He just wanted to stay in bed a little longer but alas, that was a pipe dream on a work day. Still, he stubbornly kept his eyes closed for as long as possible. No point in accepting the inevitable before the alarm did its work… And as always, for those precious seconds while he grasped at the fleeting embers of unconsciousness rapidly scarring out of his reach, he entertained a loony notion of calling in sick. He was known for his honesty so surely they wouldn’t get too suspicious…

Of course this was a silly thought and one he didn’t plan on acting out but it was sort of fun to entertain, in a self-teasing sort of way. The blare of the alarm shooed all those indulgences away and he jumped out of bed. That wasn’t his usual choice and for a moment it startled him so completely, he flash froze on his feet. It wasn’t his preferred ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ beats but a shrill screech which immediately triggered his fight or flight instincts. For a disorientating second he twisted around on his heels, trying to locate the source of the sirens while his mind exploded with thoughts of danger and police and crime but his bedroom looked perfectly normal.

It took him a moment longer to comprehend the wail was blasting from his bedside clock and he slapped it into silence with a sense of frustrated confusion. He sat in the embarrassing silence left in the noisy wake, mutely snickering at his overreaction but still confused nonetheless. Eventually he shrugged it off, changed the alarm back to his preferred settings and chalked this unsettling wake-up call to an odd electric malfunction he’d surely laugh about one day.

‘Did you change your alarm?’ When he reached the kitchen and found his wife behind the counter, lovingly preparing his breakfast, he had the decency to scratch the back of his head and shift his weight from foot to foot sheepishly.

‘Nah. I didn’t change it but I guess the clock acted out. Sorry about that.’ He didn’t want to go into further detail for fear she’d discover his embarrassing brush with a panic attack but she was a classy enough woman to let him off the hook with a knowing arch of her eyebrow.

‘Well, this should turn that frown back upside down.’ His eyes widened, in childishly obvious delight. When she turned to face him with a full plate in one hand, his mouth reflexively started watering. Oh, how he loved that smell.

‘Bacon? I thought you were cutting me off. High cholesterol and all that nonsense.’ Honestly, he had no idea why he was checking a gift horse in the mouth. His eyes were fixated on the greasy strips and his taste buds were already tingling in anticipation of that salty goodness settling in the pit of his stomach.

‘Consider today a cheat day. But don’t get used to it. Tomorrow we’re back to egg white omelettes. Doctor’s orders.’ He nodded but his hearing turned off at cheat day.

To say he dug into the treat with all the abandon of a starved man was an accurate statement. He was certain his wife must love him because nothing else would keep someone by his side after that graceless display. But it was so hard to care when the grease dripped down his throat so smoothly.

He was still thinking about the fatty fullness of his gut as he made his way to work. He’d always loved the stuff, ergo why he overindulged to the point where diets had to come into play, but it surprised him how sensual the experience ended up being. That smell dug its hooks into his nostrils and clung on all the way through his shortcut through the park. If he lifted his fingertips to sniff them, he could almost picture a rasher dripping down his digits. If being on that diet for a few weeks had such an effect on him he had no idea how he was going to honour his promise to his wife and give up the succulent, pink poison for months. But he owed it to her.

So he shook his head and shooed away the intrusive thoughts, mentally slapping himself to reality just in time to realize he was passing through the children’s playground in the park. He must have been really lost in his greasy daydreams to ignore the clamours of delighted giggles and lost youthful exuberance. The little collection of toys, swings, slides and sandboxes, was nothing phenomenal but it was never empty. He supposed the corner was as much an outlet for the energetic tykes as their parents and he recognised a few since this was his preferred way to work on sunny days. He didn’t wave. He didn’t know them that well but he was familiar enough for the adults not to give him suspicious stared when he walked past.

It was that time of year when the trees were getting to blossom and soon enough, weather allowing, the path would be drenched in pollen. How lucky he wasn’t allergic… Perhaps it was this thought which made him pause and stare at one of the trees closest to the path. It didn’t look out of the ordinary but something compelled him to venture closer and have a better look.

It was the bark. He couldn’t explain how but even by sight, the tactile quality of it seemed off. Bark should be rough and well, like bark, but the groves in the brown skin struck him as plusher. Utterly ridiculous but strange enough for him to gravitate towards the ligneous trunk and it wasn’t exactly out of the way so no harm done in satiating his peculiar curiosity.

The closer he got, the more that intrusive thought grew. And was the bark redder than it should be? That must have been why it registered to his subconscious as weird… The browns and reds and…pinks? He was no botanist and the few house plants he’d attempted keeping alive all suffered a tragic fate so maybe it wasn’t that extraordinary to see trees with a pink hue to their bark. It was just strange how he never seemed to notice that before and he’d been traversing this exact stretch of pavement hundreds of times. Maybe more.

And he could still smell that lingering perfume of cooked bacon. It was disturbingly insistent, lingering just on the peripherals of his thoughts but always a constant with each breath he took. Sure, he loved bacon but this was becoming unsettling. That, paired with the absurdity of a fleshy tree had his irrational nerves on edge so when his phone rang suddenly he literally jumped back.

The ringtone was wrong and his adrenaline shot through him as if his doctor was there to inject a dose into his panicked veins. He fished out his phone and stared before he remembered how to operate it. It was that blaring siren which had him skirting a heart attack that morning again. One appliance was weird but two seemed deliberate. He smiled mirthlessly, heart still beating far too rapidly, concluding his wife must have pulled a fast one on him. He had to admit, her performance that morning was impressive but it had to be her. Good one. She got him. She got him good.  

***

The alarm screeched and he fell out of bed. Blasted thing! He recalled changing it the day before but here he was leaping to his feet with a sore elbow from when he struck the floor and rushing to slap the crying apliance into silence. One time was funny but he didn’t appreciate the rough start to the day repeating itself so he’d just have to talk to his wife.

He talked to her yesterday, albeit he didn’t recall the conversation too clearly… Honestly, he didn’t recall most of the day. Just the parts about walking through the park and connecting the dots about his dear’s mischievous but surely harmless prank. He must have been on autopilot. Heaven knew, that was hardly an isolated incident. When the days were so prone to predictability and repetition, one naturally stopped participating. He went to work, spend the hours doing enough to secure his next pay check, walked back home, had dinner and then he must have turned in for an early night.

If they did something else in the evening it must have been uninspired. They probably flicked through the channels again until they settled on something before the yawning started. Yes, the more he considered it that more that sounded right. Another day gone in predictable repetitive cycles and now here was this insufferable alarm shaking him out of bed to begin the Sisyphean pushing of the boulder up the hill again.

‘Honey, did you change my alarm again? It’s not funny.’ He made his way down the stairs and she was at the kitchen counter, already preparing his breakfast. She hummed as if she didn’t hear him but there wasn’t that much distance between them for that to be the case. He shrugged, thinking maybe she was playing ignorant but that was ok. He changed the clock settings and he was convinced she wouldn’t thinker with them again. She wasn’t mean spirited after all…

‘Don’t worry honey. I have just the thing to turn your frown upside down.’ His frown deepened instead. The phrase repetition wasn’t lost on him and it was extra odd because that wasn’t even something she usually said so twice in two consecutive mornings was certainly frown worthy.

‘Bacon? Again?’ She was always so pissed when he deviated from his diet yet here she was, turning from the stove with a plate of greasy pink goodness and a wide smile on her face.

‘Don’t check your gift horses in the mouth honey. Just enjoy the treat.’ She smiled and there was nothing sinister about it. He could certainly think of worse punishments than getting served a sizzling plate of mouth-watering rashers so he shrugged and dug in.

He was sniffing his fingertips all the way to the park again, struck at how staunchly the smoky aroma clung to his skin. If he was really thinking about it, it never really left him from yesterday either… Surely his co-workers smelled the breakfast on him but he couldn’t recall anyone speaking out and Janine once threatened to tattle to HR because he had ‘coffee breath so bad she couldn’t concentrate’. No way she’d suddenly convert to a decent human being now so maybe it was all in his head… Hard to believe it when he inhaled his fingertips and nearly failed to stop himself from giving them a lick, just to see if they tasted as good as they smelled.

Fortunately that thought was interrupted by his near miss with the trunk of a tree. He hadn’t been looking where he was going. Actually he wasn’t sure how he got in the park, if he really stopped to think. It was that autopilot sensation of yesterday. One instant his wife was setting a plate of delectable breakfast before him, the next he was on his way to work via his park shortcut and now he was standing stock still before yesterday’s tree.

He lowered his hand, confused and a little perturbed but not yet indulging the alarm bells beginning to go off in his head. He just needed to lock in more, certainly before he reached work. He shook his head, running a hand over his face and lingering over his nose to get a proper inhale, and focused on the nearest object to him. The tree.

He was closer than yesterday and he could see more details in the bark. The colour was definitely off and not just a figment of his imagination. That pinkness reminded him far too viscerally of the bacon strips he’d consumed not an hour ago. And once he allowed that thought to infect his brain, he couldn’t shake it off.

He lifted his hand to touch the peculiar bark but hesitated. The cracks in the woody skin reminded him more of gelatine than timber. A strange but undeniable aversion to being proven right held his palm motionless in the air. Thinking of his fingers sinking into something which should feel solid flooded his cranium with aversion and repulsion. Instead he took the coward’s way out and lowered his hand.

***

The siren alarm rang and he awoke. It felt louder this time and this time he wasn’t in as much of a hurry to mute it. He just stared at the clock until he was shocked his wife didn’t march in to demand he do something about that high-pitched shriek. Surely this went beyond a prank. He searched for it, but the ambers of humour at his wife’s antics were fizzled out. 

‘I’m serious, stop doing this-!’ He stormed downstairs to put his foot down and put an end to this messing about in no uncertain terms. Maybe he’d been too carefree before and his wife misunderstood how much he loathed that siren call. It triggered something in him, a ceasing of every cell in his body. He feared it on some instinctual level he couldn’t name but he certainly reacted to.

‘Here, have some breakfast.’ His words turned to ash on the tip of his tongue when she turned to face him, smile as sunny as the bright celestial ball of fire and plate so crowded with cooked bacon the grease was dripping over the edges. It should have made him hungry but a twist of nausea knotted his guts. She placed the breakfast on the table like he hadn’t even spoken and she couldn’t see the curl of his lip as he stared down at the plate.

And that smell. That smoky, savoury smell of cooked pork clinging to his fingertips… He shoved his hands deep in his pockets to keep them as far away from his nose as he could or he might heave. He kept his eyes planted on the path and barely considered the oddity of how he’d gotten to the park.

He made a conscious effort to avoid the tree, despite it being in his way. When he turned, facing away from the peculiar trunk, eyes on the floor for fear of seeing something else deeply unsettling, he saw a tiny movement. It was almost nothing but just enough of a something to give him pause. When he knelt to examine closer, it was just a caterpillar struggling to crawl its way across the xeric vastness of concrete. He chuckled, more relieved at the normalcy than in amusement. It was just a caterpillar and he crouched to look at the arduous track of the grub. He didn’t know what he’d expected but he was thankful for the lack of it.

The pudgy larva twitched its way along the unnatural terrain and he got close enough to see it better. What an odd colour it was… So red and pink, like a piece of flesh and the more he watched the more that disgusted curl of his lip deepened. He couldn’t say why he brought his face closer to the bug but he wanted to test something. Another one of those irrational, intrusive thoughts. He wanted to smell the pink caterpillar and when his lungs filled with the familiar pungency of smoky, cooked meat he might have screamed.  

***

Sirens. This time he didn’t go downstairs because he could smell the frying bacon from his bedroom and he didn’t think he could stand it. He rushed out the house and he didn’t hear his wife make an attempt to stop him but he held his breath while he passed by the kitchen.

Except the smell still clung to him. He was gagging as he inspected his hands and wiped at the sweat running down his temple. Why was it so hot?! It was spring but this heat was criminal. The sun hadn’t been this glaring the past few days, had it? It was hard to recall but he thought he’d remember if he felt like he was one of those rashers sizzling in his wife’s frying pan!

‘Hey, mister.’ He turned to look, confused why a child should call out to him but answering with a twist of his neck nonetheless. He didn’t recognise the boy. Perhaps one of the many in the playground that morning. Except if he’d have stopped to listen he’d have heard the silence.

The boy was standing by the pink tree and waiting for him to look, obviously determined to show him something. He looked and the child grinned as he grabbed a handful of the bark and pulled. He gawked at the absurdity of the wood peeling off the trunk, opening like some fleshy curtain. Splatters of red stained the small fingers and riveted down the slender wrists. He had no reason to believe a tree was bleeding but he knew it was.

He was petrified as he stared fixedly into the charred, sooty opening revealed by the peeled bark. And the smell of cooked meat hit him with the force of a blow powerful enough to crumble him to his knees. This time he remembered screaming.

***

Sirens. Him running out of the house. The heat was suffocating and he coughed. It burned the world around him and the trees in the park were sending thin plumes of smoke. The budding flowers were bleeding and they opened before his very eyes to display their pink centres. He knew if he touched one, it’d be sinewy and wet.

The caterpillar was crystalized on one of the branches and he watched it split open like a wound for the butterfly to birth itself out. Moist wings stuck together before the sun dried them off and he watched as the rays shone on the delicate membranes. When they parted to reveal their network of pink veins, the sear from the sun’s rays lit them into a spontaneous flicker of fire and smoke. He winced at the suddenness of it all but mustered no further reaction.

The butterfly was not the only thing around him shrinking his sanity to a pinprick. Everywhere he turned, it seemed like something was warping beneath the searing sun cooking the world alive. Things that shouldn’t peel, were. The pavement he stood on curled at the slab edges and he didn’t need to kneel to know he’d smell smoke and bacon. It was a constant and it was overpowering.

Instead he stared at the glowing sun, so bright he saw black dots dance at the corners of his impaired vision. He could feel it on himself too. The peeling. It started with his fingertips but his skin was curling and pulling off his bones all along his arms by now. He heard it crack and pop on his cheek and he cried. His tears boiled before they rolled down.

And suddenly the sun exploded in a starburst of blues and reds. And the sirens shrieked so loudly he heard nothing more.

**First of all, I would like to point out that I am not a native speaker, and my text may contain spelling errors. I'm also a beginner, so feedback is always welcome. Keeping all that in mind, enjoy!**

--

Another monotonous workday completed.

I staggered through the company’s exit door, the hum of the office’s fluorescent lights still lingering in my head, causing a nauseating sensation that made me realize how the comfort of mediocrity had punished my existence, but now I no longer cared. It was Saturday evening, tomorrow would be Sunday, the long-awaited day I was allowed to truly live, and I wouldn’t allow myself to waste that rest on existential worries. A good cold beer was waiting for me in my apartment, and I needed to kiss it.

I went to the bus stop, sat down, lit a cigarette, and waited. At first, I thought the bus was late, but as time passed, I began to consider the possibility that it had, in fact, come early and I had missed it.

My daydream, however, was interrupted when, without warning, it arrived.

No sound, no usual screech of brakes, not even that tired sigh of the engine. It was simply there, as if it had always been, doors open, waiting.

I got on. I don’t remember if there was any hesitation, I just stepped in. The interior of the bus was simple; the familiar worn seats already knew the contours of my back better than my own bed.

I sat by the window, as usual.

No other passengers.

The driver, visible only by his silhouette, did not move when I sat down. He didn’t look at me or say anything. I assumed that, like me, he was too tired to even think.

The doors closed without a sound, and then the bus started moving.

At first, nothing seemed wrong. The dark street, the spaced-out lampposts, the dull reflection of my face in the glass. But after a while, I’m not sure how long, something began to unsettle me.

I had already seen that lamppost.

I leaned forward, trying to get a better look.

The same lamppost.

The same crooked tree beside it, the same broken section of a wall, even a shattered glass bottle at its base. We passed them again. And again. And again. There was no turn or detour, only a haunting repetition.

I stood up. The movement sounded far too loud in that hostile silence.

“Are you going to stop?” I asked.

My voice sounded muffled, as if spoken underwater. And there was no response.

I walked to the front. The driver remained motionless. His head, however, was now slightly tilted, like someone paying attention, listening to something too distant for me.

“Did you hear me?”

I touched his shoulder. It was cold. Not like cold flesh, but like absence, as if I had touched something that had never possessed warmth. I recoiled and went back to my seat, or at least I tried to. It was no longer my seat. Or rather, it was, but somehow it wasn’t where it should have been.

I sat down, confused, trying to organize my thoughts, and looked out the window again.

The lamppost. The tree. The wall. The bottle.

I started counting.

One. Two. Three. Four…

I lost count around the seventieth loop.

The lamppost flickered, and when it steadied, there was someone sitting at the back of the bus.

I hadn’t seen him get on. I hadn’t heard any footsteps. He was just there. I tried to ignore him, turned my eyes forward, my hands trembling without my permission.

I went back to counting the lampposts, but they were no longer the same. And for a brief moment, I believed this paradoxical journey had finally progressed, but my relief was abruptly cut short when I realized the new lampposts were copies of the first, perfectly lined up, with the distance between them seeming to shrink as we moved forward.

They closed in so much that after a few minutes my vision was overwhelmed by the intensity of the light. I was practically blind for a long stretch, until the lights flickered again.

I looked back. The man was still there. But his posture had changed.

He seemed to have come closer without crossing the space, as if his figure occupied the foreground of my vision, though it also filled the midground and background, a nightmare of perspective that made me jump to my feet.

“How long have you been here?” I asked as soon as I found the courage. He tilted his face in a motion too slow for my comfort, and his face, to my astonishment, reminded me of someone, a distant memory that, at this point, no longer mattered.

“Time?” he said, as if his mouth were tasting the word for the first time. “You still use that?”

His voice seemed to come from both his mouth and mine at the same time.

I backed away until I hit another seat. It hadn’t been there before, or had it always been? I can’t say for sure.

I ran to the door and pulled the cord. Nothing. I pulled again. Nothing. The lampposts flickered once more, and when they returned, there were more passengers.

All seated, silent, occupying every seat.

They turned toward me, and their faces didn’t seem wrong at first, just delayed, as if their expressions took too long to catch up with what was happening. One of them smiled, and the smile came too late.

“You get used to it,” one of them said.

Or maybe they all said it. Maybe I said it. Maybe no one said anything.

I looked at the window, and there was only repetition.

Lamppost. Tree. Wall. Bottle.

Lamppost. Tree. Wall. Bottle.

Lamppost. Tree. Wall. Bottle.

Each time more compressed and distorted, as if the world was forgetting.

I turned to the front the driver wasn’t there. Maybe he never had been. The steering wheel turned smoothly, on its own.

The light flickered one last time, and when it came back on, I was at the back of the bus, tired and watching.

And up front, someone had just gotten on. The doors closed without a sound, and then the bus started moving again.

Atmospheric horror

Oh how I miss my old town funk, the day are new and drunk, by memory never forgets me, nostalgia and lust I am but a dying man. Slowly rotting away, the boys where talking about those old places out yonder beyond civilization, some crack dens or abandon structures people claim to be haunted, no reports of body’s though, and at best just a crack den for the homeless, I remember my first time in the dwellings of an old world pendent lost to time, They called it the Holy cross, use to be the remnants of an old tuberculosis center back in them days of the war, use to be an off shoot center to camp Cody, ew Mexicos first cavalry division, the whole town use to be, but now and when I was young then, it was just remnants of tunnels and the decaying remnants of a burned down hospital where people would go party, worship Satan and become mafia affiliated, took me a while to separate the two, holy cross and camp Cody! History says, it was the old tuberculosis center for the war 1900s, after that a recovery center during World War Two, then sometime in the nineteen seventy’s it caught fire, and burned down, people still inside. After that all that remained was the ruins, a colt in the late seventies early eighties started animal sacrifices and blood rituals, in the basement of the ol’ girl. Body’s where burned once cremated in the basement to prevent the spread of tuberculosis, drug deals and gang initiations would happen out there by the abandoned hospital in the middle of no where on the outskirts of town, I remember my first time there, my dad took me and my little sister we where young then, but old enough to understand the danger, but to young to avoid walking into the ruins, I remember the graffiti that plagued the concrete walls, the noose the hung from the second floor, the shattered bottles and beer cans that littered the floor, bullet casings in the other room, just dirt and concrete a shrine to what was a prominent landmark, nothing more than a memory of the past no one truly appreciated, I remember walking up the second floor, one of the steps was missing just rebar sticking out of the wall, followed by more steps leading up, the basement dark and usually smelled like death, most people blamed it on an animal that got lost in the silos, but as my second dad would point it out, most people were wrong, before the police tore it down and bull dosed the remnants, they found decapitated heads on the premises, body’s that decayed in the silos, ashes of old world men no longer able to be identified, shadows on walls that reek and left behind maggot infested residue, and only denounced to the community, because a girl lost her boyfriend in the drainage tunnels, he drowned to death under the hospital, people use to walk the mountains out here in our chihuahua desert, and find human remains wrapped up in trash bags sitting out in the sun, a place is nothing more than a landmark, our home was always haunted from war time till now body lay beneath my holy ground my way to paradise my home I forever shall love! The truth is, you don’t need death to be haunted, my best memories are to most child abuse, but to me I miss the hospital, and now it’s nothing more than a concrete outline, buried beneath our desolate desert!

CW: >!Mentions of suicide and suicidal thoughts!<

When we stepped inside, both the air and the mood had soured. The smell of vinegar was pungent throughout the place. Something rotten lay hidden within. We crept, slowly, gently, as my own dammed curiosity led us further into the den. The place looked more aged since I last saw it. More decayed, more tarnished. It looked as if a feral animal lived there, which isn’t too far from the truth…

We wandered in deeper, looking at the various things left behind. We treaded carefully across the various furniture and tables strewn across the floor, making sure not to make a noise as I saw the hallway. It was as thin and oppressive as I remembered it, suffocating that space in between the walls. We heard him then, though we didn’t know what it was at the time.

A crunch echoed out into the house, it boomed violently like a gunshot. It was followed by wet snaps, sharp cracks and the unmistakable sound of flesh being torn from bone. I don’t know what I was thinking, the sound should have snapped me out of it, but it only lured me closer. I half imagined seeing Shane still being mauled by the thing that grabbed him, as if time had stopped since leaving him for dead so long ago. The truth was more dreadful than I could ever anticipate.

I wasn’t prepared to see him again, not in that state. He was bigger now, broad with only the faint remnants of humanity showing from the dark. Exposed skin glowed under the dark, oily exterior as one side leaked endlessly onto the floor. A gaping hole oozing a thick dark liquid next to the corpse of one of the dark things on the floor, torn apart and mauled by Shane in his new state.

I can still hear the sound of broken glass crunching under her feet… I can still remember the face she made when his ears perked up… Worse of all, I can still recall that brief silence that followed before the chaos…

It was only then that we were shown the full extent of Shane’s transformation. He turned to face us with one dark, slimy hand on the ground. Gone was the old, weathered face of his, now replaced by a mass of hair. Poking out from the thick strands of oily hair was a pair of bright, tusk-like teeth. He was larger than I last saw him, though only in absolute  size, as his body was still lean and scraggly despite towering over us.

I didn’t realise I had his rifle raised until I was staring down the sights, his shrouded gaze focused on me as I aimed towards him again. It only took him a moment to lunge at me, swinging his heavy hands quickly, giving me only a second to block him. The gun flung out of my hands, a shot fired as it hit the wall. I froze as I fell onto my back, looking up at him as he lumbered towards me.

 

Behind him, I saw Julie raise an old chair above her head, before swinging it down against his back. He stumbled against the doorway as I got to my feet, racing towards the gun. I hear him cry out in pain, his voice as familiar as it was foreign. It was as if he possessed two distinct voices that spoke in unison.

As I ran towards the gun, I felt something heavy hit me in the back of my head, before splintering as I fell onto the floor. Glass shards shattering around me as I felt warm blood trickle down the back of my neck. My ears where ringing as I crawled. I pulled myself towards the rifle, my legs refusing to cooperate as I reached out for the gun. I gripped the wooden frame in my hands before I rolled myself around, glass shards shredding my clothes before clutching the rifle once more, reloading it before freezing where I laid.

The moment lasted an eternity; I watched as Julie’s arm got caught in Shane’s grip. His dark hand wrapping tightly. She cried out, first in fear, then in pain, as I watched him snap her forearm like a twig. The sound it made along with the sight of the bone piercing out from the skin made my blood run cold. I snapped out of it as I aimed once more, before firing into him one last time. The bullet zipping just past her as it struck him in his boar head.

The bullet went straight his wet skull as he continued tearing at her arm, before the skin and flesh was pulled taught, snapping in two as thick blood poured from the gaping wound. She fell as his great, dark hands pushed her down to the floor, pinning her as he looked towards me. I am ashamed of what I did next, and I don’t expect to be forgiven for it.

I got to my feet, and while I wanted to fight, and despite me wanting desperately to save her, my legs acted on their own. Still gripping his rifle, I ran out of that place, leaving her there just as like I did with Shane… I didn’t dare turn around… At the time I reasoned with myself that it was because I didn’t want to get caught by him. But I’ve come to terms that it was for a much more selfish and disgraceful reason instead…

I didn’t want to see her… the regret in her eyes, the betrayal of my actions… It should’ve been me, instead of her…

 

I didn’t see that place again. Not that I wanted to, but any signs of those houses ceased to appear on the road again. Maybe it was a mercy, maybe it wasn’t. It wasn’t long after I left that it started to rain. Its been months since then, and it hasn’t stopped. Though no matter how much it rains, the road never floods and the ground is never wet. I appreciate it now, though at the time I couldn’t wrap my head around why any of this was happening. It’s only after reflection that there is no reason to any of this, as it all exists whether I am here, or not…

The road was empty for a long while after losing her. I didn’t have any distractions as I kept driving in the pouring rain. I held onto the hope that she had survived and freed herself after I left- after I abandoned her. I held onto that hope for so long, even though in the back of my mind… I know that I killed her. I left her and she died due to my actions.

When I inevitably did find more of those things, I did my absolute best in attempting to take them down. Though bullets do not harm them, blunt force staggers them just enough. The few I saw were easy to deal with compared to him. I saved the last bullet from his rifle, storing it in a safe place in my Ute as I used it to bash as many of the dark things on the road. All that angered delivered in heavy blows against the things of the road. They didn’t stay down, but I found out a way to permanently deal with them after a fight with a smaller one at the edge of the road.

I had ran it off the road after striking it with my Ute, watching it tumble over, down to a narrow channel that edged the abyss. Seeing it near the edge gave me an idea, but I had to act quickly before it picked itself up. I gripped the empty rifle in my hands; the stock directed towards its’ sickeningly skinny body. I struck it hard, knocking it down, waiting for it to pick itself back up just to clobber it again. Each strike pushing it closer to the edge. It groaned with each hit, and for the briefest moment, I thought I could hear it cry before I knocked it over the edge. I don’t know if it actually made any noise, or if my ears were playing tricks on me.

I didn’t feel the need or the desire to kill any more of those things. After the one I sent over the edge I quickly lost the drive to continue, not just dispatching the things but driving in general. I found myself stopping more often, standing in the rain just to feel my clothes become soaked. The more I slowed, the more the rain started to clear, until it was just a faint drizzle.

Slowly but surely, I started finding people on the road again. Though they were far more unhinged than anyone I’ve seen before. While it was still raining, I ran into a woman walking on the side of the road. I didn’t even think of grabbing the rifle just in case before hopping out of the Ute. I hoped it was her, but what would I even say? How would I apologise? I didn’t need to worry about those thoughts for long though, because it wasn’t her.

She turned around, and instantly I knew that it wasn’t her. She had both arms, wore a white dress that was stained in mud and her hair was a frizzled mess with thick, brown clumps strewn throughout it. She limped along the side of the road. I only just got out of the Ute when she faced me from just beyond my headlights. Dried blood stuck to the sides of her face, and a fearful expression was permanently engraved upon her as she started to run into the dark.

“Wait!” I called out, “are you okay?!”

She didn’t answer.

I didn’t see her again, even after scouring the sides of the road. I couldn’t help but take it personally, like it was just the sight of me that scared her away.  The experience itself was haunting, though I wish her the best.

It wasn’t long after seeing her that I saw my own house on the road. My property sits in the middle of a well kept street, bordered by houses and green lawns, down here it juts off the road like an afterthought, the back veranda half hanging off the edge. There was something about it that was off, it was as if the place was missing something that stopped it from resembling a building. Some angles too sharp, some walls too slanted, just enough that made the place unfamiliar from my memories.

The inside was mostly barren, much like the houses we searched through before. Though in this instance, I felt the rooms around me overwhelmingly empty. The closest I can relate the feeling to is when you move out for the first time, seeing the rooms empty of furniture and souvenirs. That feeling lingered the whole time, and compelled me to stay to look for something, anything that might remain.

The rooms and layout were roughly how I remembered them, only far emptier and darker than I was used to. Not only that, what was inside and strewn about in the hallways and rooms were unfamiliar books, vases, cups. None of the things inside were things I remembered buying anywhere. It’s hard to describe how eerie it was, that unfamiliarity that made me feel foreign within the layout of my own home. Then again, it wasn’t really my home. My home was most likely cleared out, since I haven’t been back to pay bills or take care of it. I left it in the will to my sons to share, knowing them they would probably sell it though.

I left the place empty handed. I felt disappointed after leaving, I wasn’t sure why though. I think I wanted to find something at least a keepsake that would remind myself of the life I’ve lost. I stayed outside my Ute looking at it for a long while before leaving it behind.

The road has been empty for a good while now. The last person I saw was a few weeks ago. That guy with his beer, I tried rationing it as long as I could, but in the end it would all go eventually. I wondered for a while why he was so scared of me, though I didn’t stop to consider how dirty my clothes or vehicle was. No wonder he was terrified…

I forget when the rain stopped, all that remains now is a lingering fog that won’t go away. Makes it hard to see anything though. The living roadkill seems to be jumping onto oncoming traffic less and less as of late. I hit a kangaroo that looked like it had died twice already with how mangled it was. It jumped out and I swerved out of the way, only to just hit it on the corner of my Ute. Not only did it damage one of my headlights, but it also ruined my side-view mirror and even ripped the door handle off the passenger side door. Not that I need it now, but it hurts just the same.

We carry scars from every encounter, scratches and dents from every collision. We don’t need fuel, food, water or the sort, but we still bleed just the same. Little by little, we are whittled down until there is nothing left. It makes giving into the temptation even easier. I catch myself looking at the last bullet far often now…

I was saving it if I came across anything, otherwise the rifle is only a gloried stick. But I haven’t come across any of those things in a while. I said the road has been empty, but empty really feels like an understatement. There is nothing around me besides the road and my old Ute. I’ve been alone with my thoughts for far too long. What if everyone else is gone, and I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep going?

I parked up on the side of the road for a while now. Wondering if I should stop here, or keep going. I once again found myself staring at Shane’s last bullet. The metal casing felt strangely cold in my palm, no matter how long I hold it for. I saw myself reflected on the metal. I could barely recognise the man I saw; I looked beaten, battered and bloodied…

I locked the doors, so that nothing could get in. After looking at everything in my Ute for the thousandth time, I loaded the bullet into the rifle. Though I noticed when looking outside, that the fog was clearing on my left side. Just enough to see something out on the other side.

It took me stepping out with my torch to recognise that I was still gripping the rifle as I left. I treaded down the steep, dry channel as I shined my light. Standing at the border of the fog was that girl again, her ghostly white dress reflecting the light as if she were glowing. She turned away from me, so I followed her, calling out as I left my Ute behind.

I followed her for a while before realising that we hadn’t reached the edge yet. I had been walking for what felt like minutes, though the ground continued on. Though the mist obscured her, I managed to keep pace and followed her. Before that, I had never seen anything like it before. Surely it wasn’t real…

I kept calling out, she kept running, and I kept following. All until we came up to a small, clearing. The space was familiar, as we had passed it twice before. A long, almost infinite fence stretching out from both sides, and the gate containing the same message, unaltered and unchanged.

THE BEND

Though now, instead of dropping off into nothingness, there was a path. A dirt path that was held up by ground that seemingly floated on air. The ethereal hue becoming stronger along the path. I opened the gate, stepping carefully onto the path. I followed it for a long, long while. At times, all I wanted to do was turn back, but I kept going. Even though I didn’t have a goal or destination in mind.

After following the path for longer than I can remember. I came across something I never would have expected. That house again, the one I shot him in, the one I abandoned her in. There again on a small outcrop in the middle of nowhere. Not next to the road, not hanging off the side, nowhere. I wasn’t sure how much of it was real, or how much was my imagination. I would find out soon enough.

The house was fractured with large portions of it lost to the abyss below. I didn’t even need to get close to know that he was still there, but this time I wouldn’t turn back. I pulled the rifle close to my chest, readying myself for the trial ahead. Blood would spill, whether mine, or his.

I didn’t need to look far to find it, it was loudly thumping across the floor, climbing over the gaps, one particularly large one in the living room swallowed most of the room. The roof above had collapsed, leaving a hole straight up into the rafters as support beams bent towards the ground.

They hadn’t noticed me as I snuck inside, I had crossed halfway past the hole as I heard a soul shattering roar. One that sounded like three distinct voices. The ethereal hue from the hole below showed just enough of their silhouette. Jutting out from the tall, scrawny frame was a smaller, one-armed torso that jutted out from its once oozing side, the fleshy hole enveloping her body holding it in place.

The sound and the sight of it made me stop in my tracks. Only when it started to lumber towards me did I find myself moving quickly throughout the house. Evading its’ bloodlust as it crashed into the crumbling walls as I darted past each corner as quickly as I could. I was pulling the rifle around before realising how little good it has done me. Still, I made sure the safety was on before gripping the barrel and fore stock.

I climbed over the crumbling wall, trying to swipe at me. I swung the rifle as the stock made contact with its’ oily, hairy head. I attempted to swing at it again before it lunged out, pushing me against the wall and knocking the wind out of me. Part of the ceiling collapsed above us both. I threw some of the thin plaster at it, hoping to stun it for long enough to climb up the beams towards the roof.

I managed to make it up above the ceiling, the roof above only a fingers’ length from my head as I crawled towards the central hole. I climbed over layers of filth, dragging thick dust with each movement before looking over the edge. Down below, I saw it swiping at the walls, gouging at the drywall as I felt my weight put strain on the beams under me.

I whistled at it to get its attention, hoping it would take the bait. I tried tapping at the spots of timber leading down to the floor next to the hole. It noticed me, and as I predicted, started to climb the beam to reach me. I had hoped that If I could knock it off the beam, there and then, that It would tumble and fall down the hole. That wasn’t at all how things happened though…

The beam below me suddenly gave way, and I found myself falling for what seemed like an eternity. I was aware of everything around me, the bits of drywall and plaster falling with me, a dark hand trying to swipe at me, and the hole just below. In that moment, I thought I was going to fall into that hole, and keep falling until reaching whatever it is that exists underneath the road.

I braced myself as I fell…

-

-

-
and fell…

-

-

-

I hit the ground with a large crash, bruising my left side as I wearily picked myself up. I looked over to see it quickly approaching me. I could feel it swipe at me as I brought my arms up to defend myself. I feel my skin ripping as burning pain swallowed me, followed by the warm, wet feeling of fresh blood soaking my shirt.

The pain snapped me to my sense, I swung the rifle hard against it as I sent it stumbling back, the stock getting drenched in dark fluid as I landed blow after blow. Eventually my onslaught left it dazed enough that it was cowering next to the hole. The limbs from the torso flopping around in front of me. I saw red seeing the state of her body, I reached out and gripped on the limp limb and pulled as hard as I could. Its cries of pain weakening as I pulled her body out of him. The gaping hole that remained gushing dark fluid all over the floor, as it gripped its’ side desperately. With the last of my strength, I ran up to him and shoved him, sending him over the edge and flailing into the hole.

I tear off as much of my sleeve as I could, wrapping it around my wound to slow the bleeding. I look over at what remained of Julie, I kneeled beside her as what I saw was burned into me. All I saw that was sticking out of him was all that remained. Her head was completely missing, so was her waist and legs. She resembled more a lump of flesh than a human being now. As much as I didn’t want to move her body, I felt that she deserved a proper burial.

I walked outside and was greeted by a dirty channel adjacent to the road. The path and gate nowhere in sight. I pulled her out to the channel where the ground felt soft. Though I didn’t bring a shovel with me, I used some of the splintered wood to dig a shallow grave. It took a bit, but it felt like the right thing to do… felt like the least I could do…

My Ute wasn’t far away from the house. I sat in it for a good while thinking about everything, and writing this all down. My rifle is still next to me, and I’ve stored the bullet in the glove box. Out of sight, out of mind. I’m a bit worse for wear, but I’m still kicking. I’m not sure what is left for me. The fog has receded a lot, I can see a lot further now. While I can’t prove it, the road seems a bit brighter now as the hue is seemingly stronger.

I’ve written down everything as a way to help comprehend everything. I’m planning to leave my notes so that if anyone finds this, then they can learn from what I did, and hopefully not follow the same path as me. There will be reasons that will make you want to quit; there will be struggles that will make you want to give up. But if you need at least one reason to keep going, its’ that despite how bleak it all is, we can all hope for something better down the road. For me, that is a bottle-o. For anyone else, it might be finding something that you lost. There’s always a reason to keep going…

No one really knows how it all ended, no one that's still around anyway. If it was a series of small pressures that built and built eventually overwhelming the system or if it was over in one dramatic instant. What matters is that, like everything that came before and everything that will come after, it ended. Some of us, a dwindling few, even remember what it was like before everything went to shit. We carry the corpse of that other world on our shoulders and in our hearts, weighed down by the chains of another time, another state of being.

   What no one was prepared for was the absolute silence that fell over the world after the initial riots and panic. It was, and still is, like a blanket smothering us all. Any infrastructure for communication fell on the first day or as close that it makes no real difference. We lost the world and our sense of community shrank. The villages you can still stumble on from time to time are thriving, not because of a global sense of "us" and togetherness but because the young there, the true denizens of what the world became, fill their days honing skills to survive, not longing for lands beyond their hunting grounds. The rest of us, the great yet forgotten Before, we are ill-equipped tourists.

   The room I'm in was mine in childhood. The house itself less ruined than the surrounding buildings, I couldn't say how but I'm grateful that it's mostly how I remember it. The kitchen where I fell and almost broke my leg when I was 12. I spent the entire summer on crutches and having all my food brought to me in bed, I felt like a king. The backyard where I got into my first fight because some kid knocked my sister down. I was terrified of my father's wrath when he got home, but he took me to buy a video game because he was proud I fought for the right reason. Even with the roof partially collapsed and the wallpaper long since peeled I know this place like I know myself. Every inch of this place is me and I am it.

   The view from my window reminds me that the gap between that world and this one continues to grow and may go on forever. The green taking hold of the buildings and bursting through asphalt like miniature rockets exiting the atmosphere. The wildlife grazing on those verdant shuttles with no fear of the cars long since gone to rust. I don't think I was meant to see such beauty and it is beautiful. That's something else we weren't prepared for, no one knew how breathtaking the end of the world would end up being. Nature recovering from the wound that was mankind. Consuming our great structures, our hubris, like a kid in a candy shop.

   The weight of it all has gotten too much for these old bones. Like everything else I'm not what I used to be. The deep brown on my head turned grey and then settled on white. The blue in my eyes become a little more dull with each passing year and my hearing is all but gone, not that there's much to hear these days. A weariness has taken hold of me and it goes past being bone deep. It's a weariness of soul. This isn't my world anymore and I went as far as my feet would take me. I think it's time I rest awhile in this old room and take the chains off.

   

If you happen to find this I stashed some supplies under the sink, I hope they help keep you going. Please don't move my body, I'm right where I need to be. I'm home. It doesn't matter how I died, what matters is that, like everything that came before and everything that will come after, it was time for an end.

Dear diary,

Something strange happened today… Today was my Pawpaw’s funeral. I absolutely hate funerals; the socialization always wears me out. After the funeral, I needed to get away from everyone and just sit alone. I was sitting on the couch scrolling through social media. In my peripheral vision, I saw someone walk past the living room door and down the hall. It was my grandpa. I know for a fact it was him. It couldn’t be anyone else; everyone was dressed in their best black clothes. Pawpaw wore a navy blue jumpsuit for work, and that's exactly what he was wearing as he passed by the door. Also, he’s the only 6’5 person in the family. I thought I could be wrong, but I checked the hall and all the rooms in the house, and I was the only one inside. I even went out and asked to be completely sure. I was, in fact, the only one in the house.

Dear diary, 

I NEED to tell you about what just happened today! Just as I do every night, I turned off my lights, turned my fan on high, and closed my bedroom door. As you know, I’m an extremely light sleeper. So light that the sound of Mama inserting her key into the front door in the early hours of the morning, when she got home from work, wakes me up. 

Tonight I fell asleep rather quickly; the house was silent, only the sound of my ceiling fan whipping through the cold air. I did not dream tonight. The sound of the front door creeping open woke me. I assumed it was my mama trying her best not to wake me after work. But her slow and heavy footsteps were not what came through that door. It was a fast and quiet scurry of claws against the hardwood floors. The footsteps stopped at the start of the hallway. The loud click of the light switch, then the slow taps of the claws, continued. Tatatatap… Tatatatap… Tatatatap… Tatatatap… I tried to open my eyes and move, but I was stuck in place. 

In my mind's eye, I could see its shadow approach from the gap beneath my door. It slowly cracked my door, creeping inside. Tatatatap… Tatatatap… it crawls its way up the leg of my bed and under my covers. I could feel the weight of its body as it touched the mattress. Its claw grabs my leg, jolting me out of my perilization with a guttural scream. 

Mama slams into the room, frantically turning on the light. “What's wrong, what's happening, are you okay?” 

“Something grabbed my leg, something grabbed my leg!” I scream as I scoot to the far corner of my bed. My mom rips the covers off, nothing there. “I heard it come in the front door and turn on the hallway light.”

“The hallway light is off, and the doors are locked and bolted. I think it was just a nightmare.”

“But I know what I felt.”

Diary, I Know. What. I. Felt.

Dear diary, 

I’ve started having these terrible nightmares every night since that thing that grabbed my leg. It’s always something different. One night, a werewolf was chasing me, but I just couldn’t run fast enough. My chest heavy, my lungs burning. I can’t scream my, no sound will leave my lips. He catches me and pushes me to the ground. He pins me down with no way of freeing myself, but still I try. With every movement I make, his grip tightens on my arms. His mouth opened and his jaws unhinged, drool dripping on my face. His teeth are sharp and stained with blood. I try once more to scream, but still nothing comes out.  In an instant, he chomps down on my throat, and my eyes shoot open. Yet I still cannot move; a shadow looms over me, pinning me down. I cannot breathe; it feels as if something is still crushing my throat, digging deep into my skin. I try with all my might to move. If I can get even the smallest part of my body to move, I could free myself from all this. With great effort, I was able to get my pinky finger to move. It started with my pinky, then the rest of my fingers, but still nothing else. It felt like I was suffocating, something was sitting on my chest, and choking me. One last try at screaming. A small moan gurgling up in my throat, more, I needed more. That gurgling moan erupts into a crescendo of a scream. And at its climax, I jolted up with a heavy gasp of air. I was finally free. I can’t go back to sleep, so I think I'll just scroll on my phone for the rest of the night.

Dear diary, 

It's been 6 long months… I'm so tired… Every single night, I wake up screaming. I’m so exhausted. I haven't had a complete night's sleep in so long. I know I’m too old to be sleeping in mama’s bed, but some nights the dreams are just so terrifying that I’m too scared to go back to sleep, and being next to her really helps. I guess I’m lucky to have such a kind and loving mom. Thought I do wish I didn't wake her up every night, too. I really hope the night terrors stop before I move into my dorm room. I’d hate for the girls I room with to have to deal with this bullshit as well. 

Dear diary, 

Good news and bad news. Good news, the night terrors stopped the night I moved into my dorm room. Bad news, I absolutely hate this school, and I'm transferring to a more local university and moving back home. I can’t wait to have my own room again and go back to having a queen-sized bed. The ones at school are absolute ass and ridiculously small. 

Dear diary, 

I dropped out of school to help take care of Grandma. We’ve been having to take care of her every winter. It seems she only gets sick when the weather is cold. She sleeps in my room when she stays over for help. I'm hoping now that I’m not preoccupied with school work, I should be able to be of more help this time around.

Dear diary, 

It’s summertime, but Grandma is still sick. We’re going on vacation to the beach, and I hope the warm weather and sun will help her feel better. I’m so excited to spend some time with her and the rest of the family outside of the house. 

Dear diary,

It did not help. Shes passed away a week after we got back from the beach. I think I’ll take a break from everything and everyone for a while.

[ Author here, dunno if this is allowed, but I thought why not share something to break my writer's block after being inspired to start writing horror stories again. I apologise to the mods if it is not allowed, but otherwise, enjoy :) ]

I woke up to a scream from across the house. A shrill, high pitched squeal no father should have to hear. My body moved faster than my mind, ripping the covers off and leaping to my feet. The dull thuds of barefoot steps to carpet timed with my thundering heartbeat, and I howled my son's name at the top of my lungs. My voice just barely piercing the pleas and cries growing ever closer with each running step.

I turned a sharp corner down the hallway, almost tripping over myself as I beelined for my son's bedroom door. I tried the handle. It wouldn't budge. I tried over and over, almost tearing the damn thing off as I threw my entire body into the door. Then, all at once, the screaming and crying stopped. I didn't realise it until I paused to breathe, but there it was.

Pure, uninterrupted silence.

With my mind racing as to what had happened on the other side, I sucked in a deep breath of air, and charged at the door with all might. Finally, the door gave way, snapping off its hinges and gravity carrying me to the floor. When my head shot up, the warmth of the world was ripped from me all at once.

There, before me, was the open window letting in a faint breeze that caused the translucent curtains to flow back and forth in the moonlight. My son- or at what was left of him- laid in his bed twitching like a decapitated snake. His face was torn apart. His cheeks were hollowed out and an eye had been popped out and left dangling by its optic nerve. His throat was cut so deeply I could see the bone peaking out from beneath the slabs of red meat still gushing thick crimson liquid.

But it was his torso and chest that were the worst for me.

Entrails haphazardly tossed about like bloody party streamers, lungs now shrivelled bags covered with cuts, and I could still see the handle of a knife sticking out of his sternum. His arms, wrists and hands were littered with stab wounds. I realised then his last moments were spent fruitlessly fighting for his short, short life.

With tears streaming down my face, I approached my boy's little body and tried not to vomit at the smell of his bowels and bladder finally giving away. Truely, I didn't know what to do other than sob into my hands and fall to my knees.

"I'm sorry," I whimpered helplessly. "I-"

A loud creak from behind me snapped be back to reality. It was only now I had become aware of a sensation crawling up my spine. Like something was watching me.

As my eyes looked towards the edge of my son's bed, I noticed a long twisting line of red slink across the carpet of his bedroom and towards the slightly cracked opening of his closet. My breath hitched as I slowly found my feet, not breaking eye contact with the closet door. I backed away slowly while I absentmindedly trying to find something to defend myself.

Then I heard it.

A long wheeze of a sigh that carried a hint of satisfaction coming from the closet. I briefly looked over to the knife still stuck within my son's chest, and my entire being froze when I saw the source of this chaos when my gaze returned to the closet.

It looked like a man. I think? I first saw dark eyes peak from the shadows of the closet. The deep set bags beneath them and moonlight gave a disturbing sheen to the shark-like stare. The pale, uneven and seemingly burnt complexion of skin was flecked with fresh blood. Then there was the mouth, if you could call it that. The cheeks had been messily slit open to mimic a contorted smile which almost stretched ear to ear. The gnashing teeth between what remained of its lips parted, and a sharp, raspy voice spoke.

"He's asleep now... Don't wake him."

A slender, bloody finger crept from the darkness and pressed beneath its nose and drew a line of red down to its chin.

"You mother-" my teary shout barely left my throat when the thing in his closet came at me.

It lunged at me so fast I barely had time to react. It pinned me and straddled my chest while trying to use its bare hands to tear me apart like an animal. Fingernails lashed at my skin as I tried to defend myself, but eventually it pinned my arms above my head and used its teeth to devour parts of my face. I couldn't tell if it was enjoying my cries for help, or if it was just annoyed by the sound. But either way, my last words were pleas for mercy before I felt a shoulder dislocate, wrists snap, and a free bloody hand grabbed my jaw. My mouth was forced open and tongue pinched. A wheezed laughter that now rests within my very psyche filled the air, and those gnarled teeth bit out my tongue. The greedy chatter of that my tongue being eaten was the last thing I recall before I feel unconscious.

Now, I write this from a hospital bed, 5 months after the night I lost my sweet baby boy. Most of my face is still wrapped and I am eating out of a tube in my throat. And every time I close my eyes, all I see is that thing's face covered with mine and my son's blood, and its smile...

The Intruder

Inspired by Sylvia Plath.
It was 1983; Robert Harrison, a former soldier turned burglar, 35, scruffy black hair with an overgrown moustache and an unkempt stubble. He has a slender frame hidden by a black raincoat, a rolled up ski mask, black wool gloves, dark green cargo pants, and black army combat boots. His pockets carried only the essentials - a knife, some cigarettes, and a lighter. Leaving room to take what he wanted. Over his shoulders he carried an empty backpack, unzipped - a darkness in the backpack, filled but never full. He had walked past this apartment before, it had always seemed… hollow… but now - something has changed. Maybe it’s nothing - but the building called to him. Not by name, not literally… but he felt it - the house was calling to him. The windows echoing and yearning for him as if it was looking at him - beckoning him. The streets of Brooklyn were dark, this particular street you would think was abandoned if not for the street light illuminating one red door at the top of a flight of stairs. Beautiful carving covered the door and a large knocker with the face of a bull sat in the middle. The sidewalks were covered by a damp layer of orange and red leaves as a mist of rain covers the city. It is a perfect wall of sound for what he will be doing.
His boots hit the floor in a consistent march - tick, tick, tick, tick. Step, step, step, step. He keeps this rhythm with every job; keeps him focused, fast, quiet. He can’t help but hear the leaves below him - crunching, the sound irritates him but he won’t be slowed by that - not anymore.  The house was tall - cold. Robert didn’t notice though, if he did he would’ve noticed the burnt drapes that hung from the windows. Or the colorless flowers that fill a planter on its porch. He was silent as he ran up the frontsteps, he turns and climbs to a window on the left; He goes to pry it open and it opens without struggle. In one effortless motion the man slides it open,  turns and stands inside. Robert scans the room; noticing photos of an old couple, many photos of the lady - she seems to have passed. He goes for the first set of cabinets he sees, the shelves are full of scrapbooks - pulling one out he sees the lady from the photos dated “11/1/1955” His curiosity gets the better of him and he opens the book. There are no pages, there is one photo and it displays Roberts troupe the day they were sent off. Filled with confusion and slight anger, he tears out the rest of the scrapbooks. Empty. All of them are empty. He jumps back, unable to look away. The cabinets suddenly begin tipping over, slamming down in front of him. He is snapped out of his trance looking at the wall behind the cabinets. There’s a rusted key, dangling from a strand of hair - nailed to the wall. He grabs the key and yanks it off the wall. The nail flies out and blood begins oozing from the hole. A darkness emanating, it calls to Robert. He steps towards it, looking inside. In an instant, hundreds and hundreds of bugs spew out. He recoils, stomping and swatting, smacking them off his body the best he can but he’s overwhelmed by the sheer amount and is chased down the hallway into the only open door - a closet, shutting it behind him, he holds his breath, listening. The bugs go silent. He opens the door slowly and is met by a completely different hallway. This one is lined with beautifully hand carved wooden sidings with a deep forest green wallpaper on the top. Illuminated by gas lamps there is a single door at the end of the hallway. He begins walking towards it, he goes past various paintings depicting small animals, all killed in different manners - not by other animals, but each other. A bunny shredding into its mothers neck, a duck pecking through its own skin, and mice eating through a fawn. Robert ignores it. Walking up to the door he notices it doesn’t match the room - rusted and decrepit, he remembers the key. It seemed to match perfectly. He inserts the key and with a loud click the door opens.

Stepping inside, he finds the walls covered with moldy wallpaper, and a pungent black goo seeping from the corners. He didn’t have time to even comprehend what he was looking at because as he turned he saw the woman from the photos downstairs, tied up. She’s passed out and she smells awful. “Jesus christ- are you okay?” He asks frantically as he drops his bag, and lunges down for the ropes, trying to untie her but is interrupted by the door slamming behind him.  He hears the lock turn and click as he runs to the door and tries opening it, but it won’t budge. He screams “LET ME OUT”, banging on the door he continues “OPEN THE DOOR YOU SICK FUCK”. He is met with silence. Robert turns back to the woman and starts untying her, but she doesn’t move. He tries shaking her lightly, but nothing. Rob checks her pulse and doesn’t find one. He jumps back and begins hyperventilating, pacing back and forth he can’t think of what to do. He begins screaming and banging on the door. “LET ME OUT PLEASE” he begins begging. His voice quivering as he bargains with the kidnapper. “WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?” The man cries, his yells now unintelligible, his banging slowing down as he tires and slides down the wall. He cannot be stuck here. He will not die like this. With a second wind he gets up and bangs harder, yells louder; he starts throwing himself into the door in hopes it will break down. Nothing. Robert steps back and begins examining the room.  Suddenly he is on his feet - ripping everything off the walls, hoping to find something, anything, to get him out. The man rips the wallpaper in the corner of the room and is met with a sliver into an empty void. Not entirely empty though… as Robert stares he can hear a jumble of voices whispering, talking, and screaming, all on top of one another. The voices all saying something different; some angry, some begging, some happy, it was overwhelming. He goes to put the wallpaper back up but as he turns back he is met with a being indescribable to human perception. Somehow larger than the world he inhabits, evershifting wheels of agony and power, unseen to the human eye. It speaks to Robert. Nothing in any language discernible to the human ear, yet he understood nonetheless. Robert turns to the woman on the floor, as if he was being controlled he walks over, kneels down, and begins ripping chunks of rotting flesh off of her arms. Next he goes for the back - digging his nails into her shoulders and ripping downward, it took a few tugs but he manages to get it in one piece. Moving onto her legs he begins clawing from the middle, he manages to get a finger under as he rips ligaments and whatever muscle was left out of her calf. After finishing with the body he begins laying the skin out in a pattern - finishing the pattern the walls around him falls away. He is not met with an endless darkness but the town he’d been in before - the rainy streets, the dark alleys, flickering streetlights, nothing had changed. He looks down at the skin laid out before him. An unending, everchanging, kaleidoscope of human flesh lies before him. He takes a step and falls directly in. Something has been awakened. It was bigger than him now. Robert awakens and is now in the woman's arms. She is no longer torn apart and she smells like his mother. He turns back and sees nothing. Not even a room nor the city around him. He is in a field, tall grass surrounds him and he looks upon a field centered by a large willow tree. Blanketed by a warm moonlight Robert walks to the tree, he lays down against it, and as he sits there, he smiles. “The Moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.”

Derrick first got the skeleton a couple of years ago. One night while I was brushing my teeth, I gazed out the window. In the glow of my motion sensor light, I saw Derrick reaching into the trunk of his car. Out he pulled a large cardboard box with the Spirit Halloween logo on it. I had never seen have a bigger smile, even bigger than the one he wore at his wedding. The next morning while also brushing my teeth, I saw a 12 foot skeleton sitting in Derrick’s front lawn. It stood looking across the street, with its hand in a waving position.

Over the next few years, I saw that skeleton in his yard for a majority of the time. Every time a new holiday would come around on the calendar, the skeleton would be put into a new outfit. Uncle sam hat for 4th of July, santa hat for Christmas, and just plain old skeleton for Halloween. Derrick really loved the skeleton. I would see him quickly rush it inside anytime it was slightly too windy or rainy. Even during the town’s tornado warning scare last year, before retreating to his basement he collected the skeleton outside.

But in October of last year, we got an HOA. I don’t even know who wanted it to be honest. They just showed up one day and made me cut my azaleas because they did not fit my house’s color scheme. From the start nobody really liked them, like all HOAs. One of those people was obviously Derrick. One day while walking past his house I saw Derrick cleaning up the skeleton a bit, so I threw him a wave. Instead of waving back, he came up to me on the sidewalk to talk to me.

“Hey man, I was just wondering if you had my back if I decided to stand up to the HOA? I just read through the rules and they said that I would not be allowed to display Jerry outside of October. I’m planning on keeping him up as a protest.”

“Jerry? Are you talking about the skeleton?”

“Oh yeah, sorry, forgot that’s an inside joke between me and me. So if the HOA shows up and tells me to take it down, could you speak on my behalf in the HOA meeting?”

I felt a little bit pressured. Saying no felt a little bit rude with how much Derrick loved “Jerry” and all. But since the skeleton has always been a joy to see, and since I also hated the HOA, I told him yes. He repeatedly thanked me with his hands together.  So when November 1st rolled around, I was prepared to see Jerry disappear. But I wasn’t prepared for it to happen not even 12 hours after the end of October.

I was on my porch, sipping warm, black coffee from my Jack Skellington mug. Jerry stood with his fists up, ready to fight any HOA members. Across the street, Justin was stapling Christmas lights to his roof while standing on a ladder. He had headphones in, bobbing his head to what was probably Maria Carrie. In Justin’s yard, was an army of Christmas inflatables. Santas, Reindeer, Grinches, and many others flooded his yard. This made me mildly annoyed.

As I was shaking my head behind Justin’s back, a white SUV pulled in front of Derrick’s house. The door opened and out popped a middle aged woman wearing a sweater vest. It was the HOA president, pretty sure her name was Jasmine or something like that. So Jasmine marched up Derrick path and knocked on his glass screen door. While waiting for an answer, she checked her apple watch for the time, she probably read a time around 8 AM. After a short wait, Derrick opened the door wearing a robe. Derrick opened his mouth to speak, but before he could Jasmine spoke up.

“Yeah Hello, Derrick, I was just wondering if you were aware of what day it was?” She said demeaningly, like she was speaking to a child who had to be taught a lesson.

“Oh uh yeah, pretty sure it’s Saturday.”

“Not that kind of day, the other kind.” She said as she grabbed her nose and shook her head side to side.

“Oh sorry, it would be November 1st, have a good Halloween last night.?”

“No, my kids got all hyper and wouldn’t sleep. But to why I’m here, what is that?” She said as she pointed at the 12 foot skeleton behind her. 

“That’s Jerry.” He said while chuckling.

“No, it’s not, it is a violation of the HOA guidelines. No Halloween decorations up outside of October, take it down immediately please.”

“No. I’m not going to do that.” Derrick’s cheerful goofy tone ended, he spoke with a sternness I had not heard from him before.

“Okay well if you’re not then I will and I will be forced to put it in the dumpster and fine you.” She crossed her arms.

“If you do that I will literally call the cops on you, that is theft.”

“Well let’s just see who’s side they are on.”

Once Jasmine finished saying that, she turned around and walked for the skeleton. As she did Derrick pulled out his iPhone and dialed a number and held it to his ear. He then went inside with the phone. Jasmine got up behind Jerry, and put her hands on the pelvis and pushed. Jerry came tumbling over on the grass. When he hit the ground, his skull popped off and rolled to the sidewalk. Jasmine walked to it and it picked it up. As her back was turned, Jerry stood himself up. Jasmine walked over to her SUV, and opened the trunk. As Jasmine was waiting for the trunk to open, Jerry, still headless, walked to her and lightly tapped on her shoulder. 

“What do you wa-” 

She couldn’t finish her sentence, she stood looking directly up at Jerry. Jerry gently pulled his skull out of her hands. Jasmine stood this mouth a gap, stunned, unable to move. Jerry placed the skull on his neck, and spun it around, locking it into place. I have to say, when I was this I too was rather frightened, but I stayed sitting on my porch to watch what would happen next. Jerry would then grab Jasmine by the neck and lift her off the ground. Jasmine reached for Jerry’s boney hands to free herself. She kicked her legs to assist the escape but Jerry must have had a lot of invisible muscle, for she did not come close to escaping. Jerry then changed his grip on her from her neck to her ankle. She swayed back and forth upside down. 

Have you guys ever watched The Avengers? If you have, then you are familiar with the scene where the Hulk grabs Loki and repeatedly slams Loki on the ground. That is what Jerry would do to Jasmine. Over and over on the pavement of the road, Jerry would slam Jasmine with all of his force. Jasmine didn’t make a single sound after the first swing. After a dozen or so swings, Jasmine was dead. Most of her upper body was deformed, and her sweater vest was now soaked in blood. 

I sat in silence, in disbelief of what just happened. Jerry looked up from Jasmine’s body, and changed his focus across the street. He breathed heavily, then started to walk towards Justin. I could hear Justin faintly singing some Christmas song. I thought of how good those headphones were, to where he couldn’t hear a 12 foot skeleton approach him from behind. I thought about asking him what brand they were. Too bad I wouldn’t get the chance. Once Jerry made it to the ladder, he grabbed the top of it and threw it over. I heard Justin let out a yell before I heard him and the ladder make a thump sound. 

I wasn’t actually able to see what happened next, most of it was blocked by Justin’s mini van. But based on the movement of Jerry, Justin was being stomped to death. Justin called out for help, but it was difficult to hear over the roar of inflatables. I saw Justine’s wife quickly glance out the curtains, but after seeing what was out there she promptly shut them. Jerry gave a few more good stomps before stopping. He then turned his attention to the inflatables in the front yard. He tore through all of them. Popping Santa and killing Rudolph. Tearing through the Grinch and unplugging Frosty.

Standing in a pile of now dead Christmas cheer, he changed his attention to me. I could tell he was looking at my Jack Skellington mug. So I said aloud in a shaky voice,

“Sorry, it’s actually a Halloween movie, so if you have some problem with Christmas this is not the place.”

He marched towards me anyway, across the street, through my yard and up to my porch. I tried to quickly stand up and run, but before I could do the running part Jerry grabbed me by the neck and pulled me out from the porch. He started to punch me in the stomach a few times, knocking the air out of me. As he did, I saw a police cruiser down the road, probably the one called by Derrick. I hoped that Jerry didn’t kill me before the cruiser got there. The time it took for the cruiser to drive those few blocks felt like forever. When it finally did get to my block, I saw the nod his head and drive away, while saying to himself,

“Nope, not today.”

I was now on my own, repeatedly getting punched by a 12 foot skeleton. I remembered this was how Houdini died. If Houdini couldn’t survive this, how could I? Then for a second, Jerry stopped punching me. For a second I thought he was letting me go, but then I was lifted over his head and flung across the street. I flew over Justin’s car and landed on the fallen ladder. After hitting the ground, it took me a second to understand what was around me. But after a few deep breaths that went away. The first thing I saw was Justin’s body. Oh yeah, he was stomped to death. The first thing I heard was music coming from 2 places. The first was from Justin headphones in the grass, they were playing Jingle Bell Rock. The second was from a caroling mini van coming down the road towards me.

I saw Jerry walking towards me, before he could pick me up again, I snatched Justin’s headphones. Oh! They’re Beats brand. Jerry then picked me up by the skull, he placed my head in between his two massive hands. He started to squeeze. I could feel the pressure in my head building up, my eyes starting to pop out of socket. But before my head could be crushed like a rotten jack-o-lantern on November 1st. I slid the headphones over Jerry's ears. He immediately dropped me. Jerry fell backwards on top of a popped Santa. He started to shake, his bones clacking together like a xylophone. The mini van was 1 block away. 

I quickly tried to think of something cool to say while I would end Jerry’s life. It had to be something sort of relevant to Christmas or Halloween. Then I thought of something.

“This is what you have to understand Jerry. Christmas, that’s in 54 days. But Halloween, that’s in 364. So whether you like it or not, it's Merry freakin’ Christmas.”

As I finished the coolest thing I ever said, I pulled my foot back and launched it forward and planted it in Jerry’s chin. His head launched off like a firework. Flying off into the street and perfectly underneath the front wheel of the caroling mini van. Without any difficulties, Jerry’s skull was crushed. The family stopped singing Jingle Bells to ask what they had just hit. I heard the father say,

“Was that another dog?!”

I looked down, the skeleton had stopped shaking and laid still and the ground. I kicked at his ribs, he didn’t move.

I walked across the street and knocked on Derrick’s door to tell him what happened. When he opened he already had tears in his eyes. He didn’t even cry at his wedding, I thought. Before I could say anything, Derrick ran across the street and held Jerry in his arms. I went inside my own house and called the police. The police arrested Derrick and Jerry’s body immediately. Derrick disappeared for a couple of days. I didn’t see him again until the next Friday. When I was brushing my teeth and looking out the window, I saw an unmarked mini van pull up to Derrick’s home. Its doors opened, and a man with a burlap sack over his head was shoved out. The van sped off, then the man took the head cover off, it was Derrick.

But now, if you were to drive around our neighborhood you will not see any 12 foot skeletons named Jerry. Instead, you will see a flag pole in Derrick’s front yard. Forever flying a skull and crossbones. With a small plaque at the bottom, that reads.

“IN MEMORY OF THE ONE AND ONLY JERRY.”

Part 1

 The frosted crunch of the tent liner underneath me was the first sound I was greeted with, as I rolled over to my side. The unrelenting cold makes icicles hanging on the tips of my beard like little people dancing, just on the edge of a field. In a cough and a wheeze, I summoned all the courage I could to brave the morning air. What was left of my glorious hole filled roof flapped halfcocked, across my living expanse. Offering far little in the way of shielding my now freezing face from any more breaching of its haul, by the electric currents of the undulating morning wind.     

   Unsheathing myself from my mummy like sleeping bag and abandoning the comfort of my cocoon, I readied myself to prepare my morning coffee. Also to enjoy the company of my little woodland friend. Living a life of few amenities, I dawn my double coat attire and sweatpants holed with cigarette burns. Making sure to grab my morning salvation before unzipping my tapestry thin tomb. My glorious, but oh so cheap, instant coffee.

   As if it was a scheduled communion; before I even have the chance to sit down on my dilapidated camping chair, the air is filled with the chorus of a single songbird beckoning me. Drawing nearer by the second, in a swirling motion from the treetops down to me. Synchronized sizzling swiped at the back of my head. Letting me know my little pal was as excited to see me; or maybe more accurately, his food, as I was to see him.

   Plopping open a not quite rancid water bottle, I tossed in the instant coffee with the same vigor as a crack head loading a pipe. Seeing as how I'm not too far off from that monicker myself, I give a quick chuckle to myself as I light up my first cigarette of the day.  Still bent and dried out from the previous night, adorning the inside of my chair's cup holder. A hair clip of a misfortunate hairstyle.

   Lighting it up and inhaling the satin river of smoke in, then out and pouring water into my plastic cauldron. I greeted my little friend with an outstretched arm as I blew out the opposite of his direction.

"How are ya this morning, my feathered friend?" I asked as if he would respond back with anything other than a fluff-up and an inquisitive look. He tweeted beckoningly is response surprisingly enough. Asking the unspoken question, I knew already. Anthropomorphizing him in my mind, that question is always the same.

"Could ya just get on with it and drop some food already man?"

   As if I heard the urgency in the request, I get on with it, tossing a handful from the object of his affection. A seed bag I stole that was for some bird feeder, last time I raided a cabin.

   As he pecks away incessantly at the scattered remains of the pile and my cigarette plumes wasted relief through the air, the gravity of my life's situation comes back into frame.

   You see as cozy and free as this situation seems, it's only a snapshot of a life at the end of its rope. Exiled and denigrated to the fringes of society. Because you see, I've been homeless since 1996.

  I won't lie to you, as I did to myself and those around me back then. I have no one to blame for the current state of affairs but myself. Years upon years of a spiral against all hope and help, burned bridges so intensely you’d be hard pressed to say there ever was a bridge there to walk on.

Drug fueled diatribes and endless nights of he said she said fiascos plagued those years. Culminating in the final straw breaking for parents at a loss for how else to write the wrongs of a man who lost all hope for himself.

Thinking of that final act of overt disrespect, even now, reminds me of pressing a hand firmly on a stove top left on. The unexpected, jolt of inferno with the sustained pains of roadkill begging for a bullet. Still haunts me to this day in ways I’m still figuring out. But in the interest of setting the stage for how a man comes to make a lonely shack aside a tree and a bird his only company, I'll relive that horrid night for you now.

 

That night started out like most did back then. The slosh of a wine glass and the contempt that came with the nightly ritual of overconsumption by a woman who had estranged herself from her son light-years ago. And a son who due to that very excommunication had dug himself into a pit deeper than the cavernous Marianas Trench.

  An ever-expanding trench. Thickly lined with the sticky tar that had taken hold of many souls like him, in smoke filled dens across Europe and France in the mid 1900's all those years ago.

   The daily squabbles of domestic disturbance had gone unabated for many years between the two by now. Aside from a few brushes with the law that took center stage on a front lawn like a grand exhibition between two addicts of different tastes, we managed. But on this night, it reached a fever pitch at a particular argument gone too far.

   She had busted down my door in a fiery rage, hellbent on finally destroying my stash, with a new liquid courage that her bottle usually afforded her. Saying,

  "This is it!!! Where is it!?! Where is it Jaaaaaake!?! It ends tonight!!!"

   Her eyes locked onto what was left of mine.  I hadn’t even registered her words before the thought occurred to me to hide the pipe that I was actively caking my lungs with. Now exhaling into her face before she continued in a frantic search for what lay right by my side.

   "What in the fuck is actually wrong with you Jake? You know as well as I do we set a line in the fucking Sand the last time we had to get you clean. We told you the next time you slipped up. It’s over. We've tried and tried and tried!!! To no end Jake! No en-"

   "Ff .. ffuuuuu. Fuck you."

   That was all I could muster out, as a familiar blissful darkening of the corners of my vision closed in on all sides. Tentacles of something beyond anything God's light would dare venture near anymore. Something holy decrepit and all-encompassing in its comfort wrapped up my damned mental coffin in its grasp. The last words I heard from my mother's lips; before I leapt into the arms of that unholy maker were,

   "We're going to have to have you admitted honey."

   Ya know? It’s funny to me to think now how nice it might have been to go along with it all. It's not like I hadn't been before. But something about this time. It was different. An abhorrent avalanche of repressed layers of my subconscious slipped down to meet that little house in Appalachia on that day. Leaving in its wake a burnt cross that'd burn down the halls of that poor house forever more.

   The hallow night that lay before my perceived nightmare scenario created a nightmare of my own making. Threefold. I Shuddered back to reality at 3:36 in the morning. Upon the horror of realizing my stash was gone, I had the same mission my mother did when she came into my room earlier that night. But she didn't adorn herself with the illustrious kitchen knife I did on my journey. Especially not with the crimson eyes of bloodlust I had to my gate, as I stormed into her room to reclaim what the devil’s temptress was in one of its worst forms. Tempting me to forever change the hands of fate towards a new venue.

   I shudder even now, thinking of how I left her. Most people that kill say it was all a blur, or don't remember it at all. But I can tell you one thing. That wasn't the case for me. I remember every facet of ever fiber detailing that moment and that night. It lives forever now to haunt me in what are only ever nightmares anymore.

   To this day I still shudder that my father had to remember it all in the same horrid detail. When he got back from his latest business trip in the following days. To find he not only lost his son, but his wife that day as well. He also lost any hope of answers from the one person to crescendo these events into motion. Because that night I excommunicated myself from civilized society.

   Choosing to more than likely die out there in the unforgiving unrelenting mass of nature's midst, than the sheer solitude of a life of walls upon walls and no sane voice to ever etch the halls in a soothing tone again. Forever condemned to a hell scape of man's own making.

   Instead, I heeded the beckon of a world far more ancient than any man had ever created. Bathed In the blood of my drug fueled rags I took to scaling mount Appalachia. Never to grace the halls of a home again. Though I never really thought of that place as much of a home anyway.

Part 2 https://www.reddit.com/u/LucyLove3912/s/n6h8QwcFAU

Part 3 https://www.reddit.com/u/LucyLove3912/s/nmGS6Pk54R

Part 4 https://www.reddit.com/u/LucyLove3912/s/aC7mnMtwlX

Part 5 Fanale https://www.reddit.com/u/LucyLove3912/s/1m4oXh8mDC

I appreciate the little moments in life. The small parts of each day that act as a breath, a repreive from the moments that require thought and action. I don't resent when these small repreives end, but being a man with a full house, and a demanding job forces you too never take these moments for granted. For me, these moments occur on my commute to and from work. I savor it the same way I savor my morning coffee. Hell, I even get up earlier than necessary so I dont have to feel rushed. I believe it to be a great sin to be rushed in these times. I use it as a sort of meditation, I reach that point of zen then suddenly I'm at work. I had no idea, how much I would come to dread it.

My mornings have always been the same since I was in my 20's. Up at 4:50am, make my morning breakfast and coffee, pack my lunch, and be out the door by 5:45. My commute takes about 30 minutes to get to the office. It's the same commute I've taken for the last 14 years. picked through trial and error as my favorite way to go. It had limited stops, and was fairly scenic. By far my favorite stretch went past a well maintained local park. It had a small pond, and a nice looking trail that went into the local woods.It was very pleasant looking. And noone else knew about it. Even at rush hour noone ever came down this little side road. Never even saw anyone in the park. Until I saw her.

I was enjoying my commute as unsual, coffee in hand as I let my mind wander. When I saw her, white and red sundress, long blonde hair pulled up into a high ponytail staring out into the mirror-like pond. She stood out, especially at 6am standing in a park that I had never seen a single soul in before, not even on my way home. Im a married man, but I caught myself staring. Only for a second, but long enough for me to get embarrassed and turn my attention back to the road. I scolded myself for being an old pervert and chuckled as I went about my day as usual. I was surprised to see that she was still there on my commute home. I didn't stare this time, partly as a form of self control, but mostly because she was now staring intensly out into the road.

On the next day, she was there again. Still standing near the pond. I again did not stare, she was still looking im my direction. I wondered why this isolated part of my commute had suddenly changed. I found myself wondering who she was, did she really like the park? Maybe she used to play here as a kid? I chalked her continued presence down as just a new addition to my commute. Another beautiful bit of scenery that I could occasionally catch. I wasn't gonna complain about it. I was a bit concerned about her though. It sundress wasn't exactly weather appropriate for this time of year. It was only spring on the calendar, frost still clung the the leaves some mornings. Even on one especially chilly day she was still there. So, I atopped my car. I pulled over to the side and lowered my window, "are you ok ma'am?" I asked. I waited for a response, but, nothing.it was dark but, I could see she was looking in my direction but she didn't move an inch, didn't respond in any way. After a few moments I decided to leave, I know when a woman ignores you, you shouldn't bother them. So I did, and for the next few days she once again became just part of the scenery of my commute.

I got used to the strange womans presence for a while. I didn't know whether she was homeless, or maybe just mentally disturbed. But she wasn't hurting anyone, so i left it.I think a week had passed before I noticed. I had taken to hardly even glancing at her. I would just zone out and drive automatically. Then one day, I could see her from the corner of my eye. I'll fess up and say it startled me. I shouted "shit!" And swerved for a split second before I regained my composure and called myself a fool. As I passed I looked in my rearview, and saw she was standing about 10 feet from the side of the road. Usually I had to turn my head to look at her so the sudden change in my usually unchanging commute had stress tested my poor old heart. I felt uneasy as she disappeared from view as I made my turn. She had still been staring straight out into the road.

My peaceful, relaxing, breaths of air that I had always enjoyed, now just left me uneasy. On my way home that day, she was still there. Standing beside the road staring straight forward. I lowered my eyes and sped up as I passed, shivering as I passed her line of sight. I didn't look in my rearview this time, but from the corner of my eye I could still see that she was staring straight into the road. I decided that this woman was obviously insane, what other explanation could there be for this weird behaviour? That night I had a dream, I was driving on an endless road, surrounded by darkness, figures stood inside that darkness. I couldn't see them but I knew they were there. I kept driving as tears poured down my face, I wanted to stop but my foot was made of lead, I couldn't brake, I couldn't change course. Suddenly twin lights appeared before me, by the time I realized it was another car, my face was splattered on the windshield, mirroring the occupant of the oncoming car. I woke with a scream, the image of her with her blond hair and ruined face seared into my mind.

I couldn't go back to sleep, I had never gotten a clear look at the womans face before. She had always been too far away or turned around like her first sighting. I swear I could draw her now, every detail. From her strawberry lipstick, her ladybug earrings, her sapphire eyes as they split from the impact, her brain matter leaking from her split open skull. The image would not leave me, it stained my mind, tattooed it's image unto my consciousness. I called in sick that day, the first time in 8 years. The next day I decided I would go, but I would take a different route. One that didn't involve driving past some insane statue woman. Even then I hesitated. I wasn't in my car until 6:01, I mourned the loss of my peaceful time of contemplation, it was like meditation for me. I dreaded fighting through the traffic but not as much as seeing that woman. I drove the opposite way as usual, I grimaced seeing other cars, it's hard to relax while wondering if the people around you have brains while they cut you off. Somehow though, I was able to zone out, I reached my place of zen with great difficulty but I was elated that I could still reach it. This feeling was short lived, as I made my turn and saw the familiar park, with the familiar pond, and trail, and the woman standing on the curb, just 2' away from my car. I screamed and slammed the brakes, how had I ended up here? Its impossible. I lowered the window and screamed at the woman. I didn't scream in words but in an almost animalistic howl. The howls turned to whimpers though, as I saw the womans face up close for the first time. She was beautiful, silky golden hair, cute white and red sundress, ladybug earings, and tears of terror streaming down her face.

She was still, unnaturally still. Even the tear drops were frozen halfway off her face. It was like seeing some still from some obscene horror film, moments before the character meets some horrific end by some unseen evil. She looked terrified. I slammed my foot on the gas and took off, I decided that I would just go home, I can't do it. I will bus, walk 3hrs to work, move, anything to avoid this woman, this cursed park. I rounded the corner with a screech, tires smoking, engine roaring, desperation adding weight to the accelerator. I cried out as I rounded the corner to see the same park, the same woman, closer now, one step into the road. I moved over as much as I could, I kept driving, I can't stop, I won't. Screech! Turn she is closer, screech! Turn, she is closer. I clipped her arm but she didn't react, her sundress blowing violently from my passing. Madness took over, maybe if she was dead this would end? Screech! Turn, she is standing in the middle of the road, staring at me, crying. I don't stop. Crash, splat, the last thing I see, is the same image that still stains my mind, as all goes to black. 

I could see nothing, feel nothing. I lay motionless within this nothingness, waiting for, something, anything, to happen. Time seems to dissolve as I try to peace events together, trying to make sense of this new reality. Then with no warning, I find myself on my feet, sensations and sounds return to me. I find myself staring into a lifeless pond, I stare deeply into its depths, as I find I have no choice. I can't move, not even my eyes. I worry as I think this is my new fate, until I gear the sound of a car driving behind me. I desperately try to scream for help, but my lips wont part, my tongue won't obey my orders. As they pass I dread to be left alone again, when suddenly with great violence I am turned around facing the road. I watch as a car passes, I wish they would hear my mind scream for help but they keep driving. I am ripped forward as another car passes. Helplessly I watch as it drives past, then again, and again. I begin to cry, as I get close enough to notice her long golden hair blowing behind her from her open window.

The first thing to know about me is this: I fucking hate spiders. Small ones, I can deal with. I even find them quite cute on occasion. It’s when I can see the details of a spider that it becomes an issue for me. Those black, soulless countless eyes staring at you – their intentions hidden veiled behind vacant pits; those twitching, hairy talons microscopically purring at the sight of you; those long, spindly legs that cover all possible ground and move with terrifying fluidity. Even writing this down and imagining the sight of them makes my skin crawl as phantom legs crawl slowly up my back. Do you know how they kill their pray? They encase them, physically trap them within webbing and suck all the fluid from their bodies; leaving behind only a desiccated husk drained of all moisture. I would hate to be a fly on the wall for that.

My fear of spiders began when I was five years old – I can remember it so vividly because, well, it was the first time I can remember being  genuinely afraid. Obviously, stuff scared me when I was a kid (I firmly believe that I shouldn’t have been watching Doctor Who at three years old) but pure, unfiltered dread was something I had never experienced before then. I’d been in the bath, and I’d let the water out, leaving me just lying in the tub playing with a rubber duck – flying it around in the air, pretending it was a UFO as it started its maiden voyage through space and the white cracking paint on the ceiling above were the constellations between black abysses. I must have been just lying there, imagining the stars and planets when I finally looked down. There it was. It must have crawled out of the drain while I wasn’t looking. It was big, especially to my youthful eyes, around the size of a clenched fist; I could see it’s body slowly moving up and down as it breathed, those hairy appendages creasing as it fell and rose. It was just staring at me. I could see eight eyes, those glistening hollow voids threatening to swallow me whole. I was too scared to move, my body trapping itself even as I tried to fight my way out. For the longest time (for I do not know how long I stayed there), we just stared at one another, our eyes trapped in a constant gaze – my paralysed body shuddering with fear, my eyes wide open in terror and its fat, bulbous form stiff in its persistent watch. We were at a standoff, unsure who would move first: either me with fear or it with hunger. They say that spiders are more scared of us then we are of them. This one wasn’t. I’m sure of it. It seemed like it enjoyed watching me quiver in dread, its wait for action merely a way to savour the hunt.

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With a start, those ungodly appendages began to hasten towards me, all eight limbs working in tandem towards my cowering form. The Spider’s eyes never moving from my own. Its teeth seemed to shake with pure excitement as it barrelled forward. My body released itself from its immobility with a scream as I leapt out of the porcelain tub that I was sure to become my grave. I crashed hard against the black and white checker-marked tiles and I wailed in fear and agony and pain and terror. Mum was tearing through the bathroom doors in seconds; her face riddled with that look of pure distress that only maternity can bring out.

“Sweetie, what happened?” she asked me, picking my shivering body up from the cold floor.

“There-there was a-a-a spider! And it was going to eat me! It had big eyes and it was watching me in the bath and it wanted to eat me and kill me!” I cried into her arms as she held me to her. Her hugs could solve any problem, a shield against the evils in the world.

“Are you sure?” she asked, slowly relenting her grip from me.
“Yeah! It was like big and hairy and had scary eyes.”

“I believe you, honey. I’m just going to see if I can get rid of it, okay?”

She began to walk towards the bathtub with, in retrospect, an air of trepidation. I think she was scared of spiders too. As she got closer to the bath, I could feel my body shake again – images of my mother leaning over the tub just for a blur of legs to leap up towards her face as she screamed, its body locking itself over her visage as its talons began suckling at her, draining her slowly and painfully.

“Mum! Wait! Be careful!” I screamed at her as she leaned over to look inside the bath. In what felt like an eternity, she looked up and down for something; the tension making the shaking in my body worsen tenfold. In one slow, creeping movement, she looked up and then towards me.

“There’s nothing there, sweetie,” Mum smiled, embracing me again, “are you sure you weren’t imagining it? We know how much you love to daydream.”

“I wasn’t!” I hissed in protest; the idea Mum wouldn’t believe me broke my heart a little.

“Okay, okay! I believe you. Now, let’s get you dried up and ready for bed. You’ve got an early start tomorrow.” With protest like all children naturally feel the need to exhibit, I got ready for bed – all the while, my eyes would return to the bath where the Spider was. I waited with bated breath for it to slowly crawl out, those thin arms creeping their way over the rim followed by that nasty, cold face. Nothing crawled out of the tub and Mum escorted me out of the bathroom.

“There won’t be any more spiders tonight, poppet. They won’t come after you anymore.” Mum whispered to me later as I drifted off to sleep. I smiled at this, she always knew how to make me feel safe. It was then that I felt something weird. It was tingly, like having a feather trailed over your body. It felt like something was crawling up my leg, something with eight little legs and eight little eyes. I didn’t sleep very well that night.

 

 

By the time I turned 19, spiders rarely entered any thoughts. Sure, if I saw one or if some smart arse decided to show me a close-up image of one, I would run for the hills but other than that, I wouldn’t think of them. The Bathtub Spider story became an anecdote to tell my partners why they had to get the spider out of the bedroom and I couldn’t. Living with arachnophobia is pretty easy: just avoid cobwebs and old buildings and you’re sorted. That’s when the dreams started. At that time, I was suffering from chronic anxiety and as a result, I had begun having nightmares. In the vast majority of cases, I would just simply wake up from them hyperventilating with no memory of why I was so scared. The only nightmare I could remember was the one with the spiders.

It was always the same dream, same in every single detail. I would be stuck in one spot, a single viewpoint, looking down a seemingly never-ending corridor. The walls were lined with cracked, salmon-red bricks – each one covered in varying degrees of moss and general grime. To my right stood two, large broken windows; the glass yellowed with age and caked in that same mixture of moss and detritus. I couldn’t see what was outside of the windows as everything, other than what was in my immediate vicinity, was engorged within a thick veil of pitch darkness. There was no noise, just the quiet ambience of my own breath. I would look down this corridor and nothing else. Just waiting. Time moving on with no movement.

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Something was moving in the darkness. Scuttling within the sea of black in front of me. The sound of my breathing became louder, shallower, as I wondered what lived within this place, craving to know what was coming yet not being able to move myself from that spot. So, I would wait. Staring down that corridor again. Nothing for company except the memory of movement in the shadows. Silence.

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Movement once more. Closer this time. Fear surged through my body, primal emotion taking over my thoughts – I needed to run, to escape, to flee, I just needed to get away from whatever that thing in the darkness was. I couldn’t move. I was stuck. Warm beads of sweats began to trickle down my frozen features. The dread filling my chest was becoming unbearable, my thoughts decaying into gibberish and vagaries – knowing that something was coming towards me and I couldn’t even do anything, couldn’t even run, was a hell unto itself.

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Silence. Whatever it was, it had stopped. I began to weep as I couldn’t take them away from their constant search for the unknown in-front of me. No more movement for minutes. My breath was ragged and razor thin, panic taking over any cognitive ability I had left. I waited with shuddering breath for something, anything to happen; even just to stop the terror within me.

It was a blur of motion, a sudden unnaturally fast mass of fur and legs and reflective eyes leapt towards me with an ungodly screech filled with unbridled joy. Whatever it was, it was loving every single moment of my horror, and it was so, so hungry. Before my brain even had time to process what was happening, the thing in the darkness was mere inches away from me – its horrifying face barrelling towards me. I still couldn’t move, my body paralytic and so I did the only thing I could do. I began to scream.

I would awake with a start, my body tearing itself forward as if to literally drag me away from my sleep, my breath as shallow and vapid as it was in the dream. My heart would run rapid in my chest and my lungs desperately driving me to bring oxygen to it. It would take me a while to calm myself down, finally realising that I was back in my (now sweat-soaked) bed. This dream would happen once a week, every week for around 4 months; the dream was always the same. That same terror. And then just as quick as it began, it stopped. The Spider in my dreams was gone, and I could stop thinking about the arachnid species once again.

 

Two nights ago, I had a new dream. It took me a while to get to sleep, the prospect of entering any semblance of slumber being fought from me, like my brain was trying to stop me from going somewhere, like it knew what hid behind the veil of dreams. After two hours of this, my body finally relented, resigned to let me face whatever was waiting for me on the other side…

I was in an old factory; rusted machinery lined uniformly across the workhouse to which I found myself. Cobwebs filled each crevice and cavity of the ancient machinery, its mechanisms and their intricate responsibilities in the work line wasted away with the entropy of time. No one had been here for a very, very long time. I slowly walked through the workhouse, dragging my finger along until it was entirely caked in dust. Places like this are beautiful in their own way, little microcosms of time far past, once filled with people working to provide for their families, working hard to get through each day. Now, in the future, all the marks they’ve left behind is the dust being blown from my finger.

I continued through the building, finding nothing except more empty rooms and pitch-black corridors. All lined with salmon bricks and broken windows. I felt a resounding familiarity with the design, a perverse sense of nostalgia but couldn’t place the reason for the feeling. I had gone everywhere I thought possible until I saw a staircase; a basic concrete structure purely devised to be used for function and efficiency. The way to go up was completely caved in, a broken cascade of masonry and concrete had completely closed off any access to the higher levels. The way down, however, was left open. I looked down the stairs and was met with nothing but darkness. Silent darkness. A sudden wave of apprehension washed over me like cold water on a Midsummer’s Eve, I couldn’t possibly go down there – the first rule in every situation: never go into the basement. Resigning myself to loop around the main building again, I began to turn around when I heard something. It was distant but it was definitely there. I stood still and waited. It came again. A soft, weak cough floated from the darkness. Without realising it, I’d taken a step back – there couldn’t be someone here, surely. Not in a forgotten place like this. The cough came again; more pained this time.

“If there’s someone else here, I need to find them.” I said to myself before descending the staircase down into the unknown.

 

People think they know pure darkness. They’ve been in a house with no lights on, walked in the forests in the dead of night or even explored underneath the earth itself. Nothing like that is true darkness. The place I had entered was intangible. All I could see in front of me was the thickest soup of black. The purity of the blackness was disorientating, my equilibrium stripped bare. I could hear my heart beating in my ears and every shallow breath sounded like gale-force winds. I reached my arms out to find anything to cling onto, my arms flailing aimlessly without finding purchase.

“HELLO?” I called out, my words echoing into the unknown space, slowly dissipating in the air. I waited but heard no reply.

“I heard you coughing! Are you okay?” No reply. I stood there, motionless in an abyss, kicking myself for even coming down here. While the factory above was a different kind of nightmare, at least I had the ability to see what I should be afraid of. Here, there was just nothing. Just a vast and empty space – as far removed from God and light of heaven.

“Is… someone there?” I spun around, almost falling over in the process. It was definitely some sign of life.

“If you can hear me, keep on talking. I’m coming to get you!” I shouted back, already making my way forwards (whichever way that was)

“NO,” the Voice cried back, “please leave me here! I’m safe here! Please don’t take me away from here!”

“Hey, hey, that’s good, just keep talking, I think I’m almost there!” The voice was coming from my right, so I slowly crept my way towards it, making sure to focus on each step as to not trip over and lose my direction.

“No, please! You don’t understand! It doesn’t know I’m down here! It can’t get me if it doesn’t know where I am, just please go!”

“Good job, just keep talking.” I was close, I was sure of it – the Voice sounded old or, at the very least, worn out. There was defeat resting within each word, like the voice was the last soldier left of his platoon, the enemy advancing closer and closer to his location as he stood among the bodies of his fallen men.

“STOP! NOW!” the Voice’s urgency halted my progress. The sound of the voice shushing me shot through the stiff air and momentarily paralysed me/ In that silence, I heard something else. It was fast, rhythmic and coming from above. We waited in the quiet air of the black space. The noise above moved past us and slowly faded away.

“What was that?” I whispered, anxiously waiting for any more movement.

“It’s looking for me! Oh god oh fuck oh fuck!” the Voice has become hysterical, their words becoming a babbling mess but luckily, I was able to find my way towards it. I kneeled down to where I thought to the voice was and reached my arm out, catching something with my hand. It felt like an arm, had the same shape as one but it was rake thin and felt brittle to the touch.

“Hey, hey, look I’m here now, okay?” I whispered, trying to sound calming but failing even to my own ears.

“Don’t you understand? There’s two of us now! It’s going to sense that and come after us! You’ve put us both in danger!” the Voice bellowed out in a mix of anger and anguish. Their body had become a shaking wreck; I was scared they were going to shake themselves apart.

“Think about it, we have a better chance together than apart. Whatever that noise was is going to find you eventually, we have a better chance of getting out together, rather than alone.” I said, more to myself than to them. This place was filling me up, a pure anguish that seemed to live in the dust floating in the dank air surrounding us. All I had was the vague hope that we could evade whatever was waiting above.

“Okay,” I continued, “we need to get out of here, get back upstairs. We can at least get our bearings. Let me help you up.” I found the Voice’s arm again and lifted his arm around my shoulder. With a great deal of luck, I was able to find the staircase once again and slowly carried my companion back up to the factory, and to the thing stalking above us.

 

My companion was very light so getting them up the stairs was no issue; we passed back into one of the countless corridors where I finally got a good look at them. It was a man, around 35 at a guess but you wouldn’t be able to tell from looking at him; his face was sunken and gaunt, his features exacerbated by a barrage of wrinkles. His body was a disturbing sight; his stomach was almost none-existent – his shirt outlining the cavity where it should’ve been. I could even see his ribcage protruding outwards with two gaps on either side. He was missing ribs. What the hell had happened to him?

“What happened to you? What is happening? What was that noise?” I asked the Man, who looked on the verge of collapse. I found a wall and gently rested him against it.

“It… was able to get me once. It fed on me. I had nothing left in me. It tried to… to drain it all out but I-I got away, I cut my way out and I ran and ran and ran but my… body is empty.” The Man croaked out, each word seeming to take a little more from him each time.

“Drain what out?” I asked, the fear starting to rear its head once again, my nerves burning with it.

“Me. It was draining me.”

“What is it? Please tell me, please!” I pleaded, calm leaving me completely and being replaced with that old pleading horror. Behind me, I heard a clang, metal hitting the floor. I turned to look and saw a rusty spanner had hit the floor and… something moving very fast away from it. A sudden blur of movement. The Man coughed and I snapped my head back towards him. He was in a very bad way; his skin had become a sheer white and his eyes coated in a sickly purple.

“It’s not human… all it-it-it wants is… to eat. My dad used to tell me… stories of it. A… hungry beast that drained men and cocooned their bodies to-to use to birth its children. M-m-m-mr. Mr. Scuttlebug.”

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The Man let out a sudden intake of air, lurched forwards and fell back hard. I moved rapidly closer to him, trying to hear breathing or any sign of life. There was none. The Man was gone. I was alone. I stood up, turned around and stared down into the darkness.

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I stared forward, listening to that rhythmic scuttle. Creeping towards me. I looked down the corridor, shrouded in shadow with only a single pinprick of moonlight close to the brick threshold between myself and the thing ahead.

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It was moving faster now, closer.

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I could hear loud thudding slams with each step Mr. Scuttlebug took. Each mandible slamming itself onto the decaying concrete below.

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I remembered now. I’ve seen this before. I’ve heard this all before. I didn’t want to be back here. I wanted to go home. I didn’t want to see what was coming for me. I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want to die. Fuck, I’m going to die here.

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It stopped. Right before the threshold. A face came out from the darkness. Human. With eight glassy eyes filled with mania and ravenous lust. With hairy talons vibrating with ecstasy. With salivating teeth concocted into a maniacal grin. With cracking skin like leather stretched across an ill-fitting skull.

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Eight raven black spider legs slowly gripped themselves onto the brickwork, hanging right in front of me, getting ready to leap at me one again. We stared at one another for an eternity, as we had always done. Its glassy eyes drinking up the grotesque sight of my fear. It’s face never ceasing from it’s constant smile. Mr. Scuttlebug’s face moved glided towards my own, its hot breath bouncing off of my features, threatening to force my eyes shut. Mr. Scuttlebug’s mouth opened. A swarm of small, fat spiders flew from its open jaw and jumped onto my face. They crawled everywhere, the sensation of their little appendages stabbing into my skin made my eyes begin to weep. They crawled and crawled, up my nose and into my mouth. I could feel them crawl into my skull and into my brain. I could feel them crawl down my throat and circle my heart. Mr. Scuttlebug’s jaw slowly closed and it floated back to the threshold. It sat still once more. Our constant vigil once again continuing.

Suddenly, with no warning or indication, those horrid legs dropped from their purchase and slammed back onto the asphalt. It stood motionless once more.

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Mr. Scuttlebug was moving at an impossible speed, its body crawled around the walls in a sickening display of motion as it sprinted towards me, its legs twitching in synchronicity and anticipation. It’s gaze never left my own, that fucking smile burning a hole in my brain and filling it with profound terror and manic dread. Those eight hairy legs rapidly flailing towards my paralysed body. It got me. Wrapped its legs around my visage and began to squeeze. I could hear bones cracking and muscles tearing. I could feel my eyes being forced out of my body and my teeth being cracked with the pressure. Mr. Scuttlebug brushed its salivating talons across my face and then opened its mouth, ready to eat. I felt my head split open and…

 

I awoke with a start, my body tearing itself forward as if to literally drag me away from my sleep, my breath as shallow and vapid as it was in the dream. My heart was running rapid in my chest and my lungs desperately driving me to bring oxygen to it. It took me a while to calm myself down, finally realising that I was back in my (now sweat-soaked) bed. I started to cry.

I’ve been staying with my partner since – I told them about everything and, after a quick telling-off about not telling them sooner, they’ve let me temporarily move in. We’re hoping that sleeping in bed with someone else will help. I hope it will. I don’t want to see Mr. Scuttlebug again. I don’t even want to dream anymore. I just want to not be scared anymore.

There is something I haven’t told my partner – something I don’t want to tell them. I think it’s because I think that if I tell someone, it will become true. I hope I’ve just gone insane. Ever since I woke up from that dream, I’ve noticed cobwebs appearing. Not just normal cobwebs in forgotten corners you can never be bother to clean, I mean they are everywhere. In the shower, on my nightstand, inside the oven, on the front door and windows. I even woke up with my face covered in them last night. There’s one last thing and it’s the reason I’m writing this down, every so often – no matter what I’m doing or where I am – I’ll feel a sudden warm feeling on my face, like flush. Like someone’s breathing on it. Breathing hot warm breath. It’s always followed by the feeling, that terrible feeling, that something is crawling up my leg.

Part One:

It's 1526 in London. A man carries a case of books, the contents of which will go on to build and destroy nations. It begins to rain, but the man cannot move with any more haste, as his destination is of the utmost importance. The door hinges yelp, and the candles prostrate their flames at the opening and closing door. He shakes his heavily dressed frame free of rainwater and removes his hat before hanging it on the wall. He sets his handled case on the table alongside a candle and disappears across the room behind a corner.

The candle burns behind the case as the morning sun creeps in through the window. Like molasses, the light of our star inches closer and closer to the case of leather-bound writings of ink. And as the light touches the bottom of the case, a sharp ping can be heard from the candle holder. The flame is erect and still, and the alarm pin is at the candle’s base.

The man rounds the corner again, having changed clothes and washed his face and hands. His swift steps slow to a meander as he marvels at the candle's stillness as it burns. He stops in his tracks when he sees him.

At the table, scratching at the case of books as an antsy child, sits a man wearing sackcloth. His head is shaven poorly, and there is dirt on his scalp. He sits in a chair with his back turned to the morning light, leaving just a silhouette to behold. The man that carried the case swallows hard in courage and opens his mouth to speak—but his throat is closed behind his Geneva gown.

The seated man, garbed with mourning attire, speaks instead, "It's quite alright, Billy. You've no less time when you speak with me than when you've first begun to leave."

These words confused William, as he's never been called "Billy" before... except by his long-dead paternal grandmother.

"You've gone in the wrong door, mate. Leave now please; I'll show you out," William says sternly as he briskly walks to the door.

The man in mourning remains still in obstinacy despite William's insistent gesturing. A long moment passes, painfully silent. William studies the man's figure from the door and finds a strangeness about his skin. It's pale and hairless with waves and ripples like cellulite, but the man is far from overweight. He's a gaunt man with skin clinging to his bones.

The man in mourning turns his head to meet William's eye. Given their positions, this turning gives William much pause. Standing behind his right shoulder, there should be no way for a mortal man to turn his neck this far. Yet this man in mourning seems to deny his mortality by his very being. And now, his head turned at an owl's angle, his face is illuminated for William to see. It's an alluring sight put off by a veil of uncanny details. He's a handsome man with hateful eyes—bright red and baggy eyes from lack of sleep, or perhaps too much of it—and a nose and mouth that complement his hardened, scornful expression.

"Sit down, William," the mourner says with a noticeably restricted windpipe from the angle of his neck and throat.

William shut the door and said a prayer in silence while walking back to the other side of the table. The mourning man's head turns, never breaking his gaze from William. His vertebrae grind and pop back into normalcy.

"You men of God think your prayers are ceaseless, but they're just incessant," he taunts grimly.

He looked to the mourner and spoke again, "Who are you? What do you mean 'I'll have no less time'?"

William finished the question and decided to stay standing for his safety. The mourner leaned forward, and William could barely make out a smile on his face.

"What's the matter, Billy? Afraid you're no longer a conqueror?"

The mourner begins to slowly rise from William's chair, hands planted flat on the table. William steps back at his standing. And as William catches footing, the mourner stomps his feet and jumps forward to frighten the already unsettled man.

William doesn't jump, but notices a sound under the table. He looks down under the table, directly under the case of books; a small pit in the floorboard. Out of this pit and connected to a manacle on the mourner's ankle is an iron chain.

William remembers what is written and ponders the flesh, the death-defying head turn, the inexplicable knowledge. He catches fear of another and steps toward the table in search of counsel, ignoring the wretched roar of the man with broken teeth. William pulls the case of books to his side of the table and unlatches it, retrieving one of the books within.

The mourner's roar dies into a whimper and he sits down, defeated but not done. William flips frantically and follows lines of text with his finger while looking up to the mourner as if confirming what is reading.

"So then it was you that made the earth tremble?" William asks.

The mourner winces and stretches his neck in discomfort. William smiles and continues.

"Overthrew cities? Of a world that you made like a desert?"

The mourner catches a glimpse of pride in William's questioning and plays into it. He continues wincing and covers his ears while groaning, putting on more pain than he's actually feeling. William views the act as truth and continues, looking away from his script, adlibbing his own questions.

"Does your pomp dare to bubble up from Sheol? Before me? A chosen man of God?" In the midst of William's rebuke, the Mourner is tittilated in pleasure. William continues, after having closed the words he sought just moments ago, "I-I look but I do not find your bed of maggots oh wretched Babylo-" William, having looked around at his own words to prove them true, catches the Mourner in an abominable state.

"Why have you stopped, Billy?" The Mourner, eyes closed, mouth downturned and bottom lip bitten. His left hand rubs his head, running his gray fingers through his newly grown thick curly hair sensually while his right defiles the chair that Williams' uncle built. William lingers his gaze in horror and subjects himself to more, knowing better but not acting it. The Mourner's worn sackcloth being pulled and pushed by his desires teases a gynocomastic body, reassured by his convincing impression of a female voice. William is snapped out of his haze by wisdom, and averts his gaze to a nearby bookshelf where he reaches for a thicker, fuller book of writings.

"No, don't stop now brother. I'm just getting started." The Mourner mocks William, only halfway trying his female voice to salt the wound of Williams thorn. William ignores the wretched imitation of humanity and shakily flips to a page and begins reading under his breath, tears burning his eyes as he blinks them away.

"Speaking to the choirmaster are we? Shall I recite it with you?" The Mourner leans in and joins in tandem with William's internal reading voice, "...and in sin did my mother concieve me. Behold thou desirest truth in the inward parts: And in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom." William, unphased and uninterested in anything the wretch is saying continues reading faithfully in his heart and his head. The Mourner stops his recitation and begins an interpretation, "You were desiring my inward parts just now. The wisdom of revealing what I had hidden made you want to know. And yet you now ignore me William. You ignore the truth that you and I are miserable wretches of the same order. We both-" A stomp of the foot and a shout interrupts the prisoners sermon. William, having finished his reading, places his book back on the shelf and retrieves his case of writings.

"We are not of the same order. I am a Man, the perfection of which reaches to that which you vainly aspire," William looks at the shackled mourner briefly before replacing his hat and says, "that's why His most glorious state is your eternal prison." William opens his door and leaves, the candle flame prostrating once again, and the entire mourner, his shackle, and his pit seem to vanish as he stops being seen.

I think im stuck here so im going to tell you everything that happend to me before I go outside and see if I am stuck here, this should only take 3 hours to do but i dont know i should be fine, if not, time is not problem, you'll know what i mean soon. Where to start well i guess from how i found out I can go to the place called Tartarus. So to start i live out in the middle of no where, like im 1 hour away from a town or person, but i can see the town from where i live, when you live in illinions you can see for miles on the flat land. Anyway it was around 7:30PM and i had forgoten to take my blacked out curtins down and I had to go outside to make sure my outside lights are working for when im walking my dog and it was night time so great time to check, so you'd think, if this was a normale trailer. So to be clear at night you can see all the lights of the town from where I live, but not this night, there was no lights at first, so I thought there my be a power, outage but i still have power so that cant be it. As i look closer even tho its dark the sun was out just enough to make out the town, but the problem was the town was gone, in fact everything was gooine, no farm land just grass, no airport lights going on, nothing was around me not a single building or light or anything else man made, other then my trailer. So this scared me to say the lest. when i came in after runing around seeing if anything othere then me was around it was still 7:30PM and i was out there for 2 hours driving around to see if i can find anything or any one. Nothing its like every thing made by mad was gone other then what i ownd on that plot of land. On top of all that the sun didnt go down. it stayed just like it was like time stopped, and the sky was like a deep dark bronzed color, a vary deep and gloomy abyss like sky. Almost like if i looked at it to long i'd go crazy (you do by the way so dont look at the sky) but that didnt really help me much driving around. After 3 hours of freaking out i started to hear some yelling and i go to look out side and i think i see someone running. But how i thought there was no one for miles i looked. where did he come from who is he. should i be scared, but the more i here the mans crys of help the more i relize this was really is someone here, and they need help. This guy looked like he had been lost for 40 years hair so long it was down to his nees, beard too, his cloths looked like he was about one day away from being nude the clothes are so far gone. This is how it went down:

Me: HAY I CAN HELP!

MAN: O THANK GOD!(running with joy on his face)

Man: you got any food or water god plz get me food and water its been years!/he says this like im going to belive him but truth be told i did belive him i mean why not i just got done running around in an imposble place that there should be no way that im at.

Me: First whats your name

Man: I I I-i Dont remember. i guess call me john? now could i plz get some food and water plz./he said with such desperation that i had to give it to him i even got him some clothes, looks like his is my size

ME: here is some canned Chicken and water, i even got you some clothes i mean it really looks like you need it more then me./gave it to him and he didnt wast anytime eating and drinking. he clothed him self after the fact, dont blame him. If i was him and looking like i been here for 40 years id act the same way. it was 30 min before he started talking to me again

John: You need to listen to me!(he said as if this was life and death, later i would find out yes it in fact was) if you are here in tartarus then you are fucked and if you want to live i have to tell you the rules.

Me: rules i just got here what are you ev-

John: SHUT UP AND LISTEN ITS AFTER ME AND I DONT HAVE MUCH TIME.(he took a min to calm down befor he spoke) ok im going to tell you the rules idk know how many there are but the thing about this place is the only way to find out the rules is to brake the rules and i have found out 8 rules and with each rules comes punishment. you can survive the punishment but the punisment never really ends.

Rule 1: dont look in the sky for more then 10 secs, or she will visit you at night at 10:30 PM She will ask at first if she can come in and talk to her husbend tell her "no he wont be back till tommrow" she will ask 2 more times but each time she gets more vilont about it. on the last time telling her she will say thank you and leave. wait 20 mins before looking out side or opening the door. if you forget to tell her this she will try to brake in. you can only do one of 2 things then keep saying "no he wont be back till tommrow till she stops" till she stops or if you dont good luck.

Rule 2: Before you go to bed Say goodnight or you wont have one(the fuck does that mean.)

Rule 3: Always be nice to the lady in your dreams or you have some really bad dreams that night and you wont wake up till she thinks you have sufferd enough.

Rule 4: never take anything from the nice man. you can answer the door but dont take anything he offers no matter what. or the nice man will chace you like he is doing with me right now. he is not fast and he only stops when you leave this place.

Right after he said that all the sudden he couldnt talk. his mouth was moving but nothing was coming out. guess we found a new rule

Rule 5: dont tell any newcomers the rules or you lose your voice. End of part one

Wormwood

TW/ Suicide, body horror, gore, mental health.

Part 1

The bright fluorescent light buzzed over the small round table, papers scattered across it as Jeremy and his social worker stared at eachother with no words to speak.

Her hands fidgeted with the small ink pen she was writing with, her lips parted and her eyes unblinking.

Click

“Jeremy. How long are we going to do this?”

Click

He didn’t speak.

Click

“You’ve been in here what.. 3 months now? And we are yet to see any progress in your condition.”

Click

His hands began to sweat, his eyes looking down to his lap. The shame was too much.

Click

“Why don’t you just let me die.”

Her hand stopped clicking the top of the pen, and her heart sunk deep into her chest.

“Jeremy, we’ve been over this, life gets better. It only ends when you allow it to end, have you been doing the exercises we talked about?”

The silence was deafening, his mouth became dry and he looked up. “No.”

She exhaled and for the first time in the three months she had been with Jeremy, she was hopeless.

Jeremy walked out of the room and back into the lounge area, the large bright blue chairs sat in front of the box Tv that clearly hadn’t been upgraded since 2004. He plopped down into the cold hard chair and sunk. The local news played at a low volume, the newscaster talking about another recent tragedy to add to the list. Jeremy closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled.

“Long day?” Came a shrill and overly loud voice from the chair across from him. When he opened his eyes he was greeted with Beth, a 56 year old woman who clearly had seen better days. “I had a long day too, they didn’t serve the sandwich I wanted for lunch. I’ve told them I hate porkchops but they never listen to me!” She whined.

Jeremy had heard rumblings from the nurses about Beth. Some say she’s been here since she was 23. But a more realistic rumor was that she had been in here for two years. Two long years of sitting, watching tv and eating dissatisfying pork chops. It was a terrible way to live.

Jeremy gave a half hearted smile and looked back at the tv, this time they were talking about a meteor that astronomers were keeping a close eye on. The reporter stated that they expected nothing to come from it, but with the world’s luck it would probably destroy the Earth and as far as Jeremy was concerned, he couldn’t care less.

“They said I was going home this Christmas, my aunt is picking me up.” Beth said to a passing nurse, one she was all too familiar with. Little did Jeremy know she had been saying this every Christmas since she got here.

The dinner call came out over the speakers, and all the residents of the ward stumbled into the dining hall with their slippers and half open eyes. Jeremy sat down, being greeted by John. An average business man who was only here because his wife and him got into a heated argument that ended with a machete in his hand and a threat in his mouth. Beth and Daryl sat at the table across from them, Daryl was a 70 year old homeless man who was only here for the free dinner and warm bed. The nurses allowed it, it was the least they could do for a dying man.

Finally by herself was Sandra, her baggy eyes examining the food as her hand scratched on her patchy skin. The withdrawals were settling in, but her family didn’t care. They would rather leave her here to rot with it than see her on the streets.

Everyone dug into their cold meatloaf, and the nurses wrote away in their charts. Documenting everyone’s eating habits and doodling to pass the time.

8 PM was call time. Jeremy walked into the soundproof room, pictures of open fields and smiling people holding hands surrounding him. He picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hey Mom” his eyes fell to his feet and traced the lines of the tiled floor.

“Jeremy, what do you need?”

“I was just uh.. calling to see how you were doing.”

“Fine.” The coldness was enough to make his heart palpitate.

“Look mom, I’m sorry. I don’t want to be like this.”

“I know. But you can’t just threaten to harm yourself every time you don’t get your way.”

“But I-“ she cut him off.

“Until you get better Jeremy, I don’t want to hear from you. If you’re going to do it then save us all the trouble and do it soon.”

And with that the click of the phone rang in his ears with the same power as a door slamming.

Her words stung

Click

Was she wrong in saying that?

Click

Maybe she was right..

Click click

The line kicked back on, and a low hum of breathing filled his ear as someone was now on the line.

“Mom?” He asked thinking she came back to apologize. Nobody replied back. The fluorescent light above him began to flicker and a sense of intense dread filled Jeremy’s body from head to toe. His head began to pound like a war drum and his heart raced beating faster and faster like it would burst his chest open and he would drop dead then and there.

A mummer came onto the line, practically incomprehensible to his ear. But in his head came the visions of hanging bodies. They dangled one by one, swaying back and forth on a rope attached to nothing but an endless void. The mummering filled Jeremy’s every thought, more visions of corpses laying on the ground, their arms and legs twisted in unnatural positions. They were an abomination of contorting limbs in incorrect places. Some had their legs where their arms should be, and some had no appendages at all.

Jeremy found himself standing beside them, hearing the creaking of the rope continuing to sway in the nonexistent breeze above him. The bodies around him groaned and shifted, trying to stand or move but to no avail.

“Look.” A low voice filled his head, no words were spoken around him but he could hear it as if the entity was right next to him.

His eyes shifted from the bodies and to the black void before him.

With a flash of red light a large sphere appeared, spinning halos circled around it in an infinite loop with eyes spaced across it by a few inches. Small eyeballs covered the sphere, blinking and looking around. Fire and sulfur filled the air as the constantly spinning sphere burned in an endless flame. It reeked of rotten flesh, exposed hearts and organs beating and pumping in the spaces that weren’t occupied by eyes.

It was hell itself.

“Bow.”

Jeremy felt his legs give way, he wasn’t given a choice.

Words were unable to escape his lips, and his head was filled with agonizing screaming and a constant assault of words and mummers.

His head began to pound, pulsing over and over again. The beating of his brain, the constant noises and the intense pressure were beginning to prove too much for him to handle. He couldn’t handle it. This thing was going to kill him.

Pulses of energy began to push out of the sphere, shaking his body with every wave that passed over him.

Crack

He could feel his arm break in half.

Crack

Then his leg.

Crack

He could feel his skull start to splinter, the crunching filling his ears.

Crack

His ribs.

Crack

His eyes began to turn red, blood filling his head and lungs.

Click

Jeremy let out a shrill scream, sweat dripping down his face and his body jumping out of the chair. The phone fell to the ground, and the lights above him let off a steady hum. Nobody was on the line. His body was fine. And he had just seen hell.

End of part one.

Part I

Part II

...The night was peaceful, quiet. I finally fell into a long deep sleep after days of restlessness. That night I dreamt, like I always do. This time it was more conventional.

It was a good dream, I was in a crowded room, a party. Many people dressed in elegant tuxedos and long dresses exchanged conversations over a glass of white wine. Waiters diligently loitered around  waiting for any opportunity to make themselves accommodating. As I entered the room, applause thundered from everyone.

Warmth, respect and pride hit me like a cold shower on a sunny day. All these people were cheering me on, snapping pictures, celebrating me like a hero. I turned to my side and saw Lewis next to me, dressed in a dashing tuxedo, he was acclaimed as much as me. The golden light that enveloped the room made it feel like a Disney princess’ palace. I felt so good, I felt belonging, appreciated, famous. I felt like I felt in room 505.

As we made our way through the crowd, it slowly split up like the Red Sea, revealing a big wall at the end of the room.

On it was the mural I was commissioned to restore, it was perfect looking, like it was painted just hours before. In that moment the feeling grew stronger, it became overwhelming, something I had never experienced before. I remember thinking “this is what drugs must feel like”.

The light grew along with the pleasure, I felt part of something much bigger than I could ever imagine. Part of something that would change the world, make it a better place, revolutionize it. It reached a point where the light enveloped everything, shining bright like a million lightnings.

That’s when I woke up, sunshine from the window resting on my face, Lewis next to me in bed.

The dream was over but the feeling remained, although I could feel it fading away.
Lewis was also awake.
We looked at each other.

“We must go back.” We said at the same time.

We got up and readied ourselves. We took precautions this time, packed some food, water, flashlights and I made sure the switchblade was with me.

We didn’t really have a plan, we just knew we had to go back, it was as if we had withdrawal symptoms, we weren’t sick yet, but we needed to feel that way again and that’s the only place in the world where we could. We were getting hooked on it.

I took the files on the patients with me, I felt like there was more about them than it seemed, after all I got them from the room.

We had woken up late and that was both a good and bad thing, we felt well rested and recharged but it was also already early in the afternoon, we wanted to go back, but we weren’t too eager to do it while dark.

We went anyway, planning to stay there until sunset and then leave. We wanted to know more, understand it…experience it again.

It just felt right, I spent my whole life suffering, feeling excluded, feeling different. This was my reward, a place where I could be myself, accepted. I deserved it and nothing would take that away from me now.

We got in the taxi and headed to the Shining.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Asked me Lewis.

“Never been more sure of something in my life.”                                      

“Good.”

“…are you?”

“Y-yes, I am”

I looked at him in the eyes, the same eyes I looked into last night, something about them was different. They were full of confidence, determination. He may have sounded unsure but I couldn’t doubt him, it felt wrong.

“You know, I never did anything for myself, ever” He broke the silence. “I always followed a path laid out for me by someone else. Study this, graduate here, work with him…I never even stopped to think if that’s what I really wanted to do.”

He stared right ahead of us, didn’t look anywhere else while talking, he didn’t want to, he couldn’t.

“I have so much to say, so much to do and I never bothered to take the time to express my opinions, to become who I wanted to be. It was easier to follow the path after all, trains don’t work off the rails and neither do I.” I took his hand.

“But maybe I was never a train, maybe I was never meant to travel along these never ending tracks, now I know I’m meant for something bigger.” He finally looked at me, his eyes watery. I took off his glasses and reached my hand out, wiping the tears off his eyes.

“ I never followed any rules, never listened to the others, never ran on tracks. I always put myself first and followed what my heart told me and that made me a target…It was hell at first, didn’t have any friends, my family despised me and I got very ill…it was very tough. But it made me who I am today, someone I am proud of, someone I can rely on, someone that doesn’t need anyone or anything.”

“Everybody needs somebody Angela.”

“Maybe…I don’t blame you Lewis, It’s a lot easier and safe to follow along the path you have in front…but I believe none of us are stuck on rails, we all have the freedom to choose our own destiny, we just have to find the perfect road that leads us to it. Sometimes it’s bumpy, sometimes it’s smooth but they all lead to happiness, we just have to get there and, to do that, we can’t stop.”

“You really believe all of this?”

I put both my hands on his. “Of course I do, we can do it.”

I only believed half of what I was saying, I think it’s true that destiny is waiting for us all, but it’s not happiness, it’s not sadness, it’s death. That’s the only thing that is sure in life, the universe sure has a fucked up sense of humor.
I obviously wasn’t going to tell him the truth of what I believed. We were on our way to a haunted house that somehow made us feel more alive than ever, it definitely wasn’t the right time or place for existentialism or crude realism.

Not to mention the fact that my beliefs were also under great scrutiny, I didn’t really know what to think at that point, I still don’t. It’s clear there are so many questions still left unanswered, the scary thing however, is the notion that the answers to them are out there…somewhere.

Regardless, just because some things should be said, doesn’t mean they have to be heard…which is also what I wish Lewis knew…

“The other day…” he started. “when I fell ill in the lobby…”

“You don’t have to tell me Lewis” I interrupted him.

“I-I know, but I want to…that word, “winder”, is what I used to get called as a child.”

“Oh…I’m not sure what that means…”

“I know, it’s something very specific, it’s also why it shook me to my core…people used to call me that because I would “wind people up” whenever I talked.” I kept silent.

“That turned into the “winder”…he who would wind people up…me.” It made sense now, I could see why people would say that, after all he also winded me up really good the first time I met him, but it’s now clear to me that there’s much more to him than what it seems. Perhaps we’re not so different me and him.

“Nobody knows this…only those who called me that would know…and I haven’t heard from them in years…whoever or…whatever etched that into the wall, somehow knew.”

That’s when the jigsaw fell into place. It made sense, the way I felt when I met the…shadow, it felt like it looked straight at me, through me. I think that’s also what happened to Lewis, whatever haunts the Shining can see and know everything about us.

I didn’t know how to feel about that, on one hand it really freaked me out, on the other it felt reassuring, I wasn’t on my own on this one. I debated telling him about my experience, I never had the chance of telling him, not that I really wanted to but this seemed the right moment. However he anticipated me:

“I should also tell you something else…”

“What is it?” I asked.

“That day we ran from the house, when we both got ill…I saw something while in the taxi.” I knew it, I remember that moment, he looked back at the house and almost fainted.

“What did you see?”

“When I looked back…I saw what must have been a thousand orange eyes looking at us.”

“Like the eyes of a thousand owls?” I didn’t skip a beat.

“Yes, exactly like that!...how did you kn—“

“I saw them too Lewis…While we were running, yesterday night, they were there in the lobby and again, when we ran away.” I thought that perhaps telling him the truth would make him feel better this time.

“We’re in the same boat.”

“Let’s hope it’s not the Titanic ehehe.” I guess he didn’t lose his sense of “humor”, not sure how I felt about that.

We got to the Shining at about 4:30 PM, that gave us roughly two maybe three hours to look around. The truth of it is that we didn’t have a plan, all we wanted was to chase that high again, we came prepared but it wasn’t out of logic, it was out of cope, we knew we were threading mighty thin ice and we didn’t want to admit it.

Entering the house felt different this time, I didn’t feel any uneasiness or anxiety. It felt like I knew the place, the same way the place knew me, I was getting used to it. I think Lewis also felt this way, he looked the opposite of what he did the last time we were here.

I guess it was also a good opportunity to grab back our equipment, we had left it here in a hurry when we thought we were gonna die a horrible death.

That was still on the table and I think we both knew it but the reward was worth the risk. We didn’t waste much time, we settled our things down on the parquet and went upstairs, the usual lavender smell showing us the way.

The door to room 505 was closed, the way we left it last time when it slammed shut. Everything else also seemed the same, the mural was still there, along with my equipment, nothing out of the ordinary.

“Are you ready?” Asked Lewis.

“Yes, let’s go.” We didn’t have any time to waste, we were itching to get back in there, back to a place that treated us right, somewhere we belong.

Lewis led the way.
He stepped forward.
Grabbed the shiny golden handle and pulled on it.
Nothing happened.

“What is it Lewis?” I asked nervously.

“It-it won’t open”

“What?”

“It won’t fucking open.” He kept on pulling but it just wouldn’t budge.

“There’s no way, let me try” I got right next to him and started to pull on the handle. Not one inch. It was glued shut, it felt like it weighed a million pounds, I might as well have been pulling on a wall.

 “What the fuck.”

“Jesus, it won’t fucking open.”

We both started pulling on it, nothing. We began banging on it, pushing it, scratching at it…nothing. After some time, we collapsed on the floor, defeated. All this trouble, all this effort for nothing. We sat in silence, our minds slowly realizing what this meant. That’s when Lewis freaked out.

“I can’t fucking believe that we can’t open it…how are we supposed to get inside?” He got up and started pacing around the room as I stayed on the floor.

“There must be a way, a key of some sort maybe? You should look at the files you got from the room, they must mean something!” He was not himself, he was neurotic, manic, he was losing control over his urges and that scared me.

“Calm down Lewis, we’ll find a way but you need to slow down.”

“We need to find it now Angela, time is ticking and we don’t have all day, don’t just sit there, do something!”

“Hey don’t you fucking yell at me, I am not happy either that it’s not open but I’m not freaking out like some kind of psycho so just settle down.”

“Don’t you get it Angela? We NEED to get in there or God knows what will happen to us.”

“Are you insane? We can just leave, we don’t have to be here, we can come ba—“

“I need this now.”

“You need to calm down…now.”

“I can’t, I have spent my entire fucking life being calm, now it’s time to demand, it’s time for me to take what I wa--.”

That’s when I slapped him across the face. He took the hit and finally shut up.

“I said, calm down.”

He snapped out of it.

“I-I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me.”

“That’s okay, but you need to control yours—“

BANG, a loud crash coming from downstairs interrupted me, my heart skipping a beat.

 “What was that?” I asked, trembling.

“I don’t know, but I’m gonna find out”

Lewis didn’t skip a beat and went downstairs with a steady pace and a closed fist. It felt good to see him so strong.

I remained upstairs, I like to think of myself as a courageous person but sometimes being brave could also mean being stupid, I wasn’t sure what Lewis was being at that point, and in these cases, it usually means being stupid.

“Hey Angela, you should come down.” His tone was relaxed and calm, there was clearly nothing to fear.

I went downstairs and stopped next to Lewis, he raised his hand and pointed it towards the table in the lobby.

As my gaze followed his finger it stopped just underneath the table, where Berry the black cat sat, eating some of the food I had brought along. The crash was likely Berry knocking it off the table to eat it.

“No way.” I chuckled.

“He’s so cute, isn’t he?”

He walked up to it and picked him up, the cat letting out a squeaky meow. I closely followed and went to pet it, Berry started loudly purring, it was nice and relaxing, they say that a cat’s purr has beneficial effects for humans.

Something about the frequency of the vibrations they make, I don’t know if it’s true or not but it certainly calmed us down, finally allowing us to think straight.

“Look, I don’t know what is happening, but I don’t think it’s good” I said.

“We just need to slow down and take our time…like you said, we could always leave and come back another time, it’s not like it’s going anywhere ehehe.”

Lewis was really not gonna let it go, despite all the weird and bad things that had happened to us, despite the weird effect this whole situation had on our minds…he still wanted to chase that high.

The sad thing is that I didn’t blame him, deep down that’s also all I wanted but I have been through this kind of things before, well, not this fucked up anyway. I know what this thought process gets you and it’s nothing but trouble.

“Alright…well, how about we grab our stuff and leave? It’s already late, the door won’t open and it seems like the right moment to get our things back to the motel.”

Lewis thought about it for a moment.

“Ok Angela…let’s just check one last time if the door is still shut.”

I didn’t have time to reply, Lewis handed me Berry and went upstairs to check. The black cat looked at me with his big yellow eyes, it seemed like he wanted to tell me something, like it was warning me about someone…or something.

In folklore black cats are harbingers of bad luck, the tireless companions of witches and akin to their fellow black ravens and crows. I always found it sad that people would kill these cats because of this reason, they are fantastic creatures and extremely lovable.

To die because of some abstract concept makes one wish that death would treat them better than life did. However there’s one more piece of folklore about cats that always fascinated me. Cats can see or sense spirits. Anybody that has ever had or been around cats will have a story about some creepy or weird behavior they had. Whether it’s staring at a specific point in the room; reacting to seemingly nothing or acting weird after someone’s passing.

“Might not be a bad thing to have you around in here” I thought as that notion came to mind. Berry meowed back, as if he had heard my thoughts; cute.

That’s when his head stood up, eyes wide open and the ears moving around.

Shortly after that a deafening roar shook everything.

My instincts were to hit the ground and cover my ears, it felt like an artillery shell had just landed a couple of feet from me, the house creaking around, Berry bolting away to safety.

“What the fuck happened.” I said quietly under my breath.

Darkness enveloped everything around me, not the same darkness I saw in room 505, it was as if someone had dimmed the sun down, dropping us into a twilight like atmosphere.

Then came the tapping. A waterfall dropping on the house. I looked outside of the window to see heavy rain falling all around, the darkness being the product of heavy overcast blocking the sun, the roar being thunder. In a matter of seconds a storm had gathered right outside the door.

“Angela, are you okay?” I heard shouting from upstairs.

“Y-yeah, are you?”

“Yeah, come up.”

I got up and went upstairs, the deafening sound of rain hitting the roof accompanying me every step of the way.
Lewis stood in front of room 505.

“Lewis?”

“It just won’t budge.”

“That’s okay…let’s just leave, it started raining, didn’t you notice?”

“Uh? Oh yeah…it started raining” He looked distracted, didn’t seem at all worried about the sudden and intense storm. I came up next to him and grabbed his hand.

“Come on, Lewis…let’s go” I said softly.

“Yeah…yeah…I’ll-I’ll call a taxi.” He finally took his eyes off of the door, the rain in the background silencing any other sound.

“Oh...my phone’s dead.” He said abruptly.

“What?”

“Look…the battery’s dead.” He turned his phone over to me, on the screen the irrefutable proof of no power, “You should call it.”

I got out my phone and went to unlock it.

Nothing happened. Black screen.

I went to unlock it again.

The empty battery sign flashed on the screen.

“What the--  How is that possible it worked flawlessly until now, it was at 95% battery.” I pushed back, we had no way to call anyone, no way to message anyone, no internet, nothing.

“I-I don’t know but it must be a sign! Something is happening don’t you see? The storm and the batteries, it can’t be a coincidence!” Lewis was right, it did not sound like a coincidence but the most dreadful thing is that he believed it to be a good thing.

“There must be a way to get in, or we wouldn’t be here.”

“I think you’re just seeing things Lewis…how about we leave anyway?” I replied with despair in my voice.

“What? Are you crazy? Don’t you see there’s a storm outside? It’s dangerous.”

“Oh because staying in here is so much better.”

“Yes it is, what if the door finally opens?”

“Lewis you’re scaring me, the door is not gonna fucking open, this feels like a fucking trap, we’re fucking trapped in here.”

“We have no choice Angela, the storm outside is too strong and too dangerous, the nearest town is a 40 minute drive and we have no way to call for help…the best thing we can do is wait it out…and hope for the best.”

I hated the fact that he had a point. The logical solution was to just wait for the storm to die down and then just get out.

After all, rule number one is “if you have shelter, stay with shelter.” the problem arises when your shelter might not be what you think it is.

“Fine, but as soon as it slows down, we’re going.”

“Of course.”

I had decided that if shit hit the fan, I was gonna leave anyway, with or without the storm, with or without Lewis.

The rain was pounding the roof and the wind howled, echoing across the house. It was pretty late in the afternoon at that point and the clouds covered the sun completely, the little light that filtered through, was quickly fading away and darkness was setting in.

We set up camp upstairs so that we could keep an eye on the fifth room, Lewis was hoping that it would magically open, I dreaded it. The same way we might have gotten in, something might have come out.
We sat down underneath the mural, eating a snack and just waiting.

“Do you have those files?” Lewis asked.

“Yeah, I have them here but there really isn’t much you can gather from them.”

“Can I see them anyway?”

“Yeah” I replied, annoyed, handing them over. He took a look at them, as I told him, not much to see.

“Do you think this place is haunted?”

“I don’t know…this place certainly isn’t normal.”

“Could it be that all those figures we saw were ghosts? Trapped in here for some reason?”

“I think you might have watched too many horror movies.”

“Come on Angela, are you really telling me that after all we’ve been through you haven’t questioned your beliefs at all?”

“I don’t know what to believe anymore Lewis, I just know that I don’t like this place.”

“I don’t like it either you know?”

“Oh really? It doesn’t seem like it.”

“You’ve felt that way too, you remember.” I did feel that way too and at that point I was fighting every inch of my body to not fall into that spiral of desire, not to fall victim to the cravings that I felt.

I like to think I was doing a good job, I have always been good at separating my heart from my mind, even when I ended up following my gut. This time I knew there was a lot more than just pleasure at stake.

“Yes…I remember, but we have to keep our head Lewis, we can’t just go crazy.”

“I know, I know, as soon as we can we’ll get out.”

I was on edge, every possible outcome didn’t seem particularly good at that point, part of me knew that the better solution would be that damn door opening, going in there and just letting go, letting the universe envelop me and stop worrying about everything.

I knew it was some kind of death wish, who knew what that fucking room was, it could have been hell. Except it didn’t feel like it, it felt like heaven, peace at last.

It felt like complete silence, when is the last time that you actually couldn’t hear anything? I remember each one, it only happened twice, it’s a sort of realization, some kind of epiphany, you think “fuck, there is complete silence right now” even your thoughts seem incredibly loud in comparison, that’s the closest I have ever been to feeling at peace. Room 505 promised that and so much more.

“Can I ask about your tattoos?” Lewis snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Y-yeah, sure.”

“I didn’t really get a chance last time it came up.”

“Yeah well, it wasn’t the right moment, sorry” Not that this was the right moment, but it’s not like we had things to do.

I was fascinated by Lewis, he somehow changed from the first time I met him and remained the same at the same time. He was both the annoying dork that pissed me off and also the man with a tormented past full of confidence that had gotten the best of me. Really made me think about this old Japanese saying I once read: “A man is whatever room he’s in”.

“Why do you have so many?”

I usually respond sarcastically to these kind of questions, nine times out of ten they come from people ready to judge me, saying dumb stuff like “do you know they last forever?” or “what if you regret them later?”, stupid questions deserve stupid answers.

This time however, I thought I’d be nice for once.

“I think that in a world where nothing lasts forever, the opportunity to carry something with you until you die is a delicate and very special one, I take pride in knowing that I didn’t pass up on it.”

Lewis stayed silent, you could tell he liked that answer.

“…Plus they look cool as fuck.”

We both chuckled.

“That’s a nice philosophy I must say, I always wanted to get one but…you know, never really got around to make that decision.”

“What did you want to get?”

“It might sound dumb but…I wanted to get a firefly.”

“That doesn’t sound dumb, look what I have.” I lifted up my sleeve, pointing at the moth I have tattooed on my inner forearm.

“Yeah I saw that” he chuckled, I smiled. “It’s my favorite out of the ones you have.”

“Really? It’s not bad but also nothing to write home about.”

“You know I always wondered…can’t the flame come up to the moth for a change?”

“W-well…I never thought about that.” It somewhat left me speechless, I thought that was a pretty deep thought, I remember getting that tattoo simply because I thought it would look cool on me but now, it sort of developed into a whole new meaning.

“Do you think moths go after fireflies in the woods?”

There was a moment of silence, and then I kissed him. He may have been annoying and a dork, but he knew what to say to get me.

It felt good, it felt like the right thing to do, I didn’t question what it meant. In that moment it was the one thing that would give me relief, it felt like everything was going to be okay.

The kissing became a lot more passionate, we started touching each other and we were soon in the mood for a lot more than just kissing. We never got that far unfortunately.

The now dark room was quickly lit up by a flash of light, followed by a deafening thunder that, again, shook the whole house. It startled us; until that moment, other than the first one, only rain and the howling of the wind inhabited the house.

“Fuck, is it getting worse?” I asked.

“I don’t know, I don’t care.” replied Lewis, quickly going back to kiss my neck.

Another flash.

“Oh what the fuck” shouted Lewis. Thunder.

“What? What is it?” I reacted.

Lewis got off of me and rested his back on the wall, eyes wide open.

“Did you see that? There was someone there.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I was starting to get scared.

Another flash.

This time I saw it too.

As the room lit up, there, on the wall opposite to us, stood a shadow figure.

The same silhouette I saw before. Thunder. The smell of tobacco assaulting our nostrils.

Back to darkness, yet we knew we weren’t alone anymore.

“Holy shit I saw that as well.” I trembled.

Me and Lewis got close, supporting each other, back against the wall.

Another flash, another figure.

It was two of them now. Thunder.

The second one was new, it was a taller silhouette, standing next to the first one.

“Jesus Christ it’s him.” whispered Lewis in a terrified voice.

“Who the fuck are you talking about?”

“The smiling person.”

Out of all the things, that was the last one I wanted to hear.

Flash. The same two silhouettes, the second one had a big, white, teethy smile on what would be its face. Thunder.

The smile lingered as the room fell into darkness once again. It felt the same as when you look at something really bright, a bare light bulb for example, and when you look away you can still see that impression.

I got the switchblade from the pocket of my backpack. Not sure what I was going to do with it, but it made me feel less naked. Lewis popped open one of the glow sticks he had brought, a faint green light enveloped our immediate surroundings.

Flash. The silhouettes moved closer. One on the left wall, one on the right, close to the stairs. Thunder.

“They’re coming for us.” squeaked Lewis.

“We need to get the fuck out.”  I replied.

“Go!” shouted Lewis.

It was at that moment that we both sprung up and sprinted for the stairs, grabbing whatever we could.
I got almost halfway to the stairs when I heard “Wait” whispered in my ear.

I stopped. In a split second I recognized that voice. I had heard it in my dreams. At that moment I knew there was nothing to fear, the panic vanished but the adrenaline kept on pumping.

“Lewis, stop! Wait!” I shouted.

He was already gone, he kept on running without looking back and disappeared in the darkness below the stairs. I stood frozen in place. I could not move, it felt as if someone was holding me.

I look around.

Flash. The shadow is now standing right next to the fogged up window. Thunder.

In the darkness, the faint glow of Lewis’ stick reflected on the window where, suddenly, letters began to appear.

It was as if someone was writing on the foggy window with their finger.

I was finally able to move, I slowly made my way over, picking up the glowstick on the way. As I got closer, it became clear what was written on it.

“don’t go.” The shadows were communicating with me.

“W-why?” I let out in a frail voice.

“not safe.”

“What-what the fuck am I supposed to do then?”

“wait for him” appeared back.

I settled down, these…spirits, were telling me to wait for what I could only imagine to be Lewis. I didn’t feel threatened, I didn’t feel in danger, I knew they were not going to hurt me.

The adrenaline crash hit me fast and hard, my shaky legs crumbled and I fell to the ground, my eyes slowly closing, my consciousness steadily fading away.

I woke up some time later, the feeling of something wet hitting me in the face quickly woke me up. It was Berry, he had come back and was licking me in the face.

“Lewis?” I innocently called out, still in a daze.

The realization of where I was quickly came back to me and I immediately went into high alert. The only one that replied was Berry which now kept close to me.

Silence all around. I looked outside the window to see that the rain had stopped and moonlight was now shining through, offering me a respite from darkness. How long was I out? How long has it been night?

On the window the evidence of previous conversation was slowly fading away as the rain had stopped God knows how long ago. One word, however, stood out from the rest, one I didn’t recall.

“hide”

I looked at it confused, desperately trying to remember when that happened and still trying to collect all the fuzzy memories from before I passed out.

I didn’t have enough time to do that as Berry quickly snapped its head towards the stairs, a loud hiss escaping its mouth.

Shortly after a loud BANG came from downstairs.

“ANGELA?” I heard shouting. It was Lewis, he was back.

“LEWIS? Is that you?” I shouted back.

“Yes, it’s me, you’d never believe what happened to me!” His voice was upbeat, happy, full of anticipation and pride. It felt off.

“I’m coming upstairs.”

Berry growled, his fur standing on end, he was ready for a fight. Instinctively I grabbed my switchblade, this time I knew it would be useful if needed.

I held my breath as I heard each step come up the stairs, I was hoping Lewis had found help for us to get out but it seemed like Berry knew something I didn’t. The message left by the spirits now made sense, they had anticipated his return, I wasn’t going to hide.

The way the moonlight entered the house, the top of the stairs were still dark, you could see just enough to understand whether there was someone there or not. As the steps got closer, I could see the silhouette come up.

It really was Lewis.

He stopped at the top of the stairs, still in the shadows.

“It finally happened Angela!” he said, not moving a muscle.

“What happened? Y-you just ran away, I-I-I stayed here Lewis, they told me to stay, I-I tried to tell you but you just didn’t stop.”

“That’s okay Angela, they lied to you anyway.”

“What…?”

“I got us some help! You think they want the best for you? That they’re here to protect you? TO WARN YOU?” His tone shifted, he became aggressive, assertive, loud.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“They’re not who you think they are, they’re not like him, they won’t help you…he will, you can trust him.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t you understand?” Lewis slowly started to come closer.

“He told me the truth.” Another step forward.

“He showed me the way.”

Lewis finally stepped into the moonlight, his clothes were raggedy, covered in mud and wet from head to toe, sticks and leaves were stuck all over him, it looked like he rolled down a hill.

Behind those thick glasses, where those beautifully confident eyes sat, were now two deep bloody holes.

“I was blind but now I see.”

“Oh God.” I screamed in shock, tears rolling down my eyes, hands shaking yet resolute in hitting the switch on the knife, snapping forward like a spring.

“Stay where you are Lewis.” I threatened, knife pointed at him.

“Don’t be afraid Angela, you’ll soon join me, you’ll soon see” He replied in a soft, calm voice.

From below a series of huge stomps began to echo through the house, slowly getting closer, the floor below me trembling.

“W-What the fuck is that?” I asked, terrified at a proper response.

“It’s him, he’s here.” Replied Lewis as he got on his knees.

The heavy steps were right beneath me and they quickly made their way to the stairs, after only a couple of steps, I began to see something emerge from them.

A glowing dark red light pierced through the shadows, getting stronger and stronger.

Along with it, a pair of horns appeared from the steps, slowly revealing the goat like head they stood on, a pair of blood red eyes soon stared back at me as the entire figure stepped forth. A giant, 6’5’ body of muscle covered in thick black fur, standing on its hind hooves, a white human grin rested on its face, reflected by the filtered moonlight.

Sharp black shiny claws tickled the wall, a grinding sound echoing through the room.

“This is it.” I thought, end of the line.

There’s no way I’d be able to escape this monstrosity, the realization that I would spend the last moments of my life in absolute terror, staring at unfathomable horror, waiting for a painful and violent death…or something worse, really saddened me.

I stood there in absolute terror, all the confidence I had before evaporating in an instant. I wasn’t going to fight that, I didn’t even think about it.

My mind was overwhelmed by the sheer horror of what stood in front of me. I felt at peace. The pain would end, the sadness would end, everything would end. Soon total darkness would finally envelop me, and total silence would settle in.

Except it didn’t.

An overwhelming flash of light exploded from the window behind me, soon followed by a deafening thunder which mixed in with the roaring screech of pain coming from the monster’s throat. Its claws shielding the red eyes, its balance shaking.

“RUN.” I heard coming from somewhere in the room. I wasn’t going to question the nature of that voice.

I instinctively grabbed Berry, clutching him with my left arm, the right one busy wielding the knife.

I sprinted towards the abomination, my heart in my throat, adrenaline in my veins.

I got past Lewis and soon found myself face to face with the giant, the strong smell of rot and death coming from its fur almost making me vomit.
I didn’t stop.

I ran my knife into its right leg, a crunchy sound escaping it, dark red blood pouring from the wound.
A sharper screech so loud it must have been heard for miles silenced every other sound.
I made my way down the steps of the stairs, looking back over my shoulder.

The looming figure reeled, blinded by the light and the pain, its claws ripping into Lewis in a fit of rage, turning him into nothing more than a cloud of red mist, what was left of him sat lifeless and untouched on the perfect, parquet floor.

I sprinted outside, the cold breeze of the night caressing my hair, goose bumps on my skin, tears down my cheeks.

I kept running, didn’t matter where, my eyes locked on my feet, carefully making sure I didn’t trip on the many roots of the woods.

It wasn’t raining but the drops of water falling from the trees echoed a relaxing symphony. Berry kept silent and close, its claws digging into my sweater, making sure he wasn’t going anywhere.

After a while I stopped, exhausted. It was the middle of the night and I was somewhere in the thick bayou, clueless, scared and cold.

...

The sharp sting of an open palmed slap emanated from my cheek and jolted me back into the waking world. Startled by the pain, I tried to cry out but found my mouth sealed shut. Several thick strands of duct tape ran around my skull keeping me quiet. When I tried to reach for it I found that one hand moved and the other was bound tight to the chain I sat in. Another slap came when my free hand touched my face along with a gruff warning to keep still. Wiggling my feet, I could feel that my ankles were also bound in place along the chair legs. 

The third slap sent the message home. Keep still. Got it.

Quickly, I turned my attention to my surroundings to assess the situation. I was not alone in my captivity. The chair I had been strapped to sat against a drab green poker table, flanked by three others - all with people tied up in a similar fashion. I recognized them all. Two I knew by name. Harold sat across from me stoic, while Miss Lin sat to my left, red faced and teary eyed. The third man to my right was looking around bug eyed. We all frequented the same casino. Slowly I was putting two and two together. 

“Glad you all could join us.” Came the weaselly voice of Jeb Montgomery. He stood to the side of the table with a guerilla of a man, the man that had been slapping me silly, beside him. He leered over us smugly. 

Ah shit. I thought. 

Jeb was a big time financier in the light of day, but he had liked to spend his time in the dark as a loan shark, and a damn right mean one. Everybody knew he was trouble, but the problem with having an inch that you can’t scratch is that eventually you’re willing to overlook trouble.

I unfortunately had that itch. Cursed with an addictive personality and being just good enough at card games to get into trouble, I soon found myself in need of Jeb's services. For me it wasn’t about the money. Hell I won enough that I could probably make a living if I stuck to the low stakes tables, but I was after the thrill. The bigger the bet, the more on the line, good God, the better that win felt. The problem with that is all it takes is one big loss to put you too far in the hole to get out, and just last week I had lost big. 

“Now I’m sure you geniuses already know why you’ve been gathered here this evening.” Jeb continued.

 “All of you owe me, yet none of you can pay. That’s something we’re going to have to fix.”

The giant man at his side produced a shiny snub nose revolver and everyone’s eyes went wide. The bug eyed man began to struggle in the chair. His efforts were rewarded with the smack of that same steel across the bridge of his nose, breaking it and slumping the man to a halt. 

The large man now produced a bullet from his pocket and placed it into the gun. He gave the wheel a spin and palmed the revolver into bug eye’s hand, lifting it and the gun with his own, using the man as a puppet. 

“Russian roulette is a simple game.” Jeb said. “Spin the wheel, place the gun, pull the trigger. If you hear a click, congratulations!” He clapped. “If not, well…”

He trailed off and gave the big man a nod. He lifted the gun to bug eyes’ head and pulled the trigger.  The thunderous rapport of the revolver bounced and echoed in the confined basement, causing my ears to ring. I could feel the wetness of blood and brain matter decorating the side of my face.

“Ooh! Bad luck!” Jeb said as the big guy let the man slump to the table and emptied the revolver. Six shells fell from the chamber.

“Okay, we might have rigged that one, but now you guys are playing for real.” Jeb said. “Last man standing lives to fight another day. Good luck.” He laughed. 

Click, click, click, click, click, click, click. The wheel of the revolver spun and the large man placed it in my hand. Trembling, I lifted the gun to my head, took a breath and pulled the trigger. 

Click.

The endorphins that rushed through me were exquisite. I wanted to pull the damn thing again, I had just played the highest stake hand of my life and I had won it. This was gambling.

The wheel spun and the gun passed to Miss Lin. I could hear her sigh of relief under the gag when another click came. Harold wasn’t so lucky; the poor man didn’t even make it past the first round. It was one on one between Lin and me and boy were we on a hot streak.

 Back and forth the revolver passed but that shot never came. God we were good. Every time that steel touched my hand my excitement grew, but as I put the barrel to my head for the tenth time, I paused. Something about it didn’t feel right. This was it. The live round. Shit. I couldn’t lose now.

In a flash, I turned the gun from my head and pulled the trigger. Jeb cried out in shock as Miss Lin’s skull erupted. The big man was already on me, but I had dropped the gun. I did it. I won. I fucking won.

Jeb might have been a mean son of a bitch but he was a man of his word. Let me go and I thanked him by taking out another loan and heading straight to the casino. Lost it all before the end of the night.

I had a huge smile on my face as I went home broke.

Jeb was going to have to let me play again.

I think I’m starting to remember now. The Garden, Eve, Lilith, Eden, Pentious, Mother Death, everything. I wasn’t supposed to remember, I never wanted to in the first place. I sat there in silence, Frank keeping me company- the clouds had already moved on and the sun was back to its bright jolly self- none of us spoke for what seemed like hours. I noticed movement within my peripheral, turning to face the direction of the movement, there in the brush stood an opossum. A mother with all its babies clinging to its back and belly.
“Mother Death,” Franklin started as he made his way towards the momma opossum, “Used to call these woods her home.” The mother opossum did not see my associate as a threat, if it did she would already have been hissing and drooling the moment he even started moving. Instead, she let her babies dismount and roam about freely. There were so many of them, as finite as the stars you would see in the night sky. Franklin knelt down, his hand extended to The Mother, as if he were her humble servant waiting for a miracle. The creature sniffed his hand before giving it a gentle nudge with its nose.
Mother Death had heard the cries of that little indigenous girl, She had failed to save her in time. Instead of doing Her godly duties She was too focused on punishing the sinners, blinded by rage, Mother Death was left to face Her own sins- ever since that day She had tried to right Her wrongs, only to fail time and time again. For what was a god without anyone to believe in Them? She had to start anew. A new cycle, followed by more to come. In her anguish, she did something that no parent should have to do, she made her own children bear the weight of her sins alongside her. What could they have done? They were just children. Mother Death did not take pride in what she did, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.
“You’re dead, Adam.” Franklin spoke softly, “The both of you need to accept that.” When he turned to face me, there was a little albino opossum joey resting comfortably in his shirt pocket. The little creature was sound asleep, as if they had no care in the world. He was right, for once in this cycle of insanity, I knew he was right but something within me still wanted- commanded me to resist.
“You don’t know that.” I kept my voice steady, “Just like we don’t know if Mother Death did banish Oriville to The Umbra.” I watched as the taller man clenched his jaw, steam practically wafting out of his ears. I knew I had said the wrong thing, but something about it felt so familiar. I think I may have had this interaction before, with the same man that was standing right in front of me. Yet it felt all so distant and fictional at the same time. I didn’t have time to collect my thoughts when Franklin closed the distance between us and socked me square in the jaw.
I recoiled upon impact, stars littering the edge of my vision, my eyes fell upon Frank only to see that he didn’t look quite so human anymore. Hot breath seeped from out of his clenched jaw, rows of sharp fangs and teeth were bared at me. The man was like a rabid dog- no, a rabid wolf. I could taste iron on my tongue, I steadied myself only for this creature to send its other fist straight into my stomach taking the wind out of me. I fell to my knees clutching my stomach, coughing and wheezing, why was he doing this? Just as Frank grabbed a clump of my hair the mother opossum jumped into the space between us, hissing and snarling at the blonde man. The both of us were silent in shock for a moment as we watched this little creature, she was protecting me?
Frank looked as if he were a toddler being scolded by his own mother, he drew his hands back in a defensive gesture, looking more and more like a human again. He was an awkward mess of words, spluttering out apologies- even trying to bargain with the nocturnal creature, “But, ma’am-” he was cut off by a loud hiss and aggressive stomp from the small creature before he relented and lowered his head in shame. The albino opossum joey now making their way out of his chest pocket and onto his shoulder, also hissing and stomping their tiny little paws. Frank looked as if he were about to cry, before he nodded and gently placed the small creature in the grass next to its mama.
“I’m sorry I hit you.” Frank mumbled, refusing to even look at me. I was stunned to say the least, “I gotta go, tell Lyn I said bye.” and with that he followed the family of opossums into the woods. By that point, I was too confused to even call after him. I sat back down on the porch, running my hands through my hair as I tried to process everything that had just happened, where the hell was Lyn? Hadn’t they been gone for a good while now? I looked up to the sky, the sun had already clocked out and in his place was the full moon. She was stunning.
A rustling in the bushes caught my attention, when I turned to look in that direction I saw the silhouette of a deer. Its outline of its antlers were like snakes poking out of a woven basket to listen to the snake charmer’s call. My skeleton had nearly leapt out from its flesh mech suit when the bright yellow glowing eyes of the creature stared directly at me. I was quick to act, I did not want to repeat the same mistake twice, and I drew my pistol- before I could even pull the trigger the deer lowered its head into the bushes, the shadowy outline of its serpentine antlers remained visible.
“What are you looking at?” Lyn’s voice came from behind me, causing me to almost jump out of my skin.
“Jesus!” I yelped, turning to look at them. Instead of the silk dress, an expression of their femininity, they sported a more masculine kind of outfit. It amazed me that regardless of what form they took- whether it be male or female- they were beautiful. Lyn smiled and sat beside me, moonlight reflecting off the shades of red in their eyes like a stained glass window you would see above the altar in a catholic church. I knew I had to remember what happened, how I fell and what caused me to be stuck in this seemingly endless cycle. Was Mother Death responsible for this unanswered question that has been tormenting my mind for- who knows how long now. What was my life before this place? Before Arcadia? Before Eve and The Garden?
“I missed this.” Lyn rested their head on my shoulder, we were in Eden again- no, between spaces, yet there sat the Tree of Knowledge. “I missed you.”
“E- Eve?” I whispered in disbelief, hoping to whatever god would listen that Eve didn’t hear.
“Oh god,” they chuckled, “I haven’t heard that name in ages. How long has it been? Decades? Centuries? More?”

*I’m not supposed to be here- we’re not supposed to be here- in this space, this time, this reality.* We had slipped behind the veil and I fear what was, what is, and what is to come.

Seven Weeks into the Voyage Part 1

Seven weeks. Seven weeks on board what was once considered to be a grand galleon of a ship. Seven weeks with an understaffed crew. Seven weeks aboard a ship we all knew didn’t have much more life in her. Not when she had first been commissioned over two decades ago and needed repairs beyond what we could do ourselves. Of course, none of us said any of this out loud. Not one of the seventy-five crew members would ever even dream of voicing these kinds of thoughts aloud. But, we all knew. We all had the same look in our eyes when she creaked with a waves’ force. We all got the same look when she made a snapping sound. A look of worry, dread, almost. A prayer, raised up to the clouds, quickly followed it. 

No one dared whisper their worries aloud when the sea had a mind of its own. Not when some days you were blessed with sun-kissed winds, a soft feminine caress on your cheek. Not when it could change up on you without warning. Not when that gentle womanly touch that all men savored could switch to a witch’s shriek, a rage filled cackle. A murderess summoning you to her sunless abyss. No one dared tempt her to turn favor against us by uttering one foul word about the sea nor the ship. Especially when we’d only had calm, benevolent seas these last seven weeks. For all we knew and furthermore, said aloud, the ship was a godsend, a miracle we should all be grateful for. 

To a sailor, your ship was your life. She held you safe in her belly, where all life began. Perhaps that’s why we refer to ships as feminine. All life begins with a woman, afterall. A woman carries you in her womb, a sea of liquid life; a ship carries her sons through an ancient primordial sea full of sentient life. 

You did not question the temptress of the chasm beneath the ship. Instead you praised her. You thanked her every morning you woke, each day you had wind in your sails, each day you felt the salty spray of the sea on your skin. And on each night she gently rocked you, her soothing rhythm lulling you to sleep, you said a prayer to her. Asking her to keep you safe. To bless you once more, to wake and feel the sun on your face and wind in your hair.

There were only two types of sailors in the world. Those that honored the sea and all she controlled. And those that treated being out at sea as just a job. As though the legends and myths were just that; stories. Stories that were told to us as children to deter us from going into the water. Stories told to frighten us. Those that didn’t honor her. The ones that spoke with a young, wild defiance. Those that had not been allowed on board for this voyage. They’d not even been allowed to see us off. Good men, respectable, even. Men that had even been my friends for years. Men I wished had been on board. 

Captain Thornecroft was not a man to be trifled with. He had been sailing longer than I had. I had been on his crew for the last eleven years. He had been the first mate when I first set foot on the Fyrwitgeorn and had taught me most of what I know. Seven years ago he made me his first mate when he took over as Captain. I was honored and hadn’t looked back since. 

In all the years I’d been on board, we had never been on a voyage like this. Never before had I seen the wary look in the Captain’s eyes. Not when we had encountered terrifying weather, not when we had lost our bearing and had feared we would perish from starvation, not when we had been boarded by pirates five years ago. 

The look in his eyes had been there since the day we left our home port. Ever since the prominent occultist had set his polished leather boot on the deck of the Fyrwitgeorn. The moment I saw the bespectacled man on the main deck as I was overseeing cargo being sorted, I knew this voyage was going to be different. The winds immediately shifted, grew cold, as the clouds rolled in and blocked out the sun entirely.   

I was sure the Captain felt it too. Noticed the weather shift as he boarded. His eyes had narrowed on the peculiar man. Our benefactor for this voyage. Then the Captain turned and looked out towards the sea. As if it would tell him something, warn him if need be. 
I knew the wind shifting that quickly was a bad omen. I knew, even without the Captain saying it, that this was why he had cleaved our crew in half. He would not tolerate bad omens even from his own crew. 

Seventy-five of us remained or seventy-six if you counted the occultist as well. Bad omen to have a man like that on board a ship. Bad omens, indeed.   

That had been seven weeks ago though. We had all ignored it, ignored the occultist altogether. Left him to his frenetic scribblings, leather-bound journals and random leaflets. We had ignored him, too busy with the bustling of a new voyage. We’d all been well rested and eager to be back out on the water. 

Out at sea. The sea that called to every bone in our bodies. Seven weeks ago with a skeleton crew in comparison to what we usually went out with. Just to appease the siren who ruled the watery depths beneath us. Whose song was one only we knew. Whose song was the rhythm that coursed through our veins. 

A song that was made for us, her devout sons. 
The sailors that worshipped her before all others.

Seven weeks later and the excitement had diminished. The sense of adventure had worn off entirely. In its place, a heavy blanket of fatigue had settled over us. All except for the occultist. William Beauforte. He still kept to himself, he didn’t mingle with the sailors. He kept in regular contact with the  Captain though, he didn’t seem to mind that I was around to hear most of their conversations. I kept quiet and kept my thoughts to myself. Made myself seem too preoccupied to care about what Beauforte was saying to Captain Thornecroft.

The sailors kept busy with work even through the fatigue. Some of us handled it better than the others. Those of us that had been sailing for as long as I had known there were moments like this on almost every cruise we had been on. Moments where others had to step up and take on extra work duties. We knew that being idle would only make it all worse. Everyone had double the workload. Everyone had extra work assignments that they usually didn’t have. The men were feeling the frustration of a long and difficult voyage with seemingly no end in sight. 

Our fresh produce had run out or been salvaged by some pickling liquid or dried out with salt or fed to the livestock we had on board kept in the back of the cargo hold. Chickens, pigs and a few sheep. I missed the freshness. My God, how I wished for something fresh. A sweet crisp apple would do wonders for morale. My stomach rumbled and I stifled down my hunger. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t hungry. “Least not for any of Smythe’s shite.” I whispered, chuckling quietly to myself. 

Failing to notice that Captain Thornecroft had appeared next to me as I had been lost in thought. Reminiscing about apples. Remembering myself, my role, “Captain.” I said with a subtle nod of my head in greeting. I hoped he hadn’t heard what I had said about Smythe’s cooking. After eleven years of sailing with him I knew he didn’t mind me being informal with him but some habits were hard to abandon. 

He looked over at me and for the first time in weeks his eyes seemed less haunted, amused even. He leaned in closer to me and whispered, “Smythe’s cooking is shite. I look forward to Cooke’s cooking again.” I balked at him, surprised at his candor. At the surprise on my face he said, “Come now, Finn, we both know that Smythe is a piss poor replacement for Cooke. Not even I can ignore such… horrid food, if you could even call it that. Cooke would be livid with Smythe.” He chuckled as did I, imagining Cooke looking on in horror as Smythe put a pot of pickled vegetables in some murky liquid on a table and called it “dinner”. 
I missed the man who had been a godsend when he’d been hired five years ago, he changed every voyage for the better. He never skimped on flavour either. “Surely, Captain, we could have left Smythe on shore and brought Cooke with us, right?” He sighed and rubbed a calloused hand over his jaw, then smoothed his beard  before saying, “Conrad, Finn, how many times have I told you that you need not be so formal when it is just the two of us? Seven years as my first mate you’d think you’d be capable of calling me Conrad by now.” 

Bowing my head, “Sorry Cap-, I mean Conrad, habits are hard for me to break.” He nodded. I knew he understood. He answered my original question, “You keep all of this between us, Finnegan, only us.” His tone was icy, grave, oddly serious. I made eye contact with him as I nodded in agreement. It was obvious something had been amiss since we had set sail.
He had my complete and undivided attention. “I could not, no… would not, risk having any of our sailors who scoff at the legends on board. Not for this. Not with what we’re out here doing.” I interrupted him, “What are we doing this far out here? With HALF our crew? And what is with that man, Beauforte? No one feels comfortable, Conrad.” I knew I had been whispering but it felt like I had been yelling. My frustration of not having the full story finally coming to the surface. “Apologies Captain, I know I shouldn’t question your orders. I know I should trust you.” 

The Captain looked out at the water, past the sails flapping with the wind, then that gaze turned and settled on the crew. I realized they had been singing a shanty. One about home and the touch of a woman. Conrad and I had sung that very same shanty my first day on board. My first day as a sailor. Eleven years ago. When Conrad had held my position as first mate to the Captain. I wondered if he remembered that day. He remained silent. The song picked up and the boys rang out louder, feeding off one another’s joy of a simple moment.   

He must have been waiting for the volume to increase as the boys reached the chorus. He spoke quickly, intently while he kept his facial expression content, despite his words. “Listen closely, Finn. Do not show any concern or fear, keep calm the entire time and do not interrupt me.” I knew my eyes widened at his words, felt my heart beat faster. “William Beauforte is funding this entire expedition. He paid to have us crew for him for five full years, Finn! Five years! All we are supposed to do is take him where the Spaniards found that island, Guam. Says he has some research to do there, that’s all. But as the days have passed us by… something seems strange. Beauforte is a puzzle and I cannot figure him out. Each day we’ve gotten closer to Guam he seems more and more anxious. Muttering to himself. Frantically taking notes in his cabin. The man is strange, Finn. I do not trust him.” 
Keeping my voice calm and low, “Captain.. We have only been sailing for less than two months. We still have five months before we reach those shores.” My mind was reeling. This was too far with a smaller crew. This was going to be impossible. 

The song started to fade and I wanted to bellow at them to keep singing. “I know, Finn. Trust me. I’m watching him. If he looks like he’s going to start trouble we will lock him up until we get to Guam, I swear it. I cleaved the crew in half because of what Beauforte studies. I didn’t want to risk it, Finn. I only wanted the good sailors, better than good, ones that believe in honoring the sea as we do.” I had guessed it. He had been paranoid about the occultist. “When he met me to hire us he told me how much he would offer first, I was stunned. He brought out a contract and made me sign it before he told me anything else. He looked meek enough that I didn’t expect anything too intense… Then he told me what he is studying. Looking for, more so.” What sinister thing could be on the shores of Guam? 
The boys just below us on the deck began shifting the sails to catch more of the wind as one of the deck hands who’d been sailing as long as me now, began to sing. A low, somber ballad. The others joined in and soon the entire deck was filled with deep, rich tones of a man telling his wife why he left her for the sea and never came back. 
“What is he looking for?” I whispered. Captain’s voice was grave, “He’s looking into unusual accounts from sailors since they found the island.” That’s what has him scared? His voice was so quiet I could barely hear him when he let out a breath and said, “Sailors that say they saw something in the water. Sailors that now refuse to set foot on board a ship ever again. Sailors who will never feel the spray of the sea on their skin again. Sailors who will never answer the call again.” 

His eyes were dull, full of grief. His expression was grim. I found myself saying, “Well then, we’ll just have to keep our eyes on him. If need be we can lock him up in the brig if he becomes a threat. I’ve got your back, Conrad.” He turned to me, some light returning to his eyes and gave me a grateful nod. He turned back to the water, staring dead ahead at the horizon, as if he was waiting to see something. 

A moment passed and he said softly, “Don’t tell the crew, I don’t want them to panic.” I nodded, “Aye, Captain.” I turned to walk back to my quarters and looked back at him. Stoic, ready to weather the storm. 

I’ve spent a little over half of my 54 year-old life driving a Peterbilt. I’ve hauled everything from frozen food to industrial chemicals across every interstate of this country. “How far” becomes “how much time” and quickly, 12-hour drives don’t seem all too bad. When you spend that much time on the road, the world starts to shrink so small that it becomes nothing but you, the glow of the gauges, and the hypnotic white noise of the tires meeting asphalt. It’s one thing to take road trips that last only a few hours and go from city to city, but most of you don’t spend enough time in the "Dead Zones.” Those are stretches of highway where the GPS turns into a useless blue triangle and your cell signal flatlines into a hollow 'No Service'. We truckers live in those zones. 

If you’ve traversed these zones for as long as I have, you’ve probably experienced some strange things. Abandoned trucks in ditches, skeletal remains of burnt sedans, a hitchhiker that seems to vanish as you pass by, the smell of old copper filling up your dense cabin, or the sound of static emanating from your broken radio. I have survived enough Dead Zones to tell you that it all is connected. It all relates to Radio Station 444 AM. 

If you are a night-shifter, a long-hauler, or just someone driving home way too late, you need to listen. At 4:44 AM, if you are caught within the hearts of any of America’s Dead Zones, your radio, whether off, on, or broken, will tune itself to station 444 AM. Greeting you through the quieting static will be a voice that still haunts my dreams. We call him the Dispatcher. He’s got a voice like a late-night jazz DJ, smooth, professional, and confident. He never plays any music on his station. Instead, he reads off a Manifest. 

The first time I heard about Radio Station 444 AM, I was slumped over a basket of greasy fries at a diner outside of a small town that I don’t remember the name of. It was midweek, maybe 3:00 AM, split between three egregiously long days. I was sitting with an old-timer, whom I only knew as "Cutter." He was more than twice my age at the time and was the kind of guy who looked like he’d been carved out of a hickory stump. He had the works of a seasoned driver: leathery, wrinkled skin, eyes that had seen too many horizons, and hands that shook just a little too much before his daily caffeine hit.

We were shootin’ the shit, but when I told him about my upcoming route, he froze. "Artie," he whispered. "If you’re pulling that haul through the Nebraska Dead Zone tonight, keep your eyes on the clock. If it hits 4:40 AM, you pull onto the shoulder. Kill that engine, douse your lights, and put your head on the wheel. Don't even listen to the airwaves. Not even for the weather." He had leaned in so uncomfortably close that I could feel the moisture coming from his peppermint scented breath, which failed to hide the smell of the day’s tobacco.

I brushed his concern off with a slight chuckle. I was only 26. As with any young kid in that position, I was full of vigor and the arrogance of a boy who thought a 500-horsepower engine made him king of the world. "What, Cutter? You afraid of the Ghost Rider? Or is it the Phantom Tollbooth again?"

He ignored my teasing. Those worn eyes that resembled shattered glass just stared through my soul. "It ain't no ghost, kid. It’s the Dispatcher. He's as real as you and me. If you hear him say 'Good morning, travelers,' you better hope to God he’s talking to the guy in the lane next to you."

I dismissed it immediately. This was just another tall trucker tale that drivers spin to keep themselves awake on the long, lonely stretches. I finished my fries, climbed back into the Pete, and forgot all about Cutter’s warning.

It was three months later when I was forced to remember his tale. I was hauling a load of medical isotopes toward Kentucky. I was running late. A blown gasket in Utah and a brief stop to pick up a hiker named Bobby Vance had cost me about six hours. I was never late to any of my destinations before then, so I was pushing the limit to make my window. I hit the heart of a Dead Zone somewhere deep on the I-64. The GPS had been a flickering grid for miles. I watched it struggle to remember where we were, failing to establish any link to the connected world. Bobby had been asleep for about five hours from the time displayed on the dash’s digital clock. Through its orange glow, it read 4:44 AM.

Gradually, the silence in the cab evolved into pressure. My ears popped just the same way they do when you’re descending a steep mountain grade. But there, the road was flat as a pancake. The smell of moist compost overtook the Christmas tree air freshener hanging from my mirror as the air became thick. Then, my radio hissed a rhythmic, pulsing sound. Shhhuuufffshhhuuufff. It sounded like a massive pair of lungs breathing through my shitty speakers. I went to shut the damn thing off as I didn’t want to wake Bobby, but I noticed that the display didn't show my preset. Instead, it showed a frequency that no radio could tune to. 444 AM. 

A heavy, mechanical thump echoed through the cab, like the sound of a live AUX cord being plugged into an awaiting speaker. The static was cut and transformed into a rich silence. Then, a voice filled the space. It was a voice that was deep, calm, resonant, one that belongs on a high-end stereo system. 

"Good morning, travelers," said the voice from my speakers. There was no music. Just that smooth, confident greeting. A greeting that sucked all of the air out of the cabin. "The fog is rolling in low over the valley floor, and the concrete is feeling particularly brittle today. We have a heavy schedule, and the road is asking for a little extra support. Let's see who's helping us maintain the flow..."

I thought about pulling over. I should have listened to Cutter’s instructions. But I was too gripped by a morbid, hypnotic fascination. What did that voice want? What did it mean? I watched the white lines of the highway blur past with a calming consistency. I felt as if I was just a passenger in my own cabin. 

The sound of crinkling paper followed by the clearing of a throat preceded the voice's next words. “Gregory Miller, 47, driving a Mack… Pass-Through…. You're doing fine, Gregory. Keep that heavy foot off the brake. You're cleared for the next sixty miles." ‘Pass-Through’ was spoken in a way that sounded almost robotic. The voice continued. “Diane Halloway, 33, driving a Hyundai… Pass-Through…. A bit of a tremor in your steering, Diane? Don't you worry. It'll pass. You've been granted transit." These names felt so real in the middle of nowhere, as though I was connected to all of them. “Larry Smith, 68, driving a Lincoln… Pass-Through… The road thanks you for your punctuality, Larry. Drive on." 

The voice paused. I could hear the faint sound of a page turning. It was a crisp, paper sound that felt impossibly real. “And for our final guest of the morning... our Exit..." The voice drifted off for a second. "Robert Vance, 19, riding shotgun in a Peterbilt. Bobby, I see you're still trying to find your place in this world. Today's your lucky day. We are in need of someone with your... elasticity."

My head snapped right. "Bobby," I rasped. "Bobby... Bobby!" I tried shaking him awake, but the sound of the passenger door lock rapidly clicking did my job for me. 

"Bobby, you’ve got such a fine, young frame," the voice purred. "The I-64 is feeling a bit thin near the expansion joints." As the voice was talking, his seatbelt began to tighten. He couldn't scream, although face strained as he tried. The belt effortlessly crushed his lungs as it pinned him into the seat. It winched him tighter with each of his strained breaths. His eyes, wide, bloodshot, and bulging, were flooded with a primal panic only seen on those who know their fate. "The cracks in the road are getting bigger, Bobby, and you're just the glue we need," the voice said with a smile in his tone.

I wanted to slow down and pull over, but the truck stayed its course. The steering wheel was locked in place and cruise control was unable to be overridden. Then, I heard the metal of his door peeling back like a sardine can. The noise of the chunching metal violently overtook the smoothness of the Dispatcher’s voice, yet no rushing air could be heard, even from our speed. There was just a void of devouring blackness where the door should have been. 

The seat beneath him started to tilt toward the open void. Bobby’s legs–God, the sound–unspooled like twine. His shins snapped and twisted in ways they were not designed to. Bones broke with the sound of timber being shoved through a mulcher. His legs began to stretch towards the void, pulled by invisible tethers of the Dispatcher’s will. The voice continued in his relaxed demeanor. "A little more slack, Bobby. Just relax. The road needs its repairs." I couldn't believe my eyes. Bobby was being slowly stretched out of the cab. After his legs had disappeared to the void, his hips, then torso, followed. The skin over his crushed ribs stretched until it was translucent. I'll never forget seeing the frantic, pulsing beat of his heart beneath a layer of tissue no thicker than a balloon.

"Bobby! Hang on!" I snapped out of my stupor and lunged across the center console. I went to grab his jacket, but my fingers passed right through the fabric as if it were smoke. I then cursed myself by looking at his face. The skin on his cheeks pulled back toward his ears making the most horrid smile any human can conjure. His mouth was forced open by an unseen hand that broke his jaw and allowed me to see down his bloodied throat. His eyes rolled to the back of his head until the optic nerve was visible. Worst of all, oozing from every orifice in his skull leaked a thick, black tar-like fluid that smelled of fresh oil.

"Beautiful," the Dispatcher remarked. "A perfect fit. You’re the tendon the I-64 has been missing, Bobby. You’re the graft that keeps the world together." With one final, violent thud that rocked the entire eighteen-wheeler, Bobby was ripped from his seat and vanished. He didn't hit pavement or roll into a ditch. He simply became a streak of raw, red matter that smeared across the threshold of the door before being absorbed into the darkness of the road. I still remember his pained face as he stretched beyond what was physically possible. The door straightened itself and slammed shut. The lock clicked a few more times and then, the white noise of the rubber meeting road returned. 

The smell of old copper was so thick I gagged, vomiting onto the steering wheel. My reaction jerked the wheel free of the hold it had and I realized I could start slowing down. I looked at the passenger seat. It was pristine. No blood. No torn fabric. Just a slight indentation where a nineteen-year-old kid had been sleeping just thirty seconds ago. 

The smooth voice of the Dispatcher returned one more time. "The toll is settled. The road is slick, the lines are straight, and the Manifest is closed until tomorrow. Drive with care, listeners. We’ll see you at the next mile marker." 

The clock hit 4:45 AM. The breathing static returned for a brief moment before shutting off entirely. I finally pulled the rig onto the shoulder. My heart raced so hard I thought I would die of a heart attack before I could stop the truck. I sat there for three hours, waiting for the sun to come up and refusing the temptation to look at my mirrors. I just knew, with a terrifying certainty, that if I looked in my side-mirrors, there wouldn't be a highway staring back at me. I’d see Bobby Vance, stretched out thin across the road, holding the pavement together so that I could keep on driving.

It took every ounce of my remaining drive to call the troopers. I didn’t move, I waited for them to come to me, hoping they would see just a fraction of the horror that I just saw. When they arrived, I told them that a hitchhiker named Bobby Vance fell out of my cab. I couldn’t tell them the truth. They would think I was drunk or on something and have me arrested. They searched thirty miles of shoulder. They didn't find a drop of blood. There was no sign that Bobby ever existed. 

When the troopers shared that they couldn’t find any sign of him, I froze. I feared that they thought I was mad or that I killed him. I thought I would surely lose my job now, not just for missing my first deadline, but for getting arrested for misuse of state resources. I quickly pushed through each question they asked, hoping that it would be the last. Finally, they told me that I could be on my way. Without a second thought, I rolled out of that Dead Zone as fast as I could. 

I drove in a trance for the next three years, unable to forget Bobby Vance. My eyes would always look past the white lines. Their slow, rhythmic pulse between my tires would always remind me of watching Bobby's final heartbeats. I told myself multiple times that it was all a big hallucination. It was just a spike of carbon monoxide in the cab from an exhaust leak. I thought of everything but the truth.

After about 5 years, I had eventually convinced myself that Bobby never existed. But the world I built for myself came crashing down when I got a little too comfortable traveling west on the I-70 through Ohio. It was early morning and I was hauling a massive cooling unit to California. The engine was making that steady, low-frequency hum that usually lulls you into the type of trance that makes you forget about the last 50 miles, especially at that hour. At 4:44am, the air changed. That copper-and-ozone tang began to seep through the vents. It was so thick I could taste the metallic grit on the back of my tongue. The first whiff snapped my brain out of its trance as it brought Bobby’s fate to the top of my head. The radio didn't even flicker this time. The digital display bled into those three glowing numbers. 444. I didn’t even realize what was happening before I heard those three haunting words. 

“Good morning, travelers.” He sounded pleased this day, his voice carrying the warmth of a man sitting down to a feast he’d been smelling for hours. “The fog is thick in the valleys, and the road is feeling a bit blind. We need to sharpen our focus. We need a new set of eyes." Again, paper crinkled and a throat cleared before the list was read. "Marcus Thorne, 42, driving a Freightliner… Pass-Through… You’re running a bit hot in the trailer, aren't you, Marcus? Keep that coolant pumping. You’re cleared to pass. Sarah Jenkins, 28, driving a Honda… Pass-Through… Checking your reflection in the rearview again, Sarah? Clearly, you can’t share your vision with the road. Please continue. David Poe, 51, driving a Ford… Pass-Through… I see that wedding ring is fitting a little tight this morning, David. Take a deep breath. The road thanks you for your sacrifice. You may proceed." 

The Dispatcher paused. I heard a swallowing sound, like a heavy liquid moving through a throat. "And for our final guest of the morning... our Exit... Elena Rodriguez, 33, driving a Toyota. The road is blind in the valley, Elena," the Dispatcher narrated, his voice dropping an octave. "We need to see the deer before they jump. We need to see the black ice before it reveals itself. Your vision is so... vivid. Let's share it with the road." 

Through the fog, cruising in the far left lane parallel to me was a red Toyota Camry being driven by a young woman in a business suit. I thought I had left my back door open again as she appeared to be drawing my attention by flashing her headlights. She looked tired for her age. She had one hand on a paper commuter mug with the other barely resting on the wheel. As soon as my attention was drawn to her, I watched her face shift from exhaustion to a sudden, crazed confusion the moment her name was read by the voice on the radio. After the Dispatcher finished his line, she quickly dropped her coffee as if it were too hot for her hands. Instead of flinching in pain from the hot coffee, her hands frantically clawed at her own eyes, all the while her car remained perfectly between the lines.

I watched in horror as, from the dashboard, hundreds of wires erupted and raced toward her face. They all went straight for her tear ducts. Elena’s mouth opened in a wide-eyed scream that I could hear through my radio over the soothing voice of the Dispatcher. I could see her eyes start to glow with that same sickly, halogen light coming from her old headlights. "Don't blink, Elena. We don't want to miss a thing," the Dispatcher urged. The wires slowly pulled her eyeballs forward. Her optic nerves stretched like taffy through the gaps in the dashboard and her body convulsed wildly as smoke rose from her skull. The headlights of her car dimmed, before they shut off completely. Her car slowed down and fell behind me. I stared at the driver-side mirror waiting to see what would happen next, failing to keep my attention on the road in front of me. Then, her headlights started to burn again, but the light coming from them highlighted a horror that I wish I could forget. Her bloodied eyeballs grew and filled the sockets her headlights previously occupied. They were each starting to emanate the same dull yellow light as the car’s bulbs, but they grew brighter and brighter, until they were twin beams of searing, white-hot lasers that cut through the fog like butter. I averted my eyes from the horror and the brightness reflected in my mirror, only to then look up and realize that the fog we were driving through for the last several miles was gone.

"Beautiful," the Dispatcher remarked. "The road has never been seen so clearly. Can you feel the horizon, Elena? You're the one who watches the path now. You're the light that guides the others home." I had just enough curiosity to look back at, what I figured was, Elena as she started to speed past me. She was a shell. Her head was tilted back and her empty eye-sockets glowed with residual electricity. Her body became blackened and shriveled. Her mouth was left agape in a permanent state of screaming. Her sedan didn't deviate from its course as it slowly sank into the road. The car's metal flattened out and became part of the road's surface until there was nothing left but a perfectly smooth, shimmering patch of pavement. The voice on the radio let out a contented sigh. "The valley is clear. The sightlines are perfect. The road thanks you for your sacrifice, Elena. Remember to drive safely, travelers. We’ll see you at the next mile marker." I’ve passed through that stretch countless times after that incident. Not once had I ever seen fog like that morning, but every time, I remembered the terrible fate Elena suffered through. 

About a year later, I found myself at a 24-hour diner in West Virginia. It was the kind of place where the fluorescent lights are louder than the refrigerators, the coffee tastes about as good as battery acid, and the waitresses don't give two shits about you. I was sitting at a corner booth with two other lifers: James McCann, a guy who’d been driving longer than I’d been breathing, and a younger fella named CJ. 

We ran out of things to talk about after barely an hour. During this time, CJ had already gone through enough cups of Joe that the ceramic clattered against the table every time he rested his cup. "I almost laid my rig down near the Clinch Mountain stretch last week," he said, trying to spark a new conversation. His eyes drifted up to see if we were paying him any attention. "I hit that long curve where the fog gets thick enough to chew. My dash lights started pulsing red, and then the radio keyed up. I didn't even touch the dial." 

James didn't look up from his eggs when he spoke just before the fork reached his mouth. "You remember what station you were tuned to, kid?"

"444," CJ rasped. "I tried to kill it, but it wouldn’t die. The speakers just... breathed. And then that voice came through. Smooth. Like a velvet shroud. He called my name. He knew my age. He knew what rig I drove." 

James slowly put his fork down until it reached his plate with deliberate click. He finally looked up, his eyes hard and hollow. "He call you an 'Exit'?"

"No," CJ exhaled, shaking his head. "He just said 'Pass-Through.' Told me to watch my lane-centering and granted me transit. As soon as he said it, the fog just... parted. Like it was being pulled back by invisible hands."

"That wasn't a glitch, CJ," James rasped, leaning over the table until his shadow swallowed the kid’s plate. "That’s the Manifest. You found yourself a Dead Zone, and the Dispatcher found himself a traveler. You’re lucky you’re sitting here eating with us. Most guys who hear their name called don't make it to the next weigh station." James slowly sat back in his seat, but it became clear that CJ wasn’t telling us the whole story. 

“You saw something else, didn’t you,” I asked. My voice was barely audible over the hum of the diner’s neon sign hanging over us. 

He nodded slowly. "The voice said the road was 'unstable' near the shoulder. Said it needed 'mineral density.' I looked in my side-mirror. That car... it… it didn't crash. The guardrail just reached out. The steel uncoiled like a snake and wrapped around the cab. The voice narrated the whole thing, how the driver’s teeth and marrow were the perfect 'calcium supplement' for the concrete. I watched the road absorb the whole vehicle. No fire. No debris. Just... a smoother shoulder. It all happened within seconds"

Unable to find another opportunity to free myself of the two horrors I’d seen, I shared my experiences with Radio Station 444 AM. I gave explicit detail of Bobby and Elena’s demise, yet James didn’t seem to flinch. “You seen anything of the sorts?” I asked him. 

James rubbed his face, his heavy sigh sounding like a leak in an air-brake. "I was running a flatbed through the Carolina border 20 years ago. 4:44 AM. The radio keyed up, and I heard the Dispatcher. He called a guy in a rig a quarter-mile ahead of me. It was a ‘Traction Exit’." James’s eyes went distant, staring at something 30 miles and two decades away. "The Dispatcher narrated the whole thing. He said the curve was 'thirsty' and the asphalt was 'slipping.' I watched that guy’s tires melt from the road reaching up and dissolving the rubber. Then the driver... the Dispatcher described how his skin was being pulled off his muscles to act as a 'high-friction grip' for the rest of us. I drove over that curve just after his truck was swallowed by the road, unable to come to a stop. It felt like I was driving on fresh black asphalt. I could hear the guy’s muffled screams coming through the radio, then through the floorboards the whole way through the turn." 

CJ had lost his appetite and I was just thankful that I wasn’t alone in these experiences, but James wasn't done. He looked at me, then back to the kid. “I’ve seen a handful of ‘Exits’ in my time. Reflectors, dividers, lights, potholes, they all relate to the integrity of the road itself. But I’ve also seen it take what it needs in order to think.” It was clear that CJ didn't want to stay on this topic, but I had given in to my unnatural, yet curious desire to learn what he meant. 

"I was hauling a wide-load across the I-80 in Wyoming," James began, his eyes fixed on an old coffee stain on the table. "4:44 AM. The Dead Zone was so thick the stars looked like they were being blotted out by ink. The radio keyed up, that smooth bastard. He called a pickup truck following just behind me." It was at this point where I saw James’s hand starting to shake. It was the first and last time I’d ever seen a tremor in that man.

"The Dispatcher called an Exit for a man named Alfred Mercier. 67 years old. His Exit was for ‘Central Processing.’" James took a shuddering breath. "His truck didn't crash. It didn't even slow down. But the pavement beneath it... it started to ripple, like a pond after you throw a stone. I watched in my mirrors as the asphalt turned translucent, evolving into a sort of pink, gelatinous membrane. And then the Dispatcher started narrating the 'Integration.' He described, in that calm voice, how the road’s internal mapping was 'fragmenting.' It needed a memory bank to track the travelers. I watched through my mirrors as Alfred was pulled through his seat and into the floorboards. He simply vanished beneath his windshield. I sometimes still hear his screams through my radio.” 

CJ was visibly nervous at this point, yet James didn’t even pause to drink. “His body slowly oozed out of the grill of his truck like a pasta press. When pieces of him touched the road, it started to unravel his nervous system like a ball of yarn. I heard the Dispatcher talking about 'synaptic bridging.' I saw his brain matter being stretched out past me into long, fleshy threads that wove themselves into the expansion joints of the highway ahead. Then, the Dispatcher thanked him for his 'intellectual contribution' to the infrastructure." 

James finally took the first sip of his replenished coffee as if trying to swallow the lump in his throat. “His truck followed close behind me for several miles until it finally drove itself off the road, through the dirt plains, and into a boulder a few yards from the highway. While it followed me, I could hear random voices and sounds coming from my radio. Some were sounds of nature and others were cries of pain. But the one that haunts me to this day was the sound of a group of kids singing the birthday song to a kid named Alfie.”

James looked up at us. I caught a glimpse of a tear running down the left side of his face before he quickly wiped it away with his shaking hand. "That’s why I’m here. That’s why I don't move until the sun is high enough to turn the sky pink. The road is not a road. It’s a brain. It’s a gut. It’s a giant, paved parasite that’s learning our names until it can call us home. It’s all alive, and we’re keeping its heart beating by driving on it." The veteran driver brushed off the horror behind his eyes and regained a hard, yet brittle edge. "I’m staying here. I will leave at 6:00 AM. To hell with the schedule. I’m not becoming a food for a mountain bypass." 

His words stuck with me like a bad memory. I remember every detail he shared that night. The visions played over and over in my head every time I found myself on the road past sundown. For the next couple of decades, I followed his lead, pulling over between 3:00 AM and 6:00 AM to become a ghost on the shoulder anytime I had an early route. I watched the sun shine atop the Dead Zones from the safety of the nearest rest stop. Unfortunately, the industry changed around me, replacing old-school intuition with "Smart-Flow" technology. My company installed a digital leash in the cab that tracked every second of idle time, and to the suits in the office, my "superstition" looked like a lack of productivity.

Two weeks ago, the pressure finally peaked. I was hauling a high-priority refrigerated load through the open road of the I-90. I was already behind schedule due to a slow weigh station, and my dashboard started screaming with "Efficiency Alerts". I called my dispatcher, a guy named Miller who’d never seen a sunrise from a windshield, and told him I was pulling over for the three-hour window. 

"Artie, if those wheels aren't turning by 4:00 AM, don't bother coming to the terminal," he snapped through the headset. "We’ve got a contract to keep. I don’t care about your 'bad vibes' or your trucker ghost stories. You’ve already used those excuses, Artie. Drive the damn truck or hand in the keys." I looked at the clock. 3:45 AM. I looked at the dark, winding road ahead. I thought about my pension. I thought about the mortgage. I shifted into tenth gear and pushed the needle to 85. I thought I could outrun the Manifest. I was mistaken.

At 4:44 AM, the air in the cab turned into that familiar, crushing pressure. I was entering the heart of a Dead Zone. The radio display bled those same three glowing digits and the rhythmic static cut to the voice I feared most. “Good morning, travelers. The road is smooth, and visibility is perfectly clear. However, the snow has made everything slick. We need to de-ice. We need salt.” He went through the list, his tone calm and professional as he listed the spared Pass-Throughs of those caught in the Dead Zone. I forgot the other names the moment he spoke them. I only heard the one that mattered. "Arthur Holm, 54, driving a Peterbilt… Pass-Through," the voice purred. My heart increased its pressure as I felt my stomach drop at the sound of my own name. "We’ve missed you, Artie. The road appreciates a recurring visitor. Your transit is cleared for the next twenty miles.” 

The blacktop in front of my truck transformed into a clear, heaving membrane that looked like wet, translucent quartz. My high beams illuminated through the thin film, highlighting every horrible detail. For the next twenty miles, the Interstate became a massive, throbbing vein stretched over a trench of absolute horror.

All tires usually make a rhythmic hum against the asphalt, but mine sounded wet and organic. They made a sickening squelch with every rotation like I was driving through a long, shallow puddle. I then realized that the reflectors embedded in the road weren't plastic or glass. They instead were preserved, reflective eyeballs, stripped from past Exits and wired into the substrate. As my 20-ton rig rolled past, I watched them, their pupils dilating and tracking my tread with a primal, desperate fear of being crushed.

The white lines were long, flattened strips of human bone that flattened down and inlaid to mark the path. I could see each bone's porous texture through the clear skin of the road that kept it in its place. Beneath that thin, clear membrane, a dark, viscous fluid churned with the slow pressure of a deep-sea current. It carried a slurry of debris from rusted subcompacts from eras beyond my time, to shredded semi-trailers, and what could only be perceived as half-digested human bodies. Everything was suspended in a pink, gelatinous mass, acting like cells in a transcontinental bloodstream. 

Every few miles, the radio would erupt with the sound of today’s Exit. This time, it was an older woman named Elsie. Her screams, muffled by the poor connection to the radio, vibrated through the speakers and into my ears, yet I barely heard her pleads for death. I just watched as her "sacrifice" was processed and injected into the slurry to act as a de-icer for the upcoming mountain pass.

"Beautiful," the Dispatcher remarked, his voice cool and satisfied. "Elsie's salt will now make the road less slippery for other travelers. We thank you for your sacrifice. To all of our loyal listeners, we’ll see you at the next mile marker."

For those 20 miles, I was a passenger in my own rig. I had no control over the steering wheel, and my speed remained a locked, steady 70. I was forced to stare at the amalgamation of flesh, bone, and metal that followed me. About 15 minutes after the Dispatcher signed off for the morning, the clear vein turned back into the black, opaque asphalt road. The truck started to drift so I grabbed the wheel, regained control, and pressed on.

I reached the terminal at 7:00 AM. Miller was waiting for me with a smug look on his face because I’d arrived 15 minutes ahead of schedule. He began to dismiss my "superstitions," but I didn't let him finish. I threw my keys at his feet. "I’m done," I told him, my voice shaking with a terror he couldn't possibly understand. "I'm not driving another inch on that thing! It's alive, Miller! I would rather starve in the dirt than spend one more second acting as a vital impulse for that paved nightmare.” He called me crazy and threatened to blackball me from every freight company in the country, but his voice sounded like distant static compared to the memory of the road.

I’ve been out of a job since then, cooped up in my house too afraid of the road connecting to my driveway. I am begging you, if there is any shred of human instinct left in you, stay off the Interstates. Avoid the turnpikes, the bypasses, and the toll roads. If you must travel, please watch the clock with a religious fervor. If the sun isn't up and you see your GPS begin to flicker into a void, turn around. Do not let the 444 AM frequency find you. I am pleading with you to listen because every time you drive through those Dead Zones, you are nothing but an eligible nutrient for the road. It learns from you, about you. You are the only thing keeping that continental parasite alive. For the sake of your soul and your skin, please, just stay off the road.