars on rent. I decided I would take one last shot at deciphering the mystery of the strange camera. If this man couldn't help, then so be it. I would throw the damn thing in a dumpster after that. I arrived outside the shop and pulled up to the curb.

It was a pawn shop, I realized. But there was a sign out front saying that they specialized in old cameras. More importantly, there was one saying they would pay cash for vintage and modern equipment. The kid at the counter inside looked frazzled, despite the lack of customers. He was pulling his greasy blonde hair hard enough to make it stand up. when he let go, giving him a manic Einsteinian appearance when he looked up to greet me. Oh, hey, he squeaked, catching a glimpse of himself in a reflection and quickly patting down his unintentional spikes. Can I help you? The way he asked the question gave the impression that he would

be very happy if I just told him I had the wrong address and walked out the door. The kid looked nervous as hell, and more than that, scared. Hey, I'm looking for Jim. I was told he might be able to help me with this. I held up the SLR and the kid's eyes went even wider. Oh no, no, get that out of here. Jim's gone. He's gone. He's at St. Daniels now because of that thing. And if you know what's good for you, you'll get rid of it. He screamed this last part and picked up a pile of papers from the counter, hurling them across the room at me. They scattered everywhere, and I looked through them, falling slowly to the floor like leaves, and could see the kid crying. His face was bright red, and he opened his mouth to scream again, but I didn't want to hear the words.

I already knew what they were going to be. Get the freak out, he yelled as the door swung shut behind me. I ran back to my car as if rabid dogs were chasing me, but I didn't throw out the camera. God help me, I didn't throw out the camera. Instead, I went to St. Daniel's mental health facility on the other side of town. I don't know why I did it. Curiosity, maybe? Maybe something more than that.

Maybe the camera has an influence stronger than just what it does with each picture it takes. I'm terrified of how powerful it is, much stronger than I could have ever imagined at first glance. More powerful than any technology we have on earth. Sorry, I'm getting distracted. Losing focus. Ha ha. Anyways, I got to the mental hospital and used what little information I had to weasel my way in there, to see Jim, the man from the camera store who seemed to have some ideas in his head about the I didn't want to show it to him right away, afraid of how he might react, so I kept it tucked away as I sat across from him in a lounge, surrounded by other patients playing games and

watching television on a fuzzy screen. I'd lied to get in, making up a story about being his nephew. Jim, I said, trying to get him to look at me. I'm a friend of Dave's. I needed to ask you about—I didn't even get halfway through the sentence before he looked up at me sharply and began to speak. the camera you found it didn't you i nodded reluctantly oh damn he said clutching his shirt and squeezing it like he was ringing out a wet towel i was starting to believe them i was really starting to believe them when they said it wasn't real they told me it didn't exist

and i believed them what is it i asked trying to keep my voice even hoping he would do the same he took a few seconds to look around, as if to make sure no one was listening. You still haven't figured it out yet? He whispered. You still don't know? I shook my head, no. His eyes went wide as he seemed to consider something. How many pictures have you taken? Did you, did you shoot any people with it? A nurse's head jerked up nearby at our conversation and she began to walk over looking angry. Just one person, my friend. I took a picture of him with it, I said, hoping this would reassure the nurse that we were just talking about a camera. But she looked even more pissed off at the mention of photography than firearms. She was marching over and stood looking down at me. Her face was red and angry at

first, but then she looked at Jim, and her expression softened. It's okay, Jim. It isn't real. The camera isn't real. She grabbed my arm roughly and told me to get the hell out, using a few other choice words and phrases about how I was disrupting his recovery and reinforcing his delusions. A minute later there was a security guard standing in front of me saying he would escort me out. I heard Jim screaming as we left, calling out and kicking something over. He was ranting and fighting with the nurses as they tried to restrain him. And then suddenly a voice was speaking through the overhead PA, saying, Code White, E, as in Edward 3. Code White, E as in Edward 3. She repeated it once more, and then there was a loud click. Staff members came rushing past us from every direction,

pushing us out of their way as they raced into the locked unit. The guard escorting me looked a bit dejected that he couldn't join in on the fun and was forced to deal with me instead. What the hell did you say to him? He barked at me after the crowd of staff members had gone by. I didn't answer. Whatever it was, you really set him off. He walked me right out to the edge of the property,

then stood to watch me go. Don't come back, you hear? He called after me. You do. We're calling the cops. After the mental hospital, I didn't know where to go. I tried calling Dave, sitting in a McDonald's parking lot in my car, holding the camera in my free hand and examining it, as if looking at it long enough would unlock some mystery I hadn't yet been able to solve.

Dave didn't answer, despite me trying him three more times. I ended up settling on leaving him a voicemail, telling him to call me back as soon as possible. I was starting to get worried about him. More than anything, I was really wishing I hadn't taken that picture of. of him, especially after Jim's words at the mental hospital. Did you shoot any people with it? He had asked, looking terrified.

The way he'd said it, he might as well have been talking about a gun. Something occurred to me, and I sent a text to Dave, telling him where I was going to go and asking if he could meet me there. A few minutes later, he responded, saying he would. So he was alive, I thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Still, I felt uneasy. Why hadn't he picked up the phone when I'd called so many times? Then he sent another message saying,

Make sure you bring the camera. For some reason it felt like a ransom demand. I would find out why soon enough. When I got out to the trail, I saw Dave's car right away, but he wasn't in it. He sent me another text, saying he got tired of waiting and starting walking, and that he would meet me on the trail.

This wasn't too unusual for him, since he was the impatient type and didn't like to wait for anyone. Still, I found the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, some primal instinct telling me to be cautious. I walked out into the forest, following the trail toward the place where I'd found the camera. There was no one on the path, and I was reminded again of the day I'd last been out there. Part of me wondered if anyone had been out this way since I was here last. The answer to that was no, I realized, as I came upon the place where I'd taken the first pictures with the strange camera. If anyone had been out this way,

surely they would have reported this to the authorities, or to the press, or to someone. Every single place where I'd taken a picture with the camera, it was transformed. Even the sky off in the distance looked bruised and permanently darkened, that malignant shade spreading visibly wider by the second. I felt a cold sweat running down my brow as I turned and looked at how the forest had changed. The large tree with the plaque at the bottom no longer looked like its majestic old self. now it was twisted and bent, crooked and dark, just like the photo I'd taken of it. All of the plant life I'd snapped pictures of, everything was distorted and wrong now,

and that wrongness was spreading outward, infecting the life around it. Have you figured it out yet? A voice asked from behind me. I spun around to see someone who looked like Dave emerging from the forest, coming out from behind a tree and walking toward me. I backed away, seeing the wrongness of his face. the same distorted portrait I had seen when I'd taken a picture of him with the camera the day prior. I don't think he's smart enough to decipher it. We'll need to spell it out for him, Jim said from

behind me, grabbing me as I tried to spin around to fight him off. But this wasn't the same gym I'd seen at the mental hospital. This man looked like a mutated, deformed version of that person. His scraggly facial hair made it look as if he had not shaved for several days, telling me this could not be the same man. Who the hell are you people? I heard myself ask, seeing another man coming out from the trees. There are millions of dimensions,

billions of them, said a version of the kid from the pawn shop, taking the camera from my hand, all stacked on top of one another. We are from another place much like yours, but we are better, smarter. Our technology is so far advanced that we have learned to communicate with other worlds,

the other versions of our world. We could communicate to tell them how to build things, to make things for us, but we could not cross over, not until one of your kind opened the doorway. He began to take more pictures, snapping images of the forest around us, and then he turned the camera and pointed it at me. Say cheese. I closed my eyes, terrified of what would happen to me if he managed to capture my likeness in an image on that camera. If he did, there would soon be another version of me standing here looking to take my place, looking to take my place, looking to. to create more portals, more gateways to its dark world. Just as he was pushing down the button to take the picture, I heard a loud bang. A bright flash of light and smoke exploded in front of me, sending me reeling backwards. I stumbled out of the arms of evil Jim who had been holding

me and fell to the ground, landing in mud and dead leaves. Swarm, swarm, swarm, a voice shouted, and when I blinked my eyes open momentarily, I saw a swat-like team of what I at first assumed were police officers moving in from the nearby tree. A helicopter was hovering above, and several more men and women in body armor were repelling down on ropes, landing all around us. I heard the sounds of a scuffle, people being thrown against trees and handcuffed, and several weapons being discharged. Still mostly blind from the flashbang, I wasn't really able to witness any of it. When I came to my senses, there was a man standing over me, holding his hand out to help me up. I shook my head, telling him I needed a minute.

I was still dizzy from everything that had happened. Pack it up, ladies and gentlemen, he said with an air of authority. We've got what we came for. Nearby, someone was placing the camera in a black, heavy-duty-looking case. He snapped it shut and put it inside another larger case with a bigger lock. Begin distratification procedures, he announced. Who are you guys? I asked, looking around and seeing men and women in reflective metallic suits carrying long, futuristic-looking guns. They began pointing them at the sky and at the areas of the

forest where the malignant darkness was spreading. After several seconds, the darkness stopped growing and actually started retreating. We're the good guys, the man standing over me said. I'm sorry about your friend. We didn't get there in time to save him. Unfortunately, these folks don't like leaving credible witnesses. Dave? I asked, feeling like the world was suddenly spinning twice as fast as before. He's dead? I'm afraid so. He tried to contact you against their wishes and they killed him. He was trying to warn you. I shook my head. It was all so crazy. How could I ever explain this to anyone? Who would ever believe it? Please sign this form indicating you will never tell anyone about the events which happened to you recently involving this object. The man said,

holding out a form for me to sign. What if I don't want to? I asked, feeling uncooperative. Well, then you won't get this check for $10,000 with your name on it, a finder's fee for the discovery of this item, standard payment amount, but only for those willing to sign the NDA. I sighed, feeling like I might as well get something out of all of this madness. The camera was gone anyway, and that was a good thing. I was glad to have it out of my life. Sure, I said, taking the clipboard and pen. 10 grand will pay my rent for a year. I'm sure Dave would have wanted it this way, except for the part about him being dead.

The man scrunched up his face in a frown and examined my signature, then handed me a check. I examined the payer line, trying to figure out who the hell these people were. All it said was, the organization. And when I looked up, they were gone.