Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - 6+ Hours of Horror Stories to Keep You Up Tonight (Compilation of August 2026)

Episode Date: August 31, 2026

▶ Listen to Bedtime Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep on Spotify and Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Revisiting stories from past videos in this 6+ hour horror story compilation, featuring eerie atmospheric ambience, relaxing narration, scary stories, creepy encounters, paranormal horror, supernatural tales, and dark storytelling. Perfect for listening at night, falling asleep, relaxing, studying, working, or enjoying hours of immersive creepypasta stories. ▶ Fuel your nightmares with NoSleep Coffee — Use promo code NOSLEEP20 at checkout for 20% off your first order. Huge thanks to our sponsors: BetterHelp: Sign up now and get 10% off at ⁠betterhelp.com/dns⁠. Shopify: You don’t need anyone’s approval to make a living. Build your own business with a free trial at shopify.com/dns * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 18. Listener discretion is advised.  #scarystories #horrorstories #drnosleep #doctornosleep #creepypasta #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Hey guys, we just launched a brand new show called Bedtime Horror Stories by Dr. No Sleep. It features eerie, atmospheric horror made for late night listening with relaxing rain and soothing narration. No sound effects, no jump scares. If you enjoy falling asleep to scary stories, click the link to Bedtime Horror Stories in the description below and subscribe with all notifications on. Part 1. The Warning The Beer is Cheap, but the Ceremony conversation is lucrative, or would be if I were an unethical bastard who wants the world to burn, which I'm not, for the record. I most certainly am not. Is there a price that could change my

mind? With what I have? No. Never. Like I said, I have no desire to see the world burn. The burden is mine and mine alone. Annoyed with me, knots, picks up a tortilla chip, and dips it into the runny poop this place calls bean dip. Why anyone would order bean dip from a bar that thinks Budweiser is snobbish, I don't know. But, hey, there is guts, not mine. You know you probably won't ever see this kind of green again, right? Knott's asks around a mouthful of mush. He swallows hard and his eyes bug out. Pounding his own chest a few times, I watch as he struggles to get the painful mouthful down. Man, that went sideways. We've been over this, Knott's. The recording isn't for sale. I'd destroy the damn thing if it wasn't for.

I trail off as I think of what's on that recording and why I can't delete it. Knott's rolls his eyes. He's always considered me overdramatic. I call it being healthily cautious and not a reckless moron. Also, there's that world is going to burn thing. He chip dips and shoves the whole thing into his mouth in one bite, having learned nothing from his previous at at eating the abominable stuff. I sip my lukewarm, off-brand gutter beer and try not to shudder at the metallic taste. It's like sucking on a penny attached to a battery, but with less flavor. Why does this guy want the recording so bad anyway?

How do you even hear about it? Knots shrugs like he doesn't know. My turn to roll my eyes. He laughs, clears his throat, and says, The guy is a collector. You'd know his name if I said it, but I'd been sworn to secrecy. even more reason to say no sounds sketchy and sketchy guys get people heard oh get off your damn high horse crowley knott's nearly shouts calling me by the nickname i despise he must see the anger on my

face because he waves a chip at me splattering bean dip across the booth's table chill out i'm just kidding duncan i hate that name what duncan that's your name no asshole crowley i hate that name I know, I know. That's why I apologized. Jesus, Duncan, you need to learn to relax. I push my beer out of the way and lean on the table, fixing a very serious glare at Knott's. Relax? Did Luca get to relax? Or Angie? Or Bear? Knott's blanches utter former colleague's names. I utter a small, disgusted laugh.

Maybe think for a second before you start spending all that money you don't deserve. That pisses Nott's off. The guy may be a wee-a-weeasy. But even he has his limits. Don't deserve. Really? How do you figure that? He stands up, grabs the bowl of bean dip and dumps it over my head. Eat shit, Duncan. How dare you throw their names in my face like that? They were my friends too!

All I can do is sit here with shitty bean dip running down my face as he downs his drink, slams the empty glass onto the table, and storms off, leaving me with the bill. Asshole! I shout after him. But he's already gone. gone, the bar's door closing after him. The few patrons in the dive give me a quick once-over, then return to their own misery. Snagging a wad of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the table, I start cleaning myself up. You might as well wash off in the sink, the waitress says

if she comes by to grab the empty glasses. I'll clean the booth. You wash that crap out before it sets. Trust me, you don't want that dip to set. Okay, thanks. Sorry about the mess. Oh, it's fine. At least none of this came out of an orifice, so it's not the worst I've cleaned up today. I can tell you that. I laugh as I stand up. Funny, I'm Duncan. Nope, she says, pulling a less than clean bleach rag from her apron. Not going to happen. I raise an eyebrow at the bleach blonde, fake eyelashed, way past her prime waitress. She's had it rough. That's easy to see. She is kind of cute, though. Maybe you'll change your mind when I come back all shiny and new without bean dipping my face. hair. Bean? You wish that crap was made of beans. My face must drop fast because she starts laughing,

then swats me with her bleach rag. Ah, calm down. It's beans, mostly. Shaking my head, I move off to the men's room to get cleaned up. When I look in the crusty and stained mirror, I see what she means. Half my hair is standing straight up like I used two whole bottles of some 1980s hair gel. The dip is all over my shoulders and neck too. And, and my neck too. And I'm And when I peel my shirt off, I can actually hear it crunch and crack. Half the restrooms, paper towels later, and I am mostly cleaned up. I don't have a clean t-shirt, though. The waitress looks me up and down, then snorts a huge laugh when I come back to my table shirtless.

I'll check the lost and found and get you a shirt, so you don't blind anyone with that ivory skin of yours. You ever think about stepping outside when the sun is shiny? My work tends to be nocturnal. Why? You a vampire? I wish. She cocks an eyebrow and purses her lips. That's so.

Do I need to be worried? Should I call Van Halston to take you out? Van Helsing. What? The vampire hunter. Dracula's nemesis. His name is Van Helsing. Don't care.

I, um, am a paranormal investigator. I shake my head. Or was. I hear a sob story coming on. Let me fetch you a shirt from the box behind the bar. I'll get you another beer. On the house in payment for being tonight's entertainment.

Um, thanks, but I should be going. You're giving up free beer? Have you tasted the beer? She laughs. I'll be back with the shirt. Stay if you want, go if you have to. Then she leans in, and I can smell jasmine, cocoa butter, and war-s-wet. And I want to hear that sob story.

There's got to be a reason a guy gets mostly bean dip dumped on his head. She walks off quickly. I watch her go. Not a bad view. The bar may be a dive. The beer may be the cheapest, and the dip may or may not be made of beans. But one thing is for sure.

This damn place has great AC. Sitting here shirtless in the booth, I am fighting not to start shivering. I glance about the place. The patrons look like animated cadavers. Although animated may be a little generous. Considering the guy in the corner booth hasn't moved an inch since I sat down. He's been staring at those same three fingers of brown liquor for an hour now.

Then there's the guy at the high top table by the jukebox. The only time he's moved is to glare at anyone who dares to approach and put a quarter in the machine. Or four quarters since the price of songs has gone up. Does it even take quarters? Might only take cards or phones or whatever the machines eat these days. Hard to know since the guy won't let anyone play music. That glare scares off everyone. And the lady at the bar, short denim skirt, teased up blonde hair, stylishly ripped t-shirt over a tank top.

She was probably quite the party girl back in the day. Was that before or after Back to the Future First came out, I wonder? Finally, we have Mr. Sketchy. Him, I can't figure out. He's got the other back corner booth, but he's not a down-on-his-luck piece of shit like the others. Or, at least, he doesn't dress like it. Nice, expensive shirt, open a few buttons down to his chest. Cuffs rolled up high enough that I clocked the Rolex on his wrist. Sparklingly white teeth set in a very tan face. Not

fake tan. Yacht tan. The guy never meets my eyes when I look in his direction, yet I feel like he's watching me closely. Here you go, hunt, the waitress says, handing me a bright pink Simpsons t-shirt. It's all we had that I thought would fit you. Unless you want the plus-size sundress with the mystery stains on it. No, Marge and the gang are fine, I say and shrug the shirt on over my head. Back with your beer and a twitch of a witch's tit. I laugh at the saying. It's a good one. I'll have to start using it. Can you please turn the music down? The woman at the bar moans. There is no music, of course, due to high top table guys glare. No one responds to her, so she lays her head on her arms and starts crying. I doubt our lack of response is why

she's crying. Or maybe it is. Some folks are way too sensitive. Which gets me thinking of Knott's and his little storm out of the dive bar tantrum. I get it. The figure he gave me is three zeros beyond anything I can hope to get paid in my lifetime. And even though Nott's only be taking a percentage, it's enough to set him up for a while. I'd be pissed too. But he's not getting that recording. No one is. Ever. The waitress comes back with my beer, setting it in front of me with a grin. I get off in an hour, stick around until then. An hour's worth of free beer? Sure. I thought you hated the stuff, even if it is free. It's all about quantity now, not quality. She eyes me closely, the nods. All right, deal. Then she walks off to

deliver another three fingers of whiskey to the corner booth guy, who is still staring at the first three fingers he hasn't touched. I sip my beer, cringe, then scoot over so my back is against the wall and my legs are across the bench seat. This way, I can survey the scene for the next hour without getting a crick in my neck. Plus, Mr. Sketchy with the Rolex has me on edge. The losers are closer to my kind of people, so I'm not worried about them. But this guy, he's off, way off. I need to keep an eye on him.

The waitress, whose name I still don't know, is behind the bar, chatting with the bartender while he puts away what might be clean glasses. I wouldn't bet on it without knowing the spread. Mostly clean, partially clean, just the insides, just the outsides. I take a look at my own beer glass, then try to think of something else. It ain't fair, the woman at the bar cries. The waitress leans across the bar and whispers something to her. The woman straightens up, her back going stiff.

Then slowly, way too slowly for my taste. She cranes her neck until she's looking directly at me. Hi, she says. I look over one of my shoulders, see the wall, look over my other shoulder. Yep, still wall. Me? The woman nods and gets off her bar stool, adjusting her denim skirt way too late for me not to notice everything.

She does that little shoulder wiggle some women do that I think puts stuff back in place that may have been out of place, checks her breath, and hips weighs herself over to my table. I give the waitress a, what the hell, look. She only smiles and goes back to talking to the bartender. Hi, I'm Allison. She sits down.

Tears well up in her eyes almost the second her denim-clad ass hits the booth's cracked plastic. Um, okay. Hey Allison, I'm Duncan. Go ahead and have a seat. Thanks, babe. I appreciate it. She grabs my beer and downs it.

Slamming the empty onto the table as she raises her other hand and waves at the bar. Emmy, Emmy, another round over here. The waitress rolls her eyes, then grabs a pitcher and starts to fill it. My stomach churns at the thought of what a pitcher of this swill will do to my insides. Not that my insides haven't handled worse, way worse. Haven't seen you in here before. First time?

Here? Yeah. At a dive bar? No. Dive bar? Allison looks around, then returns her gaze to me confused. This place? She shakes her head.

No, no, this place is nice. The waitress arrives with the pitcher and two new glasses. I'd say two clean glasses, but that's pushing things. I figured you might need some conversation while you wait for me to be done for the night, the waitress says. Then smiles at Allison. Don't be a crazy bitch, okay? I'm not gonna.

Allison scrunches her shoulders and socks. I'll behave. You better. The waitress gives me a big, smile. She's not half as bad as she looks. Um, thanks. I hold out my hand. I'm Duncan. Yeah, you said that already. She takes my hand. Emily, but everyone calls me Emmy. Good to meet you, Emmy. She licks her lips, watches me for a moment, then turns and saunters off. Damn, it really isn't a bad view when she walks away. You want to have sex with her, Allison says in a child's sing-song voice,

You want to get her into your bed and do it. Jesus, I mutter under my breath. Then pour us eat a beer. I lift mine up. Cheers. Oh, fancy. She lifts hers up, too. Cheers.

We clink glasses, and I hope maybe I can keep this emotional mess of a woman from completely losing it. Allison pounds half her glass. Let's loose with a loud, satisfied sigh, then pounds the rest. She belches and sets the empty. glass down. Then she folds her arms on the table and puts her forehead on them, and the tears and sobs begin to flow again. So much for keeping her from losing it. I look about, but I'm not getting any help from anyone in here. I catch Mr. Sketchy watching me, and I raise an eyebrow. He tries to smile, fails miserably at it, then looks away as if the other side of the bar has

suddenly gotten very interesting. I don't want to die, Allison Wales, looking up at me. I want to die. She drags a forearm across her face, smearing her lipstick and the scream of snot coming out of her nose. Talk to them, Duncan. Tell them that I don't have to die. Allie, no! The bartender shouts.

None of that crap. But I don't. You know the deal, Allie. Screw this up, and... Allison shivers. She nods, even though the bartender didn't exactly finish his sentence. I reach out and place my hand on her arm. What deal?

What's he talking about? Allison? No. This time from the waitress. High-top jukebox hog is staring right at me. He lifts his glass and smiles. Damn, his teeth are sharp. I hadn't noticed that before, which is strange because I usually notice those details.

It's noticing the details that has kept me alive this long. I'm good, I'm good. Allison says if she clears her throat. She grabs a wad of napkins and blots her face. It doesn't help. But it seems to make her feel better. All good. Everything is good. Good, good, good. What was all that?

Allison shakes her head and tries to smile through her tears. Nothing. Just a lady having a bad night. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Slowly. She's still letting it out. Don't get lightheaded, I say and sip my beer. My muscles tense at the taste. But seriously, what's going on? So, you chase ghosts? Is that what you do?

Allison grabs more napkins and continues wiping her face. Soon, all of her makeup is smeared off, mostly cleaned by the saline of her tears. What's the scariest thing you've seen? I blink a few times as I try to figure out what to say. But the words don't come to me. Taking another look about the bar, I noticed that everyone except for the three fingers of whiskey guy is looking at my booth. even Emmy and the bartender. I may be a little late to the party, but things click in my head.

I shouldn't be here anymore. I need to go now. Scooting out of the booth, I pull out my wallet and drop a 20 on the table. That should cover it. I say loudly. Then smile at Emmy. Sorry, babe, but I just remembered that I needed to be somewhere. Possible new client.

You sure? How about you sit back down, Duncan? Emmy says. Her voice has dropped an octave, and I almost do exactly as she says. It's one damn sexy voice, but I know bad mojo when I'm being surrounded by it. Emmy said to sit down, so sit down, the bartender says. No, no, I think I'm good. I start walking toward the door.

It's been great. I look down at the Pink Simpsons T-shirt I'm wearing. I'll watch this and get it back to you. Who knows? The owner may come looking for it. He's not sitting down. The bartender says to Emmy. I know.

So, what do we do? Not much we can do. You want to try to stop him? Hey, buddy. Mr. Sketchy shouts. Sit down like the lady's into. Yeah, sit. High top ads.

Come back, Crowley. Allison says. She looks her lips, and the way she does it makes me want to vomit. In fact, the whole place is making me nauseous. I got to get some fresh air before I puke. Then I realized something. What did you call me? I asked Allison.

What name did you just say? God damn it. alley the bartender says why'd you call me crowley how do you know that name alison looks about like someone will come to a raid no one does of course so she bursts into tears again and down her head goes onto her arms grabbing the door handle ready to get the hell gone i pull and for a brief second the night's cool air soothes me my car is just around the block a quick jog and i am free of this shit hole and whatever the hell is going on here. Then the barrel of the pistol touches my forehead and not says, I don't think so, Crowley. Step back inside and go sit your ass down. We've

got business to attend to. Nots? I cross my eyes and try to focus on the pistol in my face. Um, what the hell are you doing? Making the hard decision that you're too chicken to make. Back the hell up and go sit down, Crowley. He cocks the hammer back. I gulp. Now. Taking slow steps backward, I put a little distance between my forehead and the gun. Then I keep backing up until I'm at the booth again. Allison looks up, streamers of snot swinging from her chin. You came back! She reaches out and pats my arm this time as I take a seat.

My focus on Knott's and his pistol. That's so nice of you. You seem like a nice guy. I'm sorry you have to die too. Jesus Christ, shut the hell up, bitch! Knott's yells, making Allison jump. And yes, she starts to cry for the umpteenth time. Knott's steps to the booth, then sits down on my side, hip-checking me up against the wall.

His pistol jammed into my side. He has a courier bag across his chest, and he grabs the strap and lifts it over his head, setting the bag back down on the table. The pistol presses into me. I'd like to put this away, because we both know how accidents can happen, right, Crowley? Stop calling me that. Oh, shut the hell up. Nicknames happen. Stop being a little bitch about it.

Knots? What is going on? He shoves the gun into my ribs. Can I put this away so we can talk like friends? Or do I need to worry about you doing something stupid? No. Go ahead. Put it away. I'll be chill. He shakes his head. Bullshit. But I'm putting it away anyway. I'm sure the others are packing. There's a good amount of busy noise. Then I see Mr. Sketchy hold up a goddamn hand cannon and set up a it on his table. I glance at high top, and he has two nine millimeters in his hands. He gives them a shake in my direction, then sets them on his table. Looking toward the bar, I see a sought-off shotgun in the bartender's hands. Emmy doesn't have a weapon. She just gives me a sad

smile. Have you brought it? It's a deep, quiet voice. Heads turn, and all eyes fall on the three fingers of whiskey guy. Then all heads turn, and the eyes fall onto me. No. onto Knott's. He pats the courier bag. Yep, got it right here. Got what right there, Knots? I looked down at the gun. I thought you were putting that away. I am. He moves the gun away, then opens the courier bag and places the pistol in one of the compartments. From another, he pulls out a laptop. My laptop. Shit, Knots, what are you doing?

He sets the laptop in front of me and lifts the lid. It boots up, and the request for my password blinks before us. I'm making sure that Luca and Angie and Bear didn't die for nothing, Crowley. I cringe at the name, but don't protest. We're way past shitty nicknames at this point, that's for sure. Nats, no, just no. I'm not unlocking my laptop. I wave my hands at the bar.

I don't know who these people are, but I do know that there's no way in hell I'm handing the recording over to any of them. I'm not handing it to anyone. It's too goddamn dangerous, Nats. You know this! There's a hoarse, scraping noise. scraping noise. And I look at three fingers of whiskey. He is slowly, painfully pushing his chair back. Then he plants his hands on the table and pushes up from the chair. His eyes never leaving his two

glasses of whiskey. How dangerous it is, is not for you to decide, boy. You are a delivery mechanism for what has been foretold. What he said? Mr. Sketchy laughs and points at her booth. I didn't think you'd make it happen, Mr. Nott's. Just Knott's, asshole. Mr. Sketchy reaches for his hand cannon. Knott's starts to reach for the courier bag. No! Emmy shouts, coming out from behind the bar, her palms out, trying to chill the situation. A situation I'm still trying to figure out. Knock it off, both of you. You are all here for the auction.

She nods at Mr. Sketchy, hide top, and then at three fingers of whiskey. And this is a neutral space. No more threats, no more guns. Put your crap away and act civilized. Civilized? Alice shrieks. They're gonna gut me like a big! Okay, other than that, Emmy responds. Allison goes back to crying and snodding all over her arms.

Now, are you assholes going to chill so we can start this auction or what? If not, then kindly leave. No one gets up to leave. No one puts their guns away, though. Emmy places her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. I am not joking. Get the hell out if you can't behave. Well said, my dear.

Here? Three fingers of whiskey walks away from his table and approaches Emmy. He places a very long, very sharp-looking fingernail under her chin, lifting her face so she's looking directly at him. To her credit, she doesn't try to retreat. But don't forget who you are speaking to. He flicks quickly, and he gasps, her hand going to her chin. Blood is already seeping past her fingers. Three fingers of whiskey gives her a dangerous smile.

Then he swiveles his head and looks directly. at Knott's. Will he give up the password? Knots nods. Like hell I will! I try to shove Nott's out of the way, but three fingers of whiskey's arms snaps out, his hand going around to Emmy's throat. I stop.

He grins. I sit my ass back down. His grin widens, and he lets go of Emmy. Good. Now, let the auction begin. Part 2. The Auction Emmy brings another pitcher of beer to the table, since I've already downed.

I've already downed the first one. She gives me a look that says thanks, and also that she's sorry. I give her a look like I want to kill her. Just relax and don't make waves, and it'll all go fine for you, Duncan. She says. Can't say the same for you, Emily. When this is over, no one will be happy with how it turns out. Stop being so melodramatic, Crowley.

Not says, helping himself to the pitcher. But she isn't wrong. Relax. Cooperate. Don't make this a battle. Tell me the password. Do that. And you walk out of this bar in one piece. If I give you my laptop password and you give them the recording, no one will be in one piece. I stand up. Nott's grabs my arm, but I shake him off.

You hear that? I don't know what you all think is going to happen. But let me tell you now that if you play the recording, there is a definite chance that the world will end. You say that like it's a bad thing. Mr. Sketchy cackles. The world as it is has had its time. Now we try something different. When I have the recording, I'm going to broadcast it, beam it, live stream it, and put it out on every platform imaginable. Only those lost tribes in the Amazon will be spared.

Quiet. Three fingers of whiskey points at Mr. Sketchy. The recording will not be released into your hands. Says you, I have more money than God, old man. Three fingers shakes his head. You have no idea what you are dealing with, you little shit. I knew. Hide Top picks up his two nine millimeters and waves them around casually, like he's conducting an orchestra.

Can we get on with things? He stops waving the guns and aims them at Emmy. Who's running shit? You or shotgun over there? Not us. We provide a secure location. She snorts at her own statement, since she's holding a bar towel to her chin, still trying to stop the bleeding caused by Mr. Three Fingers' stupidly sharp fingernail. The proceedings are up to the holder of the item. And that's Knott's. Knott's stands, lifts my laptop into the air, and bows. Never run an auction before, so be gentle with me.

No one laughs at his lame joke. He clears his throat. But I've seen them on TV and in the movies. So how hard can it be? Move it along. Three fingers slowly walks back to his table and sits down. Then Miracles of Miracles, he downs one of his glasses. Set the opening bit, fool.

Knott's tries to laugh it off, but I know the guy. He's in way over his head with this shit. Not surprising. This recording is beyond him. It's beyond all of us. I don't even think three fingers, despite his creepy bravado, knows what he's bidding on. Okay, okay.

Let's start to bidding at $3 million. How's that sound? Like highway robbery. I tops nine millimeters turned to Knott's. I thought we agreed that six figures was going to be. be the floor? Seven is my lucky number. Notts jokes. Three mil? Anyone? Three mil? Mr. Skechie picks up his hand cannon and sort of dangles it in high top's direction. Put the pea shooters away, will you? Man in their guns. Emmy steps behind the bar and switches out her bar towel for a fresh

one. Instantly, the semi-white of the bar towel becomes pink, then red, then deep red. What the hell kind of finger now does three fingers have anyway? All the weapons will be removed from play. Three fingers finishes off the second glass. Be civilized. This coming from the guy who sliced a waitress's chin open, simply because she was trying to calm the vibe down. Granted, I'll slid her chin,

and more likely her throat if I get the chance, but still. Good idea. I concur. Knott's shakes my laptop, then places it back on the table. We have three mill. How about 3.2? What happened to 3.1? Hightop asks.

If you can't afford the price, then why come to the auction at all? Mr. Sketchy chuckles. High Top still hasn't put his nines away. He sneers at Mr. Sketchy. Not all of us have to flash our riches to prove we have them, but there's a process to an auction. And I'm the damn auctioneer! Nottes nearly shouts.

Do I hear 3.2 mil? Yes, from three fingers. Although maybe I should call him something else now that he's finished his drinks. If anyone should have a nickname like Krauth, It's this guy. I'm sure he's very familiar with the old occultist. Shit. From the look of the man, he may have even known Alistair Crowley personally.

He's old, that's for sure. But not frail. I'm not fool enough to underestimate the man. Knott's might be, though. I need to get control of things before whatever this crap is goes sideways like a tortilla chip down Knott's throat. Three mil, 3.2, 3.9 doesn't matter. I'm not giving any of you my password. I tap my laptop.

I don't even think of trying to hack it. There isn't a tech alive that can get into this thing. Who says I employ the living? Three fingers dead eyes me. And who says we need you alive in order to give us the password? I swallow and turn away from his gaze. All that is in those eyes is death. Forget the password for now, will you?

I need to hear 3.3 mil, or he goes to creepy old guy over there. 3.3! Hightop's response is filled with anger. He still hasn't put his nine millimeters away. Great. How about 3.5? Do you even understand numbers? High Top is on his feet and aiming the nines at knots.

Now Mr. Skechy is on his feet, pointing his hand cannon at High Top. The bartender thinks about getting in the mix, but lowers the sought-off shotgun when Emmy reaches out and paths his shoulder. Stay out of it. We've done what we can. You all right? You need to tell? I'll be fine. Hey, hey, hey, gentlemen.

It. This is exactly why I said no weapons. If you two are going to measure dicks all night long, then I'm handing this to the old guy with the deadly nails. Knots, smirks. As long as he can come up with 3.5 mil. I accept your deal, fool. Whoa, hold on. Mr. Sketchy slowly sets his hand cannon down on his table. No need to derail things. It's all good. Everything is chill like you want. He glares at Hyattop. Right? We chill, bro. High Top, seeing how things are turning, shows more smarts than I thought he was capable of, and finally sets his nines down too. Three fingers sneers.

Fine. Now that the children have agreed to behave, 3.5 million is my bid. Knots nods to the old man. All right, there we have it, kids. 3.5. Do I hear 3.75? Why bother? I ask Knots.

That money won't be worth shit when the world is set a flame. Set of flame. Listen to you, Crowley. Always got to be the smart one in the mix. Can't just say burns. I did say that, you dumbass, but you wouldn't listen. I stand and grab for my laptop, and pain rips through my head like a buzzsaw. I fall back onto the bench seat and press my palms to my temples. Shit, what is happening? No touch in the lot until the auction is concluded. Knott's smiles at the still bleeding Emily. Part of the bar security package. Okay, good for you. Now make it stop. Can you ease my friend's suffering, please?

My name is Emily. I know, don't care. Turn the pain off. Crowley has learned his lesson. I hate you so much. I gasp as the pain does turn off. Like a switch has been flipped. I look at Emmy.

Oh, Jesus. Thanks. I think she smiles at me, but it's hard to tell with most of the bottom of her face covered by a bloody bartow. Why? Why did I agree to this? Allison shrieks. I'm about to piss myself. I'd gotten so used to her crying that I forgot she was even still at the table. No one answers her.

I have to pee! She gets up and sort of shuffle walks her way to the back hall and the restrooms. Should someone go with her? Make sure she doesn't try to escape. Nott's settles his gaze on Emmy. Waitress? Kind of makes sense for you to go since you have the same plumbing. She can't escape, Emmy says. No windows or back door. The other. The only way out is through the front. Seems against fire code, but whatever. Christ, Knott's. I take a couple of deep breaths.

How about I go? I'll keep an eye on her. Not literally, because that'd be gross, but you know what I mean. The waitress just said there's no way out. There are other ways to escape, Three Finger says. Go, boy. Watch the sacrifice, so she does not harm herself. I glare at Knots.

That's what I was thinking. I elbow him in the hip. Hard. Move, Dick. Fine, whatever. Knott's moves, and I scoot out of the booth. He grabs my shoulder. Don't you try to do yourself in either, Crowley. The old guy may call me fool, and you boy,

but you'd be the fool to think I don't have someone watching your dear old mother right now. So many responses come to mind, but none will make the situation better. So I ignore his threat and hurry after Allison. When I get to the ladies' room, I shove the door open and see one of the stalls close. Close quickly. Need to pee. Allison says, and in a second, I hear that she's not lying. I'm not going to kill myself.

I know what happens if I do that. What does happen? I move close to the stall door. What the hell is going on out there? Who are those people? Who are you? What is this damn place? I don't know who those people are.

Honestly, God, truth. Then what are you doing here? What's this sacrifice crap? You're a ghost hunter, right? A spook inspector? A monster? Mr. Fighter? I'm a paranormal investigator.

I try not to fight anything if I don't have to, because pretty much everything I study can and will kill me if it's given a chance. Whatever. So you know about demons, right? I have some knowledge. Not as much as the Catholic Church, but I've tangled with a couple of them before, and was lucky enough to live through it. Great.

Well, Mr. Paranormal Investigator, my daughter is possessed. I tried mediums and psychics. Didn't help. I tried the church. Same. I tried a couple of hucksters, this married couple, and they just took my money and left when things got too hard. So I had to find alternative help. I rubbed my forehead, knowing where this is going. Cultists. What is? Cultists. Group of people who believe in some old god or some ancient prophecy, or that aliens are coming to save us, or that there is a secret to immortality, shit like that. If you say so, the toilet flushes, and Allison's

and steps out of the stall. I called a number and they said my daughter will be saved if I give them me. So I did. She washes her hands, then frowns at the lack of paper towels. Damn shit hole. Might be the last time I washed my hands and no damn towels. She starts to leave, but I grab her arm and hold her back. Why are you a sacrifice?

I know what's on that recording. I've studied everything I could find on it. Not once is a sacrifice mentioned. How should I know? I met a guy and he told me what I was. I had to do to save my daughter. I die, she lives, demon-free. Seems like a bargain to me. It ain't like life has dealt me a great hand or anything. But it doesn't make sense. There doesn't need to be a sacrifice. I hear shouting from the bar and close my eyes, waiting for gunshots.

Allison grabs me now, moving her body in close. When there's no shooting, we both relax. Can you get me out of here? She asks quietly. What? No. You heard what Emmy said. There's no way out except for the front door. Bullshit. You think that cooos and her partner don't have a way to escape when things get shitty? They'd be idiots not to. I start to argue, but she's probably right.

Yeah, people like Emmy usually rely on whatever esoteric skills they possess to keep them safe. But if they deal with guys like three fingers regularly, they have to have a backup physical way out too. Like Allison said, they'd be idiots not too. Okay, let's see what we can find. I turned to search the lady's room. Why not? But a pounding on the door stops me. It's shoved open, and Knott's is standing there, coated in blood from head to toe.

So, auction's over. He gives me a blank smile that does not reach his eyes. He turns to Allison, and the smile falls away. Looks like you're up, little lady. Nope, please. Allison backs away from him. Her eyes flitting in every direction, desperate for that escape we'd just been discussing. No, I don't want to. I'm taking it back. I quit. I'm killing the deal. I want to go home and see my daughter. I don't want to die.

Knott's looks down at his gore covered self. Yeah, well, I'm not sure any of us have that option anymore. He shrugs. Personally, I say get the hell out. Go see your brat. I don't really care. He glances over his shoulder, then back to Allison. But it ain't up to me. And it ain't up to that waitress bitch either. Not anymore. Knots? Why are you covered in blood? Took you long enough to ask Crowley.

He smacks his lips, grimaces, and spits out a small strip of what I have to guess his skin. I am covered in blood because the old guy won the auction. Then he turns and walks out. Don't take too long. He calls from the hallway. Five seconds, and then it's totally completely out of my hands. What does that mean? Allison turns, pleading eyes on me.

I don't know. She spins in a surrogate. then stops and looks up. Drop ceiling, give me a boost, will ya? I bet the way out is up, not through the walls. There's probably a hatch to the roof, then a ladder down into the back alley or something. I don't move.

She may not hear them, but I do. Heavy footsteps, and more than just one pair. What are you doing just standing there? Cut your hand so I can step into them, and you can boost me up to the ceiling tiles! The door is flung open, and four robed figures rush in, in, each taking Allison by a limb and lifting her off her feet. I'm shoved out of the way as she screams and thrashes, trying to fight off the attackers. Stumbling back, I fall into a stall and

land on my ass. The back of my head snaps back and collides with the rim of the toilet. Stars flitter in my vision, and I'm helpless to stop the figures from carrying Allison out of the ladies' room. When the stars ease, I push myself up and stagger out of the stall, out of the ladies' room, out of the hallway and back into the bar. I turn and throw up before I make it two steps toward my table. The place is coated in gore. Blood and small bits of flesh drip from the ceiling, from the walls, coat the floor, and all of the furniture. Larger bits of skin and flesh hang from the light fixtures, cover the front of the jukebox, dangle from old beer signs. I see hunks of bone floating in the thicker pools of blood on the floor. And are those teeth? I throw up again. After a few deep breath,

I wipe my mouth and truly look at what is going on. In the center of the bar, four tables have been shoved together. On top of the table is a naked, gagged Allison, her wrists bound, pulling her arms back over her head, her ankles tied tight to the corners of the table, ropes dropping down to the table legs. Surrounding her are several robed figures. At the apex, the top of the improvised sacrificial altar, stands three fingers, a nasty looking dagger in one hand, a, um, Still beating heart in the other, which, everyone knows, shouldn't be possible.

Standing behind the bar are the bartender and Emmy. Mr. Sketchy and High Top are nowhere to be found. Then it hits me that I'm probably standing in them right now, and the old guy is holding one of their hearts. I puke a third time. Hey, Crowley, come out of a seat, Not says from our table. Still got some business to work out. Listen to your friend, boy.

Three fingers bellows. Sit. You should do what he says, Crowley. I glance at Emmy again, and she nods. I slip and slide my way to the table and sit down opposite Knott's this time. No need for us to be hip to hip. When my ass hits the bench, something squishes, and I reach under myself and pull out a hunk of scalp.

Looks like Mr. Sketchy, from the smell of expensive hair moose that somehow manages to waft through the stench of blood. What the hell happened? Knott puts a finger to his lips to silence me, but I'm having none of that. Nott's? Why are there people exploded all over the bar? Silence! The force of Three Fingers' voice nearly sucks the breath from my lungs.

But it does the trick. I go silent. The only sounds now are Allison's terrified, incomprehensible pleas from behind her gag. I see the pure fear in Nats' eyes, and I almost laugh. He is an idiot. He is a fool. This wasn't ever going to be an auction.

It was a slaughter from the beginning, except only three fingers knew it. I'd ask Knott's if he even got the money, but I don't dare say a word, and I already know the answer to my own unspoken question. No, no, he did not. It was all a setup from the beginning. I don't think that Emmy and her partner were in on it, though. The looks on their faces tell me they're just as frightened as I am, as Knott's is. And I doubt that Mr. Sketchy or High Top, whoever they really were,

would have shown up if they thought there was even a slim chance that they'd end up as flesh confetti. Allison screams behind her gag and throws her body from side to side. Three fingers places the tip of his very large dagger against her forehead. I guess as a threat for her to calm down. But it has the opposite effect, and Allison goes completely ballistic, her arms and legs straining against her bonds with what looks like superhuman strength. The human body can do some crazy shit when it's pumped full of adrenaline and fighting for its life. The rope holding Allison's left leg at the table snaps. One of the robed figures grabs for it and tries to tie it back down.

But he catches a heel to the face instead and collapses into the bloody muck on the floor. No! Three fingers roars. Allison's eyes are wide and wild, and she looks up at him, still screaming, still thrashing, still fighting her bonds. He presses a thumb to the spot between her eyes, shakes his head, and just like that, she calms down. There we go, he says, removing his thumb from Allison's face. Be calm, sacrifice. Be calm. And your daughter will be saved. That is why you are here.

I've been around the block a few times in my career. I have seen some seriously messed up shit. I have witnessed things that even God might look at and go, What? So I recognize the results of a paralysis hex when I see one. I don't know how he cast it, but he did. And now the only thing Allison can move are her eyes, which turn to the side and lock into mine. I'm sorry, I mouth. Let us finish this, Three Fingers says. The robed figures all reach into their robes and produce some seriously nasty daggers

of their own. A couple I recognize as prized items that would fetch a ton of money on the black market. Not that I deal with that stuff. I'm an investigator, not a profiteer. I thought Knott's was the same. But it goes to show you only know a person so well. Three fingers begins to chant. And it's a language that I don't recognize,

and I am pretty damn proficient with all the human-dead languages, not to mention a few non-human ones. His words wind and twist and dip and swirl, almost as if I can see them, like there's a child running with a Fourth of July sparkler inside my head. The cultists lift their daggers higher and higher with each new stanza. Then three fingers goes quiet. And as one, they plunge their daggers into Allison.

She stares at me the entire time, and I do not break eye contact, no matter how much I want to turn away and face the wall. Up and down the daggers go, over and over and over, until Allison's body looks like the remnants of a pig-picking at a Southern church social. Her eyes turn glazed and empty. I throw up a fourth time. When I'm done, I wipe my mouth and almost scream when I see three fingers standing right next to me.

Now it is your turn, boy. He brandishes his gory dagger at me, then twists it and aims the tip at my blood-slicked laptop. Now we listen to the recording. I puk a fifth time. Part 3. The recording. I stare at my gore-coated laptop. Then look about the bar and the bloody mess that covers it all. Slowly, I shake my head back and forth.

You don't know what you're asking? I say to three fingers in a small voice. You think you do, but you don't. The dangerous old man leans in close and places the dagger tip under my chin. With only the slightest pressure, I feel blood begin to well. Oh, I know exactly what I am asking, boy. He looks at knots, who is stone-faced but probably about to shit himself. Tell him, fool.

Tell him to do his told. Or there will be pain inflicted upon his loved ones, the likes of which no one has ever experienced upon this mortal. blame. Um, yeah, do what he says, Crowley. Nott's glances at Allison's mangled corpse on the makeshift sacrificial altar in the center of the bar. I don't want to be ground meat, man. I really don't. And think of your mother. They've got someone close to her right now, Crowley. Stop calling me that. Oh my God, dude, let it go. I kept telling you that it's just a stupid nickname. Everyone gets shitty nicknames. This asshole here keeps calling me a fool? Do you think I like that? Do you think I want to be

called fool? No, but I'll deal with it as long as... He coughs up blood as three fingers flicks his wrist, then walks away. At first, I'm not sure what is happening. Then a red line appears across knots his throat. The line widens, widens and splits, sending blood gushing down to the table. My first instinct is to reach out to my friend, but I can already see that he's beyond. help. My second instinct is to grab my laptop and clutch it to my chest. I get up to run toward the back hallway, but three of the robed figures tackle me, and we go sliding in the blood and gore until we collide with the jukebox. The laptop is fried for me, then cultist boots get to work. By the time they are finished, I'm fairly certain I'll be pissing blood until I'm old enough

to collect Social Security. I certainly won't be chewing crunchy foods for a while. A hand grabs me around the neck and lifts me off the ground. I'm dangling with my toes a good foot from the floor, as three fingers carries me back to my table and tosses me onto the bench. My eyes instantly go to Nazis slumped corpse. My laptop is set down in front of me, tearing my attention away from my dead friend. Open it. Start it. Put in your password.

Then find me that for which I have hunted so long. Play the recording. Please don't do this. Now! My eyes find Emmys. They tell me all I need to know. We are dead. All of us left. Dead. How we die is up to me. If I fight, we'll endure agony that I don't even want to think about. If I give in, three fingers wins. And maybe our deaths will be quick, painless. Then I think of what is on the recording. No. None of our deaths. And I include three fingers and his cultist buddies. will be quick or painless. Agony? Oh yeah, big time. For eternity. Three fingers shows me as knife.

Not overtly, just enough that light catches off the slim part of the blade, not coated in blood. You know what? Screw it. This guy wants to hear the recording? Then fine. He gets to hear the recording. An eternity of pain may be worth it if I'm taking this asshole with me. My shoulders relax as I boot up my laptop and enter my password. Very good, fool. Very good. Yeah, well, you say that now. I chuckle. You find this amusing. Your friend has been butchered, and you laugh? I'm laughing because I know the punchline to the joke. My finger slides across the track pad, and I find the folder where I have sequestered the audio from that night. I open file folder after file folder. I really buried this thing. Good for me. Too bad it made no difference. When I find the MP3 file, I pause and look up at the two eagre son of a

bitch. My speakers are crap. Should we hook it up to the bar's sound system? I want to laugh out loud at the look on his face. He has no idea what to do. His world is filled with ancient and esoteric shit, not AV tech. While I was learning how to set up multiple remote gigs to capture the paranormal, this guy was dicking around skinning squirrels and killing the family dog. I can run a studio's worth of equipment for my phone. He knows how to match his robe to his dagger hilt. Screw this guy. Hey, are you listening to me? I bark. Just play the recording, he says. His eyes, small coals of fire filled with a burning anger and desire. Christ, as much as I don't want to think about it, I bet this guy has a heart on right now. I hit play. Three fingers

smiles. Let's see how long that lasts. The first sounds are static. Then heavy footsteps, followed by my voice telling everyone to be quiet and be careful. When I hear my late friend's voices, I almost tear up. Almost. Now is not the time to fall apart. Watch your step. There's something on the floor. Angie. God, I miss her. Jesus hell. What is all this crap? Looks organic. Luca, a great guy. Always ready to dive in no matter the job. Smells organic. Christ, is it rotting? If it is, it is, it's. It's rotting in real time, and at an alarming rate. Look at that stuff.

It's moving, pulsing. There, that huge hairy son of a bitch. I might miss him the most. Do you hear that? Angie again. What is that noise? Duncan, you picking that up in the van? Luca.

Sort of, um, I hate to admit this, but I lost the video feed. All I have is audio now. So you can hear it? Yeah. What is it? It sounds like someone crying. If you see a creepy doll, run. Knott's being a smart ass from the seat next to me in the van.

Shut up, Knott's. Guys, can you pinpoint the source of the noise? I have prayed every damn night that I never asked that question. But I did, and I have to live with it. Coming from this room here. Angie, always ready to take lead. Careful, Ange. I think whatever this is might be waking up.

Duncan, what are the sensors telling you? Hold on, Luca. Sorry, guys, but sensors are offline. Coms are fine, but like the cameras, I'm not getting a signal from any of the sensors. Told you we should have splurged for the next tier up. Shut up, knots. God, I wish that shit would stop. It's giving me a headache.

Bear groans. I don't blame him. The noise eats at you. Riggles and worms its way past your ears until it has embedded deep in your skull. Same man. Luca sounds like he's trying to catch his breath. I found the source. Angie's tone isn't one of triumph.

The fear. No. The terror in her voice is just about ready to break through. But she's tough as shit. Tougher than all of us, men. So she's keeping her horror under wraps like the professional she is. She was... It's nasty!

Luca sounds almost jubilant. It is an amazing discovery. If we could share it with the world, it would change everything. But this is not to be shared. As I have said all night long, this is to be kept hidden, secret in the dark where it belongs. It is meant to be the source of nightmares, not the spotlight shining upon them.

This is a mistake what I am doing. This is all wrong. I shiver and lean back in the booth as the recording continues. Is it an egg sack? Bear was more correct than I knew. If it is. Luca's enthusiasm breaks my heart. But damn, look, so I'll have a local file to transfer to you.

Copy that, Luca. A steel claw of the hand grabs the back of my neck and squeezes until I'm seeing spots. There is video? Three-finger snarls as he leans down. His mouth pressed to my ear. Play the video. I want to see it. No, there's no video, I reply. Your dead friend says he was recording. I must see it. I must witness its greatness.

I bet you would love that, you sick freak. Just listen and you'll hear. There's no video. His phone didn't survive intact. Jesus, nothing survived intact. Least of all me. Angie is telling everyone to walk slowly in case the sack is triggered by motion. Luca makes a crack about alien and a giant face hugger popping out. Bear tells them both to stop it. For his size and proven bravery, Bear gets the willies surprisingly fast. I mean, got.

Got the willies. Past tense. Three fingers still has me by the back of the neck. His long fingernails are slicing into my flesh like five steak knives glued to the ends of his fingers. The warmth of my blood trickles past. my nape and down the troughs on either side of my spine. I close my eyes at Angie's words. I know what is coming.

I don't believe you about the video, fool. And I don't care whether you believe me or not. I pause the recording. What are you doing? Keep it playing! His nails cut deeper, and the pain makes me gasp. But despite the pain and the damage, I turn my head and stare up at him, using all of my willpower not to show on my face

what the nails are doing to my flesh. The video is lost. I didn't recover any of their phones. There was no point. All of them had been smashed beyond repair or recovery. His eyes search mine, and I feel like I'm being violated. I want to rinse my eyes with rubbing alcohol, then scrub them for hours under scalding hot water. Very well. I see truth. Somehow, he manages to squeeze even harder without tearing my head from my body. The trickle of blood down my spine is now a small stream. But I also see a secret. What aren't you telling me? Everything, but he doesn't need to know that.

Yet. You're about to miss the good part. He sneers at me, then let's go. Making sure to shove my head forward as his fingernails slip out of my flesh. I almost smack my head on the laptop screen. The recording continues. Angie and Bear are now both asking if Luca is all right. My voice interrupts, trying to figure out what is going on,

what they are seeing, what Luca is doing. Nott's just makes snide remarks. The van, Luca is in some sort of trance. Don't do that. Nantes, of course. You're right there. I shouted him to be quiet. He shouts back for me to get a grip, for everyone to get a grip.

Because this is the shit we do for a living. We don't quit just because things are getting weird. Danger is part of the job. And I don't disagree with him. Well, I sort of do. But I don't vocalize it. I should have. I should have pulled the plug and told them to return to the van.

I should have done something, Anything other than what I did. Five more minutes, Angie. Four of the most horrible words to cross my lips. They didn't deserve what happened to them. Before Angie can argue, and I know for a fact that she was about to argue her ass off, Luca begins to chant. The vibe in the bar changes instantly.

Three fingers and his cultists perk up and move in closer to the booth. They're hooded heads facing my laptop and the tinny sound coming out of the crappy speakers. Emmy and the bartender backed themselves against the wall behind the bar. Emmy had been tough all night. She's not so tough now. She may want to rethink her business plan. Maybe bring in karaoke or add a trivia night instead of catering to the supernatural underworld. I'd advise against a lady's night, since that tends to bring in the covens.

Luca's voice is warped past human, multi-tonal, fractured, out of sync with time. He drones on and on in a language no one has heard or spoken in millennia. How does he know that? Who taught him that incantation? I ignore three fingers question and let the recording play. There's no stopping it now. Bear is freaking out on the recording now. He's bleeding.

I close my eyes at what comes next. Luca's chanting doesn't stop, but the sounds of scuffling feet and bear grunting are overlaid. Then Angie shouts. Luca! No! There's a tearing sound, and the recording spikes high into the red, distorted by Angie screams of horror.

Then her screams of pain. Luca continues his chant. I feel the stirring in my chest. You need me to turn this off. It's a statement, not a question or even a suggestion. I am telling three fingers and his cultists what they need, not what they want. Touch the laptop, and I will remove your hand and feed it to you. I don't doubt that he'll follow through on his threat.

The problem is, he's too late. I shrug. Luca's words are almost physical. lifting from the crappy speakers to fill the air. They fly about the bar, touching all corners of the space. Emmy and the bartender both whine and cry. The cultists moan, three fingers, sighs. I listen, it's all I can do now.

It's all I am supposed to do. The incantation or whatever it really is, because the hell with the cultist and their ignorant idea of what is happening right now, well, the incantation fills me up. All of the fear and regret and anger I felt earlier that I felt only moments before leaves my body. All I am are the words coming from the recording, the words that were uttered by my dead friend that night. They can't know from this recording, but I yanked my headphones off and burst from the van just after Angie stopped screaming.

I knew she was dead. I knew Bear was dead too. I could feel it in my bones. Not the way I feel it all in my bones now. No, this was a human feeling, a simple knowing. I ran up the driveway and into the old house. I did not stop in the foyer. I did not slow down as I hit the stairs and raced up them. I could hear Luca's voice, and I sprinted to them. A perverted clarion call forcing me on. The organic matter started on the landing, wereopee chunks of black sinew and slick flesh. It coated the floor, then worked up the walls to the ceiling. I followed, and by the time I reached what probably should have been the master bedroom, I was surrounded by the stuff. Luca continued. I pushed open the door. I don't want to think of what I saw.

I don't want to remember how Bear was hanging upside down from the ceiling. His legs, having been shoved through the plaster, all that kept him from falling. I don't want to bring back the images of Angie over against that wall, and against that wall, and on the floor at my feet. Still, Luca chanted. I found him standing before the black, fleshy, pulsing egg. His eyes were rolled up into his head, showing only bloodshot whites. His mouth hung wide open, barely moving as the words seemed to pour out of him

just like they pour out of my crappy laptop speakers. His lips didn't move. His jaw didn't move. He was a transmitter. That was all. And the black egg was the receiver. I could see it responding to the words. The pulsing increased.

The egg swelled. And cracks started to show. Fetted liquid seeped from those cracks. And the smell was of sulfur and sewage. Luca turned to me as the final words echoed out of him. Duncan? Then he exploded. But I didn't care.

All I cared about was the egg. No. No, that's not true. I only cared about what was crawling out of the egg. Clawed hands split the black flesh, tearing their way free. A head followed, twisted and misshapen. Eyes blinked away red goo, then found me. A mouth full of razor-sharp teeth spoke, but I couldn't understand. It wasn't a language made for man to comprehend.

What is happening? What is that? Three fingers has a panicked edge in his voice now, as he should. I returned to my recollection of that night, and the thing that emerged from the egg. It extricated itself using its claws, tearing the egg to shreds as it forced its bulk out onto the floor. Its leg were like a goat's. Its body, that of a pig. Its head, a horned nightmare. I watched, frozen to the floor, as it crawled its way toward me.

I watched, unmoving, as the clawed hands gripped my legs and pulled. It climbed me, shredding my jeans, shredding my skin underneath, until it was finally upright, and we were face to face. My human nose against its slitted gap, where sulfur steam emanated with every exhale. It spoke, I nodded. My mouth opened wide. My jaw distended, then completely dislocated. I was a snake devouring my prey, except I was the prey, and it was the predator. Those clawed hands reached inside my mouth.

Its hoofed feet clambered against my shins, then my thighs, as it tried to gain purchase and leverage. My face split open. My head was torn in half. I couldn't scream, not with a thing climbing into my mouth and down my throat. My vocal cords were shredded, my esophagus crushed. My lungs and heart pushed aside to make room. I could feel my liver tried to retreat, but there was nowhere for it to go. Then it was in me, hooves and all, and my head joined itself back together

while my internal organs shifted, moving back into their proper places. My jaw snapped shut, and I worked at a little, trying to get it to fit right again. Knotts had followed me in, a little late, but it was the thought that counted. He stood there, shaking at the sight before him. Angie everywhere, bare, hanging from the ceiling. The broken egg already rotting and dissolving. Where's Luca? I made an indistinct gesture at the room, then turned and shoved past knots.

I needed to get back to the van. The recording on my laptop stops. There was no reason to keep it going. No need to record me opening the back of the van and pulling out the camera. of gasoline we kept there for emergencies. No need to record me walking around the old house, splashing gas on the foundation. No need to hear knots asking me what the hell I thought I was doing. No need to hear the flick of my lighter. No need to... Is that all? Three fingers asks, interrupting my remembrance. That can't be all. Oh, it's not. I say and stand up to face him.

Sit back down, fool. I don't think so. Oh, it is stirring in me now. The sad sense. Sadman in front of me was warned. I told them. I told everyone this was a bad idea. My eyes find Emmy and the bartender. Run, I say, even though there is no place to run to. Not anymore. Neither argues. They sprint out from behind the bar and toward the hallway. I hear a restroom door open. Then I hear crashing and scraping. Noises echo above us. Huh, what do you know? Allison was right. There is a hidden escape route through the roof. I should have listened to her. None of what is about to happen would have come to pass. Three fingers tries to grab me, but I snap his wrist and tear his hand off, tossing it

at one of his cultists. His screams are more of surprise than pain. The stirrings in me become tearings. I wince and grunt as fresh pain racks my body. A couple of the cultists bolt for the front door. No! I say, and I'm there, blocking their way before they've taken three steps. They try to retreat, but I can't allow that.

I rip them to shreds. What are you? Three finger screeches, the remainder of his cultists cowering behind him. I am your wish come true, I say and walk back to him. I am what you were seeking. I am what you wish you were worthy to worship. No, no, no, no, no. This isn't how it was foretold.

Oh, gee, I'm sorry to disappoint. My organs shift and burst, but I do not fall. I feel my throat start to expand, to tear wide open, but I continue to speak. I warned you, so many times. I said that this would destroy the world. You smiled, you laughed, because you believed that is what you want. I have been faithful. I will be part of the chosen. Oh, buddy, there are no chosen. There is only destruction in the end of everything. My eyes find poor Allison's shredded body. A pointless death. You thought that sacrifice would do what? Allow you to control what cannot be controlled? A gasp as it climbs me, pushing itself up from my insides.

Now words are becoming hard to manage, yet I still have more to tell this stupid old man. You know how they say let sleeping dogs lie? Or how they say let a sleeping baby be? He doesn't know. I can see the complete and total confusion in his eyes. Yeah, well, the same can be said for gods. But you just had to go and wake one up, didn't you? And my jaw pops and widens, and my mouth tears and my face bursts apart. And all I can think in my last moment is thank whatever God this is coming out of me that I won't be around to see what it's going to do to the world. After all, it was inside of me for so long that it had plenty of time to tell me its plans, and I warned them all. I really tried to warn them,

but they refused to listen. Allow me to ruin the mood for just a second. You know that store-bought coffee sitting in your kitchen? It was roasted months ago, and every day it gets a little more lifeless. No sleep coffee is different. We use specialty-grade beans, roast them to order, and ship them out fast. So what hits your cup is bold, rich, and terrifyingly fresh. Stop settling for stale coffee. Head to no sleepcoffee.com and grab a bag roasted just days before it reaches your door. Be sure to use promo code No Sleep 20 to get 20% off your first order.

That's no sleepcoffee.com. promo code No Sleep 20. I'm sure the first thing they'll get wrong is my apartment. They'll shoot it in the morning. And they'll get the light wrong because the light only does. the thing I like at this hour in November. The crew will probably be there in July, with sweat on their cameras and sea stands. They'll do a slow pan across the bookshelf, and they'll linger on the Bologna and the Zaybalt, and the Patty Smith memoirs, and the move past the Pynchon

too fast, because nobody has ever read Pynchon, even me. They'll show the typewriter, they'll show the bar cart. They'll show the framed saw lighter print I bought at the Freeze Fair in 2020. with money that wasn't mine. They will not show the kit yet, though they may allude to it. The title sequence would have just finished, fading to black. We'd begin to fade back in. There's a baritone voiceover,

possibly Morgan Freeman, but dialed back half a notch, so it's not so overtly him. The camera tracking through the front room. Asher Van Sickle grew up between Greenwich and Manhattan. Morgan would start. The only child of a hedge fund manager and a woman who served on three boards. By 28, he was living alone in a cobble hill brownstone left to him by his maternal grandmother.

A fact, he rarely volunteered. The light is doing the thing it does in November, even though it's October now, because the weather has been generous to me lately, which I take to mean something. I make a pourover with beans I picked up recently from DeBasian. I drink it standing at the kitchen island, then open the journal to the entry I was working on, which is two sentences long. I read them to myself. The city is alive with violence, and no one is paying attention. They will be. I closed the journal. I've arranged my bookshelf by spine color in the section that faces

the front room and by author in the section that doesn't. The saw lighter print is hung so that anyone in the reading chair has to half turn to see it, which is a choice I made because I read somewhere that you should make people work for the things you love. I don't remember where I read it. I may have made it up. Either way, it's true. I sit in the reading chair. I open the journal, then close it again. Back to the documentary. Friends and acquaintances described Asher as private, even withholding, he kept his real life, said her friend only known as Jay. separate room. There is, in fact, a separate room. It's my bedroom. The kit lives under the bed in an ESOP shopping bag, because the bag is an olive green that photographs well, and because the

ritual of unpacking matters, and the ritual is better if it starts with the rustle of paper. I bring it out and spread everything on the duvet. The Polaroid first. From the late 80s, with a brown leather strap I sourced separately and loaded with film I purchased. second hand from a flea market. I haven't taken a photograph with it, so I don't know if the film is any good. There's also a knife, a buoy I had made by a man on Etsy. The handle is wrapped leather with an angel wing tooled into the grip. My idea is execution. I asked him what kind of person commissions a buoy knife with an angel wing on it, and he said, A guy with a story. And I have thought about that sentence almost daily since. There's the

moleskin, of course. Also, olive green, large, soft cover. On the front, in fat, black Sharpie, I wrote, If You Must Know. Inside, 11 pages. Some of it is rather derivative of Camus, some of Legati. A bit as dialogue I flat out stole from a conversation I heard at the table beside me at a hinge date. The rest of the genius, the madness, is mine, or close to mine. Then there are the gloves. Lambskin, black, never worn. And finally, there's a battered mass market paperback copy of In Cold Blood. I have underlined the passages that move me

and starred the passages the documentary will linger on, or the podcast will read aloud if licensing allows. I look at everything spread out on the divay, my inner world. I smile. Moments like these are fleeting, and I know I won't get them back. The front door downstairs squeaks open.

I don't startle. I have heard this door open every Tuesday at 10 for seven years. My housekeeper is named Rosa, and she will probably also want to be anonymous in the show about my life and crimes. So pretend you don't actually know her name. I have about two minutes before she makes it upstairs to strip the linens from my bed. I pack the kit.

I pack it well. Polaroid, knife, moleskin, gloves, the paperback in that order. Just in case today's the day it is found, God forbid. The bag goes back into the ESOP bag. The ESOP bag goes back under the bed. I push it with my foot. I straighten the duvet. I'm not afraid of being caught. I am not afraid of jail either, or my mother, or anything that could be done to me. What I am, in the two minutes between the door opening and her footsteps reaching the second floor landing, is livid that the scene could go wrong. She cannot find the kit. Not because she would judge me. She would not. She is a woman who

has cleaned my underwear without comment for seven years. But because she has no role in this, she is not in the credits. She is not in the show. Her finding the kit would be like the boom mic dipping into frame in the cold open. A continuity error in a story I have spent my life storyboarding. I am on the stairs when she reaches the landing. I say good. Good morning. She says good morning back to me. No one suspects a thing. I walk to the cafe. It's called Hemingways. I have been a regular for several years, and the regularity is not a vibe I cultivate, but the regularity is, by now, mine. I order my usual cortado and a slice of olive oil cake and sit at the corner table. I take out the journal first and set it on the table.

I take out my copy of Cormac McCarthy Sutry, which I'm reading because it's one of his books no one has read. Blood Meridian is fine, but I found the necrophilia in his previous novel, Child of God, quite compelling. I think I could go that far. I know I could, actually. I set the book cover up on the table. Cut to Hemingway's exterior shot. Golden Hour. Ambient noise of cars and a passing siren. Cross-dissolve to interior. The corner table, Asher in profile, the book visible. He was in here every day. The owner of Hemingways, a woman I'd interacted with numerous times,

but never knew was the owner, tells the camera. You don't pay attention to the regulars until you have to. Another woman I know slightly. She lives on my block. She's formerly a producer at HBO. Comes in and notices me while in line. She raises her eyebrow in the way that, in our exact demographic, means I see you, but you don't have to come over here.

I raise mine back. She gets her drink and leaves. I write in the journal. She is not seeing anymore. None of them are. A man comes in with a child on his shoulders. The child is maybe three. The man orders an oat milk, latte, and an apple juice.

The child looks at me. The child holds my eye for six seconds, maybe seven. I look away first. I write in the journal. Children sense it. Dinner is in the West Village, at an Italian restaurant on Hudson that Rob has chosen. Rob is a litigator. He bills ours.

He has, on his fourth finger, a wedding ring I have not yet processed, because I missed the wedding. I was at a rider's residency in Marfa I had paid for myself. Or rather, my mother had paid for it, admittedly. And I had not gotten on the plane to Boston for what would turn out to be the wedding of my oldest friend. He did not seem upset at the time. He doesn't seem upset now. Jackson is already there, on his second Negrani, a glass of water in front of him that he is not drinking. Jackson works at Stripe. He has a son named Henry. I have seen the son once on a face-time, and I had said, He looks like you. And Jackson had said,

He looks like Laura. And I had said, He looks like both of you. And Jackson had said nothing. We hug, we sit, we order. Rob orders for the table. Because Rob orders for the table now. The wine is a barolo. The waiter is good. Still writing that book, Jackson says, looking at me and not asking. I have been waiting for this.

I prepared three answers earlier on the subway. A flippant one, a sincere one, a wounded one. And I use none of them. It's coming along, I say. Yeah? Rob says. taking a sip of his drink. Yeah.

You know, Rob says. My buddy at work was telling me you can just list your own books on Amazon now. KPD or KDP or something. I know this and hate that anyone can have a book now. I open my mouth and stop. Because what was about to come out of it was so past Rob's comprehension. That's kind of sick, Jackson says. I had forgotten he was there.

Yeah. I say. Yeah, I guess. Rob says. Cut to. Rob, 10 years older, being interviewed by someone who sounds like the girl on Rotten Mango. He's sitting in front of a microphone in a chair in front of a softly lit window in his Brooklyn Brownstone.

He's not really looking at anything while he speaks. He was the smartest of us growing up. Rob says. I just had no idea. Back at the table, the food comes. I push the au rechiette. around my plate. Jackson notices. He doesn't say anything. He pours me more wine. How's your mom? Jackson asks. She's still going somehow, I tell him. That's good. Yep.

He nods. He doesn't push. This is the thing about Jackson. He does the Lewis the row thing. He asks one question and waits, and the silence is supposed to be the second question. And most of the time, I tell him things I haven't told anyone, because the... The silence is good at its job. Tonight, the silence does not work. I change the topic to regain control. I'm thinking about getting out of the city for a few days. A verbo or something.

To finish a draft. That's a good idea, Rob says. Where? Jackson says. Upstate somewhere. Where upstate? I haven't booked it yet. So be the listing when you do, Rob says.

Always looking for a new spot to escape to. Sure. I don't think anyone would see it coming if I killed Jackson. It would be a cool, full-circle moment for the documentary. Like I came back to where I started. He's an ancillary character in all of this. Well, I have to be up at six, Rob announces. We split the check.

Outside on Hudson. Jackson hugs me longer than he should. He says, into my shoulder. Hey, Ash. Yeah. You good? I'm good. Yeah?

Yeah, man, I'm good, Jacks. He lets me go. He gets in an Uber. Rob has already gotten in his. I stand on Hudson Street alone for a long time and consider going to another bar to write, but realize that would be a fruitless endeavor. The moment is too on the nose.

I know better. I walk to the subway. I'm mindlessly swiping whenever I have service on the F-train, and I match with Nicole. Her profile says she is 27 and works in publishing. Her photos are good. One of them is her at a bar I recognize but cannot place. Her opening line, when I send mine, is fast and dry and slightly mean.

I write five drafts in the notes app, and I send the third. We move quickly. By Bergen Street, we are talking about a drink. By Carroll Street, I am suggesting Wiley's, which is in Astoria, which is in Queen. which is not on the way to anything for either of us. And which is therefore, I tell myself, a suggestion that signals, I am a man willing to leave Brooklyn for a woman.

She says, I like Wiley's. She says, tomorrow? I say, tomorrow. I put the phone down on the seat next to me, and I look at my reflection in the dark window across the aisle. And the man in the window looks back. And the man in the window is, I tell myself, A man on the precipice of a thing.

Smash cut to surveillance footage, low angle, 4K, upscaled from 480P, the entrance to Wiley's at 240129th Street. A man in a charcoal turtleneck walks in. The timestamp reads 7.43 p.m. A graphic across the bottom of the frame. Wednesday, October 23rd, the night before. The voiceover is back. Investigators would later piece together where Asher van Sickle

was in the hours before. I decide I'll wear a charcoal turtleneck, dark wool trousers, and margiela boots to my date with Nicole at Wiley's. I do my hair like I haven't done my hair. It's a shaggy mullet that looks simultaneously effortless and calculated. I'm wearing thin gold rim glasses that look like Dahmer's. I leave the kit at home under my bed, because when I convince Nicole to come back here, I lead her upstairs and the kit will already be ready. From then on, the cold open of episode one will write itself. I leave and get on the train. I grab a seat and think about Nicole.

I think about how Nicole, if the night goes the way it should go, will be the enticing incident. She doesn't know this yet. Then she will. Slow push in on a man at the end of a bar, a martini in front of him. There is a simple graphic in the left lower third that reads, Asher Van Sicle, 28. The voiceover would not say anything yet.

It would let the man sit. Wiley's is warmer than I expected. Brick walls, dim, a corner booth where two old men are laughing about nothing. The walls are hung with sheet music. I have opinions about this and file them away. I sit at the bar for now and order the umami martini, because it is the strangest thing on the menu. It's vodka with fermented tomato, parmesan, and basil.

Ordering it will signal to Nicole that I am a man unafraid of the strange thing. She walks in shortly after eight. She's wearing what she is wearing in her photos, which is, and I will admit this only here, not what I expected. I expected her to dress for me, for the occasion, for the life-altering encounter she was about to experience. She has dressed for herself. A black sweater, jeans, a coat.

She does not take off all the way. We hug, sort of. She orders a Guinness. That's a choice. Strong opener, she says, looking at my martini. Umami martini. I smile. Wanted to try something new.

Is it good? She asks, also smiling. Not really, but I think that's the point. She tries the martini and scrunches her face in disgust. Oh my god, that's diabolical, she says. that's why I like it. I guess that means it's made for people like you. Nicole giggles.

I like that. So we talk. She tells me about a book she is editing, a memoir by a woman who once worked at the Strand. She is dry, exact, more present than she was on Tinder. I don't interrupt her, well aware of the security camera stealthily placed in the corner of the room. I think the miniseries will need this footage

to establish more context about the, night. Nicole finally stops talking. I'm sorry. I'm just yapping about whatever right now. What do you do for fun? She asks. In that moment in front of her, I can't think of anything I do for fun. Part of the groundwork I've been laying for my character is that I do nothing that truly brings me joy. I write, I decide. Yuck, that's not fun, Nicole says sarcastically. Not really, but it can be sometimes. Sure, she says. She sips her Guinness. Then I sip my umami martini and try my hardest to not dry

Eve. Someone at the other end of the bar, behind me, gets Nicole's attention. Her eyes had been wandering the last few minutes, like she was trying to place someone. She excuses herself and goes over, and they hug and talk and laugh. I decide now would be a good time to look up at the security camera. Just hold its gaze for a moment. I think about it. about sawing Nicole's head off with the buoy knife, and believe it is giving me a haunting aura from the camera's point of view. Nicole finally comes back. I've given up on the Umami, Martini.

So what are you right? she asks. I had been patiently waiting for her to ask me this question. It's like a character study, I say, trying to hide my excitement behind a facade of disinterest. Oh, cool, Nicole says. Clearly losing interest in the date. by the second now. Who's the character?

Well, he's a guy. Is this like slice of life or a specific guy? Who's the guy then? I don't have an answer for her. I do have an answer. Just not one I'm willing to give her. This is the mystique I enjoy so much. Before I can say anything, Nicole chimes in with.

I'll say it now. I don't have any say in who or what gets published. She laughs. I just clean up prose all day. AI could be doing all this shit, and I think going through a publisher is kind of dumb now anyway. Did you know you can just self-publish on Amazon? It's super easy. Our conversation peters out as soon as she finishes her beer. She looks at her phone and says she has to be up early. I almost let her go, but decide it must happen tonight.

We could get one more somewhere, I say. There's a bar I like in Cobble Hill. In Brooklyn. It's not as far as it sounds. It's... pretty far. I could... I don't say the rest of the sentence. The rest of the sentence was get us a car. She watches me not say it, and I briefly wonder if she was hoping I would say it. Well, it was nice meeting you, Asher. She says, and she means it.

We split the bill. Nicole insists. She walks out before me. Out on the sidewalk, on 29th Street, she gives me a small wave from about 10 feet away. She turns and walks around the corner, disappearing into the night. The voiceover would be here. It would say something about how Asher, 28, stood on the sidewalk of an unfamiliar street in a borough he had never visited and considered, for the first time,

how much of the world had been kind to him while he was not paying attention. He'd find the line. The director would workshop it with him. I crossed the street to get on the subway, but choose to walk past him. I tell myself I need to gather material. The street thins. I find myself two blocks from the bar, and then four, and then six. The blocks are residential. Apartment buildings, parked cars, a bodega. There is a man asleep against the wall of the bodega. He is wrapped in a sleeping bag. There is a tarp under him. There is a small cart next to him with a pillow and a plastic bag,

nodded at the top. His face is turned to the wall. He is braced. breathing. I can see his shoulder rise. I stop. I look at him. I look up at the street. The deli is closing. The man inside is sweeping. He has not noticed me. There is no one else on the block. A car passes than nothing. I look back at the man. This could work. This would be, I think it, before I can stop thinking about it. This would be the perfect cold open. The real one. The one that retroactively makes the surveillance footage from Wiley's mean something. Investigators piecing it together later. The director finding a through line. The walk from the bar traced, street by street. The first one. The first one is always the messiest. Every doc says so. Every podcast says

so. And that's the texture they go for. I take a step closer. The man does not move. I take another step. I have nothing on me, no knife, no gloves. My kit is at home under my bed. I could use my hands, though. I lift them in the street light to see if they are the right hands for it. And they are someone else's hands attached to my arms. I cannot make them do anything. And I am not breathing. And I am aware of the sound my own jacket makes against itself when I move. And I am aware that I have been aware of the jacket sound for some time. And I am aware that being aware of the jacket sound is not what a man on the brink is aware of. And I do not know how long I have been standing here.

And the man on the tarp is closer than he was, or I am closer to him. I cannot tell which. The man shifts in his sleep. He makes a sound that is not a word and is not a moan. A sound like a child makes. His shoulder turns toward me, and his eyes are still closed,

and the sleeping bag rustles. I take a step back. I take another. I am 20 feet from him, when I turn around. I walked the way I walked when I was a child being told not to run by the pool in the Hamptons. At the corner, I opened my wallet. I have eight twenties. I go back and do not look at his face. I lay two of the twenties on the tarf near his cart, waded with the stone I pick up from the gutter. Then I reconsider and give him the other six. I walk to the train. On the platform,

I try to write the journal entry in my head. The first line is, I could not. No good. I take it out. The next line is, I am not a... I have no definitive conclusion to the sentence, so I abandon it.

By the time the train comes in, I've got... I let a man live, and I hold it in my head all the way across the bridge like a sacred jewel. I sit and look at my hands. I then look at the dark window across the aisle. The man in the window does not look back.

I leave Friday morning for the verbo, I told. Rob and Jackson about. I rent a car because I do not own a car. I think about owning a car the entire drive up. A man my age should own a car. I feel I'm not like other men. The absence of a car could be a quiet failure of mine the podcast series could latch onto. Last podcast on the left may make fun of me for this. The documentary would focus on the drive itself. Maybe an aerial shot following a car moving north. with Morgan Freeman's voice would say something about how Asher Van Sickle took to the woods to begin what he wanted to do from the start. At a red light outside Hudson, I checked the rear view. My mullet was perfectly styled. My glasses still oozed and effortless sleaze. The look

was a choice, and the choice was correct. I stop at a gas station and purchase three things. A bottle of water, a bag of almonds, and a New Yorker. Because I want the New Yorker to be on the the kitchen counter of the cabin when the investigators photograph it. I pay in cash. I get to the verbo at 1.30. The driveway is gravel. The host, a woman named Susan, has left a key under a clay frog by the door. The clay frog is a touch I appreciate. Inside, the cabin is clean. Wood floors, a wood-burning stove, a loft bed up a ladder, a kitchenette with a Mr. Coffee on the counter and a French press in the cupboard, which I take to mean Susan had instincts. I take the New Yorker out of the bag and place it on the kitchen counter, centered on the

woodgreens seam. I unpack my kit on the kitchen table and lay everything out in order. The Polaroid first, this time with intention, because I am going to use it. I photographed the kit. I hold the print by the white border the way you are supposed to and watch it develop. Then I prop the camera on a stack of books, framed so the kit is just visible over my shoulder, and find the self-timer. I do not smile. I look slightly off-camera, slightly down. The way I have practiced in mirrors I will not now name. By the fourth take, I have a frame I would license for the cover art. On the white border, I write, evil intelligence. I open the journal and write,

day one, the work has begun. know I will be caught quickly. It isn't, 1989, which means everything has to count. I attempt to draw Nicole's decapitated head in the margin the way Pat Bateman does at work, but I'm no good at drawing. I consider going into the woods to drag down some small animal to slaughter, but recall that animal mutilation is something killers do as children, so it would make no sense for me to start now. I take an afternoon coffee out to the back porch, in the far distance through the tree, I think I see a bear moving slowly toward the house. It is standing upright, taking a few steps, and then stopping for a long time before taking another.

I go inside and make dinner. Farrow, a jar of artichokes, a bottle of Etna Raso I had been saving for an occasion I would recognize when I saw it. The occasion I have decided is this. I pour two glasses and leave the second one on the counter, because rotten mangoes will need to wonder about the second glass. It's dark by six. I light the lamp by the leather couch and the candle Susan left for guests. The cabin is one room with a loft. The cabin is mine. I draft three new pages. They are better than anything I have written this year. They're about a man who

knows what he is and what he is for, about the moment a man crosses from preparing to being, and they are clean. At the top I write, for inclusion. I think about Nicole turning the corner on 29th. I write, She did not know who she was leaving. I read it aloud. She did not know who she was leaving. That's good shit.

I take the buoy knife from the kit. I hold it the way I had thought about holding it at Wiley's. When Nicole had been at the other end of the bar with the man, and I had been looking at the security camera in the corner I wanted to look at me. The knife is heavier than I remember. The wind picks up outside. A branch hits the roof. I don't jump, because I am a man on the brink now.

An hour goes by, and I am washing the wine glasses when the front door opens. I think for a moment that I have not closed it, well, I think for another that the wind has done it. Then I see, in the reflection of the kitchen window, a man stepping into the cabin. He isn't, Susan. He is not anyone I know. He is just a man. He's wearing a black jacket. He's gripping a rusted tire iron.

I turn around. Hey! I say. He looks at me. He looks at my glasses. He looks at my hair. He looks back at me. He shows nothing.

I'm just a man in this home. Hey! I say again, because the first hey did not register. He does not say anything. There's somebody in here, I say. He looks at the room. He looks at the leather couch. He looks at the bottle of wine.

on the counter. He looks at the kit on the table. The Polaroid, the knife, the moleskin, the gloves, the in cold blood. His eyes pass over all of it and then come back to me. He doesn't seem to know who or what he's looking at. He finally speaks in a gruff tone. Give me your wallet. The documentary, I think. I am thinking this in this kitchen. With this man in the cabin, the editing crew needs to know how to handle this. This beat is unexpected. My wallet's in my coat, I say. I'm Where's the coat? On the couch. He walks to the couch and picks up my coat.

He searches the pockets. He finds the wallet and puts it in his pocket. Phone, he says. Right there. I point to the counter. He takes it. Keys. In the bowl.

By the door. He grabs the keys. He looks around the cabin one more time, and his eyes pass over the kit again. He doesn't seem to be aware of whom he has encountered. Who he has crossed paths with. He keeps looking around the cabin. Hey!

I say. He doesn't stop scanning the cabin. The man doesn't know what the hell he has wandered into tonight. This is where he can start. I think quickly. I have a lot of money. I say. I can get more cash.

I'm rich. I live in New York. Brooklyn. He turns to me. Intrigued now. The man takes a step toward me. Then another. He tightens his grip on the tire iron.

I grabbed the buoy knife. This is worth a lot. $4,000. You can have it. He takes one more step toward me. He doesn't realize I'm going to disembowl him. I'm going to pull every inch of intestine out of him and dress the room in red and pink viscera. I will keep him alive for as long as I can so that he can see me decorate the verbo with his insides.

It's a nice knife, see? I also take a step forward, knife out. I wonder if Susan has a security camera in here somewhere, filming this interaction. They will need to censor the ensuing bloodshed, but that will be good. for dramatic effect. I pretend to be an idiot. I turn the knife around, carefully holding it by the blade to reveal the angel wing on the handle. Look at that, carved by hand. The man raises an eyebrow. He looks at the knife, then at me. He smiles. What the fuck is that? It's a custom, one-of-a-kind knife, I explain.

That looks like some hobby-lovy bullshit. He scoffs. No, it's a knife. In one swift motion, The tire iron shatters the bones in my hand into hundreds of little pieces. The knife flies across the room and actually gets stuck in the wall. My hand, my now useless hand, dangles helplessly while I cradle it in the other. What the fuck? I yell in my ugliest voice. He doesn't know what he's done. I take a step toward him in a blind fury, and the tire iron hits my shoulder.

I crumple to the floor. He hits me again on the back of my head, but I don't feel it. I only hear it. A hollow wet thud. This isn't how the Dateline special is supposed to go. I'm not a victim. I will not be the victim. I cannot be the victim.

I am a killer. The tire iron shatters my jaw. My eye immediately swells shut. I grab at the man's pant leg with my good hand, and he destroys that one too. I'm now writhing on the floor like a worm in the sun. The tire iron flattens my nose, and I feel blood explode all over my cheeks and chin.

I have words, but I cannot physically make them. I'm terrified now. I am no longer the subject. I'm not the darkness you stare into to better understand yourself. The voiceover is gone. There is no Morgan Freeman. No two-parter on Netflix. If I can escape, maybe they will interview me about this man. I tried dragging myself across the floor, and the man digs the tire iron into the back of my knee, sending shock waves through my entire leg. All I can smell now is copper and cinnamon. Must be a base note of the candle Susan left for me. He strikes me again. In the stomach this time and I curl up.

I'm not crying. No matter what you hear or what you see, I'm not crying. This is just an involuntary reaction. With my one good eye, I see the man has turned his attention to the photo I took. Evil intelligence, he reads aloud before tossing it aside. What the fuck does that even mean? He strikes me again and again and again. I have no more pain left to feel because I am simply pain personified.

That would be a good line for me to say when interviewed from the hustle. I want my face to be shown on camera. I won't be backlit, won't be anonymous. I want them to see me. I want Rob and Jackson and Nicole and my mom and all of you to see me for what I am. He's moved from my stomach back to my head. Each strikes squelches and squishes, and it's really quite visceral, but poetic. I wonder how this looks right now. I'm trying to remember every bit of this, so I have a story to tell. Stepping up to the open hotel room door, I raised my hand to knock, but paused at what I saw. A woman in tight jeans, bending over as she tucked the bedspread under the mattress. I took a moment to enjoy the view before knocking on the door.

The woman straightened, startled by the noise. Her ponytail of onyx hair whipped around as she looked over her shoulder at me and did a double take. I smiled, knowing I was easy on the door. the eyes. She was pretty. Brown sugar skin, lively, mahogany-colored eyes, one of the rare women who looks better with a wide face than a narrow one. No ring on either of the important fingers. Yes, she asked after taking me in, a slight Hispanic accent, which only made her more attractive to me. I'm Trevor Hawkins. Okay, she said. The new desk clerk. Davila set me up so you can give me a rundown on readying the rooms in case I have to do it sometime.

Oh, she said. Right. Okay, well, come in. I'll show you. Her name was Carla, and she gave me a speedy rundown of what she called flipping a room. Everything you need is there. She gestured at the loaded down cart in the hallway. Room 413 is OOS and hasn't been flipped yet. You can do that one. Let me know when you're done and I'll come look.

O-O-O-S? I asked. It means out of service. The AC needs to be fixed before we can book it. It's perfect for practice. She gives me a skeleton key, an actual physical key, not a card. Okay, thanks. I held eye contact with Carla for a long moment. A look of impatience came over her face.

You need me to hold your hand or what? I smiled. No, I got it. Turning. I headed several doors down to four. 13 with a key in hand. I would see what needed to be done before returning to the cart. The hallway was narrow compared to modern hotels, off-white walls, dark gray paneling, bright white doors, ancient light fixtures at regular intervals with high wattage bulbs, which threw enough light

to fight against the darkness that seemed like the hall's natural state. The muted design on the maroon carpet made me think of Kubrick's The Shining. I pictured Danny riding down the hall his tricycle. There was no elevator in the historic building, but if there had been, it would have been easy to imagine a torrent of blood pouring from its slowly opening doors. I unlocked 413 and stepped into the dark room. As I felt for a light switch, my eyes landed on the bed. Someone was in it, half under the covers on the far side of the mattress, their head hidden by two stacked pillows. I'm so sorry, I said, giving up on finding the light switch. I thought This room was...

I lost the ability to speak as my gaze locked onto the person's left hand, which lay outside the covers. It was swollen and rotten, the fingers like moldy sausages. Deja vu slammed into me from behind, and I was suddenly walking forward, just like I had two weeks ago. The stench roiled my stomach, worse than the dumpsters at my old restaurant job after a long summer day. Angling toward the foot of the bed, I brought the person's face into view.

putrescent, discolored, festering face. My grandmother's face. Same tangle of unruly white hair, same fluid-stained white nightgown with little blue flowers on it, same shrunken lips and blackened cheeks, same eyelids open to reveal an irregular, bruise-like dark stripe across each eye, backed by the violent red of burst blood vessels. Dismay flooded me, along with fear, my heart squeezing like a worn-out stress ball. No, I pleaded in my head. I thought I was past this. I thought I'd put it behind me. An item I had been carrying around in my pocket since my grandmother's death seemed to grow warm. I barely noticed it as I slammed my eyes shut, saying the same things I told myself a thousand times since her death. It's not my fault.

I didn't cause her death. I wasn't responsible for her. She was still a lively and intelligent old woman. It's not my fault. Expecting to find her gone, I opened my eyes. To see her standing directly in front of me. I lurched backward, but she kept pace with me, gibbering insanely, high-pitched, pleading tones falling from her mouth as she glared, her face remaining inches from mine. I banged into the dresser, knocking the flat-screen TV back. An item in my right pocket flared with warmth. My dead grandmother pressed her cold body against mine, wrapping her arms around me in a hug, much like the hugs we had shared when she was alive. Her nose touched my nose, which shouldn't have been possible, because I had been at least a foot taller than her since I was 16.

I tried to recoil, to turn my head, but I couldn't move at all. She pressed her face against mine, its rotten components giving way, putrescent flesh separating, ancient bones collapsing, all of it forming around my face, surging into my mouth, clogging my nostrils. I screamed, but her festering flesh choked the sound off. Breathing became impossible. Panic was all encompassing. Without even realizing why I was doing it, as if something was guiding my hand, I reached into

my pocket toward the warm item. It was a hairpin, four inches long, with twin sterling silver prongs and a turquoise stone set in an ornate silver mounting. It belonged to my grandmother. I'd taken it from her nightstand after finding her dead, just to have something of hers near me. A faint scent penetrated the foul stench of death, a scent I'd always associated with grandma, A mixture of Esté-Lauder white-linen perfume and winter-green mouthwash.

Two things happened at once. My fingers touched my grandma's hairpin, and Carla called my name. The apparition disappeared just like that. I stood in the hotel room, my back against the dresser. The bed was empty, unmade. Only a mattress pad and four naked pillows adorned its surface. I unconsciously withdrew my hand, leaving the pin where it was, as I rushed out of the room and into the hall hyperventilating.

Since I found my grandmother dead, I had been reliving the moment at random times. But nothing like that had ever happened before. Never before had she come out of bed and attacked me. I leaned against the wall to regain my composure. You need any help? Carla said from down the hall. Straightening, I forced to smile and waved a dismissive hand. Oh no, I'm good.

Just found a nasty sort of. surprise in the toilet. Really? She said. I cleaned the bathroom earlier. Didn't see anything in the toilet. I shrugged. I guess someone used it after you finished.

It was pretty gross. Carla clearly didn't believe me. She set her towels back on the cart and walked down the hall. How much do you know about this place? I crossed my arms and shrugged. It's just my first day, remember? No. I mean, some people are more sensitive than others.

and some places are Carla! Once again, I jumped, this time at a new voice. Turning to look over my shoulder, I saw the manager, a woman in her mid-50s dressed in a brown-wool business suit named Davila. She hustled down the hall in her flats,

eyes on Carla. What is it? Carla asked. Maxwell is in the hospital. He can't come in for his ship tonight. I need you to cover for him. Carla shook her head, lips disappearing as she pressed them together.

No, I can't. You know I can't. I have Victor. What if you bring Victor here? Dabula asked, desperation clear in her tone. Or get a sitter. I'm not working overnight. No way. My first shift was over in a couple of hours. But going back to my grandma's house, my house now, was about the last thing I wanted to do. I hadn't planned on living there. My roommates had kicked me out of my apartment for not paying rent. So I'd gone to grandma's house to ask if I could move back in. Instead, I found her dead. Since then, I'd been sleeping there because I had nowhere else to go, but I avoided the place as long as I could each night,

usually staying out late and getting drunk before finally forcing myself inside. Now I was broke until I got my first paycheck from this job. What had once been a place of comfort and peace for me was now a waking nightmare. I can work tonight, I said. Both women looked at me like I'd just past gas. I know it's only my first day, but you already showed me how to check people in and everything. I think I can handle it. Davila considered this, but Carla said, No, that's not a good idea.

Why can't you do it? Davila shook her head in response. It's family night. If I miss it again, I just can't miss it. Plus, I have to go check on Maxwell at the hospital. What happened? Carla asked. Is he okay?

He crashed his motorcycle, but apparently. Apparently he'll live. Carla shook her head in consternation. Davila studied me. Night shift is not as straightforward as day shift. There are some very specific rules you must follow. You're not seriously considering this, are you? Carla asked.

It's not like I have a choice. If he's willing to do it, why not? He doesn't know what he's getting into. I laughed. I think I can handle myself, Carla. Just tell me the rules and I'll follow them. No problem. They're very odd rules, Trevor, Davila said.

And you must follow them to a T. I can do it. I need the hours anyway. Happy to help. How hard can it be, I thought. I pictured myself sleeping or watching TV in the little room behind the reception desk for most of the night. Okay, Davila said, making her decision. Follow me.

The hotel was quiet, aside from the near constant and random creaks that emanated from the old building's bones. The lobby was what some people might call quaint in its antiquity, but I just thought of it as old. It featured the front desk on the right side, facing a seating area with two couches and three armchairs, all of them expensive-looking antiques. A brass chandelier hung from the middle of the vaulted ceiling, above a carved wooden coffee table, with a pane of thick glass on its surface. Natural gas flames burned in a fireplace, around with a wooden coffee table. which the furniture was arranged. A wide, carpeted staircase at the back of the lobby led up

to the other floors. Directly across the lobby from the desk was the dining room. It was dark. The door was open to it, revealing the hulking shadows of the tables and the upturned chairs on top of them. I had just finished checking in, a nicer, older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Blanche, and I couldn't help but look at the list of rules Davila had left me. As I read them again, I chuckled. I believed it was some kind of test orchestrated to see if I would follow orders when no one else was around. Dabula was gone. So was Carla, although she said she would try to come check on me in a few hours. She seemed genuinely worried about me. As my thoughts wandered to Carla's ass for the dozenth time, I corralled them back to the rules on the sheet. Some of the rules

had time stamps next to them, like the one about relighting one of the exterior gas lanterns at 1027 on the dot. The hotel had been built in the early 1900s, back before electricity was ubiquitous. And while the rooms had long since been updated, there were two dozen natural gas lanterns around the property, adding to the historic aesthetic that some people enjoyed. Another time-constrained rule was probably the strangest on the list. It said, that I was to not be at the front desk between midnight and 1210, no matter what I heard. The bell will ring, but ignore it. You can look at the security camera feed and see that no one will be at the desk. Just stay in the back room until 12-11, no matter what.

With a faint smile, I thought, okay, so it's not just a test, but it's also new guy hazing. They would have a good laugh at the security videos of me following these ridiculous rules. A flare of embarrassment heated my cheeks, but I pushed it away. I needed this job. I scanned the other rules again. Never put guests in certain rooms, the numbers of which are listed out. If a call comes from any of these rooms, do not answer it. Check every 30 minutes to see if the door to room 117 has opened.

If it has, close it. Those last two rules made me think that there was another employee hanging on. around to call the front desk or to open the door to 117. I set an alarm on my phone and lounged in the back room sprawled on the sway-backed couch watching TV. When my alarm went off, I headed out with the provided grill lighter and found that the gas lamp in question had indeed gone out. I lit it and watched for a minute to make sure it wouldn't go out again before I headed back inside. The next hour passed uneventfully. I checked room 117 every 30 minutes. I checked room 117. minutes, but the door remained closed. I looked for it, but couldn't find a camera to smirk at,

but I knew one was there somewhere, and Davila was going to have a good laugh watching the footage in the morning. Around 1150, I was dozing, once again with an alarm set, when the desk phone rang. Groaning, I trudged to the desk and picked up the phone without checking which room number it was coming from. Front desk, how can I help you? At first, There was no noise, but that lasted only a moment. A whistling shriek started low and ramped up so fast I had to take the phone from my ear. The shriek morphed into a mashup of humorless laughter and pain-filled screams.

It seemed to escape the phone, spilling out as though coming from surround sound speakers. Mouth and eyes gaping, I looked down at the switchboard to see that the call was coming from one of the rooms whose calls I was supposed to ignore. I slammed the phone down and the noise stopped. My ears rang with the switch. its after effects. There was no way the guests hadn't heard it. What the hell? I murmured, backing away from the phone, just as it started to ring again. This time, the call came from a room that was occupied. Mr. and Mrs. Blanche's room. After a long moment, I picked up the phone.

Hello? The man said, sounded like screaming. Yeah, I did too, sir. I'm sorry. I think... Sudden laughter stopped my words. It was base tinged and didn't match the man's voice at all. After a few moments, I heard the woman in the background. John? The laughter turned wet and choking, and along with it, the woman's voice grew frantic. Moments later, she started screaming. I dropped the phone, ran down the hall to the room and banged on the door. I could no longer hear the man's laughter. The woman's screams had grown even more frantic. Digging the skeleton key out of a back pocket, I shoved it into the lock

with shaking hands and got the door open. Resistance prevented me from opening it all the way, but I could see the bed through the gap. Maroon liquid poured from a gash in the man's throat, cascading down his chest as he straddled the woman, digging his sharp black fingers into the flesh at her temples. Once his fingers were under her skin to the first knuckle, he ripped them down, tearing ragged strips of flesh from her face. As I tried to push through the door, the resistance increased,

and a head poked into view. A head with a rotten face and a tangle of white hair. My dead grandmother grinned with black teeth as she shoved the door impossibly hard, sending me sprawling into the hall. The screams continued from inside the room. Scrambling to my feet, I rushed back to the front desk, heading for my phone in the back room. As I reached the desk, the ring for service bell started dinging, some invisible force hitting it. I looked at the clock. It was one minute after midnight.

The ringing bell increased in frequency, like an angry customer trying to get an employee's attention. In my panic, I ran into the back room and slammed the door, hoping that a minute wouldn't matter. I had already broken one rule. I didn't want to make it too. As I snatched my phone from the couch, the ridiculousness of the situation staggered me. I had just witnessed a woman's face being torn off. I was seeing my dead grandmother, and not just vivid flashes of her, like I'd been experiencing on and off since her death.

This was unlike anything I had ever experienced. I found that for once in my adult life, I had no idea what to do. The bell continued to ring, now sounding as if it was being smacked by some hard object. Fumbling with my phone, I brought up Davila's number and hit call. The lights in the office flickered and went out, but the TV stayed on. The bell stopped ringing. As the phone rang, the sound low because I hadn't brought it to my ear. I turned to look at the TV, which was propped on a low table across from the couch.

Two perfect-looking silver-haired actors from some drug commercial stared at me from the TV screen. There was no narration, no music, no noise, but I hadn't muted the TV. The couple, who had been walking in a perfectly manicured park, were stopped mid-stride. Only their faces moved, decomposing even as their plastic smiles turned into demonic sneers. In a blink, they scuttled toward me, limbs jerking, evil grins widening over sharp, rotten teeth. Their faces filled the TV screen, and then they were no longer two-dimensional. They protruded from the screen, their heads huge as they somehow maintained the close-up perspective. I suddenly knew what to do. Run! Barely aware of Davila's tinny voice coming through

the phone, I darted toward the door as the two demonic actors shoved their way out of the screen. The man swiped at me, knocking the phone from my hand as I whipped the door open. As I ran into the lobby and toward the doors, I saw another heart. hotel guest, standing in front of the fireplace, is back to me. He wore only his boxers, saggy gray skin visible everywhere else. Run! I screamed. The man's only response was to throw himself headfirst into the fireplace. As the flames scorched his skin, I faced forward and slammed through the set of double doors and burst out into the night. I made it out of the four-story hotel's shadow halfway to my car when I heard my name called from behind. I looked over my

shoulder. On one of the third floor balconies stood Carla. My dead grandma stood behind her, grinning down at me over Carla's shoulder. She had one arm wrapped around Carla's throat and was apparently using her other hand to grip Carla's wrists behind her back. Carla opened her mouth, maybe to call my name again, maybe to warn me off. My grandmother yanked her back into the dark room, cutting off whatever Carla had hoped to say. I continued away from the hotel and got into my car. But as I went to start the engine with trembling hands. I thought about what I had done after finding Grandma dead, about how I had panicked, fleeing the house for several hours before working up the nerve

to go back and deal with the situation. What would happen to Carla if I ran away? The answer seemed obvious. Was there any guarantee I could make a difference if I went back in? No. Nothing was guaranteed in this life. Nothing except death. But it was my fault. I hadn't followed the rules. And I couldn't keep running. I got out of my car and jogged back to the Victorian-style hotel. I reached the double doors, paused to gather myself, and then pushed into the lobby. A small crowd stood around the double doors. The man who'd thrown himself into the fireplace, his skin bubbling and smoldering, the stench

putrid. The fake plastic couple from the TV, still as can be and demented as they were when they'd crawled from the screen. The woman with the torn-off face and her gap-necked husband. Everyone was there, except for Grandma and Carla. I lost my nerve and turned to run. They were suddenly standing between me on the doors. Grandma beside Carla, both of them, where the exit had been clear a second before.

Only now Carla was free, a vulpine grin stretching her pretty features. They grabbed me, and so did all the others. Their fingers slithered all over me like snakes as they pushed me to the floor. The hairpin in my pocket grew warm. Instinctively, I reached for it. But I couldn't move my arm enough to get it. Grandma crouched over me as the others held me down. Her putrid, stinking face bubbled as she eased it toward mine.

Let's finish what we started earlier, you little shit, she said. Her age-ravaged voice distorted. I fought and writhed, screaming, pleading, begging. It did no good. She pressed her face to mine, and once again it morphed, some of it giving way to form around my head, while other parts seemed to jam themselves into my nostrils. and mouth. The revolting taste of long dead flesh triggered my gag reflex. My stomach convulsed,

propelling its contents up my throat. But there was nowhere for the vomit to go. It clogged my nostrils and wedged in my throat. Terror combined with panic, seizing my muscles and throttling my heart. As I fought for breath, the rotting mass clogging my mouth and nose forced its way deeper down and down until I felt horribly full from the inside. It ripped holes in me, invading my mind, body and soul. The psychic pain matched the physical pain until I could take no more. I craved oblivion,

but instead I was pulled into the thrashing teeth of a darkness so sharp and black that the pain of being disassembled soon became the better option. Darkness and ever-increasing pain enveloped me. Despite it all, I clung to something without realizing what I was doing. A comforting presence was there with me.

A minuscule light in the darkness that seemed to fade and fade and fade. but never disappear. I couldn't see what it was, but I could feel it. Just like I could still feel the warmth of the hairpin in my pocket. A nostalgia-inducing smell came to my nostrils, momentarily overpowering the putrid rot of death. It was the smell of Este Lodder's white linen perfume

and winter green mouthwash. Davila rushed through the front doors, eyes darting around as if searching for threats. Her nostrils flared as she smelled something that didn't agree with her. What's wrong? She asked, walking toward the desk. I've been trying to call you back for the last 20 minutes. The lobby was empty, everything in its place.

I smiled as Davila approached. Sorry, I dropped my phone. It broke. I called the desk phone too, she said, coming around and yanking the receiver up, holding it to her ear to check the dial tone. I shrugged. That's odd. I didn't hear it. I've been here the whole time. What's that smell? Davila asked.

Smells like overcooked barbecue. Two people appeared from a first floor hallway, fighting against their luggage as they walked with purpose toward the desk. It was the nice old couple I'd checked in around 10, Mr. and Mrs. Blanche. We're checking out, the man exclaimed. I'm sorry to hear that, Davila said, slipping into her managerial role despite wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. Is something wrong? The bed is uncomfortable. The man grumbled, setting his bag down with a...

thumb as the two reached the desk. The air conditioner is noisy. The people upstairs won't shut up. The TV doesn't work. A better question to ask is, what is it wrong? The woman said with a huff. Something about the woman bothered me. Flashes of frightening memories flared in the recesses of my mind.

But not only those, something about her demeanor reminded me of someone. I'm so sorry to hear that, I said. I'll get you checked out and issue a refund. refund. Wait a second, I'm sure we can fix this, Davila said. How about an upgrade? I think Mr. and Mrs. Blanche just want to check out, I said. No, it wasn't me. I didn't say it, although whatever was inside me was trying very hard to convince me that it and I were one in the same. I'd been a passenger in my own body without even knowing it, but now, as I realized who the woman reminded me of, it all came flooding back.

Grandma? I shrieked in my mind, realizing I'd been clinging to some part of her, some memory or maybe even a spiritual residue left after her passing. Claws sharp as sides and made of darkness plunged into my essence and ripped me from my mind. I fought against them, thrashing, trying to regain some little control so I could warn Davila. Don't let them check out! I tried to scream, knowing that allowing anyone to check out of the hotel right now would be disastrous for our small town. even if I didn't understand why. I managed to grab onto some dim internal ledge, looking out of my eyes as if through the wrong end of a telescope. My fingers clung as the claws

tried to rip me away. Faintly, I could still hear Davila trying to convince the old couple to stay. Looking down the long tunnel, I realized I could see the couple's true faces again. Bits of bloody flesh hung from the woman's shredded cheeks. The man's face was locked in a too-wide grin, both pairs of eyes pulsed with swirling clouds of red and black. Whatever spell that was still cast on Davila no longer had any effect on me. Why? Because it's getting weaker. My sweet, tough grandma whispered in my ear. For a moment, I was sure I could smell her, a mixture of white linen perfume and winter green mouthwash. I'm sorry, I said to her. My fingers losing their grip on whatever psychic irregularity I had managed to cling on to. I'm sorry I wasn't there. I should have

been there for you. I should have visited more. I'm sorry. My grandmother raised me from the time I was three years old. According to my estranged mother, my dad had disappeared immediately following conception. For her part, my mom thought having a kid would help her get sober. She was an addict and an alcoholic, although she managed to stay clean throughout the pregnancy. It took her three years of repeatedly falling off the wagon to realize she didn't like sobriety, or being a mother. She handed me off to my grandmother, who was all too happy to have me. Her husband, my mom's dad, had died of a heart attack in his early 50s. Grandma never remarried. Not long after Grandma became my legal guardian,

my mom ended up in prison after stabbing a woman's eye out of her a $10 bag of meth. I saw her as an adult only once, had my grandma's insist. when she got out of prison on parole. I didn't much care about the woman, and she didn't much care about me. I saw my mom again at my grandma's funeral, and she looked much better than the last time I'd seen her. Older, but not so strung out. She seemed to have gotten her shit together, but she was still more than a stranger to me. When she tried to comfort me like an actual mom would, I jerked away, telling her to leave me the hell alone. I had been raised by only one person, and in the end, I'd treated that person like dirt. Up until a year before

her death, I had visited my grandmother once a week without fail. But shortly after I turned 21, I stopped visiting so much, because I started drinking and frequenting bars while trying to get laid. I was taking for granted the time she had left, and generally being a selfish asshole. When I went to her house and found her dead, I hadn't visited in well over a month. We had talked on the phone the week before she died. She asked me to come visit. I said I would, but I never did, not until it was too late. By then, she had been dead for six days. I'm sorry, Grandma. It's okay, she whispered. My fingers dug deeper and stopped slipping as her smell brought about a wave of comfort. I know you loved me. I know you still do. At the distant end of the tunnel,

which didn't seem so far anymore, the man who'd thrown himself into the fireplace came walking to the desk, also carrying his luggage. Judging by Davila's reaction, she couldn't see that he was a walking burn victim. Where his skin wasn't blackened and smoldering, it had sloughed off to reveal exposed muscle or bone. His lips and eyelids were little more than charred ridges. His eyes were like runny egg whites dripping from their sockets. As the man stopped behind the old couple, who were growing more upset with each moment. I wondered where the two giant commercial actors had gone, and whether Carla was still alive. More guilt racked me, and my fingers started to slip again. The claws digging into me redoubled their efforts to pull me into the abyss, where I knew

I wouldn't be able to observe the outside world any longer. Okay, I'll issue you a refund, Davila said, finally relenting. No! I screamed, but my mouth stayed shut. No, no way. escaping. The front doors opened and Carla stepped into the hotel. The thing controlling my body directed my gaze to her, eyes widening. A tremor ran through whatever plane I was trapped in as the force controlling me reacted to Carla's sudden presence. At first, I didn't understand. It was the look on her face that did it. Carla stopped short just inside the doors, gaze frozen to the three people gathered in front of the desk. Her face paled, brown

skin losing some of its luster as her mouth dropped open and released a frightened noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream. She could see them. The force was too weak to trick both her and Davila. The realization hit me then. Carla hadn't been taken hostage earlier. It had been a trick to lure me back into the hotel so I could check the guests out, letting them out of their prison. But Davila had arrived, unknowingly throwing a wrench into the works. And now Carla. The same sudden epiphany that I wasn't responsible for Carla's capture zapped the guilt away. Hope flared bright in its sudden absence. Now, Grandma whispered in my ear.

With newfound strength, I jerked myself away from those dark, sharp claws and propelled my essence back upward, fighting with everything I had to shatter the spell. As I fought to regain control of my body, all hell broke loose. Davila screamed and threw herself away from the three people at the desk, finally seeing them as they truly were. The burned man darted toward the doors, taking hold of Carla before she could run out of the hotel. I expelled my rotting nut grandmother in a torrent of putrescent flesh

that spewed from my mouth and nose. It felt at once relieving and revolting as the liquefied flesh came out and splattered onto the carpet, dissipating as if it had never been there at all. But I knew she wasn't gone, not for good. gasping, I came back to myself, leaning against the wall. The dead woman, Mrs. Blanche, lurched at Davila, while her husband clambered over the desk toward me, knocking the bell aside with a ding.

Davila and I had the same idea, turning toward the back room. But before we could reach it, the door opened, and the two giant TV actors crowded the doorway. They were still rotting away, their eyes swirling red and black like the others. This way! Davila screamed, grabbing my arm and yanking me. me toward the stairs. Mrs. Blanche grabbed hold of my other arm, sharp fingers piercing my skin. I yanked the appendage away, gasping as the fingers ripped four deep gouges in my forearm. A muffled scream came from Carla. The burned man had her around the neck with one gruesome arm,

his other hand over her mouth. I slowed, knowing I had to help her, but Davila pulled me along. As we ran to the second floor, Davila said, Please tell me you have a skeleton key on you. I dug it out of my pocket and handed it to her. The two giant actors chased us to room 217, where we stopped so Davila could unlock the door. I watched the two large entities closing in. Both of them hunched to fit in the hallway. Hurry! I said. Davila got the door open just in time, pulling me in and slamming it. The two entities banged on the door, shrieking and waiting in frustration. They can't get in. Davila said, gasping.

What about... Carla, I said, also catching my breath. Davila turned on the lights and moved to the dresser on which a flat screen TV sat. She opened the top drawer to reveal an array of items that only increased my confusion. What the hell is going on? I asked, staring at the items. You broke one of the rules, she said, selecting one of several cylindrical packages of salt from the drawer. I knew I shouldn't have trusted.

You could have told me what would happen if I broke one. Would you have believed me? I said nothing. She had a point. Besides. She continued. It doesn't matter. I've never seen it like this before.

This is insane. But no matter what we do, we can't check them out. Do you understand me? I nodded. What about Carla? What if they force her to check them out? Carla is housekeeping. She can't check guests out.

Not these guests anyway. Take this. Davila shoved a bouquet of dried rosemary into my hand. I think they'll probably make. an exception this time," I said, taking the bouquet. No, she can't. There are rules about this stuff. I thought you would have figured that out by now. They need one of us to check them out, so they'll use Carla as leverage." She paused. The banging and shrieking from the door had just stopped, but other people

were shouting, banging on their doors all along the hall. The other guests, Davila said. They must be trapped in their rooms. That's good. Why is that good? Because it means the spirits. are too weak to use them against us. They're stretched to their limits already. I shook my head. What the hell is this place? Not important. Here, take this too. She gave me an ornate hand mirror. What's important is that we contain them once again. What about the people, the Blanches and Mr. Morrow. Will they go back to normal? Davila met my eyes and shook her head once. My legs weakened. I barely made it to the bed before collapsing. I killed them.

All because I answered a phone call from the wrong room. Dabula sighed. Listen, normally all that would happen? If you broke that rule would be relatively harmless. Maybe a guest or two would have seen something not so pleasant in their rooms. Something else is going on. I don't understand it. This isn't all on you.

I should have known better. I should have stayed. But we need to fix this before anyone else gets hurt, okay? I stared at the carpet, sick with guilt. Okay? I swallowed loudly. Yeah. Good.

We need to get to the basement, which means making a run for it. They're going to do whatever they can to stop us, but throw salt on them. That should keep them off our backs until we can get downstairs through the kitchen. When we get down there, we'll... Davila went on to explain what we would have to do in the basement to contain the spirits. It sounded ridiculous to me. Then again, so had the rules. I shoved the rosemary into one pocket and got a package of salt from the drawer.

In my left hand, I held the mirror up. Apparently, silver-backed mirrors also repelled spirits. We paused at the door and looked at each other. Davila nodded once and then looked through the peephole. Satisfied, she disengaged the dead vault and yanked the door open. The twisted version of my grandmother stood in front of the door, her body facing away from us, but her head twisted around. on a grotesquely broken neck.

Before either of us could react, her bloody, grinning mouth opened, and her tongue shot out. Only it wasn't a regular tongue. As it zipped toward Davila, it turned from a modelled, moldy muscle into a black chain with a metal arrowhead at the tip. The arrow impacted Davila in the middle of her face,

obliterating her nose and everything behind it in a spray of gore. Once out the back of her skull, the arrowhead expanded, its wings locking out a moment before Grandma yanked the chain back into her mouth. The arrow's wings caught on the back of Davila's skull and yanked her toward not grandma, whose mouth expanded to accept Davila's head. Her now oversized teeth chomped down on Davila's neck, severing her head with a crunch.

Before my boss's body hit the floor, I was running, holding up the mirror in one hand and whipping the salt container in the other. Grandma seemed to hiss even as she chewed on Davila's skull like it was an ice cube. As I darted down the hall, doors on both sides flew open. Hotel guests creaned from inside the rooms to attack me, crazed grimaces on their faces, eyes swirling with black and red clouds. Propeled by sheer terror, I ducked and dodged and threw salt, which didn't seem to do much of anything. One guest lurched for me, grabbing my leg.

I smacked his arm with the edge of the mirror, which caused him to let go but crack the glass. As another guest smashed me against the wall, I dropped the salt and punched in the temple, she fell away. I sprinted down the stairs, cracked mirror in my hand, Rosemary in my pocket, Davila's directions running through my mind. Carla stood behind the front desk, still held captive by Mr. Morrow. Her eyes pleaded with me as I turned, heading for the kitchen. But I let my gaze linger on her too long. I didn't see Mr. and Mrs. Blanche hiding nearby. They scuttled out from behind a couch like a couple of spiders and launched themselves at me. Reacting instinctively, I lurched away and swung the mirror at the same time.

The item smashed into Mr. Blanche's head. He shrieked and fell away, but Mrs. Blanche grabbed hold of my shirt at the collar. Her sharp black nails gouged grooves in the side of my neck and my trapezius muscle. As I continued jerking away, now swinging the mirror at her, the shirt ripped and she lost her grip. The mirror missed, but I was free. I sprinted toward the dining room and for the kitchen beyond, realizing Davila hadn't given me a tour of the basement. I only now became aware of the hairpin in my pocket, which had been warm the entire time. Was that why my grandmother was here trying to help me? I thought so. If I hadn't been carrying the pin around me, I'd probably be dead already. I dashed through the dark dining room

and into the kitchen. The basement door, which Davila had mentioned in passing during my tour, was in a wall beyond an alcove used to store non-perishable food items. Closing in, the alcove coming up on my right, I knew something was wrong. The shadows shifted as two giant figures moved out of the storage area to block my path, the plastic-looking TV actors. And between them, grandma, her head facing forward again, her grinning mouth back to regular size, although blood-coated her chin, neck, and the collar of her nightgown. I stopped. The sound of all the others approaching from behind hastened the unbearable sense of the defeat that assailed me like a thousand arrows sinking into my flesh. Davila was wrong. I really, I really,

as the others closed in behind me. If the spirits had been weak before, they had somehow gained more strength. Looking over my shoulder, I saw dozens of them. All the guests in the hotel, Carla, still held by Mr. Morrow, stood among them.

Please, she said. Just check them out. They just want to leave. I smelled winter green and white linen perfume. The pin in my pocket flared with pleasant warmth. No, I said to Carla. I can't do it. Then I'll make you.

I faced forward to see not grandma standing in front of me, her decaying face inches from mine, rotten dumpster breath wafting in my face. There was no hint of wintergreen in that myasma. I'm so sorry, I said, dropping the mirror, which shattered on the floor. I wrapped one arm around her in a hug while digging into my pocket with my free hand. I should have never left you alone for so long. I had my head positioned beside hers, our ears pressed together.

As her head morphed, shifting and crawling to once again shove itself into my mouth and nose, I pulled the hairpin out of my pocket. A shriek rose from the crowd when they saw what I was doing. But before Not Grandma could do anything about it, I jammed the twin silver prongs into her back. They punctured the rotting flesh with ease. Not Grandma writhed and screamed, trying to pull away. Her head had become solid again and was no longer attempting to invade me.

As I pulled the hairpin out only to plunge it back in, I saw a flicker of my grandmother standing behind this rotten evil version of her. She cinched her ghostly hands around Not Grandma's neck, throttling her. I stabbed again and again, my grandmother's spirit, flickering in and out of my vision, as she also fought the entity. Not Grandma's nails dug into my back, inflicting torturous pain as she shredded my flesh. But the pain was nothing compared to the guilt I'd been living with since Grandma's death. I clenched my teeth and kept stabbing, stabbing, stabbing, and stabbing.

I was vaguely aware of the pained whales erupting from all around. The two giant TV actors shrank down to normal size halfway through my frenzied stabbing. Then they continued to shrink until they disappeared altogether. I'm sorry, I said, as I continued to stab not Grandma in the back. Tears streamed down my face. As the whales from all around lost intensity, her attack also faded until her hands fell away from my back. The ghostly apparition of my grandmother let go of her doppelganger's throat and stepped beside me. It's over, she said.

It's okay. I let go of not Grandma. Her body fell but disappeared before hitting the floor. Looking behind me, I saw Carla and the hotel guests arrayed around the dark kitchen. Those who had been possessed were alive, but bewildered. Carla was doing her best to comfort them. Mr. Morrow's charred corpse lay unmoving on the floor. Same with the body's belonging to Mr. and Mrs. Blanche.

Relief and exhaustion overtaking me. I dropped to my knees, still clutching the head. hairpin in my hand. I wasn't about to let go of it. My grandmother's spirit crouched beside me. She looked just as she had the last time I'd seen her alive. I love you, Trevor, she said to me. I relished the smell of winter green mouthwash and white linen perfume. I love you too, grandma. I know you do. You are always good to me. You have nothing to feel guilty about, but I need you to promise me one thing. I nodded, feeling lightheaded from blood loss. She leaned in closer and told me what she wanted. Okay, I said when she was done. I promise. My grandmother hugged me.

I hugged her back, and then she was gone. I eased out of my car, wintzing as the skin on my back stretched with the movement. I hoped the stitches were holding. Sunlight reflected off the modest homes windows. A sprinkler worked to water the postage-stamped lawn. It was a well-kept bungalow in a decent neighborhood. Flowers grew from pots along the porch railing. Furns hung from hooks under the awning. As I started up the walkway, I thought about the detectives telling me not to leave town. There were still more questions than answers about the incident at the hotel. Shortly after my grandmother hugged me and then disappeared, Carla ran down into the basement and performed the ritual Davila had described to me,

just in case my dispatching of nut grandma hadn't done the trick. While she was gone, I passed out. I only talked to her later when she visited me in the hospital. We discussed everything. I apologized profusely, but Carla said it wasn't my fault. No one could have known something like that would happen, she said. Still, I felt horrible. If I had only followed the rules,

Carla said she had already talked to the cops. She had told the truth and suggested I do the same. I couldn't see any way around it. There was no way to pin the blame on any human. The media was already swarming our little town. It was a circus. But I had slipped away from the reporters so I could fulfill the promise I'd made to grandma.

Walking onto the porch, I steadied my nerves and pushed back a lifetime of hard feelings. Then I knocked on the door. Moments later, it opened. I managed to smile. Hey, Mom. I first saw him when I was eight, maybe nine. I can't pin the exact year down.

But I know I was still living in Manchester, so eight or nine, I guess. Manchester had one of the best parks around, lots of trees and tall. Or tall to my eight or nine-year-old self. Picnic tables were spread out everywhere, swing sets, a big play structure. Sand pit and seesaws. It was a kid's dream. The man behind the trees was not. He was straight out of a kid's nightmare. Not that I knew many other kids. Friends weren't my specialty. I hopped off one of the swings, launching myself through the air until my feet hit the dark mulch. Real mulch. Not that rubber stuff that turns to hot tar in the summer

and stinks like a truck stop. Montchester wasn't having any. any of that. My shoes slid in the mulch, but I stayed upright, smiling at my dexterity. A year before, I would have landed on my face, but at eight or nine, balance was starting to kick in, standing there, almost about to lift my arms in triumph. I heard the laugh. It was a man's laugh, I know that. But it wasn't deep. It was high and tinkling, as if the owner of the laugh had a secret they wanted to tell, but, oh no, they could not tell it. No, they could not. It was that kind of laugh. Shivers ran down my spine, and any happiness over sticking the landing slipped away as fear and dread crept into my belly. I looked to my right and could see my

mother at the picnic table. Her book open, her nose stuck right in it. I looked to the left and saw the cops of large fir trees. I think they were fur. Huge things. Behind one was half a face. There was probably a full face somewhere beyond the tree, but I could only see half of it. The high-pitched laughing man, staring at me with one bloodshot eye, the corner of his mouth that was visible lifted the moment he noticed me watching him. His laugh grew louder. Then fingers, long and dirty, with nails that hadn't been trimmed in a very long time, slipped around the tree's trunk, almost like a spider crawling toward its prey. The hand connected to the fingers came into view, and I remember the skin being so pale,

translucent almost. I could see veins, thick and ropy, criss-crossing the back of that hand. Then a finger curled and beckoned me. The man behind the tree wanted me to come closer, standing there with a hot sun beating down on my head and shoulders, the smell of mulch, filling my nostrils. All I wanted to do was run screaming for my mother, but I couldn't. I stood there, transfixed by the beckoning finger. Then my left foot took a step, followed by my right foot, a second step, a third, a fourth, and I was out of the mulch and on to the freshly mowed grass, Oregon rye. The information sign at the park's entrance made sure everyone knew that Manchester used Oregon rye grass, thick, sun,

Soft, lusciously green. My feet slipped through the grass. I felt as if I was gliding toward the fir tree, toward the finger, toward the man. I still could only see half of his face, which I was thankful for. Even at eight or nine, I somehow knew that I didn't want to know

what the other half looked like. More steps getting faster. I was close, so close. Casey! My head jerked to the right, and I saw my mother standing by the picnic table. worry on her face. Her book was closed, and she had one hand on her hip. Where are you going? If you need to pee, use the restroom. Do not pee behind that tree. Behind that tree. I looked back

at the fur, and the man was gone. No half face, no beckoning finger, gone as if he'd never been there. I hadn't before, but I suddenly needed to pee then. I smiled at my mom, ran to the picnic table and then let her walk me over to the restrooms. What are you looking at? I was surprised by the question. I didn't know I was looking at anything, but as soon as she asked, I realized that my head had been on a swivel, and I was constantly scanning the park for signs of the weird laughing man. Nothing. For the rest of that summer, I kept scanning every park, every backyard, every line of trees, but he never showed again, not in Manchester. So when mom told me we were moving that fall, some job of hers, some reason that had nothing to do with me, a part of me was glad. I'd convinced

myself he belonged to that park, to those furs, that if I just left, I'd be leaving him behind too. I was eight, maybe nine. I didn't know any better. We ended up in Little Fork. It was okay, day, but it wasn't Manchester. The parks in Little Fork used that rubber mulch. Elementary school ended. Middle school started. And somewhere in there, something happened that had never happened to me before. I made a friend. Just one. But one was more than I'd ever managed in Manchester, where friends weren't my specialty. His name was Mickey Tinkston. We'd met in gym class. Both of us bored out of our skull. by the endless free throws Coach Peters made a shoot every single day.

We all knew we should be learning some other sport, but Coach Peters coached basketball. And that was the end of that. He was shorter than me, which wasn't a surprise. I sprouted up in sixth grade, getting close to five and a half feet by the time I turned 11. I'd be six two by sophomore year in high school. But that was a different town, a different school,

a different lack of friends. The park that Little Fork did have was subpar to say the least. One swing set, no seesaws. The sandpit was basically a toilet for the neighborhood cats, the town drunks, and the few homeless who tried to hide in the woods that skirted the park. No cops of tall fir trees. The park in Little Fork was surrounded by pine woods, scraggly, misshapen, pitch-dripping pines.

I stayed clear of the woods. Yet I always came home from the park with pine sap all over. my clothes and my backpack and my bike. Mom yelled, but I swore to her I was staying out of the woods, and I was, until I wasn't. It was a Saturday and early. Mom had come home late the night before, some date, some guy, one drink, too many, and by morning she was nursing coffee, like it was the only thing keeping her upright. After the third time I asked about breakfast, she crammed at 20 in my hand and told me to grab an egg and cheese biscuit. and go play at the park.

The diner was only two blocks away. The park, a block past that. I know what a hangover is now. I don't blame her one bit. When I got to the park with my egg and cheese biscuit, I rolled my bike up to one of the few picnic tables. This one covered in sharpy graffiti and carved initials. I sat my butt down and opened the white paper bag.

The smell of cheese and grease hit me hard, and I smiled down into the bag. Hey, loser, you got enough for two? I looked up, grinning. Mickey was riding his bike straight for me. Mickey hopped off his bike as it was still moving, letting it ditch itself in the definitely not Oregon rye grass that grew sporadically around the park.

I'm pretty sure it was made out of tinfoil and scratchy wool. The weeds were softer to step on and bare feet. Oh, seriously, man, you got extra? My mom was not in a good mood this morning. Neither was mine. I split the biscuit and handed him half as he sat down next to me. We ate in silence, munching away with our mouths open, no one to tell us to close them and prevent biscuit crumbs from falling down the

front of our shirts. What are you up to today? Want to go check out comics at the dungeon? I shook my head. Nah, I'm broke. Mom hasn't given me. Then I realized Mom gave me a 20, and the biscuit had only cost three bucks. I fished into my pocket and pulled out my change.

Mickey's face lit up. I'm sure mine did too for half a second. Because as I held up the cache, I looked past Mickey and saw half a face peering out from one of the pines. Dude, bet! He snatched the cash out of my hand, stood up, and started running away. All the comics are mine! He danced away, just playing,

obviously waiting for me to chase his ass down. But I couldn't move. My eyes were locked on the house. half-faced man behind the pine, then on the long, dirty fingers, the thin-skinned blue-veined hand. A finger curled. The half-faced man laughed. Mickey stopped running around, finally realizing that I wasn't going to chase him. He stood there and was ready to give me shit, his mouth open, starting to shout. Then it snapped closed as the laughter reached his ears. He looked over his shoulder. The bloodshot eye and the half-face switched from me to Mickey,

and the finger adjusted its aim. I wanted to scream. I wanted to get up and run and tackle Mickey into the patchy grass and piles of drifted pine needles. I wanted to grab our bikes and get the hell out of that lame park. I did none of that. I sat there and watched as Mickey cocked his head and slowly started walking toward the woods,

toward the finger, toward the half-faced man. The laughter got louder, faster, as Mickey drew closer to the pines. I stayed on my ass on the picnic bench, watching as if the scene was on television and not happening before my eyes. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight steps. Mickey was at the edge of the woods. Nine, ten, eleven, he was inside the shadows the pines provided. Twelve, thirteen.

He was only feet away from where the man behind the pine stood. That finger, still beckoning, beckoning, beckoning. The laughter grew. All I needed to do was open my mouth and shout Mickey's name like my mom had done in Manchester, breaking whatever spell the half-faced man had over me. I could do that for Mickey. I didn't do that either. I could almost taste the laughter at that point. It was thick with death and violence, like the stench of roadkill you drive by with your car window down. Fourteen, fifteen steps. And Mickey was gone. I saw the hand shoot out and grab him around the neck. Then the man

pulled him behind the pine tree. Gone, like that. My paralysis broke, and I lurched up from the picnic table. My legs rubbery but able to move. I shuffled, then jogged, then ran my ass off straight for the pines. Mickey? I reached the woods, burst into the cool shade, and slid to a stop at the pine tree I knew had hid half that laughing, beckoning man. There was no one there. I ran to the next tree and the next. I searched those woods for hours until I finally heard my mom shouting for me.

When I emerged from the pines, I was coated in dirt and pine needles, tears making deep tracks on my soiled cheeks. I told her everything. The police searched. The community searched. No Mickey. His mom blamed me. The police blamed me. The town of Little Fork decided that was good enough for them. So they all blamed me too. We moved to Churnan three months later. They never found Mickey. The rest of middle school passed by in a haze of anxiety and depression. I barely slept. images of that finger, that half face, filled my mind. Being in a new school didn't help. Zero friends.

No interest in riding my bike through the surprisingly affluent neighborhood my mom moved us into. I watched TV, I did my homework, I read a lot. I stared at my bedroom window at the line of birch and maple and oak trees that rimmed our big backyard. They were old trees, trees that had seen stuff over the decades. I would whisper to them that I'd seen stuff too. They never whispered back, thank God.

Of course, I was looking for signs of him, of the half-faced man, for signs of a finger with a cracked nail, thick dirt clinging under it, beckoning me to slide my window open and just climb out into the bed of flowers my mom had planted. But the man didn't show. Not that year, not the next. Middle school became high school,

High school became community college and still, nothing. No half face, no finger, no laugh. I should have felt relieved. Mostly, I felt like I was waiting. Like he was just letting the line play out before he reeled me back in. There wasn't enough money to go away for school, so I stayed close. Community college, living with mom, saving my cash for the day I'd need a place of my own. I walked to the bus stop every weekday morning, ready to get to class, to get my two years done so I could transfer away from churning and really get my life started. Three weeks away for my two-year associates of arts degree, and I was standing at the bus stop like always.

At first, I didn't hear the laughter. I had headphones on and was bopping to some tune, probably not a popular tune or a cool tune. I wasn't that guy. It was a song from whatever mix the latest algorithm had decided I would like. The girl next to me, high schooler, not a college kid, turned and frowned at the trees behind us, and I realized something was off. She cocked her head and took a step away from the bus stop. Lowering my headphones to my neck, I heard that laughter, a sound that was etched into my brain. I spun quickly and grabbed the girl's arm before I even saw the half-face peering out from behind. an oak. I didn't need to see it to know it was there. But as soon as I faced the oak,

that bloodshot eye switched its focus from the girl and onto me. There was a noise, like an animal trying to free itself from a trap, a high screeching. Then I felt the pounding of a fist on my arm. I looked down, and the girl was screaming at me, her free hand, trying to pull my fingers from her arm. I could see her skin turning purple from my grip as I dragged her toward the oak tree with me. Let me go, you freak! Let go now! Her words were real,

yet I felt like I was hearing them in a dream. I didn't let go. Instead, I gripped harder and continued to pull her to the oak, to the half face, to the finger curling over and over, wanting me to come closer. Come closer.

It'll all be okay. I won't hurt you. Not much. Maybe a little, maybe a lot. Maybe I'll even eat your... I was flung sideways, and my shoulder and face hit the... the edge of the concrete sidewalk, scraping off skin. The pain brought clarity, and as blood

seeped from my cheek, I looked up at a man in uniform. The bus driver. What in the hell do you think you're doing? I pushed up on my elbows and could see the bus idling at the stop. The high school girl sitting on the steps, a woman crouching behind her, consoling her as she sobbed and sobbed. The bus driver placed a foot of my chest and pushed me back down flat. He bent over and jammed a finger in my face. You ain't going nowhere until the police get here. He was true to his word and kept me pinned until a squad car pulled up in front of the bus, and the cops took over.

Folks were questioned. The girl was questioned. I was questioned. I didn't have much of a story, except to say that I was trying to stop her from getting closer to the man behind the tree. A man no one saw. The girl said she didn't see a man. She didn't even say she heard his laughter.

The bus riders had only caught part of it. All they saw was me dragging her toward the oak, while she slapped and shouted at me to stop. The bus driver confirmed that, and told the cops that he had to physically tackle me to get me to stop. I kept mentioning the half-faced man and his beckoning finger. The police glared at me, not believing a word. Then I made the mistake of mentioning what I saw in Manchester and Little Fork. And I made the bigger mistake of mentioning Mickey. The cop's glares grew narrower.

One of them went back to the squad car, while the other stood over me as I sat on the curb. My hands cuffed behind my back. When the cop returned, the two officers had a quick chat. I was informed I was being arrested for assault and attempted kidnapping. I argued, and they both told me to shut the hell up, which was weird. They read me my rights, so they should have been happy I was explaining myself. Later, I found out that they didn't want to prejudice the case, not the case of the height. school girl, Mickey's missing persons case. My lawyer tried his best to get me to shut up,

but I had to tell them. They had to know about the half-faced man. They needed to be warned. He was everywhere, following me from town to town. I know he wanted me most, but he'd take whoever was closest if he could. He wasn't picky. A catch was a catch. Three lawyers quit on me until the last one who stuck by me decided that the only way to win the case was to lose. He informed my mother in me that I should plead insanity. It was either go to the state hospital or go to prison. And if I were found responsible for Mickey going missing, there would be a whole lot of inmates in prison

who would want to meet me when I arrived. Meet me in dark corners with homemade shivs and pillowcases filled with bars of soap. My lawyer described what a broom handle could do to a person when inserted. I pleaded insanity and was evaluated by several doctors. Then the judge and district attorney signed off on the deal, and that was that. Off to the state hospital with me. And do you feel you made the correct choice, Casey?

My eyes are focused out the window of Dr. Lovechick's office. The hospital's lawn stretches on and on, then stops dead at a chain-link fence, a stand of fur trees only a few feet beyond it. Other inmates, with several handlers swirling around them, walk and dance and crows. cry and shout and skip on the lawn. I look past them all. My eyes are on the trees. Casey, did you hear me? I nod. Can you look at me, please? It takes all of my willpower to swivel my head away from the window and what beckons to me out there. Thank you. Now, answer my question, please. What question? Do you believe you made the

correct choice with your plea? Not much of a choice. Your love chick smiles at me and waits. I sigh. Yeah. I think so. Good. Acceptance is an important part of the process. I turned back to the window. A woman is naked and streaking across the lawn with two handlers chasing after her. Soon, more staff joined the case. Can we go for a walk? A walk? You want to go outside? I nod. You haven't expressed a desire for outside. outside time since you arrived. Quite the opposite, in fact. Can I? Well, yes, you may. Some fresh air may do you some good.

I'll join you, and we can continue our chat. I nod. I smile. I stand. I'm led from the doctor's office down several corridors and through many locked gates. When we reach the lawn, the naked woman has been caught. I grinned her as she's carried past me by the staff. Pink, foamy spit is dripping from her mouth, her body thrashing like an overtired toddlers. The doctor and his assistant walk me around the lawn. I hear the doctor's questions. I answer appropriately, all the while, slowly angling us toward the chain link fence and the furs. I know what you are doing, Casey. I understand where you are taking us. I stop and look at him. I see disbelief and no kindness.

He studies me like a curious bug he's just found. The staff behind us only look bored. Why did you stop? Are you done walking for the day? I shake my head and move even closer to the fence. My handlers move with me. When I'm at the fence, I slip my fingers through the links and stare into the furs. Hello?

Are you there? Okay, Casey. I think that is enough. Then the laughter begins. that high, silly laughter. The doctor freezes by my side. I only smile. Um, hello?

Hello? This is state property, and trespassers will be prosecuted. The laughter stops. Okay, we're done. Time to go back inside. Dylan, please radio security that we have a trespasser on the property.

I see the half-face peek out from behind one of the larger furs. The finger follows quickly. Dear God, Dylan! Dylan! Dylan's response is a pained grunt. Dr. Lovechick whips about and gasps. The half-faced man starts laughing again. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Dylan, down on the ground, being pummeled and kicked and bitten and scratched by a dozen inmates. I smile at them. They stop assaulting Dylan and smile back at me. Dr. Lovechick doesn't say a word. He just turns and runs along the chain-link fence as fast as he can, digging in his white coat pocket for his phone. own. Finished with Dylan, the other inmate stand and join me at the fence. I can hear shouting from the handlers who are just now realizing things aren't how they should be. We, my new friends and I, ignore their shouts and grasp the chain link, then start to climb. The razor wire on top snags a few, and their bodies hang from the top of the fence as they cry and plead to be set free so they can join me amongst the firs. Those who make it to the other side are bloodied and slashed,

but upright and still walking alongside me as I focus on that finger. A quarter of us make it to the half-faced man, the rest, having fallen due to blood loss. It happens. I brought friends. The half-faced man cackles with pleasure and slowly reveals himself. I was right. I didn't want to see the other half of his face. Neither do my new friends.

So we scream and scream and scream and scream and scream until he takes us away. I don't know where I am. where we are, but I am happy to see Mickey is here too. What's left of him. He tells me to find a tree of my own, and I do. We all do. Now I can peek out from behind a fir, or pine, or oak, with my own half-face, and make even more new friends. Finally, I am so tired. All I want to do is curl up in a corner and sleep for a year or two. I don't know the last time I set my head on a pillow or laid down in an actual bed. Other than falling asleep on my feet and fits and starts, I haven't had any actual

should I in... Um... In... Shit. I can't remember. Pretty damn sure it's beginning to erode my sanity a bit. A tiny bit. A little bitty-itty tiny bit.

Bit, bit. Hey, Bruce. You good man? Nelson, my supervisor, asks, suddenly at my elbow. I think you're talking to yourself again. crap am i i i can't tell so i laugh and shake my head which makes me slightly dizzy no no just humming a tune oh what tune i turn and stare at him blankly then say sweet caroline even though i'm not exactly sure how the song goes the neil diamond song that didn't sound like sweet caroline man i laugh and shake my head again

never said i was good at humming nelson smirks claps me on the shoulder Then turns and sees one of our other co-workers. Todd, you son of a gun. How's life treating you today? I get back to work. Work, work, work, work, work. Work, work, work, work, work. Whoa.

Calm yourself, Bruce. Take a breath. Get your shit together, buddy. There are still two hours in the shift before... I shudder at what happens in two hours. I need to think about something else. Anything else. Focus on work, Bruce.

Jesus H., buddy. You still have a job to do, and it's not like you get to do anything else, like ever. So suck it up, Buttercup, and do your damn job. Christ. Was that out loud, too? I glance around the workspace, a massive single floor that I think is subterranean. That's below ground, right? Right.

Yeah, subterranean. I haven't seen daylight in days. No, weeks. Months? I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know.

Work. None of my coworkers are paying me any attention. That could either mean that the thoughts that should only be in my head or staying in my head, or they are so used to me cracking up by now that they have learned to ignore my insanity. I wish I could ignore my insanity. Work! With all of my willpower, I focus on the monitor in front of me. Strings of numbers stream up and down vertically, never horizontally, like how we read normal stuff.

Now, these numbers are in columns. Columns that fill the screen. Up and down, up and down. Numbers, numbers, numbers. The wild thing is, I know what the numbers mean. I can read the columns and extract information from them, writing that info into text boxes in the bottom right-hand corner of the monitor. Decipher a column, write the answer in the text box,

hit send, and move on to the next column. I have to admit that I don't know why I am doing this. I don't know why any of us are doing this. All I know is that we are doing it, and we're underground. Did I already say the workspace is subterranean? I think I did. I did, I did. Nelson is talking to Sabrina over by the cluster of workstations closest to the vending machines.

Empty vending machines. I can't recall ever seeing anyone try to fill the machines. It's just empty rows of metal machines with useless letter and number combinations under them. The front graphic of happy, laughing people doing something something. fun in some fun place is so faded that if I hadn't been here as long as I have, I wouldn't even know they were happy, laughing people on it. How long have I been here? There are no clocks or calendars, so it's hard to know. I wonder what Nelson and Sabrina are talking about. They immediately glance over at me. Shit, was that thought out loud too? Sabrina waves and turns back

to Nelson. Nelson keeps his eyes on me longer, though. I wave back. even though Sabrina isn't paying attention. Nelson smirks. Places his hand on Sabrina's shoulder in a way that makes me irrationally angry, then finally breaks eye contact. I scan the rest of the workspace. Olivia is scratching that bowl on her chin that just keeps getting bigger. Todd, done schmoozing with Nelson, is typing furiously at his keyboard. I feel sorry for that text box. Iggy is picking his nose, no surprise there.

Mitchell is staring at Olivia. and and um shit what is her name the blonde one in the corner who never smiles something that begins with an a i think linda that's it and linda is watching me as intently as i am watching her she's new started not too long ago i laugh and know it's out loud so i quickly clamp a hand over my mouth which is weird so i drop my hand and my eyes to my keyboard and pretend to type i haven't cracked the next column, so my pretending has multiple uses. When I risk a glance again, Linda is still watching me. I smile, I think. A bell chimes, soft, low, like at some upper class, boogie, pretend Buddhist retreat in the Redwoods. Have I ever been to the Redwoods? What the hell are the Redwoods?

I should ask someone. No! I should not ask someone, not a good idea. I don't know why exactly. But it's not. Hey, I jump in. spin. Linda is standing right behind me. Oh, hey. Laura, right? Shit, no, not Laura. It's Linda. God, I'm so tired. I hold up a shaky hand. Nope, sorry. Wait, Linda, it's Linda. She smiles. It's a kind smile. Maybe filled with a hint of worry, but who can blame her? I sure as hell can't. Blame me for what? She asks. Damn it. For absolutely nothing. How are you, liking the job. She cocks her head like I just asked her how she likes being a space alien. Christ, we aren't aliens, are we? The job is good, a little repetitive but good. And you,

how do you like it? My mouth goes dry before I can answer. What even is this interaction? She gives me that kind, semi-wurried smile again. Um, someone said there are cupcakes in the break room. Want to go get one? Cupcakes? Yeah. Yeah, cupcakes. In the break room? She laughs. That's what I said. I fidget and squirm.

Um, what kind of cupcakes? Does it matter? I freeze up on the question. Does it matter? What flavor of cupcakes do I like? What flavor do I not like? These are important questions. I have to have answers.

Linda takes a step back for me. The smile gone and nothing but worry on her face. And I realize why. As I look and see that my arms, are thrust up into the air in some sort of triumphant celebration. I slowly lower my arms. You bet. Let's go get cupcakes. The rest of my coworkers are already in the break room space, which is actually just a partitioned off corner of the open floor. The walls that they have used to make the partition are movable. A word comes to mind. Cubby, cubicle? Something like that.

Here you go, Bruce. Nelson says with so much cheer that I worry the world will run out, because he's hogging it all. He hands me a cupcake, white frosting, yellow cake, sprinkles. Thanks, I say, taking the cupcake and giving it a deep sniff. Nelson raises an eyebrow, chuckles, and hands one to Linda. And for our newest worker, I hope you like vanilla. Who doesn't like vanilla?

Linda replies, accepting the cupcake before taking a huge bite out of it. Waxy paper hangs from the corner of her mouth. I don't think you're supposed to eat the paper, but what do I know? I double check, and yes, it looks like everyone is eating the paper except for me. Not a fan of vanilla? Nelson asks me. No, I love vanilla, I reply, not knowing if I do or not. I take a bite, paper and all.

Mmm, yummy. We finish our cupcakes in silence. Well, except for the lip smacking and wet mouth noises, plus the occasional cough, hack, and quick backslap as someone starts to choke on their paper. Nelson claps his hands. All right, folks, back to work. No one complains. We swallow what cupcake is left in our mouths

and all head to our respective workstations. Except for Linda. She follows me to my workstation. May I ask you a question? A nod. Yeah, of course. I know I'm new, and there's a lot to learn. But how much of this do you actually comprehend?

She's pointing at the columns of numbers on my monitor, but she might as well be pointing to the entire workspace. Oh, well, we really aren't supposed to understand any of it. Simply recognizing the pattern and typing the answer into the text box is enough. But shouldn't we understand what we are seeing before we type the answer? How do we know that the answer is correct? I don't have an answer for her, but I can't tell her that. So I say, um, well, we just do. She's not satisfied with my response.

I can see it in her eyes. I should get back to work, I say and turn to my monitor. Maybe we can shout on the next break. Another bell chimes, letting us all know that the break is officially over. I glance behind me, but Linda is already gone, halfway to her workstation. I think there's an hour left before the columns. They are what I need to pay attention to, except that Linda's question is bouncing around in my head, now like a Superball on meth. How do we know that the answer is correct? It's a good question.

I may have thought it once or twice myself, but I'm not sure. No surprise there. My eyes, zero in on the next column I need to work on. And after a few seconds, I see the pattern. It's there, right there. Repeating over and over as the number scroll down, down, down. I type my answer into the text box. The zebra sees me in the brush. My hunt is over. Makes sense. It's the obvious answer. I'm not sure where Linda's confusion is coming from. Time for the next column. I conquer that.

And the next column, and the next, and the next. I'm filling text box after text box with beautiful, brilliant answers. Every time I hit the energy, I feel a little more alive. I am doing a great job here. I am killing it. You sure are, Bruce, Nelson says, hooking the crook of his elbow around my neck and pulling me in close to him. But how about you keep that to yourself?

Or, and I'm willing to compromise here, you say it just a smidge quieter. Inside voice, Bruce, inside voice. I don't need to look around to know that all eyes are on us right now. Right. Sorry. I get excited. As you should, Bruce, as you should. But, you know, that excitement can get a little distracting to the others. Not everyone is a pattern rock star like you, Bruce. Some of the others need a little more silence to concentrate.

Quiet, yes, got it. No problem, quiet. He lets my neck go and grabs both of my shoulders, turning me so we are face to face. How are you, Bruce? Really? You seem like you're coming apart at the seams. I'd hate for that to happen, Rockstar. Can't afford to lose you.

He lets go of one of my shoulders and twirls a finger around his ear. You know what I mean. I have no idea what to do. means. Is he saying I'm going crazy? Or is he saying I've already gone crazy? What if he's the crazy one and I'm perfectly sane? Maybe all my coworkers are bat-shit-nutso. Maybe this is all some delusion. I could be living in my head right now, while my body is in a straight jacket in some rubber room somewhere. That's a thing, right? Straight jackets and rubber rooms? Seems like a thing. Feels like a thing. But is it my thing? Nelson snaps his fingers in my face. Earth de Bruce.

You still there, man? Loud and clear, sir. I shout and salute. If everyone wasn't staring at me before, they are now. Nelson returns the salute. That's the spirit, Bruce. Then he walks off humming sweet Caroline. I think.

The columns. Gotta get back to the columns. I answer six in a row. My mind moving at a speed that I didn't think possible. Kind of helps that reality isn't getting in the way. Text box after text box is filled and see. set packing. The Nobel chimes. Not once, but twice, three times, all the way up to a 12th time. Midnight. My insides go cold, and all I want to do is drop to the floor and curl up into a ball

under my standing desk. I don't know if I can go through another midnight. It takes so much out of me that I know I'll... The screaming starts, and I clamp my hands to my head, parroting what every single one of my coworkers is doing. Hands clamped to the sides of their heads. Mouths wide open, screams unleashed. The looks on their faces. Jesus. Todd and Sabrina have tears screaming down their cheeks. Olivia is tilting her head back, looking straight up at the ceiling, which seems to go on forever and ever and ever, which makes me wonder if there actually is a ceiling for her to look up at. Iggy has one hand, pressed to his left ear, and the other hand, jamming a finger up his nose. No surprise there. Mitchell is spinning in circles, moving faster and faster and faster.

He's going to hurt himself if he doesn't watch out. Linda is staring directly at me. She has her hands to her head, and she's screaming too. But then so am I. And I am faking it. I always fake it. Every goddamn night at midnight, my coworkers do this hands-to-head screaming thing for five minutes straight. Every damn night. I don't. Or not like them. It's not a compulsion for me. Sure, the stress release of a good five-minute scream cannot be overstated. But I'm still me. They aren't.

They are locked in their heads. Or maybe they are finally free of being locked in their heads. Which would explain the screaming. Doesn't really matter. The few times I haven't parroted the behavior and gone to try to talk to some of them. It was like talking to a brick wall, a screaming brick wall, but still a brick wall. Linda is still staring straight at me. So I inject a little mucus into my screams, hoping the natural effect will add some realism to my charade.

Where's Nelson? I never seen Nelson around here during screaming time. Maybe he prefers privacy for his freakouts. I bet he's in the breakroom area, mashing cupcakes into his ears or something. Two minutes to go. I've gotten good at timing the screams. I can barely think a coherent thought inside my head. But I do know how long my screaming is supposed to last.

It's just past the point of a painfully scratchy itch in my throat and the eventual tearing of a vocal cord. Linda is still staring at me. What is her problem? One minute. Here comes that scratchy itch. We all scream and scream and scream and a bell chimes and we stop. Well, everyone else stops.

I always miss the moment by half a beat. No one has ever noticed that I know of. Linda lowers her hands, and I see her eyes narrow and her shoulders straighten. which is different than everyone else's response to the end of scream time. Todd and Sabrina and the rest have their eyes closed while their bodies shake uncontrollably. They just stand and shake. I try to give myself a little jiggle, but I haven't mastered the shaking. Hands to head and screaming I have down.

The semi-seizure is a tough one. Linda cocks her head. She isn't shaking either. I try to fake it, but it's exhausting, and I just don't have that kind of coordination. I lose my balance and fall back against my standing desk, almost bumping my keyboard to the floor. I catch myself, straighten up, do a sad shimmy, then just deflate, and wait for everyone to go still. Linda isn't looking away. I am locked in her sights. Then, abruptly as always, my co-workers freeze in place.

All take a deep breath at the exact same time. Let it out slowly, then blink in happy surprise, like waking up at work. is totally normal and not terrifying at all. They all wave to each other, calling out greetings, as if it's nine in the morning, and they have all just arrived at the office. People walk away from their desks, engage in some small talk about their weekends or their hobbies, or the little trip they took to Havana, Cuba, which I don't think anyone can actually travel to because it doesn't exist. Not that it matters, since I know for a damn fact not a single one of them has left this workspace in days, weeks, months.

Dear God, has it been years? Someone calls my name, and I wave and make a joke about the big game. They laugh. I don't know what a big game is, but it sure makes people happy. The whole place has reset, as if we weren't just standing here, working on our columns only a few minutes ago. God, that must be nice. It's not sleep, but it looks like a sort of rest.

I could use a sort of rest. I could use any type of rest. Linda is walking toward me. That kindness in her smile is gone. Actually, the whole smile is gone, if I'm being honest. There's a grim determination on her face as she weaves through the so happy to be here gaggle of workers milling around the room. Oh crap, what does she want?

What do I say? Am I caught? But caught doing what exactly? It's not like I'm being myself on purpose. I'd freaking love a reset. Please, reset me now! She's 30 feet away. 20, 10. Then Nelson swoops in and takes her by the elbow, his classic power move, and steers her away from me.

He's guiding her into the breakroom space, of course, and I lose sight of them as they slip behind those movable walls. I decide I've had enough of being in the dark and leave my desk, nodding hello to folks as I work my way nonchalantly toward the breakroom space. I don't enter it when I get there. Instead, I just stand on one side of the thin, useless wall, acting like I'm... Okay, I don't know how to act.

So I just stand here and listen, and hope no one blows my cover. He's kept it together for 13 months straight. I think it's time to cut him loose. That's Nelson. No. Have you seen his numbers? Linda says. The longer he stays himself.

He is not himself. None of them are. You know what I mean. As long as he skips the resets, his productivity goes through the roof. He doesn't even know what he's doing, yet his accuracy is incredible. He is going to crack. Nelson chuckles. Hell, he already has cracked.

You remember what happened to Carlos, right? Linda makes some dismissive shushing noise. Carlos wasn't cut out for this kind of work. He should never have been placed in the program. Subconscious productivity is the next wave, Nelson. I know it is, and I've let the board know my feelings on the matter. It's too soon. You shouldn't have done that.

Thirteen months isn't too soon. And I've been down here watching him with my own eyes. Is he losing his grasp on any semblance of reality? Sure he is. No denying that. But they all crack at some point. Why not have them hit new heights before we have to purge them? Burn and turn, Nelson.

Burn and turn. I don't think I like what I'm hearing. There's a sick feeling in my belly, and I need to pee. I rush away from the breakroom space wall and hurry to the freestanding toilet space. Porta John is printed on the side, but, just like the vending machines, the letters are deeply faded. I grabbed the plastic handle, yank open the door, and slip inside to the dank aroma of blue chemical water and yesterday's nachos. Sitting, I wait for my insides to relax, which they do eventually. I take some deep breaths, choke on the stench, cough a few times, then get up and wash my hands.

I have to pump the water with my foot, which means I am barely washing off the foam soap. There's plumbing in the breakroom space, so why not a real toilet and hand-washing sink? This can't be OSHA approved. But, again, to be honest, I'm not exactly sure what OSHA is, so maybe I'm wrong. I step out of the portage on and nearly run into Nelson and Linda. Hi, Bruce, Nelson says. Um, hi? Everything all right?

Yep, just making room for more cupcakes. Oh, crap. I shouldn't have said that. Cupcakes were from the last shift. I shouldn't know about the cupcakes. Nelson and Linda share a look. Um, may I? Linda asks.

May you what? She nods at the portage on. Oh, right. Yeah, of course. Excuse me. I move. She slips past me and into the toilet. Nelson just smiles at me.

I'll walk you back to your desk. Thanks. He grabs my elbow and literally walks me back to my desk. You know, Bruce, we are very pleased with what you were accomplishing here. Great. Thanks. You are doing amazing work. And we all hope that you can continue to do so. Me too.

This conversation is going well. So, if you feel like things aren't exactly, clear in your mind, you'll tell me, right? You know I will. Do I know that, Bruce? Do I? Uh-oh, the conversation is not going well now. I gulp, glance about at my coworkers who are all back at their desks,

then try to put a big smile on my face. I hold a thumb up. I'm a team player, Nelson. Always ready to give my all. He studies me for a bit. The nods, smirks, and slaps my shoulder. Great. Good to hear it, Bruce.

Awesome. I add a second thumb to the gesture. No one can resist a two thumbs up. And don't you worry, subconscious productivity is the next wave, and I am fully on board. Nailed it. Nelson's face falls. All of his Nelsonness disappears, and what stands before me is an angry, angry man. God damn it!

He shouts, throwing his arms in the air. How do you know that phrase? Were you eavesdropping? The door to the toilet slams with a plastic crack, and Linda yells from the corner. What is happening, Nelson? He's aware. He was listening to us talk. I told you I had this under control, and that your presence might put a wrench in things. I told you that.

No one is working now. They all stare at the spectacle that has become my existence. Linda storms over to us, pulling out something from her pocket. It looks familiar. It's called a fun. No, it's a fawn. No, no. A phone!

I shout and clap as Linda reaches us. That's a phone! The word trickles through the room. My co-workers saying it under their breaths. Linda rolls her eyes, the phone to her mouth. Yeah, we're going to need a full purge. Sub-level 6-4-5 is compromised. She hangs up and glars at Nelson.

This is your fault. My fault? You can kiss my ass. They argue and bicker as they walk over to the wall, where a door slides open for them. Huh, I didn't know that was there. We watched them leave, then look to each other. Now what? Todd asks. I'm about to say that I don't know, but somewhere above us, sprinklers turn on, and we're drenched in what I believe is gasoline.

I don't quite know what gasoline is exactly, but I do know that being drenched in it is not good. Hey, what does this do? Iggy asks, holding up a small plastic something. He moves his thumb, and there's a little. a spark. Oh dear. I wake up behind the wheel with the car going well over 90 miles per hour. Watch out! I swerved to the left, just avoiding slamming into the tailgate of a minivan. As we speed past the startled family, small faces press against the glass, watching us with wide, terrified eyes. I zip back to the right, slipping between a pickup truck and a

station wagon from another age. I'm slightly surprised to see that thing is even roadworthy. There, there! risking a glance at the passenger. I see him pointing at a gap between a long-haul truck and a school bus. Get between them! We may be able to hide! I want to ask him what we're hiding from, as well as how I woke up driving a car without any memory of it, and who the hell either of us are, because I don't have the answers to any of those questions. Not a single one.

But I do, apparently, have a skill for driving, because I downshift into a lower gear and yank the wheel, sliding our car right between the back of the trailer and the front of the school bus. Then it hits me. School buses have governors on them. How was the one behind us going over 70? The passenger looks over his shoulder at the school bus. Then he shakes his head and stares forward once more. Great question.

But like the rest of this crap, I don't have a goddamn clue. I doubt anyone does. What does that mean? The passenger gives me a funny look. Then he shrugs and lifts his arms in a look around and see for yourself kind of gesture. So I do. We're on an interstate highway. I assume that it's an interstate highway, considering that it's four lanes and fairly well maintained. I catch sight of a sign with gas, food, and lodging listings. Frowning, I try to make out the strange names on the sign.

Hotel One? Never heard of it. And what the hell is Mcgonnell's Burger Land? I don't know, man. That's what I've been saying for the past two days. None of this is right. Two days? I don't dare tell him that I just woke up here a few minutes ago. I've never seen this guy before in my life, so I have no idea if he's the reason I'm in this shit, or if he's as trapped as I am. We should pull off and see. Don't you even dare! I mean it! I'll cold clock you and shove you out that door if you even think of taking an exit. We have to get gas sometime, right? He frowns and studies me. I'm not liking the look in his eyes, so I pay attention to the trailer in front of me. Golden Enterprises. Provellers of fine foods.

and minerals. What? Prevayers are fine foods and minerals? What does that even mean? The passenger chuckles. Then he shakes his head and leans back in his seat. They had to switch drivers on me again. Great. Just great. We are so dead. Why are we dead? What do you mean they switched drivers on you again? Who did? What drivers? What is going on? He turns away from me and stares out the window as fields of what might be corn fly past. I need answers. But I let him think. I have my hands full anyway. Shit!

The trailer's brake lights flare red, and I have to yank the wheel to the left to avoid slamming into it. I floor it, shift into a higher gear, and pass the long-haul trucker. Behind us, there's a massive crunch of metal and glass. Then the school bus is flipping over-ass tea kettle after slamming into the back of the trailer. Holy shit! Yeah, that happens. A lot.

I think they do it on purpose to keep people like us from getting comfortable. people like us. Just drive, man, just drive. Man, you have to know something. No, I don't. Just drive, man. You seem to know how way better than two guys ago. He couldn't even drive stick, so I had to snap his neck.

Now you arrive, and it's all good in the hood. Keep that pedal pressed to the floor, your hand on the gear shift, your eyes on the road, and maybe we make it. Make it where? He laughs. Hell, if I know, man. I have a ton more questions. but I'm not getting any answers from this guy anytime soon, so I'll have to figure it all out for myself. Looking about, I see a compact car with a bunch of teenagers inside. Half of them are crying,

while the other half are arguing, even the driver. A young girl sees me looking and starts banging on her window. I can't hear her, but I know she's screaming for help. Right there with you, sweetie. We zip, pass them, and come to a minivan, which seems to be the dominant vehicle on the highway, where a woman is smiling out of her window, a trail of blood dripping down from her scalp. She's the passenger, but I don't see a driver. I do see a lot of blood smeared all over the rest of the windows, though. When she waves and only has two fingers on her hand, I stare straight ahead. Yeah, man, it's a lot to take in. This can't be real, the passenger shrugs. Then he stiffens and straightens up. Okay, watch those two trucks up ahead. The two semis? Yeah, I don't like how

they're matching each other's speed, even though they're in different lanes. There are two lanes between them. I can get by without a problem. Don't get cocky. No one survives cocky. Having no argument against that, I just nod and keep my eye on the two semis, each pulling a trailer with that same Gerdon Enterprise's logo on the back. We're about four car lengths behind the two trucks. When we get to two car lengths, a Volkswagen Beetle makes a move. Okay, watch this. I've seen exactly the same situation before. Jesus, how long has this guy been riding in this car? About to ask him that exact question, I close my mouth as the beetle gets directly between

the two trucks. It's got plenty of space and has to be going almost 100 miles per hour. But that's not enough. In the blink of an eye, the two trucks come together. They're trailers obliterating the beetle. Squash like a bug! He laughs and laughs. Get it?

A bug? Now is not the time to acknowledge the pun. or the bad taste it was told with. I have a minivan problem, or we have a minivan problem, since the two of us seem to be in this mess together. My eyes are on my side mirror, and the car that is quickly gaining on us. Should minivans have blades embedded in their doors?

Because this one does? The passenger whips his head around, no longer laughing at his own joke. He stretches his neck for a better look. Okay, this is new. It's just been regular vehicles until now. Nothing tricked out or weaponized. He shifts his gaze to me.

Who are you? What'd you come from? How come you can drive so well? My turn to laugh and shake my head. I have no idea. I don't know my name. I don't know my age. I don't know where I was born or my parents' names.

Or even if I have parents. The passenger nods and turns away from me. Back to studying the minivan again. It's considerably closer. Maybe three car lengths back and gaining fast. You have to be someone because the game has changed. This doesn't feel like a game. No, no, it doesn't.

The minivan is one car length back, stuck behind a weird-looking car that I think only has three seats. The thing looks like it would be more at home in the bustling traffic of a Southeast Asian country. Not out here on what I have to assume is a North American interstate. Maybe we're in Canada? That would explain the weird road signs and all these Gerdin Enterprise's trucks.

Probably some Tim Horton's thing I'm just not aware of. The three-seater starts to pull ahead of. of us, which is fine by me. Because despite my passenger's anxiety and agitation, I'm not quite sure whether we are in a race or not. When they get ahead, and my passenger doesn't protest, I assume that maybe we aren't in a race. Maybe... Then the bladed minivan pulls alongside us. I turn to look. Eyes straight ahead. My head snaps back, and I study the road for the threat. But there isn't one. It's all open road in our lane for a good quarter mile. What? What's wrong? Yeah, I see what's going on now, and we don't want nothing to do with that van.

Just keep your eyes forward until it passes. I do as suggested, only deviating slightly as I check all the mirrors for more signs of trouble. The midi-man keeps going, gaining on the three-seater. As soon as it is ahead of us, I'm able to study it somewhat. It looks like all of the windows are tinted almost black. That can't be safe for visibility. I know that tinting is supposed to be one way, but that dark is just asking for trouble. Then I gasp as two glowing eyes appear in the rear window.

I was wrong. Way wrong. The minivan doesn't have tinted windows at all. It's just filled with complete and total darkness. Except for those two eyes. The passenger is mumbling. Come on, come on, keep driving. Move along, assholes, move along.

The bladed minivan does move along. Right up onto the three-seater's ass. Then it swerves right, jukes back left, swerves right again, and squeezes up next to the three-seater. The blade that I thought was stationed in, begins to rotate like a saw, and in seconds, the three-seater and the people inside are shredded to nothing but strips of metal, strips of skin, and hunks of flesh and bone. We whized past. The mess only adds to the serenality of their situation. A sign for fresh chicken fingers, with the symbol

of a human hand being dipped into a friar, appears on the side of the road. Don't ask. Better not to know. How long have you been in this car? How many drivers have you had? Don't know and don't know. I've been here forever. least it feels like it. And I only know of two drivers before you, but there could have been more, and I just didn't notice. He swallows and takes a breath. I didn't handle waking up in this seat very well. Faceline catatonic, I believe is the term. Are you a doctor? Maybe you know that, because you are a doctor. Maybe. He doesn't continue, and I don't push. The bladed minivan is now way ahead of us, which isn't a bad thing, except it keeps taking out other cars,

creating all sorts of debris and obstacles that I have to navigate past. A hatchpack doesn't do so well trying to avoid the left half of a bumper that is spinning, spinning, spinning, spinning in the middle of the third lane. I wouldn't fault the driver of the hatchback, though. They're boxed in by two very large diesel pickup trucks with flags from a country I do not recognize. I squint to read them. Republic of Shittistan? Oh, right.

Idiots attempting humor. It's not funny for the hatchback, though, as it has nowhere. to go and is forced to slam into the spinning bumper at full speed. I get us two lanes away, nearly clipping the back of some ridiculous sports car, before putting a work truck between us and the hatchback. The unfortunate vehicle explodes up off the ground for a second, then slams back down in a hail of flame and shredded fiberglass or whatever cars are made of these days. Good job. Thanks. Somewhere ahead, shit goes wrong for someone as a massive fireball lifts into the air.

You don't have to say it. I'm paying attention. The passenger nods. We get parallel with the fireball, and the heat nearly sucks the air out of our car. Whatever blew up was big and filled with fuel. We speed past, and I can see the charred husks of several cars in my rearview mirror. Even one of those Gurdon Enterprise's trailers took a hit. We keep going. There's nothing else we can do.

Until I hear a ding. What was that? He leans over, trying to study the dashboard lights. I politely take a hand off the wheel and shove him back. Hard to see with your head in the way. He moves back some, but doesn't fully sit back in his seat. Yeah, but what was that? There was a ding or something, right? You heard that, right?

He's getting agitated, but also sort of excited at the same time. All worked up, as my grandma would say. Holy shit, that was a memory. I remembered... The ding sounds again, and this time I see the fuel pump symbol on the dash light up. We need gas. We do? Oh, thank... Um...

Thanks someone. I have questions, but I keep them to myself until I see a sign for gas, food, and lodging come up on our right. The passenger points, gesturing madly at the sign. Take the exit! Take the exit! I thought we weren't supposed to take exits. I never said that. We just couldn't take that exit back there. This one we can!

I have more questions, and I work on how to present them as I ease us ahead of a work fan with a full wrap decal for some wireless company I've never heard of. Nothing stops us from taking the exit, which I'm sort of surprised. When we get to the bottom of the off-ramp, it's an easy choice for which station we're going to fill up at. There's only one, and it sits alone with a massive sign above it that says, gas, grass, or ass, your choice. What in the? Just pull up to a pump. I'll fill the tank. He leans in close, his eyes mad.

Don't get out of the car, no matter what you see. Maybe I have to pee. I say it only to lighten the mood, but the passenger doesn't crack a smile. I mean it. If you screw this up for me, there will be no place in hell where you can hide. Pulling the car into the station, I find an open pump and stop next to it. Around us are several compact cars of various makes and models. A few smaller pickup trucks and those two asshole diesels with the Shiddistan flags hanging limp from their beds. Stay. I'm not kidding. I hold up my hands and surrender and watch him get out of the car and hurry around to the pump.

My first thought is how is he going to pay? But he's able to grab the nozzle, shove it into the gas tank, and start fueling without sliding in a credit card or going inside. Not that anyone would want to go inside, because my second thought is, what the shit is that thing watching us from the convenience store window? It's not human, that's for sure. Red glowing eyes like in that one minivan.

And are those horns? Even if I actually did have to be, I'm not going in there. Neither is anyone else. All the passengers are busy filling the tanks while all the drivers stay in their seats. And except for me, no one is even looking at the store. I follow their lead and turn away from the abominable sight. There's a clang and a thug. Then the passenger is racing back to his side of the car, yanking the door open and basically throwing himself into his seat.

Go, go, go! We have to beat those trucks! What trucks? The asshole diesels? Yeah, go! I don't argue because I'd rather not hang out close to those dogs. sticks any longer than I have to anyway. The car's engine roars to life, and I whip us out of the station, spinning us 180 and back toward the interstate. The passenger has his head locked onto our rear window. I take the on-ramp just as the passenger shouts. Shit, they're on us. Go, go, go! I am going. Gravity is still in effect, so maybe chill the hell out. I'm ignored as the passenger mumbles something

to himself about being so close. There are so many questions in my head piling up on more questions that have already forgotten half of them. Then we're back on the interstate. And all questions go out of my head as we're nearly sideswiped by a damn Prius. Or something like a Prius. It's small, and it has a very prominent lightning bolt on the back of it. Just above a bumper sticker that reads,

Don't be shocked by my superiority. Get an EV of your own dickhead. There! Get up there! He's pointing ahead. That's about all the direction I get. Where? The minivan! Now I see where he's pointing.

And I shake my head as I laugh. The one with the goddamn sawblades? No thank you. The passenger whips his head around, growls something low, then whips it back. You it or the trucks will take us out. I see them in the rear view. They are almost right on us, and not letting anything get in their way from the look of the road carnage behind them. Why are they after us?

Not us. Me. You? Why you? Because I'm going to make it this time. He reaches over, and class. my shoulder in a surprisingly tender gesture. And you're going to get me there.

What? Where? There's no time for him to answer as we are bumped in the back by one of the diesels, nearly making me lose control. But screw that! I'm not letting some Shittistan flag-flying Yahoo's take me out. My foot presses the gas pedal all the way to the floor,

and the car lurches ahead, giving our ass a little breathing room between it and the diesels. I angle the car and take my shot, cutting off an old British roadster as I hurry to catch up with the bladed minivan. The roadster honks at me, which just makes me laugh.

It's a tiny bleep and a big nightmare. Then it's a tiny smear on a big interstate as one of the diesels just runs right over it. Doesn't slow down, doesn't swerve, just climbs it like a horny dog mounting its mate. I lose sight of the roadster as it is crushed under the truck. I really wish my foot could press down more, but we've reached the limit of this car's speed.

At least I'm only a car length away from the bladed minors. minivan in gaining. Something explodes behind us. I don't even bother to look this time. What's behind us is behind us. My only focus is the minivan. Get up alongside it. Are you nuts? You saw what those blades do? Yeah. And they are going to save us. Trust me. I don't even know you. He doesn't reply. But I do as he says and get our car even with the right side of the minivan. Out of the corner of my eye, I see red eyes looking over at me. And I force myself to stare straight ahead. Okay, hold Hold it until I say, hold what? Say what? Our position, and you'll know when I say it. Motion gets my attention, and a quick glance tells me the blades on the side of the minivan are now spinning.

I think I hear a laugh over all of the noise, but I can't tell. Maybe I'm laughing to myself. Maybe it's in my head. Then the minivan swerves at us, and I match the swerve, keeping the blades from tearing us apart. A fast look tells me that the red eyes are laughing at me. It's the wide open, flame-spewing mouth against the passenger's window that gives it away. Now, break now! I slam on the brakes, and the two diesels fly past us on each side. It looks like they were going to try to make a move, but my passenger beat them to it. I immediately press on the gas, keeping us from being rear-ended by the never-ending traffic behind us. A horrid grinding noise fills the air as the trucks suddenly find themselves as the bread in a bladed minivan sandwich.

Metal hits metal and sparks fill my view. I can't see shit. So I drive by feel, keeping the wheel straight, my eyes forward. and my foot down on the accelerator. We blow through smoke and sparks and flying chunks of metal. Something embeds itself in the car's hood, but doesn't look like it's gone in enough to damage the engine. Holy crap, we did it!

We got this! We are going to make it! I don't even bother to ask. Then I see it. An impossible sight, which is saying something considering the day I'm having. A finish line, an actual, honest-to-god finish line, like you see on a NASCAR or F-1 track.

A huge black and white checkerboard banner held aloft by two, um, flaming columns, which is different and terrifying, but still better to see than an infinite interstate. My passenger is shouting at me, yelling orders and encouragement while also cursing everyone and everything in existence. I ignore him and focus on the finish line. I tell myself that all I have to do is get across that line, and it'll all come back to me, who I am, why I'm driving this damn car, what all this crazy shit is about. I'll have answers to my billions of questions.

Then a minivan with blades on the side is suddenly in front of us. No! No, no, no! I was so close! It ain't over yet! I lean against the steering wheel as I aim directly for the bladed minivan's back bumper. Red eyes stare at me from the rear window. I ease one hand off the wheel and flip those eyes off, just as I move the wheel a hair. Enough for me to miss all but the very last inch of the minivan's bumper, which I hit at full speed, sending it into a wild spin.

while we blow past and get across the line. Yes! The car slows, then stops, pulling itself to the side of the road without me doing a thing. The passenger grabs me, hugs me, smiles at me, then jumps out of the car and throws his arms in the air. I'm about to ask what he did when I see the big sign. Congratulations on escaping hell. We're happy for you. Really? See you soon. Man, I can't thank you enough. I'm sorry.

I'm so sorry I lied, and I didn't know anything. Hopefully, when you wake up, you'll be the passenger this time. You sure deserve it. I'm about to ask what he's talking about, but I'm suddenly behind the wheel of a pickup truck with a woman in the passenger seat screaming at me. What is this? How did I get here?

Who am I? I don't know, but I'll figure it out as I drive. Man, I hope she stops screaming soon, or this is going to be a long drive. Wherever it is, we're going. Vacay with Friends The screaming didn't even phase me. I grew up as the only boy with four older sisters.

A woman screaming at the top of her lungs wasn't unusual. It was just like any other Thursday in my house growing up. But we're not in my house. We're in a rental cabin, a hundred miles from civilization. Oh! Alicia screeches. Her eyes bulging from her face.

Her hands like claws, all tents and bunched and gnarled and held next to her head. shaking and flexing and... Yeah, I can see that. It's pretty obvious that they are definitely dead. Or I assume it's a they more than one person. Not like there's any identifiable parts. It's really just a mess of different shades of red and different physical forms.

Liquid, chunks, strips, strings, bits, pieces, and more liquid. So much more liquid. Most of it is on Alicia. The rest is all over the room. is all over the room. Pretty much anything that was in here about 30 seconds ago is covered in gore. What the hell is going on?

Artie shouts, bursting into the room. He makes it approximately 0.5 seconds before he races out, sprinting down the hall to the bathroom. It sounds like he makes it in time. Doree, what's that screaming? Nicole shouts from the kitchen. Jesus Christ, what is happening back there? Can y'all keep it the hell down?

This is supposed to be a relaxing weekend, damn it. Yeah, I'm not surprised that Nicole isn't getting off her ass to come see for herself. She and that bar stool at the kitchen island in the cabin's main room have been best friends since we arrived this morning. I only hope she makes it to the bathroom when her bladder finally protests. I cannot afford to lose the damage deposit on this place if she pees herself on that stool. Not that the current situation in this room is much better. It's a safe bet.

I'll never get my deposit back after all of this. Yeah, I probably don't have to worry about Nicole peeing on a barstool, considering... I hear Ardy come out of the hallway bathroom. I take a step out of this nightmare room and into the hallway, glancing at him. He is green to the gills, but taking deep breaths and seems to have it all under control. We should call someone, he says. Then his eyes go wide, and he races into the bathroom again. In the bloody mess of a room, Alicia suddenly stopped screaming.

It's like someone pressed a mute button. I can see her mouth moving and can even see her throat flexing, but there's no sound coming out. Oh, thank God! Nicole shouts from the kitchen. I thought that never stopped. Dreek? What is going on? Jeff asks, leaving Nicole's side and stomping down the hallway to me. Did Alicia see a mouse or something?

We're in the woods, so she better get used to Mark and Helen exploded. I say when he reaches me. I point at the room and they're still silently freaking out Alicia. You see all that? Yeah, I assume that's them. It's a pretty safe assumption. Jeff starts to laugh, obviously thinking I'm playing some joke. He must see the dead seriousness on my face because he chokes his chuckle off instantly,

then turns and blinks at the scene over and over. Then he finally laughs, shakes his head, and punches me in the shoulder. Nice try, T. You really went above and beyond with this shit. What is it all? Pig guts? Chicken blood? I mean, it smells like real animal, that's for sure. Man, you are crazy to pull something like this. I hope the joke is worth the cleanup. I say nothing. I only point at something sitting in the goop in the middle of the room. What? Jeff asks, staring at the thing I'm pointing at. Is that an eyeball? Yeah, I say.

Marks. Jeff snorts and punches me in the shoulder a second time. Dude, that thing looks so... Alicia finds her voice again. I slap my hands over my ears as she turns and walks out of the room. She doesn't run. She doesn't sprint. She just casually walks out of the room, down the hall and out the front door,

screaming the whole way. My eyes stare at the gory footprints she leaves behind. Her screams are muted as she heads around the house. I can sort of hear her through the cabin's walls. T, that's a human jawbone, man, Jeff says, starting to look confused. And is that? He leans into the room but doesn't step inside. Is that Helen's engagement ring on that finger?

How did you get her to let you use her rock like this? That thing is worth more than what either of us makes in a year. He backs up, turns, and faces me. I see the connections click. Then, just as Artie is coming out of the bathroom, Jeff shoves him out of the way and makes it to the toilet before his gorge escapes. Artie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

What do we do, Jerich? Who even handles something like this? Who do we call? It takes all of my willpower not to say, Ghostbusters, and burst out into hilarious. uncontrollable laughter. But I can't lose control like that. I need to think. I need to figure out how to make this right. Not that you can make the aftermath of two people exploding, um, right. There's zero right left in this scenario. I take a deep breath.

I'm not exactly sure, I say. I'll check the binder the owner left. It has all the local info and phone numbers. I have to assume we call the police. Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. Nicole shouts. Then I hear the bar stool scraping the floor, followed by her heavy footsteps as she drunkenly stumbles down the hallway to Jeff and me. What's this about calling the cops? Have you two lost your minds? Between us, we brought four ounces of primo weed, a bottle of Adderall that none of you have a prescription for and a gallon batty of shrooms. She stops, plants her hands on her hips, and defrauded. ifies either of us to argue with her.

Any of that sound like going to the cops is a good idea? Artie points at the room. I point at the room. Outside, Alicia stops screaming. Jeff is still emptying his stomach contents into the toilet. Nicole rolls her eyes and turns her head. She studies the bloody room for a couple of seconds. Then looks back at me, her skin gray.

She gulps. Okay. I'll hide all the crap. You call the cops. On it. I say and hurry up the stairs to the bedroom I'd staked out. My phone is on the bedside table, charging. I dial 911.

There's a beep, beep, beep, and the call doesn't go through. I dial again, same lack of results. I check the bars, and I have exactly one. Then none, then one, then none. I try the SOS mode. I don't even get the beep, beep, beep. It just ends the call each time I press the.

button. Shit! I yell. I want to pull my hair out, but I remember that we have Wi-Fi, or we should. I'm now getting a no-internet connection warning each time I try to bring up my Maps app or browser, which shouldn't be, since it's showing the Wi-Fi at full signal. My phone's not connecting! Artie shouts from downstairs.

Pocketing my phone, I run back down and head straight for the kitchen. Good idea! Nicole says, already back on her bar stool, with a tumbler, filled with a little. with whiskey and one ice cube. Grab yourself a drink and settle in, partner. I'm not getting drunk with you, Nicole. I snap, pulling open drawer after drawer. Utensals, baggies and tinfoil, oven mitts, serving utensils, knives, dish towels.

Then I find the drawer with stacks of pamphlets for local attractions and activities. Under all of those is the cabin's binder of policies and procedures. I hadn't looked for it earlier because the Wi-Fi info was on a magnet on the fridge. Once you have Wi-Fi at a vacation rental, what else do you even need to know? Apparently, a lot. Because as I leaf through the binder, I realize just how wrong I was. Like, really wrong. Really, really wrong. Wi-Fi could have waited. The very first page is a single sheet of paper that says, read the rules immediately. The owners hold zero responsibility for what happens if the rules are not obeyed. Have fun. Stay safe. Read the rules. There's generic clip art

of smiley faces and flowers and fireworks all over the page. You calling the cops or what? Nicole asks. Most of her tumbler already empty. I did my part. No pig can find the stash. Shit. I may not be able to find it again. She downs her drink, gets off the stool and grins at me. I'd better go look for it all, just in case. I think I'd put it. Stay right there, I order. And whatever tone is in my voice, it makes Nicole back up and plop her ass down on the barstool again. Jeff, Artie! Artie joins us immediately. Jeff arrives after a couple of seconds, a wet towel pressed to the back of his neck. Um, I'm going to read some of this to you guys and, well, shit. I don't even know how to even begin. Just read it.

Jeff sighs. When are the cops coming, by the way? No signal, I say. Wi-Fi is out too. Landline? He asks. I pause and look around, not seeing a landline. I don't know.

I'll go look, Artie says. No! I exclaim. Then I calm down a little. No, just listen. Read on, Game Master. Nicole says in cackles. Damn nerd.

I ignore her and start in. Rule one. All fire must be contained in designated fire receptacles and must be extinguished by 3 a.m. Seems reasonable, Marty says. Rule two. No swearing while looking at the picture of Mrs. Prentice. Do not hold eye contact with her for more than five seconds straight. Who the hell is a Mrs. Prentice? Nicole asks, and burps.

And I'll hold eye contact with the bitch if I want to hold eye contact with the bitch. Yeah, you do that. Jeff says, and then gestures for me to continue. Rule three. No intercourse in the Dandelion Room, except for during the hours of 8 and 11.30 p.m. I look up. Which room was Mark and Helen in? Artie shakes his head.

Jeff closes his eyes. Oh, crap. Were they in the Dandelion Room? Nicole asks. The bar stool falls over as she gets up and staggers down the hallway. Damn it, Nicole. Get back here. Jeff snarls. Yep, dandelion wallpaper.

Nicole shouts. Then she returns, picks up the barstool, and sits heavily on it, almost losing her balance. But what I could see at least, that is one mother of a mess, man. We really need to look for a landline, Artie says. His voice at a panic level bordering on hysteria. The front door opens and Alicia walks in, dressed in only her underwear, dripping wet from head to toe. She walks over to the couch and pulls a large throw quilt off the back, then wraps herself in it before joining us.

I found the hose, she says. Her voice raspy and rough, but also flat and even, devoid of pretty much all emotion. I threw my clothes in the fire pit. Can she do that? Is that allowed? Artie asks, his voice rising even higher. I did it, so yeah, I can. Alicia says. No, there are rules.

Artie shouts, pointing at the binder in my hand. Tarika's reading them. Rules? Alicia asks. What do you mean rules? No, boinking in the dandelion room is one. Nicole says and refills her tumbler, skipping the single ice cube this time. Guess which room Mark and Helen were in?

Guess what they did outside the hours of 8 and 11.30 p.m. 8 and 11.30? What? Alicia asks. Re-read the first three rules. There are two more, I say then sigh. Rule four, no matter who arrives, no matter what they say, no matter how much they beg or plead or threaten,

do not let anyone inside the cabin during the hours of 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. No one says anything. Rule 5. If a rule is broken, you have until dawn to make it right, or face certain death, damnation, or worse. Jesus Christ, what cabin did you rent, T? Jeff shouts. That's all the rules, I say, ignoring Jeff's question. I'm looking for a landline.

Artie yells and runs off. I hear him head upstairs. Not a bad idea. Could be a phone in one of the guest rooms. There isn't one in mine, but maybe in one of the others. Those are the rules? Alicia asks. Not the usual rules like, oh, I don't know.

Take out the trash and put the towels in the washer before you leave. Because that's a rule for a variable. vacation rental. What isn't a rule for a vacation rental is no screwing in the goddamn Dandelion room. Except during the hours of 8 and 11.30 p.m. Nicole says with a laugh that turns into a burp. What do we do? Jeff asks. Mark and Helen are dead. Super dead. Nicole says and lifts her tumbler. Godspeed, young fornicators. Godspeed. She downs her whiskey and reaches for the bottle. I snatch it away and set it on the counter behind me. Jerk.

She mutters, then sticks a finger into her empty tumbler, runs it around the side, and licks her finger. I'll just get it when you leave the kitchen. Whatever, I say. Arty comes back into the room. He looks more shell-shocked than he did when he left. What? I asked. I found the landline, he says and points down the hallway.

In the den or office or game room or whatever that is. Great. Did you call the cops? Jeff asks. No. Artie says, then walks over to the couch and falls into it, defeated. It doesn't connect to the cops. Who does it connect to then? Jeff asks. Artie laughs and shakes his head. Then he shifts and lies down, placing his head on the arm of the couch. Artie? What the hell, man? Who did you call? Jeff asks.

They just exploded. Alicia says. I went to find my phone, and they were there, you know, doing what they were doing. And then they exploded. Plop, splat, exploded. She shivers and wraps the quilt around her tighter. I'm going to sit on one of those rocking chairs and get some fresh air. She says robotically. Then she walks out the front door. I gotta pee.

Nicole says and stumbles her way down the hall. At least I don't have to clean that up. Who the hell did the phone connect to? Jeff shouts. Artie winces and begins to giggle. Is that funny to you? Jeff snaps. No, no, not at all.

Artie stops giggling and rubs his face. Nothing is funny, man. Then who does the phone connect to? I don't know. What does that mean? I ask. I'm still thumbing through the binder, hoping to find an answer to a very big question. It means to Rique?

Arty says in a snoddy voice. He sneers at Jeff. It means Jeff, then I don't know. Feel free to go listen if you want. I won't be picking that phone up again. I can tell you that. Jeff looks at me and I shrug. I'll be right back, he says.

Then he eyes the binder. What are you looking for? If it's pizza delivery, maybe they can call the cops. No one delivers this far out, I say, then shake my head. I'm trying to find out how we make this right. Huh? Rule five is that if you break a rule, you have to make it right by dawn. Well, how the hell do we make it right?

I swallow my frustration. What time is it? Jeff pulls out his phone. 6.30-ish. So we have about 12 hours, maybe 13. I'd better get to the landline, Jeff says. Have fun with that! Artie cries, getting up to join me in the kitchen.

He glances around. Jesus! Did Nicole drink all of the whiskey? Pretty close to it, yeah. Beer? Fridge. Artie hurries to the fridge, grabs a tall boy, twists off the top, then chugs the entire beer as I stand and watch. He finishes, belches, then snags a second one.

This time, he just sips. Too bad to be. about the pizza," he says. I could use a slicer of two or six. There's chips and salsa. I say a nod toward the cupboard where we stashed the snacks we brought. Cool, thanks. As Arty rummages through the cupboard, pulling a bag of tortilla chips out, followed by

a bag of dried mango slices, I keep hunting through the binder, and keep hunting, and keep hunting. But all I am finding are instructions for the AC, and now to build a proper and safe fire in the wood stove. There are also the ubiquitous guidelines about making sure the trash can lid is locked because of bears. Do not flush anything down the toilets except for toilet paper because of the septic tank, and a list of emergency numbers, all useless because we don't have a working phone. Jeff walks back into the room.

He's as pale as a ghost. How was that smart guy? Artie asks, stuffing a chip loaded with salsa into his mouth. You didn't say it was them, Jeff almost whispers. What? Say it was who? I ask, and look at Artie. Who did you speak to? Me? No one. All I heard was screaming when I dialed 911. Artie replies around a mouthful of chips and salsa.

Screaming? Jeff asks. I heard Mark and Helen begging for me to help them. Artie stops chewing. Seriously? Seriously. Jeff glances at the binder. Do you find anything? No. I reply.

Did you really hear Mark and Helen? Yeah. Come on. I'll show you. I tossed the useless binder onto the counter and followed Jeff down the hallway. I hear Nicole humming to herself as we pass the bathroom. When we reach the den or office or game room or whatever it is, a little of all of the above, I suppose, I see an old school, like my grandparents' age, old school, black telephone on the small desk,

shoved up against the wall and under the room's single window. You heard them on that? I ask. Jeff nods. Well, it's creepy looking enough. Jeff nods again. Artie follows us in, having left the salsa in the kitchen, but still cramming his mouth full of tortilla chips, crunching loudly. Do you mind, man? Jeff asks. I can't get the taste of puke out of my mouth,

Arty replies, spitting a few crumbs into the room. Crossing to the phone, I hesitate, then lift the handset. There's a dial tone, I say and smile at the guys. They just watch me, neither smiling back. It's one of those rotary phones, and it takes me a couple of tries before I can manage not to screw up dialing 911. How did people ever use these in an emergency? You'd die of a heart attack or stroke before you could get to the third number. The line rings and rings and rings and rings and rings.

No answer, I say. Give it a second, Jeff says. Do you all hear that? Artie asks. He cocks his head and turns around. Is someone's phone ringing? There's service! Jeff shouts and shoves Artie out of the way as he races back down the hallway.

Whose phone is it? Artie wonders out loud. Go with him, I say to Artie. I'll keep trying this. Hello? A woman answers. Artie must see my sudden excitement because he pauses before following Jeff. Hello, yes.

Is this the police? We are in a cabin in Arden State Forest. About a mile off Route 17. We need help immediately. Really? Doreig? I freeze. The phone stop ringing.

Jeff shouts from somewhere in the cabin. Try calling again. Nicole? I ask my heart sinking. How did you answer this call? I dialed 911. I insist. Is that really Nicole?

Artie asks. I nod. Hold on. He leaves as I rub my forehead and look out the window. I notice a shed off to the side out there. Its door handle wrapped with a heavy chain and locked with a series. locked with a serious-looking padlock. Nicole, I'm hanging up now.

I'm going to try 911 again. I hang up and redial. I only screw up once this time. The phone rings on my end. I hear it ringing. Arty shouts. The line picks up, and Nicole shouts back. Get away from the door freak. I'll be out and stack in. Damn it.

I mutter. Nicole asks. When I leave the den or office or whatever, I see Artie walking away from the bathroom door as it opens. Nicole gives me a wicked grin. You'll want to piss outside if you know what I mean, she says. Then her stomach rumbles and she places a hand against it. Uh-oh. She goes back into the bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind her.

I find Artie and Jeff sitting on the couch in the main room, both sharing the chips and salsa. Artie has a fresh beer, and Jeff is drinking straight from a bottle of red wine. They look at me. I look at them. We all look away. I'm going to check on Alicia. I say and head to the front door. What do you think it means?

Jeff asks. You're going to have to be more specific. I reply with a sad laugh. The phone. We all dialed 911, but already heard screaming. I heard Mark and Helen begging for help. You actually called Nicole. I don't have a clue, I say and leave.

Alicia isn't on the front porch. Alicia? I call out and walk down the steps. Then I see the cars. Duh. Jesus, what an idiot I am. I run to my car, an older corolla, and slap at my jeans pockets. Crap!

Keys are inside, of course. I start to run back to the porch, then catch sight of a quilt, flapping in the wind as it goes around the side of the cabin. Alicia! I shout and run after her. When I come around the corner, she's walking toward the side shed. Alicia! She doesn't acknowledge me, just keeps walking.

When I catch up to her, she's reached the shed, and her hands are gripping the chain so hard that her knuckles are white. Alicia, you cool? She laughs. Right, stupid question, I say. What are you trying to do? The chain is locked. She looks at me and frowns.

Then she lets go of the chain and stumbles a couple of steps back, suddenly bent at the waist and gagging. Alicia? Alicia! I go to her and grab her shoulders, but she shakes me off. She keeps gagging, then retching, then she's fully throwing up. It splatters on her bare feet, but she doesn't move out of the way. None of what is coming out of her is normal or right.

Then there's a quiet clink, and I see something bounce off a rock. Alicia stops vomiting and backs away from the shed and her own sick. That sucked, she whispers. What is that? I ask, pointing to an object in the mess. What? Alicia asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Then she sees it.

Oh, crap. Before I can say anything else, she steps forward and plucks the object up out of her vomit. She shakes the gunk off, then holds it to the evening light. It's a key. We both stare at the key, stare at each other, then turn and stare at the lock in the chain. Alicia moves to the lock, and before I can warn her to hold on a second, Jeff shouts from the cabin's porch. Hey! Yeah, but we got a situation out here.

I shout back. Is your situation Nicole in a shouting match with a woman in a picture from, like, the 1920s? Because that's the stitch we're dealing with in here. My shoulder slump. Alicia slides the key in the lock. Click, and it opens. Guys? Jeff shouts.

Um, I don't think the woman is going to stay in the picture. Part two. Can't we just play Scrabble? You can't go on that shut alone, I say to Alicia. Yeah, don't worry. I'm not. She says enhance me the key. Then she locks the lock and her whole body shutters.

I need real clothes on. This quilt ain't going to cut it. Guys! Jeff roars. Coming! I roar back. I glanced at Alicia. Right?

Yeah. Let's go see what the hell is happening in there. She looks over her shoulder at the shed. Then we come back out here. I just puked up a key, Tarek. Kind of think that may mean something. I do not like the shed, but I don't say that. I just nod and pat the key in my pocket.

Yeah, you're right. But we deal with Nicole first. Nothing new there. Alicia wraps the quilt tight about her body and strides off around the cabin to the front porch. I hurry to keep up. Jeff is standing at the front door. We can easily hear three people shouting.

One voice sounds like already trying to calm things down. The second voice is definitely drunk Nicole. The third voice is a woman's, and I don't recognize it. I go to ask Jeff a question, but he shakes his head and opens the front door. You have to see it for yourself. I peeped up a key. Alicia says.

Yeah, that tracks. Jeff says. I walk inside the cabin and see Artie in the hallway trying to hold back and enraged Nicole. If that bitch thinks she can say that shit to me, she has got another goddamn thing coming. Nicole shrieks. Come here, bitch. Say that to my face again. Oh, I will, you hussy.

I will. A voice echoes out of a framed picture, hanging on the hallway's wall. A hand flies out and slaps Nicole across the face. Hors like you deserve to rot in hell! Look at you! Nothing but a painted harlot is what you are. Oh, it's on now! Nicole shakes Artie off and grabs the picture from the wall.

She holds it up above her head, then tries to bring it down over her knee. Tries to, at least. A fist comes out of the painting and punches her in the left breast. as the picture passes by her chest. Nicole screams and drops the picture, letting it clattered to the floor as she clutches her wounded boob. What the hell, bitch? She shouts down at the picture.

I move closer and can see a woman sneering up at Nicole. That's what whores deserve. A swift punch to a jug. The woman shouts at Nicole. Now get out. Your house? Artie asks. Nicole kicks the picture, and it slides to Artie's feet.

What are you? Some mixed breed? The woman in the picture yells at Artie. How dare you come into my home with your dirty blood? Um, I'm Italian, Artie says and shrugs. Even worse, greasy pigs the lot of you. The woman screams. Since you refuse to listen to me, I have no other choice but to teach you a lesson. Arms shoot out of the picture and grab Artie about the ankles.

He's yanked off his feet and falls backward. His head making a horrible noise as it connects with the floor. Artie groans. I lurch into the hallway and shove Nicole out of the way. That freaking hurt. Artie mumbles as he rubs the back of his head. The moment he tries to sit up, his feet are pulled inside the picture, bending his lower legs at an awkward angle.

Ow! Ow! Stop that! He shouts. Then the shout turns into a blood-curdling scream as blood sprays up out of the picture. Oh, shit! I jump over the picture. picture, landing close to Artie's shoulders. He's still screaming as I get my arms under his pits and try to pull him away from the picture. It's eating me. It's eating my feet. Artie screams,

Oh, God! He's not wrong. The woman has his toes between her teeth. I'm trying. I pull harder, but he isn't budging. At least not from the picture. The frame itself scoots across the hallway floor, making it harder for me to gain any leverage and get Artie out of this mess. The woman in the picture is laughing as she continues to shove Artie's feet inside her mouth. Her jaw distends like a snake, and she chomps down on his right foot, severing it from the leg. I stumble back a little as the pull on Artie eases, but the woman still has his right foot, and she's pushing it deep into her ever-widening maw. This time, she doesn't chomp down, but keeps shoving and swallowing.

Artie screams as his left leg comes free, sands his foot, and his right leg is swallowed deeper and deeper into the woman's throat as she laughs around it, her eyes wild and filled with fire. Damn, bitch is hungry, Nicole says, leaning against the wall. Shut up and help me! I yell. No one moves. Artie screams louder as his right leg is swallowed past the knee. Pulling with all of my strength, I feel something pop in my back. And when I try to adjust my stance, I slip on all the blood pouring from Artie's stump where his left foot should be. I fall onto my ass and pain shoots up my spine.

I definitely slipped a disc or something. Alicia drops her quilt, pushes Jeff out of the way, shoves past Nicole, and comes to help me. But she's too late. Before I can get a better grip, Artie is yanked out of my arms and pulled completely into the picture. A geyser of blood shoots up from the frame, coating the ceiling, the walls, Alicia, and me. Then the geyser stops, as if someone has casually turned off a spigot. Alicia stares down at the picture frame. I stare down at the picture frame. Inside is the woman, and she's laughing as she kicks at a legless Artie, who is screaming and trying to crawl away

across a black and white frame yard. Damn, Nicole gasps. Touched a bullet there. Mine and Alicia's heads snap up, and we aim our enraged glares at the callous woman, a woman who doesn't have a drop of blood on her. What are you two so pissed about? Nicole asks. Not my fault you decided to get in the way of that mess. What is wrong with you? Alicia shouts.

What? Nothing. Just dealing with all this. Nicole replies, waving a hand at the blood, the picture on the floor, then the cabin. I ain't never tripped like this before. Gotta remember to thank Mikey for these killer shrooms. Alicia starts to say something, then shakes her head and walks off, headed upstairs. Wait, um, Nicole, I ask.

Yeah. Do you think this is all a hallucination? Yeah, obviously. I took too many shrooms and I'm paying the price. I should know better, but, hey, at least this shit isn't boring. It's not boring because it's real, Jeff shouts, still having not moved from his spot by the front door. He looks like he's either going to collapse into a fetal position and start crying, or bolt out of the cabin and disappear into the woods.

The woods that are rapidly getting darker now that the sun is setting. Bullshit! Nicole says. She scoffs at the mess. Bitches climbing out of pictures and starting shit ain't real. That blood ain't real. She taps her temple. It's all in my head.

Then how the hell are we seeing it too? I ask, slowly getting to my feet. I try to wipe some of the blood off me, but it's pointless. Maybe none of you are real, Nicole says. The real yous are probably outside making s'm just having a bad trip. She looks toward the kitchen. Gonna need more whiskey to ease this come down. She sighs.

You guys see Mark and Helen? They still back there banging. She puts a hand to her mouth. Hey, horny toads, take a breather, will you? She chuckles to herself. and all I can do is stand and stare. I hear the shower upstairs start. Alicia must be getting clean.

I could go for that right now, too. I did not have getting coated in blood on my vacation bingo card. You're not tripping, I finally say, and shove past Nicole, making sure I put a little force into it. Hey! She complains. And no more whiskey, I say. First, you do not need to keep drinking.

Second, you already drank it all. I open the fridge and start to grab a beer, but then the image of Artie chugging one makes me stop. Artie is gone, pulled into a picture with a crazy woman, who I think I can still hear laughing. Where are my earbuds? God, I really need to throw on some lo-fi beats, close my eyes, and disappear from the world for a minute or two, or a thousand. Closing the fridge, I turn and lean my back against it. Then I feel something poked me in my pocket and jump. What?

Jeff asks, his voice paranoid and full of anxiety. What's wrong? What did you see? What did you hear? Huh? I ask him. You just jumped. You saw something, didn't you? He twitches and cringes, ducking his head as he looks into all of the dark corners of the ceiling. Is it bats? I hate bats. Bats? What are you talking about? Bats! Did you see bats? Jesus Christ! Yeah, this is great. Just great.

Nicole is in complete denial mode, thinking she's only tripping on shrooms and that none of the horrors that we've witnessed have actually happened. Awesome. And Jeff is in hyper-awareness panic mode, which is making him hyper-focus on his fear of bats, even though we haven't seen a single bat since we've arrived. We've seen our friends' bodies exploded all over a room with dandelion wallpaper. We've seen Artie get devoured by a crazy old woman who lives in a picture, and I've watched Alicia vomit up a key, A freaking key! Good times. Well, at least Alicia is getting a shower.

Have you tried the phone again? I asked Jeff. He barely looks my way, still checking out every shadow in the room. For bats, I assume. Why? What's the point? I don't know. Maybe we'll eventually get through. My eyes go wide as I feel something poked me in the pocket again.

Oh, right, the key. I don't really want anything to do with it, but it reminds me of what I was doing before. I run upstairs to my room and hunt around until I find my car keys. I stopped by the upstairs bathroom door and shout, I'm going for help. I'll be back. What? I can't hear you. What's happening? Alicia asks, but I'm already racing down the stairs, taking them two at a time.

Without a word to Jeff or Nicole, and without even a glance at the bloody hallway and insane picture, I run out of the cabin, down the porch steps, and over to my corolla. Here we go, I say. and put the key in the ignition and turn. Click. I pretend like I didn't just hear that. I turned the key again. Click.

Turn. Click. Turn. Turn, click, turn, click, turn, click, turn, click. Turn click, turn, click. Son of a bitch! I shout and slam my hands on the steering wheel. Then I reach down and grab the hood latch.

I pull it and the hood pops up a couple of inches. I'm out of the car and running to the front. My fingers easing under the hood and releasing the cap. Catch. Lifting the hood, I pray for a break. I don't get it. My engine is slag. That's the only way to describe what I am seeing.

Wires, hoses, ducts, and every piece of metal are melted into a pile of useless scrap. I have to laugh because I'm surprised I even got a click when I turned the engine. The way everything is fused into one chunk, I don't even know what could have made that click. Slamming the hood back down, I turn and shuffle to the porch. Alicia is standing at the top of the steps, dressed in sweats and a long sluice. long-sleeved t-shirt as she dries her hair with the towel. We should try the shed, she says. I puked a key for a reason.

Maybe in a bit. I say as I stepped past her. I need to sit and think first. Think about what, T? She asks, following me into the cabin. No phone, no cars. We don't have a lot of choice here. No cars?

Jeff asks. What does that mean? What happened to my car? He doesn't wait for an answer and runs outside. In about five seconds, We hear him shouting and cursing. He comes stomping back inside, his eyes filled with rage. Which one have you destroyed my engine?

He snaps, and his eyes go wide. Was it bats? It was bats, wasn't it? Alicia gives me a puzzled look. Bats? It's a new thing. You were in the shower. Do I want to know?

Do you? No. Then there's your answer. Hey, will you too shut up? Someone has destroyed my car. This is serious. Jeff shouts. Do you know how much time and money I put into my car?

Yes, you tell us every time you see us. Alicia says, and throws her towel at his face. Tarek's car is just as messed up, so stop whining. No one did this to you. It's being done to all of us. Just feel lucky to still be a live, asshole. The cabin goes silent until I ask. Why?

Why what? Alicia responds. Why is this being done to us? We done broke some rules. Nicole says. She's back on the bar stool, but gratefully minus a tumbler of booze. Even high as shit, I know that. You go to a cabin and read weird rules out of a binder or off a notepad or out of a book made of human skin, whatever. But once you read them rules, they're real. And we done broke some, so... She shrugs.

Mark and Helen died before I read the rules from the binder, I say. She shrugs again. Hey, I didn't make the rules, so don't look at me. The rules, the rules. I groan. My back is killing me, so I just sit my ass down on the floor. It doesn't help much. How many rules have we broken? Two.

Alicia says. No screwing in the dandelion room outside of whatever those hours were. 8 p.m. and 1130. Jeff says. I can't see him anymore because the kitchen counter is between us. But I would bet he's still cringing over imaginary bats. Then the picture rule that Nicole broke, Alicia says, her voice pure anger and ice. Hey, that bitch gave me a side-eye that none of you would have let slide.

So don't be getting on my ass because I wasn't going to take no side-eye shit from some stuck in a picture, Gunt. Nicole shouts. A voice cries from the hallway. Oh, it's on again, you dumb bitch! Nicole yells, jumping up from the bar stool and sending it crashing across the room. You think I won't throw it. you're living inside a picture ass onto a goddamn bonfire? Huh? You think I won't do it?

Alicia steps in front of Nicole and punches her in the nose. Nicole cries out and stumbles back, both hands to her face. Alicia cries out and stumbles back, her fist clutched to her chest. Shit, I think I broke my hand. Alicia cries. Bitch, you broke my nose! Knowing it's going to hurt like hell, I scramble to my feet and step between the women just as they go for each other. Stop! I roar, not just because I don't want them to fight, but because I don't want to be caught in the middle,

since I know they both can hit hard. Just stop! Did you guys hear squeaking? Jeff asks. Jeff, I will throw you in that picture with Artie if you don't shut the hell up about bats! I scream. Everyone goes still.

Alicia backs away. Nicole backs away. Jeff just looks hurt. Sorry. I say and let out a long breath. I'm sorry. That was an awful thing to say. No shit. Nicole responds and plops her ass back onto the bar stool. You gotta chill out, tea. You are way too high-strung for us to have any fun this weekend.

Fun? Alicia snaps. I hold up a hand. She thinks she's still hallucinating from the shrooms. Don't talk about me like I'm not in the room, Nicole says, adjusting herself on the bar stool. I may be seeing shit with my eyes, but my ears work just fine, thank you very much. Then she pulls a joint and a lighter from her pocket. She pops the joint between her lips. Jesus, Nicole, really? Alicia says. Maybe sober up a little? This shit is serious. She holds up a finger before Nicole can respond. And this is not a hallucination. If you say you think

this is a hallucination, I will beat the ever-living shit out of you. You. I'd love to see you try. Nicole says with a laugh. She flicks the lighter, getting the joint blazing. After a long drag, she chokes out. You ain't got the balls to take me down. Whatever Nicole, Alicia says and walks over to the couch. She sits down and crosses her arms over her chest. So, what do we do now? The phones don't work. The cars are trashed. Jeff whispers. We're at least what? A four-hour. hiked at the closest piece of civilization? There was that gas station, I say, leaning against the fridge to take some pressure off my back. Damn, I really messed it up. That's what I'm talking about.

It was a good 60 miles back. I can walk about 25 miles an hour. What about you all? I'm not walking anywhere, I say, and place my hands on my back. At least not at 25 miles an hour. You can really walk that fast? Jeff asks. It ain't that fast, Nicole says. I bet I can walk 30. Shut the hell up. Alicia mutters. Nicole doesn't take offense, luckily, and just rolls her eyes.

Then she frowns at her joint. Damn thing won't stay lit. She says and flickers the lighter again. The flame sputters, but doesn't catch. Careful. Alicia says with a wry smile, You've been drinking so much whiskey. The fumes from your breath may catch the air on fire.

Nicole flicks the lighter again. Still no flame. Still no flame. Flame. Yeah? Well, if my breath does catch on fire, I'll aim my dragon mouth right at you. Why are you two still fighting? Jeff asks. We got bigger problems. Exactly. I say unpointed Jeff. Three of our friends are dead. Supposedly because we broke two rules. Artie may not be dead, Nicole says. What? I'm just saying that he could still be alive inside that picture. Maybe that angry, ugly bitch put turnicates on his legs or something. I bet she's going to make him her legless sex slave, throw him in a dank cellar and do awful rural shit to him.

What is wrong with you? I ask. Shit if I know, T, she says, and the lighter finally lights. She burns the end of the joint, takes a hit, then starts to say something else. Except she doesn't get the words out. Instead, she frowns and starts coughing, just as her eyes bug out. Oh, no. She manages to whisper a half second before her entire head is engulfed in flames. Rule three!

Alicia shouts, jumping off the couch and rushing into the kitchen. She grabs the sprayer from the sink, turns on the faucet, and aims the stream at Nicole's head. Someone get a blanket or a towel! Got one! Jeff yells, picking up the towel that Alicia had thrown at him, earlier. Nicole lets out a pained whale like I've never heard before. Her entire head is a giant fireball. She shoves away from the bar stool, even though that puts her out of range of the kitchen sprayer. Alicia is yelling for her to get closer while Jeff runs at her, holding a towel over his

head, ready to throw it onto Nicole. All I can do is stand and stare. Look for a fire extinguisher! Alicia cries. Check under the sink! Right, sorry! I shout, then dive for the cabinet under the kitchen sink. My back screams at me, but it can eat shit. I am literally watching a woman burn to death, so a little back pain can wait its damn turn. I get the doors open and nearly cry when I see the red canister. I stand, scream, and pull the pin from the extinguisher.

Before I can squeeze the trigger, Alicia yanks it out of my hands, basically vaults the kitchen island, and lets loose with white foam, just as Jeff throws the towel over Nicole's head. Get it off, get it off! Alicia shouts. Nicole screams are like nails on a church,

chalkboard, but they are getting weaker by the second. Jeff pulls the towel off Nicole's head, and I'm pretty sure a good amount of what's left of her hair and her scalp go with it. Alicia sprays Nicole from head to toe in white foam, then she tosses the extinguisher aside, yanks the towel out of Jeff's hands and starts wiping Nicole's face off, getting the foam away from her mouth and nose so she can breathe. Unfortunately, she also literally wipes away most of Nicole's face off. Skin slides away with every wipe. Nicole lets out a stretch of strangled cry and then falls backward onto the couch. Her head, one entire blackened blister.

Jesus Christ! Alicia says, backing away from the couch. What the hell? Jeff mumbles. Rule one, I say. No fires unless inside designated receptacles. I'm guessing that means only the wood stove or the fire pit outside. Shit.

Alicia says. Is she going to make it? Jeff asks. Nicole groans. Alicia and I share a look. Maybe. Alicia says. Let's get some towels and wet them down.

We'll place them on her until we can get out of here. Get out of here. Hell, the cars are trashed. Jeff shouts. He points at the ceiling. And there are bats! Did you take some of Nicole shrooms? I ask him.

Hell no. So, then what? Alicia asks. You're just batshit crazy? We all pause. Then burst out laughing. We laugh and laugh. Tears streaming.

out of her eyes and down our cheeks. We laugh and laugh and laugh and Nicole coughs and blood spews from between her lips. We stop laughing. I'll get the towels, Alicia says. She hurries off to the linen closet. Jeff stares at me. How are we getting out of your man? I don't know. Maybe someone will check on us when the sun comes up. Why would they do that? We booked the cabin for the long weekend. I doubt someone will show until Tuesday. Yeah, well, if you have a binder like the one that's in that drawer at your vacation rental. Maybe you check on the occupants a little more often. I say and hold my arms out. You know, because, okay, we'll have to switch these out regularly, so one of us will need to stay awake with her. Alicia says, returning with a stack

of hand towels and a plastic wash tub filled with water. I'll take the first shift. You two should get some sleep while you can. She eyeballs me. Set an alarm. Two hours, then you relieve me. Jeff can go third. Why do I have to go third? Jeff asks. Because if she dies, it's probably going to be sooner rather than later. Do you want to see that bat boy? Jeff doesn't respond. He just sighs and walks to the stairs, keeping his eyes directed away from the mess in the hallway.

You good with that? Alicia asks. Yeah, I say. I mean, I'm not good with any of this, but I know what you mean, so, um, yes. You could have stopped it, yeah. Alicia replies with a smile. Go get some sleep. Don't forget to set your alarm. She looks around and sees a clock on the wall.

It's after midnight now, so we have... Wait, what? I checked the clock. She's right. It's almost 12.30. How the hell did it get so late? Didn't the sun just go down? Are you seriously trying to find logic in all this crap? Right. Yeah. Sorry. I'll take over at 2.30. That work for you? Yeah. Okay.

I say and head up the stairs. Ready to definitely not sleep a goddamn wink. Part 3. All rules lead to the shed eventually. Despite everything, I actually do manage to get a little sleep. A little. But it's shattered by the soul-piercing shrieks from downstairs. I fumble out of bed and nearly face-plant as I pull on a pair of sweats. Jeff and I collide as we both come out of our rooms and stagger into the hallway, and my back expresses its displeasure.

It's not bats, I say to Jeff, wincing as I limp to the stairs. It's shit, he replies. I beat him to the stairs and half fall, half stumble my way down to the cabin's main room. Alicia is trying desperately to calm down the shrieking Nicole. Stay still! Alicia shouts. You keep tearing the towels away. Nicole shrieks.

I know, and you thrashing about is making it worse. Just lie still, and I'll put fresh towels on. It'll feel better. Nicole slaps at Alicia, but she bats the hands away, while still trying to apply a fresh towel to the top of Nicole's head. I'll hold her down. Jeff says and rushes to the couch. It's the wrong thing to say.

Nicole goes apeshit ten times worse. Her entire body starts bucking against Alicia. Thanks! Alicia spits at Jeff. He shrinks away from the force of her anger. What do you need? I ask Alicia. A goddamn nursing degree?

She barks with a sad, angry laugh. That'd be helpful? Or an ambulance? Paramedics would be awesome right about now. Well, that's not going to happen, Jeff says. You think? Alicia shouts. But this isn't working, so we need to do something.

Don't say walk out of here again. I didn't say that! I cocked my head as I swear I hear something over the chaos of Nicole's shrieking, and Alicia's and Jeff's bicker shouting back and forth. Hey! I say. What is that? They ignore me and continue to fight.

Hey! I yell. What is that? They quiet down. Nicole doesn't. But it's enough for us all to hear the noise, some I clearly. The phone! I exclaim and run my pain in the back ass to the den, or office, or whatever. I don't wait to see if Jeff or Alicia is following me. The old black phone is ringing

loudly. I trip over the small rug on the floor, but catch myself on the desk, snagging the handset off the cradle before I can even get my balance back. Yes, hello, please help. Some of her friends are dead and one is badly burned and we... A raspy voice says, it's not loud, but the force behind it shuts me up instantly. Who is this? I snapped. Mr. Olivet? Is that you?

This is Tarek Jensen, sir. I'm the one who booked the cabin with you. We need help, right? I pause, confused. Um, yes, we read the binder. But not until after something awful. Yes, okay, that may be true. But what the hell is this place, huh?

Why are there even... Why does it goddamn matter? People are dead. Our friend is probably dying. Can you please send help? Please! Please! I hear the man hawk a luggy and spit it out. You?

Are you medically trained? Can you treat our friend's burns? Yes, but... Jesus Christ, I mutter. What is wrong with you? Mr. Oli Vett laughs. He hawks up another lugy. This time, I swear he swallows it.

Yes, but we also need... Yes, I understand, but you have... The line goes dead. I stare at the handset for I don't know how long until Nicole's shrieks from the main room bring me out of it. They must see the slump of my shoulders when I come back in, because neither Jeff nor Alicia ask me who was on the phone. I rub my face and then sit on one of the bar stools

that doesn't have Nicole's charred skin on it. Mr. Olivet is coming to help, I say. Who this shit is Mr. Olivet? Jeff asks. The owner, Alicia says. That's good, right, T? Jeff asks. That's a good thing. Is he bringing an ambulance? Did he call 911 for us? Did you try calling

911 now that the phone is working? The last question makes me slump even more. No, I didn't try calling 911 again, I reply. Jeff's face scrunches up with what I can only assume is confused anger. He gets up and storms down the hallway. Alicia focuses on me, despite Nicole still fighting and thrashing against her. What kind of help? she asks. Take a deep breath, then I shake my head. I don't know. He ripped me a new one for breaking the rules, then said no ambulance will help. He said to open up the second he knocks, or he's going back home.

So we need to pay attention to the door along with Nicole tonight. Alicia nods and goes back to focusing on Nicole. Jeff comes running out of the hallway. Nothing, not even a dial tone or any of that weird shit from earlier. He leans against the wall and then slides down onto his ass. Okay. So when's this Lafayette guy coming? Olivet.

I correct. Lafayette was a general during the... Whatever. I don't care. Jeff says, waving me off. When is he coming? I don't know. He didn't say. You didn't ask? Didn't have a chance.

He kept cutting me off. Then he hung up. Like I told Alicia, he said to open the door the second he knocks. Or he's turning around and going home. What? What kind of help is that? What an asshole. Agreed.

Alicia says. Nicole's shrieks suddenly stop, and her body goes rigid. Alicia shrinks back as Jeff and I turn our full attention to our wounded friend. Her breathing is shallow, but even. Thank God. Alicia says after a few seconds of silence. She's passed out finally. What time is it?

245, I say. Okay, I need to sleep a little. My eyes keep closing even when she's trying to hit me. I've got this. I'll watch her. You two go get some sleep. Screw that. Jeff says.

I'm just going to stay in here. He pats the floor where he's sitting. Right here. Yeah, well, I'm not. Alicia says. She slowly stands up, bending backwards as she cracks her spine. It makes me think of my own aching back, and what's sitting for the next two hours is going to do to it.

Mind if I grab some blankets first? I ask. Jeff, can you watch her? You got it. Jeff says, giving me a very sarcastic thumbs up. I shake my head and follow Alicia upstairs. Is it going to be safe? Alicia asks me as she stands at the door of a room.

This owner guy? Can we even trust him to help us? Trust? Um, no, probably not. It's his messed up cabin we're stuck in. I don't intend on trusting him at all. Okay, good. We're on the same page.

She sighs and pats my shoulder. Keep an eye on her. And him? And him? You mean Jeff? He's already lost his shit several times. Who of us has? You know what I mean.

I glance at the stairs, the nod. Yeah, I'll watch him. Good. She opens her door and steps into a room. I'll see you in a couple of hours. Take care of yourself. A couple of hours? You already worked your shift.

Go ahead and sleep until morning. Do you think I'm going to let Jeff relieve you? She laughs. Which part of lost his shit didn't you understand? She closes the door still laughing. Then I swear I hear that laugh, turned to a choked sob, followed by intense, muffled crying.

I fetched some blankets and pillows from my room and head back downstairs. Jeff has already nodded off. I'm about to kick him, then think, what's the point? It's my shift, and it'll be easier if he's passed out instead of building up to another freak out. I hesitate, then drape a blanket over him. He shifts a little, but doesn't wake up. I take a spot by the couch and the still sleeping Nicole. As I lay the blankets and pillows down so my back will be comfortable,

but not too comfortable that I'll end up falling asleep. I noticed that Nicole's breathing is even shallower than before. Stay with us, girl, I whisper. Help is on the way. I'm not sure how true that statement is, but I have a little hope. The guy is about rules. We broke two. No, three rules.

It's a miracle he's helping us at all. A harsh, humorless laugh bubbles up out of my throat. Helping us? The maniacal asshole put us in this situation. This is his cabin. Those have to be his rules, even if they aren't. You don't rent out a cabin where the renters might end up dead because they don't follow some evil rules that who knows what demon or devil created. You just don't do that shit.

But the vacation rental market is brutal, I guess. It took me forever to find this place and book it for our annual friends vacay. I settle into my makeshift nest and go over everything in my head, which is a stupid, stupid mistake. My eyes pop open when I hear the knock at the door. Huh? Jeff mumbles, his eyelids fluttering open. The knock comes again. I start to get up, then I notice Nicole staring at me. Well, her eyes are staring, but I am pretty sure there's no Nicole behind them anymore. Oh shit, oh no, I gasp. There's a third knock. Jeff scrambles to his feet. It's him. It's the owner, T. It's the guy you talk to. Before I can say anything,

Jeff sprints on sleepy legs to the door and pulls it open. Don't leave, he shouts. An older man stands there in the doorway. He looks ancient, with a craggy, weathered face and a shock of white hair standing straight up. Jesus, come in! Jeff shouts and reaches out to grab the guy. Then he cries out and looks down at his arm. What?

His right hand is gone. Just gone. My eyes shift to the floor, and I see it lying at the old man's feet. Then I see the large blade in his right hand and a large leather book in the left. Jeff is leaning against the wall, staring at the stump where his hand was just a few seconds ago. Blood spurts and gushes from the wound. Jeff isn't screaming or shouting or saying a damn thing. He's only staring at his stump.

What the shit? I shout, finding my voice. The old man points the bloody blade at me. Then he points it at a spot over my shoulder. Looks like you've broken all the rules, the man says. Only one way out of this now. I look over my shoulder. The clock.

He's pointing at the clock. It's 4.15 in the morning. Rule four, I whisper. You could have answered that door and not let me in. Mr. Olivet says as he steps up to Jeff. But you didn't do that, did you? My hand. Jeff stammers.

He looks directly at the old man. You cut off my hand. Yep. Then the old man slashes Jeff's neck, and without missing a beat, places the leather book he's holding directly into the spray of blood. What's going on? Alicia calls from halfway down the stairs. Who is that? What? Jeff?

Then she screams. I don't blame her. If I could, I'd scream too. But I'm just stunned and unable to move. What is happening? The guy who said he'd help just killed Jeff. I'm watching this happen, right? This isn't a bad dream. This is a waking nightmare.

And I don't have anything left in me to fight it. Neither does Alicia. As I watch her just sit down on the stairs, her hands covering her face as Jeff's blood slows, then stops while he slides to the floor. You monster, I whisper. Me? Nah. I said I'd help and I am. The old man says, shaking excess blood off the book.

A monster wouldn't even bother with you or a lot. He holds the bloody book up to his face and smiles at it. Here it is. You're one way out. He glances over his shoulder and out the door. You all better hurry. Dawn will be here in under two hours. If that sun rises before you do what you need to do, well, it ain't going to be pretty for either of you. Then he turns and walks out. I'll put this in the shed for you.

I assume you already got the key. It usually makes an appearance after two rules have been broken. Reflexively, I pat my pocket where the key is stashed and nod. Good. Now, I ain't saying you both are getting out of this mess you made. But there's a chance for one of you, so don't dawdle. Alicia looks up. What does that mean?

The old man laughs, and his voice gets fainter as he steps off the porch. You'll just have to unlock the shed, crack this book open and see. Take some reading, so, like I said, don't dawdle. Then he's gone, leaving Alicia and me with the corpses of two of our friends. Bullshit! Alicia shouts, shoving up onto her feet. She runs down the stairs and out the front door. Hey, come back, asshole!

I can hear her out there, but my attention isn't on her shouting. It's on the key I pull out of my pocket. Like a robot, I walk out of the cabin, off the porch, and head around the side to where the shed sits. I hear a truck drive away. Alicia is still shouting, but I can tell that her energy is waning. After a couple of minutes, she finds me as I stand in front of the shed, the key in my hand. How do you open it to put the book inside without the key? She asks, then laughs.

Sorry, stupid question. How did any of this shit happen? I don't know. That was rhetorical. tea. Okay. I take a step forward. The key aimed at the badlock. Whoa! Alicia cries, grabbing my arm and pulling me back. What are you doing? Opening the shed so we can read the book. You think that's a good idea? This is all a setup, T. That book in there won't help us. It's probably filled with a million rules that we'll have to follow before we die at dawn. No, I think it'll help. Why? How?

I shrug, Alicia laughs. Oh, yes, I'm totally on board with anything worthy explanation is a goddamn shrug. I look at her. What else can we do? We run or walk, we leave, we hike our asses out of here. It's my turn to laugh. My back is shot. I'll make it a mile maybe.

I point up at the sky, which is full of stars and a fairly bright moon. Dawn happens everywhere, Alicia. Even if we are hiking out of here, do you think the wrong? rule stop applying, huh? That the dawn deadline only counts right here at this specific cabin on this specific property? I don't know T, but following the suggestions of some old guy who literally slashed our friend's throat doesn't sound like a better plan. I don't think we're ever going to see better again anyway, I say and slide the key in the lock, giving it a quick turn before Alicia can stop me. The lock clicks open and I pull it from the chain. Then I pull the chain

from the door, letting both fall to the dirt. I grabbed the handle and open the shed's door. Inside is pure darkness, except for a single candle. The candle sits on what looks like a large altar that is taking up almost the entire shed. On the altar is the blood-covered leather book. And next to the book is the blade that Mr. Olivet used to kill Jeff. Nope, Alicia says, and sits down in the dirt a few feet from the shed. Go for it, T, but I am not setting one. foot inside that place. You'd be an idiot if you'd do." She's not wrong, but I don't see what choice I have. I've seen too much tonight to think that

the dawn deadline is bullshit like Alicia thinks. I step inside the shed and pick up the book. The cover is sticky and gross, but I crack the spine and start to read, and read, and read. Tee! Tarig! Alicia shouts. Her hands are on me, and she's shaking me by the shoulders. Huh? What? Jesus, dude. I've been yelling at you for like five minutes straight. She looks over her shoulder. She looks east. The sun is coming up, T. What did the book say? I smile at her, then pull her in for a hug. I still have the book in my hands. So it's an awkward hug, but it feels good. After a few seconds, I push away, and my smile turns sad.

What? What's wrong? Alicia asks. T. What does the book say? Um, it says that there is a way to survive, I answer. I take a step back and lift the book. But for only one of us. Alicia doesn't even see it coming when I wallop her across the face with the book. She staggers back on one foot, but before she can recover, I wallop her again.

This time, she falls onto her ass, her eyes spinning in her head. A little trickle of blood slides down from her left temple. Tea? She asks, looking up at me. I don't dare hesitate. I bring the book down over and over again until she goes completely slack. Kneeling, I check her pulse. Fue, still alive.

The book says she has to be alive when I start cutting. Tucking the book under one arm, I grab Alicia's feet and drag her into the shed. My back screams and protest as I struggle to get her up onto the altar, but I manage it, gasping and taking in deep breaths to keep the pain at bay. As I go to close the shed door, I pause and watch the very first rays of dawn. begin to break through the trees. I have maybe five minutes, so I'd better hurry. Then I close the door on the incoming dawn and turn to Alicia, the bloody book in one hand, open to the page of the incantation I have to recite. In my other hand is the bloody blade, a bloody blade that's

about to get a lot bloodier. I don't want to open my eyes. The sea rolls beneath me in a slow, endless rhythm, and all I want is to stay curled into a ball and pretend none of this is happening, that I'm not all by myself, that I'm not stuck on this damn lifeboat, that I'm not out of food, and that I have barely one day's worth of water left until the damn skies open up and give me some rain. But most of all, I wish you would stop staring at me. That's what I truly want more than anything, more than food or water or being rescued. I want it to just stop staring at me. A seagull cries somewhere in the darkness, and my eyes open at once.

If there's a seagull nearby, there may be land. No, no, there's no seagull. With my eyes open, I can see that it's still night. Through the lifeboat's few portholes, pinpricks of stars glimmer against the darkness. That seagull was just in my head, in my dreams. In the faint starlight, the lifeboat comes back into view, and I know the dream is over. I'm back in my waking nightmare.

It sits there in the corner watching me. I've told it to go away so many times, but it doesn't listen. If I had more strength, I'd force it out of the lifeboat. I'd pick it up, carry it through the hatch, and toss it overboard. But that kind of strength left me days ago, and I'd rather not touch it or get any closer. There's something wrong with it. It can stay there in the corner. Whatever is outside the lifeboat frightens me more.

A shadow slides across one of the starboard portholes, and I whimper. It blots out the entire view, far too large to be a seagull. The lifeboat rocks one way than the other. Muffled footsteps move overhead. Fingers scratch at the hatch. There is no way in hell I'm opening that hatch. For days, I have screamed at them to go away. They do for a bit, mostly in the daytime.

I rarely see them prowling outside during the day, but that doesn't mean they're gone. so I stay sealed inside with the thing in the corner, watching me. The engine is dead and there's no power, so it gets hot during the day. I can handle the heat. This is the North Atlantic, not the Caribbean. Or I think it's the North Atlantic. It's been hard to tell lately.

I used to be good at navigating by the stars, but that was years ago when I was younger, when my father and I would go out in his little boat, with all the digital equipment and cell phones and satellite internet available today, I let my skills lapse. Kind of wish I hadn't now. I need to figure out where I am, what current this is, where it's taking me. The radio is useless. It was broken the second I dropped the lifeboat into the ocean and puttered away from the sinking ship. Santa Sangre, holy blood. The name of the ship should have been a dead giveaway when I got the email, asking if I was looking for work. Work that pays well. Work that would take me far away from my trouble.

down in Texas. Work that could keep me occupied for months. Santa Sangre. Man, I'm dumb. Being a sailor is a superstitious mess. Yeah, sure. I've worked with guys who swear they don't believe in any of that crap. Any of the old ways, the old sayings, the old warnings. But the second they're staring at 40-foot swells, they become instant believers. At least until the storm passes, and they have a second to change their underpants. Then, with fresh boxers on, they are back to talking shit about the ways sailors have dealt with the oppressive vastness and power of the very ocean they make their living on.

Me? I believe. Oh, I believe. Mother Ocean has made me a believer. You don't whistle into the wind, because the wind will win. And you sure as hell don't want to be on the wrong side of the wind. I told this to Liam, and he just laughed at me. He saw the look on my face and said that we're going to be.

We don't need to worry about the wind since we aren't a sailboat." I said the wind brings the storms. He rolled his eyes and walked away. That was how Liam reacted whenever I tried to teach him about the old ways. Take the tattoos of pigs and roosters on the soles of your feet. I have them both. Of course I do. Any fool knows that if you have a rooster on one foot and a pig on the other, then if you

fall overboard, they will guide you to shore. Just in case your shipmates decide not to come back for you. for you. I mentioned this to Liam too, told him he should get tattoos on his feet like me. He laughed again and said no one believed in that crap. He was always laughing at me. I could ask who was laughing now. Then there's first blood. You wonder why sailors fight so much? It's because we have to. If you don't shed first blood before setting sail, then you are doomed to have a rotten fishing season. Or, if you aren't part of a fishing vessel, then blood will be shut upon your boat, and no one wants that. I saw a guy get his left arm, torn off only three

days into a voyage. He was a lefty, so that made things difficult for him in life. He had refused to punch a guy who had called him a homophobic slur back at shore. If he'd just smacked that guy once and drawn only a trickle of blood, even if he didn't win in the end, then he'd still have that left arm, I can guarantee it. Odd number of fishing nuts, that's another. Don't lose your hat overboard or you're doomed to be delayed out at sea for a long while. I lost my hat getting into the lifeboat, but I'd rather not think about that. Some of the old warnings are stranger than others. There's one about witches and eggshells that I never liked. I still break my eggshells into as small of pieces as possible. You have to be careful what you say too. We sailors don't talk about

drowning. We don't talk about luck. We don't talk about our land lives and detail. Maybe family stuff, but not what our houses look like or where we go to church. That's for chatter over pictures of beer once safely back on shore. I caught Elijah saying he was the luckiest person he knew, and I gave him hell for it. Liam had to step in and break us up. He was a fool for saying that, and I'd smack him once or twice again if I could, but I can't. Not here inside this lifeboat. There's no Elijah or Liam in here. Not that I can see at the moment. All I can see is it in the corner. There are tons of superstitions, too many to list.

No goodbyes. Never stir tea with anything but a spoon. Don't hand someone the salt, slide it across the table and let them pick it up. And bananas. That one is crazy, because bananas are on board every ship or boat these days. But, just to be safe, I keep my distance.

I'll have an orange or an apple instead. And the old belief that women are red-hats, heads bring bad luck aboard a ship doesn't hold up anymore. I may not be a woman, but I am a ginger, bright red on top, deep red on my face. Speaking of, I scratch it my weak old beard and feel something crawling inside it. I pluck it out without looking and pop it into my mouth. Tastes like spider. Spiders are everywhere, even on lifeboats. Something creaks heavily on the roof above me. Then the scratching resumes. Clamping my hands over my ears, I huddle in the the opposite corner, my eyes staring at the porthole directly across for me. I whisper prayers that

no one comes looking through that porthole. A passing shadow I can handle, but an actual face? No, sir. No, that won't be good for my morale. The lifeboat rocks up and down. The swells out there are getting bigger. I have no instruments working, and since I try not to go outside in the dark, I can't see if a storm is approaching. But I should go check. I really should. I need the water a storm can provide. But what if it follows me? What if it and the others attack me outside? To help with the scratching, I pull my hands away from my ears and force myself to stand up in the cramped space. If I'm not going outside on deck, then I can at least make sure everything is battened down tight. So if a storm does hit, I'll have a chance of making it through without taking on water

and capsizing or sinking. God, I can only imagine what waits for me below. Mother oceans embrace can only be cold and dark. So cold, so dark. I start with the hatch. Might as well get the worst over with. As the scratching continues, I checked the wheel, making sure it is locked tight. I checked the four latches, two up top, two at the bottom, seeing that they are locked down and secure. The scratching becomes more frantic and I punch the hatch, wanting to scream for them to stop. Just stop, please stop! It wasn't my fault, God damn it, it wasn't my fault. leave me alone. Go away. Just stop! They don't stop. I move on. The lifeboat is two huge pieces of molded fiberglass fused together, so there aren't a lot of places for water to get in.

In theory, but water always finds a way. I checked the seals around each porthole, avoiding actually looking through the porthole themselves, because as soon as I move to the first one, the scratching at the hatch stops. I hear footsteps above, following me as I move from one porthole to the next. Whoever is out there is crossing the curved roof instead of using the narrow exterior ledge that circles the lifeboat. Crawling over this model is dangerous. Walking across it should be impossible. But whatever is out there probably doesn't care about that anymore. The portholes are sealed properly from what I can tell. I move on to the stray equipment, life preservers, my less than meager water stores, some blankets, cushions that can be used,

us flotation devices, just like on an airplane. God, I wish I were on an airplane right now instead of here. Flying miles above this ocean. No cares in the world except for picking up my baggage after landing. The flight attendant would bring me a Diet Coke. I love Diet Coke. Stray gear is strapped tight. There isn't a loose item in this lifeboat, except for it in the corner.

I keep to the far side of the lifeboat and glare at it. the cramped space offers little distance between us. All it would take is a couple of ropes under the armpits and one around the waist. That would hold it tight. It doesn't move, doesn't make a sound, just sits there staring at me, judging me, accusing me. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It already started. I just, I just... I don't finish. It knows. It's always known. The lifeboats, bow, rises, and I stagger. Shoving an arm out, I brace myself. My eyes still on it. We are watching each other now.

Another shadow crosses a porthole, and I cower, hurrying back to my spot. I sit hard and tuck my knees up to my chin, wrapping my arms around my shins as I wait for the shadow to return. It doesn't, but the scratching at the hatch starts back up. No, no, I won't let you in. No, I don't want to see you, no. That word, no. It runs through my mind. It's a stamp of regret in my psyche.

It's what I said, when I'm not. When I stepped into the galley and saw the fire blazing, no, just a simple no, because I knew what would happen. I didn't even bother to go for the fire extinguisher. There was no point, so I panicked. As a cook on a boat, there are certain rules you follow. Keeping the crew fed and happy is the first one. A hungry crew is a grumpy crew, and when you are out at sea for weeks, maybe months,

a grumpy crew can become an angry crew. An angry crew becomes a dangerous crew. You can imagine what happens then. I was good at feeding crews, been doing it for years. I make buttermilk biscuits like no other cook out there, and I bring my own fresh honey from my grandmother's ranch. She used to live up by Austin, but passed a few years back. All I took after the funeral was the honey, jars and jars of honey.

She didn't like me much, my grandmother, said I was the spitting image in all ways of father. He was a fiery redhead too, and a drunk, and a rage-aholic. He could go from smiling to snarling in the snap of your fingers. I once told a joke about two dogs screwing, and he thought it was hilarious, so I told another joke, which he didn't like. I woke up with a swollen eye on a broken nose. Grandmother said, I should have stuck to the one joke. Then she walked away, leaving me bruised, broken, and in pain on the living room floor. I didn't see my father for three days. When he came back home, completely shit-faced, he grabbed me and yanked me close,

then told me the same joke that had gotten me beat. He laughed for hours over it. Grandmother glared and sneered at us both, but her honey is amazing. The scratching is louder now, picking up in volume just like the wind outside. The lifeboat is now going up and down regularly. My sailor's brain is counting the seconds. Four on the way up, three on the way down. I have to remember those numbers.

Four up, three down. They'll help if the storm gets worse. A starboard porthole goes dark, but that's okay. It's behind me, right over my shoulder. All I have to do is nothing. Just stay still. Just keep facing this way, not that way. A knock.

I refuse to whimper this time. But one slips out when there's a second knock. Lightning flashes in the portside porthole. I see it flash miles and miles away, and in that flash I see the clouds. Huge storm clouds, dark and mean. Like Brogan, when he came into the galley and saw the fire, Brogan was the first mate, and I remember him screaming at me, shouting, and asking why I hadn't used the fire extinguisher on the flames.

That's when he grabbed it off the wall, pulled the pin, and aimed the hose directly at the fire. Nothing came out, just like I knew what happened. There was so much yelling and shouting. Brogan slammed the fire extinguisher into my face, then into my stomach, doubling me over. I fell to my hands and knees, coughing as more the crew came running in. I wanted to tell them I was sorry that it wasn't my fault. The night before we left port, a woman had drugged me and robbed me blind,

and I'd barely made it aboard before the ship pulled away. I didn't have time to check the extinguishers in the galley like Brogan had ordered. By the time we were out to see, it was too late. I even thought about switching it out for one of the others on board, but I was busy readying the galley for the journey and cooking the meals for the crew. I didn't have time. I didn't have time. The shadow is still there. I'll admit that I forgot. The shadow moves away, and I count to five before looking over my shoulder. When I finally do, the porthole is clear. Beyond it, there's only the black sky and a scattering of stars. Yeah, sure, I forgot all about the existence. extinguisher. I also should have kept a fire blanket within reach. That might have smothered the flames. If Brogan hadn't beaten my ass, maybe my brain would have thought of it before. Stop it. Stop staring at me. It wasn't my fault. Accidents happen, but this wasn't my fault. I could have fixed it. I could have. Stop staring at me. Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop. Knock, knock.

At the hatch this time. I turned my back on the thing in the corner and stare at the hatch. They've never knocked before. Lightning flashes again, and it is closer this time. Much closer by the sound of the thunder. Ah, right. Thunder. That's what I heard. There was no knocking at the hatch.

It was thunder. The bow rises, and I count while hanging on. Eight seconds this time. Five on the way down. The rises are getting steeper, too. Same with the descents. It's going to be a big one. Lightning.

Thunder. Knock, knock, I jump. That wasn't thunder. Even I can't convince myself of that this time. If I look over my shoulder at it, I know it'll be staring. Its eyes saying that of course it's not thunder. It's them. This is all stupid.

I've lost my mind, of course. That's all this is. Madness. There's a sort of relief in this realization. This acceptance that I have gone mad. Yes, yes, of course I've gone mad. Who wouldn't? Lost at sea?

No food left? Only a few drops of water left? No hope left. Madness is like a warm hug after coming in out of a cold rain. I let it wrap around me, the madness. None of this is real. None of it. The lifeboat rises, and it's 12 seconds now. I have to brace myself tight so I don't tumble backwards. Then we peek, and I am screaming, shouting, praying as the lifeboat races down the far side of the swell. This part I can't make up. Madness can't conjure up a storm like this. The storm is real. I move about, now that we're floating sort of steady. There are a few seconds between the swells, which gives me time to do something I don't want to do. I go to a porthole and peer out of it. The storm is almost on me. The clouds are nearly merged with the waves. It looks like a mouth, ready to devour me and this lifeboat.

There's movement, and I duck back. The knocking on the hatch continues. It keeps staring at me. Lightning flashes. The lifeboat starts to rise. I grab on. Fingertips appear on the porthole glass, dark, blackened fingertips. They slide across the glass like they're petting the lifeboat, then slide back, leaving greasy streaks behind.

The knocking becomes pounding. The hatch shudders. The fingertips are gone. So are the pinpricks of stars. Only clouds outside now. Up we go. Twelve seconds pass. Fifteen seconds pass. Just as I count 19, we crest. We hover. We dive. I don't bother to count. All I can do is hold on as we race to the bottom of the swell. At the speed the lifeboat is going, I wouldn't be surprised if we race to the bottom of the ocean itself to Mother Ocean's waiting embrace. Then the lifeboat hits the trough,

and I am thrown back against the hatch. Everything evens out for a moment, so I scramble to my feet. But I slip and fall face-first into its lap. I close my eyes tight and hurry away, shoving at it like it's trying to consume me. But it can't. I won't let it. Stare all you want, you thing!

I'm not giving up. Thunder roars around me, drowning out the knocking, which is now pounding, which is now in my head, in my head, in my head. Someone screamed to throw water on it, on the flames. This is why it's not my fault. Everyone knows not to throw water on a grease fire. Everyone knows that. Everyone. Right?

I tried to stop them to tell them, but Brogan kept me down. I raised my chin, and he walloped it. all while screaming in my face. If he'd calmed down just for a second, I could have said not to do what they did. Someone grabbed a pot of water from the sink and threw the entire thing over the stove. I didn't get to set it because my head was down,

my chin at my chest, blood dripping from split lips. Oh, but I heard it. I heard the initial hiss of the water hitting the flames. Then came the whoosh, as the water mixed with the fiery oil, sending flames exploding everywhere in the galley. No place was untouched.

Even me, still cowering on the deck. I felt the heat sear the back of my neck. I felt the skin on my upper shoulders, then between my shoulder blades, then down my spine begin to bubble. I heard the screams too. Men, my crewmates, their bodies coated in hot flaming oil, were screaming like small girls. They ran in all directions, but there was nowhere to go. The galley was small like most galleys on most boats. I heard them crying and pleading and trying to put the flames out.

the hard slaps of hands on newly-cristened flesh, the soft wetness of that crisp skin splitting under those slaps, I heard it all. Then, feeling my own pain, knowing that if I didn't do something soon, I'd die with everyone else in that damn galley. I began to crawl. A few men had fallen to the deck, their faces charred, and I crawled over them, beating away the desperate hands that reached for me. My knees pressed into bellies and against ribs. Then I headed for the galley's hatch. I was almost out when a powerful grip on one of my ankles began to pull me back inside. I screamed and kicked at the hand, then spun around, the burned skin on my back stretching

and tearing from the effort. I kicked the owner of the hand straight in the face. Brogan! His eyes were wild with pain, but also filled with fury. I kicked and kicked and kicked until he let go, until all that pain and fury dimmed from his eyes, and all that was left was glass, like the surface of a windless ocean. The knocking, the thudding, the pounding at the hatch does not relent. Neither does the storm, the sea, or it. Sitting in the corner, as if Mother Ocean herself wasn't trying to destroy us. Sitting there without any cares or fears or worries, only judgment and loathing.

Up we go again, and my cries are lost to the thunder. We rise and rise and rise. I turn my head, and now there are faces, faces at every porthole as we ascend the swell, climbing high into the air, the bow of the lifeboat ready to touch the raging awful cruel storm clouds above us. Angry faces, scorched faces, doomed faces. They fill all of the portholes, their skin pressed tight against the glass. I jerked my head away. More faces crowd the portholes on the other side, and I turned from them too.

My eyes land on the thing in the corner. There was nothing I could do, which was true, but it doesn't care. It says nothing, does nothing, only. stairs and stairs and stairs. We crest, we fall. I scream. I pray. Please, do not leave me to Mother Ocean's fate. Her wrath is more than I deserve. I tried to be good. I tried to save them. The lie tastes like a corpse's ash upon my tongue. Did I really try to save them? No. I crawled out of that galley and using all of my strength to find handholds. I pulled myself upright. The cries had already started to diminish.

I think a few of my crewmates were already dead, with the rest quickly or perhaps slowly on their way. So I kicked Brogan out of the way, reached in and grabbed the hatch, then swung it shut, sealing the burning galley off from the rest of the ship. Then I hobbled my way down the cord or up the steps and out onto the open deck.

The cool air on my scorched skin was heaven. The fire alarm was blaring, and as I stumbled over to one of the lifeboats, I heard the rest of the crew calling to each other. shouting orders, asking questions, all rushing to stop the spread of the fire. But they were too late. The fire suppression system should have saved the rest of the ship. It should have, but it didn't.

And as I launched the lifeboat, with only myself aboard, I told myself that because I wasn't in charge of the fire suppression system, none of it was my fault. It wasn't my fault as the lifeboat drifted away from the burning ship. It wasn't my fault as I waited for the second lifeboat to launch, though it never did. It wasn't my fault as the entire ship became a ball of flame, a funeral pyre in the middle of the North Atlantic. I tell myself this now, that it's not my fault, not my fault, not my fault, as the lifeboat slams down into the next trough, and I'm thrown across the small space, my shoulder colliding with the wall.

My head throbs. When I touch it, my fingers come away wet with blood as the lifeboat begins to rise again. I don't know how many more of these I can take. How many more the lifeboat can take? The storm is going to win. It always does. But not if they win first. I watch in horror as the wheel on the hatch begins to turn.

Slowly at first, then faster and faster and faster, like a roulette wheel at a casino. Then with a clang, it stops. Something shoves against the hatch, hard. At least the hatches are still in place. Two up top. Two at the bottom. Click.

The lifeboat's bow lifts. A latch comes loose. Click. The lifeboat climbs the swell. A second latch comes loose. Click. The lifeboat is almost straight up and down. I have to wrap my arm in a safety rope to keep from falling down against that hatch. A third latch comes undone. Click. A fourth. With the four latch is free. The only thing keeping the hatch from opening is that it swings outward. Gravity is my ally at the moment. Then we hit, and it all becomes topsy-turvy. Through the portholes, I see ocean water, not a stormy sky. The lifeboat is plunged beneath the surface, carrying me underwater with it, but only for a moment.

It bobs back up, and I am bounced about like a buoy. Then gravity turns on me, and the hatch swings open. Scorched hands reach inside, looking for purchase. One pair, two pairs, a third, a fourth, a fifth. All I see are hands gripping the edges of the open hatch. Then those hands pull in bodies. Even with their faces burned, I recognize Elijah. I recognize Liam.

I recognize Brogan. They clamber inside like spiders, their milky white eyes landing on me, their crisp lips, ripping as they grin. I turned toward the corner, but the thing is no longer sitting there. It has toppled beside the hatch, folded awkwardly in on itself. Not like it could save me. Not from them. They say nothing, but there's nothing to say.

They could spit accusations, but it wouldn't matter. They could proclaim my guilt, but why bother? They are not here for accusations. they are here for retribution, even though it's not my fault. And that is what I tell them as they fall on me and pull me back to the hatch as the lifeboat climbs and climbs and climbs. It is not my fault! Not my fault! Not my fault! Their greedy, grubby, blistered fingers don't care though.

They find me, grab me, and pull me as I try to scramble away. But there is nowhere for me to go in this small space, just like there was nowhere for them to go on that burning galley, on that burning ship. I try to fight them off, but they aren't too many. As they drag me through the hatch, I see the thing lying beside it. Its body still folded awkwardly in on itself. Lightning flashes, and its eyes stare back. Dead eyes.

Glassy eyes. Guilty eyes. Two bare feet extend from the twisted body. One has the tattoo of a rooster on it. One has the tattoo of a pig on it. My feet. And those eyes are my eyes. Oh, that's who it was.

Me, me all this time. But if it was me, then what am I? As they drag me from the lifeboat and into the water, my crewmates hold me tight. Together we sink slowly, slowly toward the ocean floor. And I begin to wonder if I was hurt worse than I realized. Maybe the burns on my back became infected. Maybe I didn't make it.

But that can't be true. I escaped. I got away. I lived. I still live because it wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. It wasn't my fault. But as I sink, whatever I am, I realize that Mother Ocean knows better. She always does. Perhaps. Perhaps it was my fault after all. The blood running down Ellen's leg is like a stripe on the back of a pair of sweats, flashing red at me as I sprint directly behind her. Both of us wheezing and

sucking in air. We've been running for, I don't know how long, long enough that I don't hear the cracking of broken tree limbs and the smashing of bushes anymore. I think... I gasped. I think... I cough. I think... We lost them. My legs quit on me, and I stumble over to a large oak tree, my arms wrapping about it in a huge hug. It's all that's keeping me upright.

Dennis, we have to keep running. We cannot stop. My sister limps back to where I'm clinging to this oak. We definitely cannot stop inside these woods. That's suicide. Going anywhere with you is suicide. I snap. By the look on Ellen's face, that one stung. I instantly regret saying it. I'm sorry. I suck in a deep breath.

I didn't mean that. Yeah, you did. She turns and limps off. I risk letting go of the oak, and when I stay on my feet, I follow my sister. Hey, you have to admit that you don't exactly lead a normal life. You think, Dennis? Damn it, now she's really mad. This is not good. Bad shit happens when she's mad.

Ellen! Hush, you moron! Keep your damn voice down! She rounds a tree, and I lose sight of her. Doesn't matter. Her blood looks black in the moonlight filtering through the branches, leaving a trail clear enough for me to follow. God, that wound has to hurt like her.

like a bastard. What psycho stabs a girl in the ass with an ice-pick? Bowden Clark, that's who. They don't call him the stabber for nothing. I get to a tree, round it, and can just barely make out Ellen's silhouette up ahead. I push myself to catch up. Ellen, please, if we run all night, we'll only be exhausted when the sun comes up. Then what? We won't have any energy to fight. I see her head tilt and angle back toward me. I always have energy to fight. Yeah, well, I don't. Shh. You shh.

No, you shh. You both should shh. I jump, turn, and just managed to duck under the swing of a machete. Told you! Ellen shouts. The machete's blade is stuck in the tree I was standing next to. I follow the blade to the scarred, vainy hand holding it, then trace his arm up to his shoulder, his neck, and finally his face.

That horrible face. Crap, this isn't the stabber. This is Crapeface, which is the stupidest name for a mass murderer ever. But I guess for as long as slasher's have existed, we let the press name them. Pretty dumb if you ask me. I stumble backwards, my eyes locked on the melted skin of the killer's features. Hey, Crapeface, eat dirt. My sister flies past me and tosses a handful of earth in Crapefaces, well, face,

just as he manages to get the machete free. He cries out. throwing an arm across his eyes as the dirt blinds him. Then Ellen tackles him about the waist, and I lose sight of them as the tree blocks my view again. Ellen! There are grunts and gasps, thunk and thuds. Then my sister is tossed like a rag doll, colliding with the young maple that bows on impact. She hits the ground and instantly tries to get up onto her hands and knees.

Crapeface appears. His machete at his side, a sneer warping his already warped lips. Leave her alone! I shout and get up, looking about for a weapon. weapon. Oh no, the little brother told me to leave her alone. I'd better just do as he says. He switches directions and marches right at me. God, I suck at this running away from slasher's crap. I really do. I mean, if it wasn't for my sister, I'd either already be dead or I'd have my own boring life somewhere far, far from all this insanity and bloodshed. But I hate boring, so

Crapeface points the macheteer at me. Do you know why they call me, Crapeface? Um, yeah. Because your face looks like crepe paper after you survived that fire when you were a kid. Crapace pauses. I think he frowns. Hard to tell with that messed up face of his. Crate paper? What the hell is crepe paper? Seriously?

Crap paper. It's what those birthday streamers are made of. That's crepe paper? I thought that was paper mache. Dude, no. Paper mache is that stuff you make with flour and water and newspaper. I think pignatas are made out of paper. machet. Oh, but then they're covered in crepe paper. Exactly. The two of us have a nice little laugh.

Arts and crafts can be confusing. I mean, you get taught a little about that shit once in like kindergarten, and then it's all about the mathematics industrial machine for the rest of school. Damn, people have been calling me crepe face for my whole life, and I always pictured something else. I chuckle. I have to admit, when my sister first said your name, I was thinking of crepe, Like the dessert crapes, all filled with strawberries and whipped cream. I mean, what's scary about a strawberry crepe? You ever try making crepes? They are a bitch, let me tell you, just like you are sister.

He laughs, then waves the machete. Sorry, sorry, bad joke. Anyway, with crepes, you have to get them thin enough. Then you have to make sure they aren't too thin or you can't... Blood explodes out of crepe face's mouth. So does the business end of a very sharp branch. and try not to piss myself. Crapeface stays upright, pinned in place by the branch through his face.

Then a man leans out from behind him and gives him a grin. Okay, I can't see the grin because the stabber wears a burlap sack over his head, which is also just stupid. So it's impossible to really know what he's thinking. But I have been at this almost as long as my sister, and after a while you get a feel for these things. Stabby, stabby! A gravely voice sing songs from under all that burrower.

Burlap. Man, how the hell does he breathe in that shit? And I bet it stinks in there with all that heavy slasher breathing. Yuck. The sharp branch is yanked back, and Crapeface stands for half a second, then collapses into the forest dirt. Does this one want stab her to stab him? Oh, and the bastard talks like a mix of Gallum, Buffalo Bill from the silence of the lambs, and a caveman. It's really annoying. How about you stab yourself, asshole? The burlap stretches, and I know for sure that. the ass head is grinning at me. It's a rude one it is.

Stabber will enjoy stabbing this one, won't we? I look around. Who is we? Are you talking the royal we? Because I hate to break it to you. But you're not royalty. You probably wouldn't even qualify for a house servant. You'd be that weird stable boy with the humpback

and the face all broken from when a horse kicked you. We don't like horses. They bite. I'm making fun of you, asshole, not actually suggesting that you become a stable boy. Too much hay. We don't like hay because we have allergies. Makes us sneeze.

Oh my God. Shut up about hay. I was saying that you are a low life, not some royal who can say we and mean it. We don't like your attitude. We're going to stabby, stabby now. No! I hold out my hands.

No, let's rethink this. You don't really want to stab me. You want to stab those teenagers who hurt you all those years ago. The stabbers. swivels at the hips and looks to the left. He swiveles at the hips and looks to the right. He shrugs. No teenager's here. So stab or stab you. He shrugs again.

Stabber, stab you. You brother of teenager girl we want to kill. You like appetizer. You a tater skin with bacon and green onions and extra cheddar, but no sour cream. Stabber does not like sour cream. No, we do not. He races for me. Then he suddenly face down as Ellen slides in front of him, as if she's stealing a soccer ball at the World Cup. Stabber falls over her, and I realize that my sister has Crape Faces machete in her hands. She shoves Stabber off of her, then jams the blade up under the burlap sack. When it comes out the other side, the blade is bloody, very bloody. There's a twitch and a gasp from the stabber.

Then he goes still. Holy shit, sis! You got him! You finally got the stabber! Ellen gets to her feet, holds the machete high over her head. then brings it down fast and true, lopping off the stabber's head. I watched the burlap sack roll a few feet away, then come loose,

and the stabber's true face is revealed. Huh. I walk over and nudge the head with a toe. I was expecting him to be gross. This guy? Bowden Clark? Haven't you seen the police photos? He's been on my ass for over a decade, Dennis.

Yeah, well, I'm three years younger than you. And Dad wouldn't ever let me look through all his police files. You don't ask for permission. You just sneak in and look at them, moron. That's what I did. And get grounded for my PS3 for a month? No, thank you. Ellen growls in annoyance, then looks about.

Well, at least he took out Crape Face for me. Did you know Crapeface thought Crape Paper was Paper Meshay? What a dumbass. His name was Kyle Noonan. And he had a learning disability, Dennis. Don't be mean. Don't be mean. He's been trying to kill you almost as long as the stabber.

As have I, children, as have I. I scream. Not going to lie. I scream like a grown man scared out of his wits. Yes, my scream sounds almost exactly like an eight-year-old girl's. So what? Son of a bitch! Ellen groans.

You two? What is up tonight? Why are all of you assholes in these woods at the same time? She cocks her head and looks the dude up and down. Wait a minute. I thought I banished you last year. A man dressed. head to toe in leather, and not cheap leather.

This isn't some flea market crap. This is serious leather. Well, this guy sort of floats between the trees, settling directly in front of my sister in me. Oh, and he has toothpicks sticking out of like every pore on his body. You can see them sticking out of the leather. How the hell does a wooden toothpick pierce leather like that? I cannot be banished, child.

Hey, Pickhead, how about you stop calling me child? I'm going to be 28 in three months. Is that so? You're a Capricorn? On the cusp, 22nd of December. Almost Christmas. I'm a Capricorn, too. But January, baby, not December.

Most are. What the hell is going on? I shout. Dennis Chill. Ellen hisses at me. It's called banter. I have to do this with all of the killers before we fight. You're talking about astrology.

Yeah, well. Do you have any idea how many times I've had to have conversations with this asshole? She points at Pickhead, then points at Stavber. Or this bastard? Then she points at Crapeface. Or that guy? I hear you thinks Crape Paper is the same as Paper Mischay. Pickhead says.

What a retard. Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa, not cool, man. I yell. I am the embodiment of hell's evil. I am nothing but cool. Pickhead grins, and one of the toothpicks on his upper lip gets snagged in one of his nostrils. Uh, hold on a second.

He tries to get it loose. Ow, ow, ow. Damn it. Just one second. I move closer to Ellen and whisper. Why aren't you killing him? He hasn't shown me the box. He has to show me the magic box

and ask me if I want to experience the pain and pleasure of all existence. I can't kill him until I see the box. That makes no sense. Just kill the son of a bitch. Jesus, Dennis. Have you not paid any attention? attention to my life at all? I'm a final girl. That's how I make my living. And in this day and

age, considering how high inflation is, I can't just be one monster's final girl. I have to freelance and branch out. Look at this shit. She throws her arms out, indicating the chaos around us. Look at this. Two of my nemesies. Um, nemesi? No, it's nemesis. Yeah, your brother is correct. It's nemesis. Pickett grunts and lets loose with a laugh. There we go. Got that one's free. He grins over at us. Now, where were we?

The box. Ellen says, making a gimmy-gimmy motion. You have to show me the box. I didn't show you the box. Nope. How puzzling? Pickett laughs. Get it? Because it's a puzzle box?

Buddy, stick to the cryptic goths and leave the jokes to guys like Five Nyes, or that creepy-ass doll, okay? You just can't pull them off. That's simply untrue, child. I took a weekend improv classic UCB, thank you very much. It's worse than I thought, Ellen. There's improv. Can we get on with this?

Just show me the box, picket. You know I do have an actual name. Don't care. You will when I am peeling the skin from you, one strip at a time. He flies at Ellen, and she barely ducks a swipe from his nasty, goth black nails. You will learn the meaning of pain, child. I will teach you agony like you cannot dream of. Bring it, Dickhead.

It's Pickhead, and now you will learn. Pickhead huffs, then pats his body down. He grimaces and starts checking all of the pockets in his leather outfit. There are, like, a lot of pockets. Oh, dear me, well, this is embarrassing. Ellen waits a second. Her hands up, ready to fight. Then she frowns and shakes her head, as Pickhead continue.

He continues patting his pockets. No way. Ellen throws her hands up in the air and spins in a circle. Are you kidding me with this shit? She stops and aims a finger at Pickhead. Don't tell me you forgot the box. I, um, remember I had it before I stepped up through the portal from hell. Then Razor Jaws said something, and I turned to him.

Oh, crap. I set it down to tie my boot. Razor Jaws said my boot was untied. He slaps his forehead, snapping a few toothpicks. It's just right there. The bastard waves his hands around, and a swirling portal of evil appears behind him. You children stay here, okay? I'll be right back at the box. He steps through and disappears instantly with a loud, sort of weird squeak,

like the portal could use some oil on the hinges, except there are no hinges. God, I hate this shit. We aren't staying, are we? I ask my sister. Shit, no. Come on. And we're running again. Great. Why are you leading us? Ellen? Where are we going? Down to the river!

The river? But you have that water monster after you, too. If all your enemies are showing up tonight, then we can't go near the river. Yeah, well, I got kind of lucky having them gang up on me. Lucky? Are you insane? I don't need an answer to that. Yes, yes, my sister is insane. Dennis, if I don't take out three monsters tonight,

I'll lose my health care coverage. according to guild rules. Guild rules? What guild? The final girl guild, you dipshit? We were just talking about it the other day. That's real? I thought you were talking about starting a guild.

I didn't know there already was one. How are you still alive? You keep saving my ass, and I'm a fan favorite. I shouldn't have pulled you from the car when Mom drove it into the lake, trying to kill us all. What I should have done is let you die. Then it had been only dad and me. and everything would be simpler.

You don't mean that, don't I? Well, Dad would still be drunk, and the mayor still would have taken his badge away. Maybe, maybe not. We reached the river, and Ellen splashes into the water until she's mid-thigh. Hey, critter, Critter from the dark river.

Come and get me. Vinyl girl here. Just waiting all alone. Completely helpless. Dude, you're not alone. I'm right here. I sit down to take my shoes off. What are you doing?

Gonna wait in with you. No, you aren't. Go find a big stick or big rock or something you can use as a weapon for when the critter shows up. How do you know he'll show up? He's a horn dog. He always shows for a booty call. That's gross. I gop.

You two haven't actually... What? Don't be disgusting. Just go find a big something, will you? God, what is wrong with you? Oh, I don't know. Maybe I have a psycho for a sister. You ever think of that?

What it's like to have you for my sister? It sucks! I wish one of these assholes would finally kill you. The second the words come out of my mouth, I regret them. Hey, Ellen, I'm... Eat shit, Dennis. Go find a big rock. Be useful for a change.

I know she's hurting from what I said. So I just nod, turn, and start searching the riverbank for a big rock. Riverbanks have big rocks, right? Apparently not. I hunt for maybe a quarter mile before I turn around. No big rocks. Some sticks, sure. But are they big?

Not really. The ones big enough that might work as a weapon are rotten and mushy. Not much use. So I turn and walk back. Hey, kid. Sounds like you got girl trouble. My shoulders slump. This isn't good.

Hi, Chauncey. I didn't think you'd make this trip. Why? Because I'm too short to drive and have to hitch rides and strangers' car. like some creeper? I look over at the tree line and can see the dummy standing there in the shadows, the white of his tuxedo shirt reflecting the moonlight. I have never understood the physics of this guy.

How can a dummy with no bones stand? He doesn't even have dowels in his legs. They are meant to be draped over a human lap while a human hand is shoved up his ass to make him talk. The guy has spaghetti legs. Also, his name is Chauncey and he wears a tux. Why is his voice all old? Old-schooled Brooklyn, not the English gentleman's accent his old owner had for him when he performed.

Did you hear me, kid? You think I'm a creeper, do you? You are a reanimated ventriloquist dummy, Chauncey. Creeper is your whole schick. He shake my head. And don't say I have girl trouble when talking about my sister. That's just gross. A long string flies at me, and I duck under it. Not only is he a reanimated dummy, but he somehow shoots deadly marionette strings at his victims. Strangling them to death with the strings? He's a dummy, not a marionette. I hate this shit.

Hold on, kid. Did you say that killer bitch is your sister? Seriously? Shit, kid. I thought you were the lovelorn sidekick, doomed to beg for the final girl's affections. Another string flies at me, and I dodged that too. No, that was Bobby.

He died last year, fell asleep while watching Dancing with the Stars, and five knives got him. His fault, really. He knew better, and still sat down on the comfy couch with that comfy blanket over his legs. Didn't take a rocket scientist to know he was going to bite it the second his eyes closed. Bobby. Right. And you're... Another string. I dodge it. I can't keep this up all night. He's just playing with me, waiting for me to make a mistake. I'm Dennis, the younger brother. Dennis, younger brother. Got it. Sorry about the mix-up.

It happens. More often than I'd like, but I keep that to myself. I do have some pride. A string flies. I dodge right into the other string he shoots out. The waxy line wraps about my body, tightening until I'm completely immobile. I topple backwards, and all I can see are the stars. Then I hear small footsteps coming my way.

I couldn't help but overhear you and your sister's little diff back there. Great. Glad to know. I thrash, but I'm stuck. Hey, listen, kid, being second fiddle is no fun. Feeling like your life isn't your own? And all you get to experience is being dragged from one gig to another? I get it, kid.

I don't think we're quite the same. What? No, I didn't say we were the same. I said I get it. He's now standing right over me. I see the glint of the hat pin in his hand, his trademark murder weapon, and the strings, those two. Even after being animated by my dead owner's wife's soul,

he still treated me like I was just a prop for his amusement. My eyes are on the hatpin. Dead wife's soul? Wait, you're a woman? What? No, I'm a dude. 100% man inside here. But you said you have a woman's soul inside you?

Animated by, not possessed by. Think of it like a battery. She died. I got her soul's energy, and I came to life. That kind of lore is way too complicated. and, uh, brings up some questions. I think about the ventriloquist with his hand up Chauncey's bum every night. Yikes.

Forget about all that, kid. Let's focus on you. He leans down, and the hatpin is only an inch for my eye. Me? Why? Because, personally, I am not that impressed with your sister's whole final girl act. Feels too performative. And I worked in show business my whole life, so I know performative. Aren't we all performative at our jobs? Just playing our parts for our paychecks?

That's the thing, kid. Being a final girl shouldn't just be about the paychecks from the sequels and that crap. No, it needs to come from the heart. She needs to not just be a final girl in name, but in spirit as well. She's got student loans, man. She needs this job. Whatever. He eases the hat pin closer and closer to my eye. It's all I can see now. Listen, so some of the killers and I have been talking, and we think your sister needs to go. Um, duh, you guys have been chasing her for years trying to kill her. Of course you think she should go. Chauncey's demented face looms over me, a blurry nightmare behind the hatpin.

Nah, not like that. We think she should resign and let someone else take her place. I take in a deep breath, ready to have my eyes stabbed out and... Hold on. What? Resign? What are you talking about? She'll never resign. Did you not hear the part about her student loans? And if you were really listening to us before, you'd know she'd lose her health insurance too.

She wouldn't need the insurance so much if she wasn't being sliced and cut and stabbed and choked and thrown out of windows. Jesus H with a monocle kid, Costco has health insurance and the worst thing that happens there is being run over by a forklift. That happens? More than you think. think, kid, more than you think. I shake my head, which is the only part of my body I can move. The hat pin follows me from side to side. No way. I couldn't betray my sister.

Kid, she doesn't give two wet shits about you. He points the hat pin in the direction I came from. She made you go look for a big rock. He uses his free hand to make air quotes around Big Rock. So you'd go away, so she could hook up with that critter. guy. No way. She wouldn't do that. Then I think back to how she told me not to be disgusting, but didn't exactly deny the whole booty call with the critter thing. I feel sick. You good, kid? You're gonna puke? Don't give her the satisfaction. Choncy circles his ear with

the hatpin. Final girls ain't right in the head, kid. We need someone to take her place who can show a little bit of fear now and then. She just treats us like we're ordering birds. burgers and fries at the drive-thru. No way. I can't do that to my sister. The hat pin is back in my face. Is it bigger now? Shit, it looks sharper.

Tell you what. Let's walk back. And if she's doing the nasty with the critter, you'll at least take a lunch and hear us all out. Cool? She's not doing the nasty. Wanna bet? I think about it.

This might be my only way to get free. Okay, sure. If she's getting it on with the critter, then I'll take lunch with you and your pals. Great. Deal. He uses the hatpin to slice the strings holding me. I scramble up onto my feet, keeping a good amount of space between us. Come on, scarty cat. We walk back along the riverbank. As we get closer, I hear cries, and not of pain. When we push through a bunch of reeds, I am faced with the most horrendous sight I have ever seen. My sister is getting railed by the critter from the dark river, and he ain't trying to kill her, that's for sure.

I can't believe she'd do it with a giant lizard man. Lizard man? Chantra replies. He's a mutated otter. What? No, he has scales. Yeah, hence the mutation part. I feel sick.

I'd turn, and a swirling portal to hell appears. Pickhead steps out with a silver box in his hand. Oh, hey, there you are. I couldn't find the gold one, so I brought the silver one. I throw up all over him. Chauncey gives Pickhead a wave. His sister is doing it with the critter. With the beaver guy?

Oh, that is disgusting. He's an otter. Who cares? Pickhead looks down at the silver box, then walks up to me and shoves it in my face as I catch my breath. So, do you want to play? Funny you should ask. Chauncey walks over to Pickhead.

Dennis here has agreed to hear us out. Really? Oh, that's great. When? How about now? Chauncey smiles at me. That cool, kid? I hear the very gross noises from the river and nod.

Yeah, get me out of here. Oh, wonderful. Pickhead tucks the box into one of his many pockets. We can take my portal. It's faster. We'll call the other guys on the way. How about Moroccan for lunch? You always want Moroccan for lunch.

Because I love Moroccan food. Stop talking about Moroccan food. I say, then puke again. Chauncey slaps me on the shoulder and walks to the portal, while Pickhead wipes the puke off his leather boots onto some of the river reeds. Maybe we should go to Denny's. Morocco may be too much for you. Come on.

Chauncey yells as he slips through the portal. I nod to picket. Tenney's is good. I try to ignore the cries from the river as I step through the portal. My battle cry sounded weak, overshadowed by the chaotic sounds of war. Men screaming in pain, the sound of cannons firing at our flanks,

the crackle of grape shot ripping through trees and flesh, and the snap of muskets firing. My boots crunched over the frozen winter grass as our battle line closed in on the country. Confederates amid a chorus of shouts. Like most of the others around me, I'd fired my last shot, and my hands shook as I gripped my Springfield, keenly aware of the bayonet jutting from its end. Mary's face surfaced in my mind, as it often had since the war separated us. Her leaf-green eyes bright with mischief, strands of hay-colored hair falling across her face, the feel of

her lips on mine when we married only a month before I enlisted. As with every other battle I'd been in, I knew I had to live through this one to make it back to her. And I knew that almost every other man on both sides was thinking the same thing about his sweetheart back home. Including the man I locked eyes with across 10 feet of frozen land. Brown eyes full of anger. A beard-rimmed mouth twisted in a sneer.

Bayonet pointed at me. The same color as the cloudy sky. Bodies collided all around. I thrust my musket toward the man in the gray uniform while he drove his own at me. Gasping in pain, I opened my eyes to find myself miles and years away from the battlefield. My sleep-fogged mind struggled to make sense of the dark cabin, the pain in my gut, and the massive, bear-like shape looming over me. Then Mary's muffled shriek cut through the darkness, and I realized she was no longer beside me.

Reflexes took over. By the time I staggered from the flaming cabin, bloody and scorched and carrying my dead wife, I knew our attackers weren't normal bears. The assailants were demonic in nature. It was the only explanation for their bizarre appearance, their silence, their ability to take immense damage. No man could have survived what I'd done to those creatures, yet all three had escaped. One of them had even sent a burst of flame from its mouth, setting the cabin walls ablaze as they fled. Feeling like a ghost, I set Mary on the ground near the creek and gently adjusted her body. Her head had lolled against my arm as I carried

her, attached to her body by little more than the spine. I spun around, determined to search the small stable for Jacob, who insisted on sleeping with the horses when the weather allowed. As I started toward the rudimentary structure, I sensed movement from the woods. Dressed only in my blood-drenched cotton night shirt and armed with my bone-handled knife, I tensed, preparing for another fight. The gash in my leg screamed with every movement, but the wound in my stomach hurt even worse, right beside my old bayonet scar. Jacob tottered out of the trees, blood running down his face and dripping off his sparsely whiskered chin. The slim 19-year-old wore only a night shirt and socks. His brown eyes struggled to focus when they found me. Telling him to stay

put, I darted back into the cabin, the growing flames causing my beard to curl, and the smoke robbing me of breath. Without adequate food, clothing, and weapons, we were as good as dead. Moments later, I stumbled out, coughing and retching, eyes stinging. I fell to my knees, dumping what few supplies I had managed to gather. A glance through tear-blurred eyes at the open stable verified what I already knew. The horses were gone. The nearest town was Miles City, two days ride south. Without horses, it would take us five. In the light of the roaring fire, I surveyed the supplies, knowing we would never make it to Miles City on foot. Our only hope, then, was the buffalo hunters rumming the hills, looking for bison to slaughter for their hides and bones.

If we could reach a hunter camp, I was confident they would lend us aid. Those of us on the frontier looked out for one another, but I wasn't going anywhere until I gave Mary the Christian burial she deserved. Wind howled through the trees. A smoke-gray cloud bank, barely visible through the evergreen canopy, hastened night's arrival, which was still several hours away. The first hard pellets of snow made their way through the pine branches to pummel my face. Lowering my chin against the onslaught, I spotted a corpse. It was 50 yards from where the woods petered out to endless rolling hills of autumn grass, the strands of which danced in the wind. It belonged to a coyote. I slowed my limping, pain-hindered gait to look at the creature lying on its side near the base of a pine tree,

mouth open, sharp teeth visible, tongue lolling against the bed of tawny pine needles. The teeth made me think of the bear demons. The one who'd stabbed me had done so with what appeared to be a tusk, growing from the end of its fur-covered arm. The wound, which I had cleaned and dressed as best I could, still trickled blood. A ghostly feeling of being unmoored from the world swelled inside me. It was one I'd been carrying with me for 15 years, always there, but sometimes just a background noise, like the rumble of a distant train. I asked God for guidance.

I was being punished. There was no doubt about that. But I didn't know why. I received no answer, unless this dead coyote was some cryptic message. The next corpse was that of a bobcat, just five yards inside the tree line. Judging by the awkward way it lay at the foot of a juniper, I thought it had climbed the tree before dying,

only to fall as life slipped away. I looked over my shoulder to see Jacob stumbling after me. The nasty gash on his scalp had long since stopped bleeding, but the effects of the blow to the head persisted. I'd managed to grab our boots and a heavy coat for each of us, but no pants. Before the fire reached the stable, I also snatched a saddle blanket, and leather harness. Using my knife, I cut the small blanket in two, wrapping the pieces around

Jacob's legs and lashing them in place with strips of leather from the harness. There wasn't enough material for another pair of makeshift pants, so I was without. My nightshirt ended just above the knees, and as I turned away from the dead bobcat, a frigid gust pelted me with snow. My kneecaps juttered with the cold. But I was more concerned with my toes. I had stuffed some moss into my boots to protect my sockless feet against the cold. It would hardly help in these freezing temperatures. Small snow drifts had collected against tufts of yellow grass, the first snow to collect on the ground. I knew the low hills extended for miles south, but the encroaching blizzard only allowed for a hundred yards of visibility. Forcing my legs to keep moving, I broke from

the tree line and into the open, squinting against the battering wind and the tiny frozen projectiles it hurled at me. My boots crunched on icy snow and squelched on soggy grass that would freeze in a matter of hours. Jacob suddenly bolted past me, heading for a dark shape I hadn't seen. Missing something that obvious was nearly as concerning as realizing what Jacob was about to do. I shouted for him to stop, but the wind ripped my voice in the opposite direction, so I ran on stiff, heavy legs. Jacob dropped to his knees next to the butchered and skinned buffalo, plunging his hands into the flesh. Even I was tempted by the sight of that meat, my stomach, having formed into a hollow ache after two days of nothing but water. Before he could bring some of it to his mouth,

I smacked it from his bloodied hands. He looked up at me, eyes so full of confusion and desperation I nearly broke down. Poisoned, I said, gasping from my run. I pointed back toward the tree line, sure Jacob had seen the two dead animals. The boy's mouth fell open in despair, and I could see what small stub of tongue remained therein. His tongue had already been missing and healed when Mary and I stumbled across him on our journey into Montana territory. He'd been with us ever since, although we never learned what had happened to him. Mary tried to teach him how to write, but the progress had been slow, and now she was dead. I pulled him to his feet and dragged him away from the corpse. It was common practice for buffalo hunters to put poison and slaughtered

buffaloes to kill wolves, coyotes, and bobcats for their pelts. In the process, they also killed skunks, eagles, vultures, and ravens. But the recently slaughtered bison gave me some little hope. It meant hunters were near. Finding them in the blizzard before freezing to death would be the hard part. My toes and fingers prickled and stung with the onset of frostbite. My leg muscles spasmed constantly as I trudged through shin-deep drifts. The now powdery snow filled the tops of my boots with every step, shoving more and more of the frozen liquid inside. With no sheath for my knife, I kept it hilt first in my right coat pocket, sharing the space with my balled up right hand. With my left hand, I gripped Jacob's arm, pulling him along.

The urge to lie down in the snow and rest grew with every torturous step, but I knew it would be a permanent rest. And although reuniting with Mary sounded more attractive than a hot meal and a warm bed, it would be like murdering Jacob myself. That I could not do. I forced myself to keep going. My wounds flared angrily in the cold, sapping my energy with their constant cries for attention. The blizzard abated as we crested a hill, bringing a valley into view. I paused and gazed at the array of snow-covered mounds, stretching all along the valley floor, hundreds of them. I thought back to the experience that had been haunting me for 15 years, staggering out of field hospital tent on a hill outside Murfreesboro, Tennessee, in January 1863. I'd been in the

tent for hours, falling in and out of delirium, clutching my stomach wound. I had listened to the screams of men having their legs and arms amputated. I had smelled the blood in the stench of ruptured intestines. All the while, a battle raged outside. But as I staggered out, having finally been stitched and bandaged up, the landscape was silent. A snowstorm had rolled. A snowstorm had in, and the battle was over. We'd driven the Confederates away, but at a terrible cost, dead men and horses lined the bloody frozen ground as far as I could see, a thin layer of snow building on them. Ever since feeling the Confederate soldier's bayonet punch into my gut, while my own slid between his ribs, I'd felt like a ghost, and as I stood on that hill,

it seemed like I was one. I had thought that ghostly feeling would pass, but it never did. Now, as I came back to the present, realization dawned on me. The snow-covered mounds weren't dead soldiers, but it was a killing ground nonetheless. I dragged a delirious Jacob down into the valley of death, and we picked our way amid the hundreds of slaughtered buffalo. It was likely that, under the snow, many of them still had their hides, but skinning a frozen carcass for the warm hide would be nearly impossible in my state. Scanning the horizon during the blessed lull in the storm, I searched for any sign of hunters. We trudged through the killing field for several minutes before the snow resumed falling and blinding sheets.

But just as the curtains of falling white were coming together, I spotted a dull light on a hill, the glow of a lantern. It moved along what I thought was a low ridge, as though someone was using it to light their way. Salvation imminent, I picked up the pace. After ten strides, Jacob collapsed, dragging me down. I pulled on his arm, urging him to get up, telling him we were almost there. He didn't respond, eyelids closed, but twitching.

In my weakened state, there was no way I could carry him. So I turned toward the light, which was barely visible through the falling snow. I shouted for help. I knew that if I left Jacob, it would be nearly impossible to find him again under the snow. The blizzard was already obscuring our tracks. I cried out twice more, squinting against the snow and darkness, searching for some sign that the hunters heard me. The lantern blinked out.

I sank to my knees, bare skin burning in the snow. After the attack, I couldn't stop wondering what Mary and I had done to deserve such evil. We had tried to live good lives. I had even served in the Union Army, believing I was doing my moral duty by fighting against slavery. The Bible commanded against murder. But what if that murder was in service of the Grimony? greater good. Until my encounter with the demons, I had felt God would hear my repentance,

and would see that in my heart I was no killer, and that I had tried my level best to avoid sinning. But now, as the cold snow seemed to grow warm around me, I felt certain that God was not pleased with me, and my eternal punishment had begun early, which meant I would not be reunited with Mary. There was no doubt as to the location of her eternal soul, if there was anyone on earth who had more goodness in their bones I'd never met them. I closed my eyes, praying once more for his forgiveness. Jacob groaned beside me. When I opened my eyes to look at him, my gaze caught a familiar dark figure gliding through the snow just a few feet away. The demon's bear-like mouth was open in a permanent snarl, sharp teeth standing out,

even amid the thick snowfall. Closing the distance, it extended a savage, skeletal hand that resembled a massive eagle's foot, the talons frozen in place and sharp as straight razors. Instinct took over. The will to survive, to put off the fiery pits of hell for even a few more minutes, prompted me to throw myself backward, pulling my knife out of my coat pocket with one numb fingered hand. The claw streaking along my chest, ripping through my coat, nightshirt and flesh as I fell onto my back, whipping my blade out in a desperate flail. As was the case in the cabin, my knife made contact, but the beast's body didn't yield like that of a flesh and blood creature. Fudal as the fight was. I couldn't lay my arms down and surrender.

My time in the U.S. Army had beaten the notion out of me. I twisted in the snow, trying to get to my feet. But the demon was already coming back for me. I raised my right arm to block the incoming blow. The talons shredded my forearm, causing me to drop my knife into the snow. Jolts of pain rippled up my arm and a torrent of blood ran down it. The demon stumbled a few yards away. then turned to face me. Steam curled from its bear-like mouth as it charged again. I'd plunged my hand into the snow, searching for the knife.

My numb fingers found it, but I could barely close them around the hilt. The creature closed in for the killing blow. I finally managed to grip the knife's hilt, but I knew it was too late. The talons were poised to slice my throat open, and I found I didn't have the energy to defend against it. A blurred figure crashed into the demon just before it reached me, sending them both sprawling across one of the snow-shrouted buffalo carcasses. Only then did I realize the figure was Jacob.

He tried to shove the creature away, but it lashed out with its talons, slicing open the side of his neck. Crying out, I lunged to my feet on a wave of energy fueled by rage. Jacob stumbled away from the demon, blood spewing from his wounds, coloring the snow. My first instinct was to help Jacob, but the demon was already trying to rise. As I approached through the driving snow, I saw its head hanging at an unnatural angle.

For a moment, I thought Jacob had broken its neck. But as I got closer, I realized its neck wasn't broken at all. Eyes bright with pain, human eyes glared at me from the depths of a soot-blackened face. It wasn't a demon? It was a man. The barehead cowl had slid partially off, revealing a length of sheer black fabric that was thin enough for the man to see through, but dark enough that it had obscured the man's eyes when the cow was in place. A man, just a man. I hesitated. My eyes glancing to the claw weapon I now realized was

strapped over his hidden hand. He gave up trying to stand and slumped against the buffalo. He coughed, spraying blood across his beard. Realization struck me again. I looked at the shape of the buffalo, which was partially visible after their impact had knocked some of the snow off. The man was at the buffalo's head. Jacob had tackled him directly onto one of the animal's horns. I darted around his side away from the talons. The man shifted, trying to stay with me, but he jostled the horn impaling him. He didn't cry out. He only clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

I got behind him and moved in, pinning his talon arm down with my foot before he could slice me with it. He produced a hunting knife in his other hand, which he stabbed up toward me. But his positioning made it awkward, and I grabbed his wrist before he did any damage. My knife sank into his throat as easily as my bayonet had pierced. the Confederate soldiers' chest all those years ago. Blood poured from the man's throat as I pulled my blade free. Leaving him gasping in the snow, I hurried to Jacob. He lay motionless between the two buffalo carcasses.

The boy was dead. I was back on the battlefield again, wondering why I had survived when so many of my fellow soldiers, my friends, had not. I stood and watched the man take his final breaths. Then I looked toward the ridge where I'd seen the light. How many demons are left? I wondered. The costume was so heavy, I began to doubt that the man I'd killed was entirely human.

I couldn't understand how he had moved so fast in such a cumbersome outfit. Most of the weight came from the strange body armor beneath the costume. It appeared to me made from walrus hide with segments of turtle shells sewn under a layer of silk. It was why my knife strikes had felt so strange. Knowing I could never move far or fast in the entire get-up, I left the armor behind, instead dressing in the cow and the other fur-covered clothes that, together, gave the impression of an other-worldly creature, at least in the dark of night.

I also took the claw weapon, gripping the handle hidden inside its sleeve. Then I started toward the camp I'd seen through the storm. By the time I reached it, the fur-lined clothes and the thick socks I'd taken from the man had begun to thaw my frozen fingers and toes. Two canvas tents rippled in the breeze. snow drifts, building against the windward sides. A wagon sat nearby, its naked, skeletal ribs jutting up from the frame. I saw no horses, but they'd probably been corralled in a thick copse of trees to protect them

from the worst of the blizzard. Neither tent showed any sign of life, but I knew there had to be others. There had been three at my cabin. I chose the tent on the left and approached with my knife ready. At the entrance, I unfastened the floor. flap and ducked inside, then paused to let my eyes adjust to the darkness. A blanket lay on the ground beside an open wooden chest. I moved closer and noticed a circus advertisement showing three men who looked remarkably alike. Sure enough, the poster identified them as the amazing

Adolphi brothers. I studied the picture, and things started fitting together in my mind. One brother stood on his hands facing the camera, a smile on his upside down face. Another brother stood balanced on the first one's upthrust feet. His arms were above his head as he held up the third brother, who lay stiffly prone across his two hands, shooting a flame from his mouth with the help of a torch held in one hand. Other pieces of paper sat under the advertisement. Newspaper clippings about heinous unsolved murders,

about curious bear attacks, about savage beasts that moved like men. I crumpled the papers and threw them to the floor. I stepped back into the storm and crossed to the other tent. As I loosened the flap, a man spoke from inside. The words were harsh and unfamiliar, spoken in a language I didn't recognize. I froze. The man spoke again, louder and more urgently this time.

I looked back toward the killing field, toward where Jacob lay in the snow. If I killed the man inside this tent, would God see it as justice or murder? But then I thought of Mary's head hanging limply from her spine. The flesh hacked to the bone. Retrieving my knife, I opened the flap, ducked inside, and flinched at the crack of a gunshot. Things happened fast. I lurched across the tent, swinging the claw weapon at the man standing beside his blankets. He raised the rifle to block the attack. The claw struck his fingers, shattering them, forcing him to drop the weapon. I thrust my knife out. The blade slid between his ribs. I shoved it all the way to the hilt.

The man stared at the blade in his chest for a moment before he collapsed. I stood with my bloody knife, peering at him as he clutched at the wound, speaking that strange language. He was dressed warmly, but I could still see a splint on his left leg. I remembered kicking one of the demons in the leg just before they fled my cabin. I must have done more damage than I thought. Looking around, I verified that there was no one else in the tent. I asked where his brother was, but he didn't answer. He just stared at the wound in his chest, struggling for every breath.

He died moments later. sputtering and gasping. I found the third brother under the wagon, dead and wrapped in a shroud. As I trudged back toward the unoccupied tent, I fell to my knees, suddenly short of breath. Lifting the thick shirt I'd taken from the man in the killing field, I saw a hole in my chest that leaked blood. The rifle shot. He hit me. I turned and looked toward the killing field, blanketed by the falling snow. That familiar sense of being untethered from the world surged through me. I got to my feet and shambled down into the valley.

As I reached the first snow-covered mounds, I realized they had changed. They were no longer buffalo corpses. They were soldiers dressed in gray, yellow-brown, and blue. Picking my way among them, I prayed for forgiveness once more. And I thought of Mary. Her leaf-green eyes full of understanding and love. The way her face had thinned over the years, becoming even more beautiful than in her youth. The feeling of her body pressed against me in our bed as sleep crept over us.

Soon, I found what I was looking for, right next to Jacob. My body lay there, 15 years younger and dressed in a mud-splattered blue uniform. I stared at the snow-shrouted Jacob, his features not fully obscured. Jacob, the mysterious orphan, who was as close to a son as I'd ever had. A bullheaded boy who would sleep in the stable with the horses on all but the most of frigid nights. But a hard worker and smart, in his own way, more loyal than anyone but Mary. Settling myself into the snow beside the boy, I looked up into the night sky.

Flakes twirled and tumbled toward me, more numerous than the stars. Blinking, I let the falling snow lull me toward the night's sky. my eternal rest. That ghostly feeling I'd been carrying with me all these years slipped away on a gust of wind. Something warm pressed up against me. I smiled. It was Mary. I closed my eyes and let the snow cover me. Want more? Subscribe and turn on all notifications so you never miss any of our weekly uploads.