The Dark Somnium - "The Angels Burned" Creepypasta | Scary Stories from The Internet

Episode Date: November 3, 2021

This creepypasta scary story was written by Michael Paige, make sure to check out the authors Twitter and Blog for more info on their writing! Blog: https://michaelpaigeblog.wordpress.com/Twitter: https://mobile.twitter.com/atrophied_hush--- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/darksomnium/message Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information. Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

When I was a kid, my stepfather asked me what I wanted to be when I grow up. A magician. I answered quickly with worldwide clarity. He huffed at that answer. That ain't a job, son. Waring makeup and doing a little dance at parties, ain't a job to seek. Best start looking yonder. I took exception to that and returned with,

I said a magician, not a clown, asshole. That earned me a good throttling, something I've always had a knack for goading. I'm sad to say, he ended up being right about that fact, as my dreams of being the next hairy handcuff Houdini never came to pass. So, I took his advice and looked yonder. Eventually, that led me to becoming a cop. Honestly, I wish I could tell you a noble reason behind that choice, like the desire to help my community, or saving the world one life at a time.

But, as my mother used to put it, Only the devil of Fiddles lies. I spent six years working the graveyard patrol. Shifts were divvied up based on seniority, landing me in the nocturnal hours. I didn't mind much, at least not at the time anyway. My first shift started at 10 p.m. and ended at 7.15 a.m. I'd monitor the empty streets. Nothing kept me company but coast-to-coast radio and the mind-numbing click of my turn signal.

Every hour or so, dispatch generously sent a safety check to keep us sharp and awake, the kind of them, but not all that necessary. Nothing far-reaching ever happened in Colby, much less at 2.30 in the morning. With a population of 5,500, crimes were low and life fairly slow-paced. Occasionally, petty crimes ran the gamut of traffic offenses, domestic disturbances, or underage drinking. In a town with little to offer its younger cliques, alcohol took precedence. We were as rule as Thomas County had to offer. Halfway to everywhere, no tall trees or rolling hills, just blue sky kissing prairie.

There's no place like home. At 2.45 in the morning, the soft robotic voice of dispatch rolled in a 213721, criminal trespass. Even before the details, I already had a hundred hundred. hunch where I'd be heading. I pulled onto the interstate, pushed up to 70, and held it there as the town lights became spectral dots in the rear view. At 15 minutes out, the silos of the Windsor Mill grain elevator were inevitably visible. Once upon a time, the huge structures were used to stockpile grain, thousands by the bushel, but in an unforeseen tragedy, a fire ripped

its way through the facility, killing four workers in the process. Left in financial ruin, the elevator was shut down and condemned, but not quite abandoned. Its old charred skeleton still belongs to the owner, Ralph Windsor, the same man who had made the distress call tonight. The place had naturally become a beacon for tourists to explore and hoodlums to tag, so, for Windsor, trespassing calls were typical. Despite his relationship with the place, a quillness Waiting to a dead limb, he never stopped safeguarding his perished property. I pulled the cruiser onto the dirt path and sloped toward the fenced entrance. Ralph Windsor's hunched figure was waiting by his truck.

He was a burly man, face pinched with wrinkles and a mat of hair that rested greasily over his scalp. Evening Ralph? I greeted, crunching up the gravel toward him. Kid sneaking in the pool again? He eyed me humorously and tweezed out another cigarette, a nasal twang guiding his voice. Something else, I reckon. I followed him through the gate and across the forgone lot. The silos stood in 15-foot clusters over us, enormous gravestones marred by a great blaze. Adjacent to them was the decrepit ruins of the warehouse, its roof collapsed in sunder,

and the lower half reclaimed by nature. A breeze of rust-scented wind scraped my nostrils. The incident had brought to light some safety violations as well as poor evacuation measures. To this day, Windsor was never keen on those details, not even after questioning by the media. Despite pushing 83, he still had a firm, farmer-like stride. Cut a hole in my fence, probably on camera too. I heard him sneaking around the basement area, figured it was just some little shits come to tag. Like, ah, these were men, hooting and hollering things down there. I'd never heard in my life, a bunch of gibberish speak.

We walked along the haggard north side of the silos, and came to a gaping hole punched into the concrete, the entrance to the basement. How many would you say you heard? I asked him. Three, maybe four of them. I would have gone down there to scare him off, but his sun-dried face slackened. It sounded like there was a tussle, like they was fixing to her. hurt someone down there. Does it sound like they have any weapons? Any gunshots? He shook his head

and replied. Not that I heard. I crawled through the hole, springing up a cloud of dust at my ankles. You head on home, Ralph. I'll take it from here. Whatever he'd muttered while walking off never reached me. Shining the flashlight ahead, the passage to my left opened up to a wide concrete room lined with machinery. Ancient pulleys, once used to hoist things up the silos funnel, now cake, in soot and grime like a fossil's vertebrae. As I moved to inspect the area, a distant sound resonated from the shaft behind me. I followed after it, kicking up puffs of ash dust with every step. Even though I'd often been called to this place, it was still very easy to get lost in the tunnels that snaked beneath the structures. It was like walking down a dark

throat to a stomach that still smelled of fermented grain. Large patches of the walls were still smeared black from where the fire had eaten them. Cut off from the outside world, I was left in the muffled thud of my footsteps and the excessive pounding sounds. Then something foul hit my nose, a putrid odor that changed the dark throat into a dark colon. I blew it out, clamping a hand over my mouth to keep from breathing it. My light flickered, burning away the shadows until it settled on a shape slumped against the wall. A man. His neck was drooped and hanging at a bent angle.

He was facing a room across from him, as though he had collapsed backwards out of it and into the wall. Judging by the blood behind his head, it was a nasty spill. The hoodie he wore was peppered with holes, and knife's handle still jutting out of one of them. Stab wounds, at least six of them. I realized then that the wretched odor I'd be able to. been smelling was coming from his bowels.

Just as I moved to check him for signs of life, a loud thud came from the room he sat across from, only this time it was punctuated by a resounding wet crunch. Hand on my sidearm, I leaned over my shoulder and glanced inside the room. It was pitch black, and within the dimness, a figure's arm rose and fell violently. Another sound echoed, the squelch of something organic. I veered around the corner, gun drawn and the flashlight scattering the darkness. Police, hands up! Something heavy hit the floor.

The figure drew back sharply and clamored away. A white face sheened with blood. The man whimpered, eyes bulging with panic. A piece of duct tape was noosed around one of his wrists. I ordered him to the ground. He didn't protest. Sprawled out between us was another man, a red, spongy ditch where his face should have been. Burts of blood still pulsed from the sagging folds. Bits of bone, teeth, and brain perforated

the floor. The left eye had been smashed into the nasal cavity, and resting next to its deformed figure was the murder weapon, a sizable chunk of stained concrete. I looked away. I had to leave. The need to vomit squeezed my gut but shrank back. It was for moments like these, in the raw grid of chaos, that we were trained to steal our nerves. Death was a part of the job, and even in quiet Colby, you witnessed all of its guises. Control the situation, my instructor used to say, Take a breath, put the thoughts somewhere else, board them off somewhere for a therapist to pry open.

I don't give a shit. Just get the job done. I moved past the corpse and cuffed the trembling man, reciting the Miranda as I frisked his pockets. Do you understand these rights? He said nothing. His gaze flat on the floor and hundreds of miles away. I hoisted him back to his feet and asked again, louder this time. Answer the question. Do you understand these rights?

They wanted me to make an angel. He murmured, the blood on his neck, not even his own, already drying into a flaky crust. A bright, shiny angel. Can you tell me what your name is? His eyes swiveled toward me, meshed in bright veins. Angels, angels, angels, that's... That's what they kept saying. I didn't want it. They were bad people. Drugs, maybe LSD or ketamine.

Something had to have been racing around his system, jumping up all the parts. That was typically the case for suspects like this, flashing in and out of coherence, like the devil himself were whispering sweet nothings in their ear. To make matters worse, the man had nothing on him, no license, no credentials, nothing to his name but the shirt on his back, sodden and redone. Red. Ten forty to dispatch, I've got a few bodies here at location Windsor Mill Grain Elevator. Possible homicide.

Suspect is in custody. Copy that. The voice crackled. Sending available units your way. I steered the man towards the exit, blocking out his deranged mutterings. At that point, I'd have given my left testicle for some fresh air. Then something caught my eye, a large circle inlaid with six concentriced rings. It looked like more than a mere tag, not sprayed, but smeared over the wall in a red,

waxy substance. Gray, chalky writings filled each ring that almost seemed to lean and spiral toward the circle's center. I couldn't come close to reading it. The writing was too jagged and obscured, like a cave drawing. A mild jitter rolled down my neck, which only worsened as I traced the walls, finding the This same sigil scrawled again and again. Cultish crests made up of celestial shapes.

A few empty jars lined the corner, one of them in shattered pieces. Something sprang into my peripheral, a fold of shadow snapping forward. I whipped the light toward it. A gray cat was poised at the entrance, the mouse it just caught still wriggling in its jaws. I kicked some dust at it, sending this scrawny thing bolting down the dark halls. But warning, the cuffed man lurched forward as if to vomit, ripping right out of my grasp. I went from my taser, fully expecting him to break for the exit. If only that was what happened.

Instead, he ran the length of the room, circling it over and over. After a good three or four times, his running slowed and altered into squirming wild fits, like a swarm of bees were smothering him. Considering his broken bulb of a mind, I wasn't that shocked. It was then, as a horrible scream rushed out of his throat, that I noticed something other than blood and shit in the air, something burning. Plumes of smoke had started to waft from his clothes. All at once, the trail of blue flames shot up his leg and lapped up his sides.

It happened so fast I barely had time to catch the flames unfurl across his chest. Within seconds, he was engulfed by them. The room flared up, spotlighting the copious sigils. and our large misshapen shadows. On the ground! Roll on the ground now! I shouted over the piercing echo of his agony. His lit, bony frame flailed about the room

until it smacked into the wall and flopped onto the floor, warming around wildly. Before I could move to stamp the flames out, they'd already risen to a sputtering thicket, a chorus of dying cells. Human smoke glazed the ceiling and gave rise to a slew of new sense,

fat frying on a stove. burning rubber and pennies coated in charcoal. Fumes smeared my face with sweat and prickled the inside of my throat. Flames guttered, feeding off the air around him and beneath him. His screams had changed into a guttural hiss. The sound of a tongue finally starting to sizzle. I needed an extinguisher, a bucket of water, a puddle of fucking piss, anything. Considering my options, I pawed for my gun and unholstered it.

At that rate, it was either let the poor bastard burn or put him out of his misery, already straining to make out the human shape within the blaze, I took aim, held my breath, and pulled the trigger. His body convulsed once from the first bullet and went limp after the second. I pried my eyes from the sight, realizing only then how much they hurt. There hadn't been any gas, no substance drenched over his clothes and no device in his pocket. It just happened. Poof.

I needed air. A moment to let my wits fall back into place. Then he started to move again. At first, I passed it off as his body curling into itself, like charring paper. No. The man rolled over, struggled to his knees, and stood back up. I was convinced the smoke had finally reached my brain and choked it. The man who had burned to death, the one whom I'd shot twice, was now standing ramrod

straight, staring back at me. His face was tight and blackened with an angry crust. Flakes of his own carbonized skin danced in the air. His now melted eyes ran down his cheeks and thick trails. What skin remained was falling apart like melting wax. Soft, sticky patches of his bones were exposed and browning into dull, rusty colors. But despite how charred his features were, I could still make out the whitest of smiles across his face. Head tilted, happy as a clam, as though blissfully unaware of the fire digesting him,

a smile unfit for humanity. Mad thoughts flashed through my mind, repeating the same words. An angel, a bright and shiny angel. The man's gnarled head cocked this way, and as though soaking up the room for the first time. No, I take that back. At that point, the shriveled, crusty face of the thing in front of me belonged to something else. It was eyeing me somehow, behind the brittle film that filled its empty sockets, a look of awareness. This wasn't a freak accident, not some trick of the light, but a transition. I could hear the disembodied voice of a narrator describe the scene. Watch carefully as it moves from one stage of its life cycle to the next, a beautiful metamorphosis.

Yes, that's what it was. New life. A sleeping god finally able to stir. I didn't feel the gun go off, but I knew I clicked the trigger three times, maybe more. The flames wobbled as the thing staggered back, several new holes now in its chest. Still, it did not drop that jovial smile. From behind, the handcuffs snapped as the chain link pulled feebly apart. Somewhere in my thoughts, a thin shriek resonated.

I expected a reaction from what I'd done, maybe even retaliation. Instead, the thing turned away from me and put its focus on the largest of the sigils at the back of the room. Drunkenly, it wobbled toward it. Black disintegrated clods that were once closed fell from its frame. When it reached the circle, I could only watch as it practically fell into it, went limp, and began to break apart. Layer by layer, its body crumpled and lost its structure into powdery fragments. A great heap of charcoal dust formed at its feet in mounds of black sand. As more of its shape collapsed, the flame slackened and continued to wither until both were no more.

The room once again returned to darkness. A voice chattered over the radio, only to join the faint frequency of my shock. I shined my light over the sigil, heat still radiating off it, and scarred over its center was the vague silhouette of a man left behind like an atomic shadow. On May 6, 2020, at approximately 0200 hours, a gray cargo van pulled off beside the road and parked on the north end of the Windsor Mill grain elevator. According to the camera feed, two mails left the vehicle, opened its rear, and dragged out a third unidentified male, appearing bound by.

some means. They proceeded to cut their way through the fence and enter the grounds. Both individuals were later identified as Peter and Elliot Molesley, brothers. After their arrival at approximately 0.2.45, I, Officer Tucker, was dispatched in reference to the disturbance. By the time I arrived on the scene and located both suspects, they had succumbed to severe injuries, one by several stab wounds, the other by a crushed skull from a slab of concrete. Both brothers were pronounced dead at the scene. A number of symbols were painted around the room, signifying some unknown ceremonial practices. It can be deduced that the third male broke free from his restraints and killed both men. I quickly secured the man, but was unable to question him, most likely due to

narcotics. Before I could bring him into custody, by some unknown means, he lit himself ablaze, perhaps by some sort of suicide. Suicide. That's what I called it in the report. It felt so wrong, a counterfeit truth I could swallow easier. And yet, it could not wall me off from the nightmares. Practically any lick of sleep I could get was jolted aside by the stink of burning hair or the sight of a man-shaped figure in the corner, smiling ever so widely.

I requested the body cam footage and showed it to a buddy of mine at the station. His response? A passive shoulder roll. The guy was hopped up on God knows what, of course. He couldn't feel his nerves melting. By that point, he was probably thinking, boy, it's stuffy in here. It's crazy what the shit out there can do to people, almost like it makes some superhuman or something.

I eyed him irritably. Would it also make them combust? He laughed. I didn't. I tried to convince myself he was right. I really did, but it was no use. In all this, there was a hole that kept growing deeper. As I put in the request for a lateral transfer, my paranoia only worsened.

I feared that whatever was inside that man, maybe something in the air, had also slipped into me, festering, waiting to ignite. The bright, shiny angel. Inevitably, I'd have to go back to that place if another trespassing happened, and God knows it would. Whenever that thought returned, the world around me only went grayer. The identity of the kidnapped man was still working its way through our system, so I looked into the brothers, Peter and Elliot Molesley.

No such luck. Both their records were clean. The two had made the drive from Colby from a small town near Colorado. I checked the history of the town, searching for any house fires, occult crimes, or calamities that struck the residents. What can I say? I was desperate. My search led me to an abandoned burned-down church that rested on the outskirts of the community.

Miniscule as it was, a lead was a lead. I honestly didn't think I'd find anything in the old, rotted woodwork and splintered flooring, but lo and behold, tucked away along the scorched outer wall, was the familiar faded shape of their sigil. The exact one I'd seen, it was hard to tell, but it almost looked as though the black smear of a hand had been streaked over it. About the symbols meaning, I was able to find someone who transcribed one of its rings using an old Hungarian alphabet system.

F-R-E-E-O-F-L-E-S-H. Free of flesh. I don't know how far I'll get into all of this, and frankly I'm terrified to keep going. What did it all mean? Were the others out there doing this to people? Was it happening now in another, for example? forgotten, burned-up place? Despite all my questions, one thing was certain to me.

In the dark halls of Windsor Mill, even the angels burned. It was gearing up to be a long night. The place was packed too deep with thirsty patrons, and our bar back was nowhere in sight. I wouldn't know it until hours later, but he had quit out of the blue, leaving me to manage the tides myself. The entrance to our pub was tucked away inside a bricked alleyway, marked with a marked with with a crooked street lamp. Beyond the frontage of oak and stained glass windows, the inside oozed with old-fashioned character. A western fireplace fitted with rod-iron pokers, rickety wooden

stools, dozens of triple-x whiskey water jugs hanging from the ceiling, and old-world goods for display on the dark shelf-lined walls. The perfect Old West backdrop for Taurus. That's how all seasons go in Vale, Colorado. When visitors weren't coming to freeze on the slopes, they came rolling in for the summer glamour, the velvety hills, and the smell of fireweed and creek water in the air. Stressful as it made my shift, and as much as I wanted to ring the bar back's neck for it, I was used to handling things on my own. It's how I cut my teeth in the bar trade, my right of passage, you might call it, multitasking

like a maniac, memorizing cocktail recipes, and answering the electrified calls of drunks, maybe a shot or two on the side to take the edge off. A few of my regulars were perched along the bar, a triad of glossy-lipped girls fresh in their college years. I can never remember their names, but I always remembered which of them tipped the best. As the three of them laughed noisily and shouted back and forth to each other, I was keeping an eye on the fellow two stools down from them. He strolled in just as they arrived and settled quickly at the bar.

What are you thinking, boss? I asked taking his order. Vodka, neat. He muttered with an inkling of drowsiness. Keep my tab open. His face matched the drink, a hard, marbled expression with nothing else mixed in, straight from the bottle to the glass. He wore a dark coat with a red cap, fighting to keep his ruffled hair from poking out.

A beard enveloped his mouth and dangled under his chin like that of a billy goat. He'd been eyeballing the girls for a while, and noticeably none of them cared for it, As two of the girls went to the restroom and one stayed behind, he took his chance. Busy as the night was, I couldn't help but watch him give it his best, a subtle gesture to her glass followed by a shake of her head, a little bit of chatter and another shake of her head. But goatbeard would not be swayed, and I heard him asking something along the lines of, "'Do you smoke?

Do you want to go out and smoke with me?' her entire body to convey the end of the conversation. Finally deterred, he left her alone and made his way around the tavern. Watching him rubber leg away over to the dartboards, I wished I had caught how drunk he was before pouring that last drink. He took a seat near a group of younger girls and watched their darts fly. Whenever one missed its mark or landed clear of the board, the boys, along with their new spectator, erupted with laughter.

He leaned back, teasing the chair or, on its last two legs and cackled loudly. Others looked over in curiosity and annoyance until even the jukebox tunes were second to the horsey laughter. The group of guys didn't seem to mind it. They even welcomed it, with one of them enthusiastically high-fiving him. But eventually, the obnoxious chortling wore its welcome, and the group made their way elsewhere. Goatbeard followed and asked one of the boys something, the one that initiated the high-five. Judging by him tapping a V-shape against his lips, it seemed like another request to go out and smoke. The boy shook his head, denying the offer.

Striking out twice, the man stumbled his way back to the bar and reclaimed his seat, hunching over like a brooding pall bunion. He seemed anxious, hands clenched and fingers trembling. Soon enough, his neck arched back up to me and hollered, Hey, another neat, bud. Sorry, man, I replied, bringing him a glass. glass of water. We're going to need you to slow down tonight.

He eyed the water and then blinked bullets at me. What? Betrayal crossed his fleecy face like I had spat on a long-lived kinship. I had one shot, bud. I ain't even drunk yet. Now pour me another, all right? No drunk liked to be 86, but such things were necessary in the world of adult babysitting. I shook my head at him.

Sorry, you have to sober up a bit. I'm not even drunk. He challenged me again, and then not even a second later, he slammed both palms on the table. Now take my fucking order! He grabbed the glass and doused me with the water I had poured for him. I signaled for our bouncer, who immediately made his way over and locked arms with the disturbance. Bastard! He yelled, digging his heels into the floor.

My money's good here! My money's good here! As he was dragged out and his screams dissipated, onlookers returned to their drinks and conversations. I wiped off the water as well as I was. I could and went back to work. It wasn't the first time I'd been swelled by an angry customer, and it most likely won't be the last. Ten minutes after the last call, we stopped serving drinks. Thirty minutes after that, we emptied the bar and closed. I counted the money to make sure the checkout was correct, and ran a cursory sweep over the place for any stragglers in the bathroom

or under the booths. The last thing we needed was a drunkard waking up in their own alcoholic Wonka Factory. The night air always tasted nicer after a long shift, especially if there wasn't the residue of vomit in the pavement or cigarettes in the air. I made the short walk to my car, parked in the spot reserved for on-duty bartenders. Half the parking lot was glazed in the fluorescent light of a street lamp, while the other half was covered in 4 a.m. blackness. As I fished the keys out of my pocket and opened the door, a ring of icy, steel.

steel pressed against the nape of my neck. Don't! A voice breathed from behind me as I reluctively tried to move away from it. From the window, I could make out the orange-dipped reflection of a man with a gun and a toughy beard. Okay, okay. I said quietly, my hands pitifully up in front of me. Take it easy.

I'll give you whatever you want. Shut up! Goatbeard grunted, digging the muzzle deeper into the scruff of my neck. Get in the car. I did as he told and gripped the wheel. He circled to the passenger door, found that it was locked, and tapped the gun against the glass. Sure, I could have jammed the keys into the ignition and whipped the car into a screeching reverse, but the short seconds to do that felt much slower than a bullet smashing first through the window,

then through my skull. I unlocked the door. He opened the door and seated himself. The snout of a firearm still marked on me. Start the car. The engine rumbled awake. Good. He grinned.

The light outside casting a grotesquely clear look of his sweaty pores. Something awful lingered in his breath. The foul musk of a rotten tooth. Now drive. The gravity of the situation hit me all at once. A blast of fear obliterating everything else out of my mind. My inside shook like the temperature had plummeted. I looked up at my own eyes in the rearview mirror.

What I saw was undiluted fear and desperation. Please. I whimpered. I'm sorry for what happened. I really am, man. Take the car. It's yours. I won't.

The hand holding the pistol slammed the dash. Drive! He screamed in an almost forlorn bellow. I dropped the gear shift into reverse as the car's backside turned and faced us toward the road. I shoved it to drive. Go west on the interstate. The man said, clicking in his seatbelt and gestured from me. me to do the same.

How ironic. Heading into the gloomy darkness of the westbound highway. We drove in silence for some time, during which the tight panic in my chest had shifted to a hot anger. All this for a drink? Really? All this for a goddamn drink. I dealt with angry drunks before.

Hell, I thought I dealt with the worst of them, but I'd see nothing like this. This guy was an entirely new level. He was bat-shit insane. I slipped a glance at him. His eyes were turned vaguely towards the road. I hated everything about him, his shape and my peripheral, the awful smells wafting off him, his oafish breathing through those whiskers. Where were we going?

What was going to happen when we get there? Whatever it was, I was running out of time. Hit the barrier, I thought, and grab the gun when it drops out of his hand. I was tempted, even commencing countdowns in my head, to start. swerve off the road and blindly grab at him in the chaos, I eyed the orange needle of the speedometer, fluttering over 70 miles per hour. Bad idea. This was not about to become a scene in an action flick for the unscathed hero. It was real life, and in real life bodies hesitate, fingers pulled triggers, and both people die in a fiery car crash.

Where are you taking me? I finally asked, breaking the silence. Instead of response, I caught the dim, grubby shape of his profile as he flicked open a lighter. Cigarette smoke wafted out of the modelled formations of his face. No open window for it to escape. I guess he'd finally found someone to smoke with. He instructed me to take the next exit and to merge on Highway 24 to follow the mountainside. At one point, a set of headlights came from the opposite direction. I pushed on the accelerator, bringing the needle up to an illegal 90,

praying that it happened to be a cop ready to have us pulled over. My passenger didn't seem to notice the gradual rise in speed. As the car shot right by us, it was unfortunately a sedan, probably heading home to a safe, warm bed, a place I should be right now. A wet belt slide out of him, and he sucked it back in. Digested alcohol now joined the smell of cigarette tar and a decaying tooth. I prayed for him to vomit and for the vomit to clog up his three. wrote and turn his face blue. What did he want?

To kill me? To demand a ransom for me? My head ached with the possibilities. There had to be something I could do to get us out of this. My son's birthday is next week. I lied, hoping some form of that would reach the sliver of humanity floating around him somewhere. He exhaled a puff of smoke, and that was all.

I kept pushing. He wanted one of those small cars, the one you have to build the plastic track for and everything. we're going to have a surprise party for him. Slow down. He blurted, signaling to an upcoming side road. Turn here. As the road became a sea-shaped flank along the mountain, the turnoff practically came out of nowhere. Ahead of us, a large metal gate meant to block off the path had been left wide open.

Someone had taken a pair of bulk cutters to the padlocks securing it. Hanging off its side, a sign read in bold letters. trespassers will be prosecuted. The road twisted into an aspen-lined path and became much grittier and less camped. Loose rocky debris crunched under the tires, and a stray branch snapped like a femur bone. We maneuvered around a few large stones that had tumbled their way along the track. Houses clad in deformed shingles and decrepit, sagging porches formed out of the darkness around us. Their walls had either crumbled entirely or were co-oiced.

in elaborate graffiti, run down, abandoned. The old neighborhood sat in terrace-like rows along the mountainside, now left to slump along its incline, a ghost town, one of the many that littered Colorado's terrain. Do you know this place? Goatbeard asked, surveying the deserted homes himself. I'll give you a clue. Silver boom in the 1800s, once at the dead center of all zinc and lead mining productions. Then, anyway.

I wasn't interested in answering him, and in response to my silence, he shook his rugged head. Gilman, come on, but you don't know your own state's history. The sudden shift in his tone irked me greatly, like this kidnapping had become a friendly outing together. Fuck you! My thoughts grunted. Without being prompted, Goatbeard continued.

In 1890, half the mining town was wiped out. The school, the iron mask hotel, the shaft house. House, poof, he flexed his fingers, all lost to the fire. Why are you telling me this? His drunken eyes found me again. Do you know what the townsfolk did? They came together and rebuilt what was lost, made it better, a tragedy made into a communion. Do you know what I mean?

I didn't answer. Forest fires, those are tragedies, right? Wrong. They clear out the dead litter, make room for new generations of growth, thriving in the ashes. That's what we need, you know? That is what this cold fucking world needs. He was slurring to himself more than to me now. Men, women, and everyone out there praise to some distant God, crying for the angels to fly down and save us. But he is out of angels to send. So we must abide. We must make them. His gaze shifted, a bent smile forming

in the scruff. Thank you. He almost wept. Thank you for making me choose you. Truly, it was the sudden giddiness in his voice that scared me the most. Like the very reason he drank himself half to death tonight had finally been resolved. The neighborhood led us to a town area where we passed by an old workshop and two Gilman dump trucks, their sides plastered with ancient mud. From out of the cracks, weeds had pushed their way through the untended turf.

We're here, stop. Goatbeard snapped as he rolled down the window to flick out a cigarette. We came to a stop before a large, boxy building. Though it was one of the many paint-flaking fossils surrounding us, this structure looked especially dismal. Its once white coat was murky with age. The few windows that weren't clouded with grime were entirely blown out, their bits of glass shimmering like teeth in the moonlight.

More graffiti lined its base. in one of which sat the gray outline of a cat, and sprouting atop the structure's roof, sat a single cracked chimney. Shut it off! Goatbeard ordered again, gesturing obnoxiously toward my keys, and then grabbing them as I did so. Out of the building's dark entryway, a silhouette came. My insides rippled with fear at the sight. This was it, the end of our journey together.

Of course, this would be the perfect place to make me disappear. Nobody would know, and even if someone found me, they'd only stumble upon my corpse, rotting like everything else in this toxic place. I was done playing ball. This was going to end my way, not theirs. As Beardgoe moved to open his side of the car, I snatched at his guns. My fingers locked around his wrist and jerked to the side to spin the barrel away from me, but his grip maintained locked tight around it. I yanked again, harder this time, using whatever leverage I could. muster in the tight little space we were in. The parts of his face still visible to me were

screwed with anger. Son of a bitch! He screamed trying to wrestle my hand off of him, growling like an angry dog. My thoughts were loud, screaming in a unified chorus. Take it, take it, take it, take it. That's all I cared about. All I wanted in the world. To take it meant the end of this horrible night, to live through it. I pried desperately at his grubby fingers, feeling them starting to break their hold. As from out of nowhere, a calloused fist struck my face. Pressure filled the inside of my cheek and made it clench. His free hand struck again, even harder this time. My head flopped back, but my hands only clutched tighter. Then there was a sound behind me, and a pair of hands ripped me

right out of the driver's seat. The underside of my legs scraped painfully across the gravel, and before everything stopped spinning, I was pinned on my stomach. A broad knee dug between my shoulder, Something looped around my wrists and then bit into them as tight bracelets. Zip ties. Easy, easy guy. A new voice spoke, infuriatingly calm. I heard the passenger's side close as goatbeard bustled over to join whoever had a hold of me. I spat and cursed at them, feeling sharp bits of grit push into my cheek.

He's a troublemaker. Goatbeard jeered, hawking a gob of mucus on me. My teeth ached and the blood was rushing to my left cheek. probably swelling like a balloon. Without warning, the two men yanked me up to my knees, crammed something into my mouth, and slapped a streak of duct tape over my lips. That'll put a muzzle on him.

Goatbeard chuckled, proud of himself. The man who had pushed his fingers into my mouth nodded. He was much taller, with a bristled, frosty chin, and a nose permanently bent to the side. Listen, he spoke with that collected voice. If you keep causing trouble, I'll have to take this. He held up a knife and pressed it up to my groin. And unsip your sack, so behave, huh?

I stopped struggling at the side of it. Whatever they'd just shoved in my mouth rolled along my tongue. It felt like a tablet, some kind of drug maybe. In no way was I going to swallow it, but that wouldn't stop it from dissolving anyway. We need to hurry. Goatbeard mumbled, to which bent nose nodded and led me into the wrecked building. Inside, they walked me down a short, cramped hallway. The air I had to force in and out of my nostrils was stale and feverishly thick.

Mold had built up and crawled down the hall from the ceiling, trailing along the cracks. The interior in the room we entered resembled a kind of workshop, somewhat lit by a flashlight propped up on a table. In its beam, someone else had their back to us, a hunching figure with a vainy bald head and a rawhide coat that hung off his wiry frame. He was dipping his fingers into what looked like a jar and smearing it in oval strokes on the wall, humming a hymn while he did so.

Piled along the left flank of the wall were heaps of worn medical equipment, pushed aside and left in a dusty pile. Paper and negatives from an x-ray were littered all over the floor. This was a hospital, or at least something along the lines of one. Behind the mound of grimy equipment, a woman was hunched against the wall. Her dark eyes peered up from the duct tape, cheeks creased with eye shadow, and her face sagging with the weight of hopelessness.

As our eyes met, neither found comfort in the other. I felt the urge to gag as the thing in my mouth melted into a bitter glaze. It tasted horrible. Are we ready? Goatbeard asked from behind me. His gun pressed firmly into my spine. Almost. Skinny replied, turning his pointy face towards us before returning to the thing he was creating.

His wide eyes held a fierce intensity behind them. Bent nose joined him, grabbing a jar of his own and streaking the same circled pattern over the next half of the room. Dozens were on the walls, large red circles filled with six inner rings, grayish chalky riding had been scribbled into them. Not words at all, but layers upon layers of gibberish. all winding toward the sphere's center. They seemed like sigils, like ones you might find in a cult.

That explained goatbeard's crazy speak, but what was this really? My captors didn't strike me as cultists with robes and hidden hooded faces. There were more gang of scruffy misfits showing off their toys. I looked at the woman. Her eyes had gone somewhere, swaying and wobbling around the room. Muffled droning sounds buzzed behind the duct tape. She was on something. Probably the same thing they force-fed me to keep us muzzled.

All right. Skinny spoke excitedly, clapping his spattered hands. Who should we start with? Her, Bent nose spoke, gesturing to the girl who continued to sway and teeter in her corner. Skinny looked at the woman and then blinked back at him with irritation. What are you doing? Where are her restraints?

Bent nose scoffed at him. She's high as a kite. Wouldn't even notice a fly on her face right now. right now. That isn't the point!" Skinny snapped. Do you want this to end up like the Mosley's? Think!

Musing on that, bent nose fastened the cables over her wrists and yanked her off the ground, her bare feet dragging along the floor. As she was laid in the center of the room, she rested whimsically on her back. He ripped the duct tape from her mouth before leaving her there. A pause fell over the room, and then the men began to chant in unison. It swelled from their throats, pulling straight from the chest. and meshing together into a low, prolonged baritone. In the poor acoustics of the room, their voices bounced off the stained walls, gaining more volume with an unmistakable, deep, powerful devotion.

Between their vocals, Skinny spoke out, straining his lungs into some gravel throat language. I was starting to feel clammy and prickly all over the place. My mind focused on breathing, sucking in the awful fumes around me of body odor and decay. As my heart pumped frantically, I tried to focus on its rhythm, tried to ignore the sounds of vibrating vocal cords rumbling my ears. I forced down a swallow and breathed. The drug couldn't be affecting me now, could it? This quickly?

The walls around us didn't feel like walls anymore, but massive slabs of canvas coated in waxy circles. Awful art. Horrible, awful art. The voices rose, heaving out their vocals. Even louder. My leg muscles squeezed together, then relaxed, like taffy being rolled and stretched from a machine.

I wanted to sit down, to sit down and breathe, but as I started to drift downward, goatbeard forcibly hoisted me back up again. I'd forgotten he was there. Are you feeling it? Are you feeling the good shit yet? His words trickled with them a warm, rotten breath. Whatever harness keeping my thoughts together was loosening. I wanted to squeeze into one.

of the cracks around us, to sleep and to make the bad world go away. The walls started to move, puffing in and out in perfect tandem with my squeezing chest. In, out, in, out. Even the sigils moved, shivering their waxy bodies with a dark course. Within them, the chalky figures danced and wriggled with such life. I almost believed they each had their own pulse. That was when I saw the fire. They clawed over her, starting as a bluish ripple but quickly flared into a bright, savage red.

Even as the burst of heat rolled over my face, I didn't think it was real. The men hadn't ignited her or doused her in anything or even flicked a match. A hallucination. That's it. I'm hallucinating. My mind pleaded, trying to grasp its last fibers of that harness. But the sound of her screaming was what made it real. She bucked and writhed beneath the flames, crying out for any of us to help her.

Smoke burrowed into my nostrils and bristled the back of my throat. I reched emptily into the duct tape and tried to pull away only to be forced back toward her. Watch! Goatbeard hissed, only stopping his chance to whisper into my ear. Watch the angel shine. I could smell her hair burning, her skin roasting. Faces appeared around her, forming with the blade. and then in the same instant, rippled into the smog.

She screamed until her throat split and her echoes fell to a dry, breathless yow. The ties bounding her hands had finally snapped and released them to flail helplessly about. All the while, the strident chance continued, feeding the inferno as it spat more pieces of her into the air. They sang, they cheered, and as their shadows throbbed up and down the walls, I could swear those changed as well. Oily shapes with bodies contorted and torturously stretched into things not even remotely human. Skinny stood closest to the burning woman. Both hands raised in sadistic glee over their living kindle. Just another man outside these walls, but here in the firelight,

he looked like the devil. Psychopaths, monsters. I fought in goatbeard's grip, jerking my head back to break his nose, kicking my feet backwards towards. His knees, I couldn't stomach anymore. Something blunt struck the back of my head. I keeled over onto my knees. Even in a drugged-up days, the static spreading around my skull told me I'd just been pistol-wipped. The last of the strange cries finally crept from the woman's throat as she succumbed to a crackling silence.

I thought she was finally gone, prayed for it even. However, she convulsed once more, turning her stomach up and letting her head hang downward, now looking at me. I saw her face clearly. Her skin resurfaced with blisters and curling raw patches, her nose a molten stump of white searing tissue, and the last remnants of her hair coiling against a ruined scalp. Then her lips, which had dried to thin scabs, suddenly parted. I expected another hellish scream to empty out of her, but it was something else.

A warped laugh, only possible with a throat full of charcoal, laughing hysterically in an upside-down premise. Though no eyes were left in her sockets, I could feel their gaze swallow me up. Stop! I whimpered internally. Please stop looking at me! Her suffering had ended, but something different had taken its place, clawing its way out of the burn. The laughing seized as she struggled back to her feet, standing tall in the lashing flames.

Fragments of clothing hung from her grizzled frame fused to the skin. The course of men had stopped as they backed away from her, like lion-tamers who had suddenly lost their whips. She seemed to pay them no mind as her neck slowly swiveled around the room, eyeing up each of the hastily smeared sigils. Her heels scraped against the floor as she chose one of them and gradually shambled toward it. Upon reaching the first crest, her body collapsed forward, a skull rendering crumbed. crunch resounded from the impact and left her limply against it. Pieces of her torso, followed by everything else, began to fall away from her, dispersing in blackened particles.

The flame shrank and sputtered as more of her body broke down into fine-grained piles around her. Before long she had succumbed to nothingness, a vague smear of her existence marred into the wall. As the last of the embers fizzled in their ashes, the room returned to its heavy darkness. "'Beautiful!' Skinny cheered, looking like he'd just wiped away a tear, though it was probably to rub the sweat off his face. Those wide, intense eyes traveled to me.

"'One down, one to go!' I looked once more at the crest on the wall, smothered by the leftover shape of a woman. Then I was on the ground staring up at the ceiling. They'd left me in the same spot, peppered with her ashes. Beneath me, the scorched floor burned against my spine. Goatbeard smiled as he tore the duct tape from my mouth. Why?

So they could hear me scream next? My limbs had jellied into uselessness, maybe from the fear or maybe from whatever God-forsaken substance they'd forced into my system. Tears welled up in my eyes. I thought about my parents' faces and the last time I'd seen them. I thought about my first bar gig and how many times I had messed up the mix. but was rasped short by how raw it had become. I didn't want to die.

Not here. Not in this demonic place. When the chanting started again, I squeezed the tears shut and prayed for my nerves to burn quickly. Then the sound stopped. Silence stilled the room, save for a few scraping feet. What was that? Bent nose spoke. You hear that?

I'll go check it out. Skinny ordered as a set of shoes pattered out of the room. A few anxious mumbles passed between him and goatbeard until a flurry of shouts rang from the hallway. Both of them beat past me and ran toward the disturbance. Something surged through my body, an electricity which kicked my limbs from their paralysis and back to working order. I pulled my upper half from the ground and into a sitting position. Once my feet were under me, I got myself back to standing.

Just being vertical again filled me with absolute joy. The sound from outside came as increasingly. coherent barks from the hall until they were silenced by a loud crack, then two more in its place. Gunshots. I pulled my arms below my body and carefully lifted one leg at a time over my wrist, bringing them back to the front of me. After that, I brought both over my head and threw them down into my stomach. The ties didn't break.

I tried again, raising them as high as I could. Break, you bastards! And slam them down even harder. The locking mechanism snapped. finally freeing my hands. From behind the thin walls, shuffling movements registered from the outside. My ear! A voice bellowed, sounding very much like goatbeard's slurred speech.

It's got my fucking ear! Car doors opened and closed as an engine revved to life and an accelerator was depressed. They sped off, retreating from something. As I twisted myself toward the exit, a man was now standing there. His gun pointed at me. Stay away! I screamed haggardly at me. him.

Stay the hell away from me. Take it easy. I'm not one of them. The man said, lowering his weapon, a whole new face in the fray. We stood at an impasse inside the acrid, unlit room. I wanted to believe he was my rescue, but my nerves were shot. The fact that things around me hadn't stopped moving didn't help. His eyes scanned the workshop and settled on the human-shaped scar on the wall.

A look of familiarity tensed his features. Do you know where you are right now? Were you forced to come here? Please. I breathed. Just let me get out of this place. He nodded in agreement and led the way through the narrow hallway. The fresh night air prickled down my throat and coughed back out of me.

I bent over and reched into the ground. The ashes were all over me, on my clothes, in my hair. The stranger retreated from me, almost like he was expecting something to suddenly happen. When nothing did, he cautiously drew closer. My name's Tucker. Can you tell me yours? Peter, I responded, blowing the remaining spittle off my lips. Are you a cop?

I used to be. He itched the back of his neck, then continued. I need you to tell me everything that happened here, Peter. Everything that you can remember. Can you do that for me? I looked up at him and rubbed the imprints dented into my wrist. You aren't going to believe any of it. The ex-officer then smiled.

Try me.