Well the rag and the hag make it to Renninger’s. If it sounds familiar it should. It’s one of Jocelyn Crazy Lamp Lady’s regular stops in Florida. Niche feigns ignorance in more ways than one. Her lack of knowledge shines in this video. Her calling out wrong makers names continues throughout the video. If you get by the sixty million ads she’s got running every minute and a half. Anyway, she shows her lack of knowledge throughout the video. When she questioned the price on the horse weathervane, I laughed. It was priced perfectly for the market dumb a$$. Not marketed up to screw it’s customers. Her explanation about why she’d hoards an item if she likes it for her own collection is laughable. You hoard it because you want it and your greedy, enough said. I sincerely hope she’s learned something here at a classic antique mall. I also hope the shower ran when the two drowned rats arrived back at the motel. Please no more bag lady look, I don’t care how many turtle rings or horse bracelets your wearing. Wash up.

Ok let's do the important info / flags
Here's ME! - Maybe show yourself if interested?

• I'm a non-denominational Christian. I think Jesus is great and would prefer that you do too.
• I smoke a little weed. It's eh.
• I currently don't make much money. Enough to get by and all.
• I don't have kids and ask you don't either.

I think those are the red flags about me / who I'm searching for.
Now maybe I can be a little more interesting and dump some fun things about me. At least I think they are.
I'm a Halloween person. I love the aesthetic. Gotta get my spooky on. I have a crazy sweet tooth. I love candy and eating it too. I bake / cook. I'm a decent cook and make stuff all the time. Hearing about something easy and new gets me going. Recently made Bacon Jam and dang was it something. Artsy fartsy. I draw and paint a little and make bracelets and rugs and.... I do stuff. I love me some color and patterns instead of a blank wall. Video games, board games, card games... games. I like games. I play some and... yeah. Outdoorsy. Walking in the forest, going on a bike ride, having a fire somewhere at night. All great stuff. Campfire smoke is one of my favorite smells. I live alone in a little house and get by currently. I have me a car too.
Uuhhh... How about you? You like Jesus? Got any hobbies of your own? Would you eat my cooking?
I'm hopefully looking for a relationship that would maybe become more. Something serious. A reason to never have to look again. If I sound somewhat what you're looking for, hit me up on here. Reddit's messaging system is truly awful though so apologies if I don't see it right away.

Ok let's do the important info / flags
Here's ME! - Maybe show yourself if interested?

• I'm a non-denominational Christian. I think Jesus is great and would prefer that you do too.
• I smoke a little weed. It's eh.
• I currently don't make much money. Enough to get by and all.
• I don't have kids and ask you don't either.

I think those are the red flags about me / who I'm searching for.
Now maybe I can be a little more interesting and dump some fun things about me. At least I think they are.
I'm a Halloween person. I love the aesthetic. Gotta get my spooky on. I have a crazy sweet tooth. I love candy and eating it too. I bake / cook. I'm a decent cook and make stuff all the time. Hearing about something easy and new gets me going. Recently made Bacon Jam and dang was it something. Artsy fartsy. I draw and paint a little and make bracelets and rugs and.... I do stuff. I love me some color and patterns instead of a blank wall. Video games, board games, card games... games. I like games. I play some and... yeah. Outdoorsy. Walking in the forest, going on a bike ride, having a fire somewhere at night. All great stuff. Campfire smoke is one of my favorite smells. I live alone in a little house and get by currently. I have me a car too.
Uuhhh... How about you? You like Jesus? Got any hobbies of your own? Would you eat my cooking?
I'm hopefully looking for a relationship that would maybe become more. Something serious. A reason to never have to look again. If I sound somewhat what you're looking for, hit me up on here. Reddit's messaging system is truly awful though so apologies if I don't see it right away. If interested, maybe show yourself since I did so first?

Need these for a video im working on! Lmk if you wanna trade. Thanks!

First/Previous
Huddled together towards the stern of the boat, nobody said a thing as the docks of Cypherport slowly grew smaller. Remaining still and silent, all but holding their breaths as the currents of the river slowly drew them away, their hearts pounded in their chests as they waited in tense anticipation for anything to happen. Nika had her sniper rifle unpacked and ready to use, but none of the shrinking figures walking along the waterfront seemed to pay them any heed as they drew further and further away.
The bustling cacophony of Cypherport slowly faded, giving way to the subtle creaking of the wooden hull and gently lapping of the water, and soon even the lights of the town began to fade away.
Seconds stretched into minutes as the boat glided silently away, its movements slow and deliberate as the crew of River Giants made subtle adjustments to steer them on the best course downstream. With each passing moment, Jack felt a sense of relief wash over him, their anxiety giving way to cautious optimism as he began to believe that they had actually evaded detection.
As the lights of Cypherport disappeared behind the treeline, Jack turned his head to look at the others, only to find that he could only barely see their silhouettes, very faintly highlighted by the lights of the ever-vanishing town. Looking up, he saw no moon or stars that he might have expected to see from Earth, or the ever-shining lights of the city at home, but instead there was just nothing, as the huge solar plate slowly moved above them in orbit, blocking everything from view, leaving them all in total darkness.
The complete absence of light felt strange and unnatural to Jack, who hurried to put on his Shades of Seeing, even as the others began to stir and allow themselves to relax.
“I think we got away…” Nika finally whispered. “Chiyo? Sephy? I can’t see shit.”
“Nothing electronic around, apart from us,” Sephy whispered back.
We got away. Chiyo confirmed shakily.
“By the gods…” Alora breathed a sigh of relief.
“Dante, are you alright?” Jack asked the ‘dog’, giving them a gentle pat as they shakily looked up at him from where they were curled up.
“Woof!” The dog quietly barked to confirm, sensing that it wasn’t a time to be loud.
“Reckon we could get away with a light?” Nika called out.
“I’d wait for a few minutes unless you really need it, lass!” Captain Ripples-On-Salt calmly whispered back. “My crew knows these waters well enough to get us well away, if that’s alright?”
“Very well, I don’t think anything is urgent,” Alora acquiesced.
“How the hell did they know we’d be there?” Jack asked, voicing the unspoken concerns of everyone there now that the adrenaline had worn off.
“Did Mr Johnson set us up for this shit?” Sephy asked pointedly. “He was the only one that could have known, right?”
“Not necessarily.” Nika pointed out. “Anyone at the Corvin distribution centre could have tipped them off - you saw how quickly they found us last time!”
The Order of the Infernal Harmony are notorious for their network of informants, Chiyo told them. They’ve also made it easy for people to contact them with any tips they have, and pay them generously.
“Isn’t it kinda weird they partnered with that crazy asshole though?” Sephy asked, before shrugging. “Okay, they clearly needed the extra muscle, but it looked to me like that guy was calling a lot of shots…”
That’s a very good point, Sephy, Chiyo agreed, looking towards the Skritta as if something clicked in place. It was the same thing when The Redeemer came for us down the motorway. He was the one that came on a gunship, and I don’t remember any other shot-callers.
“Most of those assholes at the motorway looked like run-of-the-mill mercs,” Nika pointed out. “Maybe the Regulators thought putting the word out would let people do the dirty work for them. There were definitely a few of them with The Redeemer, though he was definitely in charge.”
“Wasn’t he an ex-member of the Church of Siros or something?” Jack asked.
“Yep! That’s why I scanned him, they’re gonna want to know!” The Kizun told him, and though none of the others could physically see it, Jack saw the wide grin on her face. “Gods! If we make it through this in one piece we won’t need to work for a long while!”
Don’t jinx it! Chiyo warned. And yes, though I don’t know the details, he left the Church of Siros relatively recently, and while he could have joined the Order of the Infernal Harmony, it’s a strange matchup. I assumed it was some kind of partnership.
“What? To kill me?” Jack asked, holding one of his wrists with the other to try and calm down the familiar shakes from plaguing him. “I remember when I first saw him on TV, he seemed to call out everyone.”
“And likely focused on you after you shot down his gunship,” Alora spoke up. “But I agree, it’s very strange, though I doubt we’ll discover the full answers.”
“Hey, at least you got him good.” Nika patted Jack on the back.
“He wasn’t the only one though,” Jack retorted, trying and failing to hide the fear in his voice. “You finished off the martial artist, but there were others…”
“I think we killed most of them,” Sephy reassured Jack. “Once I got their slicer I flipped the turrets. Anyone previously marked as ‘friendly’ that wasn’t near anyone else would have been blasted. But fucking hell, that Vivren was scary!”
“Yeah I met her.” Jack shuddered, remembering the terrifying visage. “She hit me and Dante with some kind of Cruciatus Curse bullshit. I was able to shake it off, but Dante was suffering before I smacked the bitch. Did you kill her?”
“No.” Sephy shook her head. “She tried to take me out when I was on the balcony, but I got past her to get out and kill the slicer. Did anyone else get her on your way out?”
“I was the last one out and she was still alive,” Nika confirmed. “Pretty sure I saw a Vecqen still up as well, maintaining a forcefield.”
Damn it! I faced her, she was very powerful! Chiyo cursed. Not someone I ever want to face again. Her name was Slarah.
“Sorry Chiyo, I never saw her,” Jack apologised at potentially leaving a loose end. “Pretty sure they called the bitch with the spiked flail ‘Lictor.’”
“That’s not her name, that’s a title,” Alora whispered.
“Guess we sorta know who the leader of the Order of the Cumguzzling Dickwads is then.” Sephy sighed.
“Jack, what was this ‘Crusi…Crus….” Alora asked, before Jack realised what she meant.
“Sorry, Earth reference.” He chuckled despite the situation. “Some kind of torture spell.”
“Just as I thought.” He saw Alora nod in vindication. “Jack, do you remember the last lesson we had with Sister Jieta?
“Yeah, with evil gods right?” Jack confirmed. “Wait, you think she’s with that pain god? The one with the weird name? Ban…Baaa?”
“Bal-Xuthuul” Alora corrected him. “Must have been. The Church of Siros have a burning hatred for the Tyrant of Torment, it would make sense why they’re after The Redeemer with such fervor if he’s working with a Xuthite Cleric…”
“Pretty sure the Church of Siros has a reputation for hating everything and everyone that isn’t them or doesn’t comply with their puritan beliefs,” Sephy pointed out.
“It’s not quite as bad as that.” Alora argued. “But in this case, I can’t really blame them. A cleric that powerful and the leader of a Regulator Order must have been someone they’re aware of.”
“Guess we’ll find out when we let them know about The Redeemer.” Nika shrugged. “But as much as I hate loose ends, I don’t think we left many standing. We definitely managed to turn that around. It could have been much worse!”
“Yeah…” Jack agreed with a nervous sigh.
I found out that the Order of the Infernal Harmony only has about 50 members, Chiyo pointed out. With most of their strength being their informants…
“You think we wiped them out?” Nika asked with a grin.
We certainly decimated them to at least two officers, one being the leader, Chiyo reasoned. They would need major resources in order to rebuild and retrain their numbers, and considering the Lictor’s choice of faith, as well as her choice of company, that may be impossible for them.
“They had resources to come after us to begin with,” Jack pointed out, sounding worried. “Do they have a hideout or something we can blow up to make sure they don’t come back?”
“I think if their base of operations was known, they would have been targeted long before you even arrived here!” Alora giggled, as the tension in the air continued to fall.
“You say that…” Sephy spoke up, and Jack could almost hear the smile on the Skritta’s face. “But you forget that I got their slicer!”
“You got his data!” Nika exclaimed.
“Yup!” Sephy cackled. “Gives me something to do for the journey!”
“About that…” Jack began, as the group fell silent again. “What do we even do now? Is the job still on? Can we trust these guys?”
I believe we can - based on what they said before we were ambushed, I think they were fooled by the Regulators. Chiyo told the rest of the group. If they knew who we’d be meeting they could scam them into believing we were late. Based on what we researched at the library, Giant species aren’t always exactly the strongest of mind, and their auras indicate as such.
“I agree,” Alora added. “And the job’s still on. The only other option is to trek back to Naganai on foot or look for whatever transport the Regulators arrived on, but that leaves us with a failed job and a potentially angry Corvin Enterprises”
“Fair enough.” Jack nodded. “I guess we were pretty locked in when we boarded the shuttle anyway, and even if the Regulators do know where we are, they don’t have the means to come after us, right?”
“Right.” Nika nodded, giving Jack a reassuring pat on the shoulder as she did. “You’re taking it better than expected.”
“I guess I’m just getting used to this kind of shit.” Jack chuckled humorlessly. “Somehow getting used to surviving it too!”
“Alright, that should be enough!” Captain Ripples-On-Salt spoke up at a more relaxed volume so everybody could hear him. “Crew, let’s set up the lights for night travel!”
“Aye, captain!” A small chorus spoke up quietly as the group propped themselves up into a more comfortable sitting position while the crew of River Giants gently paced around the boat, lighting a series of lanterns, braziers and candles strategically placed around the ship, the flickers of light dancing like fireflies in the wind, and there was just enough of a glow for them to see immediately around them, though Jack noticed several metal stands with what looked like spotlights around the boat that weren't being lit.
“We won’t need the main lights just yet while we’re in these calm waters,” the captain told them as though he knew what Jack was thinking. “Just enough for us to be comfortable.”
“Is there anywhere we can set up camp?” Alora asked.
“Sure! This way!” The captain exclaimed gregariously as he led the way, with the group tentatively following, still not fully trusting him.
As the lights were being lit all along the boat, Jack could see that it was a surprisingly rustic-looking thing, crafted from weathered wood and reinforced with metal bands to withstand the rigours of river travel. Considering the technological wonders of the city, it threw him for a loop that they were travelling on such a primitive vessel by comparison.
Despite this though, the boat seemed to have an undeniable charm about it, with its huge rough-hewn planks bearing the weathered scars of many journeys, so he hoped that meant it would be reliable enough for their journey.
The main deck of the huge boat at the bow was spacious and open, providing more than enough room for the River Giants to move about freely as they navigated about the ship to carry out their duties, with thick ropes and sturdy pulleys crisscrossing all about to allow the crew to manoeuvre the ship with relative ease, though Jack doubted that even he had the combined size and strength to manipulate them without causing himself injury. He even saw a thick mast to allow the crew to hoist sails, though it was currently rolled up for now.
To Jack, the boat seemed deceptively simple in design compared to anything else he had seen so far, even on Earth, with an emphasis on rugged functionality and practicality that complimented the sheer size of the vessel, rather than any complicated components or electronics that could fail. It made sense to him in a way. He doubted that the concept of an ‘SOS’ was common in these parts, so anyone working remotely would need to be as self-sufficient as they could manage.
They were led to the large building nearer to the stern, and were surprised to see how cosy it looked when they stepped inside, with several colourful woven tapestries and rugs adorning the wooden surfaces that gave the area a more ‘homely feel’, along with several giant sized armchairs, sofas and tables that all looked individually handmade. A large, freshly lit hearth occupied one corner of what Jack assumed was the ‘common room’, with its crackling flames casting a warm glow across the room.
“We’ve got an empty cabin below decks your group can use if you find that acceptable,” The captain told them as several of them moved closer to the fire. “We have pipes transferring some of the heat from the hearth around the quarters, but that will take a while. I can ask our quartermaster to fetch some blankets if you wish?”
“That’s quite alright, thank you.” Alora politely refused.
“Below decks? Nothing above?” Nika asked, sounding apprehensive.
“I’m sorry lass, on and above decks are rooms and facilities for the on-duty crew.” Captain Ripples-On-Salt sounded genuinely apologetic. “Helps keep everybody that’s not working out of the way!”
Nika quickly glanced to Chiyo, who met the Kizun’s gaze and nodded in confirmation.
“Very well then,” Alora spoke up. “Please, lead on!”
Descending the wide and sturdy single flight of stairs at the very back of the common room, the group found themselves in a dimly lit corridor lined with wooden doors, presumably each being a different cabin. The air was thick with the scent of damp and old wood, mingling with the faint aroma of oil and tar. Someone had already been down here to light the lanterns mounted on hooks along the walls, or perhaps they were already like this beforehand considering the size of the vessel, with the flickering flames casting dancing shadows along the wooden walls.
The floor beneath their feet was uneven and worn, with grooves and cracks worn into the planks from what Jack assumed were many years of use. As they walked along with the River Giant captain taking the lead, timbers creaked and groaned, echoing through the corridor and not exactly giving Jack any confidence in the durability of the vessel.
Finally they reached what was to be their cabin, taking a right turn and looping back around to a simple door with a brass handle tucked away at the end of the corridor.
“Alright…” The Captain began. “While I would not presume to order you about, especially after what just happened, I would highly recommend you remain below decks for now. I’ll have one of the crew notify you when it’s safer for you to be up and about. Most of the officers are asleep right now, but I’ll be sure to introduce you in the morning.”
“It will be as you say, Captain.” Alora nodded. “In that case we’ll take our rest now and leave you to do your duties.”
“Thank you, lass.” Captain Ripples-On-Salt smiled warmly. “My apologies for our tardiness, but we shall speak again with clearer heads in the morning. For now I’m going to resume my duties and make sure we make good progress. There’s a latrine marked on the door next to you if you need it.”
“Good night, Captain.” Alora smiled back as she led the group into the cabin and closed the door behind her.
As the group waited for a few moments, listening to the sounds of the captain departing, they looked around at their cabin. For the River Giants that worked on the boat it would have been considered modest, but for them it was quite specious, with a giant-sized straw mat tucked in one of the corners, a basic giant-sized wooden table and chair against the opposite wall, and a padded chair in another corner. A simple spare room that didn’t see much use.
It wasn’t much, but it would do.
“At least it has a roof.” Sephy sighed, shucking off her pack.
“Could be worse.” Alora agreed. “Could you…”
“Yeah, give it a few minutes and I’ll sneak around and plant a few micro-sensors around the ship.” Sephy nodded before pointing to the left-side wall. “Pretty sure on the other side of the wall is the river, so I guess we blow it up and escape through there if we really need to.”
“Would we even be able to swim in our armour carrying our stuff?” Jack asked doubtfully.
“Should have tested that at the Aquaplex!” Nika chuckled.
“Or the hot tub we have and still haven’t used!” Sephy lamented.
“That can be something we can look forward to for when we get back.” Alora told them with a smile. “And I’m sure we can think of other things we can do when we return! We can afford to go wild after all this is over, though we won’t be on a Run again for a while if we can help it.”
We may finish this with more money than we’ve ever had before! Chiyo agreed. But to answer your question, Jack, I have something that can stop us from drowning.
“The currents might fuck us though,” Nika pointed out, before suddenly realising something. “Damn! Should have brought some inflatables! We used them at the Aquaplex often enough!”
“Could have worked as beds too!” Jack realised with a snort of amusement.
“Maybe next time,” Alora agreed before quickly moving on, looking at her friends. “However, speaking of things we do and don’t have, we need to take a stock on inventory.”
“Did anyone bring any spare clothes?” Sephy asked. “Jack, you looked fucked!”
“I’m fine…” Jack began, before taking a good look down to his chest, taking a moment to realise that his Clan Bharzum armour was clearly visible even though he wore his clothes over them. He quickly shucked off his pack and cringed at the way the contents rattled, carefully placing it on the ground.
His black trenchcoat had been absolutely destroyed during the fight, barely scraps of ripped, charred dark fabric remaining around his back and shoulders. His tacticool trousers and dark tshirt had also taken some damage, with so many multiple holes and gashes ripped into them, the slightest breeze would turn them to ribbons.
At least his boots survived…
If it’s any consolation, Jack, those clothes were kinda bad anyway, Chiyo quipped, causing the group to break out in chuckles.
“They were tactical!” Jack retorted, trying his best to play along and smile. “What was wrong with them?”
“You literally stole them from Lost Property!” Alora pointed out. “How many decades were they there in the Prefect’s Lockup waiting to be picked up by you?”
“Well damn, looks like we’re going to have to go back there for replacements!” Jack joked with a grin, knowing the fashion-talk was winding the Eladrie up. “I remember seeing a bright orange Hawaiian shirt that I regret not taking with me!”
“Just buy new clothes!” Alora retorted with exasperation. “Or better yet, let me or Vanya buy them on your behalf so you don’t make a horrible mistake!”
“What horrible mistake? They were perfectly fine!” Jack argued, watching the others dying with silent laughter at the unusually heated Alora. “All black so I can be sneaky and lots of pockets for…stuff! It worked at the Shaskasaki warehouse!”
“You can still look good and be sneaky!” Alora pointed out.
“Why do I need to look good if I don’t want to be seen?!” Jack asked with raised eyebrows.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go plant the sensors now and get it over and done with!” Sephy grinned as she strode over to the door while activating her camouflaging coat. “No offence, Jack, but my wardrobe kicks your ass in the sneaky department!”
“That’s a fair point!” Jack chuckled, the conversation dying down once again as Sephy left. Deciding not to put it off any longer, Jack carefully unzipped his pack and began to take things out to check for damage, though fortunately it didn’t look as bad as he initially feared. Unfurling his hammock he could see a few char marks and holes, but he figured it was still usable, just not as a shelter. He did curse as he pulled out two drink cans they’d ‘acquired’ from the Corvin Enterprises shuttle ride, their contents spilling out all over his hands.
“Could have been worse.” Nika shrugged as she licked some burst drink powder off her finger. “Our clothes and packs have taken a few hits but not as bad as you. If you go through your stuff and see what’s crushed and busted, we can pick out what’s edible and use it now.”
“Mainly some biscuits and busted crisp packets.” Jack shrugged. “Definitely a good idea splurging out on a good pack, though I might need a new one after this.”
It still looks usable, Chiyo pointed out. Hessia can probably fix it when we get back, but in the meantime, could you use the remains of your clothes to keep your stuff dry?
“Yeah I probably could.” Jack nodded at the good idea. “But my hands are super sticky, the Captain said there was a latrine right?”
“I would hope there’s a way to wash your hands!” Alora shuddered.
There’s probably a bowl, Chiyo giggled. If not, just come back here and I’ll fix it!
Chuckling slightly, Jack got up and quickly exited the room without a word. The moment the door closed, the mask of casual happiness and pretending that everything was fine immediately dropped.
Saying nothing Jack rushed to the washroom as quietly as he could and shut the door behind him. Barely taking a moment to splash his hands in the giant-sized basin of water he quickly sat down as his legs matched the trembling of his hands that grew in intensity with each passing moment.
Clutching his palms tightly together in a vain attempt to control his shaking, he shuddered, bringing his head to his knees tightly in fear as he began violently hyperventilating, his breath coming out in short ragged gasps as his chest tightened, constricting his lungs, and the tears fell freely down his cheeks despite fighting hard to hold them back.
As flashes of the past hour came back to him over and over again, Jack rocked back and forth, holding himself tightly into a ball with trembling hands as he fought to try and think of something else as the sound of his heart thundered loudly in his ears, completely drowning out the sounds of the boat as he struggled to hold on, grappling with the overwhelming sense of dread that threatened to consume him whole.
‘Come on. You can’t lose it now! The others need you!’ Jack reminded himself, shutting his eyes tight as his vision began to blur and fought to pull himself back together. With a deep shuddering breath he tried to focus all of his remaining willpower on the sounds of the calm water lapping at the sides of the boat as his breathing slowly but surely became easier and he no longer felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Whatever was happening, it was only temporary.
He’d be fine.
*****
First/Previous
Our team of shadowrunners survive the encounter with the Redeemer and the Order of the Infernal Harmony...but is the worst part of the Run past them now, or is there even worse yet to occur?
Don't forget to check out The Galactic High Info Sheet! If you want to remind yourself of certain characters and factions. One new chapter a week can seem like a while! Don't forget! You all have the ability to leave comments and notes to the entries, which I encourage you to do!
I am now on Royal Road! I would appreciate your support in getting myself off the ground there with your lovely comments, reviews and likes!
If you're impatient for the next chapter, why not check out my previous series?
As always I love to see the comments on what you guys think!
Don't forget to join the discussion with us on Discord, and consider checking me out on Youtube if you haven't already! Until next week, it's goodbye for now!

Okay, as I'm bored, I'm gonna go and showcase my 2 DLC characters, the first bring a NG character and the second being a NG+ character. And for context, these aren't optimised builds, so they're not min-maxed. They're just fun builds I wanted to try. And anything in italics is optional for the build that I don't always use, but are handy to have on hand that also fit the build.
Acolyte of St. Trina:
Starting Class: Bandit Level: 142 (Will be going to 150)

• Great Rune: Rahdan's Great Rune
• Vigor: 50
• Mind: 22 (25)
• Endurance: 25
• Strength: 10
• Dexterity: 35 (40)
• Intelligence: 14
• Faith: 50
• Arcane: 15

Equipment:
Left Hand:

• Sword of St. Trina +10 (Mists of Slumber)
• Keen Mieséricorde +25 (Royal Knight's Resolve)
• Harp Bow +7 (Barrage)

Right Hand:

• St. Trina's Torch +10 (Fires of Slumber)
• Erdtree Seal +10 (No Skill)
• (Empty)

Armour:

• Festive Hood (Altered)
• Snow Witch Robe
• (Empty)
• Snow Witch Skirt

Talismans:

• Assassin's Crimson Dagger
• Assassin's Cerulean Dagger
• Dagger Talisman
• Dragoncrest Greatshield Talisman
• Crucible Feather Talisman

Flask of Wonderous Pyhsick:

• Faith-Knot Crystal Tear
• Opaline Hard Tear
• Dexterity-Knot Crystal Tear

Spells/Incantations:

• Blessing's Boon
• Golden Vow
• Lord's Heal/Erdtree Heal
• Flame, Cleanse Me!
• Lord's Divine Fortification
• Barrier of Gold
• Elden Stars

Consumables:

• Sleep Pots
• Bewitching Branches

Fallen Priest:
Starting Class: Prophet Level: 192

• Great Rune: Rahdan's Great Rune
• Vigor: 50
• Mind: 29
• Endurance: 30
• Strength: 35
• Dexterity: 35
• Intelligence: 7
• Faith: 75
• Arcane: 10

Equipment:
Right Hand:

• Flame Art Godskin Stitcher +25 (Flaming Strike)
• (Empty)
• (Empty)

Left Hand:

• Erdtree Seal +10 (No Skill)
• (Empty)
• (Empty)

Armour:

• Commoner's Headband (Altered)
• Goldmask's Rags
• Gold Bracelets
• Traveller's Slops

Talismans:

• Godfrey Icon
• Spear Talisman
• Old Lord's Talisman
• Radagon Icon
• Dragoncrest Greatshield Talisman

Flask of Wonderous Physick:

• Flame-Shrouding Cracked Tear
• Opaline Hard Tear
• Viridian Burst Crystal Tear

Spells/Incantations:

• Black Flame's Protection
• Beastial Vitality
• Black Flame
• Scouring Black Flame
• Black Flame Ritual
• Burn, O Flame!
• Flame of the Fell God

But yeah, these are my DLC Characters. They're both really fun builds, and funnily enough are both Light Loads, that offer some really fun playstyles and really unique playstyles, especially for my Acolyte of St. Trina. He's been really fun to play and I've actually made some great use of the Bewitching Branches, which I thought would just be far too niche and far too limited to make effective use out of. Here's hoping we get a respawning field of Trina and Miquella Lillies in the DLC somewhere. Something tells me Sleep and Charm effects are gonna be seen a lot more frequently very soon 😁

This has been the biggest secret I've ever held onto, but as I wither away, someone should know about it. This happened about a decade ago, somewhere inside Zion National Park.
The wind howls, tearing through the treetops as if they were mere twigs. It's not the wind you'd expect in springtime; it's more like the banshee wail of some long-forgotten spirit trapped in the forest. I glance at Simon, his ordinarily cheerful expression twisted into a grimace as he struggles against the gusts. Beside him, his wife Mary looks even more frail, her thin arms wrapped tightly around her chest in a vain attempt to ward off the cold, wet air. I should know; I feel it, too, even through my thick sweater.
Simon and I had shared countless hiking trips, each one strengthening our bond and deepening our appreciation for the natural world. But this excursion felt like uncharted territory with Mary in tow. While I welcomed her presence, there was an undeniable sense of unease gnawing at me.
Mary was a city girl through and through, her comfort zone defined by concrete jungles rather than the untamed wilderness. Her tentative steps on the rugged terrain spoke volumes, each stumble a stark reminder of her unfamiliarity with this environment. Every time she faltered, her eyes betrayed a mixture of anxiety and determination, a silent plea for reassurance.
As we trudged deeper into the heart of Zion National Park, the landscape grew increasingly rugged, the trail winding its way through towering cliffs and dense forests.
But now, with the storm bearing down on us, those earlier worries seemed trivial compared to the task at hand. We had been hiking for hours, pushing forward to reach the campsite we had meticulously planned for the night. However, the storm had other ideas, disrupting our carefully laid-out itinerary with its relentless fury.
As we trudged on, the sky darkened ominously, the heavy clouds looming low overhead like a sinister omen. The wind picked up, howling through the narrow canyons and barren slopes with a ferocity that sent shivers down our spines. It sounded like a chorus of a thousand wolves baying for blood, an eerie symphony echoing the primal fear lurking within us all.
Despite our determination to press onward, it quickly became apparent that continuing in such treacherous conditions would be foolish, if not outright dangerous. Each step became a battle against the elements, the biting cold seeping through our layers of clothing, the relentless humidity of promised rain that would soon be soaking us to the bone.
Reluctantly, we came to a halt, our voices swallowed by the storm's roar. There was no denying it—we couldn't keep going in this, not safely. With a heavy heart, we began searching for shelter, knowing that our survival depended on finding refuge from the tempest around us.
We took shelter in the cove of a massive boulder, its rough surface offering a modicum of protection against the relentless assault of the chilled wind. Huddled together for warmth, our voices lost in the cacophony of the storm, we sought solace in each other's presence.
Amidst the chaos, Simon's sharp eyes caught something in the distance. He attempted to shout over the howling wind, but his words were lost in the tempest. Instead, he pointed urgently beyond me, his expression a mixture of urgency and determination. Following his gaze, I spotted a small cabin perched atop a distant hill.
It was a beacon of hope amidst the desolation of the storm, a refuge from the elements that threatened to engulf us. With a silent nod of agreement, we braced ourselves against the relentless wind and rain and set off toward the sanctuary that awaited us atop the hill.
Just as if it were a cruel joke played by nature, the moment we stood up to head back to the cabin, the heavens opened up, and the rain began pouring down in relentless sheets. The downpour was so sudden and fierce that it felt like the sky cracked open. Simon drenched in seconds, slammed the cabin door behind us with a resounding thud that echoed through the tiny space. Inside, the air was thick with dampness and decay, the wooden walls creaking in protest against the storm's fury outside. Yet, our relief was short-lived. Several gaping holes in the walls, clawed out as if by a monstrous beast, let in gusts of frigid wind and splatters of icy rain. It looked as though a giant bear had savagely ripped through the wood, leaving deep, jagged scars that hinted at a terrifying encounter.
"Help me patch these holes with some tarp?" Simon asked, his voice strained with urgency. I nodded, pushing myself up to assist him.
There were only two large holes to cover, but something about them felt off. The gashes in the wood were too immense, too deliberate. If a bear had made them, it must have been the largest bear in the world. I tried to convince myself that it was just a bear, repeating the thought like a mantra to keep the rising dread at bay. The alternative—that some creature of unimaginable size and strength had clawed its way through the walls—was too terrifying to entertain.
"I'm going to check the rest of the place and see if there's anything useful," I said to Simon, already moving to the bedroom. "You know, like matches or something." I knew it was stupid to say that out loud, but I couldn't help it.
The cabin was tiny, its cramped quarters illuminated by the light of my small flashlight. The main room contained a small wooden table standing in the center, surrounded by three rickety chairs that looked like they might collapse under the slightest weight. Against one wall, a cold and empty fireplace yawned like a blackened mouth, devoid of even a trace of ash.
I moved into the bedroom, where a rough-hewn wooden bed lay in the corner, its thin mattress covered by a threadbare blanket. Desperation tinged my movements as I searched every corner—under the bed, inside the narrow closet, even behind the faded curtains. Each shadowy nook and cranny yielded the same result: nothing. There is no sign of life and no clue to explain the gaping holes in the walls. The sense of unease grew, wrapping itself around me like a shroud.
As I left the bedroom, I heard Simon cursing from the other side of the cabin. The harshness of his words sliced through the oppressive silence, spurring me to rush over. I found him hunched over, struggling to light a match he had intentionally kept hidden from me, likely in a bid to impress Mary. His hands trembled slightly, damp air making the task even more difficult. He glanced up at me, frustration and a hint of embarrassment etched into his face. The flickering light of the stubborn match illuminated his scowl, casting sharp shadows that danced across the walls.
"Ha! You can't even start a fire with a match?" I laughed, clutching my belly. For years, Simon was notorious for his terrible fire-starting skills, a running joke between us. Despite his constant claims that he could start a fire just fine, he always struggled when it mattered. This moment was the perfect icing on the years-long ball-busting I'd given him. His scowl deepened, but I could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes, acknowledging the situation's absurdity.
Simon tried to argue with me, his face twisting in a mixture of indignation and amusement. But after a few seconds, whether because he realized I was right, or my laughter was simply too contagious, he burst out laughing along with me. Our shared mirth echoed through the tiny cabin, a rare moment of levity cutting through the tension. Mary looked at us like we were crazy, chuckling despite not getting the joke. Her puzzled expression only made us laugh harder, the situation's absurdity providing a brief, welcome distraction from the unease that had settled over us.
"Okay, you got me," Simon finally said between laughs. "I guess I'm just not as good at this as you are."
"I got my fire starter's badge in scouts, I'll have you know!" I exclaimed with a playful grin, my words punctuated by the shared laughter of our little group. "Hey Mary, I bet you Simoleon here," Simon shot me a mock glare at the nickname he despised, "told you he was some kind of expert outdoorsman, huh?"
Mary's eyes twinkled with amusement as she glanced between Simon and me, a genuine smile on her lips. "He never used the word 'expert,' but he definitely played it up a little," she replied with a hint of mischief in her voice.
I joined Mary in laughter as Simon attempted to maintain his composure, his attempt at a stern expression crumbling in the face of our camaraderie. Despite the looming storm and the uncertainty of our situation, the warmth of our shared laughter offered a fleeting moment of respite from the wilderness that surrounded us.
Suddenly, a thunderous bang reverberated through the cabin; the sudden jolt sent a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I jumped to my feet. With cautious steps, I approached the entrance to the bedroom, my heart pounding in my chest. Each footfall seemed to echo in the oppressive silence that followed the startling noise.
"Hello? Is anyone here?" My voice faltered slightly, swallowed by the eerie stillness that enveloped the cabin. I pressed forward, my senses heightened as I scanned the room for any sign of movement or life.
The dim light of my dying flashlight cast flickering shadows across the walls, creating an atmosphere of uncertainty and unease. Every creak of the floorboards seemed to amplify the tension that hung in the air as if the very cabin itself were holding its breath in anticipation.
Stepping into the next room, I was met with a scene of chaos. The window, its hinges groaning under the relentless assault of the wind, swung wildly on its axis.
With a sense of urgency, I lunged forward to secure the window, the gusts of wind buffeting me with each step. But before I could reach it, the window slammed shut with a resounding thud, the force of its impact sending a shiver down my spine.
As I locked the window closed, my gaze swept over the room, searching for any other signs of disturbance. It was then that I noticed the subtle shift in the air, a telltale sign that something was amiss. The atmosphere seemed tense, as if the cabin walls were straining against some unseen force.
Turning back towards the main room, a sense of foreboding washed over me. Another deafening bang echoed through the cabin, followed by a powerful gust of wind that seemed to rattle the very foundations of the structure. It was as if there was a hole we had forgotten to tarp over, a realization that set my nerves on edge.
Running into the main room, my heart pounded as I beheld the sight before me. The front door stood wide open, the force of the relentless wind holding it aloft like a gaping maw inviting chaos into our sanctuary. Panic surged within me as I searched frantically for Simon, but my eyes found only Mary huddled in a fetal position in the corner.
I rushed to her side, my voice lost amidst the howling wind as I attempted to rouse her from her stupor. But she remained unresponsive, her eyes glazed over with fear or shock. With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized she was in no condition to help.
Forcing myself to focus, I knew I needed to close the door to shield us from the storm's fury raging outside. Stepping towards the open door, I braced myself.
As I reached out, my fingers grasping for purchase against the slick surface of the door, I glanced outside and froze. The sight that greeted me sent a chill coursing through my veins—significant flooding stretched as far as the eye could see, the murky waters swirling ominously around us. Despite the cabin's perch on the hill, the floodwaters had risen dangerously close, surrounding us on all sides like a watery prison.
With a renewed sense of urgency, I steeled myself and prepared to pull the door shut with all my strength. But before I could make a move, a chilling sound cut through the roar of the storm—a splash, followed by the unmistakable sound of something significant and unseen plunging into the floodwaters that threatened to engulf us. Dread clawed at my insides as I realized we were not alone in this watery abyss, and whatever lurked beneath the surface was a threat we could scarcely comprehend.
I finally got the door closed, but I was out of breath and needed a moment to catch it. I looked up at Mary, still in the corner, looking up at me with the eyes of someone who had just seen a ghost. I scramble to check on her when I slip on something under my feet. I look down and notice mud on the hardwood floors.
It's not just mud, but it looks like the muddy footprints of a large wolf-like creature. The footprints lead to Mary, where there was a puddle of blood at her feet. Thinking she was hurt, I ran to her.
"Mary, are you okay? Are you hurt?" I ask frantically, but she just keeps staring at the door. I looked around and didn't see any wounds, but I did see what looked like blood splatters on her face and front side. "Mary, what happened? Where is Simon?"
Still giving the door the thousand-yard stare, Mary slowly lifts her hand and points at the front door. Looking further, I notice that the footprints also lead back outside.
"Oh, no..." I mutter. "Mary, I'm going to go check on him. I'll be right back, okay?" She doesn't respond, but I take it as a yes. I open the door, pulling with all my strength left, and step out into the rain. The door slams shut behind me as the wind barrels through. The heavy rain makes it difficult to see anything more than a few feet in front of me. I can hear the flooding around us as the water rushes down the hill.
"Simon! Simon, where are you?" My voice was swallowed by the deafening roar of the storm, lost amidst the howling wind and pounding rain. I knew that even if he responded, I wouldn't be able to hear him over the cacophony of nature's fury.
Just then, a blinding flash of lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the forest with an ethereal glow for a fleeting moment. In that brief instant, I saw something that chilled me to the core—a grotesque aberration of nature, a monstrous amalgamation of human and wolf.
Its jet-black fur was patchy and matted in certain spots, and its distorted face contorted into a snarling snout that seemed to defy all laws of anatomy. But it was the eyes that burned into my soul, piercing me with their unsettling humanity amidst the primal savagery.
For a heartbeat, it stood there amidst the flooded forest, its towering form dwarfed by the surrounding trees. Something glinted in its hand, a sinister gleam that sent a shiver down my spine. It must have been at least seven feet tall, its massive frame barely submerged in the murky waters that swirled around it.
I tried to convince myself that it was just a trick of the light, a figment of my imagination conjured by the relentless storm. It had to be a bush or a log, my mind desperately grasping for any semblance of rationality amidst the chaos that surrounded us.
"Simon, ple—"
My words were cut off by a sound that shattered the fragile illusion of safety I had desperately clung to—a roar that reverberated through the forest like a primal scream of rage and agony. It began as a guttural growl akin to that of a lion but quickly morphed into something else entirely—a haunting fusion of bestial fury and human desperation.
I didn't wait to see if it was the creature that I had just convinced myself didn't exist mere seconds ago. With adrenaline coursing through my veins, I fought against the wind, my hands trembling as I struggled to open the front door. Finally, with a surge of desperation, I squeezed through a narrow crack in the doorway, leaving behind the nightmare that lurked in the darkness of the storm-ravaged forest.
Once inside, I slammed the door behind me, relieved to be out of the rain. But something's still nagging at me. I can't shake the image of that... thing... in the woods. I hurry over to Mary, kneeling down next to her. "Mary, are you okay? What happened?" I ask her, but she is still unresponsive.
I hear the roar of that monster again, and both Mary and I jump. I can see her shaking in fear as she starts mumbling something.
"Mary, speak up, I can't hear you!" I say in frustration. I get closer in order to hear what she is saying.
I hear her say in broken whispers, "It.. took... him. Tore in half. Leave now." I looked up and saw tears streaming down her face. "We have to go!" She suddenly yelled as she bolted for the door but was unable to work against the wind holding it shut. She frantically pulls at the metal knob, but she is only able to get it open a crack, not nearly big enough to fit any sized human.
I ran and grabbed her by the shoulders, "Calm down, Mary. I'll find Simon; I promise you that he's fine." I said as I looked into her eyes. She slumped down to her knees and began sobbing.
"No, he's not. He's fucking dead!" She was a bumbling mess, but after I was able to calm her down enough to understand her, she told me, "When you went into the other room to look for the noise, that.. thing barged in, and before I knew what happened," She started sobbing again but calmed herself down, "before I knew what happened, that thing had Simon. It... it had him in both hands and it.. it fucking," I thought she was going to try and calm herself down until she blurted, "It fucking tore him apart!"
I looked around the room at the blood on the floor and scanned the room more closely. I finally see the splatters on the walls, just like Mary had on her face. My heart sank as I realized that Simon wasn't coming back.
"Mary, we need to leave. Right now. We can't stay here," I tell her, but she just shakes her head, still crying. I take her by the shoulders and force her to look at me. "Mary, please, we need to go. We can't fight that thing."
"Where the fuck are you going to go, Chris? That thing is stalking us outside; even if it wasn't, the flooding is way too high to hike back!" She yelled in my face.
I stepped back as I processed what she said and slumped down the wall when I backed into it, staring off into nothing. The rain hammered against the windows, and the wind howled, making it hard to hear anything else. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to calm down.
After several seconds of trying to calm myself down, I heard large footsteps on the cabin's porch outside. They were moving slowly, but each time a foot hit the ground, the whole place shook. It was that monster; it had to be.
I quietly but quickly made my way back to Mary and held her as she clung to me. The footsteps stopped briefly as we anxiously waited for its next move. Slowly, I get up and make my way to a window pointing out front. Before I build enough courage to look, I stay under the window, frozen, afraid of what I'll see.
Suddenly, the footsteps run away as I hear them wading through the flooded water, away to wherever it stays. Carefully, I bring my eye line above the window sill, and I can't really tell what I'm looking at, at first, until lightning illuminates the porch.
At first, it looked like a dead animal that had been torn apart and skinned in some areas. After a few more lightning strikes in the distance, I can see it's Simon. His head, covered in blood, was the only part of the body that was kept intact. His head was placed on the floor, and it looked like whatever had been placed him here tried to match up where his legs, arms, and torso would go. His left leg was placed on his shoulder where his arm should be and an arm where his leg should be. Whatever that thing was, it was messing with us now.
I snap back into reality when I hear Mary yell, "What the fuck do you see?"
I jump and turn around as I land on my butt, my brain trying to protect me from looking at what was once Simon. Mary can tell that something is wrong, that something is out there that terrifies me. She gets up and tries to make her way quickly to the window, but I get up and hold her in a hug before she has the chance to look at Simon.
"Chris, what the fuck? Let go of me. What's out there? Is it Simon?" She asks desperately as she squirms to get out of my grasp, but I hold onto her tighter, not wanting her to see what has become of Simon.
I look at her in the eyes as tears start to form in both of us. "It's Simon, isn't it?" She asks desperately. I didn't say anything, just stared further into her as she understood and broke down, sobbing into my chest.
After a half hour of hearing nothing else, we surrounded the fireplace. A pile of dry wood was next to the fireplace as I started the fire with what matches we had left. Mary and I said nothing to each other as we enjoyed the heat of the fire together. I sat down right in front of the fire as I lit it, and without me noticing, Mary somehow made her way into my arms. I'd been staring at the fire for what felt like hours before I noticed. Her soft snores calmed me as I slowly drifted into sleep.
The wind howled and hissed as it barreled through the small openings in the tarps covering the holes. The fire crackled and spat as it burned, the flames dancing and twirling in a hypnotic display. Mary's breathing was labored, her chest heaving up and down as she fought to calm herself. I could feel her shivering against me, and I knew that she was just as terrified as I was.
Suddenly, there was a loud thud from outside the cabin. I froze, my heart racing. I didn't dare to move, afraid to make a sound. Mary slowly opened her eyes, her expression a mix of confusion and fear. She looked at me, then back at the front door, as if trying to understand what had happened. Another thud, this time closer, right outside the window to the right of the fireplace.
"What was that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crackling fire. I shrugged, unsure of what to say.
Another thud, this time from the direction of the door. Mary's grip on me tightened as she buried her face into my chest. I could feel her heart racing, hammering against my ribs. I wanted to reassure her, but I was just as terrified as she was.
The wind howled outside, a menacing symphony that seemed to be growing louder with each passing moment. My breath came in ragged gasps, my chest burning with each inhale.
Mary's fingers twitched in my grip, her knuckles pale as she struggled to control her fear. "What do we do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the storm. I shook my head, unable to form words.
Suddenly, the creature shatters the window as its razor-sharp claws easily slice through the cabin walls. Its claws were like five short machetes that had no respect for the laws of solid objects.
The beast lunges forward, its massive jaws snapping at Mary's arm, its claws raking against the floor as it slides closer to her. With a deafening roar, it snatches at her again, tearing through the air mere inches from her face.
She put her arms up in defense, and the beast grappled onto her left arm as I pulled her away. The razor-sharp machete claws tore her arm up as it got stuck in a giant paper shredder. She was missing her hand, and the end of her arm was torn to shreds as loose skin around the missing hand flapped around, trying to find its place that would never come again.
As I pulled her away, the monster retreated outside, waiting for us to slip up again, but it won't happen again, not on my watch.
Mary screams in pain; she makes a noise that I've never heard since or do I ever want to hear again. It was a mix of pain, fear, and uncertainty.
In any other circumstance, this would be fine; granted, Mary missing an arm would be tragic, but we would be able to call an ambulance, and it would be out of my hands. However, I was the only healthy one and had to step up.
Quickly, I took off my belt and wrapped it tightly right below her shoulder to stop the bleeding. I poked a hole in the belt with a piece of glass on the floor to secure it as a tourniquet and hopefully devise a plan.
Mary calmed down a little bit, just enough to let me think. I walk into the next room to think as she whines and winces in pain. What the fuck was I supposed to do? That was when I realized that it'd stopped raining. It must've stopped sometime after the commotion, and I just hadn't heard.
I rush into the main room to investigate, but I find the monster standing there, holding Mary by the back of the neck as she struggles to stay conscious.
Not sure what to do, I moved very slowly and carefully into the room, and its human eyes followed me as I entered. As it stood there, it breathed heavily, and with every exhale, it let out a deep grunt that I felt in my chest.
I'm not sure how long we stood there, staring at each other, but it felt like hours. I felt like we were both trying to read each other. It had so much anger in its eyes, and it didn't know what to do with this anger, so it turned to hunting anything alive. At least, I thought that's what its eyes were telling me.
I caught myself smiling as I came to this conclusion, but that was a mistake. I could have sworn that it smiled back through its deformed and stretched face. Thinking we had an understanding, I take a step forward as the creature takes a step back, lets out its roar, and crushes Mary's neck in its claws.
It felt like everything was in slow motion for a while. The heavy breathing of the creature rang in my ears as an undertone of the roar. Mary's blood spattered my face as it took her head with it back to wherever it goes. Before I realized it, everything was back in regular time.
I stood at the entrance to the main room for a long time. My mouth was agape as I tried to process what just happened. After a while, my knees give out, and I fall to the floor. I stare out of the hole in the cabin wall where a window once was.
The crackling fire cast flickering shadows across the cabin, its flames dancing in a mesmerizing display of light and heat. But no warmth could dispel the chill that lingered in the air, a tangible reminder of the horrors that had unfolded in the darkness of the storm.
I sat there, my gaze fixated on the gaping hole in the wall where the wind bellowed mercilessly, a relentless reminder of the forces that had conspired against us. Time seemed to stand still as I stared into the abyss, lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts and memories. The wind howling through the breach drowned out all other noise, a haunting symphony that echoed the turmoil within my soul.
I couldn't tear my eyes away from the void, as if by sheer force of will, I could unravel the mysteries beyond. As I sat there, the hours stretched into eternity, a silent sentinel amidst the storm's chaos.
I'm not sure when the rain finally ceased, the relentless downpour giving way to an eerie silence that hung heavy in the air. But by the next afternoon, the floodwaters had receded enough for the town to mobilize a search party in our honor.
"Hello? Sir?"
The soft voice of a boy broke through the haze of my thoughts, pulling me back to reality with a jolt. I blinked, disoriented, realizing I had been lost in my mind for who knows how long. The boy's words washed over me like a distant echo, his presence a stark reminder of the world beyond the confines of my own turmoil.
I didn't remember him saying anything until after a while when he started shaking me, his touch pulling me back from the brink of oblivion. The last thing I remembered before slipping into the darkness was the image of Mary's head exploding, a gruesome tableau etched into my mind with chilling clarity.
"Sir, are you okay?"
I didn't say anything, my mind still reeling from the flood of memories that had washed over me. It was as if I had been thrust into a waking nightmare, unable to distinguish between reality and the horrors that lurked within the recesses of my mind.
As I sit here now, recounting these memories for the first time, I realize the weight of the burden I have carried for so long. The isolation, the fear, the trauma—it has consumed me in ways I never dared to acknowledge until now.
Working with a hypnotherapist has unlocked the floodgates of my mind, allowing me to confront the demons that have haunted me for so long. The memories, once fragments of a shattered puzzle, now fit together with terrifying clarity, revealing the full extent of the horror that transpired that fateful night.
I used to have flashes of these memories in my dreams, fleeting glimpses of a truth too horrifying to confront head-on. But now, as the pieces fall into place, I can no longer deny the reality of what happened.
I hope this confession reaches the right people, those who can shed light on the darkness that has consumed me for so long. I may not be able to stop you from seeking the truth, but I can at least offer this testimony as a final act of redemption.
As my cancer diagnosis worsens and the specter of death looms ever closer, I am confronted with the urgency of my own mortality. I cannot change the past, but I can strive to make amends for the sins that have haunted me for far too long

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Sorry Google, farm clothes ain’t just Carhartt and “don’t wear your nice clothes on the farm.”
So, I made the album I wanted back when I moved to a farm: a farmer’s workwear album. The Western/Americana albums are great, but I always felt they lacked actual gritty, dirty, working women serving lewks while farming.
Ranch dressing (ha!), Western, Americana: it’s all here, made practical.
Color Scheme: earth tones (hides the dirt) with pops of red and turquoise.
Fabrics: sturdy + durable natural fabrics - cotton, denim, leather, linen, hemp, fleece. heavy fabrics - flannel, canvas. technical synthetic materials for sweat wicking. waterproof and waxed fabrics.
Silhouettes: comfortable. relaxed, looser fit. layers.
Styling Choices: heavy, durable clothes, in winter. linen in summer. sun + element protection - long sleeves, long pants. minimal jewelry, if any.
Details: western details - hats, snap shirts, bandanas/wild rags, belts with silver buckle. Embroidery. lots of pockets. reinforcing details - double knees, gusset. Patches. Jackets.
Outfit ideas/specifics: Most of the outfits follow a simple formula - jeans (or any pants) + button up, Belt + large buckle, neck bandana, Western boots, cowboy hat. Overalls + long sleeve t’s. Flowy collared dresses for farmer’s markets.

• DENIM (Jeans, jeans, + more jeans, shirts, trucker jackets)
• Outerwear (Chore coats, Field jackets, Anarok jackets)
• steel toed boots, insulated boots (a game changer in winter)

Affordable/accessible brands:
Dickies (bib overalls, pants)
Uniqlo (linen shirts, airism)
wrangler (western shirt1, western shirt2, jeans)
Carhartt (pants, heavy duck jacket, field jacket)
Madewell bandanas
LL Bean (bean boots, rain jacket, barn coat)
Bogs boots
Dovetail Workwear - I love these pants - they made it into my regular wardrobe. these overalls are nice too.
Less affordable brands:
Duluth Trading Co (coat, bib overalls, garden overalls)
Patagonia (bib overalls, shirt)
Stetson hats
Levi's for jeans, jackets
Schaefer (belt, jacket1, jacket2, denim jacket)
Ariat boots, steel toed shoes
Edit: added Dovetail Workwear! thanks raghaillach for reminding me.

1. The Trusty Fire Starter

Fire is essential for survival. It keeps you warm, cooks your food, and scares away the creepy crawlies that want to join your camping party. Matches? They get wet. Lighters? They run out of fuel. But a magnesium fire starter? Now we're talking. It’s like having a tiny piece of Thor's hammer in your pocket.Check out our awesome fire starter kits. They’re foolproof, which is great because the last thing you want is to be that person who can't start a fire in front of your entire camping group. "Hey, remember when Dave couldn't start a fire, and we almost froze? Good times.
"Pro Tip: Practice at home first. Your neighbors might think you’re preparing for an apocalypse, but better safe than sorry.

1. The Unassuming Paracord Bracelet

You might think a paracord bracelet is just a fashionable accessory for your rugged outdoor look. Wrong! This little piece of fashion can save your life. Need to tie up your gear, make a shelter, or floss after eating that jerky? Paracord bracelet to the rescue! It’s like wearing Batman’s utility belt on your wrist.Our store offers paracord bracelets that even come with a built-in fire starter and whistle. Now you can call for help and start a fire without even reaching into your pack. Talk about multi-functional!
Pro Tip: Resist the urge to use it as a regular rope for mundane tasks. Save it for when you really need it. Like when you’re about to fall into a ravine. Or need to make an emergency clothesline.

1. The Legendary First Aid Kit

Getting a blister is not a rite of passage; it's just plain annoying. A first aid kit is the real MVP of any outdoor adventure. Cuts, scrapes, blisters, mysterious rashes—you name it, your first aid kit can handle it. Our kits are compact, comprehensive, and fit perfectly in your backpack without taking up too much space.And let’s be honest, nothing says "I’m prepared" like busting out a first aid kit when your buddy gets a paper cut from the map (yes, people still use maps).
Pro Tip: Don’t just carry it—know how to use it. Otherwise, it’s just extra weight. Maybe take a first aid class. You might even meet someone who shares your love for survival gear!

1. The All-Knowing Compass

GPS devices are great until they run out of battery or lose signal. A compass, however, is like the wise old owl of navigation tools. It doesn’t need batteries, it doesn’t glitch, and it won’t judge you for not knowing north from south.Our store has top-notch compasses that are easy to read and reliable. Perfect for when you’ve wandered off the beaten path and are starting to worry about becoming the next headline: "Lost Hiker Found Using Only a Selfie Stick and a Sense of Desperation.
"Pro Tip: Learn to use it properly. Or at least pretend you do while sneakily using your GPS as backup.

Wrapping It Up!

So there you have it, folks. The essential survival gear that every outdoor enthusiast needs. Remember, it’s not just about having the right tools; it’s about knowing how to use them and keeping a sense of humor when things go sideways. Because in the end, the best survival skill is the ability to laugh in the face of adversity (and your friends’ attempts at starting a campfire). Check out Survival Pro Store for all your gear needs, and may your adventures be epic and your blisters be few!
Happy Trails!

She was round, heavy, soft, naked, and lay in a single size bed; the glow of the monitor was the only thing that lit the dark room—there were no windows and a single overhead vent circulated fresh air through the little bedroom. The young woman lifted her arms, so they stood out from her shoulders like two sticks directly towards the ceiling vent; she squinched her face as she extended her arms out and a singular loud pop resonated from her left elbow. Though she lingered in bed and yawned and tossed the yellowy sheets around, so they twisted around her legs ropelike, she’d not just awoken; Pixie remained conscious the entire night. Her stringy unwashed hair—shoulder length—clumped around her head in tangles. Pixie reached out for the metallic nightstand and in reaching blindly while she yawned again, her fingers traced the flat surface of the wall. She angled up and the sheets fell from around her bare midsection.
Hairs knottily protested, snagging as the brush passed over her head. Pixie returned to her back with a flop, continued to hold the brush handle in her left fist, stared absently at the ceiling vent; a light breeze passed through the room, a draft created by the vent and the miniscule space at the base of the door on the wall by the foot of the bed. Her eyes traced the outline of the closed door; the whole place was ghostly with only the light of the monitor as it flickered muted cartoons—the screen was mounted to the high corner adjacent the door and its colored lights occasionally illuminated far peripheries of the space.
Poor paper was tacked around open spaces of the walls with poorer imitations of manga stylings. Bulbously oblong-eyed characters stared down at her from all angles. Spaces not filled by those doodles were pictures, paintings, still images of Japanese iconography: bonsai, samurai, Shinto temples, yokai, so on, so on.
Pixie chewed her bottom lip, nibbled the skin she’d torn from there. The monitor’s screen displayed deep, colorful anime.
“Kohai, Noise on,” she said.
The monitor beeped once in response then its small speaker filled the room with jazz-funk-blues.
“Three, two, one,” Pixie whispered in unison with the words which spilled from the speaker.
Being twenty years old, she was limber enough to contort her upper half from the bed, hang from its edge so the edge held at her lower back; she wobbled up and down until she heard a series of cracks resonate. Pixie groaned in satisfaction and returned properly onto the bed.
The monitor, in its low left corner showed: 6:47. Pixie sighed.
As if by sudden possession, she launched from the mattress onto the little space afforded to the open floor and stood there and untangled herself from where the sheets had coiled around her legs. She then squatted by the bed, rear pressed against the nightstand, and withdrew a drawer from under her bed. Stowed there were a series of clothing items and she dressed herself in eccentric blue, flowy pants with an inner cord belt. For her top, she donned a worn and thinly translucent stained white t-shirt. By the door, beneath the monitor on the floor were a pair of slide-on leather shoes and she stepped into them.
Pixie whipped open the door and slammed her cheek to the threshold’s frame to speak to the monitor. “Kohai, off.”
The room went totally dark as she gently shut and locked the door.
She stood in a narrow, white-painted brick hallway with electric sconces lining the walls, each of those urine-yellow lights coated the white walls in their glow; Pixie’s own personal pallor took on the lights’ hue.
With her thumbs hooked onto the pockets of her pants, she moseyed without hurry down the hall towards a zippering staircase; there were floors above and floors below and she took the series leading down until she met the place where there were no more stairs to take.
The lobby of the structure was not so much that, but more of a thoroughfare with an entryway both to the left and the right; green leaves overhung terracotta dirt beds pressed along the walls. Pixie’s feet carried her faster while she angled her right shoulder out.
Natural warmth splintered into the lobby’s scene as she slammed into the rightward exit and began onto the lightly metropolitan street, bricked, worn, crumbling. Wet hot air sent the looser hairs spidering outward from her crown while lorries thrummed by on the parallel roadway; the sidewalk Pixie stomped along carried few other passersby and when she passed a well-postured man going the opposite way on her side of the street, he stopped, twisted, and called after, “Nice wagon.”
There was no response at all from Pixie, not a single eye blink that might have determined whether she heard what he’d said at all. The man let go of a quick, “Pfft,” before pivoting to go in the direction he’d initially set out for.
Tall Tucson congestion was all around her, Valencia Street’s food vendors resurrected for the day and butters or lards struck grill flats or pans and were shortly followed by batters and eggs and pig cuts—chorizo spice filled the air. Aromatics filled the southernmost line of the street where there were long open plots of earth—this was where a series of stalls gathered haphazardly. The box roofs of the stalls stood in the foreground of the entryway signs which directed towards the municipal superstructure. The noise swelled too—there were shouts, homeless dogs that cruised between the ramshackle stalls; a tabby languished in the sun atop a griddle hut and the dogs barked after it and the tabby paid no mind as it stretched its belly out for the sky. Morning commuters, walkers, gathered to their places and stood in queues or sat among the red earth or took to stools if they were offered by the vendors. Those that took food dispersed with haste, checking tablets or watches or they simply glanced at the sky for answers.
Sun shafts played between the heavy morning clouds that passed over, gray and drab, and there were moments of great heat then great relief then mugginess; it signaled likely rain.
At an intersection where old corroded chain-link fencing ran the length of the southern route with signs warning of trespass, she took Plumer Avenue north and kept her eyes averted to the hewn brick ground beneath her feet. Pixie lifted her nose, sniffed, stuffed her fists into her pockets then continued looking at her own moving feet.
Among the rows of crowded apartments which lined either side of Plumer, there were alleyway vendors—brisk rude people which called out to those that passed in hopes of trade; many of the goods offered were needless hand-made ornaments and the like. Strand bead bracelets dangled from fingers in display and were insistently shown off while artisans cried out prices while children’s tops spun in shoebox sized arenas while corn-husk cigarettes were sold by the pack. It was all noise everywhere.
A few vendors yelled after Pixie, but she ignored them and kept going; the salespeople then shifted their attention to whoever their eyes fell on next—someone with a better response. Plumer Avenue was packed tighter as more commuters gathered to the avenues and ran across the center road at seemingly random intervals—those that drove lorries and battery wagons protested those street crossers with wild abandon; the traffic that existed crept through the narrow route. People ran like water around the tall black light box posts or the narrow and government tended mesquite trunks.
It sprinkled rain; Pixie crossed her arms across her chest and continued walking. The rain caused a mild haze across the scene—Pixie scrunched her nose and quickened her pace.
She came to where she intended, and the crowd continued with its rush, but she froze there in front of a grimy windowed storefront—the welded sign overhead read: Odds N’ Ends. Standing beside the storefront’s door was a towering fellow. The pink and dew-eyed man danced and smiled and there was no music; his shoeless calloused heels ground and twisted into the bricks like he intended to create depressions in the ground there. Rainwater beaded and was cradled in his mess of hair. He offered a flash of jazz hands then continued his twisty groove. Though the man hushed words to himself, they were swallowed by the ruckus of the commuters around him.
Pixie pressed into the door, caught the man’s eyes, and he grinned broader, Hello! he called.
She responded with an apologetic nod and stretched a flat smile without teeth.
Standing on the interior mat, the door slammed behind her, and she traced the large, high-ceiling interior.
To the right, towering shelves of outdated preserves and books and smokes and incenses and dead crystals created thin pathways; to the left was a counter, a register, and an old, wrinkled woman with a fat gray bun coiled atop her head—she kept a thin yarn shawl over her shoulders. The old woman sat in a high-backed stool behind the register, examined a hardback paper book splayed adjacent the register; she traced her fingers along the sentences while she whispered to herself. Upon finally noticing Pixie standing by the door, the woman came hurriedly from around the backside of the counter, arms up in a fury, “You’re late, Joan,” said the old woman; her eyes darted to the analog dial which hung by the storefront, “Not by much, but still.” Standing alongside one another, the old woman seemed rather short. “You’re soaked—look at you, dripping all over the floor.”
Pixie nodded but refrained from looking the woman in the eye.
“Oh,” the old woman flapped her flattened hand across her own face while coughing, “When did you last wash?” She grabbed onto Pixie’s shoulders, angled the younger woman back so that she could stare into her face. “Look at your eyes—you haven’t been sleeping at all, Joan. What will we do with you? What am I going to do with you?” Then the old woman froze. “Pixie,” she nodded, clawed a single index finger, and tapped the crooked appendage to her temple, “I forget.”
“It’s alright,” whispered Pixie.
The old woman’s nature softened for a moment, her shoulders slanted away from her throat, and she shuffled to return to her post behind the counter. “Anyway, the deliveryman from the res came by and dropped off that shipment, just like I told you he would. They’re in the back. Could you bring them out and help me put them up? I tried a few of them, but the boxes are quite heavy, and it’s worn my back out already.” The old woman offered a meager grin, exposing her missing front teeth. She turned her attention to the book on the counter, lifted it up so it was more like a miniscule cubicle screen—the title read: Your Psychic Powers and How to Develop Them.
Pixie set to the task; the stockroom was overflowing even more so with trinkets—a barrel of mannequin arms overhung from a shelf by the ceiling, covered in dust—dull hanging solitary light bulbs dotted the stockroom’s ceiling and kept the place dark and moldy, save those spotlights. The fresh boxes sat along the rear of the building, where little light was. Twelve in total, the boxes sat and said nothing, and Pixie said nothing to the boxes. The woman took a pocketknife to the metal stitches which kept them closed. Though the proprietor of Odds N’ Ends said she’d tried her hand at the boxes already, there was no sign of her interference.
The first box contained dead multi-colored hair and the stuff stood plumelike from the mouth of the container; Pixie gave it a shake and watched the strands shift around. This unsettled but was not entirely unpleasant; the unpleasantness followed when she grabbed a fistful of hair only to realize she’d brought up a series of dried scalps which clicked together—hard leather on hard leather. Pixie gagged, dropped the scalps where they’d come from, shook her hands wildly, then placed that box to the ground and shifted it away with her foot.
The next contained a full layer of straw and she hesitantly brushed her hand across the top to uncover glass jars—dark browned liquids. Falsely claimed tinctures.
Curiously, she tilted her head at the next box, it was of a different color and shape than the rest. Green and Rectangular. And further aged too. Pixie sucked in a gulp of air, picked at the stitching of the box with her knife then peered inside. Like the previous box, it was full of straw and with more confidence, she pawed it away. She stumbled backwards from the box, hissing, and brought her finger up to her face. A thin trail of blood trickled by the index fingernail of her right hand; she jammed the finger in her mouth and moved to the box again. Carefully, she removed the object by one end. In the dim light, she held a long-handled, well curved tachi sword; the shine of the blade remained pristine. It was ancient and deceiving.
“Oh,” said Pixie around the index finger in her mouth, “It’s a katana.”
She moved underneath one of the spotlights of the stockroom, held it vertically over herself in the glare, traced her eyes along the beautifully corded black handle. As she twisted the blade in the air, it caught the light and she seemed stricken dumb. She withdrew her finger from her mouth, held the thing out in front of her chest with both hands, put her eyes along the water-wave edge. Her tongue tip squeezed from the corner of her mouth while she was frozen with the sword.
In a dash, she held the thing casually and returned to the box. She rummaged within and came up with the scabbard. The weapon easily clicked safely inside. “Pretty cool,” she said.
The other boxes held nothing quite so inspiring as a sword nor anything as morbid as dead scalps. There were decapitated shaved baby-doll heads lining the interior slots of plastic egg cartons, and more fake tonics, and tarot cards, and cigarettes, and a few unmarked media cartridges—both assortments of videos and music were represented in their designs. Pixie spent no time whatsoever ogling any of the other objects; her attention remained with the sword which she kept in her hand as she sallied through the boxes. Between opening every new box, she took a long break to unsheathe the sword and play-fight the air without poise—even so the tachi was alive spoke windily.
“Quit lollygagging,” said the old woman; she stood in the doorway to the stockroom, shook her head, “Is this what you’ve been doing all morning? How are we supposed to get the new merchandise on the shelves—including that sword—if you won’t stop playing around?”
Pixie’s voice cracked, “How much is it?”
The old woman balked, “The sword?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s a display piece. We put it in the window to draw in potential customers, of course. It’s too expensive to keep them in stock. I don’t even know where a person could find a continuous stock of them, but if we can put it in the window, perhaps clientele will come in, ask about it, then shop a bit—it’s not something you can sell; it’s an investment.” The old woman, slow as she was, steadied across the stockroom and met Pixie there by the boxes, placed her hand on the open containers, briefly glanced into the nearest one, and smiled. “It’d take you a lifetime to pay back if you wanted a sword like that anyway. Now,” The old woman placed a hand on Pixie’s shoulder, “Put it away. There’s a strange man outside and I need your help shooing him away. He’s likely scared away potential customers already.”
The two of them, tachi returned to its place, went to the front of the store; it was ghostly quiet save their footfalls—the customers that did stop into the store hardly ever stopped in more than the once; it was a place of oddities, strangeness, novelty. The things they sold most of were the packaged cigarettes from the res. No one cared enough for magic or fortune telling. Still, the old woman carried on, like she did often, about the principals for running a business. Pixie carried no principals—none could be found—so the young woman nodded along with anything the old woman said while staring off.
On the approach to the storefront, the man from before could be seen and his dance had not slowed—if anything his movements had only become further enamored with dance. His elbows swung wildly, he spun like a ballerina, he kicked his feet against the brick sideway and did not flinch at the pain of it.
“There he is,” said the old woman, “He’s acting crazy as hell. Look at him go.” He went. “If I wasn’t certain he was as crazy as a deck with five suits, I’d ask if he wanted to bark for me—you know, draw in a crowd.” She shook her head. “Don’t know why people like him can’t just go to the airport. There are handouts there. Anyway, I need to get back to it myself. As do you,” she directed this at Pixie; although Pixie towered over the woman in terms of physicality, the older woman rose on her tiptoes, pinched the younger woman’s soft bicep hard, whispered, “Get that bastard off my stoop, understand?”
Again, the old woman’s face softened, and she left Pixie standing there on the front door’s interior mat. The crone returned to her place behind the counter, nestled onto the stool like a bird finding comfort, then craned her neck far down so her nose nearly touched the book page; her eyes followed her finger across the lines.
Pixie’s chest swelled and then went small as the sigh escaped her; her shoulders hung in front of her, and she briskly pushed outside.
The rain had gone, but the smell remained; across the street, where the morning’s foot congestion decreased, a series of blue-coated builders could be spied hoisting materials—metal framing and brick—via scaffolding with a series of pulleys. For a moment, Pixie stared across the street and watched the men work and shout at one another; a lorry passed by, broke her eyeline and she was suddenly confronted by the dancing man who pivoted several times in a semicircle around where she stood. Far, far off, birds called. Fuel fog stunk the air.
Move, said the dancing man. Initially it seemed a rude command, but upon catching his rain-wetted face, it was obvious that his will was not one of malice, but of love and peace and cosmic splendor. It does not matter how you move, but you must move! It was an offer. Not a command. Or so it seemed.
The man rolled his neck and flicked his head around and the jewels which beaded there glowed around him for a blink as they were cast off.
You’ve been sent to send me away, yeah? asked the man.
“That’s right,” said Pixie.
But it’s not because you wish it?
“I couldn’t care if you stood out here all day.” Pixie bit her lip, chewed enough that a trickle of blood touched her tongue; her eyes swept across the street again and focused on the builders. “The fewer customers we have, the less I need to speak.”
The man froze in his dance then suddenly his stature slumped. He nodded. I’ll go. As you must. You must too, yeah?
“Go? Go where?”
You know.
She did.
The man left and Pixie remained on the street by herself; the rabble which passed her by were few and she stared at her own two feet, at the space between them, at the cracks, and she sighed. She jerked her head back, saw the sky was still deep ocean blue—more rain but nothing so sinister as a storm.
“Go?” she asked the sky.
She reentered the store.
After stocking the newest shipment, the rest of the day was as mundane as the others which Pixie spent within Odds N’ Ends; few patrons stopped in—mostly to ogle—it was a place of spectacle more than a place of business. Whenever folks came, the old woman would call for Pixie without looking up from her book; normally the younger woman dusted or rearranged the things on the shelves as the old woman liked them and was often away from the counter. Pixie tried to answer questions about the shaved doll heads, the crystals arranged upon velvet mats, the tinctures, the stuffed bear head high on the wall. After some terrible conversation, they went to the counter and bought cigarettes or nothing at all and the old woman would complain at Pixie about her poor salesmanship after the patrons were gone.
The tachi was put there on a broad table, directly in front of the storefront window and Pixie froze often in her work, longingly examined the thing from afar, and snapped from her maladaptation; frequently she chastised herself in barely audible mutters. The old woman had Pixie scrub the pane of the window in front of where the sword sat, and the young woman traced her hand across the handle and delicately thumbed the length of the plain scabbard.
It was a job; this was a thing which people did so they may go on living. Come the middle of the shift—Pixie yawned, it was not due to overexertion, it was more due to her poor sleeping habits. This day was no different in this regard.
“I wish you’d keep it to yourself,” the old woman said, and then she cupped a hand over her own mouth and her eyes went teary, “God, now look at me and see what you’ve done!” The old woman shook the tiredness away. “Bah! There’s still some daylight left!”
“We haven’t had anyone in for the past hour,” said Pixie, staring up at the analog dial on the wall.
The old woman’s scowl was fierce. “Mhm, I’m sure you’re waiting for the death call.” She too looked at the clock on the wall and sighed loudly. “Alright. Pack it up! Better the death call of the store than my own.” She fanned her face with a flat palm and yawned again.
Pixie left the place; the old woman locked the storefront from within. It began to rain again; it seemed the weather understood it was quitting time.
The young woman cupped her elbows and walked home in the rain. Other commuters passed with umbrellas and others, like Pixie, ran through the puddles gathered on the ground. Rain was infrequent but this was not so in the summer and Pixie never protested it. It cooled the ground, thickened the air, and darkened the sky. A car passed on the street, but it was mostly lorries or battery wagons. Personal vehicles were as rare as the rain and Pixie watched after the car; it was a short, rounded thing—its metal cosmetics were warped, and it couldn’t have carried more than two people within.
No vendors were there on the way, no men to call after her—no other people either. The sky grew darker yet and though it was still relatively early, it seemed to grow as black as nighttime without stars.
Pixie’s apartment was there, dark, solitary, same. She shut her door, locked it with her inside, undressed completely and dropped her clothes to the little floor there was and huffed as she planked across the mattress; the bedframe protested. “It smells bad in here,” she spoke into the pillow. The words were nothing. In the blackness of the room, she was nothing. It was a void, a capsule, a tomb. She was still wet and smelled like a dog.
The monitor in the corner came alive at her salutation and she snored sporadically in the electric glow of the screen.
Upon waking in the black hours of the morning, Pixie rubbed her eyes, cupped her forearms to her stomach; her midsection growled, and she tentatively reached to the bedside table and removed a bag of dried cactus pears. She nibbled at the end of one and in arching was cut blue and archaically shaped in the stilled light of the monitor’s idle screen. Pixie popped the entire rest of the cactus pear into her mouth, chewed noisily and vaguely stared into the empty corner of the room beneath the monitor.
After silent deliberation, Pixie crept through the night clothed in dark layers and went the back way through Odds N’ Ends. She absconded with the tachi, taking only a moment with the sword by the white windowlight where she carefully examined the thing again. The young woman was beguiled and went from the place the same way she came.
The brick streets resounded with her footfalls as her excited gait carried her home.
She packed light, slung the sword to her hip with a cloth braid—once it was there in its place, she used the thumb of her left hand to nudge the meager guard, so the blade came free from its sheath before she casually clicked it back to where it went. Pixie chuckled, shook with a frightening spasm dance then froze before patting the tachi lightly.

***

Two men stood along a shallow desert ridge; each of them was Apache descended.
Peridot Mesa was covered in poppies, curled horrendous things; once they’d been as precious as the peridot gems themselves, but as the two men stood there, overlooking the ridge, the poppies were browned, sickly, and as twisted as hog phalluses. Among the dying field were chicory and dead fallen-over cacti. The super blossoms were long over and had been for generations.
One man spat in the dirt, tilted his straw hat across his eyes to avert the heavy setting sun; he hoisted his jeans, asked, “You sure?”
The other man, older, lightly bearded, nodded and kept his own head covered with a yellow bucket hat and cradled his bolt-action rifle with the comfortability of an ex-soldier. “Yeah, c’mon Tweep.” He staggered over the edge of the ridge and slid across the dry earth while tilting backwards so his boots went like skis. With some assistance from his partner, he was able to reach flat ground without going over and the two men searched the ground while they continued walking. “Need to find her fast.”
Tweep, the younger man, spat again.
“Nasty habit.”
“Leave it, Taz.”
Taz shrugged and absently tugged on the string which looped the bucket hat loosely around his collar.
“How long?” asked Tweep.
“Serena said she blew through town only three days ago. Said she was coming this way.”
“She came looking for Chupacabra demons?”
“Huh?” asked Taz.
“That’s what that silly girl came out here for, yeah?”
“I guess. Let’s find her before dark, alright?”
“Sure,” said Tweep, “I just don’t know why she’d go looking for them.”
“Who knows? I don’t care enough to know. Not really.” The older man shook his head. “City people come out here, poke the wildlife—they make jokes about the mystics. I know you’ve seen it. Serena said the girl had the doe-eyed look of someone fresh out of Pheonix maybe. Who knows what she’s come here for?” There was a pause and only their footfalls sounded across the loose dry soil. “Dammit!” said the older man, “You’ve got me rambling. Let’s find the body already. Preferably before it gets much darker.”
“You think she’s dead then?”
Taz grimaced and then he spat. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, sir, why don’t you tell me what to think? I’m starting to think you only dragged me out here to help you carry anything you find valuable.”
Taz shook his head, shrugged. “Smart mouth.” They continued across the mesa, kicking poppies, shifting earth that hadn’t been touched by humans since the first deluge; it wouldn’t be touched by humans for another thousand after the second deluge—that was some time away yet.
“I see her.” Tweep rushed ahead.
Among a rockier set of alcoves, a white, stained blouse hung on a tumbleweed caught among groupings of stones.
“It’s her shirt,” said Tweep, going swiftly ahead.
The younger man leapt atop the stones and looked down a circular nest where the dirt was dug craterlike; destroyed tumbleweeds and splintered bone-corpses littered the nest.
Taz caught his comrade, readied the rifle at the nest.
Strewn across the ground were no less than three full grown Chupacabras, slain; one lay unmoving and decapitated while another’s intestines steamed in the heat. The third clung to life and kicked its rear legs helplessly. Pixie stood among the gore, shirtless; the tachi gleamed in her glowing fists.
“Holy shit!” said Taz; he lowered the rifle and followed Tweep into the nest. The two men kicked the rubbish from their way and approached the young woman with timidness. “You alright?”
Pixie ran the flat of the blade across her pantleg to remove the sparkling blood, inspected the thing and wiped it again before returning the sword to where it went. Leaking bite wounds covered the length of her forearms, and her eyes went far and tired.
Tweep watched the woman, chewed his lip. “You’re possessed! You can’t just kill them like that! Nobody could kill Chupacabra so easily. With your hands?” He tipped his straw hat back, so it fell to his shoulders and hung by the string on his throat.
Pixie shook her head. “It wasn’t with my hands.”
The woman wavered past the men, climbed the short perch where her blouse had gone; she held the shirt to the sky—the material floated out from her fingers as torn rags. She let go of the blouse and it carried on the wind.
Taz approached the only Chupacabra of the nest that remained alive. The creature groaned; the wound which immobilized it had partially severed its spine and the creature’s movements may have been from expelled death energy rather than any conscious effort—the upturned eye of it while it lay on its side seemed to show fear. Its body was mangy, and just as well as naked dark skin shone, so too did fur grow long and sporadic across its torso; short whiskers jutted out from its snout. Chitin shining scales covered the creature’s rear haunches while its tail remained rat naked. Taz shot the thing in the head, and it stopped moving.
The woman fell onto the rocks where the men had come over the den. She sat and examined the wounds on her arms then she turned her attention to the men which had gathered by her. “Do either of you have a spare shirt?”
Archive

Ever wondered how to wear rings as a man without feeling awkward? Rings can elevate your style and make a statement. From casual outings to formal events, knowing the right way to rock rings can boost your confidence. This guide will show you the best tips on wearing rings with flair. Whether you're new to accessories or looking to refine your look, you'll find practical advice here.

Key Takeaways

• Understand Ring Significance: Know the cultural and personal meanings behind different rings to make informed choices.
• Choose the Right Hand and Finger: Decide which hand and finger to wear your ring on based on tradition and personal comfort.
• Single vs Multiple Rings: Start with one ring to gauge your comfort level, then experiment with multiple rings to find your style.
• Consider Ring Size and Orientation: Ensure a proper fit and understand how the ring's orientation can affect its appearance.
• Select Rings for Different Occasions: Match your rings to the occasion, opting for subtle designs for formal events and bolder styles for casual settings.
• Pair Rings with Other Accessories: Coordinate rings with other accessories like watches or bracelets for a cohesive look.

Understanding Ring Significance

Historical and Cultural

Rings have held significance for centuries. In ancient Egypt, rings symbolized eternity and were often used in marriage. During the Middle Ages, knights wore rings to signify loyalty and power.
In many cultures, rings denote status and affiliation. For instance, signet rings were historically used by nobility to seal documents. These rings showcased one's rank and authority.

Symbolism of Rings

Different rings represent various aspects of life. Wedding bands indicate marital status. Class rings commemorate academic achievements. Religious rings reflect personal beliefs.
Signet rings often display family crests or initials. These are symbols of heritage and identity. Wearing such a ring connects one with their lineage.

Personal Values

Choosing a ring should align with personal values. A minimalist may prefer simple bands, while someone expressive might choose bold designs. Rings can be a form of self-expression.
Consider materials that resonate with you. Gold is traditional and timeless, while silver offers a modern touch. Gemstones can add color and meaning to your jewelry.

Choosing the Right Hand and Finger

Cultural Significance

Different cultures have unique traditions. In many Western countries, the left ring finger is for wedding bands. This tradition dates back to ancient Rome. They believed a vein ran from this finger directly to the heart.
In contrast, some Eastern European countries use the right hand. Men often follow these customs to honor their heritage.

Symbolism of Fingers

Each finger has its own symbolism. The pinky finger often represents intelligence and communication. Wearing a ring here can signal confidence.
The ring finger symbolizes love and commitment. It’s common for engagement and wedding rings. The middle finger stands for balance and responsibility. A ring on this finger can show maturity.
Index fingers represent leadership and authority. Historically, kings wore rings on their index fingers. Lastly, the thumb signifies wealth and influence.

Balancing Aesthetics

Comfort is crucial when wearing rings. Rings should fit snugly but not too tight. They should also match your style.
Consider your daily activities when choosing which hand to wear rings on. Right-handed men might find it more comfortable to wear rings on their left hand.
Balance multiple rings by not overcrowding one hand or finger. Spread them out for a stylish look without discomfort.

Single vs Multiple Rings

Single Ring

Wearing a single ring can make a strong statement. It often symbolizes simplicity and elegance. Many men choose to wear just one ring, like a wedding band or signet ring. This choice keeps the look clean and focused.
A single ring draws attention without overwhelming the hand. It is perfect for formal settings. For example, a gold band on the right hand can show sophistication.

Multiple Rings

Multiple rings allow for more expression. They can convey a bold and unique style. However, wearing multiple rings requires balance.
Consider mixing metals and styles carefully. Avoid crowding all rings on one finger or hand. Spread them out evenly to maintain harmony.

Combining Strategies

When combining multiple rings, think about size and design. Pair larger rings with smaller ones to avoid a cluttered look.
Here are some tips:

• Use different fingers.
• Mix simple bands with more detailed designs.
• Choose complementary colors.

These strategies help create an interesting yet balanced appearance.

Confidence Matters

Confidence is key when wearing multiple rings. Own your style choices with pride. Feeling comfortable will make your look more natural.
Start with fewer rings if unsure. Gradually add more as you become confident in your style.

Ring Size and Orientation

Ring Size

Measure your ring size correctly for a comfortable fit. Use a piece of string or a ring sizer tool. Wrap the string around the base of your finger. Mark where the ends meet, then measure the length with a ruler. This gives you the circumference. Compare it to a ring size chart.
Fingers swell naturally throughout the day. Measure at different times for accuracy. Ensure the ring fits snugly but not too tight.

Ring Orientation

Ring orientation matters, especially for symbolic or engraved rings. The direction can affect their meaning. For example, wearing a wedding band with engravings facing outward shows commitment to others.
Right ring orientation is vital for comfort and style. Rings should sit comfortably without rotating excessively.

Tips for Adjustment

Adjusting ring size or orientation can enhance comfort and style:

• Resize your ring if it feels too tight or loose.
• Rotate engraved rings to ensure symbols face the right way.
• Consider the weight of your rings; heavier pieces may need resizing more often.

Selecting Rings for Different Occasions

Casual Events

For casual events, opt for simple and versatile rings. A ring made of stainless steel or silver works well. These materials are durable and stylish. Choose designs that are minimalistic. Avoid overly flashy rings.

Formal Events

Formal events require more sophisticated rings. A wedding band is perfect for such occasions. Gold or platinum bands offer a timeless look. Ensure the design complements your suit or formal wear. Engravings can add a personal touch without being too loud.

Work Environment

In a work setting, subtlety is key. Choose rings that are professional yet stylish. Titanium or tungsten rings are good choices. These materials are strong and sleek. Avoid large stones or intricate designs.

Special Occasions

Special occasions like anniversaries or parties allow for more creativity. Opt for rings with unique designs or gemstones. Consider matching the ring with your outfit's color scheme. Personal engravings can make the ring even more special.

Outdoor Activities

For outdoor activities, durability is crucial. Select rings made from materials like silicone or titanium. These withstand rough conditions better than others. Simple designs ensure comfort and practicality.

Reflecting Personal Style

Always select rings that reflect your personal style while fitting the occasion's dress code:

• For a classic look, choose traditional metals like gold.
• For a modern touch, consider black zirconium or ceramic.
• Custom engravings add a personal element to any ring.

Matching Rings with Skin Tone and Style

Match Metals

Different metals suit different skin tones. For warm skin tones, gold and bronze work best. Cool skin tones pair well with silver or platinum. Neutral skin tones can wear both warm and cool metals. Try different metals to see what enhances your natural color.

Fashion Choices

Your fashion style matters when choosing rings. Casual styles go well with simple bands. Formal attire matches better with intricate designs. If you wear a lot of black, silver rings will pop. For earthy tones, gold rings blend seamlessly.

Designs Matter

Consider the design of the ring itself. Minimalist designs are versatile and fit many outfits. Bold designs make a statement but may not match every look. Experimenting with various designs helps discover what suits you best.

Ring Size

Size is crucial for comfort and style. A ring that’s too tight or loose won’t feel right or look good. Measure your finger size accurately before buying a ring.

Lifestyle Considerations

Think about your daily activities. If you have an active lifestyle, choose durable materials like tungsten or titanium. These metals resist scratches and damage better than softer metals like gold.

Pairing Rings with Other Accessories

Watches and Rings

Coordinate rings with your watch for a cohesive look. If you wear a silver watch, choose rings in similar tones. A gold watch pairs well with gold rings. This creates a unified appearance.

Bracelets and Rings

Mixing bracelets and rings can enhance your style. Leather bracelets go well with silver or steel rings. For beaded bracelets, opt for simpler metal bands to avoid clashing. Balance is key.

Cufflinks and Rings

Cufflinks are another accessory to consider. Match the metal of your cufflinks with your rings. Silver cufflinks should pair with silver rings. This maintains consistency in your outfit.

Mixing Metals

Don't be afraid to mix metals. You can combine gold and silver pieces if done right. Keep it balanced by not overloading one hand with too many different metals.

Textures and Patterns

Experiment with textures when pairing accessories. A smooth ring can complement a rugged leather bracelet. Mixing textures adds depth to your look without overwhelming it.

Balance and Proportion

Balance is crucial when wearing multiple pieces. Avoid wearing large rings on every finger; this can appear too busy. Instead, choose one statement piece and keep others minimal for a refined look.

Care and Maintenance Tips

Cleaning Rings

Regular cleaning keeps rings looking new. Use mild soap and warm water. Soak the ring for a few minutes. Then, gently scrub with a soft brush. Rinse thoroughly and dry with a soft cloth. Avoid harsh chemicals that can damage the ring's material.

Storing Rings

Proper storage is crucial. Store rings in a jewelry box or pouch. This prevents scratches and tarnish. Keep them away from direct sunlight and moisture. Separate each ring to avoid contact with other pieces.

Regular Checks

Check your rings regularly for signs of wear or damage. Look for loose stones or bent bands. Pay attention to any changes in fit or color. Address these issues promptly to prevent further damage.

Professional Services

Professional maintenance extends the life of your rings. Jewelers offer services like resizing, polishing, and repair. Resizing ensures a comfortable fit if your fingers change size over time. Polishing restores shine and removes minor scratches.

Addressing Common Questions

When to Remove Rings

It's important to know when to remove rings. Taking off rings during physical activities like sports or heavy lifting is wise. This prevents damage and injury. Also, remove rings when washing hands with harsh chemicals.

Meanings Behind Different Rings

Rings can have different meanings. A wedding ring symbolizes commitment. A signet ring often represents family heritage. Knowing these meanings helps in choosing the right ring for the occasion.

Dealing with Allergies

Allergies to certain metals can be an issue. Nickel is a common allergen. Opt for hypoallergenic materials like titanium or platinum. These materials are less likely to cause reactions.

Adjusting to Regular Wear

Wearing rings regularly might feel strange at first. Start with one simple ring on a finger you use less often, like the pinky or middle finger. Gradually add more as you get comfortable.

Incorporating Rings into Personal Style

Incorporate rings into your personal style by starting small. Select minimalist designs if you're new to wearing rings. Avoid overdoing it by balancing your look; if you wear multiple rings, keep other accessories minimal.

Choosing the Right Styles

Choosing the right styles is crucial. Consider your lifestyle and wardrobe when selecting rings. For formal settings, opt for classic bands or signet rings. Casual settings allow for more experimentation with styles and materials.

Final Remarks

You've got all the tips and tricks to rock rings like a pro. From understanding their significance to matching them with your style, you're set. Rings are more than just accessories—they're statements. Wear them with confidence and let them speak for you.
Ready to elevate your look? Start experimenting with different rings today. Share your experiences and styles with us. And remember, the right ring can make all the difference. Happy styling!

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the significance of wearing rings on different fingers?

Each finger has a different meaning. For instance, the ring finger often symbolizes commitment or marriage, while the pinky can signify professional status or family heritage.

How do I choose the right ring size?

Visit a jeweler for an accurate measurement. Alternatively, use a ring sizer tool at home for precision.

Can men wear multiple rings at once?

Yes, but balance is key. Start with one or two rings and ensure they complement each other without overwhelming your look.

How should I match rings with my outfit?

Match metal tones to your overall style and skin tone. Silver suits cooler tones, while gold complements warmer tones.

What are some tips for maintaining my rings?

Regularly clean your rings with mild soap and water. Store them in a dry place to prevent tarnish and scratches.

Is it okay to wear rings on both hands?

Absolutely. Wearing rings on both hands can add symmetry and balance to your overall appearance.

Can I wear rings casually and formally?

Yes, select simpler designs for casual settings and more elaborate ones for formal occasions to suit the event's tone.

December 12, 2023
Have you ever touched a doorknob after walking across a carpeted room in your socks? You know that static shock you get, that makes you wince as you quickly withdraw your hand? How it makes you hesitate to reach back out for the doorknob, in fear that you will get shocked again?
Imagine that — but instead of a superficial shock that makes your hand tingle, it instead makes your soul tingle. That’s the only way I can describe what it was like when I picked up the journal I found in my attic.
What’s it feel like to have your soul tingle? Honestly, unless you’ve experienced it for yourself, there aren’t words that can describe it. The only advice I can offer on the matter is that you’d better hope you never have to feel it. I suppose there is one more piece of advice I can offer. Sometimes, things are better left undisturbed. As tempting as it may be, some things aren’t meant to be revisited. I found out the hard way.
It started last week. Well, it will be one week ago tomorrow, if I manage to survive that long. While cleaning out the attic of my grandmother’s home that for some godforsaken reason she left to me, I found an old journal. It was nestled in between mounds of junk — old pieces of mail, dirty rags, and moldy boxes — the stuff that for some reason old people keep because one day they may need it again. Fun fact: they never do. At first, I nearly tossed it in the industrial sized garbage bag along with the rest of the papers that were covered in mildew. I just wanted to be done and out of the attic, where the cobwebs were thick enough to snag a bear, and the air was redolent with the smell of long deceased mice and mold. Jesus — I really should have worn a mask. Not that it matters anymore. I imagine I’ll be long dead before I have to worry about the asbestos or the mold spores or diseased mice getting me. Sorry, I know I ramble sometimes — especially when I’m stressed. You could say I’m quite stressed right now.
Anyway, after pulling several damp cloths off the pile of never-ending junk, I saw what I first thought was an old book. I guess I was right, in a way. Remember the static shock I started this entry with? I hope so, it wasn’t all that long ago. Sorry, I don’t mean to be sarcastic. Back to the story.
So, as I grabbed the grungy, leather cover, I felt that shock. Though it was different. Deep, even. Not deep like “it travelled through my body and hit my heart” deep, deeper. All I can say is it felt as though my soul was shocked. For a second, I wasn’t sure I had experienced it at all. It was an ethereal feeling more than a physical one.
Needless to say, I jerked my hand away quicker than I thought possible, smacking it into a rough, splintering support beam just to my right. As I cursed at myself and shook the pain out of my hand, I peered through the dim light, looking closer at the journal.
At first, it didn’t appear special in the slightest. A simple, maroon leather cover with no writing. The leather was cracked and stained from God-knows-how-long of mistreatment. As I looked from the side of it, checking how thick the journal was, I could see the yellowed pages, wavy with moisture and speckled with mold. I was tempted to toss it, as it was obviously in sore condition, but something stopped me. I guess it was the worry that maybe it was my grandmother’s, who I loved dearly, and maybe I’d get some introspection into her life long before I knew her. God, how I wish I just tossed the thing.
I cleaned up the rest of the trash pile and heaved the now heavy (and quite sodden) garbage bag back out of the hatchway to the attic, listening to it hit the floor below with a solid Thunk! I winced slightly, worrying I dented the gorgeous mahogany floors. Did I mention I get distracted easily? In my haste to get out of the nasty attic, I began descending the ladder, carefully placing my weight to the edges of the wooden rungs, afraid that I’d go right through them if I stepped too heavily in the middle. As I reached up to pull the drawstring on the singular, low-wattage bulb, I remembered the journal, and quickly scrambled back to get it.
Gingerly, I touched the cover again. This time, no shock. It seemed like a very ordinary albeit quite gross, journal.
Tucking it under my arm, I once again carefully made my way down the ladder, before gently folding it up, and raising the hatch to seal off the disaster that was the attic. I remember standing under the hatch on the third story landing, staring at the garbage bag. I picked it up and was about to haul it down the stairs and take it outside when I heard the rain pelting the large picture window that looked out over the front yard. Not tonight I told myself.
I considered going back to my apartment, but honestly, the place was a dump, so instead, I plopped myself down on my grandma’s red-velvet love seat. It may have been from the sixties, and left a lot to be desired aesthetically speaking, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t incredibly soft.
Spinning the knob on the small lamp beside the loveseat, it flickered to life, bathing the room in a comfortable, warm yellow light. I kicked my feet up on the coffee table (something she would have killed me for, if she saw what I was doing), and plopped the damn journal down in my lap. I stared at it for several minutes. I don’t know if it was some sixth sense. Maybe the journal was giving me a message. Maybe my grandma was. Who knows? For whatever reason, it seemed like a Herculean task for me to flip open that cover.
Finally I did. Of course, the second I was about to read the first line, the lamp crackled, and the bulb burnt out. Dammit, I thought to myself. This whole house is going to be one project after another. Of course, I put it up to the fact that about everything in the house was fifty years past it’s prime. I had no idea how wrong I was.
I felt a cold chill run down my neck, and then quickly berated myself for still being afraid of the dark. I knew there were no such things as ghosts and ghouls — at least, I thought I did. Being the lazy person I am, I decided getting up to turn on the main set of lights in the living room was a bit too much effort. After chucking both of my shoes at the light switch on the far wall and missing, I decided I’d just use the light on my phone to check out the book.
The handwriting was a style that I did not recognize. It was elegant and flowing, but not like my grandmother’s. It was old, too. The ink had begun to fade in spots, but was legible regardless. Though I had to admit, the elegant writing was hard to decipher at times. I just chalked that up to me being too Gen Z to understand “old fogey” writing. I started on the first page, as one does.
December 09, 1927. My name is Eugene. Please know that I am not insane. I had wished it would never come to this, however now I feel my only course of action is to tell of my experience. To warn the future generations. I am unsure if writing this down is a good idea. I am even less sure that you should continue reading this. Once you know about them — they stop hiding. They will come for you as they have come for me. Please, God, forgive me for I have sinned. I pray that thee will still accept me to thy golden paradise. They come ever closer. The whispers, they are becoming unbearable. They started slowly, quietly, to the point that I wasn’t sure I had heard anything. Now they are loud. So loud.
The cold chill hit me once again. I may be a fan of the horror genre, but sitting alone in the massive house, with just the light from my phone casting strange shadows on the outdated wallpaper and mustard-yellow shag rug, the heavy wind whistling against the rugged siding, I can honestly say that I was a bit freaked.
I reread the name again. Eugene. I couldn’t place it immediately — however it rang a bell somewhere deep in my mind. Suddenly I could remember. My dad told me stories when I was young. He said that his great-uncle, Gene (which I’m guessing is short for Eugene), had gone missing long before he was born. He knew very little about him. My grandmother talked about him even less. It was only when at a family reunion when he was in his thirties did he talk with a distant cousin who told him that there were rumors that my grandmother’s uncle had ended up in the looney bin down in Tulsa, Oklahoma. He said he had tried finding records of a man by that name in any of the asylums there, but nothing ever came of it. He stopped searching when there was no more leads.
As much as I wanted to just close the book and maybe wait until daylight, I decided to steady on.
December 11, 1927. The voices are all consuming now. They tell me it’s okay to let go. It is okay to listen to them. I don’t have to fight them anymore and I don’t have to be scared. I don’t think I’m scared of them. I think they want to help me. I am scared of the figure who watches me sleep at night. He scares me. Not because I don’t know who he is. He scares me because he has no face. It’s just an endlessly dark void. It feels as though he wants to drain my very being. The voices tell me not to be afraid of him, either. But I am not sure they are correct. I don’t think I will listen to them.
Okay - if the first one was creepy, this entry really got me. It didn’t help that the fleeting flashes of lightning from the storm outside continued lighting up the room, causing irregular shadows to dance on the wall. I decided I wasn’t all that lazy, and maybe I could stand, walking the six steps it would take to reach the light switch.
With a reassuring clack! The lights popped on, immediately relieving the heavy sense of despair that the dark gloom was setting on me. Now that the lights were on, my bravery returned, I felt I could breathe. My heart rate slowed, and I soldiered on.
December 14, 1927. The shadow man comes each night now. He used to show himself every other day, and only once or twice when I woke at night. Now he spends the entire night, disappearing only as the light filters in through the curtains as dawn breaks. He doesn’t speak. The whispers have stopped as well. They were comforting. They told me I was okay. Now, he just stares at me. The empty void, pulling at the strings of my soul. I wish I could see his eyes. They say you can tell a lot from a man’s eyes. I can’t tell anything from the void.
I couldn’t tell whether I should be feeling scared, or sad for Eugene. It was clear he was having a mental break. It really does seem as if our distant cousin was right about him. Now, they have medications for this kind of thing. What is it? Schizophrenia or something? Who knows. But back then, they’d toss you into an asylum and basically torture you. There’s a reason they shut them all down.
As spooked as I was, I felt a strange compulsion to continue reading. Just as I was about to flip the page, a larger than usual bolt of lightning hit somewhere close by, shaking the house with the thunder that followed it near instantaneously. I nearly jumped out of my skin, only to laugh at myself. Wow, I couldn’t believe how the writings of a mentally ill man were affecting me so badly.
December 16, 1927. They call me names. Crazy. Looney. Unstable. Even Shelly, the one who has been by my side, who fought tooth and nail for me, wants me to see a doctor. I haven’t slept the last two nights, and I think it’s getting to me. The whispers have come back, but they’re not as friendly as they were. They tell me awful things. They tell me to do even worse things. They say it will make him happy. Him. I’m not so sure that shadow man is a him. It’s too different from people. People have a face. He just has a void. Darker than the darkest night. I fear that even if I were to shine a beam at him, the light would be swallowed. Swallowed by that awful void.
Shelly, I knew, was my grandmother. I did some quick math in my head and realized that in December of 1927 she would have been around fourteen. I don’t know how old Eugene was, it’s odd that he would have to be defended by a fourteen year old. And even she was starting to think he had issues. Poor guy. I flipped to the next page.
December 21, 1927. It’s been several days. I’m starting to fall asleep even while standing. The incessant whispering is driving me to the edge. I don’t want to do what they’re telling me to do. I could never hurt them. I want the shadow man to leave me alone. He comes at night now, even as I stay awake. He doesn’t come too close, but he’s always there. Always watching. He doesn’t speak. But the whispers do. They say I’m cursed. They say that the family is cursed. They say that they will only get stronger unless I do it. But I can’t hurt my family. No. I won’t. How do I know this isn’t all in my head? It’s not. The voices say it isn’t. God, forgive me. God, please, allow me to come home. I’m afraid.
All I could think about was the Amityville massacre. What were the voices in his head telling him to do? I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. He said that he couldn’t hurt his family. I know for a fact he hadn’t, as I wouldn’t be here if he massacred everyone. He just… disappeared, the only one to fall victim to the voices in his head, thank God. There’s something horribly uncomfortable about reading someone’s mental decline, in their own writing. It’s like you are in their head. As much as I didn’t want to, I felt the urge to see this through. I read the next entry.
December 22, 1927. Christmas is coming shortly. How I love this time of year. The family gathers, we sing carols, give praise to the baby Jesus, his mother Mary, and those who brought him gifts in the manger where he was born. It’s a glorious time of year, filled with warmth, love and peace. I heard Genie is coming to dinner this year. I am so glad, we have not seen her since she left for the city. I hope the shadow man let’s me stay so I can see her. He says the time is coming to make my move. If I don’t — well, he says it won’t work out well for me. Not that he actually speaks. It’s more of a feeling he sheds. The only sound that comes from him is this cosmic, earth-shattering roar. It seems I’m the only one who can hear it. Oh well, he hasn’t hurt me yet, I doubt he will. I don’t know why he comes to visit me. Maybe he is the ghost of Christmas to come, as Mr. Dickens once wrote. He sure does talk about the future a lot. He talks about the youngins. He says that should I fail, they will suffer. I’ve not heard some of the names he mentions, he may have the wrong man after all. Who is Caleb? I don’t think I’ve made his acquaintance.
I dropped the book as I read the final few lines. My name is Caleb. I was born in 1997, seventy years after this entry. He couldn’t be talking about me. The beginning of the entry was so good. He seemed normal. Then he spiraled again. But my eyes flicked back to my name. I was aware I was shivering. The house was drafty, sure, but the fire I had going in the fireplace should have been more than enough to thaw me out. I knew I was trying to put on a brave face, to tell myself that I was shivering from the cold. I wasn’t. I was scared. I told myself how ridiculous it all was, but a worm of doubt in the back of my mind wouldn’t let me let it all go.
December 22, 1927. Or maybe it’s the 23rd of December, now? Who am I to say? It’s late night. I’m so very tired. I don’t want to sleep. If I do, I’m not sure I’ll wake up. I don’t want to die. How I wish I could warn them.
Two entries in one day. That was a first. That one was eerie, but it just seemed like the man was losing his battle with his mental health. He didn’t speak of supernatural forces, of faceless monsters.
December 23, 1927. I did it. I survived the night. I even got some sleep, though I knew it was there. He spoke to me in that way he speaks that isn’t really speaking at all. He told me that once I knew about them, there was nothing I could do to stop them. He told me that as time passes, he becomes stronger. Without anyone to stop him, he will be everlasting. What does he mean? Maybe he is God. Maybe he is Satan. Who am I to say? I am just a crazy codger according to everyone else. Maybe I am crazy. That would be an acceptable scenario. If I’m not, the world is a far more terrifying place than I could have imagined. Maybe there is no God. God wouldn’t allow one of his faithful to bare such a horrible fate. God wouldn’t allow my flesh and blood to face this same fate. I question it all. Merry Christmas.
He’s insane, I told myself. That’s the only option. There’s no way I could have gone my entire twenty-five years without hearing about this. Not if he had done something nuts. But I had to see more. I hated myself for continuing. It was like a bad car accident. You don’t want to watch it, but you can’t look away.
Dbre 2444. Holp li torrea. Mv ca sw. m.
That was it. The last entry. I flicked through the rest of the pages, tearing a few as I went. But nothing else was in the book. The journal ended on that last entry, totally illegible. The man finally lost it. I felt a deep sense of sadness, as if a part of me had left with that final entry. A tortured mind — that’s all. God, how awful. In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t just pass this off as a mental episode. If it was, I’m sure I would have heard about this. I gently placed the journal on the coffee table. It made my skin prickle to look at, but I felt a sense of sorrow for the man, Eugene, whoever he may be. I suppose he’s my great-great uncle. I hope he found peace.
With a need to get my mind off the journal, I opened up my phone and scrolled social media for an hour or so, eventually drifting off to sleep. The thunder had quieted, and the gentle crackling of the fire had me serenaded to a peaceful sleep.
You know how when you fall asleep super fast, and you have those dreams that you’re climbing a stair or a ladder and misstep, causing you to start awake as if you just were about to fall to your death? That’s how I woke, but it wasn’t from a falling dream. I swore I heard someone call my name. Barely audible, as if someone had just gently breathed it into my ear.
I rubbed my eyes and squinted at my phone. The screen was still awake, so I must have dozed for just a few seconds. I had no idea what time I fell asleep, but since the time only showed 9:47, it surely hadn’t been long at all. After all, I finished with the attic at around 8:30, read the journal, and then doom-scrolled for a while. I shrugged off the disconcerting feeling that slowly wriggled beneath my skin. Get ahold of yourself, idiot! It was just the ramblings of an old, sick man. To be fair, I didn’t know if Eugene was old. I just kind of assumed everyone was old in the black and white days. Despite telling myself I wasn’t scared, I found it hard to convince myself not to run out to my car and head back to my grungy apartment. The house, my house now, technically, was far nicer, even if the decor needed modernizing. I decided I’d keep the loveseat, though. This thing was like floating on a cloud.
Eventually I drifted back off to sleep, waking only when the sun broke its way above the horizon, sending shafts of orange light directly into my closed eyes.
As I rubbed the sleep from them and sat up, thinking about covering my head with a pillow and going back to sleep, I heard it.
Caleb!
Okay. This time I definitely heard it. I was awake, I knew that much for sure. Surely I was just hallucinating because I still had the journal weighing heavily on my mind.
Don’t ignore us.
“What the hell?!”. Yes, I actually screamed that aloud. The whisper was more audible now. I could make out the words clearly. The even more terrifying thing was that it wasn’t a single voice. It hissed, sounding as though it echoed off hundreds of walls all simultaneously.
You know. Now you hear. Then you see.
My first instinct was to get outside. There wasn’t a hair on my body that wasn’t standing on end. I’ve been scared before. A lot, actually. But this — this was not fear like I had ever felt. I wanted to scream, throw up, cry, and possibly even urinate, all at the same time. I realized in that moment it was not possible for a person to die of fear, because if it was, I wouldn’t be writing this now.
I bolted through the living room, out through the kitchen into the entryway, leaving my shoes and phone behind. I had my keys, and that was all that mattered. As I went to rip the door open and make my escape, they spoke again.
Don’t you want to help Eugene?
The voice or voices or whatever the hell it/they were, was now clear as day. While it still held that terrifying tone, it sounded sad. Don’t get me wrong, I was terrified. I think I actually did piss a little bit. But I felt a wave a sadness wash over me. Eugene did need my help.
Good.
What the hell was I thinking? I couldn’t help Eugene. He’s probably been dead forty years! If not since 1927!
Stay. You couldn’t leave, not even if you wanted to. But you don’t, do you?
I abso-fucking-lutely did want to leave. But… I didn’t? The whispers - as creepy sounding as they may have been, they weren’t threatening. I suddenly wasn’t sure whether it was all in my head or not. They sure sounded real. They almost had a weight to them.
Thank you, Caleb. You’re making a good decision.
I might have been hearing voices. After all, I heard Schizophrenia can run in families. Maybe just reading his mental journey kicked it off in me? I also heard it can start in your twenties. The thought of it terrified me, but some part of me also shrugged it off. If it is, it is — that part of me said.
Instead of leaving like my primal instinct originally had me attempt, confidence surged in me. I found a new energy to clean. I spent the day clearing out the garage, the pantry, and ripped up the old linoleum in the guest bathroom. By the end of the day, I was whipped.
The voices came and went. They never said anything too concerning, more so just narrated what I was doing. By the end of the day, I found them kind of cool. They were my own personal sports narrator. My thoughts drifted back to the journal — how Eugene had become comfortable with the voices as well. Was this all in my head? Was it all in Eugene’s?
My grandmother had no TV. So I curled back up on the loveseat, much more relaxed than I had been the night previously. I woke my phone screen to see several texts from my mom, wondering if everything was going alright at the house. I texted her back that, yes, all was good, and progress was being made faster than I thought. I could probably move in full-time within a few weeks. She didn’t reply, but seeing as it was 10 o’clock, I wasn’t shocked. She was always in bed early.
Once again, I scrolled the socials before drifting off to sleep. I woke at some point in the night, feeling a chill. I had never lit the fireplace, I realized vaguely. I reached over the back of the couch to the wicker basket where my grandmother had kept some blankets, and pulled one over me, tucking it all the way up to my chin. As I got comfy, I turned my head to the side. I was about to let my eyes slip back shut when instead I was gripped by that unbelievable fear once more. I saw a dark pair of legs, standing not six feet from me. I didn’t want to look up. I didn’t want to confirm what I had thought deep in my mind. My eyes didn’t listen.
As I scanned slowly up the figure, there wasn’t much to see other than a vague outline. No more than a shadow. Until I reached his face. What should have been his face, that is. There is no way I can truly explain what I saw. Eugene possibly said it best. It was a void — not black. Not dark. It was the absence of light. It’s something that you just have to see to understand.
I couldn’t scream, though I know I sure wanted to. There was something so utterly unnatural about it. It inspired a primal fear so deep, I once again am without words to describe it. I just pray you never feel such an emotion. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. I was undoubtedly awake. I know that because I dug my nails into my palm, trying to wake myself from the nightmare. I clenched my fists so hard, blood welled from the small, half-moon shaped slices.
Eventually, the intensity of the fear wore down my reserves of energy, and I passed out into a fitful, dreamless sleep. Waking up every so often, terrified the figure would be there. He wasn’t. Not that night. But he came again. The one thing that was there, were the gouges in my palm. I know now I was not sleeping.
The next few days went much the same. Whispers during the day. Never angry, never violent. They never egged me on to do anything horrible. They just spoke to me. They became a constant presence, one I was okay with.
The shadow man came back, too. He still terrified me. Each night, he seemed to stay longer and longer. It was the night before last that I remembered something I had seen on TikTok — Schizophrenics would take photos on their phone, making sure the person talking to them showed up in the photos. Deep down I knew I wasn’t schizophrenic. But I had to try. The figure stood there, stock still, as I snapped a photo. Even in the dim light, not willing to risk using my flash, there was no doubt he was there. Now it was real. I sent a mental apology to Eugene, saying I believed he wasn’t crazy. I’m sure he didn’t receive it, wherever he was, but it felt like the right thing to do.
It was last night, night number six, that he finally spoke. I now know what Eugene meant, when he said it wasn’t really speaking. I don’t know how the sound didn’t deafen me. How it didn’t blow the windows out or collapse the house. Something tells me it wasn’t an audible sound. It was spiritual. It was only between me and… It.
He told me to go back to the journal — so I did. I found myself drawn to the passages where Eugene spoke about how the future would be worse. I think he was truly talking about me. It’s as if reading about it, as if knowing about this… thing… allowed it to be released.
As I relate my own experiences to Eugene’s, it seems I’m progressing (if you can call it that) faster than he did. My process seems to be quicker. His lasted fifteen days. For me, it’s been six. I can’t imagine how much longer before I disappear too.
The shadow stays with me most of the day now. He leaves only for short times. I guess he doesn’t need the dark to exist — maybe he is the dark. Who knows for sure?
I do know that he still talks. That horrible, soul-rending “voice”. He tells me to do things. I won’t do them, I couldn’t. I am following one of his orders, though. I’m finishing the journal that Eugene started.
I broke my phone the night before last — I got mad. It all felt so unfair. I spiked it against the gorgeous mahogany floors that I used to worry so much about keeping in good shape. I guess I should thank Grandma for having an old scanner hooked up to a mid 2000’s PC that still runs Windows XP. At least I can get my story out.
I’m sorry if you’re reading this. I really didn’t want to pass him on. Unfortunately, it’s too late now. The seal was broken, and they’ll come for you too. I’ll have seven, maybe eight days. If this happens for you the way it did me. If this whole damned process speeds up every iteration, I’m sorry to say it won’t take long. Take that as comfort, though. The sleep deprivation sucks. The constant terror is not fun either. The voices are comforting, though. They’ll keep you company. Just don’t let them goad you into doing anything you’d regret.
I should get on with my tasks for today. I’ll be gone tomorrow, I’m sure, but I can make progress on the house before then.
He’s watching me again. He’s in the corner, just off to my left. He hasn’t spoken in the last few minutes. That’s good, right?
God, I know I don’t talk to you often enough, or really ever for that matter. But if you’re out there, bring me home. I want to go home.

***Lily***
Hello. My name is Lily Extravagund and the following sentence is one I never thought I would ever think to myself. I am currently running after a skeleton of a baby dragon, it’s a baby even though it’s almost as tall as me on all fours, that looks like it’s just briskly jogging, while I am in full adventuring gear, with a gatofox thing I call Wolfie, who is my apparent familiar, wrapped around my neck like a scarf, taking a nap. This is a part of my new training regimen for my new apprenticeship with the guy preparing a barbecue with two skeletons. Even though all three of them are wearing a similar enough chef outfit, you can easily tell who is who.
The one who looks like a professional chef, and the most human one of the three of them, is known as Skully. He is a skeleton. The one with the apron, chef hat, and kitchen utensils for limbs, that’s Yilimet. Believe it or not, he is the professional cook. And the one between them is my new mentor, and dare I say friend, wearing what looks like a mad scientist outfit, with a faceguard over his gas mask as well. At least, I think it is a mask.
Wabbajack is his name and I know he looks human, believe me, I thought so too when I first saw him. But he is anything but. From what he tells me, he is the only one of his kind and from what he says, the best descriptor he can define himself is a Monster of Monsters. Which is admittedly a grand title but, he has definitely earned it from all his work that he does. Never really fails a job, the only problem that people have with his work is how he sometimes accomplishes it. Although, really, most people treat him as an executioner so it’s really hard to complain about his work. Then again, this is all hearsay. I have yet to actually accompany him on a mission yet.
We just got back from Spiritopia and as soon as we did, I just had to sleep. Apparently, too much information at once can cause one’s head to explode, and the best way to reset the brain is to rest so it can acclimate, like when you dive, you go slowly and break your limit just as slowly. Otherwise, your body gets crushed under the pressure. Same goes for your brain apparently.
Still, even though I have been running for what feels like a while, I don’t feel like I made much progress. It could do with where we are at, Wabbajack’s pocket dimension. It’s mostly nothing. A big giant black pulsating void with the only noteworthy thing here that’s worth mentioning is the normal looking two-story house that feels like it is staring at you. The house, however, is not normal. I would dare say it is sentient. It wouldn’t surprise me with everything else that’s been happening. Inside, it’s larger than it looks and somehow is able to grow and expand for those who live inside. Furnishing on the other hand, that is another story. You have to provide it yourself and so far, the house doesn’t mind, that is, if it is alive.
Seriously though, I am running out of breath but, I am noticing a difference from how I was before. I used to be a mindless little girl who would follow the schedule set by others and told what to do and when to do it. Now… I still kinda do but I set the schedule for what I want to learn and how. Unfortunately for me, as much as I want to learn about all the magical stuff and whatever else I am not aware of, like learning more about how dimensions work, I have to be more physically fit than even someone like John Doe if I am supposed to follow Wabba out into the field. By the way, John Doe is this giant Buckman with muscles the size of my head three times over. Oh, and apparently wrestled a, crocodile dragon, I think it was. So that’s what I am competing with. I swear I’m not moving anywhere but, it could just be my persepective.
***Jack***
“Shouldn’t you tell her that you tricked her onto a treadmill?” Skully asks me.
“Naa. Gives us time to experiment with some recipes.” I say as I mix some sauces and chemicals, resulting in small poof of smoke and the sweet smell of tangy yum yum sauce. Honestly, whatever human made that stuff should be awarded a medal, not only does it go well with almost anything, it’s got an obvious name to go with it. I do enjoy the simple things.
Hearing the poof, Yilimet turns around and starts shaking his meat hammer at me saying, “HEY! Don’t you dare ruin the ingredients again! Last time you mixed the ingredients, we spent all afternoon trying to deal with that giant slime creature.”
“Yeah, but not only was it fun, it was delicious too.” I say to calm him down. That doesn’t stop him from grunting and walking back over to the pterodactyl steaks. A little lean in my book but, has a strangely good aftertaste to it. I had even forgot that it was in the freezer from when I, skimmed, some prime dino meat from what people called an ice age. They were dying anyways, why let the meat go to waste?
I look back over at Lily, who has been running for a good while. Before, she could barely run a kilometer or two. Now, she has ran about a couple of kilometers without realizing it. Although her breathing still seems somewhat haggard. It still boggles my mind that someone like her wants to follow someone like me around. Had to take a beating and a lecture from my boss but, things have kinda livened up around here. Well, I mean, she is technically the only living person but, you get what I mean. I have lived for quite some time and I still don’t know much about myself. No real records of people like me exist and, if they did, people would probably be a lot more nervous that there are more people like me. But hey, what are you gonna do?
Still, the only real thing that stuck out about Lily is that she was an anomaly, like me. Well, not like me but, in the sense that there is only one of her anywhere else. Other than that, she is a normal human. Well, was. She has pulled off a couple of things that people like her could never have done before. Admittedly, I helped but still, I was trying to convince her to stay in Spiritopia where she could be safe and have fun with my “family”. Instead, she passed my almost impossible test and now refuses to give up following me. Which I don’t want her to do since my line of work isn’t for good people. Oh well, I guess we shall see how she holds up.
I look back behind me and see Yilimet cooking and seasoning the steaks. “They are almost done” he says.
I guess I should let Lily know that the food is about ready now and that she should come inside and enjoy it. As I set my beakers and flasks down, I hear a thud and look up. Looks like Lily fell and slid backwards. Concerned, I rush over, lean her up, and ask, “What happened?”
She rubs her face as she explains after letting out a few ows, “I tripped but then the floor shoved me back towards the house. My face feels like it’s on fire.”
I have mixed feelings about this. If I tell her, she might get mad. If I start laughing, she will get mad. Or lie and pretend everything is normal cause if she had actually caught on to what I did, I feel like she would have said something sooner. Lying it is. “Oh, you poor thing. Well, why not take a break for now and come and eat, the food is almost ready.” I tell her.
“Ok but, why was the floor there like that?” She asks me.
I’m in too deep and this joke has turned into a tragedy. I must continue, “You poor dear, what are you talking about? You must have hit your head soo hard that it must have gotten scrambled. Let’s get you up.”
As I am helping her up, she starts to ask, “But it felt like my face was sliding along a rough surface and…”
“Shhh. No more thinking now, food is waiting for us.” I say as it feels like she was putting the pieces together, putting my finger against her lips for added effect. I gotta quit underestimating her, she has already proved more tenacious and clever then I originally thought. Then again, when we first met, she was essentially a clean slate. Now that her potential is starting to show, she is becoming quite the unique individual. I then pick her up and carry her inside.
She protests, “W-w-what are you doing?!? My legs are fine! My face is…”
“Shhh. Don’t worry about it, it’s better to take precautions after all to avoid further injury.” I explain. She opens her mouth again to speak but I quickly yell out to Skully and say, “Hey! Skully! Mind grabbing some burn crème. Lily landed on her face.”
“Ah yes, burn crème. Just what people need when they hit their head!” he yells back as he goes inside to procure some.
Realizing my mistake, I notice she is about to comment on it. “Right, no more talking and no more thinking. You're frazzled and we don’t need to make it worse.” I say quickly to try and redirect. She stares at me for a minute, closes her eyes and lays her head on my shoulder.
This incident must go to my grave.
***Lily***
As Wabbajack carries me inside and my face burns, I can’t help but hate the fact that I slipped. It probably happened because I was getting tired. But it’s starting to get easier to read Wabbajack. He is honestly an open book when you learn the signs. The easiest way to tell is when you learn he is a trickster. When he first started relaxing around me, he would not stop teasing me for a good couple of days. Causing quite a number of regular and uncomfortable misunderstandings. But I also saw in him something a lot of people tend to look over. While he does masquerade around as the bad guy and typically doing things that are considered bad, he really is this kind soul who wants to help. Although, people rarely give him a chance since his reputation typically precedes him. Weirdly enough, instead of trying to fix it, he takes it in stride, allowing him a freedom not a lot of people see and access to options that most people don’t even consider. Although, that might also be due to him living longer than most people can imagine.
“Here you go my dear. Please enjoy the steak from prehistoric pterodactyls.” Wabbajack says as he sets me down.
“Found the burn crème.” Skully says as he starts applying a light amount of burn crème. He sets it down and places a cold wet rag on my face. I still manage to see what the crème was. It was a pretty weak strength crème from what I could tell. Weak burn crème, wet rag. Typical signs of rug burn but, that doesn’t explain how it happened right outside in a VOID! Unless…
“You tricked me onto a treadmill, didn’t you?” I ask as soon as Yilimet places the last plate.
Silence.
“I told you she would have figured it out.” Skully says, breaking the silence.
After a moment, Wabbajack stiffens out and just goes, in a monotone voice, “Beep beep beep, we’re sorry, the client you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time. Please leave a message and have a nice day.”
The room erupts into a light chuckle. I then decide to call him out by saying, “Well, if Wabba isn’t here, then I guess he doesn’t want his meal then.” As I slowly pull his plate towards me.
As expected, he grabs my wrist and just says, “Wait, I’m back.”
“Well, did you trick me onto a treadmill?” I ask again, not letting go of the plate.
I stare at him for a minute as he hangs his head and says, “Yes.” dejectedly.
[First] [Previous]

I've never really taken the time to look at everyone's tents before, but I just did (besides Shadowheart's, as I'm doing an origin run). Somehow it never occured to me that Karlach's tent doesn't have any walls. Sure, it might keep some rain off, but not if it's windy. Lae'zel's tent is even worse, with giant openings on the top and sides. Maybe it gives a bit more privacy than Karlach's, but it does an even worse job at keeping the rain off. What's the point of having a tent, if not for privacy and protection from the elements? Gale, Wyll, and Astarion know where it's at.
Then I decided to look inside the tents. Karlach's is a bit messy, but would be fine if she had walls. Gale's is the nicest imo, with a bedroll on top of a rug and plenty of books inside. Lae'zel doesn't even have a bed, but she has some fur and a few pillows. Astarion... Astarion sleeps on a wooden board with a ratty pillow, some bloody rags, and quite possibly the most uncomfortable, dirty looking blanket I've ever seen... my gods. Meanwhile, Wyll's over here in his neat, tidy tent and an entire extra bedroll. Astarion, Wyll's a nice dude; he'll probably lend you the bedroll if you'd just ask.
TL;DR: If I had to choose a tent to go camping in, it would be Gale's. Astarion... what the fuck?
Edit: I know Astarion was a slave for 200 years and that's why his tent is so bare, but then where the fuck did he get the tent?
You know what? Where did anyone get their tents? You're telling me the mindflayers were thoughtful enough that they also abducted everyone's tent and some personal items?

I've always been bound to death.
On my eighth birthday, a shadow strode into my house and shot me and my family dead. I remember it vividly, every detail, every angle, etched and stained and carved into my memory.
I sat very still with my knees to my chest, my gaze glued to my siblings.
Lily and PJ looked like they were sleeping, and I could almost believe it.
I didn't look at the shadow.
From the comfort of my knees, I waited for my brother to lift his head.
But his body was so limp, so still, every part of him faltering. My sister’s head was nestled in his shoulder, thick beads of red running down her face.
They're just sleeping.
I could tell myself they were— as long as I didn't look at the splatter of scarlet staining the back of the couch and pooling at their feet.
BANG.
Mom’s body dropped onto the ground.
I lunged forwards, slamming my hands over my ears.
BANG.
PJ’s head slumped forwards, a teasing smile still frozen on his lips.
BANG.
Lily gently tipped into PJ, like she was going to sleep.
Before she closed her eyes, Mom told me to run.
I can't remember how long I stayed under the shattered remnants of Mom’s favorite table. The shadow was waiting for me to move, to make a noise.
I watched booted feet crunch through glass, getting closer and closer, and slowly, fight or flight began to take over.
Making it halfway across the living room, my palms slick with my mother’s blood, I thought I was going to live.
Cruel fingers wound their way through my hair and shoved me to my knees. I remember the phantom legs of a spider creeping down the back of my neck when the shadow with no face dragged the barrel of his gun down my spine.
“Turn around.”
The shadow had a voice.
When I didn't move, the protruding metal stabbed into my neck.
“Turn around, kid!”
I did, very slowly.
Behind him, my siblings still weren't moving.
They were asleep.
Lily was still smiling, strawberry blonde ringlets stained red.
I couldn't see PJ’S face anymore.
BANG.
I didn't feel the gunshot.
I didn't feel anything.
Looking down, I glimpsed slowly spreading red blossoming like a flower.
It felt like being cut from strings.
I hit the ground, just like my mother, my body felt heavy and wrong.
Paralysed.
I remember being unable to scream, unable to cry, the salty taste of metal filling my mouth. It was like being winded. Rolling onto my side, all I could see was flickering candlelight.
The air was thick, so hard to breathe.
I rolled onto my back trying to suck in air.
The shadow took a step back, opened the front door, and bled into the night.
I don't remember the pain, and I don't remember dying. I couldn't breathe, couldn't conjure words in my mouth.
I felt warm and sticky, lying in my own blood.
I think I tried to move.
But I was so tired.
I’m not sure what death feels like, because it's like going to sleep.
I remember my last shuddering breaths, a lulling darkness beginning to swallow me up. I don't know why I wasn't afraid.
Oblivion almost felt like I was sinking into lukewarm depths on a Summer’s day.
Oblivion wasn't pain, and there was a peaceful inevitability to it.
It was endless nothing, a nothing I found myself gravitating towards. But before I could envelope myself in that darkness, it was spitting me back out.
The next thing I knew, I was in a white room, a slow beeping sound tearing me from slumber. I had a vague memory of slow spreading roses blossoming across my shirt, like summer flowers blooming.
Everything was white.
The walls, the ceiling, and my clothes.
Sensation hit me in slow waves.
Exhaustion.
I felt it tightening its grip around my brain, dragging me back onto a mountain of pillows when I tried to jump up. My Aunt May was sitting next to me on a plastic chair, her warm fingers entangled in mine. Aunt May and Mom were practically twins, with the same thick red hair and pale skin.
Mom wore her hair in a casual ponytail, while May preferred a strict bun.
I had to bite back the urge to yank my hand away.
Aunt May was asleep, used tissues filling her lap.
There was a nurse pottering around, checking my vitals and prodding my arms. My eyes felt heavy. I had to blink several times to keep myself awake.
“Charlie?”
The nurse’s voice was like wind-chimes.
I pretended not to notice her forced lipstick smile, the way she stood with her arms folded, staring at me like I was one of my cousin’s experiments. “You were in an accident, sweetie,” the nurse spoke up. I could see her trembling hands. “Just, um, try and rest, okay?”
I wanted to ask where my family was, but I already knew the answer.
I think she knew that too.
“You died, Charlie.” The nurse’s voice was eerily cold. “You were dead for thirteen minutes.”
She took slow steps towards me, her eyes growing frenzied, like she couldn't understand me, like I was a puzzle she could not solve– and it was driving her crazy. I could see it in her twitching hands, her wobbling lips that were trying and failing to appear stoic.
“In fact, I just pulled you out of the morgue, honey. I opened up your body bag that I had just zipped up, and told your aunt that you were a miracle I just… can’t understand.” The nurse sounded like she was trying to choke down a laugh, or maybe a sob.
“Charlotte, you were pronounced dead at 3:02am from a gunshot wound to the chest.” Taking a slow, sobering breath, the nurse tried to smile. “The bullet went through the right ventricle of your heart and severely damaged your left lung, rendering you unable to breathe. Your heart stopped, and after four attempts to resuscitate, we called it.”
Something slimy wound its way up my throat when she began to pace the room. “I… did all the paperwork. It took me two minutes. Your death certificate was signed, and your body was taken to the morgue to be prepped for transportation. Then I had my lunch. Tuna salad with a protein milkshake. I’m not a fan of the chocolate flavor.”
She shook her head. “Anyway, when I came back to you, you were awake inside your body bag.” Her voice was starting to break. “You were…um, alive, and asked me for apple soda.”
The nurse moved closer, and yet kept her distance.
I could feel myself moving back, panic writhing through me.
“So.” The nurse spoke calmly. “How the fuck are you still alive, Charlie?”
I think I passed out after that.
When I woke up again, my head a lot less heavier, the nurse was gone.
Slowly, my foggy brain began to find itself and connect dots.
My mouth was dry, full of cotton.
There was a sudden tightness, a sharp and cruel sting in my wrists.
Something sharp was protruding into my flesh, and no matter how many times I violently wrenched my arm, it was stuck. It didn't feel right to be able to breathe so easily.
I knew the second I woke that my Mom was dead.
Lily and PJ were dead, and it was like losing them all over again.
As clarity came over me, I found my voice, a strangled cry escaping my lips.
“Get it out.” I whispered in a shrill cry.
Tugging at the IV in my wrist, I tried to yank the needle from my skin.
“Get it out!” I shrieked, my gaze glued to the tiny spots of blood staining the insertion point.
I could see it again.
So much blood.
Mom was curled up on the floor, lying in slow spreading red that wouldn't stop, seeping across her beaded rug.
She was all over me, slick on my skin and caked in my fingernails.
I couldn't wash her off of me.
“You're okay, Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice came from my right, stabling me to reality.
The world started to move again, started to make sense again, when she cupped my cheeks and told me to breathe. When I opened my mouth to ask where my family were, she lightly shook her head and I swallowed my words. Aunt May handed me a glass of water, and I drained it in one gulp.
She told me I was a miracle.
Aunt May didn't say much, and when she did, she broke into sobs.
Her eyes were raw from crying, clinging onto me, her shuddery voice reassuring me that I was going to be okay.
She told me I would be living with her from now on, before wrapping me into a hug and leaving to get coffee.
Once my aunt was gone, another nurse came to prod my IV.
I tried to sleep, but the uncomfortable tightness of the needle sticking into my skin and the sterile white lights in my eyes made it impossible. I waited for grief to catch up with me, drowning me in a hollow oblivion I wouldn't be able to claw myself out of. But I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry.
I wanted to know why my family were dead.
I wanted to know why I was breathing, and their skin was ice cold.
Rotting.
The sudden image of maggots crawling up my brother’s nose sent me lurching into a sitting position, my stomach heaving. Reaching for my glass of water, it was empty. The sensation of throwing up felt familiar, almost comforting.
Mom was always with me when I was sick, holding my hair back and lulling my hysteria with reassuring murmurs.
I was frowning at the trash can by the door, my cotton candy brain trying to figure out if I would be able to make it in time, when a small voice drifted from the doorway, startling me.
“I don't want you to come live with us.”
My cousin was peeking through the door, hiding behind a shock of dark brown curls. Jude was the only brunette in our family. The rest of us were redheads.
I wasn't sure why he was dressed up like a ghost, draped in a white cloak that was way too big for him. Jude was a weird kid. His mother, and my auntie, had inherited the family house, so in his mind, that made him superior.
Jude made it clear he didn't like his cousins, refusing to let us play with him and banning us from family gatherings.
When the adults were drinking cocktails and losing their awareness, Jude ordered us around. The times we did play with him, our cousin showed us his spider collection, or the raccoon brain he kept in a jar. PJ was convinced our younger cousin was a serial killer. Several months earlier, he'd happily showed us the roadkill he'd been growing bacteria on under his bed.
Jude’s ‘experiments’ were worrying.
He stuffed mushrooms down my brother’s ears while he was sleeping, to, and I quote, “Recreate The Last Of Us.”
When Lily had a nosebleed during Thanksgiving dinner, Jude collected all her bloody tissues and refused to tell us where he'd put them, and what he had done with them. Fast-forward two months, and I found them under a nest of spiders. Jude was trying to adapt the spiders to be able to feed on human blood. I was surprised my cousin hadn't immediately demanded to see my siblings’ dead bodies for autopsy.
Jude stepped into the room, shuffling his feet.
“I'm sorry about Lily, PJ, and Aunt Ivy.” He mumbled, glaring at the floor tiles.
My cousin made no move to offer real sympathy, instead speaking to the floor.
“But I don't want you to come live with us.” Jude lifted his head, looking me dead in the eye. “I don't like you, Charlie. I want you to stay away.”
Before I could reply, he stepped back like I was diseased.
“You should be dead.” Jude grumbled.
He scowled at me, getting my age purposely wrong as usual before running off.
“Happy 68th birthday.”
I was six months older than him.
In Jude’s eyes, I was ready for retirement.
Still, though, my cousin was right.
I was stone cold dead, and then I was somehow alive.
Which was wrong.
Growing up, I realized Death was not so subtly attempting to fix his mistake.
It started small. I'd choke on things I wasn't supposed to choke on.
Chips.
Candy.
Ice cream.
Aunt May had to perform the heimlich manoeuvre when I choked on a piece of chicken. I thought I was just really unlucky, but then I locked myself in a freezer that didn't have a lock, and almost drowned in the local swimming pool, catching my foot in stray netting.
At the summer fair, Jude convinced me to try apple bobbing, only for my head to conveniently get stuck underwater.
It started to make sense.
I was supposed to die with my family that night, and death was out to get me.
Death started to get clever, changing his tactic. Instead of using everyday things to try to kill me, he sent reinforcements.
I turned twelve years old, and my aunt threw me a huge party, inviting all my classmates. Aunt May was rich, rich.
Mom never explained it, but our grandparents left everything to May.
The house was like a palace, a labyrinth of floors I was yet to explore, and two swimming pools.
I was in the kitchen cutting myself a slice of cake, when, out of nowhere, a dead boy came rushing at me with one of my aunt’s favorite kitchen knives.
A dead boy who I immediately recognised.
Wren Oliver.
Several years prior, he'd gone missing from his parents' yard. The town launched a full investigation, only to find his body in a ditch a week later.
So, Death had sent a footsoldier.
Hiding under a hooded sweatshirt, Wren appeared older, like he had grown up with me. But there was a startling vacancy in his expression that drew the breath from my lungs, freezing me in place. Wren’s death was announced as an accident, though his wounds suggested the opposite, dried blood smearing his right temple and a cavernous hole in his chest, his clothes painted, stained, in bright red, glued in sticky mounds clinging to him.
The boy’s eyes were wild, feral, like an animal.
His hair was longer, a mess of reddish curls matted to his forehead.
Lip split into a demented giggle.
I remember taking a slow step back, my gaze glued to the knife.
Wren’s fingers were wrapped around the handle like he knew exactly how to use it, how to plunge it into my heart and kill me for good. He moved like a predator, zero self awareness or recognition, only driven to kill me.
The dead boy prided himself in slow, intimidating steps, shoving me against the wall and dragging the blade of the knife down the curve of my throat.
His eyes confused me, writhing with hatred that was artificial, programmed into him as Death’s official soldier.
He didn't speak, only smiled, revelling in my fear. I could tell it thrilled him, my trembling hands, my sharp, heavy breaths I couldn't control. Squeezing my eyes shut, I waited to finally die.
I waited for the pain, and to lose my breath once again.
But death was playing with me.
When I opened my eyes, the dead boy was gone, and I was on my knees, screaming.
“Wren Oliver is trying to kill me!" I managed to hiss.
My aunt knelt in front of me, her expression crumpling.
*Sweetie,” She spoke softly, squeezing my hands. Aunt May was trying to appear calm for my sake, but I could tell she was scared, her frantic eyes searching mine. “Wren Oliver is dead.”
The kids surrounding me started to giggle, whispering among themselves.
In the corner of my eye, my cousin was leaning against the door, mid eye roll.
When my aunt was ushering kids back to the pool, Jude came to crouch in front of me. Ever since I started living with him, he'd made sure to keep his distance.
This time, though, Jude leaned uncomfortably close, a sparkle in his eyes I had never seen before. Inclining his head, he rocked back and forth on his heels, prodding me in the forehead.
“If you see the dead boy again, can you tell me?” His lips curved into a smile.
“I did see him.” I gritted out. “I’m not lying.”
Jude shrugged. “I never said you didn't,” he lowered his voice into a whisper, “I wanna know when you see him again.”
“Why?”
His lips curved into a smirk.
“So, I can catch him.”
My cousin got closer, his breath tickling my cheek.
“I seeeeeeee dead people.”
After that incident, death left me alone for a while.
I was fifteen, walking through the forest with a friend, catching fireflies in bell jars. Aunt May was lucky to live so close to the forest, the entrance just outside her back door. When we were littles, PJ would drag Lily and I down the trail to escape Jude’s weird experiments.
I decided to invite Jem Littlewood on a summer walk.
Jem was cute, but in a dorky way. He was chronically clumsy, and dressed like he'd been spat out of a John Hughes movie. We hiked all the way to the end of the river and had a picnic, watching the sun set over the horizon. I was having conflicting feelings for this guy.
Jem was obsessed with fireflies.
Though he seemed more interested in photographing them than me.
The guy couldn't seem to sit still, jumping to his feet to marvel at tiny specks of light dancing in the air.
“I'm just going to take photos!” Jem beamed, holding up his camera.
I had to bite back the urge to say, “Don't you have enough photos?”
I nodded, and he turned and sprinted back down the trail.
Before his footsteps ground to a sudden halt.
At first, I thought he was snapping polaroids.
When I got closer, though, blinking in the eerie dark, I caught something.
Bending down, I picked up a bell jar still spilling fireflies.
Further down the trail, Jem was lying crumpled in the dirt, his camera smashed to pieces next to him, blood running in thick rivulets down his temple. There he was. Leaning against a tree, his arms folded, was the ghost boy. Wren Oliver was growing up with me. Now, a teenager, and yet his face was carved into something else entirely, more of a monster, slight points to his ears and too-sharp teeth, eyes ignited.
Wren didn't look like a ghost boy anymore.
Death had dressed him in shackles of ivy, a crown of glass and bone forced onto his head, entangled in his curls. Death was torturing him.
Wren’s body was its canvas, and every time I got away, he was punished, painting his failures across scarred skin.
I should have been running for my life, but I was mesmerised by each symbol cruelly carved into his neck.
The boy did a slow head incline, like he couldn't believe I was standing in front of him.
His slow spreading smile caught me off guard.
I remembered how to run, stumbling over my feet.
But I couldn't move.
The burning hatred that death had filled him with, was stronger, hollowing him out completely. I managed two shaky steps, before I felt him, an unearthly force winding its way around my spine. This time, he didn't hesitate.
I watched his mouth move, a single curve of his upper lip that wrenched my body from my control, slamming me against a tree. There was something around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs, a thick fog spreading over my eyes.
Following his mouth curving into silent letters, I could feel my feet slowly leaving the ground, my legs dangling.
I was floating.
Hovering off of the ground, suspended by his words.
Through half lidded eyes, I caught the glint of a blade between his fist, but I couldn't move, couldn't scream.
He was drowning me, bleeding into my blood, spider webbing and expanding in my brain without moving a muscle.
Instead, the ghost boy stood silently, running his thumb down the teeth of his knife while he ripped my lungs apart.
It was like suffocating, sinking into that peaceful oblivion I met at eight years old.
This time, though, the darkness was starving.
“Charlie?”
My eyes found daylight, a scream clawing out of my mouth.
“Charlie, it's past curfew!”
Wren flinched, his stoic expression crumpling.
The dead boy’s lips moved again, this time in a curse.
Fuck.
“Charlotte!”
Staggering back, Wren’s eyes widened and the suffocating hold on me severed.
His head snapped in the direction my aunt was coming from.
“Charlie, answer me right now.”
He hesitated, his bare feet pivoting in the dirt, like he was considering finishing me off. Wren studied me with lazy eyes, sucking on his bottom lip. When my aunt's footsteps got louder, branches snapping under her shoes, something contorted in the boy’s face.
Fear.
I guessed the boy wasn't expecting other humans to intrude.
Wren fell over himself, shuffling on his hands and knees, before diving to his feet. When he turned and ran, I was released, slipping to the ground, trying and failing to draw in breath. I barely felt the impact, only a dull thudding pain. I could hear the ghost boy’s footsteps, his uneven, shuddery breaths as he catapulted into a run.
Under a late setting sun, I watched his dancing shadow disappear into the trees.
Mission unsuccessful, I guessed.
When I was fully conscious, Aunt May was checking over Jem, helping him sit up.
“Where did he go?” I managed to get out, scanning the darkness for Wren.
“He's okay, just concussed.” May whispered, dialling 911.
My aunt applied a dressing to Jem’s wound, ignoring the boy’s hisses.
“Keep still.” she murmured, smoothing his bandaid. “What happened, Charlotte?”
“She pushed me over.” Jem groaned, shuffling away from me. When my aunt told him to stay calm, he straightened up, leaning against the tree. “The psycho bitch tried to fucking kill me!”
When my aunt's gaze flicked to me, I shook my head.
“It was Wren Oliver.” I gritted, teetering on hysteria. I could tell she didn't believe me, but I couldn't stop myself.
I prodded at my throat, clawing for the indentations where his phantom fingers snaked around my neck, squeezing the breath from my lungs.
But there was nothing.
I could feel my mind starting to unravel. I nodded to my disgruntled classmate trying to dodge my aunt’s prodding.
“Ow, ow, ow! That stings!
“He knocked Jem out.” I managed. “Then he tried to kill me.”
Jem surprised me with a scoff. “You're seriously blaming your psychotic break on a dead kid?”
Aunt May pursed her lips, motioning for Jem to be quiet. Judging from her face, however, she agreed with the boy.
May forced a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. “Okay. Can you, uh, describe the boy to me, Charlotte?”
“He was wearing a crown,” I said, “And he looked my age.”
Aunt May cocked her head, and I saw real worry, like she was trying not to freak out. Jem made a snorting noise.
“I'm sorry, he was wearing a crown?”
“Yes!” I insisted, getting progressively more frustrated.
I tried to jump up, only for my aunt to gently lower me back down. “I know it sounds crazy, but death has sent Wren Oliver to kill me, just like my family. He tried to kill me when I was twelve, too!”
Jem let out a bitter laugh. “Your niece is a fucking wackadoodle.”
Aunt May’s eyes darkened. She grabbed my shoulders, her nails stabbing into my skin. “Charlie, I want you to listen to me, okay?” When my eyes found the rapidly darkening sky, my aunt forced me to look at her.
“Charlotte!”
She was as scared as me, her voice shuddering.
“Wren Oliver is dead.” My aunt said firmly, shaking me. Even then, though, I wasn't even looking at her. I was trying to find his ignited eyes lighting up the dark. “Wren died at eight years old in a terrible accident, and you can't keep using him as an excuse for your mental trauma.” There was something twitching in her expression I was trying to make sense of. When I risked a look at Jem, the boy was staring at me dazedly– like I really was crazy.
Aunt May pressed her face into my shoulder, and I could feel her tears soaking into my shirt. She was trying to hold it together, trying to understand.
“Charlie, I know you lost your family,” she whispered. “But you and Wren Oliver are not the same. You survived, and he didn't.” Her voice splintered.
“You need to come to terms with that, okay?”
When I didn't respond, she pinched my chin, forcing me to look at her.
“Charlotte.”
Aunt May’s voice turned cold. “I ignored this when you were a kid, but if you continue to use this poor boy as a coping mechanism, I will have no choice but to send you to a specialist.”
When Jem was taken away by paramedics, Aunt May held my hand, squeezing my fingers for dear life.
I caught her gaze scanning the tree's around us, delving into twisting oblivion. Every little noise sent her twisting around. She was looking for something.
“I'm going to get you help.” Aunt May said in a low murmur when we were back at the house. Jude was sitting on the kitchen counter, legs swinging. I could feel his penetrating gaze burning into the back of my head.
Aunt May set a cup of cocoa on the table.
“No more fairytales.”
By the time I was eighteen, I had bitten three therapists.
They refused to believe that death was coming to reclaim my soul, and was using a dead boy to do his dirty work.
For my 16th birthday, I braced myself to come face to face with Wren Oliver’s ghost.
I wasn't even in town, staying at a friend's house.
But dead boys, and especially dead boys moulded into Death’s personal soldiers, could materialise anywhere.
I locked every door in the house, and taped up my friend’s window.
Nothing happened.
On my seventeenth birthday, I was sick in bed with gastritis.
Still no ghost boy.
Death seemed to have finally left me alone.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was stuffing books in my locker when my cousin popped up out of nowhere, scowling as usual. After an unexpected growth spurt and losing a tonne of baby fat, my cousin had scaled the high school hierarchy, swapping his weird experiments for a varsity jacket and experimenting with his sexuality.
The two of us had come to an unspoken truce.
I kept quiet about his spider collection to his popular friends, and he tolerated my existence until I left for college.
“Your surprise party is cancelled.”
Jude leaned against my locker, running a hand through thick dark hair tucked under a baseball cap. Jude never admitted it, but he was definitely embarrassed of being the odd one out.
My siblings may be dead, but they were still redheads.
I pulled off his cap with a smile, throwing it in his face. “Sure it is.”
My cousin’s eyes widened. He lost his slick bravado, grabbing for his cap.
“Hey!”
According to my cousin, my party was unexpectedly cancelled every year.
I wasn't sure if it was his weird superiority complex, or just plain jealousy, but it was getting exhausting.
Jude followed me down the hallway, matching my stride.
“Can you just not come home tonight?”
I quickened my pace. “It's only a party. I'm having some friends over, and no, we won't go anywhere near your room.”
“No, I mean.” Jude stepped in front of me, and for the first time in a while, he wasn't trying to hide disdain for me.
His dark eyes pinned me in place for a moment, the world around us coming to a halt. Sound bled away, and all I heard were his slow breaths. There was something there, an unexplainable twitch in his eyes and lips, that twisted my gut.
Jude stepped closer, his lip curling. He shoved me back, losing his facade.
“Stay the fuck away from the house tonight.” He said, and his voice, his tone, was enough to send shivers creeping down my spine. Jude had always hid behind a ten foot wall in his mind. It was jarring to see something in him finally start to splinter. Fuck. I thought.
This kid had serious Mommy issues.
I blinked, and the world resumed, kids pushing past us.
Jude seemed to catch himself, slipping back under his mask.
“I'm having friends over,” he rolled his eyes, “Your presence will ruin the vibe.”
“It's my birthday?”
He groaned, tipping his head back. “Yes, I know. But–”
“I think you can deal with the attention off of you for one night, Jude.”
“Will Wren Oliver be there too?” Jem Littlewood hollered.
Jude didn't respond for a moment, his lip curling.
“Shut the fuck up.” He spat at Jem, who immediately backed down. With an audience this time, Jude forced an award winning smile. “Fine.” His lips split into a grin I knew he hated. My cousin clamped his hand on my shoulder, hard enough to hurt. I could feel his fingers pinching the material of my jacket. “Have it your way, dude.”
Jude backed away with a two fingered salute.
“Happy 78th birthday!”
In a sense, I wish I listened to my cousin.
My party was a success, sort of.
Four of us, a crate of beers, and no sign of my cousin.
I was mildly tipsy, sitting on the edge of the pool, dangling my legs in the water when my friend demanded more beers.
I was also hungry for cake, so I stumbled inside in search of the goods.
The house was dark, lit up in dazzling blue from the pool's lights reflecting through the windows. Aunt May was in her office on the ground floor, and Jude was getting high in his room. In my drunken state, I found myself marvelling my aunt's house, and how much of it was left unexplored.
For example, in the foyer, past the spiral staircase she’d had custom made, was an elevator I had never questioned.
There was a girl my age standing on the staircase.
She was frozen, mid run, dressed in ragged jeans and t-shirt.
Everything about her stuck out to me, bringing me to a sobering halt.
The girl reminded me of my sister– or at least, if my sister had ever grown up.
I wasn't sure if I was drunk or hallucinating.
Her flower crown was pretty…
Lily had grown wings.
I was slowly moving towards her, a sudden bang sounding from the kitchen.
The bang of something shattering on the floor.
Twisting around, I found myself gravitating towards warm golden light.
The first thing I saw was the refrigerator door hanging open, and someone, no, something, rooting around inside it.
Glued to the spot, I dazedly watched them grab milk, guzzling it down, and then soda, cracking open each can and sucking them dry, before carving their fingers into my birthday cake.
But I wasn't looking at the spillage of food seeping across the floor. Instead, my gaze found a crown of antlers, both human and animal bone entangled with dead flowers and human remains glued to a head of familiar matted brown curls. There was something sticking from battered and bruised flesh, twin gaping slits sliced through a torn shirt resembling glass wings that were not yet formed, reminding me of a butterfly.
Wings.
But not the wings I dreamed of as a kid. These things were unnatural mounds that both did and didn't make sense on a human boy. I could see the trauma of them slicing through his flesh, monstrous, looming things protruding from what was left of a human spine.
Human, and yet I couldn't call his beautifully grotesque face human.
Wren Oliver had grown up with me, now an adult.
Eighteen years old.
His clothes confused me, a single white shirt and shorts.
Wren’s feet were bare, battered and bruised, blood smearing my aunt's tiles.
Angel.
Death had turned his footsoldier, and my future killer, into an angel.
But there was nothing angelic about the dead boy, his body and mind sculpted and moulded into Death’s own.
The boy no longer resembled a human, feral eyes and a manic smile, choking down pieces of cake. His face had been contorted into a monster, gnashing teeth and sharp points in his ears, a sickly tinge to malnourished skin.
And that's when it hit me, watching him stuff himself with food.
Something slimy inched its way up my throat.
The boy didn't move. I don't even think he'd noticed me, gorging himself on anything he could get his hands on.
Chicken, raw bacon, leftover salad.
When he moved onto cupcakes, licking frosting from his fingers, I glimpsed markings on his arms, a language I didn't understand, carved into him.
His wrists were shackled, bound, in entangled iron and vine, iron that was ingrained into his skin, vines and flowers and ivy entangling his bones, that were part of him, polluting his blood. Slowly, my eyes found stab wounds splitting open his torso.
Raw flesh, where his skin had been torched, melting, and then merging, ripped apart and put back together over and over again.
I found his heart, the gaping cavern in his chest where it should be.
And it was.
Marked, carved, and branded with a symbol resembling an X.
Wren Oliver was not dead.
But, just like me, he should have been.
I remember saying his name, my voice slurred slightly.
I didn't drink that much, but I could barely coerce words, my head spinning.
Wren’s neck snapped towards me, his eyes narrowing with resentment I couldn't understand, hatred that seemed to puppeteer him. Slowly tilting his head, the boy’s lips split into a grin, eyes filled, polluted, with mania.
I could see where his lips had been stitched shut, and then ripped open.
“Hi.”
He held up his hand in an awkward wave.
When one of my friends stumbled into the kitchen, Wren reacted on impulse.
He picked up a knife from the counter, throwing it like a dart, straight through the guy’s throat.
Something shattered inside my mind.
Ignoring my friend bleeding out, Wren stumbled over himself, abandoning his feast. He took a single step towards me, backing me against the wall, coming so close, close enough for me to feel his very real breath grazing my cheeks. Just like when he was a kid, he traced the teeth of his blade down my throat. I wasn't expecting him to burst out laughing, trembling with hysteria.
His eyes were wild, feral and wrong, almost euphoric.
With what all I could only recognise as relief.
BANG.
I was barely aware of the gunshot.
The bullet went straight through his head, the winged boy hitting the ground.
Dead.
I saw the blood stemming around him in a halo before the bleeding pool faltered, seeping back inside his head.
Like rewinding a VCR.
Wren was dead, and then he was alive.
Wren’s body contorted, his chest inflating.
His gasp for air was painful, strangled, eyes opening wide.
Terrified.
“You fucking idiot.”
Jude’s voice sent me twisting around.
My cousin stood in the exact same robes he wore as a child.
The world tipped off kilter, and I was on my knees, then my stomach.
I sunk to the floor, my thoughts swimming.
Jude’s murmur followed me, creeping into the dark.
“I told you not to come home.”
I can't remember how long I was unconscious for.
When I woke, I was dressed in an evening gown, a dress that used to be my mother’s.
My vision cleared, and I found myself sitting in an unfamiliar room resembling an abandoned swimming hall.
The pool itself was empty, the bottom stained revealing scarlet.
There were symbols carved into each tile.
Like a game.
“Sit up straight, Charlotte.”
I was sitting at a banquet.
Jude was in front of me, sipping on wine.
He caught my eye for half a second before averting his gaze.
At the far end of the table sat my aunt May.
Kissing the rim of her glass, her smile was twisted.
“I've been waiting so long to give you your birthday presents, Charlotte. Your memories should be returning soon.”
“Mom.” Jude muttered, hiding behind his glass. “Calm down. You're embarrassing yourself.”
Ignoring my cousin, May tapped her glass with a fork, and in walked my birthday presents.
No, dragged.
By their hair.
Wren Oliver, the dead boy, was in fact my aunt's prisoner.
Behind him, was the girl who looked so much like Lily.
I think that's why my aunt chose her.
Aunt May cleared her throat.
“For a long time, our family has lived among creatures who live in the forest you played inside. In exchange for keeping this town safe, they only ask for small favors. Wayward children who disappear into the woods are good enough payment. Charlie, you and your siblings do not share our inheritance. Your mother never wanted fae children. She wanted you to be human.”
Aunt May’s smile faded.
“After losing my sister, and my niece and nephew, I made a deal to give my last surviving niece 100 years of life.”
Her words were white noise, my gaze glued to my birthday presents. I couldn't call them human anymore.
I couldn't call Wren human, when his face was so beautifully grotesque, painfully hypnotising.
The monstrous things sticking from twin slits in his back were supposed to be wings, except they looked wrong, cruelly protruding from his exposed spine. Under the influence of alcohol earlier, the girl made me smile.
Her wings, to me, looked like one of a real fairy.
In reality, they were torn and shredded apart, bigger than the girl herself.
When she dropped onto her stomach, she was dragged back to her feet, her knees buckling under the weight. Her tiara of flowers and bone looked pretty to me when I saw her on the stairs.
Now, though, I could see the pearly white of a human child's skull forced onto her head, dead flowers threaded through cavernous, gaping eye sockets.
The two of them were violently shoved into the empty pool.
“Jude. Please demonstrate, sweetheart.”
Jude stood, pulling out a gun, and aiming it at the winged girl.
BANG.
The girl’s body hit the tiles, her blood seeping across stained white.
“Now, of course, our king did not give you life for free.” May continued.
“The King demanded a debt, as well as two heirs to join him in his court once your hundred years were complete.”
Her lips quirked into a smile.
“The king is smart. If a child cannot be stolen from the human world, they can, however, be made, moulded and shaped from their human forms, skinned of their humanity through their suffering, leaving a hollowed out shell in the child's place.” She was speaking so casually, ignoring Wren’s whimpers.
“The conversion takes a while. 100 years to birth a fully blooded fae heir, who will lose their human memories, in preparation to join their new family.”
Jude shot Wren in the chest, his eyes empty.
This time, he dropped his weapon, using finger-guns instead.
“Bang.” He deadpanned.
Then the neck.
I watched Wren come back to life, and then die.
Over and over again.
I think at one point, he screamed and cried.
But not now.
He was their puppet on display, dancing for their entertainment.
Half lidded eyes drowned in oblivion found mine, and I understood his hatred.
Before he was shot again.
Stabbed.
Branded and burned, and ripped apart.
At some point, I screamed at them to stop. I couldn't breathe, slamming my hands over my ears and begging them.
Aunt May didn't listen, ordering for my hands to be tied down.
“The King required two human sacrifices to suffer in your place.” She concluded. “For one hundred years.”
Aunt May’s smile was suddenly sad, and she lifted her glass in a toast.
I was watching their blood trickle down each tile in the pool, like every death, every time they suffered, my body became progressively less human.
I felt disgusting. I wasn't supposed to be alive. Every single year of my life, every breath I had taken, was stolen.
Aunt May nodded at me, her lips forming a proud smile. She stood up, and was handed a sacrificial knife.
Climbing into the swimming pool herself, she strode over to Wren.
The boy slumped to the floor, trembling, his knees against his chest.
Aunt May grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up, and sliced the blade across his throat.
His eyes flicked to me, and I swore he smiled.
Spots of red dotted yellowing tiles, a river trickling under my aunt's heels.
“Happy 78th birthday, Charlotte.”
Last night ended with me being locked in my room.
It's been almost 15 hours, and the door is still locked. Please help me. I'm fucking terrified of what my aunt is planning.
I can't stop shgajing. FycjbfucibFUCK
If she is telling the truth, I shouldn't be here, right??
And I can't stop thinking.
Is Wren Oliver trying to kill me, or himself?

Ok let's do the important info / flags
Here's Me! - Maybe show yourself if interested?

• I'm a non-denominational Christian. I think Jesus is great and would prefer that you do too.
• I smoke a little weed and drink a little alcohol. The alcohol thing is like maybe once every two months maybe? Weed... eh I'm toning it down. I can easily go without if needed.
• I currently don't make much money. I live alone in a little house and get by currently, but still needing to make moves to have more than a stepping stone. Now what I mean?
• I don't have kids and ask you don't either.

I think those are the red flags about me / who I'm searching for.
Now maybe I can be a little more interesting and dump some fun things about me. At least I think they are.
I'm a Halloween person. I love the aesthetic. Gotta get my spooky on. I have a crazy sweet tooth. I love candy and eating it too. I bake / cook. I'm a decent cook and make stuff all the time. Hearing about something easy and new gets me going. Recently made Bacon Jam and dang was it something. Artsy fartsy. I draw and paint a little and make bracelets and rugs and.... I do stuff. I love me some color and patterns instead of a blank wall. Video games, board games, card games... games. I like games. I play some and... yeah. Outdoorsy. Walking in the forest, going on a bike ride, having a fire somewhere at night. All great stuff. Campfire smoke is one of my favorite smells.
Uuhhh... How about you? You like Jesus? Got any hobbies of your own? Would you eat my cooking?
I'm hopefully looking for a relationship that would maybe become more. Something serious. A reason to never have to look again. If I sound somewhat what you're looking for, hit me up on here. Reddit's messaging system is truly awful though so apologies if I don't see it right away.