The Dark Somnium - These are The Darkest Paranormal Experiences I've ever had

Episode Date: September 23, 2025

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I've never really considered myself to be much of an explorer or a particularly brave man. However, that hasn't seemed to stop me from getting into the predicament I'm in now. It was around three months ago that my girlfriend of four years left me for another man, and she really was the last tether keeping me grounded to any semblance of a social life. Don't get me wrong, I have friends that I love to see, but most live across the metroplex, about an hour's drive, so it's a rare day when I make the effort to drive out there, and even more rare to have them drive out to see me. Over the past three months, I've gone through most of the stages of a breakup, sorrow,

self-pity, hopelessness, and anger, but after taking a look at myself, I decided there were a few things I could improve, and although I'm not in a particularly bad shape, I wanted to to sculpt my physique to something more attractive to women. This is a problem as I'm a fairly lazy man. Not everything in my life has been handed to me, but I've learned to put the least amount of effort into any and all activities as possible. So, rather than buying a gym membership and taking the five-minute drive down the road, I decided I'd simply build myself a home workout center and do some ab blasting in my apartment.

I only recently moved into this place about a month before my ex left me, sharing a two-bedroom with absolutely no one. It lies in the far corner of the complex on the second story, and the balcony gives me an excellent view of the enormous soccer fields in the woods beyond that. The only problem is that the landlady lives underneath me, and I learned fairly quickly that the whole home gym setup was a bust, as almost immediately, when doing reps with the weights I bought, I heard the crotchety woman banging on the floor with the floor. with a broom handle, commanding me to keep it down.

As irritating as it was walking on eggshells all the time, I suppose it was understandable. So I opted to cut corners some other way. And rather than doing the smart thing and hitting the gym, my eyes turned to the vast fields at my very doorstep. The fields were simply massive, stretching back several hundred yards, surrounded by dense woodland on all sides, other than the front which faced my apartment, and the equal, the equal large parking lot, which was sunken in such a way as to be unseen from the main road that led to it.

It was October when I first checked out the fields. I live in Texas, so it doesn't get cold here until December, if at all. So I had plenty of time to get familiar with the area before winter hit. I only went at night, preferably past midnight or even 1 a.m. When the large floodlights were shut down and all the late night teenagers were done with their shenanigans. I would slip through the decrepit fence that shoddly guarded my apartment and disappear into the night.

And during this time, I felt amazing, completely uninhibited and alone, just the way I liked it. I would bring out my weights, due laps around the field, and heck, I even brought a few buddies out there once or twice to have some drinks and play soccer once it had cleared out. And although I will admit going out there in the pitch black alone with nothing but the moonlight, could be slightly unnerving at times, it was far better than the alternative, at least at first. As my isolation grew, my sleep schedule strayed from the norm, and it wasn't long before I found

myself awake at odd hours of the night. Even now, I'm recording this at 2 a.m., and about a week ago was a particularly rough one. After fruitlessly lying in bed for almost an hour, and not even feeling my eyelids flutter once, I realized my efforts to fall asleep were futile, and I found myself crawling out of bed at one in the morning. It's strange. Many of the times I find myself drawn to the field, it's almost as if I'm not in control

of my body, or even my own thoughts. And as I threw on a jacket in preparation for the chilly embrace outside, I glanced outside my bedroom window, finding to my bemusement that the floodlights in the field were still on. As it was so late, I figured one of the workers must have forgot to turn off the lights for the night, and initially thought little of it. Grabbed my phone and headed outside. I was feeling strangely courageous that night, confidently strutting out onto the barren field, dropping off my shirt and jackets near the edge, feeling like the biggest man in the

world, and after putting on some music on my phone, I headed to the center of the wasteland, halfway expecting to see someone out there waiting for me. The overpowering luminescence of the floodlights, combined with the sharp contrast of the utter and complete darkness of the forest encompassing it, made for an odd sensation indeed, but I still found myself walking to the center of the field and simply observing my surroundings. In the darkness, in the early hours of the morning, it is easy for one's mind to play tricks on them, and it was not uncommon for me in the past to do a double take over my shoulder whenever I thought I saw a shadow sprinting through the night, only to see a harmless flag or feel

a wave of fear crawl up my spine when I heard the rustling behind me, only to discover a plastic bag in the breeze. But this night felt different. The glaring light casts long dark shadows across the field, and as I marched around, cold and alone, with only David Bowie blaring from my phone to keep me company, I felt remarkably uncomfortable. kicking a soccer ball around the field for less than five minutes, a strong gust of wind hit my shirtless body, leaving me shuddering involuntarily, but this was met by a loud clanging

sound of metal on metal from the woods at the edge of the field, which halted my shuddering almost immediately as I stood still as a statue, with goosebumps quickly forming up my arms. As I mentioned, it was not uncommon for there to be noises around the field, even at night, and I quickly rationalized that the wind had knocked something against a large metal garbage can at the edge of the field. And I continued with my workout, still in the zone, but alert. David Bowie abruptly shut off, jarring me into glancing at my phone. Damn it!

I thought out loud. The battery had died. That's when I heard the clanging noise again, and my head snapped back towards where I perceived the noise to have originated from. I waited several seconds. No win this time. For those who don't know, in a large field like, I was not just a large field like, I was not a In a large field like this, it's nearly impossible to pinpoint just where a noise is coming

from because of the effect echoes can have in such a wide, unobstructed space. But I had the distinct feeling it was not coming from the garbage can at the other end of the field. I had enough fun for the night. Without glancing back, I put my phone in my pocket and started jogging away from the center of the field and back towards the hole in the fence that led directly to my apartment. And that's when it happened. The floodlights went out.

I kid you not, every single one of the lights turned off instantly. Here I was, damn near naked, eyes watering from the cold and goose bumps covering every inch of my body when darkness took the field. That's when my jog turned into a sprint. I felt exposed, alone, and so vulnerable. I'm not a feeble or cowardly man, but I knew anyone or anything out there messing with me so late at night had to have been crazier than I was. I still had about a hundred yards to run when I glanced behind me.

I don't know whether to be grateful or terrified that I saw nothing in the shadows of the night, but either way I ran harder and faster than I had in a long time. My terror was so severe, I completely forgot to grab my shirt or jacket, both of which were Christmas presents, but immediate relief overtook me once I entered the premise of the complex, freezing through the broken fence, racing up the stairs and slamming and locking the door behind me. Breathing heavily, I stumbled over to the kitchen table, my legs and lungs both burning with a white-hot pain. I was shaken, but I was all right.

I threw on a shirt, almost completely forgetting about the one I left behind, and started to boil some water for tea when I knew I could finally relax. And that's when I heard it. Three knocks on my door. front door at two in the morning. Law enforcement, that was the first thought I had. They had finally busted me for trespassing all those times, but I figured if I had just calmly explained myself, maybe they'd let me off with a warning.

I walked over to my door and grabbed my door knob, but something stopped me from turning and pulling it open. Instead, I lowered my eye to the circular peephole in the door, figuring I might as well see who it was before I opened. I shakily backed away from the door, with goosebumps immediately re-emerging on my arms and neck, as the familiar sensation of dread radiated throughout my body. I glanced at the door to make sure it was locked, and for good measure I ran up and threw on the deadbolt when a second series of thumps reverberated throughout my small apartment.

My view of the people had been completely black, meaning someone had covered it for a reason that God only knew, but it couldn't have been good. I went out to get my jacket and shirt the next day, when the sun was high in the sky, bringing some semblance of warmth and order to the world. The field was full of parents and kids happily playing soccer, but my articles were gone, along with any sign that anyone or anything was even out there the night before. That was five days ago, and every night since the lights in the field have remained on until 2 a.m. without fail.

And every single night at the same time, I hear that metallic clanging in the field. field, whether there be wind or not, followed soon after by that familiar thudding at my door. I suppose going directly to my apartment immediately after was a poor choice, as now whatever's out there in that field knows who I am and where I live. I don't know what to do. I think maybe I should move back in with my parents. I don't know.

I need to get away and I... I'm terrified. It was this morning that really sent me over the end. edge. I opened my door at 8 a.m. in order to head to work when I nearly stepped on something. I picked up the ragged piece of cloth apprehensively, thinking it might be the garment of some homeless vagrant when it dawned on me. Although horribly mutilated and torn into shreds, it was still recognizable.

I dropped the cloth in horror. It was my jacket. Even now, as I record this, I regret to inform you. I hear it. The house sat empty at the top of the hill. Its security lights were a beacon in the night, like a lighthouse alone in the mist, warning ships away from the kiss of sharp shores. The closest neighbor was further away than a man could throw a rock, a fact that didn't

appear to be a coincidence. Inside its smooth walls, gray hardwood spread out across an expansive single floor. The leather furniture decorating the space and looked like someone's idea of a futuristic catchers mitt and felt half as cozy, chosen, as was the case for much of the house, for color more than comfort. Doubly so for the tank of tropical fish that shimmered against the far accent wall. Its forty-odd gallons of water sparkled in the dark, cared for by a professional who came out to the house on alternating Tuesdays.

Overhead spotlights clicked to life. They were triggered by the abrupt opening of the heavy front door. A burst of cold air was followed into the house by Douglas, the owner. He shut the door just as quickly as it had swung open. His gray, unblinking eyes flecked with bits of blue. Three hard clacks in the door was locked. Four beeps and the alarm system was activated. In the kitchen, Douglas stood at the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of water,

drinking it down in one gulp. Then did the same with a scotch. He was thirsty and had been for some time. nerves were on fire and needed extinguishing. After another scotch, this one over ice, he drew the blinds and ran the shower until the mirror couldn't be seen. Then he undressed and stepped in. Under the hot water, Douglas needed his sore neck like a baker working a tough batch of dough. Three days now it had been stiff, three days of limited movement, of waking in the mornings with a cry. The rub helped, but he knew within 20 minutes of getting out of the shower,

his neck would be back to the way it had been before. A masseuse was in order, he thought to himself. One of those cute girls he always passed by at the gym. The thought alone was enough to relax him. The little hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up. He felt the unmistakable presence of a man standing just behind him. He rubbed the water from his eyes to catch the intruder in the act, ready to pounce on him in a commotion of fists, but he was alone in the steamy shower.

And though the feeling faded, the longer he kept his eyes open, Douglas swore he could feel subtle changes in the direction of the air. Shifts so slight they didn't even move the shower curtain. Almost like breathing, yet soundless and cold. Ready for bed. Douglas turned off all of the lights in the house. As he went from room to room, he checked the windows to make sure they were locked properly, noting with some comfort the wires of the house's alarm system.

He had settled into a decent state after two large scotches in a hot shower, and he looked forward to a good night's sleep for a change. He crept into the bedroom, slipped between the cool covers, and let his eyes close of their own accord. The house was quiet, secure. A few odd moments in the shower notwithstanding, Douglas felt the closest to content he could expect. Already the silken kiss of sleep was swallowing him down, like sinking into the warm sap A thousand billowing trees.

Taste like soft. A whisper in his ear. He jolted awake at the man's voice. With it the sensation of breath on his face. A moment later came the loud bang of something hitting his bedroom window from the outside. First the impact, then the shimmy of glass dancing in its frame. It sounded like a fist had pounded at the window. He threw the covers off and jumped out of bed, looked around the room for whoever had whispered

to him. Once he was sure he was alone, he yanked the curate. The curtains open. No one. Just his front yard. A hill which sloped down to the empty street. All of it blanketed in yellow-white moonlight. Douglas leaned in close to look under the window.

Possibly the trespasser had ducked down and was hiding against the house tucked in behind the azaleas. A blackbird twitched in the grass. Its wings flapped in erratic rhythm and its legs were too hardened sticks. looked for and found a sign that the bird had hit his window. An impression of the animal's shape had been left behind. A fine silhouette rendered in dust. The body at the center and two feathery wings spread outward. The bird continued to twitch in the grass until the movement slowed. Its solid, black eyes finally drained of sight, left to stare unfocused

into the sky. Douglas watched the bird die. Then he returned to bed. Autumn's son slept behind a coat of clouds. Meanwhile, some people had to work. Douglas stood at the water cooler down the hall from his office, repeatedly refilling and draining a cone-shaped paper cup. He was still thirsty despite a good night's sleep. Each time he drank, he watched the bubbles rise up from somewhere unseen and wobble to the top of the water jug.

The sight was hypnotic. At some point, he lost the need to blink. Hey, what happened to you, Friday? Nicholas looked up from the dancing bubbles. Peter, from marketing, had walked into the break room unnoticed, and was eyeing Douglas with light contempt. What? You were supposed to meet us at McSweeney's.

Peter explained. For drinks? On Friday? Oh, sorry about that. Douglas managed. As much as he tried to think of an excuse for not going, he couldn't come up with anything sufficient. It said you should worry about.

You know he likes the whole team, socializing, kiss the boss's ass thing. If you keep no-showing, he'll rethink. Think the promotion." Douglas nodded distantly. He raised his paper cup. Does this water taste funny to you? I don't drink water. I drink coffee like God intended.

With that, Peter left the break room and resumed his blonde life. Douglas filled his cup and finished it one more time, doing his best to pin down the familiar taste. Back in his office, he tried to lose himself in work. He became absorbed by emails and faxes and reports, but he found himself un-you-you-lawful. unable to commit fully to the moment, fighting the feeling that someone was looking over his shoulder, checking his progress before he made any. More than once, he typed out a word only to delete it, then re-type it exactly as it

originally appeared. The second guessing put him on edge. Eventually, he gave up the idea of completing the task altogether. He sat back in his chair, rubbed his ears, smoothed his tie, and surveyed the battlefield. glided past his doorway. Somewhere down the hall, a fluorescent bulb sounded out its electric death rattle. On his desk, facing the empty chair opposite him, was a nameplate some grateful client had bought him a few years back. He rarely looked at it anymore, as was the case for any non-functional object that sat on his desk for more than a month. He leaned forward and spun the

nameplate to read the inscription. The thin strip of horizontal metal was engraved with his name. Douglas, first name only, and underneath it in smaller font, it gave the origin of the name. From the Scottish surname, Dubglis, it read, meaning Dark River, Douglas grimaced. He put the nameplate back where he'd found it, this time faced down. Two hours later, after further failed attempts to accomplish something, he left for the day. As he crossed the parking lot, one of his coworkers had her back against her red import with the cigarette burning between her lips.

Hey Doug, you got a new car? Um, it's Doug, and it's a loner. He replied, not bothering to explain himself any further. She watched him pull out of the parking lot and toward the setting sun. She took another long drag of peppermint smoke and wondered what Ed ever saw on him. Douglas drove. Occasionally he chewed his thumbnail or checked the radio for a good song, but every sound that came out of the speakers grated on him until he decided he no longer liked

music. Meanwhile, the dealership mechanic's voice echoed in his crowded head. That must have been some dear, the man had said, rubbing his gray palms together as he inspected the damage. A flash of scared eyes crossed Douglas's mind. Deep points of tear-pooled black. He had said nothing to the man, simply left him to his work. As the night kicked in like a bad pill, he drove past the river which intertwined through the large stretch of land outside the city. It had always served as a checkpoint in his commute, one of the tell-tale signs of leaving the throngs behind, those streets packed with the rude and the uncaring.

Now. Now it signaled something else entirely. The light of a thousand stars above was snuffed out in its cold waters. He put his foot down on the accelerator and tried to pass the river without making eye contact. A few minutes later he entered the tunnel which cut beneath the river. It was a hole in the earth, 1,300 feet long and 80 feet below the water's surface. The passage was made of steel arches, sprayed with concrete and covered by brick. And though it did much for the city and its people, it was a generally unappreciated addition

to its history. The tunnel's public perception had been marred early on when a portion of it flooded during construction, killing three men and injuring another. The accident caused a political outcry when it came to light that the company building had cut corners in order to win the cheapest bid. Although that incident had occurred many years earlier, long before Douglas was born, he shared a distaste for that part of his commute. He had never in his life enjoyed being underground, believed it to be unnatural, and he defended

the stance to anyone who would hear it. There were signs up today warning of construction, a common sight, and, sure enough, as he rounded the bend at the halfway point, he spied flashing lights, reflect. against the wall, followed by beastly, yellow, and white vehicles, and finally, men in reflective coats. One of the larger men held up a sign to the drivers which read, Slow, letting the car slip past one at a time as he glanced mechanically over his shoulder at one of the construction vehicles backing into place. Just as Douglas was about to make his own pass, the man flipped his sign around to say, stop.

Come on! Douglas sighed. The heavy man made his way to the side of the car and signaled for Douglas to lower the window. Only take a minute, the man declared. You can't let me pass? He bunched up his thick face and blew out air. That's what the last guy said, the guy before that, and the guy before that. What if I gave you 20 bucks? Sorry, bud, the tunnel's gotta be fixed.

Eventually someone suffers. He turned and reclaimed his spot, watching the vehicle back up as he half-heartedly held up his sign. In the rear view, Douglas noticed there wasn't a single car behind him. He and he alone would have to wait for life to resume. He settled into his seat and watched his tax dollars work against him, though he refused to put the car into park. Somehow, it meant giving up.

A minute later, he gave up. He put the car into park and checked his phone. No service. Thirty seconds after that, the lights went out. A loud buzz echoed through the tunnel. A buildup of static turned inside out and amplified. Then, the two strips of white lights on either wall near the ceiling snuffed out. The construction crew's generators followed suit, plunging the tunnel and everyone in

it into a black as thick as paint. Men shouted in the shadows, and Douglas felt his stomach drop into his pelvis. His fear of a living grave come true. The complete darkness only lasted a few seconds. Yellow emergency lights, small and round, were mounted on the tunnel's ceiling every 50 feet, lending the tunnel their solo glow. Workers toiled in the faint light, trying to restore power to the tunnel. He felt it again.

A presence just behind him. Douglas shut his eyes. He squeezed them so tightly he saw fireworks behind his eyelids and felt a low, deep rumble in his eardrumbs. He knew there was nothing there, just as there had been nothing in the shower or in the bedroom or even standing over him at work. Everything was invisible in this world. Everything was real and explainable.

This was real life. There were no monsters, only idiots in their fears. Cold fingers traced a line up his neck. He shivered and moved forward in his seat, pretending to be chilly from a draft that wasn't there. He cursed himself for entertaining dark thoughts for even a second. But then, a whisper drifted from the back seat. Taste like soft.

He ignored it. Blocked it out. No one had power over him unless he gave it to them. So thirsty. His leg began to shake, and he squeezed it hard until he knew it would bruise. With sudden intensity, the tunnel lights came back on. The power returning with a solid, joined by the happy shouts of the construction crew. Relieved, Douglas opened his eyes and let them adjust to the light.

He couldn't wait to get out of this damned tunnel and resume his tired ride home. He glanced in the rear view to see if anyone else had shared this bad life. any other commuters in the temporary grave. There was a face in the mirror, a pair of hollow eyes looking back at him, dark and dripping wet hair over water-slick skin. The man opened his colorless lips and dirty water poured out. Panicked, Douglas spun in his seat, his heart exploding against his chest, but there was nothing behind him, just an empty back seat and an ice scraper on the floor. Nothing in his rear view either. No death stare, no colorless flesh, even the air felt empty.

He tried to breathe, slow and steady, to calm his heart. He became aware of someone outside the car waving their arms at him. It was the large construction guy holding the sign, and from his face he'd been trying to get Douglas' attention for some time. In a days, Douglas rolled down his window once more. You can go now, the man called out. Power's back. Douglas nodded and took the car out of park, rolling slowly past the men in their trucks.

He drove the rest of the way home in silence, trying and failing to forget the face in the mirror. His mouth was as dry as burnt paper, and he planned to drink until either his throat or his legs gave out. Douglas knew he was dreaming. He walked through a dark field at night. The grass was ankle high, black as oil, and it stretched to the horizon in windless sway. The dirt beneath his bare feet was black too, like potting soil but not as damp.

There was no moon in the sky nor direction in his heart. He simply walked. Lifeless dirt between his toes as birds caught unseen in the grass. If he strained to see them, he would catch moments of black feathers twitching between the blades. Their eyes like voids filled up only with hurt. Douglas stopped. A man lay on the ground ahead, his face buried in the dirt, his clothes were soaked and a puddle of what he hoped was water had formed around him.

Are you okay? Douglas asked without moving his lips, but the man didn't answer. Douglas moved closer and repeated the question. The man still didn't move, but this time he answered. His voice was the dry crunch of gravel underfoot. Knock woke Douglas. He spasmed in his chair and gave out a shout. Whoa!

Peter stood in the doorway. Douglas looked around his office and situated himself. He had dozed off behind his desk again. He shook his head and apologized. Noises have been setting me off lately. Peter gave him a condescending look. You need to relax. Just a friendly tip.

No one likes a guy who gets stressed easily, especially Ed. He peeked down the hallway to see if anyone else had witnessed the incident, especially Ed. Douglas rubbed his heavy eyes. I think I need to get away for a bit. You know, hit the reset button. Peter stepped into the office and lowered his voice. Are you crazy? Crazy?

You kick on vacation right now? Not with everything going on. I know. Peter paused to scratch his nose. Then he smiled. What? What is it? Peter nodded.

I know just the thing. As Douglas took a seat in the small waiting room, the pretty girl came out from behind the welcome desk and handed him a clipboard. It held a release form, printed on two sides of one page, and a pen clipped to the top with the place's name on it. Deep escape. standard stuff. The girl said, not liable for anything.

Blah, blah, blah, blah. She smiled and returned to her desk, where she kept her phone hidden behind the computer monitor. Douglas filled out the form on autopilot. If you've read one, you've read them all. Meanwhile, Peter's words rang in his head. Did I ever tell you about my brother? The poor guy came back from Iraq with shell shock. I'm not sure what they do exactly, but it's some kind of isolation.

It's no sound, no sight. He said he tripped out a bit at first, but by the end he felt like he'd slept for a year. Douglas didn't really care what they did, so long as it worked. He was tired of being anxious, anxious about being tired. His mind just needed a little break before it broke. There was no such thing as unseen presences or disembodied voices, just the very real effects of stress on the brain. And he knew that he had to treat it in very real ways.

He skipped over all the disclaimers and got to the part where he signed on the line. Before long, he was standing in a private room the size of a bedroom, while an attendant explained the white beast in front of him. When you enter isolation, the young man explained, You're in the darkest place in the world. The thing was the width of a large bed and twice as high. It was enclosed on all sides, with a slanted front wall where the door was located. The door had a handle on its left side to open.

It as well had two larger ones on the body to hold. cold while climbing in. The attendant explained everything about the treatment, how to get the most from the experience, which specific parts of the brain it stimulated, but Douglas was only marginally aware of him until he asked if Douglas was ready. Douglas nodded. And with that, the attendant showed him where to hang his clothes and left him alone in the tiled room.

Naked, his clothes folded on the small bench. He opened the white beast and stepped inside. The water was set to skin temperature, making the transition an easy one. It was like slipping into a second skin, a friendly hand that welcomed him and took him in safely. A deep voice inside told him not to get in, not to do this, but already the smooth water had won him over. Completely inside, he crouched down low and pulled the small door shut behind him. Dark.

True Dark was as unfamiliar to him as it was for most. Accustomed to ambient light, as his eyes were, from sun to moon, starlight to streetlight. They struggled to make sense of the complete absence of stimulation. Douglas found the first minute of this new darkness to be dizzying, and he only lay down in the shallow water when he felt comfortable enough to move. He was surprised to find he floated easier than normal, and he seemed to remember the attendant saying something special about the water, which gave it that characteristic. As the shadows settled in around him, the water no longer sloshing against the side of the tank,

his ears too fought to understand a loss of constant input, followed by his skin. He lost all sense of time passing. Soon his eyes were creating a show for themselves. Flashes of light formed and swirled above him, and he watched them like a child does a fireworks display. A beautiful burst of color exploded before his eyes, at its center set like a jewel, a time The tiny dot of black grew until its true shape became clear. An eye opened wide.

The black pupil at the center expanded until it overtook the outer colors completely. Surrounded by pure black once again. He was jarred by the deafening sound of impact that filled up his eardrums, like a bird smashing into a bedroom window, like the world come crashing down. And he was pulled into the black, all-encompassing pupil, and out the other side where his His hand struggled to regain control of a steering wheel. There was a long crack in the windshield, like lightning eating up glass. At one jagged junction, a bit of something black broke up from the broken pain.

Douglas watched with detached horror. His body burned with adrenaline and his eyes stung of tears. In a moment everything had changed, sticking out from the glass, waving in the wind. It was hair. He checked the rear view after swerving noisily a few times. The car had ended up on the side of the road where the river snaked close to the shoulder. There were no other cars on the road, normal for this time of night. He put the car into park, turned the key, and slowly got out.

His legs felt uneven, his body unfit for walking, and he came around the front of the car, expecting the worst. A man lay on the ground ahead, his face buried in the dirt. Are you okay? Douglas called out. No answer. He asked again. The time the man moved his lips.

Douglas rushed to him and turned him on his side so he could breathe. He propped the man's head up in his lap. The man breathed. Relax. It's okay. With the man's head, he asked. How? His voice cut out painfully.

Each word took tremendous effort. Douglas closed his eyes. After taking a quick shower at home, he poured himself a drink to relax before he went back to McSweeney's. If he called the police now... Call. I already called them." Douglas said.

We have to sit and wait for them. They told me to wait. The man in his arms began to cough. Douglas asked what he needed. I'm thirsty. Douglas looked over his shoulder and saw how close they were to the edge of the river. The water churned past small, smooth rocks. He tried to lay the man's head down on the grass, but he couldn't find a way to do it that didn't cause the man to scream out in agony.

He carefully dragged him backward, grunting and sweating to the river until his legs were submerged in it. With one hand, he cradled the man's bleeding head from dipping into the river, and with the other, he scooped up cold water and fed it to him. It tastes like salt. The man complained. It didn't make sense at all. Douglas tried it himself, but tasted only water. It's a river, he said. It's fresh water.

It tastes like salt. The man repeated. He took another sip, looked up at Douglas as he struggled to take a breath. When? When? When what? When are they coming? Douglas paused.

Soon. Just relax. The man's gut rose and fell like waves. You didn't do it. Douglas scooped up more of the water in his palm. Do what? His hand stopped. The man's wide eye stared up at him accusingly.

Douglas didn't appreciate the look. Of course I called. Call again. There's no point. They're already coming." Douglas was starting to get annoyed. The two men locked eyes. They understood each other too well.

Together in that moment, their lifelines tangled like bad wires. The river gurgling and splashing into them, pushing past their bodies eternally. A moment stretched into lifetimes. was nothing, life had stopped. The man took a great deep breath, and with the night air loaded in his lungs, he opened his mouth to scream for help. Without this push the man's head under the surface, the scream became bubbles in an ungiving torrent of frigid river water.

He wouldn't let this man ruin his life, this stranger who had no business walking along the side of the road at night. The unwelcome weight that hit his bumper and bounced off his windshield, the man who Thrashed and swallowed the river with his eyes wide open. His eyes... Douglas opened his eyes. He was in the dark again. Back in the tank.

Deep escape. Floating in space. But he wasn't alone. Something was in there with him, crouched over him. A presence. A sound. A body without a body which had been following him around. Cold fingers shot out and wrapped around his neck and pushed him down under water.

Douglas looked up from dark water to dark sky, even in perfect pitch. He could make out the face of the man above him. It was no surprise. His lungs and eyes burned. He took in great big mouthfuls of water and noticed as his vision faded and shook that it had a strange taste, like the water cooler at work, and he thought back to the attendant who had introduced him to the device he was now drowning in. In order for you to stay afloat, that water is treated with Epson.

He had said. Epsum. Salt. It tastes like salt. Tight fingers squeezed his throat shut. They turned his vision black, blacker than the water, the dark river that swallowed him down. You're in the darkest place in the world. Not yet, but soon. All that was left was to give up. March, 1946, Robert Odell walked into Creek Haven Elementary with a shotgun and a pistol. Twelve children and a math teacher never made at home. Odell was arrested immediately following the massacre after he'd fallen down a flat of stairs.

When asked why he had done it, he didn't answer. He just smiled. He was executed within the year. Creek Haven has changed a lot since then. It had been a mining town up until the 70s when the ore depleted. the ore depleted and the residents were forced to move away to find new work. Now it's deserted, left for the woods and the wild to overrun. The buildings still stand, including the school, and ghostly rumors have surrounded the place since it was abandoned.

Supposedly, the spirits of the children can be seen in and around the school where they died. I'd heard bits and pieces about it since I was a kid. My dad had been born there, but the The family left even before the mines dried up. He had no memory of it. Grandma did, though. She'd spent her whole life there, and she'd been in the school when Odell opened fire. That was one piece of her childhood she never talked about. I was taking a film class, and we'd received an assignment to shoot a mini-documentary.

I knew right away what I wanted to cover. I decided to interview Grandma first to see what she could tell me about Creek Haven and the supposed hauntings that followed in Odell's wake. don't say that name. I recorded her telling me. Even over the tape, I can hear the thin, disapproving lines she'd pressed her lips into. And you don't want to go there. Terrible memories left it ruined.

My voice comes up after a moment of silence. Do you remember that day? There's a squeak of a chair as Grandma shifted uncomfortably. Of course I do. I knew all of the victims. Some had been my friends. You don't forget something like that. Never.

Never. After so long, her voice was still raw with pain. I shut the tape off after. Even as a high school kid, I knew there was some things you shouldn't push. After it was done, Grandma got up and walked into the kitchen. She asked me what kind of cookies she should bake for me to take home. I didn't bring up Creek Haven with her again. That didn't push me off the project, though.

I recruited my friend Nicole to act as camera woman, and we picked a date to drive to out to Creek Haven. Despite its bloody past, neither of us believed that it was truly haunted. My documentary was meant to cover its history and the birth of an urban legend. I called it the making of a ghost town. It was overcast and humid when we left. Nicole's Jeep's AC was broken, and she spent the 30-minute ride complaining about it. I was too busy focusing on my notes to really notice. I didn't think to look up until she stopped short and my seatbelt caught me as I jerked forward. A barrier had been erected in front of the road leading into Creek Haven. I got out and filmed it and the long strip of pothold pavement behind it.

I had Nicole put her four-wheel drive to good use and directed her off-road to go around the flimsy barricade. I held the camera out the window, catching shots of the trees lining the way in and the first glimpses of houses, sagging and in disrepair in the distance. We slowed to a stop when we reached what had once been Main Street. I had dug up old photos of the town over the years, and Nicole and I went through the pile to find the ones that matched the spot we were in. I wanted a montage of then and now comparisons to open the documentary with.

So when do we get to the school? Nicole asked. She was eager to get to the haunted part already. Soon. Oh, come on. You know that's the only thing anyone's going to care about. The video is only going to be half an hour. Don't waste your time being artsy-fartsy.

The tight, grim set of grandma's expression crossed my mind as I relented. What was still an open wound for her was schoolwork fodder for us. It was a reminder to treat the subject matter with as much respect as I could manage. We followed a map I brought down the bumpy streets toward the school. It was eerie to drive past the sun-bleached buildings still sporting their signs and business names, as if they were just waiting to open their doors again. I kept the camcorder rolling as we turned down dogwood toward the low stone wall that surrounded the school. It was a two-story building, red brick and blackened windows.

The small parking lot was an empty mess of weeds growing through concrete. Nicole just parked outside the front doors. The glass on one had been shattered, allowing us a view of the corridor beyond. As I started to climb out, Nicole grabbed my arm. Someone's in there. She hissed. Where? There!

She said, jabbing her finger forward. In the first doorway inside. Someone's looking out. I squinted into the darkened hallway and gasped. The outline of a person was peeking out around the doorframe. Nicole's fingers dug into my arm. We sat, frozen, and waited. The person didn't move.

What should we do? Nicole asked in an uneasy whisper. The person still hadn't budged from their spot. It could be a homeless person? She suggested. I leaned forward in my seat. I don't think so. Wait, no!

Despite her protests, I pushed the Jeep's door open and lifted the camcorder to my eye. In hesitant, small steps, I climbed the short stone stairway leading into the school until my suspicions were confirmed. I laughed and waved for her to get out of the car and join me. It's a mannequin. What? She sounded doubtful. A mannequin? Is that supposed to make it less creepy?

Come on, you big baby. We got a lot to film. After some convincing, Nicole finally joined me, and we stepped through the broken glass opening. The inside was dimly lit in shades of gray that filtered through the grimy windows. The dirty, child-sized mannequin we'd seen from outside was standing just inside the first doorway, which had a sign labeling it the front office. Over its shoulder, another mannequin. This one modeled after an adult was standing behind the desk.

Another pair were seated in some chairs outside another door marked principal. What the heck? Nicole said from over my shoulder. I laughed nervously and filmed. She stayed close on my heels as we walked further into the school. A few child mannequins were scattered throughout the halls. One at an old-fashioned water fountain. A few were standing in a line outside a classroom door.

Within the classroom, an adult mannequins. had been placed in front of the chalkboard, and some of the seats had more of the smaller ones in them. They were all browned with dust and age. This is way too weird. Nicole said. I'm going to wait outside. Oh, come on. Someone was just messing around a long time ago.

Whatever. I don't care. I'm out. Nicole scurried back toward the front door, leaving me to call after her. She didn't even turn around. I grumbled and kept going. Each room I passed had its own set of mannequins. They were positioned in ways that minutes.

mimicked what a typical school day might have looked like, teachers leading classes of students, an empty library where a lone mannequin was left behind the checkout desk, a cafeteria with a handful of child-sized mannequins scattered around the tables. There was even one class where a couple of kid mannequins had been made to look like they were passing a note between them. It was weird, like Nicole had said, and I couldn't deny that goosebumps had been creeping up my arms since that first child mannequin. I told myself it was harmless.

I wasn't a little kid who was going to be scared by some overgrown dolls, not when thirty percent of my grade depended on it. I walked by faded, torn posters and glanced into every doorway filming as I went. I'd have to add a voiceover later. The stairwell leading to the second floor was halfway down the hall. They still seemed sturdy enough, and I walked up them one at a time, slow and cautious the whole way. At the top of the stairs, a single adult mannequin was standing with its back to me.

Someone had taped a stick that sort of resembled a handgun to its waist. A larger stick had been taped between its hands. I wrinkled my nose in distaste at the obvious symbolism and shoved the thing off to the side. It fell over with a crash that echoed down the length of the hall. I shuddered and stepped over its legs to continue on. Unlike the first floor, there was only one classroom that had any mannequins in it on, this one. An adult-sized mannequin was at the front of the room, half turned with its arm raised and pointing toward the blackboard. Every seat in the class was filled by a child-sized counterpart.

They were facing forward, as if paying attention to their lesson. I panned the camcorder across the class. A loud bang came suddenly from the stairwell, and I jumped, instinctively turning towards it. The silence that followed rang heavily in my ears. Nicole? I called. I'm up here! But my friend didn't answer. I see sweat broke out across the back of my neck.

I chewed my lip, trying to convince myself it had just been something I had disturbed on my way up, finally toppling over. My thoughts were cut short by the soft murmur of childish whispers coming from within the classroom. Slowly, even as I screamed at myself not to, I looked back into the class. All of the mannequin's heads had turned toward the door. Their blank, pale faces were fixed on me. I stumbled back a step with a short cry, my camcorder fumbling in my hands. Something creaked, low and long from inside the classroom.

Suddenly I couldn't remember how to move my legs. There was a heavy thud, another and then a third, like footsteps, and they were getting closer. A deep, guttural growl rumbled out into the hall. The footsteps were becoming quicker. I tore myself from the spot and ran screaming down the hall. At the top of the steps, my feet tangled in the legs of the mannequin I pushed over, and I barely managed to catch myself on the railing before pitching headlong down the stairs.

Frantically, I looked back toward the classroom. Dirtied, elongated fingers had closed around the door frame. The mannequin dragged itself stiffly into the hallway, its head turned jerkily towards me, and it growled again. I didn't look back a second time as I leapt down the stairs too. at a time and bolted back down the hall to the front door, shouting for Nicole to start the car. I was convinced I could hear the uneven, angry footsteps of the mannequin pursuing me out of the school. We screeched out of the parking lot and out of Creek Haven.

I couldn't bring myself to review the footage until a few days later, when the fear had dwindled a bit and it seemed less real. Nicole didn't want to see it at all. Going to have nightmares enough as it is. She'd said after I told her what had happened. I sat at my desk, every light in my room on, and I plugged the camcorder into my computer. I skipped over the initial shots of the town until I got to the elementary school. Seeing the mannequins again made my heartbeat quicken, and I fast forwarded until I got to the classroom on the second floor.

There was a bang which sent the camcorder jumping and off focus. It had come to rest briefly on a plaque outside the door, and I caught the word Parker, before the camera was moving again and everything became a blur. The only thing I managed to capture in my desperation to escape was a glimpse of the adult-sized mannequin standing in the hallway as I headed down the stairs. I ended up turning in a documentary on a different, much duller topic, but I kept my footage from the school saved in a hidden folder. Aside from Nicole, I was only brave enough to bring it up with one other person.

"'Grama?' I said. I know you don't like talking about Creek Haven, but did the name Parker mean anything? Grandma nodded once, a subtle movement. Mr. Parker, he was my math teacher. His classroom had been on the second floor. When Robert Odell began his rampage, Cyrus Parker had been in the middle of a lesson. Students, grandma included, would later say they didn't know at first what the loud noises that they heard downstairs were.

Mr. Parker must have known, but he calmly told them to stay in their seats while he checked it out. The last words he spoke to the children were the same he said every day at the end of class. Study hard. Do your homework. Make me proud. He had closed the door behind him. Grandma distinctly remembered the sound of the lock turning into place.

The teacher in the next class over had poked her head out when the screaming began from downstairs. She watched Mr. Parker run past her toward a strange man. who had just stepped onto the second floor landing. It wasn't until the shotgun blast that she realized what was happening. Mr. Parker took it in the stomach, and he growled. He had jumped onto the shooter and both fell down the stairs. He died lying atop that monster.

Grandma looked away and dabbed her eyes. Held him down until there was no life left in him. If he hadn't. She trailed off, and I didn't ask anymore. I don't know who put the mannequins in the school or why. Maybe it was an art project. Maybe it was a planned memorial that never panned out. I've never found an answer.

But 13 innocent lives were lost in March of 1946. Since then, it's been said that the ghosts of the children haunt the school grounds. I believe it. And I know they're not alone. I know that Mr. Parker never got to leave either. He remains, watching over those children now the same way he did then. God help anyone who ever tries to harm them again. Call me macab, but I've always been fascinated with hangings.

It's not that I want to watch someone die, it's that I enjoy the history surrounding public executions. Every hanging site has its own tale to tell, and there are hundreds to explore across North America, many of which are open to the public. There's this indescribable feel that comes with standing in an old building, knowing that not so long ago, people were climbing over one another to watch criminals die and cheering as it happened, so really, if anyone's macabre, it's them, not me. The experience I'm sharing today is my favorite.

I don't want to be cheesy and say it chills me to this day, but it is the hanging site I've visited that's left the biggest impression on me. You know that high you get from reading a good horror story? That usually fades with time, but what I experienced there. is as potent now as it was then. Let me tell you about the noose of the hanged men. And yes, that's men, plural. About a year ago, I was in Nova Scotia on business when I learned of a little known hanging site down in a small port town, about an hour and a half away from Halifax. Given my aforementioned interest in the subject, I decided to use my day off to visit. I had

to go through a few hoops, but after speaking with the tourism office, I was put in touch with someone from the town's Historical Society, who agreed to give me a tour. That's how I wound up, late one cloudy afternoon, standing at the edge of a seemingly abandoned property with Ainsley Murray as my own personal tour guide. A couple dozen keys jangled on Ainsley's keychain as she searched for the one to unlock the front gate. The gate was tall and wide, with ornate curlicues ending in pointed spades, reminding me of a cemetery.

Beyond it was an unkempt lawn with yellowed grass. reaching up about me height, an overgrown stone path and the main attraction, a partially collapsed brick building with a central watchtower. I was excited. Ainsley tried another key, but it wouldn't even go all the way in. Tell me we're not going to need all of those keys. Ainslie laughed, deepening the creases of her crow's feet. Oh, heaven's no, dear.

She tried her tenth, or was it her eleventh key? These are all for different buildings. I just like to keep everything on the same chain. Otherwise, I always forget one. Oh. Don't worry. I've only ever gotten locked in, twice, and my assistant Muriel got us out within a day or so both times. There was hardly a need to resort to cannibalism.

She grinned sheepishly. I snorted and replied. Ainslie, I like you already. Thanks, love. But keep your lustful thoughts to yourself. I've been happily married for 39 years. She winked and then tried the next key. Ah, I think this is the one.

The lock clicked and the gates screeched open. Flakes of paint peeled off at the slightest touch and exposed a rusted underbelly. For a property supposedly maintained by a historical society, it sure didn't look like anyone had given it any kind of attention in ages. Watch your step, dear. The ground's a little uneven. Ainsley warned. I was starting to feel it.

That dread and excitement you get when you're watching a move. movie, and you know a jump scare's about to happen. There was something in the air, in the way the wind blew through the brush and the crow's cod, like a storm of adrenaline was brewing. Ainsley motioned to the other end of the property. Let's start in the courtyard around back while the weather's still good. Then I'll take you inside and show you the cells. Sounds good, I replied. Ainsley led the way through the grass, not seeming to mind the fact that we couldn't see our feet.

I guess it's easy to be brave in tall grass when you know there are no venomous snakes in the Canadian Maritimes, something I wish she'd told me then, so I wouldn't have been quite as wary. So what do you know about this place? I asked. She glanced back at me and smiled. This prison was built in the late 1860s and was originally charged withholding prisoners in transit for public execution in Halifax. In 1875, Warden Murray, uh, no, no dear, no relation to me. There are a lot of Murray's around these parts, claimed he'd been given permission to perform executions. What do you mean claimed? She tapped a finger to her bottom lip.

He alleged he'd received the go-ahead after a fire in Halifax, but there's no historical evidence to corroborate that. But there's no historical evidence to corroborate that. Now, it could be that these records were destroyed over the years, perhaps during the Halifax explosion. But, as far as we can surmise, there were no reports of a fire that year, nor of such a permission being granted. We circled around the collapsed part of the building. The interior walls were still standing, but the facade had crumbled like a sandcastle. Erosion due to flooding, Ainsley revealed later.

They'd reinforced the rest of the structure, but had never bothered rebuild. as the destruction had occurred during that pocket of time after the prison had been decommissioned, but before it had been deemed a local historical site. So Warden Mary began performing executions here at the prison. Ainsley nodded. That's right. Just around here. We turned the corner to the courtyard.

The tall grass was interlaced with large patches of dry earth which surrounded the gallows. Years of salt air and rainwater had eaten away at the lumber like an old plywood shed. but it still stood. There was the base of the stairs leading up to it, two large poles on either side and a splintered beam stretching across. The rope was missing, but it had left a groove in the wood from the weight of multiple executions. Something was off. The door was missing. I asked,

You said he started in 1875, right? She nodded. I inspected the structure closer. Maybe the door was blending into the rest of the wood. The more I looked, the more convinced I became that it was missing. There were no seams, just straight planks going all the way across. But there's no door, I said. My eyes scanned the overhead beam and landed on the spot where the rope would have hung.

The groove and discoloration could only be seen along the top quarter. Were they hoisting in 1875? Ainsley smirked. According to reports, it was Murray's favorite technique. I felt chills of excitement intertwined. with hints of dread. Here's the thing. There are a handful of techniques to hang people.

By 1870, most of Canada started adopting the long-drop technique. That's the one you're probably most familiar with. The prisoner standing on the gallows with a noose around his neck. A door opens under him. He falls, his neck breaks, and he passes out. He suffocates while unconscious, which is considered more humane. Hoisting, on the other hand, is a lot more barbaric. The criminal starts on the ground.

A rope gets tossed over a high beam, tied to his neck, and then they pull the other end to, you guessed it, hoist the person up by their neck. The process can be excruciatingly painful, according to reports from survivors. Yes, you can survive this, and it can last upwards of ten, sometimes even fifteen minutes if the person struggles in the right way. That's sick, I said. And yet you're smiling. She answered.

Sorry, can't help it. She waved a dismissive hand. Don't worry, I'm not judging. She motioned to the courtyard. Hangings are a morbid business, but somehow they always draw people in. They were especially popular here, feeding a need from the local folk who couldn't make it to Halifax. And according to reports, the warden liked to hold surprise executions. He'd climbed to the top of the watchtower early in the morning.

and ring a bell to signal hanging. Once the courtyard filled up, he'd order the kill. He'd watch from above, waving at the crowd, like an emperor at the Coliseum. I looked at the watchtower and felt a knot in my stomach as I saw three shapes looking back at me. I blinked and they were gone. Just the clouds, I told myself, just dark clouds peeking from the other side of the tower, right? Ainsley, as though reading my mind, leaned in close and whispered.

You know, dear, there's a rumor that towers haunted by a ghost of many faces. I shuddered. You're making that up to mess with me. She shook her head. You can ask around yourself. It's been spotted a few times in recent years. Last I hear, it was seen by a group of teenagers who jumped the fence. A few raindrops fell.

I asked, what does it look like? She replied. Some say a fisherman. Others say a man in prison garbs. Everyone agrees its face changes every time you look away. One second, he has a beard. The next, he's bald with a scar across his eye, and so on. See, this kind of stuff, this is why I visit these sites.

Does he attack? I asked. She shrugged. Some say those who see it are doomed to hang themselves. Others say it's all a myth. She raised her hands, palms. up toward the sky. Starting to rain.

Let's head inside, shall we? I nodded. Gas lights were still mounted to the walls, but they'd run dry ages ago. Thankfully, Ainsley and I had the foresight to bring flashlights with us. We visited the cells with their low ceilings, tight walls, old chamber pots, and beds made out of dry straw, then the chapel, just a room with the cross, and finally the offices. She shared more history about the region and the prison, but I won't bore you with the details, as they're not relevant to this story.

I think you'll find this room quite interesting, Ainsley said as she stopped at the door to the watchtower. So far the rooms had all been interesting, so I was eager to see why she felt that one was special. She fumbled with her keychain and began another round of guessing which key fit the lock. It didn't take too long this time. The lock clicked. She opened the door and I immediately felt this odd suffocating feeling like I just inhaled a cloud of volcanic ash. Welcome to the watchtower.

Ainsley said. There's nothing brave about stepping into a dark room in the middle of a century-old prison. Logically, there's no real danger. It's only scary if you trick yourself into believing it is. But really, an old building is just an old building. Even though I knew this, and even though I'd walked into many old buildings before without issue, I found myself hesitating. My feet were cement blocks, and the threshold was a force field pushing me back.

I had no idea where the apprehension was coming from, only that it was overwhelming and palpable. Oh dear. Worn out already? Ainsley teased playfully. We can go back if you'd like. I shook the nervousness from my body, like a dog drying himself. No, sorry. So, lost in thought, I lied. I stepped inside and felt a wave of vertigo as I looked up.

The watchtower was only about three stories high, but the spiral staircase leading up and the way the room narrowed closer to the top made it feel like it stretched as high as a lighthouse. It took me a moment for the lightheadedness to clear and for me to notice the object dangling halfway up. A noose. A very large noose. I circled around, trying to figure out if it was a trick of angles or if it really was that large.

The more I looked, the less it seemed like an optical illusion. Why? The words caught in my throat. Why is that so big? Ainsley inhaled deeply as though to scream, but what came out wasn't a scream. It was a story. That love is the noose of the hangna-bin. You see, the key for this tower was actually lost.

for the longest time. It was only once the historical society began looking into the prison, that it was discovered in the ruined West Wing, in the warden's office. It's since been moved, but there was a chest here. She pointed to a spot at the foot of the wall. The bricks were brighter than the ones surrounding it. In it, we found the warden's journals. He was... She narrowed her eyes. A very sadistic man. I circled around the room again, trying to look at the room. the noose from every angle. There was something captivating about it like a tire swing of death.

Ainsley continued. He was obsessed with figuring out how many people he could hang with a single noose. I blinked. You mean before having to replace the rope? She shook her head. No. Not the amount of hangings he could perform. The amount of people that he could hang at the same time. The statement took my breath away, hanging more than one person. person from a single noose at once? Could it even be done? She motioned to her neck. He started big. Ten people. He wrapped the noose around their throats and hoisted. It took five guards to lift the weight, but the cord snapped before they could see what would happen.

He tried again with nine people. And this time, the cord held. Unfortunately, with nine shoulders pushing the heads apart, there were gaps. It was impossible to make the noose tight enough to hold all the heads in. People slipped through the cracks, making room for more people to slip through until they all did. I tried to imagine what it felt like to stand in a semicircle with nine other people, and I swear I could feel the rope around my neck. I wondered how it felt to be lifted. Certain you and everyone else was about to die, only to slip to freedom. Would it be a relief or would it be horrific? So he started at ten, then nine, and went down from there?

She nodded. He tried eight. Same problem. Then seven and then six. His experiments cost some damage. The fewer people being hanged, the longer it took for someone to slip free. It all got worse when his subjects dwindled to five. Why is that?

Well, by five, he was able to pull all prisoners high into the, the air before any of them were able to slip out. If you didn't die hanged, you died from the fall. So five was the lucky number? It was weird. I felt like we were being watched. I kept looking up at the top of the watchtower, expecting to see someone staring back down at me.

No, dear. He wanted people to die from the noose. Not the fall. He got stuck on five for a while. He was sure it was a question of tying. the noose the right way. He was determined to make it work, but he only had a limited amount of prisoners to play with. Warden Murray began collecting people he didn't think would be missed. I winced. What did he do when he ran out? She took a seat on the staircase and glanced up

at the noose. The room, despite being exposed to the fresh air from above, felt stale and suffocating. Ainsley said, Warden Murray began collecting people he didn't think would be missed. Homeless people, transients. Anyone who didn't have a family or wandered too close to the prison. I rubbed the back of my neck. Damn. Now, this may be unrelated, but I've uncovered reports of whole families going missing around that time. Their belongings untouched as though they'd been taken in the middle of the night.

I can't confirm good old Warden Murray was involved, but it is interesting how the timelines match up. purely conjecture on my part, of course. But how many transients can you kill before you run out? And still, with all that death, none of his five-person experiments worked. It felt like a boa constrictor was trying to hug my esophagus. Why was the air here so thick? I remember he sounds like a sick bastard. My voice was hoarse.

I was dehydrated. Ainsley nodded. He was. It took him months to give up on testing the noose on. five people. He nearly lost it when he went down to four, and they still got out. To make matters worse, no one survived the fall at four. At least five, the first person was sometimes able to make it out with broken legs. At four, it was hopeless. They could hoist them faster, higher, and the fall was too high. As we talked, the noose above began swinging left to right in the breeze.

Ainsley explained, He tried everything, tightening the rope, speeding up the process, turning heads in every which direction he could try, facing in, facing out, facing the side, side out, side out, everything. The swinging changed direction. It went forward and back, forward and back. But it never worked. The prisoners would struggle. They twist free and splat on the ground. It was alternating now, left to right, forward and back, swinging incessantly. He was a stubborn man. He started binding people by the waist, but it just took one person to slip out of the noose and then splat all four together.

Fear spread through my body in a sudden splash as though I'd been dropped into a tub of ice water. The noose, the goddamn noose, the rhythm of its swings stopped being so regular. It went right, forward, right, back, left, forward, right, as though being pulled in every direction. I rubbed my neck. I tried to inhale, but there was a weight on my chest. Are you starting to have trouble breathing? Ainsley asked.

I gasped. Yeah, how did you know? She pointed up at the rope as she walked to the door. They say men can't stay in this room more than a couple minutes, because there's nowhere in this watchtower the news can't reach. I can't explain it. I really can't, but I was struck with the fear that she'd leave and lock the door behind her. Her keys were jangling. She had her hand on the door.

In my mind's eye, I could see her closing it. But as much as I wanted to run for the exit, I felt this invisible bond wrapped around my throat, holding me in place. Come on. Let's get you out of here. She said gently. Her soft voice and kind smile loosened the unseen noose. I was able to jog out of the room, panting from her. for air. She escorted me out, hand on my shoulder. I said nothing until we were outside in the

cold rain. The number. I stuttered. What was the number? She held her palms to the sky and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply as though the rain were her lover. The number of people you can hang on a single noose. She looked back at me, her smile never losing its warmth. Three. She said. With three heads, there's not enough wiggle room to escape. We left the property and set our goodbyes back in town. I couldn't get it out of my mind, the swinging noose, the vivid mental images of people

hanging together, the sensation of something wrapped around my throat. Once I was alone, I undid my scarf and checked my neck. I expected to find a rope burn or a bruise or something on my skin, but no. On my way back to Halifax, I glanced back at the watchtower. I swear, even through the sheets of rain and dimming daylight, I could see three silhouettes staring down at me. I still visit hanging sites. That's probably never going to change.

The only thing that changed is every time I see a noose that's even slightly looser than the norm. I remember that little prison in Nova Scotia, and I feel a shot of adrenaline and just the slightest tightening in my throat. Before I tell you about my part in all of this, I need to go back to where it all began. My ancestor, Azo Nakamura, was, by all accounts, an asshole, but an opportunistic one. Seize the day, the night, and all the bodies that bask under it with their jewelry unprotected. He declared in his journal that fateful night won late summer evening in 1866, bragging

about how he'd scored another heist with his brother, Minada Nakamura, that they'd survive the famine and, buy all the hookers they could ever want, with the leftover sun. comes. Most folks aren't buried in Japan. In fact, 99.8% of them are cremated. So Azo wasn't robbing gray. He was robbing corpses before they were cremated. Azo was resourceful, careful, and precise.

He would pick the bodies of those he knew had very few relatives. Manada would pay off the mortician, and they'd ransack the corpse before anyone came to pay their respects. He'd make the excuse that it was to stay of off starvation during the Tempo famine. of 1833, starting when he was just a boy in Honshu and lasting until he was in his teens. But he continued to steal long after that, which brings us to why we're here today. His greed would ultimately bring ruin upon every male member of the Nakamura bloodline. On the last winter solstice he spent in Japan, now in his late 30s and with a young family, Azo and Minata resolved to rob the home of a Shinto priest in the region, knowing his young son

was riddled with consumption and would soon pass. With distraction plaguing the father's mind, Azo knew it would be a simple task to rob him blind. The job is easy. We wait in the trees on the night they come to give the young master his rights, and upon their departure, sneak in and claim what we knew he won't miss. He was giddy with excitement. Lord knows his arrogance, given he documented these raids. Sure enough, as documented, the pair lay in wait and watched as the

the priest's contemporaries filled in one by one and read the poor boy his last rites. The grief-stricken father, seeing them out with despair written across his face, clearly too distraught to do themselves. As he thanked them outside, Azo and Minotas snuck around the back and entered the home. When they found this sickly boy laying in his bed and barely breathing, it seemed that Minot felt a pang of guilt and wanted to hold off. These are the hours of the ox. It's unwise to do this now.

Besides, he cast his eyes to the boy, Azo noting the regret in his eyes. He's still alive, we can make a scene. Before casting his gaze forward to the priest's safe room, the door slightly ajar, and promises of priceless artifacts, donations, and food laying just out of reach. I wasn't about to let some child not long for this world get in the way of our job. Besides, the sick should give way for the strong, and where this boy is dying, mine was most certainly living. So I did what I had to do.

What that turned out to be, it seemed, was suffocating the life out of the child. Azo reported he thrashed ever so slightly before falling limp, an errant hand the only thing still clasped tightly to Azo's forearm in the moments following, as if clutching to the last vestige of life he'd ever come to know. To his credit, Minada punched his brother in disgust, questioning if he was even sane to do such a horrific thing, let alone in the hollowed hour. between one and three when the worst could befall them. But the commotion had roused the priest, and within moments he was stood in the doorway,

eyes aghast and trembling hands reached out towards the brothers. It was in that moment that Azo, Minada, and the rest of our lives would be inexorably changed forever. I couldn't tell you exactly what the priest said to them, how his grief rattled voice shook the very foundation of his home, as if a typhoon were striking the bows with unshackled prejudice. Or if Azo and Manada ever saw justice for their crime, but I can tell you that whatever specifics were discussed drove Azo to gather his family and leave for the mountains in 1870, cutting off contact with the outside world and becoming fiercifully protective of his boy.

At night, he would sit by his front door with sword and hand, wait with trembling lips and shaking hands. He wrote in his journal, They always come in the hours of the ox. They crawl up the foundations of the home and whisper in my ear, sometimes asking me to do terrible things, other times promising me it'll all end if I open the door. I saw one of them once. A horned and pale-skinned ogre with fangs the size of my forearm, yellow eyes with the blackest pupils that widened to an ungodly pit when they fixated on me. The voice constantly stuck between hysterical laughter and the most pained sobs, no different to an animal. trying to produce a human mimicry.

It cooed for me to step outside and face what I'd done, but I am a coward and I will not abandon my family. Azo wasn't the only one suffering from these night visits. Manada began thrashing in his sleep every night as his wife struggled to console him. He would flail madly as if fighting off unseen hands, deep lacerations forming on his skin and thick, large bite marks puncturing his soft flesh. he awoke, sweating, and as if he'd aged some years each night, he would refuse to comment on what happened, save for one phrase, we should never have gone during the hours of the ox.

We deserve what we get. It was on his deathbed a mere four years later, only 42 but stricken with white, frail hair, and atrophied muscles, that he looked at a spot in the corner and his eyes grew wide, biting his lip to the point of drawing blood. She's ready for her last meal, it seems. I'm sorry I couldn't stop it. With that, he exhaled deeply, his back arching to the point of snapping before he froze. Dead.

Azo lasted a decent while longer, refusing to come to Manada's funeral and effectively shutting out the world, save for his family and their small rice farm. He watched his three children grow older, and on his eldest son's 29th birthday, told him the truth behind his episodes, the reason I am here with you all today. That night, in that home during the hours of the ox, the Shinto priest performed what is known as Ushin No Tokimori, a curse placed upon my brothers for their heinous crimes, destined to suffer in both this and the next life. Azo wept and the guilt of his actions overcame him as he apologized profusely to his

son, Tenzen, the young man not understanding why. In those later hours, when the knocking on the door grew frantic and the scratching accompanied a deafening wailing that Tenzan whipped around to hear, his father gasping from his bed. So he was right. You hear it too, Tenzan. Look under the tatami plates near our porch, and please, forgive me. He died soon after, leaving Tenzan with the uncomfortable knowledge that every man in my family now carries on our shoulders.

We are all cursed, every single one of us. Every man in my family begins to see these creatures on their 29th birthday, and misfortune befalls them through the rest of their days. Sometimes they go weeks without an incident, sometimes ours. It seems to vary from member to member, but as the generations grew, all the men reported seeing them around the time they reached 29. When trying to find the priest who originally placed the curse in order to apologize, They were unable to locate him or anyone who knew him.

The search was ultimately fruitless, and each member of the Nakamura clan dealt with the curse in their own way. Tenzin tried to maintain the property in his father's absence, his younger brother committing suicide the night of his 30th birthday. Now, they won't use me as a hive. He stuck the blade through his belly right in front of his children. He gurgled, blood seeping through his teeth and staining them a dark coffee red as he fell forward.

His son would later report hearing an incessant buzzing in his ear, itchiness on his skin, and bumps appearing over his body that he couldn't get rid of. He'd eventually throw himself into a river at the age of 34 as a cleansing ritual that he unsurprisingly didn't survive. My grandfather, Hiroshi, took his wife and my dad across the ocean and heared to the U.S. during the Second World War, declaring a desire to escape the atrocities of the empire. his trade out west and helped the British government as a translator, though my grandmother would recount that he secretly hoped the sightings would stop if they were blessed by another priest,

and started over in a new land where these yokai could not follow. He was wrong. Within a decade, Hiroshi would be driven to the point of insomnia, refusing to sleep for fear the spindly thing in the gutters would rise out of the drain and claim him. He began scarcely washing, only opting to do so when he could take the bucket into the living room so as to not see into the drain. His son, my dad, Jushin, was obviously concerned seeing his father slowly devolving into nothing more than a husk that babbled on about the rattling of the pipes, the incessant singing

that only he could hear emanating from the neighbors above, despite living on the top floor, and other maladies that ultimately drove Hiroshi to a heart attack when I was just a boy. I remember the drive home from the funeral. A Shinto burial where we lived is a rare sight, and though my dad and I were more American than we were Japanese, we still upheld tradition. My frail Nana looking at me from her wheelchair and shaking her head as she pointed to me and spoke to my mother. I remember my father's white knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel for dear life and

screamed in broken Japanese for something to get out of the way, despite the roads being clear. I remember the car toppling over the embankment and feeling the inertia washing over me as my small body was thrown around like a rag doll, and my dad's promises to fix the passenger seatbelt now coming back to haunt me. I remember the quiet aftermath. Soft, pained breaths in the husk of that car as I looked ahead and saw my father's mangled body crawling back to the dashboard.

Only half of him making the return trip. Theodore, ignore the whispers, he repeated, intersplicing a small chant until his breathing and grew shallow, and the blue lights blinded him from my vision. He was 31. To the best of my knowledge, he never once displayed the kind of anxiety or distress previous members had shown. I'd even seen my uncle and grandfather in a more weathered state around that time, but my dad, to me at least, seemed immune to it all.

Proud of his work and a digilent parent, he always strived to be the best he could. But maybe it was that desire to ignore the fate bestowed upon him that caused him that caused his end. So here we are, some two decades later, and now my turn. My brother Harry went missing a few years back, though my mother is convinced that it was his wanderlust, and he's probably somewhere in South America stoned out of his mind. But he never took narcotics for fun, always to quell his paranoia of something following him. Harry routinely believed that the stars followed him wherever he went, particularly one

that's situated in the east, a sickly magenta and humming, always humming, as he described it, following him wherever he went, rising and growing as he tried to outrun it. I asked him why it terrified him so much when it was so far away, but when his eyes met mine, I understood that there was something else in the sky, something he wouldn't dare to describe that was after him. If you saw the glow, heard the hum, felt the presence, You'd know, Theo. He'd take a drag of his cigarette and wave me off, not wanting to discuss it anymore.

He bade us farewell and set off backpacking, telling Mom he needed to find himself, while telling me he hoped the stars wouldn't follow him there. Odd as that statement sounded. In my case, I guess I'd prepared for it my whole life. Indulging in horror has been my forte to such a degree that, hell, I made it a full-time job. leaving experiences from my life or the lives of those I knew and making them into something to terrify others, knowing full well that nothing would ever match what was waiting for me. It started last year on my 28th.

I woke up the following morning with a start, the whispering in my ear faint but unmistakably alien. You shouldn't take your medication today. I looked around, puzzled, and trying to figure out if it was my sleep-addled state, a leftover portion of the dream I was having. Spying nobody and not hearing any follow-up responses, I roused myself out of bed and got on with my day, cursing myself for forgetting my medication, and the feeling of something watching me permeating throughout the day.

So from there it grew like a cancer. Over the weeks I would feel something placing icy hands around my neck or my stomach, jolting me and causing me to drop something valuable, stumble over in the street, and once even careen my car into the back of my mom's. With every momentary fright and creeping sense of dread, I could feel this thing grow in confidence and power. I spent the remaining part of 2019 researching our family lineage as best I could, trying desperately to find a way to alleviate the curse, atone for my ancestors' sins, or stave it off. But after numerous overseas calls to our native relatives in Japan and lengthy chats with my Nana, it was to no avail.

Run from it, plead with it, bargain with it, but the curse shall not relent. My Nana rasped and sadness gripping her old but kind face. I lost my husband and my son to that wretched curse. I couldn't bear to lose you too. I remember taking her hand and smiling, looking up at her to thank her for her kindness, but not seeing the face of my Nana where her head rested. Instead, the most grotesque shape stretched itself over my nana's skull, hollowed out eye sockets with amorphous shapes undulating in the black pits, layers of rotting flesh stretching over

gangrenous muscle tissue and blackened bone, melting with the mold and fungal rot amassing around her head. It cocked its head to me as it grinned. I backed away, softly apologizing to my nana in a cold sweat, my chest tightening and my vision growing blurry, I was having a panic attack. To get to my car, I tried desperately to calm myself down, punching the steering wheel in frustration as my mind shot back to those final moments my dad suffered through. Did he see then what I see now?

So it went. The curry kept its promise. First, just with my nana until she died in the spring. Then moving on to my cousins, aunts, uncles, and in July, my mother. I've tried as many excuses as I can muster in order to put off seeing her. I think with my age rapidly approaching 30, she senses something is off. I finally told my partner about it in the week leading up to my birthday. She tried her best to understand, but when she put her hand on mine and suggested I speak

to a therapist, I knew it would always be a barrier she's unable to cross. I couldn't blame her. To the outside world, it must seem as if our family simply has a history of severe mental illness on the male side. We do. Maybe it's just latent in our minds until we finish maturity in our mid-20s, and the 29th birthday is simply self-fulfilling prophecy. We expect it to happen, so it does.

Last week, a few days shy of my birthday, the curry came to me in a dream, draped in a cloak of muscle and guts. It peered from the tip of the cloak to laugh at me. You want to be free, yes. It cooed. My desperation practically palpit. at this point, a solid year without proper sleep, communication with my family, or reason to live.

I nodded, tears forming in my eyes at the prospect of freedom. Then go to where your father lost his life. I didn't tell my partner. I didn't tell anyone. I left a simple note and an excuse why I had to go, deactivated my social media, and set off for where he had his accident, Roosevelt. To those of you not local, it's a countryside, situation. situated 100 miles from the closest city, sprawling hills and surrounded by nature.

It also has many quiet countryside roads with vast open fields, the kind my father lost his life in. As I drove down the dimly lit roads, my sole companion was the curry, whispering in my ear. Exhaustion, misery, and hunger gripped my soul as I sped up, desperate to get this thing gone. My mind racked with thoughts of how my predecessors had succumbed to other members. of this creature's family. How many more would fall?

I had cousins. There was still a chance it'd continue. I saw the long, winding road known as Hatchez Lane. The lights barely flickering as my car pulled up near the embankment. Was it here? Maybe a bit further. My eyes were feeling heavy and I struggled to focus. I'll take you there.

It whispered. The voice almost sorrowful now as I willed my aching frame to move and trudged through the darkness. How long had it been since I'd eaten, drank. My mouth felt so dry that swallowing brought the sensation of razors slinking down my throat. Eyes felt itchy and my head was pounding. I could barely see. The cold whipping through my bones. Keep going.

My knees gave out and I felt the darkness take me. The only thing left was the sight of that fucking creature as it grinned. Images of my father, grandfather, and other countless men in my family stood silently behind it. It, heads bowed and shackled with their own abominations by their side, tormenting them, its teeth, a yellow tongue oozing pus and lapping around its face in a snake-like manner as it cackled. Before I could respond, a blinding light shone through the darkness and I was brought to my senses with worried faces looming over me, my girlfriend and a pair of paramedics. I should be thankful that I had to find my iPhone function on my phone, and that the note

was ominous enough from my girlfriend to look further into. Any later, and I doubt they'd have found me. Both she and the doctor chalked it up to a psychotic break pertaining to the family's superstition of the men turning 29. I didn't argue, nor did I protest going to therapy and spending time focusing on getting better. To their credit, I didn't see or hear the curry. After some time, I began to think that perhaps things could return to normal, that I'd be able to find some sense of normality amid a sea of misfortune and tragedy.

But, last Monday, the day after I turned 29, right as the clock turned to 1 a.m. and entered the hours of the ox, I saw two things standing at the foot of my bed, my girlfriend sleeping soundly through them all. The first was my father, propping himself up on his elbows. The bottom half of him stood at the side patiently, a look of sorrow across his still youthful face as he turned to glance at the other figures. The curry, teeth bared, pale skin and skin. cloaked in flesh and eyes, that sickly tinted yellow Azo had seen so long ago.

You can run from it. Plead with it, bargain with it, but the curse shall not relent. He breathed as the curry cackled, making me feel aware of what the rest of my life would look like. My new horrible reality. Happy birthday, son. They were alive, and yes, so was he. The day we spoke for the first time was cloudy and gray.

I was carrying the compost bucket from lunch through the school yard to where the garden was, way in the back. The gravel path and shrubbery leading up to it was largely ignored by my classmates. A place meant to look pretty, but less entertaining to middle schoolers than the mini soccer field and the swing set. When I slowly lugged the bucket down the path, the squealing and laughing of lunch recess would diminish into background noise behind me. It was on this path in the little corner by the chicken corner of the chicken-conyceau.

coop that I ran into Zach. I knew little about him other than that he was a quiet kid who sat in the back of the classroom, and the Rex, the seventh-grade bully, called him a freak in the hallways. Maybe Rex had gotten to him again, because he was sitting on the side of the path in the shadows of the chicken coop and cradling a bruise on the side of his face. I wouldn't have noticed the maggots if I hadn't given his face a second glance. At first, I thought he was crying, but his tears were made. moving up and down his cheeks.

When he noticed me, he hugged his knees tightly and stared up at me, frozen like a statue, like he had never expected anyone to come down here. What I now realized were little white larvae wormed their way around his pale cheeks, four, five of them. As I stared back at him, another one crawled out of the edge of his left eye from between the eyeball and the soft part of the eyelid. I saw his throat bob, the toes of his seat. sneakers fidgeted.

What's wrong? Zach blinked. The maggots crawled down his cheeks. He raised his hand to flick them away, like he perhaps thought I was blind or somehow hadn't noticed. He was lucky I had been the one to find him that day. As I discovered later in life, most boys grew out of their absolute fascination with bugs by middle school.

Fortunately for Zach, I wasn't like most boys. I crouched down quickly and caught his hand before he could swat at the maggots. Don't do that. You're going to crush them. He inhaled sharply. I did too, without knowing. His hand was strangely soft and cold to the touch. I quickly let it go.

Bugs are living things too. I stammered, then cleared my throat and straightened up. All life is precious. It's what my dad told me. Zach stared at me. Then against all odds, he broke into a small smile. You're the pastor's son, right? His voice rustled like a breeze through dry leaves.

I had never heard him speak before, or maybe I'd just never bothered to listen. Yeah, you know me? I think I've seen you with him a long time ago. The maggots slowly wormed their way down his cheek and neck. Zach didn't seem bothered by them. If their little winding trails tickled, he didn't show it. I watched, strangely fixated until the tiny white insect. disappeared down his collar.

Then I stood up and hefted the compost bucket. Where are you going? To feed the worms, I said, jabbing my thumb at the garden. Wanna come see? He smiled a little wider this time. As he pulled himself to his feet, I thought I saw several small and black shapes scurry in the gravel at his feet. We walked into the garden, opened up the wooden trough of the worm farm, and dumped the bucket

into it. The worms poked their slimy heads out of their spongy or earthy smelling holes and crawled into the leftover salad and applecores. I put down the empty bucket and watched them with a small sense of pride. You like bugs too, Zach said quietly. Yeah. I replied, closing up the trough again. Bugs are cool.

I have a giant ant farm at home and some beetles I keep secret from my dad. Without another word, Zach turned to me and held out his hands. The sleeve of his button-down shirt shifted, and a black and red beetle the size of my thumb crawled onto the open palm of his hand. I stared down in awe at the shine of its illiterra and the fine fuzz of hair on its legs, the way it moved, the delicate plates of its carapest sliding in perfect sink with each other. It's beautiful, I muttered. Where did you find it?

Bugs are my friends, Zach said simply. He tilted his hand and the beetle climbed up on the bottom. onto his index finger, where it spread its translucent yellow wings and flew away. I waited for him to tell me more, but he turned on his heels in the garden dirt, and that was that. Zach revealed his secrets to me quietly, one by one. We now sat in the dirt behind the chicken coop during lunch recess, tucked away from wandering eyes so that I could watch Zach work his magic.

He had been telling the truth. Everything creeping and crawling in the yellow grass and coarse dirt was his own. his friend. Scarab beetles crawled out of the loose soil and onto his sleeves. Long-legged spiders repelled down from his collar. One time a giant centipede emerged from in between the buttons of his shirt. I cried out in alarm and Zach laughed. His laughter rustled like his voice and a pair of white and brown moths fluttered out of his mouth.

Once I was aware of Zach, I couldn't become unaware. There was a mysterious way he kept people from looking his way. He sat quietly at the back of the classroom, and the teacher would sort of see through him like he wasn't there. The crowds in the hallways after class parted naturally for him, but no one ever talked to him. Here I realized that Zach didn't have any friends. Rex, the seventh-grade bully, picked on him regularly.

Sometimes people watched. Zach took it all without a word. The pushes and shoves and the occasional blow to his chest or the side of his face as Rex grew enraged by his silence. As he stood there, he held parts of his clothes gently, and I knew it was so that the tiny creatures in his pockets wouldn't be crushed. Zach walked home with me every day, though my house was closer and I never learned where he lived. One time when my father wasn't home, I invited him to my room and showed him my beetles. They look happy, he said, peering into the plastic bottles.

You think so? Zach nodded. Bugs are simple. If you give them food and a cozy place to stay, they're happy. If you care about them, they'll be your friend. A millipede crawled along the snug cranny between his hair and the curved back of his ear. I wondered how he could tell my beetles looked so happy. Even as the millipede slowly slithered into his ear like it was burrowing into the ground,

that was the only thing I really wondered about Zach. One day after school, he quietly took me to the Old Town Cemetery. I followed him through the yellowed grass until we stopped at the foot of a small granite gravestone. I stepped up beside Zach and read the thin, white inscriptions. Zach Wilson, 0.5.03, 1999, 08, 17, 2010. A heart of gold and the voice of an angel. I looked back at Zach.

His smile trembled, and he looked nervous. I waited for him to say something, but he held on to his silence. Is that you? I carefully asked, unable to come up with anything better. He nodded curtly. I reached out and touched his shoulder just to make sure that I could. The folds of his shirt, the cool skin underneath. Once I was absolutely sure he was there, I let out a small laugh.

Why do you look so nervous? Zach's eyes fluttered with relief and he smiled again. His real smile. I don't know. For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in the graveyard dirt and played with the roly-poly bugs that crawled on Zach's grave. As the sun dipped and our shadows grew, Zach took in a small breath and began to sing. A gentle chill went through me as I recognized the song.

Amazing Grace. If someone told me that was the voice of an angel, I would have believed them. When I went home that day, I waylaid my father. father on his way to his basement study and asked him where little boys went when they died. Bittersweet smile lines crinkled around his eyes, and he told me that good little boys went to heaven to meet God. I asked him if God ever let the little boys come back home. My father said heaven was their home.

That next Monday, Rex the bully wrestled me down to the floor of the hallway for looking at Kate Michaels the wrong way. As the grimy bottom of his shoe ground painfully into my chest, I spotted Zach standing amongst the crowd. He stared down at me and then took a step back as if he anticipated something. The next moment, the hundreds of brown black cockroaches swarmed out from underneath the lockers and scurried up Rex's leg. His face blanched and he screamed and all the kids in the hallway watching us scream too. Rex kicked his legs and shuddered in his gym shorts and bolted down the hallway sobbing. The swarm of cockroaches streamed out.

after him. Zach peaked his head out from around the lockers and smiled. His eyes glittered with mischief. That evening as we made dinner, my father asked me where I had gotten the bottom of a shoe-shaped smudge on my shirt. I told him Rex had pushed me down in the hallway. Then I asked if Rex would go to hell for that. My father said he had better seek forgiveness.

I should forgive him? It would be very brave of you. You would be giving Rex an opportunity to become. some better person. We ate dinner, and my father brought me orange juice, and as I drank it, he looked at the old photo of my mother in the way that he does sometimes. I was particularly tired that day, and my father tucked me into bed early. Tuesday morning, Rex didn't show up to school.

Zach and I joked that he was still running from the cockroaches. Zach laughed and quickly covered his mouth before Kate Michaels in her passing could see the moth fluttering on his tongue. Jack still didn't show up on Wednesday, nor Thursday, and then on Friday morning his face was in the newspaper under the missing children section. I thought maybe Zach had something to do with it, but he told me he hadn't seen Rex since the cockroach incident. He looked troubled when I told him Rex was missing.

I hope someone finds him, I muttered. Zach smiled softly. Even after what he did to you? My dad said, forgiveness gives him the opportunity to become a baby. better person, it's a brave thing to forgive." Zach nodded. Last winter, a few kids had gone missing, and there had been rumors about everything from kidnappers to mountain lions.

The same had happened a couple years back. By now, parents were easily scared, so on Saturday the sidewalks outside felt a little emptier. I'm sure the police are looking for wrecks, my father said. Let's pray that they can find him soon. We spent the afternoon playing checkers at the kitchen table. We were on our third or fourth game when the door bell rang. I went to open the door and was surprised to find Zach standing there.

Zach, what are you doing here? Is Pastor Nick home? He quietly asked. My dad? Why? I need to see him. I turned to look at my father and Zach squeezed past me through the doorway. Pastor Nick!

My father looked up from the checkerboard. Then in an instant, his eyes widened and his face turned white as a sheet. His lips trembled, but no words came out. It's good to see you again. Zach said softly. My father bolted to his feet, sending his stool clattering across the hardwood floor. You. He stammered.

How? Zach tilted his head. Wasn't it you who always told us there was life after death? In all my life I had never seen my father afraid. Not even when he had forgotten the turkey. in the oven last Thanksgiving and the whole kitchen got engulfed in flames. But now he was afraid, as Zach walked closer to him, step by step. Why didn't I make it to heaven, pastor?

My father pressed his back against the kitchen table and whimpered something that died at the back of his throat. Zach gazed up at him steadily as he slowly undid the buttons on his cuffs. Maybe God couldn't recognize me anymore. He said quietly, not after what you did to me. He pulled up his sleeves and I gasped. Deep gashes circled his wrists and his forearms. White cuts oozing old purple blood like something had carved his arms into little pieces

and then messily stuck them back together. His skin was gray around the wounds and pockmarked with the red craters. As I watched in horror, maggots and beetles crawled out of the holes and crept along the open seams of his flesh. They were all his friends. I knew. As I stood there frozen and my father gasped. For breath, Zach reached his hand up into his mouth and made a small sound.

Somewhere between a cough and a choking noise, I saw the soft skin of his throat tremble, and then a giant, brown scorpion crawled out from between his open lips and onto the palm of his hand. Tell me, Zach muttered as the scorpion raised its tail, tipped with a wicked black stinger the size of my thumbnail. Rex is in there right now, isn't he? My father cried and pleaded for mercy. I watched numbly. He deserves forgiveness, just like you told your son, but you, Pastor Nick, are a pitiful

hypocrite. He lifted his hand, and the scorpion leapt onto my father. My father screamed and clawed at his shirt, but all that was needed was a single swipe, a flash of the stinger. The scorpion rolled onto the floor at the same time that my father's knees buckled. Zach quickly knelt down and scooped up the scorpion in his hands, and my father slammed onto the floor, twisting spastically. My friend gazed down sadly at the scorpions crushed carapace and flailing legs.

I'm sorry. You were so brave. He gently cradled the dying creature and looked up at me. Rex is in the basement. He said, a sad smile in his eyes. When you find him, will you let him know that I forgive him too? I stared down at my father, shivering on the floor, with his eyes rolled back in his head, choking and fighting for his breath.

As Zach, who slowly slumped back against the kitchen table, closed his eyes. Zach, it's been nice, he whispered. It was nice having friends again. The scorpion wriggled weakly in his hands. Zach smiled. The rise and fall of his chest grew shallow, and his face began to turn pale. The purple blood on his arms turned black. The earthly scent of decay filled the room, like the smell that came up from the worm farm.

When the scorpion stopped moving, I slowly turned around, walked into the living room, picked up the phone, and dialed 911. Once I finished talking to the dispatcher and turned around, Zach was gone. A small swarm of white and brown moths fluttered against the light of the kitchen window. I opened the window and they flew into the sky. The police found wrecks tied up and drugged in the basement, where there used to be a storage space adjacent to the study before it was stripped bare and the door concealed using a bookshelf. The emergency medical technicians monitored my father until he woke up and then promptly put him under

arrest, six counts of murder, they said. I told the officers what happened, but of course no one believed me. I moved to my aunt and uncle's house in the city and was enrolled into a new school. I would never get to learn if Rex ever went back to school. One day I took a bus to the downtown library and sifted through the newspaper archives until I found Zach's photo from all the way back in 2010 under the missing children section. He was smiling in the photo and wearing the white and brown robe of the boy's choir at my father's church.

It crossed my mind that someone must have found his body for him to be declared dead and given a burial, but I decided not to look for those papers. My aunt and uncle hate bugs more than most things. And things like blowflies and moths usually don't last a minute, but sometimes I spot the bugs before they do, and if I'm lucky, I can scoop them into a jar unnoticed and let them go outside. Sometimes I hope that Zach finally made it to heaven. I pray for him on lonely nights, and sometimes I look out my window and listen for soft voices in the wind, secretly wishing Zach is still out there.

laughing and singing to the small creeping creatures hidden underneath the earth. Hey everyone. So I recently put out a new project over on Audible, and it's called Child Rowland by Jam Nelson, who also wrote this story. So if you listen to the video and you like the story and you want to hear more of the author's stuff, I'll leave a link to where you can check out the audiobook as well as the book itself on Amazon. And if you want to help out the channel, be sure to like the video and subscribe. And with that said, enjoy the video.

We chased the gray ghost for leagues. Across open ocean we pursued her. Once a simple frigate, she'd been captured by a number of cutthroats only three nights prior. We should have turned back long ago, but our captain, Powell, insisted we pursue her. His brother commanded that ship, and he refused to leave him to the mercy of the sea. The crew members of the Harpy knew better, for during the night before, we'd seen the dead floating amongst wreckage and low-glowing embers of another ship that we knew. Many claimed to see the boyish face of Captain Powell's brother floating atop the dark waters

of the night, illuminated only by the dancing flames and low-hanging smoke atop the waves. I too saw what the crew members believed to be the Powell brother, but his face sat in the dark that I could not be certain, and the captain refused to stop to collect the dead. His heart was filled with hate and pride, so we continued our pursuit at the cost of certainty. I was next to Powell one late morning. The ghost's mighty sail stood along the horizon, glowing with the quickly fading sunlight. A storm loomed overhead, darkening the waters and dampening our spirits. The men, upon seeing such a mighty work of the Creator making its way towards us, and the

gray ghost recklessness of sailing right into the heart of it, beg Captain Powell to turn back. We were not an armed ship. We had nothing but muskets and a few cutlasses to possibly take the ship back or take the lives of those who Powell's taste for blood lusted after. It was a job for the Marines and Navy, not for a simple merchant vessel. Nay, said Powell, we press on. And so we did, pressing the harpy to her limits as the wicked wind carried us into the abyss of the ever-haunting storm. I stayed below deck during that time. We tossed and turned, lifting from the waters at times, for hell itself opened up around us, and I felt the wrath of the banished and damned pulling at us to join them beneath the waves.

I was not alone in my thoughts, for between the retching and cries of fear, curses flowed from the lips of my crew members against Powell, against the gray ghost, and against the harpy-hospher. herself. That is what hurt me the most, for I loved the harpy. She looked after me many times, but I too felt the cold knife of betrayal she placed into the backs of her crew, laced with a poison as bitter as the aides of March. I fell asleep sometime in the night, during all the chaos. I found it a miracle, but I awoke, refreshed, yet dizzy from the bouncing and buckling of the Harpy. When I stood on deck, the beaming rays of sun warmed my cold, sea-salted flesh. The crew murmured to one another from their posts. Their faces were long, pale, tired.

They worked through the night, keeping us alive, and for that I applauded them. Captain Powell stood near the bow, his left hand behind his back, and his right holding his thin eyeglass. He stared out onto the horizon, watching intently. I studied it. I studied it. I studied, studied him, but my gaze broke to see if the ghost sat within our grasp. The waters drew my attention first. They were still, flat, as if the harpies skated across some form of ice. I could see beneath the calm waters, though, and knew that we floated atop an ocean. Never before in all my years as a quartermaster had I seen anything like that.

I could feel the wind at our back. I could see the flat blue split beneath the weight of the hull. yet the wakes died out quickly, fading into nothing but calm water. Suddenly, an eyeglass was held out before me, resting in the hand of the captain. He smiled at me beneath his patchy red beard, his eyes darkened by the tiredness that came with the storm. Take a look. She is still.

I looked through his glass, studying the ghost on the horizon. Her two large mass stood looming tall, but her sail sat tight. She was, as the captain put it, still. The lack of waves did not move her, and she rejected the wind to carry her. It was as if she gave up the fight and welcomed us to take her back with open arms. Hope, said the captain. We have found our hope again. The sight of the gray ghost up close twisted my heart and stomach into knots,

for I knew the ship and knew her well, but did not recognize her when my eyes laid upon her. The wood that made her hull sat tarnished and grim. The storm peeled away what gray paint lined the edges. The masts were battered, and I could see that the sails were not wrapped. Instead, they were torn from the large wooden posts, taken by Poseidon and lost the abyss. Nothing stirred on her decks. They were as calm and silent as the ocean.

A trap, the captain sensed. Be on the lookout. I boarded with the party hand-picked. by Powell himself. We searched the ship and found no sign of life or even that of death. The food stores were emptied. The gunpowder and muskets were taken. All that remained were a few pieces of meat on the former captain's table, rotten as the hope that festered within our hearts. An eerie sight it was, for the gray ghost became exactly what it was called. Captain Powell did not believe my party. He told us that the pirates were tucked away somewhere,

that they had nowhere to go. I mentioned that I noticed the dinghies were missing, and they could have made a break for it across the open ocean. With the ghost sails gone, it would be their only option. Powell denied it. Only a fool would chance something like that. He sent another party to search, but they returned with the same results. Yet they warned of claw marks within the empty closets and storage space,

as if there were prisoners trying to claw their way out. Haunting it was for pal, for his dark eyes glowed with a rage I only saw once before, and the stakes were not as high then. He told us to wait, for he feared the pirates may return once we moved on, and so we waited. I ate dinner with the captain that night. We mostly sat in silence under the candlelight of his large cabin. On occasion he would ask me to pass the salt or make sure that my fish was cooked well. It was.

It didn't feel awkward, though, sitting in silence. I found it calming. Most of the meals that I had with the captain were in a similar fashion. Yet that night, that night the waves were as still as they were in the morning. The ship did not rock. The splashing and crashing of the white-capped peaks of water did not create an ambience. Instead, I listened to the sounds of not just my own munching, but that of the captains. Well finally spoke of the situation once we finished eating.

Strange, isn't it? I believe that to be an understatement of the situation, sir. He leaned back in his chair, resting his hands in his velvet pockets. He shook his head. I believed John to be out there. I wanted to tell him that his brother perished, and the men knew it. I could see the sadness in his long face, and I did not possess the heart to present the truth. I nodded.

I as well. Then I have your word? He asked, caulking his head. I'm sorry, sir? Your word, that we did not stop until we find John. Aye, sir. I murmured, taking a bite of my stale bread. You have my word.

Just as I finished chewing my food, a hauler came out from on deck. The captain stood quickly, throwing on his long flowing overcoat. The pale green fabric appeared dark and corrupted next to the dim light of the candles. He gave me a nod, and I too stood, following him out on deck. The night was darker than usual. The night sky hung overhead as I peered up. Not a single star glowed within the night. A wall of black sat atop us, and its reflection in the sea looked as if the darkness

itself were swallowing the harpy. Atop the crow's nest, a voice came down to the captain and I. Land, sir! A sea land! I followed Powell to the bow, where he peered. out into the darkness. There was no mistaking it. Land did sit not far off the horizon. It was a strange aisle, one that had not been there during the day.

A haze. The captain told me with a chuckle. The sun created a haze. That is where these cutthroats went. The aisle, taller than a ship's mast, loomed over the calm waters. Dark stone cliffs lined each side of it, and a thick pale fog rolled from the edges of the top. A split there was, right down the middle, small enough for a dinghy to row through if need

be. I could not see into it, though, for it was dark. Yet, for a single moment, I could see the glowing, radiant light of a lantern. The same thing must have caught the eye of the watchman. It disappeared quickly, and had I not spotted the aisle beforehand, it could have faded into oblivion. Staring at the aisle, my heart sank with each passing second. Dread twisted my throat. I felt something strange in the air, a static coldness that radiated across the ocean. I had not seen such a strange sight before. The demanding presence of the aisle possessed me,

and as I looked upon it, I told the captain, John cannot be here. He has to be. You gave me your word, did you not? Aye, that is a strange sight, sir. That is most unnatural. Tis the ocean, quartermaster. Everything is most unnatural on the ocean. Powell stepped away from me, ordering the men to get the rowers ready to head toward the aisle. I dared not go, for within the fog that rolled atop the small, tall aisle, I felt that death itself beckoned us. I felt that the harpy and the ghost wanted us to vacate, for we were men, and the rest.

the destroyers of all things. They too felt our wrath, and they needed us gone for their own survival. I had no choice in the matter. The captain ordered myself and four others to accompany him to the aisle. Most of the men armed themselves with muskets and pistols. I took a hatchet with a flintlock in my jacket, but I feared we'd not be able to use them. The crew of the harpies stared at me with dead, cold eyes as we slowly rode away on our dingy. I felt the, the same. I felt the their stairs, their pity for us to head towards that aisle. They knew that it was foolish, and that our captain chased a dream. Yet, Powell sat behind me, proud and mighty. He rubbed the hilt of his old saber, whispering something to himself as we slowly moved towards the aisle.

The closer we got, the darker the night grew. Soon enough, the low lights of the lanterns on both the harpy and the gray ghost were all I could make out in our previous direction. the stillness of the waters was haunting, and for the first time did I ever really fear what lurked beneath the cold blue. The looming aisle grew in size, no longer hidden by the shadows of the night. It was taller than we imagined, more than the length of the gray ghost, the larger of our two ships. The fog rolled from the edges of the black stone cliffs, flowing down and settling atop the water.

The pale floated across the still black, reflect. surface, moving towards us as if it were the hand of death itself. Soon we were shrouded in the mist. It rose above our dinghy, thickening and darkening that the only thing we could see was the ether above and the sea below. The lights of our ships faded away, and with it all hope that remained receded into the back of my mind. If only I told the captain that it was foolhardy, if only I spoke the truth.

I knew better, though, for Powell was a dedicated man, and he loved nothing more than his brother, John. He'd see it through, until the end, the bitter end. The wakes created by the oars of our little wooden vessel did not stir the water as much as I hoped. I needed a sense of rhythm to drown out the haunting sound of my ever-growing, beating heart, yet it was as if the fog itself was muffling all noise. I could not bear the silence, for silence is the sound of the dead and damned. Soon enough, though, the fog peeled back, and before us loomed the towering might of the aisle.

The cliffs radiated that cold electricity that I felt before. My hair stood up on end, as if I were an animal threatened by the mere existence of such a place. Our dinghy glided across the still surface of the water faster than we had predicted, and the cliffs of the aisle were waiting as if they were the large maw of some forgotten beast. One of our rowers shouted, but it was too late. Our small vessel collided with the side of the aisle, sending a haunting snapping sound of splintered wood and shattered carpentry out into the still night. We began to take on water, for one of the boards that our feet bent and shattered.

We leapt from the sinking dinghy, throwing our muskets and weapons into the black abyss in order to stay. afloat. I watched as the small wooden boat scraped against the side of the aisle, lowering beneath the surface of the water. I could hear its wooden side scraping against the rocks, echoing beneath us for quite some time. Haunting, the sound was. I feared the noise alone, for it carried with it the reality of our situation. We began to swim, trying to use the cliffs to hold our heads above the water. A great current pulled us down, and our thick wool coats and lavish dressings were added weight in such a place. A sailor, his name I cannot remember, swam just ahead of me.

He spotted a small strand ahead of us, or so he shouted. I cannot see it, but I did take his word for it. He disappeared before me, sucked down by the great black abyss where we swam. I pressed on, trying not to think of the man. How foolish Powell was! I wondered if John's life meant more than that man's, meant more than my own. It was then that I felt a surface beneath me and quickly raced out of the water. Powell emerged from the water behind me along with two other men.

We'd lost another somehow. I assumed he too was taken by the water. I fell to my knees, tired and exhausted. I stared into the black sands of the small strand of the aisle. running my hands through the small ancient pieces of ash. I wept, for I knew we were stuck. I wept, for I knew it to be hopeless. Powell caught my attention as he walked by.

He did not seem phased by what occurred. He said not a word as we marched up the strand. I watched as the fog rolled in around us. The split in the cliff stood before us. Powell stared up in awe of such a strange natural structure. I felt that we looked through the strait of Messina, but it was not the water that split it, but black ancient ash. The dense fog lightened once more, revealing large window-shaped carvings on the faces

of the cliffs inside the small Isle Valley. I stood, looking up in such wonderment of a place, for I became curious if we stumbled upon an ancient culture unknown to man. I moved toward Powell, throwing my wool coat off, tired of its weight. The electric chill tightened my muscles upon sight of such a wonder. The cliffs were taller than I originally thought, and the number of carvings inside them were breathtaking. They scaled all the way up the side of the cliff and all across their length, which, too,

was longer than thought. On the other side of the valley, I could see where the two cliffs split and should have been able to see the ocean and night sky on the other side, but nay, I could not. Only blackness and shadow loomed on the horizon, and I felt another storm coming. One, not of this world. We moved into the valley as a group. Powell led the way, his hand on his sabres hilt. He, once a military man, radiated an essence of leadership. Had I not known that he went to the aisle out of bloodlust and a fool's hope, I'd have followed him until the end of the earth. Yet, as he pressed onward, my heart grew with frustration.

I could not stand the side of him. The fog not only rolled into the valley from the edges of the cliff walls, the gray mist filled the carved windows in the sides of the cliffs, encasing them as if they were no longer there. The pale rolled over the dark cliffs, climbing downward and blanketing the ground at our feet. It parted with each step, But yet I cannot see the surface of which we walked, for the black sands were as if they were a part of the pale itself, blending between two different matters. The further we went into the valley, it was as if we became part of the looming darkness itself.

The shadows that danced in the darkness grew and swelled around us as if they were an ocean of their own, one of an empty void, an abyss that we could no longer escape. With that, our vision grew, and in the center of the valley I could see a structure. Tall it was, powerful in presence. It stood just shy of the height of the cliffs, so mighty it was that I feared that no man could build such a relic. A five-sided obelisk about the width of a man beckoned us to come closer with its faceless curiosity. The shadows swayed around it, wrapping up its tall sides as a serpent to a forbidden fruit. What is it?"

I heard one of our party asked. Powell stepped closer to the structure as the three of us others stayed stationary, nervous for what we stumbled upon. The captain reached his hand out, touching the smooth gray stone of the obelisk. I knew, in that very moment, that we should have turned back long ago, for something so simple as the color of the stone, stones that did not match that of the cliffs or any other natural formation seen on the island did not sit right with me. The grayobulus did not belong in such a place, and neither did we. The captain ran his hands over small engravings, words I did not see before.

He muttered to himself as he did so, curious and thinking aloud. I could not understand what he said, but I knew just by the way his body language shifted to that of a nervous child, but he realized that something was aloof. I've seen something like this before. And far off sands, the captain said. Aye. I've heard of such structures. One of our party, Higgins, asked.

Could we swim to the harpy? If we strip, we'd have no weight. It is possible. Pal glared to him. Tis suicide. That current'll pull you down as it did the others. We're stuck here until the harpy says, another party.

And what if they get caught? Higgins pressed. What if they get stuck here with this strange devilry? Devilry. Powell informed the nervous sailor. Tis nothing but a strange stone. Strange indeed, sir. Said Newman, the other member of our party.

Powell looked back to the obelisk. His gaze looked upward, and so did mine. The carvings extended all five sides of the structure. They scaled all the way to the top. A great feat for whomever created such a thing. The dark ominous clouds overhead, those of pure darkness and a wild tempest, swirled in a counterclockwise fashion just above the cliffs. I could not look into those clouds.

I couldn't, for I felt them staring back at me. I eyed the valley instead, seeing other stone structures. None were the size or of the grandeur of the obelisk. None were made of the same stone. yet they resembled those of old druid sites that I had seen before. They were slabs of stone stacked top one another. They were spread throughout the valley. I walked through the pale and the shadows heading towards the ruins.

Two vertical stones held up one horizontal, as if a doorway or a gate to a larger structure that did not exist. Five of them were hidden among the pale of the valley. At the base of the one I approached, four skulls. sat in a line through the opening of the stones, resting atop the black sand and the fog rolling through their open sockets. I backed away, not saying anything to the party, for I panicked, and I did not want the same of them. We should signal the harpy, Higgins suggested. Yes, I nodded, not able to tear my eyes from the smaller ruins of the valley. Yes, I agree

with Higgins, sir. Signal with what? We have nothing to light a fire. Nothing to grab their attention. I'll start hunting, sir. We need to leave this place. Look out there. Commanded Powell, pointing out of the valley the way we came. Tell me, boy. What do you see?

Newman looked, staring off into the dark horizon. A wall of black and ether stood. I see nothing, sir. Aye, for the harpy and the grey ghost are on the horizon. They have lights. yet we do not see them. What good would a fire do now? How far would that signal go?

The three of us listened to him. He did make sense. We'd only have one chance to leave this place, and it felt good that the captain understood that it should not be wasted. We wait till morning. Wait for these clouds to clear. Then, I promise you, but we will call for more. And we leave.

I pressed. Powell turned back to the obelisk. He shook with a fear I'd not seen in the man. He reached out and touched the structure one last time. He turned his head slightly and said, We will rest. Quartermaster, you have first watch. The captain and the others fell into a deep slumber quickly.

I don't know how. If I did not have first watch, there'd be no doubt in my mind that I could not trail off into such a sleep. The aisle radiated a dark aura, one that I could feel in the depths of my very bones. Sleep? Nay. Sleep would be for the foolish. I feared what walked unseen in such a place. I sat, leaning my back against the obelisk.

I faced the way that we came, staring out into the dark ocean, hoping for any sign of the harpy or the gray ghost. I imagined three dinghies coming to the aisle. waving at me as they approached. The sailors called out to me, saying they were coming to take me away. That faded quickly, though, for it was nothing more than a trick of the fog, and what little hope remained within my soul. The aisle devoured that thought with its electric darkness. I watched as the fog that sat in a large pool around me began to rise. My sleeping companions were devoured by it almost instantaneously. It thickened, darkened,

No longer that pale gray color, but almost as if it became a black shroud over my eyes. Something moved amongst it. That much I could tell. It was not just a trick of my eyes, like my visions of a rescue. No. Something stirred within the shadows of the aisle, moving as my fear grew. A flicker of flame radiated from the pale. I stood, excited, that maybe, just maybe, it was a lantern on a dingy,

that I imagined. I can no longer see the horizon. I can no longer see the ruins. I could no longer see the obelisk that I, only seconds before, leaned against. I could only see the dark mist and the shadows that came with it. That light, though, it grew closer. I called out to it, asking who went. No response came. I could not hear the pacing of steps or the rowing of oars, not a sound of stirring echoed through the valley. I felt alone, but I knew better. Nothing was alone on such an aisle. Just as that thought passed across my mind, the light grew brighter, radiant as the fog peeled away around it. The flame, I could see it clear as day, sat within a small metal lantern. I could not see who held it, but I did see the silhouette of a man among the fog. I called out.

Who goes there? The flame danced within its metal housing for a moment before being extinguished. The figure stepped closer, only once as if to present itself to me. Its eyes glowed with the same oar as the flame, the hollow hellfire that pierced my very soul. The figure was shrouded in shadow and mist. The fog wrapped around its body, coiling as if it were part of it. It lightened around the figure's face for a moment, revealing it to be that of a man, A man that I once knew, a man that I believed to be long dead.

I did not recognize him, though. And even though I knew that we had met sometime before, I cannot recall his name for his face, while recognizable to some degree, had changed. His eyes, that of Hellfire, sat within deep, gaunt sockets. His cheeks were thin, pressed to his teeth. His head shaved and uniformed. His body malnourished and withered, swayed as the mist rolled through him. You must leave this place, quartermaster.

We are trying, I said stepping forward. The fog grew denser again, and I only spoke to the silhouette of the man, that and his piercing eyes that were the only source of color amongst the pale. The captain must leave, for this place is not of him. his earth. What? Where do you come from? The figure raised its arms, pointing beyond the obelisk, pointing to the shadow side of the valley.

This place. The figure began, lifting its arms out to present the walls of the valley, the ruins, and the obelisk that I did not see. He continued, It is that of the dead. Karen, this place is. I listened intently as the figure spoke, but my heartbeat grew wild, making my chest feel as if it would burst. The figure said to me,

The heart of the sea is not of life, but that of death. Do not stay. Do not search for the dead ones. For if you find them, you they will take. Something drew the attention of the figure. It was a deep sound, almost that of thunder, but carried with it the sound of distant humpbacks and other creatures of the sea. For me, they will take... It watches us. The dead are powerful, but the others, they will not let you leave.

Do not pass the obelisk. Do not follow the steps. For you have gone far now. Too far, perhaps. It will not take kindly. Dare not climb the steps. Steps. Take thine brother.

Take him away from this place. The heart of the sea is not to be seen by any living man. It came to me. I recognized in that moment who stood just beyond the pale. The fog wrapped around his cold. dead body, his hellfire eyes lit my innards aflame. It was not the man I once knew, and death itself had changed him. I feared what Powell would say. I feared what would happen. I called out, John? And with that, the figure's eyes shut, and it became one with the shadows. I awoke to a

swift kick in my ribs. I stood, quickly, using the obelisk as a support. My ribs burned under the crushing weight of a boot. I heaved, almost retching my guts out. I hunched over, gasping for air. Captain Powell stood next to me, the culprit of the kick to my side. He leaned over me as I tried to catch my breath. You slept on your watch, quartermaster. Between my breaths, I said. I did not, sir. I swear it. Do not lie to me. I saw you in a slumber deeper than Higgins. He presented the sleeping sailor. The fog was no longer as dense.

I could see the black sand of the valley floor. However, the dark cloud still rolled overhead. On the horizon sat nothing but shadows. I'm sorry, sir. It's just... I thought of telling him of the visitor, but feared it would only fuel him. Yet we needed to leave. We needed to vacate this place.

place as soon as we could. What is it? Powell asked. Your brother, sir. I thought on it. If I had expressed the truth to the man earlier, we'd not be in such a place. I let it out. Your brother, he's dead, sir.

Powell's brow arched in anger, his hand resting on his saber, clenched tightly. Do not try to justify this by speaking lies. I do not lie to you, sir. I reasoned. As I did so, Higgins and Newman sat up from their sleep. Higgins spoke. What is it? What's going on? The captain turned to him.

Nothing. Prepare to move. It is something, sir, I pleaded. Your brother, he came and visited me in the night. He is dead. He said so himself. He said to warn you. We need to leave this place, for it is damned and belongs to the dead. Shut up with that nonsense, pal shouted, slamming. his fist into the side of the obelisk, a rage radiated from him almost as powerful as that of the aisle.

I glanced to Higgins and Newman. Their eyes were wide, terrified of what I spoke of. They had every reason to be scared, for I was scared. The dead do not warn the living of nothing. We needed to leave, even if it meant by swimming. The captain shouted, Gather your things, Cordermaster! We're moving on!

Paul moved away from me, grabbing his coat from the sandy valley floor. He threw it on and began to march forward. He was about to pass beyond the obelisk. His foot stretched out in front of him, but he hung it in the air as I shouted. Don't! He turned his head to me, but then lowered his foot into the black sand. The fog did not part as he placed his foot just beyond the strange structure. I reasoned.

John warned me not to pass the obelisk. All scoffed, shaking his head. In a sign of mockery, he began to dance among the fog. Dance beyond the point I was warned about. He moved swiftly, whistling a soft mocking tune as he clicked his heels. He tripped, though, stumbling backwards into the fog. It devoured him, making him disappear from our vision. Higgins and Newman stood quickly, racing to his position, calling after him. I watched as they two passed the obelisk. They were worried, as was I. All of that faded when Captain Powell began to laugh hysterically through the fog.

Higgins and Newman sat him up, dusting off his coat for him. He looked to me, wiping tears from his cackling face. I should have listened to you, Gordemaster. I smirked, a quick sigh of relief. Though I did not take the message from the beyond lightly, Higgins began to run his hands over the blanketed valley floor. There was a strange metallic creaking sound, one that sent a chill up my spine. He quickly removed whatever the captain tripped over, holding it up for all of us to see. In his rough sailor hands, he possessed a lantern.

Look, sir, we have found our signal. Powell looked to me and gave a wink. The captain took the lantern and stood. He shook it to his ear and said, There is oil in it. Sir, I warned, we must leave this place. The lantern was presented to me as the captain stepped forward, but not crossing back across the obelisk. This is our ticket out. But must I remind you, you gave me your word. Aye, sir, I said, but I cannot, in good conscience, neglect the words of the dead.

John warned me. He warned you. We've disobeyed. sailors. The captain lowered his head, shaking it. Sailors and their superstitions. Tis true, I shouted. John warned us to leave and we are disobeying.

The captain handed the lantern to Higgins, approaching me swiftly. We will leave this place when I say we do. I do not take your mystical dreams as reality, quartermaster. We will not vacate this island until we find the ghost's crew. But what if they're dead? Then they're dead, but I will not leave my brother and my friends to suffer out here. I will not leave those responsible to wander freely. Do you understand me?

Sir, please, we must turn back. I begged. The captain turned his back, moving off deeper into the valley. Higgins and Newman stared at me, confused as to what to do. They had their orders, but if it was not for me, then they would have followed them. man blindly. I called after the captain, but he disappeared among the shadows in the pale. I stepped away from the obelisk once Higgins and Newman also turned their backs to me. They followed him, but I could sense their distrust growing. Not a soul wanted to be on such

an aisle. That much I knew, yet I also knew that if I did not follow after them, and I waited in such a dark place alone, I may not make it out. I knew that without my seeds of death, out, they too would be lost to the aisle. They too would join John and the crew of the ghost. I called after them. Do not ascend the steps! Higgins and Newman look back to me quickly, curious as to what I shouted. I did not know what it meant, but the long dead felt the need to tell me, and I found it important. They stared for a moment, but quickly shrugged off what I warned, and they too vanished among the wall of pale shadow. I halted at the obelisk, weighing my options, yet that cold electric air of the aisle continued

to weigh on my body. It was then, in that moment of doubt, that I honestly saw myself ignoring the warning of the dead and keeping my oath to the captain. I felt myself damned in such a vision, but yet I feared the idea of being alone much worse. I raised my foot, ready to cross the threshold into the shadow end of the valley, into the unknown of the coming storm, though I could not do it. I stayed my foot, turning my back to the captain in the party, and set back the way I came. I left that valley.

The fog grew around me, and I could hear the chattering of my companions deep within the valley. Their voices echoed my direction, carried by that static wind. I could not make out what they were saying, but I could sense fear and panic. I made my way to the shore, standing atop the black sands where the water stayed stagnant as it met the edge of the aisle. Bits of our crashed dinghy had made it to the shore, laying atop the darkened sands where thick broken boards, oars, and other pieces of the vessel. I looked out to the horizon, hoping to see the two ships, but I could not.

Only a veil of shadow laid before me, and I then began to wonder if I should try to swim it. I did not know what lurked beyond, but I did fear the worst if I stayed on such an aisle. Behind me, I could hear the quick steps of panic. The air around me broke in waves, the static shifting over my body. I could feel it, the very air that I breathed. It was then that I truly feared the worst. I grabbed one of the oars out of the volcanic sand, holding it out before me. It should float.

I told myself, it must float. It was too late, though, for the steps stopped as they made it out of the valley. I turned, fearing what I would see. My heart beat wildly in my chest, almost as if it would burst. Yet as I turned, I saw the young, winded Newman clutching his chest, resting his head on his arms, and his arms on his knees as he squatted down. Newman? What is it?

They found the steps. He muttered, standing tall and trying to catch his breath. They're in the sides of the cut. Cliffs. They go to the top. I told them not to, but Higgins of the captain began their climb. Why did you not go? Did you not warn us? Did you not call after us from the pale and say that it was an ill omen? I. Yet you still crossed the obelisk. He looked panicked and fearful. What does that mean? I did not know, and I told him that. The young Newman grabbed a piece of wood from the bank. Do you dare swim to the harpy?

I do. It is all we have as an option. Then I swim it too. With a nod of agreement, the two of us stepped into the still sea. Our arms were laid out before us with our flotation devices at our chest. The water was bitter cold. It chilled my bones to the morrow as we began to float away from the aisle. We did not kick our feet often, for the movement to do so was painful.

The cool water grew colder. chilling the blood in our very veins to ice. We continued to float, and I praised our creator for having such still water, for I knew that we would not be pulled back to the aisle. I could feel a pull beneath me, though, as did Newman. He shouted it as loud as he could. He shouted that something was trying to take him back. I told him to keep swimming, and so he did, but I too felt such a weight beneath me, as if the ocean itself were alive and trying to bring us down to beyond the locker, beyond whatever superstition we believed in. I looked back to the young Newman, seeing his face pale as death. The fog followed after us, rolling across the water. Above the aisle,

a monstrous anvil of clouds stood, tall and mighty with the power of a thousand storms in it. A green hue radiated from its edges, and the lighting that danced within the black clouds were the only light that I could see at the top of the cliffs. That is, until, until the sky was I saw a small glow near the edge. I squinted, trying to see what it was, but I already knew. Two silhouettes stood on the edge of the left cliff. Above the head of one, a small glowing orb stood out amongst the shadow. The fog rose around them, engulfing the flame of what I believed to be the lantern in

the captain's hand. More silhouettes appeared as the fog thickened, and had I not seen strange visions the night before, I'd have thought it a trick of the storm. But, nay, the captain and Higgins were not atop the Isle of Karen. The glowing oar of the lantern radiated a proud light for a moment as the captain waved it above his head. I heard Newman call out to me. Look, quartermaster!

What's out with him? Keep swimming, sailor! I told him, do not look upon such frightful things! I wish that I could heed my own advice, for I could not break my gaze from the the captain and Higgins, the light of the lantern flickered, struggling to find air in such a dead place. Then the radiant aura vanished, smothered by the hands of the dead. The captain and Higgins stood in the pale for a moment. I assume unaware of the ghostly visitors that were with them. Small dots began to glow across the edge of the cliff and deep within the valley of the aisle.

Images of John's Hellfire gaze flashed through my mind, just as the vision of appeared, the storm clouds above opened, and a great cacophony of noise roared down onto the aisle and across the still ocean, causing it to stir greatly and the waves to come alive in a way I'd never imagined. Newman and I were strung about, trying to stay afloat, but the pull from beneath and the hands of the now rapid sea tried to bring us down. A great beam of light shot from the center of the valley. the shadows, I could see a radiant green glow in the shape of a mighty obelisk deep within the dark.

The storm clouds burst, sending a massive wave of rain and dust floating across the sky. It did not pour down onto Newman and I, though. It stayed within the sky, streaking across like meteors from beyond. The waves crashed into us, knocking us about. My head dipped into the salty water, blinding me for a moment. I tried to close my eyes, but it became difficult. My pupils began to burn and a haze filled my vision, yet I could see clearly enough. Thousands upon thousands of glowing hellfire beneath me, all individual dots, staring up at me. They belonged to long, dead faces, pale as the crest of waves. Their hands reached out to me, trying to grab my body and limbs to forced me down to join them. I lifted my head from the water, screaming in fear, I could finally

see just on the horizon, the harpy and the gray ghost. They had not moved, and their tall mass set empty of sails. The waves of the storm crashed into their holes, knocking them about. It was then that I saw it. A great monstrosity lifted from the sea. I could not see its head, only a portion of its body. A hollow, empty call radiated across the ocean. A sound of whales and other marine animals, but corrupted, shallow and otherworldly. The gray ghost became crushed under the long serpent-like creature's weight as the beast lifted from the sea. The harpies split in two under the might of its coiled body. Its face emerged, covered by the darkness of the storm. It roared into the night, sending the waves higher and higher.

I could not keep my grip to the oar, and it slipped away from me. In doing so, I lost all buoyancy, sinking beneath the rocky waves. The ocean, no longer that thick black shadow that belonged to the aisle, radiated the same green haze and felt as electric as the air of the aisle. I could feel the hands of the dead clawing at me. I could feel them calling to me. Thou hast seen it. thou hast seen the heart.

I tried to scream, but all I did was fill my body with acidic water. I could see the surface of the ocean growing distant with each passing second. I reached my hands upward trying to swim. I could not. I looked downward, seeing those hellfire eyes in the blank faces of the uniform dead. Thousands there were, if not millions. They all extended out towards me, as if they had been. been waiting for centuries to grab hold of the living.

I tried to plead, but that was no good. I could not speak. I could not think. I could only stare into the abyss that beckoned me from beyond. The dead parted, as if forced by a massive shockwave beneath the sea. They were hurled away, disappearing among the vast darkness that surrounded me. I could feel my last bit of oxygen being used. I could feel the light in my eyes begin to fade, yet even with a blurred.

vision, I could see it. The great beast beneath the waves. The serpent's body laid hidden by the shadowy depths. Its face, enormous, took up the scale of at least four great warships. Scaled was its skin, flat was its nose, perched up as if some sort of sail on a mast. Several eyes it had. Seven, I could count, all of which glowed with a haunting purple aura. Its mouth opened vertically, revealing the depths of the ocean itself. I felt the pull of an abyss. I felt it began to bring me down, yet I still fought, I still tried to survive, albeit I knew that if there were any slight error, that too would be taken by such a beast. Just as I felt all light fade from my body, I emerged from the depths atop calm waves and a warm sky. I began to vomit saltwater and whatever

I had to eat the previous day. My nerves were rattled. and my mind raced with all sorts of thought. Even though I sat atop the surface of the water, I knew that something lurked beneath me. I knew that if the beast did not take me, that the dead would. I searched for my oar or any piece to keep me afloat. Yet I just wanted out. I wanted to leave the water and never return,

for I felt the gaze of the beast from the depths. Pieces of driftwood, barrels, and crates floated amongst the low waves. The sun bore down on me, causing me to shield my eyes. Its heat radiated, and it must have been sometime midday. I quickly threw myself atop a barrel, trying to get as much of my body out of the water as I could. I looked around, no longer seeing the aisle and only a field of debris. The waters were normal. The horizon appeared the same.

I caught sight of a storm in the distance, moving off into the nothingness of the other side. As I stayed afloat, I called out for the only person I thought alive. Newman! Newman! Not a response, for I stayed afloat among the debris alone. I floated atop that barrel for two days. It was then that another merchant vessel found me. They pulled me aboard and asked what ship I came from, asked what happened to my captain and crew.

I told them that I did not know, for I had seen the Isle of Karen and the great beast beneath the sea. They asked what all I witness, but I did not have the heart to tell them. I broke my oath to my captain, but I'd always heed the words of the dead, for the heart that I saw could not be unseen. I hadn't meant to kill my sister. It had been a joke. In life, she never used to listen to me anyway, though as her older brother, I felt I had the authority. But after she died and in In my childish misery and guilt, I had invited her to come back home. Well, she did. There were only two of us.

Our parents thought we were everything they'd wanted in a family, a boy and a girl. She came out a bit shyer than they wanted, quiet and a bit odd, at least to me at that age. But we were perfect side by side in family portraits. Now there's only one of us. We don't take family portraits anymore. It started when I found the key to a room. Our bedrooms were across the hall from each other on the second floor of the house. The doors had old-fashioned door knobs that locked with a key, which we didn't have and which

I'd never seen before. Then one day I found a ring of unmarked keys in a drunk drawer in the foyer of the house. I went around trying them and everything until I'd matched every key to a door in the house, including our bedrooms. Every key on the ring had a spare, but not all. The key to my sister's room was one of them that only had one master key. That was when I'd gotten the idea. I pocketed the key to her room and left the rest in the drawer where I'd found them.

I waited for the perfect opportunity that evening when she was in the living room with my parents staring at the TV, as she always did after dinner. I went upstairs on pretence to use the bathroom and quietly locked her bedroom door from the outside. Downstairs, I acted innocent as we watched TV together. I loitered until my sister yawned and kissed our parents goodnight and went upstairs. I waited on the couch, grinning with suspense. It was a good long moment before we heard her shriek.

Then the sound of woodbanging, she streaked downstairs in tears, asking for help with her door. Father went up with her to see what was the matter. They both came downstairs again, her still in tears, and he in confusion. It's locked, he said. I got up and retrieved the keys from the side table in the hall. All three of them went upstairs. I waited until they were gone to fall over myself laughing, pretending to find something funny

on TV. By the time I got sleepy and went upstairs, there were still in a huddle trying and retrying every key. Of course, none of them fit. Mother suggested she sleep in my room until they can call a locksmith in the morning. I was annoyed at this and produced the key from my pocket, too tired to care about the trouble I'd get into. It was a joke, I said in my defense.

After we'd gotten her door unlocked, mother made me return the key to the drawer, saying the first chance she got, she'd get a duplicate to avoid this situation again. Naturally, she'd forgotten. That weekend, when our parents were out on an errand, leaving us alone at home, I'd gotten bored and done it again. My sister knew immediately who had done it. It was a Saturday morning, and it was the last time I would see her alive. She flew into the kitchen, chasing me, demanding I open the door.

I pretended to have swallowed the key, but this time she was in hysterics and fled the house and tears, as if she could run all the way to mom and daddy in town. This wasn't the first time she'd done that. She always came right back home before she got to the end of the street. I waited for her to give up and return, but as one hour turned to two, and then three, I began to worry. I waited by the chair closest to the front door, and then the window. At some point I'd gone out and walked around our yard and then the neighborhood, but saw

no sign of her. I came home with my heart and my throat. I decided to keep waiting instead of call my parents from the kitchen phone. Ten minutes later, I told myself, then I would. My sister had run out into the road and got hit by a car. Our parents had just turned the corner on their way home when they saw the ring of people and flashing lights. She'd been found on the road two blocks away from home.

When the ambulance took her away, the sirens were silent. There was no rush. She was dead. My parents had come home to find whether I was dead too, and I think at that point they wished I was. The first chance I got, I left them crying and hugging each other in the living room. I went upstairs to her room and unlocked the door and then just stood there staring at her empty bedroom.

Her ballerina music box threw a weird shadow on the pillowcase from the moonlight outside her window. I carried the key in my pocket during her funeral. My parents barely looked at me and I wouldn't blame them. They had hardly spoken to me in the days since her death, except in harsh little commands to hurry up, get dressed, fix your tie, get in the car. I behaved like the perfect son they'd always wanted, but that did nothing to warm them up to me.

Because of their avoidance of me, I managed to find myself alone at some point in the cemetery, looking into the open casket of my dead sister, cold and pale and dressed up in her ballerina costume. I felt the key burning in my pocket where I kept my hands pocketed and clenched. I brought out the key and went to pat her cold marble hands as if to say goodbye. I'm sorry. As I did, I tucked the key under her fingers, folded together over her chest. Please come home. I whispered.

I didn't cry then, or after. Her promises. She was too grieved to go through my sister's room and put things in order after the funeral. She promised to do it someday. Just not now. Not now. She only went as far as to stand in the open doorway and glance in. The way I'd done the night my sister had died, but invariably mother would break down

into tears and leave, closing the door behind her. Sometimes she stood there until father took her away. I didn't dare go near her. She repeated this pitiful ritual almost every day, and then every week. She stopped after a couple months of this. Things edged into a semblance of normalcy. My parents softened up towards me just enough to allow me to have friends over. I needed someone to talk to.

My friend Keith came over after school one day, and I told him about how, the previous night, I'd woken in bed hearing the faint sound of my sister's ballerina music box playing in her room across the hall. It stopped as soon as I'd fully opened my eyes and sat up. I decided it was a dream, but the melody would not leave my mind all day at school. I hummed the tune for Keith, who had the insane idea that he knew the composer of the song. We fell into debate about it, and to refresh his memory of the song and prove my point, we went up to a room to retrieve the music box.

The door was locked. We peered into the keyhole and found that it was too dark for that time of day. Then I realized why. was a key blocking the hole. It had been locked from the inside. Keefe saw no significance to this, since I'd been too dumbstruck to say anything else to him. I'd been in no mood to entertain him after that, so he went home. I stayed downstairs in the living room, staring wide-eyed at the TV without watching

it, waiting for my parents to come home. I could hardly restrain from calling my mother to hurry home from the grocery store or my father from work. But when they did find me get home, I found I could hardly mention. anything to them. I stayed quiet all throughout dinner until it was time for me to go upstairs to bed. I didn't want to go, but I didn't want to upset my parents further. I stopped outside my door and glanced at hers across the hall.

Silent. I didn't dare try the knob. It was a Saturday the next day, and I was off school, but I was woken early by my mother battering the door to my room. I'd gotten my own key from the drawer and locked my door the previous night. I rarely did before then. When she'd gotten in, she demanded that I unlocked my sister's door that instant, that I had no right. I interrupted and told her I had nothing to do with the door this time. Lies! She shrieked. You and your friend were fooling around in the house yesterday

when I was not here! I told her that that was true, but we never did a thing to my sister's door, and that was the truth. She wouldn't believe me when I said I didn't have the key. I was forced to tell her that I left it in my sister's coffin. She'd gone silent after that. Not because of the implications of what this meant, but because she was transported back to the funeral in her mind. Her eyes filled up, but the tears would not fall. I couldn't bring myself to tell her that I thought the key was in the house now, on the

other side of the door. All she was thinking about, now that she shook herself into reality, was that we couldn't duplicate a key we didn't have. What's more, she decided that the door wasn't locked but merely jammed by humidity or something else, apt punishment for her not having opened the door for a while. She decided we would have to call a locksmith that very day. Once she flew this idea by my father, however, he would have none of it. He left his breakfast half eaten at the kitchen table and roared out of the garage to retrieve

his toolkit, and roared back in and straight up the stairs, followed by my mother, rolling her eyes behind his back as he spewed forth his wounded pride. Gingerly, I hung back in the hall as my parents began to play locksmith at my sister's door. With me and mother watching over his shoulder, he tried the door this way and that, and pulled and pushed, banged it with precision here and there, and finally knelt at the doorknob and probed a penlight into the hole. I saw his eyebrows shoot up. There's something blocking the keyhole, he said, confirming what I'd seen the other day.

It was mid-morning by then. My sister's room had a window facing east. The light should have shown through the door knob as it did from the gap under the door, but it was dark as night. Through the gap, my father slid a sheet of old newspaper along the floor, a good deal of centerfold to cover as much ground as possible. Then, with a thin metal instrument from the screwdriver kit, he prodded into the hole until we all heard a thin, distinct thud of metal on the paper on the other side.

The dot of light was cleared in the door knob. My father pulled at the paper carefully from under the door, and we could see the slight weight of the key keeping the paper from flapping. But then, before it was halfway out, the weight was gone, and the paper came clean away from our side of the door. Very suddenly unburdened from its weight. The key was gone. Father had that puzzled look on his face, and he turned to glance through the doorknob.

Then he got on all fours to peer under the door to see if the key had gotten caught on something or had fallen off the paper. But, of course, he saw nothing. No movement of shadow across the light. No tell-tale form of a key on the floor for any distance. I knew what had happened. Of course, it had been plucked out from under our very noses. Mother asked Father if he was quite finished playing locksmith so that we could call a professional.

He wasn't quite ready to give in. As they continued to bicker, I left them and went downstairs, out the back door. I circled around the yard to look at my sister's window from the outside. They had picked her room very carefully. Not only had she gotten the best view, but the window was mostly secure from any break-ins from the outside. You couldn't get to its ledge from the roof or any outdoor piping. There were no tree branches close enough for a foothold.

This side of the house was smooth and unscalable. As I stared up at her open shutters and drawn curtains, the way they had been the last day of her life, I saw that the window panes were in the room. intact. Nobody had gotten in from there. Looking carefully, and for as long as I could stand, I detected no movement or light from the dimness behind the curtains. When I went back in, my parents were in the kitchen now, taking a break it seemed from trying

to break open the door, but not a break from their bickering. They shot up at once almost as soon as I entered, and when I heard it I shut up too. A great silence descended on us three as from the top of the stairs we could hear my sister ballerina music box playing the way it did when the lid was opened. I was frozen, but barely a second later my father dashed up the stairs, eyes wide. My mother called after him in a fright, but then followed him after barely a moment of hesitation. I was drawn upward as well as though by magnetism, though I wanted to be nowhere near that room. I found my father at the door, one hand on the still tightly locked door knob, and the other wrapping sharply

on the wood, calling, Who's there? No response. My mother had her mouth covered with both hands, suspended between shock and grief, no matter how much they demanded an answer from an assumed stranger, as my father did, or changed tact and called my dead sister's name as my mother did. Nothing stirred from the other side of the door. The music had stopped by the time I'd gotten to the top of the stairs.

It seemed we stood there holding our breaths for a good half minute or so before my father The other stepped back from the door and took my mother's elbow, leaving her downstairs. He gestured with his head at me to do the same. Downstairs they spoke in hushed funeral voices, wondering what was going on. I couldn't bring myself to say much, and for once my mother showed real concern towards me. She had me sit down at the kitchen table while she had gotten a glass of apple juice to revive my energy, afraid I'd faint.

I noticed my reflection in the chrome body of the toast-roven. has a... I didn't say the word, even in my mind. We stayed downstairs for the most part. At some point my father went out to look at the window the same way I'd done, and had come back to report my mother the same thing I'd observed. My mother asked whether we should call a locksmith, but I could see her resolve had dissolved, and so had my father's.

He didn't seem all that keen to be a locksmith either. At dinner, my mother asked me, as if she had just remembered, whether I had really left left the only key to my sister's room in her coffin. I nodded my head, just once. I was sure I had, but I didn't want to be sure anymore. Mother asked nothing else. Father wondered if calling a priest would be more appropriate, and my mother gave him a dirty look.

Everyone knew that priests always failed in the movies, and besides, neither of my parents were believers. Not in God, not in ghosts, not in anything. I wasn't even sure if they believed in me when I said that. the key was buried with my sister, but the lack of belief kept us all suspended in a swirling and torturous, meaninglessness, where the only meaning that now presented itself was a dangerous one. They let me sleep in their room that night.

This helped my nerves somewhat, though their bedroom was technically right next to my sisters with a wall in between, while mine was directly across the hall from hers. I didn't mind as long as I wasn't alone. I don't know how they managed to get to sleep, or if they were pretending as I was as I was, but at some point during the night, I was lured out of my drifting by the sound of the music box playing, softly, as if to itself, down the hall and just on the other side of the wall. The next day we all gave the room a wide berth and tried not to speak of it.

We tried to get on as normal as possible, but there was something very odd about the house now, like we had an evil secret we had to keep even from each other. Every now and then, the music box would start playing from the top of the stairs. Usually when we were downstairs and never a few bars at a time before it stopped again. Whenever it did that, we would all go quiet instantaneously. Mother would go white and rigid, her eyes filling up, and father would reach for her hand and hold it tight. I would go over and sit beside them, and mother would put an arm around my shoulder.

I almost thought this was a good thing. To have that room occupied once more, but I couldn't bring my room. myself to be grateful. It was I who had asked her to come back after all, but I dared not confess that part. As soon as silence returned, we would take a few seconds and then carry on as if nothing had happened, but we could not fool each other. We were shaken. My parents refused to talk outright about what they felt, but I thought I understood since

I felt the same way. Instead of feeling any warmth from my sister's memory, there was only a cold dread, and around her door there was a sense of bitterness that chilled anyone who wandered too close, even in the humid warmth of the day. We kept this up for the next few days, and no matter how late I tried to dally after school, instead of coming straight home, I would always be the first one in. My parents were trying to stay away as long as they could, too. But by the second week of this, my mother decided what it was they had to call, a real

estate agent. We were going to sell the house and move out. But things had to get worse first. I'd found myself in my pent-up distress mentioning something about the door to my friends at school, and Keith invited himself home with me to check it out. I knew my parents would be away from home, and I didn't want to go back alone, so I agreed. I hung back a few steps when Keith climbed the stairs to the bedroom. He walked right up to my sister's door as if he hadn't felt the my asthma that, at least

to my parents and I, had grown stronger every day. Chief tried the door, as I knew he would, and found it locked, as I knew he would. Then he bent at the waist and peered through the keyhole. His other eyes squeezed shut for focus. His whole body shuffling him side to side a few inches at a time to get a better look. I stood across the hall, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. Then I heard the reassuring sound of the front door opening and their mother coming in, calling my name.

Before I could answer her though, Keith jolted back from the door, gagging and clutching at his throat. His face was pale and strangled, his eyes wide and unseen. He couldn't scream, but I screamed for him, and my mother was upstairs in an instant, just in time to see Keith collapse on the floor, writhing and twitching. As my mother rushed to tend to him, I threw a glance at the doorknob, nothing but a point of light and utter silence. We had taken Keith to the ER, left him there with his family, and gotten back in time to tell

my father what had happened. had swallowed his tongue and would have choked himself to death if my mother hadn't acted so quickly. The overseeing physician had assumed it had been some sort of accident caused by surprise or an unpleasant posture. Something. I hadn't really been listening. My mind was torturing itself, trying to imagine what he must have seen that made his body

recoil so violently as to strangle itself. I wanted to ask Keith myself desperately, but his parents wouldn't let me near him anymore. Meanwhile, my parents were throwing themselves into the search for a new place to live. We knew now that we were in a dangerous situation. Over the next few weeks, we had terrible luck selling the house. The agents we got kept asking about the room and why we wouldn't unlock it, and the few people who showed up to the open house had a bad feeling about that room. They assumed we had something to hide, and they were right.

No matter how beautifully we had presented the rest of the house, that room poisoned the atmosphere. know from a photograph of the second floor, you couldn't tell there was anything off about it at all. The house was listed as a three-bedroom space, and people expected three bedrooms. My father thought we should just promise to get the door fixed before they moved in. And then just let them do what they would with whatever they found behind it, but my mother argued with him over the ethics of it all. By this point, my parents were willing to just abandon the house and leave it to some in-laws

they were not fond of. They had planned to move into what was supposedly a summer home, but with the idea that we would settle there. It was smaller, less comfortable, and farther from my school and father's workplace, but it didn't matter by then. We only had one goal between us. Get out. The music box had started to drive us half mad at night.

Sometime during the last week, the music box had broken, and the tiny mechanism began to play just one note over and over again. One key. one key over and over. And then it went quiet again so suddenly that the silence was just as loud as anything before or after. To call it music was to call whatever was on the other side of that door, my sister. It might have been music at some point, but now it was a mere sliver of what it had been

in life. Now it was a hideously shrunken fragment of the whole, distorted and sharpened so it was no longer recognizable as part of the original. It was getting louder and louder, and it appeared to be moving along the walls. My parents' bed, which I still slept in with them, was positioned so that our feet were pointing at the wall that divided the master bedroom from my sisters. That used to comfort me somewhat, knowing that this was the farthest we could get from it, from, well, her.

But it had gotten so that it seemed the music was seeping into the walls like a pipe had burst and bled into the paper. The paint on the wall seemed to shift in my mind's eye in the half-life. We were all unable to fall asleep until dawn, and our daylight lives were thrown out of rhythm. We stumbled home, exhausted, and stayed on guard all day, hearing that one key play on and off throughout the afternoon and evening. And then we stayed up all night to repeat again the next day. We were fairly at the end of our rope. My mother insisted we move within the next week, and drove us like slaves to finish packing while she saw to the logistics of getting boxes and furniture shipped off.

We were even more strung out and exhausted by then, and thanks to that, I must have drifted off last night before we were to move, right there on the bare mattress in the master bedroom with nearly all of its contents and cardboard boxes. I woke up to hear the music over my head and right beside my ear. I snatched myself away immediately and saw that my parents had done the same. The music, that one demonic key, was throbbing louder than usual throughout the walls opposite my sister's bedroom, where our headboard was. The broken note played again and again, traveling and swelling and surrounding us.

Even today, that one key played in isolation on a piano can trigger a horrible case of nerves in me. An F-sharp, I think it was. My parents were up in an instant, scrambling to get dressed and yelling at me to get moving as I sat there frozen. They had to yell because the music was so loud now that it was impossible the neighbors would remain undisturbed by it. The moving company we hired was scheduled to come by and help us the next morning, but

we had to get out right now, at half three in the morning. My father said we would return later to help the movers if they showed up, but for now we were going to a nearby motel with nothing but an overnight bag hastily thrown together. We rushed out and piled into the car, noting as we left but the music had been thrumming throughout the house, even downstairs, but it could not follow us out the front door. As soon as I cleared the doorway, the air came easier to my lungs. I hadn't known that we had literally been suffocating in that house all along. From the yard and then the garage, pulling out from our doorway, our house was silent

as anything should be at three in the morning. While my father backed the car down the driveway, my mother nervously scolded him all the way to watch the mailbox, and I twisted around in my seat to look back at the house one more time. We were pulling down east, and I had a clear view of my sister's window from the back the car. The shutters were still open, and there was no light from the depths of the room, which I could clearly see.

Now that the curtains were thrown open, and standing there in the gap of the curtains, I saw a pale ballerina at the window, watching us go. Dearest Marguerette, I hope that this letter finds you well. I've missed you greatly during the entire time away from you, but these past few weeks have been especially difficult. While we were busy pushing from Normandy, it was easier to keep my mum. mind occupied on other things. Now that the Germans have left France, however, I've had a lot more time to myself, and, as

always, my thoughts have turned to you. I have good news, or bad news, depending on how you look at things. As you're an optimist by nature, a very glass-half-full kind of woman, I'll give you the positive spin first. You and I are going to be reunited sooner than we thought. I'll be shipping off to the good old US of A within the next few weeks. No matter how optimistic you are, however, you are also a realist, so here's the bad news. The reason that I'll be coming home to you so early is because I've been injured.

Now, there's no need to worry, as I'm going to be fine. Once the bullets stopped flying in France, my unit had been assigned to deliver cargo to a Vueliba. You've always been more of a scholar than I am, so you may be familiar with the town. I had never heard of it before. There were only three large crates, so Mark Johnston and I volunteered to make the delivery. I've written to you about him before. He's the soldier in my platoon that has a wife and young son in Kansas. All of my fellow soldiers are brothers, but he's one of the few that I can honestly say is a friend.

The round trip between Paris and Aviliba would take a few days, and we'd figured that the fresh mountain air would do us some good. We never spoke about it, but I think we were both feeling. feeling that we needed to get out of Paris, even if only for a little while. When you see pictures of Paris and books, it looks like a grand place. You can practically feel the magic in the air right through the page. It conjures up images of long walks along the Seine River, or maybe ascending to the top of the Eiffel Tower to look out on the lights of the city.

You and I even talked about visiting it some day after we're married. I think that's how the city once was, and maybe it will be like that again. In the here and now, though, the magic is gone. The Nazis did all they could to stomp out the spirits of the people that lived there. They never fully could, but you can tell that the occupation left its mark in more ways than just those damn red and black banners hanging from buildings. The enchantment and wonder of the city is gone for now, replaced with an iron resolve and a righteous fury.

The longer I stayed there, the more that I could feel the violation Paris had suffered. offered through, if that makes any sense. Is it any wonder Johnston and I jumped at the opportunity to run a shipment through the countryside? It was supposed to be a simple delivery. As everyone in the world knows, though, there's nothing simple about this war. I don't remember the moment that the truck's rear tire struck the mine. It must have been left over from the Germans retreat, or maybe it had been planted by the French resistance when the Nazis were using that particular road.

Whatever the case, the explosion flipped the truck completely over and sent us off the road. I only know this because it was told to me later. I remember sitting in the passenger seat while Johnston drove, idly flipping through a Captain Marvel comic book that I had traded a small bottle of half-drunk whiskey to a private for. I'm not much for comic books, but there was something about it that made me feel like, I don't know, it made me feel like I was holding a piece of home in my hands, I suppose. After that, my next memory is slowly waking up.

I was lying on something soft, and my body felt oddly cold. Instinctively, I tried to set up, but the worst pain I've ever felt went through my body like electricity. It felt like someone was forcefully pushing down on me while trying to set me ablaze. I shook my head at an effort to clear it. I hadn't even opened my eyes yet, and I was already feeling dizzy. I felt a hand on my shoulder, and a woman's... her voice politely, but firmly told me to calm down.

As I managed to get my eyes open and squinted against the bright light, she went on to explain that I had been in a mine explosion and to assure me that I was going to be okay. My vision returned to normal after a few minutes, and I was able to look up at the speaker. She was dressed in the white uniform of a nurse, with red curls peeking out from under her hat and freckles dotting her nose. She smiled down at me kindly and told me that her name was Ruth. I tried sitting up, but it had the same result as before. Ruth informed me that I had suffered a fractured sternum when my chest had impacted the front

portion of the transport truck. It sounded serious, but she told me that I just needed to rest and it would heal naturally. Normally ice would have been put on my chest to help with the swelling and lessen the pain. There wasn't any access to ice, however, so she was using rags soaked in cool water instead. Along with the fractured sternum, I had suffered a painful bump on the head and a sprained ankle. I had managed to escape in surprisingly good condition, all things considered. Johnston hadn't been so lucky. He was lying in the bed next to me, unconscious, and his body

wrapped in bandages. Every so often I could hear a gasp as he sucked in air. The gasps sounded wet, like they were filled with water. The nurse told me that they hoped he would recover soon, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wasn't hopeful. Over the next few hours, Ruth sat and talked with me. Well, she did most of the talking. Even getting a few words out made my chest hurt, so I mostly just sat there and listened. She told me that we were in an old chateau, known to the locals as Chateau des Sespri. It had been the home of a wealthy but eccentric landowner who had died at the beginning of the war.

He hadn't had any children or family, so the mansion was converted into a temporary hospital. Most of the doctors and nurses were French, but Ruth was a volunteer with the Red Cross that had been sent to assist due to the place being woefully understaffed. She eventually left my side to tend to other patients. As I stared up at the ceiling, a stray thought entered my head, and despite my condition, I found myself smiling. It was a crooked sort of smile. Can you imagine, Marguerette?

Here I was relaxing in a fancy chateau in the French Alps, and I couldn't even get out of bed to enjoy a moment of it. I had to admit that I tried not to look at Johnston. Every time I glanced in his direction, I felt an awful stab of guilt. I had survived the explosion and would be back on my feet soon. Meanwhile, he was fighting for his life. It wasn't fair. Even though I kept my eyes off of him, I could still hear him weasie-weighed.

and drawing in those wet breaths. Evening came, and Ruth returned to help me eat my dinner. It wasn't much of a meal, just broth and small bits of potato, but I was so hungry that it felt like a banquet. When I had finished, she changed out the rags with freshly soaked ones and put the used ones in a small bucket. Have you ever experienced the kind of moment where it feels like the very air in the room has changed, Marguerite?

That was what I experienced once Ruth finished her tasks. Her entire demeanor went from warm and friendly to something much more serious. The smile was gone from her face, and her eyes were uncertain. What wasn't uncertain was her firm instructions that, even if I found myself able to get up, I must not leave the room during the night. I pressed her as to why, of course, but she simply shook her head and turned to leave. the pain, I grabbed her wrist and asked once more. She hesitated before gently removing her hand from my weak grip.

Monsieur Gangli marches in the courroix. She said quietly in French, before leaving the room and firmly closing the two large doors behind her. Mr. Gangley walks the halls. I stared after her for quite a while. To say that I was confused would be an understatement. I was fairly sure that I understood her correctly, but as you're well aware, I've never had much of a head for languages. It wasn't hard to convince myself that my poor French simply wasn't up to the task of properly translating her statement. With that settled in my mind, I quickly drifted off to sleep.

You and I have known each other since we were small children. We started school together. You know me better than anyone else, and I'm still afraid of what you're going to think of me when I tell you what came next. You're going to think that I've lost my mind. I don't see how anyone could think otherwise. I swear to you, Margaret, I'm not mad. And what I'm about to tell you is the honest-to-God truth.

I need you to believe me. No one else ever will, but you're the one person that has to. Please. I don't know what time it was when I woke up. The room was dark and still. I knew immediately that something was wrong. I had the same feeling in my stomach that I had gotten during lulls and battles. throughout the war.

Sometimes the guns would go silent, and an eerie silence would fall over everything. Instead of being happy for the reprieve, you start to feel sick to your stomach because you know that something even worse than what you just went through was about to happen. That was the same feeling I was having as I laid in the darkness. Something was about to happen. I was so sure of it that I ignored the pain and forced myself up onto my elbows in an attempt to look around. I couldn't stay in the position for more than a few seconds before I collapsed back down onto

the bed. Less than a heartbeat after I had done so, I heard a soft click as the room's doors began to swing open. I craned my neck as best as I could and turned my eyes toward the sound. There was just enough light coming in through the windows for me to see the figure enter the room, but not enough that I was able to make out any details. It was over eight feet tall, and it had to duck under the top of the doorway to enter the room.

It was wearing a black flowing robe that covered most of its features. As it came forward, it stayed hunched over. It moved with an odd gait, swaying slightly back and forth as it walked. Even though it was the largest creature I had ever seen, it made barely any noise as it moved across the wood floor towards the beds, like it had very little weight to it. I knew immediately that this giant wasn't human. I know how that sounds, Marguerette, and this is why I'm afraid that you're going to think I've been driven mad by the war.

If you do indeed love me as you say that you do, though, I need you to take what I'm saying at face value and put aside your skepticism until you finish my story. Because of the creature's size, it only took a few steps for it to reach the foot of Johnston's bed. It was starting to lean over him when I closed my eyes as tightly as I could. As I write this, I can feel the shame rising in me. The thing was going to do God knows what to a man that was closer to me than my own family, and there I was, keeping my eyes clenched shut like a frightened child trying to hide from

a shadow on his bedroom wall. What kind of a friend? What kind of a man does that make me? I lay it as still as I could for what seemed like hours, but all that I heard was silence. Curiosity started to win out over the fear. I slowly opened my eyes. The creature was still looming over Johnston, but it was completely motionless. Its arms were extended towards his face.

The robe's sleeves were pulled back enough that I could see the limbs. In the dim moonlight, they looked almost white, so white that it was like a single drop of blood had never run through their veins. They were also extremely thin. No, that's not the right word for it. They looked emaciated. Its hands were attached to the arms at a slightly odd aim. I had seen something similar before, when a private had dislocated his hand from his wrist

in a bad fall. Its fingers were long and bony, and they reached out towards Johnson's face. The hood of the robe was up over its head, and at the angle I was seeing the creature from, its face was completely blocked off from view. It was hard to tell in the dark, but I got the impression that the head was too large for the body. The width wasn't proportionate with the arms and legs. Everything about the creature was wrong, and I felt a sense of revulsion as I watched it.

Johnston coughed once. The creature pulled back slightly, but when he didn't make another sound, it drew closer once again. It reached out with one finger and touched him slightly on the forehead. He made a soft choking noise but remained unconscious. The finger moved down his face, tracing down the nose, across the lips and over the chin. stopped when its tip was touching Johnston's neck. The man's entire body had stiffened as if the creature was sending a live current through

him. I wanted to yell out to him, to warn him about what was happening. My mouth remained closed. I was already trying to justify my lack of action to myself. There was no point in letting the creature know that I was watching when Johnston was too injured to hear me anyway. That was what I told myself over and over again. The truth is that I was paralyzed by fear.

In the moment that my friend needed me most, I proved myself to be a coward. The creature's hand opened, and it wrapped its fingers around Johnston's neck. He whimpered quietly. The whimpering soon turned into gagging as the fingers closed tightly. I tried to will myself to somehow intervene, fear and a fractured sternum be damned. Instead, I just lay there watching. The figure held up one finger on its other hand and placed its own hand. point between Johnston's clavicles.

It lingered there for a moment before pushing down harder. The fingers sank into and threw the skin. He started to thrash, but the creature simply held him by the throat as if it was no effort at all. The finger slowly started to make its way down to his chest. Skin and muscle and bone all parted as if it was being cut with the sharpest of surgeon instruments. When it reached the top of his stomach area, it withdrew. covered it and droplets dripped down onto the man's body.

What came next has played over and over in my head ever since. The creature reached into the hole in Johnston's chest and pulled the opening wider. The snapping of bone filled the air as his ribs were easily separated. The arm jerked slightly to one side, and a moment later the hand rose out of the open chest cavity, holding a misshapen lump. Johnston stopped thrashing. I must have made a sound because the creature turned its head toward me. The hood still covered its face, but I knew it was watching me closely.

Instead of closing my eyes, however, I looked right back at it. It wasn't some act of bravery or defiance. I was just too scared to think of anything else to do. It moved to the side of my bed. The gory mass it had taken from Johnston's chest was still clutched in its right hand. I couldn't see exactly what the object was. I was and still am thankful for that. that.

The creature regarded me for a long moment before reaching up with its free hand and slowly pulling back the hood. I opened my mouth to scream, but no sounds came out. I was stricken voiceless by fear. It was all that I could do to simply keep breathing. Instead of being rounded, its head was elongated, with malformed protrusion sticking out of the back. It was hairless, and like its arms the flesh was pale to the point of being nearly translucent.

It looked at me with lidless eyes. The pupils locked on me so intently that they appeared to be vibrating. The creature's face was vaguely human. The best way that I can describe it is that it looked like a person whose skin had been pulled back so tightly that it began to tear off the skull. The large teeth and gums were exposed in a hideous grin, one so large that it ran past the mouth towards the back of the elongated head to show the bone beyond. It tilted its head slightly.

I wasn't looking at just some hideous monster. Its eyes stared at me with intelligence. It opened its mouth slightly as it regarded me. Just beyond the first row of human-like but oversized teeth was a second row of them. These were smaller and spaced wider apart. Its thick black tongue slashed around, back and forth in its thick saliva. Good night, Herr Lewis. The creature said in a raspy voice.

a raspy voice. The words coming out as if it was exhaling them rather than speaking them. With that, the creature turned and left the room the same way it had come in, closing the door behind it. I must have passed out. The next thing I knew I was regaining consciousness in a room filled with sunlight. I quickly looked over to my right at Johnston's bed. The spot that the bed had once occupied was empty.

Ruth came in a few minutes later. I demanded to know what had happened to Johnston. she told me that he died from his wounds a few hours earlier. I knew she was lying, of course. I had seen the creature tear him open and end his life. I continued to press her, and as I did so, she grew more and more uncomfortable. She repeatedly tried to tell me that I must have dreamed the entire thing. I became more and more agitated, and finally she relented.

She leaned in, as if she was telling me something that needed to stay between the two of us, even though we were the only ones in the otherwise empty room. Every so often she would glance over her shoulder at the doors as she spoke. She told me that Johnston's body had been taken down to the makeshift morgue to be disposed of. When I started to object, she shook her head firmly and told me to remain quiet. The official record would say that the body was incinerated due to the concerns of a possible disease. That way, no one would know about the damage the creature had caused to his body. No one but me.

She warned me not to let anyone else know that I had seen the creature, which she again referred to as Mr. Gangley. The few outside of the hospital staff that had tried to tell the others what they had seen had all died under mysterious circumstances. I needed to remain silent for my own safety. At first I refused, but something in the way she was looking at me made me stop. I got the feeling that she wasn't just looking out for my safety, but also I was just looking her own. I began to understand that her current position at the chateau wasn't entirely voluntary.

Still trying to wrap my mind around everything that I had seen and that she was telling me, I questioned her about Mr. Gangley. What was it? How long had it been at the chateau? Why had it killed Johnston? The questions spilled out of me as if they would never end. Ruth didn't have any solid answers to give me. All the doctors and nurses at the hospitals seemed to have a different story. Some said that Mr. Gangley was an experiment that had been conducted by German scientists during the occupation. Others said it was actually a German scientist itself, one that had done things to himself for some unknown reason and was still conducting experiments on the patients in his new grotesque form. She had been told by one doctor that he believed it was a demon

that had been summoned by Nazi occultus. I molded over. Mr. Gangley had spoken to me in German. Hesitantly, not sure that I really wanted to know the answer, I asked how it had known my name. Ruth looked surprised and regarded me curiously. As she opened her mouth to speak, the doors opened, and a pair of soldiers entered the room. They told me that I was being transferred to a hospital in Paris immediately, and that's where I'm writing you from now, Marguerette. I'm still sitting at a small table in a private room of one of the dozens of medical facilities

in Paris. It's been dark for some time, but I can still hear the sounds of talking and laughing coming up from the streets through my open window. Medically, I'm doing much better. My fractured sternum is almost fully healed, and I only have slight discomfort from it when I move around. Mentally, I'm not really sure how I'm doing. I have trouble sleeping at night, and during the day I feel like I'm walking through a dream. Sometimes I think about how I failed Johnston and feel a mixture of remorse and anger, and other times I realize that I haven't thought of him in a while, and for some reason that makes me even more angry. There are times that I debate with myself whether I should write Johnston's wife and tell

her what really happened to her husband. Each time I decide not to, even if I could figure out how to begin to describe Mr. Gangley and what it had done to him, how could her knowing the truth be any comfort to her? I'm scheduled to ship out for the United States two weeks from Tuesday. As I come to the end of this letter, however, I realize that I can't come back home to you yet. Even if you somehow found a way to forgive my cowardice, I would never be able to. God help me. I have to go back to Chateau des Esprit, where Mr. Gangley walks the halls.

I love you, Marguerette, and I'm sorry. Always yours. Corporal Peter Lewis, United States Army. October 14th, 1944. Just over two weeks ago, on Monday the 30th of August, I turned 30, and someone had to pay the price for that. Our family, the Lees, has always been seen as eccentric by the locals. Some of us have become investors, artisans, masters of niche crafts and the like. We've lived full, happy, and creatively stimulating lives, seen to the outside world as to not.

have a care in the world or need for anything. But we have this life at a great cost, a ritual that must be undertaken every August 30th, known collectively as the waiting game. My family has had this tradition for over 250 years. Every member of the family above the age of 18 congregates at my family's estate, and spends the 48 hours prior to the event, catching up, partying, and generally enjoying the family. themselves. They are, after all, all living on borrowed time. When the final hours ticked down to the event, they detox, ensure they've slept well, done their business, and had plenty

to hydrate. Because once the clock strikes midnight, they must all stay in one room until the clock again strikes midnight. The entire time, they must keep at least one other family member in eye-shot. No single member of the family must be unaccounted for. The parlioling The parlor room is structured in such a way that we can see each other no matter where we are situated in the room. Each area is well lit, comfortable, and accommodating, which, when you deal with roughly 30 people, is a necessity. You have to understand.

Growing up in this environment had me thinking this was simply a normal tradition every family undertook. I saw no strangeness in spending my birthday away from my family members, that it was just Bad luck my birthday fell on the tradition day. That, of course, would change after I turned 11. I remember the first time I learned of the waiting game. My mother was supposed to host my birthday party, but apologized and said she wouldn't be home in time for work.

To that point in my life, Mom had always worked long hours to provide for us, and it was routine. I was crestfallen, but understood. She was an art curator and loved her job with an unbridled passion. She was my hero. The fact we shared a birthday only made our bond more special in my eyes. She was a best friend as well as my mom. And I don't know a lot of kids who can say that.

I still remember the smell of lavender in her hair and the way her eyes flickered and the way she hugged me tight before saying goodbye. Never forget how special you are, Theo. The fact you are here is nothing short of a miracle, and that is worth celebrating. I love you." She kissed me on the forehead and promised us pizza when she got home to make up for it. I remember the babysitter waving her off as I got the house ready for my friends so we could play Nintendo and stay up late. But something in the pit of my stomach was uneasy, like I had missed the step up on the stairs.

When mom didn't come home the following day, that feeling blossomed, sprouted wings, and flew into my heart, where it started breaking away at the fragile casing until it would shatter spectacularly. There was no funeral. The police seemed disinterested in finding her, and my family said very little about it to me, just that she'd gone away and that I'd understand when I was older. I was a day away from turning 18 when my great Uncle Thaddeus told me. I had to come to the family estate from my birthday, that it was time.

I remember being pissed because I had a date with my high school crush, but that was of little interest to him and saying no wasn't a wise idea. So I gave in. We drove in relative silence for the majority of the journey. He kept his steely-eyed gaze on the road and furrowed his brow. The man was in his 70s, but still commanded a room with his gait. I tried to block out the feelings of teenage frustration and focus on the country road. We miss Christina too, you know.

He grumbled from behind a thick white mustache. Your mother was a wonderful woman, beautiful soul, and a vision of the world like nothing I'd seen before. But with her and her aunt Cecilia now gone, well, it's a good thing you're turning 18. He drummed his fingers against the wheel. I said nothing, and instead chose to let my feelings swirl around inside of me as we pulled up to the Lee estate. A secluded manor house in the countryside.

It sat here for nearly three centuries with upkeep repairs in various areas, but largely remained the same grandiose spectacle of architecture it had been when first constructed. All members of the Lee family were born here, myself included. It was a rite of passage in a way. As we headed inside, the remnants of the party from Friday night still scattered around, a very somber atmosphere greeted me in the parlor room. Spread out amongst beanbag chairs, leather couches, armchairs, and Ottomans were the entire adult Lee clan members.

Among them were my great Aunt Agnes, Uncle George, Aunt Elisa, Cousins Mick, and Ralph, and sat in a large chair at the back was my grandpa, Sir Walter Quincy Carter Lee. a distinguished man with a usually jovial spirit, but now sat morose and deflated, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His eyes never left mine as I awkwardly shuffled into the room. In fact, none of theirs did. Thirty pairs of eyes fixated on me as I sat opposite Walter and gave him a half-hearted smile. Theodore, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here, and since you're a man now, I will not sugarcoat it.

Walter's voice broke the silence, and much like his facial expressions, it was dripping in weariness. The Lee family has been blessed with fortune, fame, and success in all things. We have had this for a very, very long time, but it comes at a cost. We have a contract of sorts that must be fulfilled on August 30th, every year without fail. He slid across an old, dried-up piece of parchment with a slew of signatures and requirements. I scanned it and felt all the moisture leave my mouth. On this day in 1756, I, Theodore James Wellerjim Lee, patriarch of the Lee family, do hereby commit to our earthly bodies and eternal souls to undertake this.

practice until we are either no more or our obligations deemed fulfilled. Starting in the waning days of August, we shall congregate on these grounds and be merry, cavort and enjoy our lives as one is wont on to do. But as the clock strikes midnight and hails on the 30th day of the month, we shall undertake the waiting ritual and obey these basic tenements as set out at agreed upon by both parties. Number one, all members of the Lee family over the age of 18 must be present. Number two, all members of the Lee family must keep at least one other member in sight at all times. Number three, if there is a designated focus of the Lee family, they are to be stared at constantly.

Number four, should any members of the Lee family hear voices that distract them, they are to ignore them. Number five, lights must be available at all times, including backup matches, should there be an issue. And number six, line of sight must not be broken until the clock once again chimes 12 times to usher in August 31st. I do sign my name in blood to signify the commitment to this pact, and the promise that the current future generations of the Lee family shall continue this practice, lest we invoke the consequences of non-completion. Signed, Theodore James Wellington Lee. Witness Elnora Micah Lee, spouse. In place of the alternate signature was a bizarre series of characters that I had never seen before. I'd half expected the devil himself to have put his name down, but this just made me feel uncomfortable.

What the hell is this? An elaborate birthday prank? I tried to force a laugh, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Emperor shook his head. No, lad, it's a commitment to the agreement. Your mother was our original focus person, and now that you're of age, it's you. All you must do is sit in the chair and wait it out for 24 hours. We will all be here with you.

When the time is up, you can go. Your successes will come to you naturally, and life will be plentiful. He gestured to the room around him. All of us have had great lives and our children. children, your cousins will continue this trend, provided we do our part here and now." What choice did I have? I agreed and Grandpa presented me with a different document that every member of the family had signed in blood on their 18th birthday.

I did the same and was free to talk to everyone before the clock chimed midnight. Once it had, we all took our seats and the ritual began. I won't lie. It was initially still feeling like a prank that I was waiting on for the rug to be pulled out from under me, but as the first hour passed and the conversation grew sparse, I realized how seriously everyone was taking this. Imagine being sat in a chair at the back of a grand parlor, books strewn across you from side to side, the well-lit room full of your family members, some you get on well with, others

you avoid like the plague, and every single one of them is seen. staring at you incessantly for 24 hours. About halfway through, still during the day, things would become less tense. Something about the daylight brought with it a comfort of visibility that could not be taken away, and conversations grew lively again. By the time we reached 10.30 p.m., however, tensions were high. Darkness had enveloped the room, and one of my aunts explained that this is when things can go wrong, but stopped herself from continuing any further, hands shaking.

I would hear faint whispers from outside in the hall that I had brushed off as the maid or a younger family member conversing, but could never totally remove from my mind. The lights would flicker and everyone seemed to be on edge. But we made it to midnight, and on that final chime, the group erupted into cheers and congratulations to one another, myself included. It felt like we'd just come up for air for the first time in decades. Life tasted fresh, and all we wanted to do was experience it. A small but short party was had as thanks, but we were all admittedly so tired that it didn't get too far.

I would bow out before 3 a.m. and sleep through the rest of the 31st, going about my life as normal as possible from that day on. Grandpa was right. My life found great success with each passing year. I would be accepted to the art school I had as my top pick. I became a recognized artist and people all over the world knew of my work. A family of my own had eluded me, but I was a happy 29-year-old for all things considered, even if my partner resented my birthday ritual.

I hadn't explained it to her yet, and didn't have plans to do so for as long as possible. never fully understood, and it wasn't permitted to have anyone not married involved. I liked Harriet a lot, but I was not ready to go down that route any time soon. She gave me a defeated goodbye as I left. This was the second birthday of mine she'd gotten to be a part of, and it was clearly bothering her that she couldn't indulge me in the way she wanted. I told her we'd have all the time afterwards, but this did little to assuage her frustrations. You always keep secrets, Theo.

I don't like it. She huffed, understandably frustrated at not being let in. How can we progress with our relationship if you keep me at arm's length? You've not even told me about your mother, and it's been nearly two years. I wish I knew myself, but that's just how it is. I shrugged. This was something that hurt, but I'd had many years to process. And if we ever get married, you'll learn all about what goes on, okay?

The simple prospect of even mentioning marriage put a smile on her face, and she seemed to forget all about her frustrations. She kissed me and sent me off without a second thought. The Lee estate, by this point, was largely a mix of old and new members. Cousins Mitchell, Eric, Sadie, Pippa, and Kiefer had all long since turned 18, and were now successful twenty-somethings. My aunts and uncles from years prior still able to come along. Surprisingly, my grandpa was still the active patriarch.

Even at 87, he had plenty of vigor and was relieved to see me pull up, ready to undertake the festivities and party. Now that I'd been doing this for twelve years, it had become a macabre routine that we loved and hated in equal measure. We ate, drank, talked about life and love. We existed and made sure to cherish those moments. Then, as the clock struck midnight, we took our places and that familiar chill washed over all of us.

I don't know what was different. Thinking about it now, something had to have been off, but when you're in a routine for so long, even an odd one like ours can begin to feel mundane. We locked all the doors, entered the parlor, took our seats, and so it began. The first 30 minutes was of no real issue, some idle chatter here and there, but largely everyone was stealing themselves for the long day ahead. Cousin Mick was using a stress ball, whilst Cousin Ralph had a single earphone in with an audio book on his phone, a smart decision.

At 1235 a.m. there was a smash against the window. It sounded as if a bird had flown headfirst into the glass, intent on crushing itself. We jumped, but years of experience, ten years of experience, didn't have us all staring at the window. Instead, PIPA went over within our line of sight and opened the curtains. A cracked window, but no bird. In the distance, we could see something moving, but it wasn't possible to figure out without closer inspection, and that wasn't possible.

The family estate is a private land that borders on a large wooded area. We don't govern that part of the land, and instead have large fences around the property that shows where our ownership begins. So why would anyone be willingly out there? Shit's weird, right? I chuckled, looking at my grandpa and expecting a nervous laugh back. Instead, he shook in his chair and kept his gaze on me, sweat pouring down his nose and his skin growing sallow.

It's just like last time with Christina. He breathed. We tried to cheat the system and we're still paying for it. Cheat the system. What the hell was he talking about? talking about. I scanned the room, and the older members of the family looked increasingly agitated and anxious, my Aunt Gertrude bordering on hysterical as she whimpered something to my Uncle Bill, pointing a shaking finger at me. He would calm her down, and we'd spend

the next two hours in almost total silence. But when the lights began to flicker and the anxiety rose again, I felt myself needing to ask, What's going on, Grandpa? I breathed. The tension spread. spreading through the group like a disease. He shifted uncomfortably, and my concern only grew. If you don't tell me right now, I'll walk out of this building and that'll be the end of the tradition. He immediately leapt out of his seat, eyes wide and wild.

No, absolutely not. We do not need any more suffering and death in this family. The room grew cold and my blood along with it. Death, mom, died? The sheer pain of those words leaving my body like the very air. was being pulled from my lungs by force. He sat back into his chair, defeated. This deal we made, it granted us everything we could want.

But there is no deal in this world without a price. That price was for one of us to fail the contract's requirements each year. There was a tension in the air, permeating through every member of the family as he spoke. The contract never originally stipulated that we must all gather together. In fact, it actively persuaded us to elect someone to miss the proceedings, to perhaps never inform them of the deal. The trick set out was to do it on a day that would keep at least one of us apart from the rest. We would have obstacles from life or employment that would ensure at least one of us would be unable to make it each year, thus fulfilling their end of the bargain. I don't remember who came up with the idea, but your grandmother.

My wife was in heavy labor when your mother was due, and the family wanted to be there. It just seemed like we'd been thrown a line. No more death. So, we decided to make it a mandatory right of passage for the family. By some stroke of luck, your mother was born just after the stroke of midnight on the 30th, and you in the early evening on the 30th some 25 years later. For over half a century, we were able to maintain... peace and tranquility.

His lip quivered and the lights flickered again. But all debts must be repaid, especially with them. In a brief moment, for a fraction of a second, I saw something stand in the middle of our parlor. It towered over all of us, hunched over with its bulbous head against the ceiling, red eyes fixated on me. If there was a mouth, I couldn't see it. It held up a twisted digit to its face as if to shush me before the same. the lights flickered back on.

If Grandpa or anyone else saw it, they didn't acknowledge it. I tried my best to hold my nerve and ask a question to keep my focus. What are they? I managed to muster, hoping there'd be some kind of explanation for what I saw. Maybe an old legend I could connect to them to make sense of all of this, but Grandpa just looked at me, a single tear running down his face as the proud patriarch of our family showed true fear for the first time in my life. I don't know.

Nobody does. They appeared to our ancestor, your namesake, so long ago. He said at the time they were a specter from beneath the earth. His wife insisted they came from the stars. His son was adamant. They were an old Celtic legend forgotten to time. One thing, Theo, when we break eye contact, when we don't fulfill our part of the part,

I heard more whispering outside, the sound of walls being knocked upon and something unseen and gargantuan thundering around the home. It was trying to get our attention. Is that what happened to Mom? Did someone in this room fail to fulfill their part of the bargain? I felt hot rage and grief pushed their way up, compounded by that feeling of being upset on my birthday of all days. I looked around and my eyes settled on Aunt Gertrude, the most nervous of the bunch.

She was my last aunt and Christina's eldest sister. What did you do, Auntie? She pursed her lips, and I could see the veins in her temple throbbing, trying desperately to hold her composure. But the noises were unrelenting, and nobody in the room was attempting to calm her, as if they knew this needed to happen. I always resented your mother, Theodore. She was pretty, confident, young and full of energy. Always got the recognition from Father, the love she wanted and the life she sought. I was never satisfied with what I had, and I thought if she was gone, maybe that good fortune would shine on me.

So I took some sleeping pills and passed out. The staring felt malicious, angry, full of spite, and a hint of regret. I don't have any ill will towards you, Theodore. But if it meant I could live the life I have now, I'd do it again. Bitch! Pippa and Sadie piped up from the sides. Both of them loved their Aunt Christina. All you knew, huh?

Never told him? Were you even planning to? Kiefer spat on the floor in disgust. His family should fucking burn! I felt my head swell, a cocktail of emotions coupled with the unseen attempts to distract us. Grandpa took my shoulders in both hands and looked at me, the saddest smile I'd ever seen on a person's face. I let the smartest and most talented of my girls go because of tradition. Rest assured, I won't. Do you've seen enough death and enough loss in this family?

Before your mother's birth, we would see two dozen of our family taken as many years. She stabilized us. You continued that. But keeping this from you, especially at your age. He let go, backing up to the parlor door. So if you want to leave, to confront whatever takes us, to get your revenge on us. The family murmured, but didn't protest. Gertrude sobbed silently.

How do I know it won't take me? My leg shook as I stood up. It was barely 3 a.m. by this point. We had so long to go. You don't. But that is part of you. taking the choice instead of us. Perhaps if you are the one to leave, it'll punish us instead."

I stood there for a few minutes, deciding over my choices, how to respond to a family steeped in secrecy that would willingly send my mother and I to slaughter in order to keep proliferating. It turned out I wouldn't need to wait very long for a decision. The front door hadn't been properly locked, and Harriet came inside, blasting music and armed with a mobile strobe lighting machine. I'd told her that while we had a ritual, I'd focused instead on the partying aspect. She'd followed me here. The second she entered the house, pumping music, and the lights shining through the room,

they hit several of my family members in the face, breaking eye contact. And just like that, the pact was broken. I don't know if I can fully articulate what happened, but I felt a deep rumble beneath my feet. The air grew thick and it felt as if time had slowed down. Something was stirring, and as I looked around at the family, I could see on their faces they knew it was coming for them. I looked at Grandpa, still smiling and nodding as the lights went out. I made a direct bee-line out of the room with Harriet in hand, slamming the parlor door behind

me and pushing my body weight against it. She screamed, confused, and distressed. You just killed us. All because you couldn't wait. You... You... I tried to find the words, to find the rage, but I was beyond that. I held her close, and we kept our heads down, hoping to make it through whatever hell

was behind just a few inches of wood. I saw nothing, but I heard everything. A cacophony of shrill voices screaming, laughing, singing, and groaning in one torrent of suffering. Things were thrown around the room, possibly furniture. possibly a body. I sat against that door until daybreak this morning, when cousin Pippa gently knocked against the door and told us to come in that it didn't matter this year anymore. Opening the door, I saw carnage.

The room was singed black from wall to wall. Most of the family were laying face down or cowering in the corner, completely unresponsive. As I scanned the room, wordless, full of anxiety and trepidation, I already knew who would be missing. Grandpa, no trace of him existed, as if he'd been wiped from existence. But to my surprise, Gertrude had been taken too, a smear of blood next to her husband that ran across the length of the wall and ended in the corner. Her husband simply rocked back and forth, holding her green shawl.

My attention was then drawn into the center of the room, to something I took with me to the car, something I have in front of me. Now that the full 24 hours have passed, and I have 364 days to decide on what to do next. The family went home, all of us fully understanding what had transpired. Harriet tried in vain to apologize to them, but each one treated her as if she was a ghost. After all, she wasn't part of the family. She wasn't part of the ritual, a part of the game. For all that I'd learned, I still didn't know what they were or where Mom and Grandpa had gone.

I dropped Harriet off at home and made her swear to never talk about it. She was devastated but understood. When she asked me what I intended to do, I simply shook my head. The contract had been amended, you see. Not that there's anything anyone here can do about it aside from listening. know these things happen. The waiting ritual had been extended to 48 hours. All must attend.

Graver consequences for those who don't. A simple note written in Obsidian ink had been pinned to the top. Gertrude's signature crossed out and Harriet's name written in her place. A trade. A new debt. Two more next year.