It Was My Fathers Cross To Bear
12/31/19
It was early in the morning on New Year’s Eve. The sun gleamed off my skin like stained glass, filtering through the living room window and illuminating our room with a warm glow, like a hand on your shoulder from the sun. My mom called to me, my brother, and my father from upstairs; she had made pancakes and sausage for me, my brother, and my dad. Me and my brother dropped our controllers and bolted down the stairs, closely followed by our father.
“Sit down, boys.”
“Jessie, say grace,” my father said to me.
“Why?” I said.
“Because your father said so.”
“Fine,” I said begrudgingly.
“Dear God, bless this food. Bless our family. And bless our party later. Amen.”
Then I immediately dug into the food like a slob before asking,
“Mom, can I have a cup of milk?”
“Your mother already made breakfast, son. You have legs; you can get your own,” my dad said.
I shamefully walked to get my own milk. As I headed to the fridge, I caught my dad kissing my mom on the cheek out of the corner of my eye. Even though it looked like a perfect morning, they both seemed tense—but I ignored it. I sat back down, finished my breakfast, and walked upstairs to get ready for my grandparent’s house. Right before leaving,
I said, “Thank you, Mom.”
“I love you too, dear.”
I then smile and go to my room and start getting ready
My grandparents were hosting a New Year’s party which, for some reason, started at
10:00 AM.
After I got ready, I went outside to wait. The forest in the back of our house looked darker than usual. I thought I saw something I couldn’t explain—a shape without a name, absorbing and repelling light, but only for a second. My family was ready soon after, and we all piled into the car.
“Mom, can I have the front seat?” my brother asked.
“It’s going to be a 'no' since Dad’s here,” I said.
But to my dismay, my dad got in the back with me. My brother uncoiled his tongue and stuck it out at me. The rest of the drive was normal, but I could have sworn there were more trees than before—something I had been noticing for six days.
When we arrived at my grandma’s house, I realized that for another year in a row, my uncle wasn’t there. I was so young I didn’t even remember the last time he had been at a New Year’s Eve party. It was a good party regardless. I played games with my cousins: *Mario Kart: Double Dash!!*, cornhole, and *Smash Bros.* on the old GameCube in the corner of the living room that still worked through the grace of God. While my grandparent’s aunts uncles and my mom and dad prepped dinner. We had pizza and watched a criptid ice berg video made by a guy with gigantic voluptuous lips. After that we got back on the game cube. After my third last place in a row in balloon battle i got up to check the time after saying
“This games rigged frick you guys ima go check the time”
So i went to the living room and noticed something.
at only 3:00 PM, it was night. out of nowhere. Unlike me, none of my cousins questioned it. But I guess they hadn’t been seeing things, which gave them a great idea.
**Man Hunt Round 1: Hiding**
So we ran outside, hiding in the woods behind my grandparents' house. I hid behind a tree, crouched and covered in moss, for ten minutes before I saw something coiled around a trunk. It was like a snake made of armor, its shape and size indeterminable, staring at me. I blinked, and it was gone. I was found ten minutes later.
**Man Hunt Round 2: Seeking**
After counting to forty, I yelled,
“I’m done!”
And then I began searching. I walked for five minutes and saw nothing. Somehow, it felt darker while searching. I heard a loud crash of thunder no further than half a mile away, right in front of me. In that oddly purple, thundery, godly backlight was a creature at least 12 feet long, floating, its eyes glowing with bright purple light. But as soon as the thunder faded, so did the creature. But its hiss lingered. After that, I didn't want to play Man Hunt anymore.
“I don’t think we should keep playing; that thunder was really close!” I screamed.
Which seemed to do nothing. I didn’t hear any movement until a loud whistle came from my grandma.
“Dinner's ready!”
**Man Hunt Over**
We washed up, ate dinner, and thankfully got back on the GameCube. Then, suddenly, my dad said,
“We have to go home.”
“It’s only 9:00! We never leave this early,” I said,
my voice dripping with annoyance.
“I’m sorry, son, but I’ve gotta leave early tonight. This isn’t up for discussion,” he said, his tone almost somber.
“Fine. Bye, guys. I'll see you next week,” I told my cousins.
On the way out, I hugged my grandparents and said goodbye. We got in the car for a silent drive, occasionally punctuated by somber sighs and angry grunts. When we got home, I took a shower, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and got into bed after cracking open the window.
Then, all of a sudden...
11:59 PM.
It was late in the night. The moon reflected off my skin like a pane of glass. I usually don’t leave my window open, but something compelled me. Maybe it was a gut feeling; maybe it was to hear the crickets. They help cover the sound of the house creaking. The creaking is loud for me, at least, since my door was the closest to the stairs. Maybe it was that weird screech I’ve been hearing for a week now, which my mind had conjured into a monster. Or maybe it was just me using the moonlight to see my room better; I had seen my brother watching a horror movie that afternoon, and despite my age, I thought the light would keep the monsters away.
How wrong I was.
As I was dozing off, thinking of hanging out with my friend tomorrow—things I took for granted mere moments from the warm embrace of sleep—I heard it: a crack, a slither, a screech. It was coming from downstairs. I ran past two doors and into my parents' room, only to find them already alert. Their faces were pale as they whispered to one another. When they saw me, they put a finger to their lips with a fear so conquering that even the warmth of the sun couldn't stop it. I was stunned by the strangeness of the moment.
Just as I was going to ask what was wrong, they gestured for me to shut the door and turn off the lights. After I did, they waved a hand and whispered, telling me to sit so quietly I thought I might be imagining it.
Then my father said to me,
“Son, I’m sorry for not being able to be a real father. I’m sorry for failing the one task every parent is supposed to,” he whispered somberly.
“Why? What did you do? You’re acting weird,” I whispered back immediately.
Then, with a face mere moments away from tears,
he said, “I can’t save you.”
It was dead silent. I didn’t say a word. I was confused and terrified, but I didn’t know why yet. Then I heard him sob.
“Damn it, I thought we were safe. I’ll still try. Even though I know I won’t succeed, I have to try. I have to give you, your brother, and your mother time to escape... even if it’s without me.”
Then I realized why I hadn't heard from my brother. He was behind my father, frozen in fear, almost fainted. I didn’t know why they were so afraid of whatever made that noise, but I would find out soon.
After a few seconds of silence, I heard scuttling. My father picked up my grandpa’s shotgun and a knife and said,
“He knows.”
Then, I heard it run up the steps. It broke one door, then two, then three. I heard a bang; the shotgun rang out before the creature could touch our door. Four more shots followed in quick succession. A loud screech came through the door. My father, with a booming voice, commanded us to run down the stairs even as he screamed from the pain of being punctured by one of the creature’s many sharp, spindly arms.
My mom grabbed my brother, who had fainted, with superhuman strength and speed and threw him over her shoulder. As we were going down, the thing saw us. Its head cracked like a whip in our direction, and it immediately tried to lunge toward us.
Then I heard my father scream:
“Not today! Not ever again, you monster!”
He pierced its glowing, haunted eye, and it let out an oddly familiar screech that sounded like it came from the depths of hell. And a thick purple visceral elixir seeped from the eyes of the demon. My mother sped up, instantly knowing what to do. She grabbed the keys, put us in the car, and pulled out as if driven by primal instinct. As we were driving away, we could see him being easily overpowered by that monster.
But the last thing I saw from our living room window while we were pulling out was my father baiting the monster with a gun in his own mouth; and when his head went into the demon's maw, I heard a bang. I guess
its insides weren’t armored.
We drove for what felt like years, dead silent the whole time. Eventually, we pulled up to a man's house—my uncle’s house—a house which for some reason we hadn’t visited in a decade. He was happy to see us, though we didn't return the cheer. He asked where his brother was. Without a word or a glance, my mom showed him a picture. Nothing else needed to be said. His face went pale and sorrowful as he let us inside.
**Update:**
Since I lost him, I’ve grown up fast; it feels like I have no more time to be young. I haven’t seen my friends; I haven’t been happy. I’ve been questioning things that I never even questioned: religion, faith. I’m young; I always just believed what my parents said. But that thing obviously isn’t from this realm. Every night I unravel, questioning all the facts, beliefs, and knowledge that make me who I am; but at the end of the day, I still lay in bed, close my eyes, and pray for a quiet night.
**Update:**
It’s been two weeks now since the incident. I’m going back to school. Things feel odd. I have these vivid daydreams of that creature. Its horrific, unholy face looks like a three-person matrimony of a centipede, a demon, and an angel. Its face looks like it means to save and sacrifice you. I swear I’m seeing it. Like it’s almost looking at me; I never feel safe. I can't feel safe; it's always there—haunting, watching. And what's worse, I feel like my mom and uncle are hiding something from me. And my brother has almost regressed in age. Whenever I was scared in my old house, I could always turn on the lights and be at peace. I'd stay up watching TV or playing games. But ever since my father died,
it’s like that bulb busted.
We still haven’t been back to our old home since. I still hold out hope that one day he’ll knock on our door, even though I know he’s gone. My father was a great man. I miss him. But I know he failed. No matter how much I love him, I know he failed us because last night,
I heard it again.
**Update:**
It’s been three days since I heard it again. Every time I try to bring up anything related to the scratches or the monster, my mom and uncle either interrupt me, ignore me, or just all around yuck my yum. I've been seeing things at school. Today, my teacher became that monster when I picked up my pen, and it became the knife my dad used to stab that Lovecraftian beast. I almost lunged at him.
But I steadied myself. During lunch, as I was getting spaghetti and meatballs, the noodles turned into that monster's spindly arms,
and the six meatballs became the eyes of the beast.
The six pieces of mini garlic bread bites became its hard flesh,
and the six ounces of chocolate milk became its visceral elixir. When I saw this, I threw it in the trash can, but as soon as it hit the can, it turned back to normal. It was fine, though; I wasn’t hungry anymore anyway.
Later that day, after school, I went to the grocery store with my mother. The car ride was normal—just me, her, and silence. We didn’t talk much; the only words that we said were:
“Thank you for coming, dear.”
“I love you too, Mom.”
My mom grabbed a cart, walked inside, and grabbed some milk, eggs, bread, pickles, ham, cheese, and mustard. As she went to the dairy aisle, I felt something.
“Mom, I'm gonna go use the restroom.”
“Okay.”
As I walked to the restroom, everything felt normal. I walked up to the urinal, and as I finished using the restroom and buckling my pants, I felt a hand on my shoulder. But I felt no fear. I had felt this before: every time I broke a bone, lost a football game, or threw up. Every time I needed someone, I felt that hand on my shoulder. It was my father—his comforting hand grasping my shoulder, letting me know everything was alright.
“I love you.”
“You’re not real.”
“I'm suffering.”
“Go away.”
“It’s letting me speak.”
“You’re that monster! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”
“Son, you gotta believe me. I’m trapped. I'm in a hell of its design. I can't have you go through this.”
“Is it really you?”
“Son, I can feel them. All of them. Every person throughout the existence of humanity that this creature has consumed—I feel it inside of me, wiggling through me like my muscle has turned into serpents.”
“DAD, IT'S YOU! How can I help you? Is there any way I can help you? I don’t want you trapped. I can't live with this.!” I said, almost in tears.
“The only way you can help me is to survive. I live through you. YOU are my blood. As long as you don’t end up like me, I’ll be fine. This is my heaven as long as you don’t end in this hell.”
I went to hug him, tears welling up in my eyes, but as I looked up, I saw his face. His body had been beaten. He had no mouth; his eyes were just holes in his face. He was emaciated, like a corpse of the mighty man I used to know. I could see the monster behind him, its arms stretching and wiggling through his body, moving him like its arms replaced his nervous system. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath. When I opened them, he was gone. I fell to my knees and began to cry.
“I love you too, Dad.”
**Update:**
It’s been five days since I heard the noise again. Four days ago, I noticed more darkness and more trees. I see its silhouette in the trees again—only this time it's larger. This is the same monster; he will be here in two days. I’m not disillusioned by some imaginary, unconquerable will to survive; I know if I try to fight this monster, I will most likely die. I’ve asked my mom how she and my dad knew about it, but she couldn’t give a straight answer; every somber denial of knowledge was accompanied by an unmistakable face of pain, guilt, and loss. So, even though I felt terrible, I snuck into her room while she was getting groceries and found the same picture she showed my uncle.
It was a picture of a statue of that monster, only smaller than the actual thing. But in front of that statue were two young men and a young woman, with a date in the corner:
12/31/99.
Although they were younger, it was still abundantly clear who they were: my mother, my father, and my uncle. Seeing this picture made something crystal clear—my mom wasn’t the only one hiding the truth. I ran to the living room, grabbed my uncle's arm, and asked,
“What do you know about that monster?”
At first, he said stuff like,
“What monster?”
“Are you messing with me?”
“Monsters aren’t real don’t be so childish.,”
and
“Your mother told me it was just a group of men.”
But then I showed him the picture, and he let out a large sigh.
“So you found that. Your mother can’t hide things to save her life.”
“Tell me about the monster and tell me about this picture. I just want to know the truth,” I said, on the verge of tears.
He told me to follow him. We walked up the stairs and into his room. He shut and locked the door the second I was inside.
“I don’t want your brother to hear about this if he doesn’t already know.”
After I told him he doesn't, he sat down and began to speak.
“There really is no point in hiding anything now that you’ve seen the monster and the picture is there,” he said acceptingly.
“No”
“Well, if you really want to know... a long time ago, before your parents were married, me and your dad went exploring almost every day after school. Since we were so young, we couldn’t drive, but that never stopped us from loving every second of it. I swear we explored every inch—every forest within a one-hour walk. In 8th grade, we met your mother. Your father fell in love instantly, and so did she. I was scared at first that our exploring would become a thing of the past, but to our surprise, she loved it just as much as us."
"We did our casual exploring as usual until the summer before junior year, when I got a car and my very own license. Every weekend we’d go out in my 1995 Toyota Tacoma and explore. We found abandoned houses and abandoned forts, but we wanted more. By 6/5/98, we had all graduated from East Kentwood High and had all the free time in the world. We flew around nearly monthly for a whole year straight, exploring temples, bastions, and caves—having the time of our lives. Your father even proposed in front of an Aztec temple on 6/5/99, exactly a year since we started our continental adventures. Of course, your mother said yes.”
I cut him off. I was stressed, and my patience had been justifiably low since my father died.
“Get to the important part,” I said.
My uncle let out a small smile, then a laugh, and said,
“OK, OK, I will—no need to bite my head off. Your father had bought an all-expenses-paid, first-class flight to Latin America to search the jungles. The flight was set to leave December 28th and arrive early the 29th. Your mother was insufferably giddy for those few months. When the day finally came, I expected to stay home, but my brother and your mother wanted me to come as well. They said it wouldn’t be the same without me. So, I packed my things and came with them."
"The flight there was pure luxury—first class—and when we got there, it was much of the same. He rented one of the nicest hotels: two rooms, both with king-sized beds and every amenity and nicety imaginable. But I digress. Those first two days were some of the best days of my life, but they are ultimately unimportant."
"On the last day there, near midnight, we saw a temple—huge and unlit. It looked like no one had been there for a millennium. We were overjoyed. We raced through the shrubbery to the entrance.”
He gave a small smile and a laugh.
“I swear we used up ten cameras exploring that thing. All the details and carvings were sublime and perfect. But then, at 11:30, there was a shift. We walked into the first room of the top floor and the candles were lit. The building had a hum. We didn’t have the slightest clue what was going on. Me and your mother assumed it was a prank by your father, but we were wrong. As we walked through rooms of texts and bowls of fire being held by serpents and men alike, we finally made it to the main room. I swear the words moved and morphed. One second they were some language lost to time; the next, they were English. The sign read: *Room of Worship: Tomb of the Sacrificed* in perfect English. Me and your mom were now 100 percent sure it was your dad playing a joke and walked in without a care in the world, while your dad looked weird and hesitant."
"It was now 11:55. When we entered, we looked around for a minute before finding a nearly perfect outline of three people standing in front of the statue—two men and a woman getting wrapped by some eldritch beast that looked Lovecraftian in nature. At this point, your father was nearly scared to death, but we were none the wiser. We just thought he was putting on an act. Then your mom had the idea to take a picture in front of that monstrous statue in the room, which is the origin of that picture in your hands.”
“Can you please continue?” I asked.
He let out a sigh.
“I don’t want to, but you already knew too much when you saw that thing in your home. After the picture, the clock struck 11:59. We were hit with a breeze that was almost intoxicating; it felt like we were being pushed to look at the statue. There was a plaque in front of the creature, and honestly, I forgot what it says; let me see that picture.”
I handed it over.
“I remember now. I remember all too well. It read: *'Bound with blood, born from evil, bound from a time pre-medieval. An ancient being with a life unknown, said to grow from the hate that has been sown. Every thousand, he comes to feast, if someone reads this cursed piece, choosing a victim with innocence to reap. If killed not in this very location, he will find a way back to you with a strong vocation. For this is his tomb, the only place he will lie, because of his need to live and not die. Once a decade—ten Earth rotations—he comes back to find you and will have strengthened once. If he does not kill one person once every ten rotations, he will come back too soon to claim his reparations.'*"
"Before we could react, we heard a loud ring. Clocks appeared—made of granite and stone—that weren’t there before. They all said the same thing: 12. Suddenly, that creature burst from the stone and wrapped around all of us. Luckily, it was three against one, and he wasn’t nearly as strong as he is now. We simply stabbed him with pocket knives. He died fairly quickly. We only ended up with a few lacerations, but before he died, he jumped out of the temple, becoming a pile of purple goop on one of the lower levels."
"We thought it was over. We couldn’t have been more wrong. After that, our lives were different. We didn’t adventure as much; we chose to stay in America. Then your parents had you. Gosh, I loved you. You were just the sweetest kid ever. Every day I spent with you and your parents was perfect... except for one."
"It was New Year's Eve, 2009—a decade since the incident. You were in my room with the TV on. The adults were having drinks at my house; we partied, watched a movie, sang karaoke. It was like we were kids again. We were just talking about life and singing with all of our friends. I said I had been noticing weird noises for the last few days, but we all thought it was nothing. Then, as soon as the clock hit 12, we felt something."
"We noticed guests were missing. Friends weren’t in the room. Upstairs was silent. Everything was silent. It was like the noise was being sucked out of the planet, like a void of nothing. The only thing we could hear was the creatures un godly scurrying like knives rapidly stabbing through out walls it was all around us the room went dark. the only thing we could see was the door of the bathroom. Then we slowly went to the bathroom door before steadying ourselves and busting in. both of the windows were open, and our friends laid there, ripped to shreds, blood on the walls. It was like someone stuck thick lines of wire through their bodies then ripped them into eighths. Blood and intestines coated the walls."
"Then, like a punch to the gut, all the noise came flooding in. Screams of terror. Blood we somehow couldn’t see or feel was revealed. The monster came out of nowhere and started bisecting people, slicing them into bits, devouring them, leaving their lifeless, half-eaten corpses on the floor. One of our friends, his name was Mark—it went inside him by using its arms to rip open his stomach then coiling up inside, eating as he went, before leaving him an empty bag of flesh. It lunged towards the stairs. We felt relieved, like it was running away, then we realized you were still upstairs."
"Your father ran up those stairs and grabbed the monster, fighting with every ounce of power he had. He single-handedly killed that thing; he decapitated it with your grandpa’s knife, almost dying in the process. After that, everyone ran to the cars and left screaming. We realized it was the same monster we tried to wipe from our memory. I assumed that monster wanted me because I read that incantation, so I told them to leave and never return. They left, and I never saw them in person again. I miss him more than anything. I’d pay any price to see him. The last time I saw my brother feels like the last time I saw the sun. But that night, I felt free.”
“Why did y'all assume that just because you read the plaque it only wanted you?”
“I think we wanted to believe that at least some of us had the chance to live a full life. Away from pain and suffering. Maybe if I was smarter, if I had realized that was wrong, my brother would still be here.”
He started to cry, and so did I. Then me and him walked back into the living room like nothing happened. But at least I know what to do. I looked into my uncle's eyes, and he had a face of realization, and he instantly grabbed his card and booked a cruise… a cruise… for three, actually… to Latin America.
**Update:**
We waited patiently for my mom to get back home with the groceries. As soon as she walked through that door, she looked at my uncle with that same sad expression she’s had the last few days since the death of my father. But suddenly, her expression changed from deep sadness to an uncontrollable, flaming ball of rage.
“WHY DID YOU SHOW HIM THAT PICTURE?”
she yelled with the fury of my father the same night he died.
“Mom, please calm down! He didn’t—I found it. I just wanted to know the truth, and he actually told me,” I said.
“We know what to do. It’s on the plaque,” he said.
“What plaque?”
“The plaque on the statue, Jane. It’s in the picture. It says if we kill him where the statue was, he will accept death and stay for another millennium.”
“What does that have to do with telling him all of this?”
“We’re going to Latin America to stop this once and for all. Your son’s been hearing the scratching for five days; he’s taken over your husband’s place in the ritual. We can go stop this once and for all. No more bloodshed, no more tears being absorbed into wood and pillows, no more tears going uncared for. This is penance for my brother. Penance for Nolan.”
“We already booked the cruise, Mom. That thing, that monster—it’s going to be back in two days. Do you expect us to roll over and die, or fight for this family? Fight for Dad? Fight for the people who died a decade ago?”
Jane sighed. “You’re right. I’ve heard it, too. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Let me say goodbye to your brother and call my sister to pick him up. We should pack our gear and supplies, Paul.”
“Jane, don’t worry about gear. I’ve been prepping for a decade. I have four 9mms, four AR-15s, two 12-gauge shotguns, 24 grenades, five Kevlar sets of full-body plates, and basically a suicide bomber vest. I mean, why wouldn’t I? Did you expect me to roll over and take it? The equipment is in three duffel bags under my bed; I'll get it. Then we’re ready.”
After my mom said goodbye and called my aunt, we loaded our stuff in the trunk and headed to the dock. What I didn’t know was that he had booked a cargo freight that his friend owned and operated, so we got to bring the car to Latin America with us.
**Update:**
We just got on the boat. It's a little crazy to me that the first time I’ve been on a boat is for these messed-up circumstances—to attempt to make a demon rest for another 1,000 years. I see a version of it: giant in form, moving in the water like a great leviathan, a twisting serpent like the beast from Job, Psalms, and Isaiah. But make no mistake, the hellish creature was not made by the Christian God. I don’t know if it was made at all. Its power to bend the mind and damn the people it consumed to an eternal torture, I fear, is worse than hell itself. I still see my father every now and again, but that warmth and purity he had in the grocery store is gone. It talks inhumanly, like a faulty machine; it's so far from human, even when it speaks one of our many languages, it fails. It still talks to me, though.
“H-e-l-l-o, son.”
“I'm not falling for that.”
“Y-o-u w-i-l-l f-a-l-l.”
“Damned if I try, damned if I don’t.”
“Y-O-U W-I-L-L J-O-I-N Y-O-U-R F-A-T-H-E-R.”
“I know.”
“I k-n-o-w y-o-u d-o. I'-m s-o f-a-r a-b-o-v-e h-u-m-a-n-i-t-y, l-i-k-e a g-r-e-a-t s-e-r-p-e-n-t v-e-r-s-u-s a-n o-r-d-i-n-a-r-y m-a-n.
But this does put a smile on my face.”
I turn to look at the beast head-on, but when I see the monster, its body is the same but its face is my father’s. He looked the same as in the grocery store, but he was smirking. Which is kind of corny if you ask me, but I’m not the ancient demon.
**Update:**
It’s been 18 hours on the boat and I’ve noticed something—that monster looks bigger. Every time I see it, even though its size and shape varies, it is consistently bigger than the creature was before. And the visions are more intense than last time the monster hellishly haunted us—so intense even my mom has started to notice the beast.
“Jessie?”
“Yeah, Mom.”
“I've been seeing things.”
“Like what?”
“I see its eyes in the dark. In the corner of my eye sometimes I see it scurrying. But it’s the same size that it was 20 years ago. And sometimes it’s bigger than it was just a few weeks ago.”
“I'm sorry, Mom. I had wished it would only affect me.”
“Let’s just hope your uncle doesn’t start seeing these cursed illusions."
“I agree. None of us deserve it, especially not him. The hellish hexes hoisted upon us by this ancient monster are getting stronger. If it started happening to him, I don’t know what we would do."
**Update:**
I’ve been on the boat for 36 hours now. I somehow heard scratching at 12:00 AM even on a boat in the ocean. This thing really is not from Earth. (Sigh). God, I hope we’re almost there. It will come in less than a day, most likely. I don’t want to die to that monster, but if death comes for me, then it has to earn me. And if it does, I’ll bear that cross.
We haven’t talked at all since we got on the boat, and that hasn’t changed since we got off; we’re currently driving there right now. I don’t know if it’s the fear or the nerves, but I swear my hearing will go out and then come back, and stuff is disappearing and reappearing out of nowhere. Every blink is its face—a hellish mix between demon, god, and insect; a hellish unholy matrimony, a creature never meant to be seen. I feel it crawling on me, talking to me. It says things to me in a screech that sounds inhuman, but for some reason, I understand. But the one thing I can't forget it said is:
“Your father is trapped. There is no afterlife for the people I gather; they’re here in purgatory for eternity. They will see me; they will not grow braver in their death.”
Clearer than any words that ancient aztecan hell span has ever said.
But we’re almost there. Despite the situation, I can still hear my uncle humming to the radio and I can hear my mom breathing. I know they’re still alive. I still have them, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make sure they don’t die to this slithering creature’s conquest. It might be bulletproof now—hell, it might even be invincible—but we—NO, I—will make sure it dies on that plaque and that it doesn’t come back for a thousand years.
**Update:**
We’re 1 day away. 24 hours. In 6 hours we will be in the car. This boat is a pain. I wish I could be more comfortable before death. I'm still seeing things. Sometimes I’ll wake up and see that the ocean is made out of its inside—its “visceral elixir.” Then I feel it splash on me and I swear it seems thicker. I see it in the water sometimes, the size of a great sea serpent. Other times I’ll see thousands of them in a school. I see its eyes take over the stars, replacing them with its glowing eyes. But I know it can't hurt me.
Not yet.
**Update:**
We’re going to be there in 8 hours. I can hardly breathe—the visions are clearer—I see it so clearly now—the trees are covering the whole car—I swear we have run into 10 of them. I can hear my father talking. And its been pitch black outside since 10 am. God, I hope we end this soon. But I know that ending this soon likely means my death. There's a feeling you get in your stomach; it's like acceptance of a tragedy. It's almost like I’ve made peace with it in a funny way. I know I will probably die, but my mom and uncle will live. I will bear that vest if I have to; I will wrestle it onto the plaque. And if it is what's meant to be, I'll stay on that plaque for 1,000 years with it. That monster will meet me, and that monster will die.
**Update:**
We are an hour away from our figurative lion’s den, except I can’t tell if we are Daniel or if that monster is.
My eyes have been closed mostly the whole time. I can’t stop these illusions; this monster is near, and I can feel its presence. I think my uncle noticed it too; he swerved on an empty road, almost killing us.
My mother said to Paul right after,
“Paul, what the hell are you doing!?”
“There was a boulder the size of the car! Are you blind?”
“There was no boulder, you idiot! You’re losing your mind i get its pitch black out but you have the high beams on.”
“I’m sorry, Jane. It’s that hellish beast; it’s playing tricks with my mind.”
“Seriously? You too?” my mother asked. Not wanting to believe it
“Yeah. Even before the monster killed Nolan, I saw trees disappearing and reappearing. That night, I even saw it in the trees. It wasn’t as big though, but its eyes... they were the same. I’ve seen it every day; its face haunts me.”
“Paul, I wish you would have told me,” my mother said somberly.
“Nothing that can be done now. Nothing more we can say.”
And nothing more was said.
**Update:**
We’re here. For some reason, I find this place beautiful: the flames, the statues, the etchings, and the carvings. It’s the truest form of artistry. It is like swimming through the River Styx while being in the middle of Olympus—a sense of unmistakable horror, fear, and dread, but inside a place meant for gods. It makes me feel big and small, young and old. The breeze pushing me along truly is intoxicating.
I walk through endless, cursed corridors of crimson cloth, charred with flames held by statues ignited by horror. It is a feeling of familiarity and unknowingness; a place that shouldn’t exist. Words form to you; terrain changes to comfort and concern you. There is red on the floor from paint and pain, from the sacrificed and the sacrificer. And here I stand, in front of the room built to worship the one this was all made for: a creature everlasting and ever-hungry. It is a creature that can only grow, seemingly incapable of love or hate; a creature that was here before us and will be here after us. My actions, no matter how noble they may be, will not matter. In the end, we will be gone and he will be all that remains. I have nothing else left to say, besides this: I will meet this thing—this creature of infinity—in only two hours.
*Ring. Ring. Ring.*
Suddenly, those same granite and stone clocks burst forth. The monster shatters; its stone skin falls off like removing the top layer of a hard-boiled egg. Its screech and cry vibrate the temple like the chains falling off the Titans in Tartarus. Reality warps and bends around the creature—impossibly wide and impossibly long, yet slender like a basilisk at the same time. It’s terrifyingly beautiful, like a phoenix emerging from ashes; it is godly, and
**IT HAS GROWN.**
But we came prepared. I have a 12-gauge, my mother has a 12-gauge, and my uncle is a little further back with an AR-15. The creature begins to lay down for a fast crawl, so I shoot 24 grenades, causing a gigantic cloud to form.
“Was it that easy?” Jane asked,
just before she is lunged at by the monster.
I hear her screech like the monster she spent over half her life afraid of. The monster re-opens its mouth to swallow her whole; then, I hear a boom ringing from inside its mouth. My uncle threw a grenade into its maw while it was going for the kill. A loud explosion is followed by a screeching cry that I could never un-hear; it shattered my eardrums. The monster proceeds to spit out that thick, purple acid—only darker, thicker, and just as incomprehensible.
But then it looks at me. It looks at me with the face of Nolan. I hear a voice in my head telling me not to kill it, saying I’m a monster, saying I won't win, saying if it dies it won't matter because it will be back. But that voice wasn’t my voice; it was my father's. I almost felt it rippling through my body. But I stood steadfast; I wasn’t going to let it hurt anybody else. So, ignoring the acid, we unload every bullet we can in the 15-second span of its agony.
But it wouldn’t die. Suddenly, it lunges at me. I dodge it once, but then it lunges at me again and I trip. In that span of time, I felt everything. I was scared for my life. I feared the end; I feared being stuck in that void forever. Forever alone. Forever scared. Forever suffering.
But I wouldn’t be the one who was suffering. At the last second, my uncle jumps in its way. The creature takes his torso clean off. He had a smile on his face, knowing he died protecting me. He was wearing a suicide bomber vest. As soon as the monster swallowed him, he detonated with an explosion far stronger than even the 23 grenades.
I couldn’t even comprehend what just happened. My mom and I dropped to our knees, crying. He had killed it. We stayed there weeping for what felt like days until we finally left. We had a long walk through the ethereal labyrinth of that ancient, living tribute temple to a creature of hell from a time long passed. We got in the car, still crying, caught a plane, and went home. We used what was left of him and our savings for a funeral; we even bought him one of those fancy suits. It was quaint but nice. He would have loved it.
But sadly, that is not what happened.
Everything up until now was a story told by my nephew, Jessie. The truth is, when that monster lunged at me, *he* was the one wearing the suicide vest. He must have had it on for that entire car ride. He was the one we mourned. He left a note in the car that said to post this. He was a bigger man than me—faster, smarter, braver. Just like his dad. I haven’t stopped crying. I would love to say it was only because my nephew died, but the truth is, there is one other reason.
That monster got too big.
IT.
DIDN’T.
FIT.
ON.
THE.
STATUE.
STAND.
He bore his father's cross for nothing.
Authors note: this is probably the only story im ever gna make so thanks to papa meat for making the tierlist videos those are what i watched when i wrote this and wendigoon for the angel engine vid and creep cast for being the reason i wrote this
Also it only took 8 hours to make