I know this Reddit is used to find movies but I couldn't find any Reddits for shows Anyway I remember it was a kids show that explained phobias none of the characters spoke words and the main character I think had a skull shirt and black shorts with a long nose and just one long strand of hair the only episodes I remember is one where a clown fills the characters house up with ice cream a really messed up episode where the character separated from its own skin I honestly don't know how I was able to ever watch it from the gauge image I have in my mind

Previous case
We're back to business as usual at Orion. Sort of. I'll get into that in a minute. But first, I just need to put it out there that sometimes the clients drive me nuts. As much as I have an apparently irresistible desire to help everyone, some people really push it. Push it right off of a fucking cliff, that is.
I’m going to stop myself before I go off on an unhinged rant about the woes of dealing with the public. Instead, I’ll let yinz see for yourselves what I've been putting up with.
(If you're not familiar with what Orion Pest Control's services are, it may help to start here.)
We received a call from a client about mosquitoes running amok in her home. Since we had a few others to take care of that day, I informed her that the earliest that one of us could investigate the matter was in the afternoon. But because this woman is clearly so much more important than everyone else, her royal highness threw a hissy fit about having to wait like a common peasant.
I tried to be as nice as possible, “Ma’am, I understand that it’s frustrating, but there are others that called ahead of you, so we have to take care of their problems before we can take care of yours.”
The client huffed, “Okay, you clearly aren’t hearing me. There are mosquitoes in my house!”
“Yes, ma’am, I heard you. However, you are not our only client, so we ask that you please be patient and we will be there as soon as we can.”
I should also mention that this client talked out of the back of her nose, if that helps to paint a picture of how her cadence was equally as grating as her personality. “Okay, but do those people have mosquitoes? Like in their house, biting them and their kid over and over? My son could have Zika virus right now!”
Jesus Fucking Christ. I rubbed my temple with my free hand as I did my damndest to keep my customer service persona in place, “Again, ma’am, I understand that this is frustrating, but we have a wasp infestation and termites to deal with before you and those families want their kids to be safe, just like you. In the meantime, I recommend wearing bug spray or burning a citronella candle until we can get to you. We will be there as soon as we can.”
“You better be! And you really need to work on your customer service, sweetie!”
The client hung up on me.
I had to pace around the office after that one. Sweetie? Shove it up your ass, you entitled, snotty… You know what? Nevermind. I have many words to describe clients like that and none of them are pleasant. I hoped that she’d get mosquito bites in all of the most private areas of her anatomy.
It probably didn't help that I was saddled with some bitterness after the ‘dogging’ incident. I knew that there wasn't anything I could do about the mechanic other than stay out of his way going forward. And boy, did that eat me up.
On that note, I know what the mechanic is, however, even whispering the official title of these Neighbors is enough to draw them to you. I'm not sure if writing it counts and I'm not about to find that out the hard way.
Just know that if you hear wings beating from the west at night, hide and pray that you'll be passed by. Placing a line of salt on all of the doors and windows facing the west keeps them from coming inside. Once they set their sights on you, they'll never stop hunting you. Even death itself fears them. You'll still be running long after your heart stops beating.
But I promise, I’ll elaborate more on that later. I’m getting ahead of myself. Back to the case.
Reyna was at the point in her training where she could be trusted to deal with termites on her own. After I had the wasp nests taken care of, I set out to her royal highness’ home, and earlier than I’d told her, might I add. I will admit that I was tempted to dally a bit just to piss her off, but then I figured that it would be better and more professional to just get it over with.
She looked exactly like how I pictured her to look, complete with a weasley sneer that only the most unlikable of human beings are able to master.
“It’s about time.” She snapped.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Where have you noticed the mosquitoes the most?”
“Everywhere.” She said unhelpfully,
Her husband stepped in. “In the kitchen and basement, mostly.”
To make this call even better, the husband decided to take it upon himself to follow me around as I did my inspection, asking me pointless questions and giving me advice that I didn't ask for.
It got to a point where his hot breath wheezed into my ear as I shined my flashlight under their sink.
Stiffly, but politely, I asked, “Sir, can you please keep your distance?”
His wife chipped in, “Will you let her do her job, Curtis? It took her long enough to get here, and if you keep pestering her, it's going to take even longer!”
The husband puffed up and snapped, “Well, it's my house! I need to know that the person working in it knows what they're doing!”
They began screaming at each other. As obnoxious and uncomfortable as it was to have to bear witness to it, at least they weren't focused on me anymore. I shook my head and kept searching for the source of the infestation.
What I was looking for was standing water, which is essential for a mosquito's life cycle; you eliminate the standing water, you eliminate the infestation. The space beneath the sink was completely dry.
With the argument going on, I almost didn't hear it. An odd little sound. The easiest way to describe it was that it sounded like, ‘Kudo! Kudo!’
My head turned to follow it. That's when I noticed that one of the floorboards was slightly raised up from the rest.
I interrupted their marital problems, “You said that your son was sick earlier? Would he happen to have chills and a high fever?”
The client spat, “Yes, because some people-”
Not in the mood for her nonsense anymore, I cut in, “Ma'am, please just answer the question. I am trying to help you, I really am, but I'm going to need some more information in order to do that.”
She looked taken aback, her face bright red. While she balked, her husband answered instead, “Our son said he was feeling under the weather, but he does that whenever he wants to get out of something. You know how kids are.”
Good lord. Parents of the year.
“Have you noticed your salt going missing?”
The wife blinked at me, “How did you know that?”
I told them that I'd be right back and went to retrieve a cage from the truck. This critter is an odd one in that not only is salt not a suitable repellent for it, but it actually loves the stuff. It can consume as much as ten grams of salt per day. So if you find that the salt in your home has gone missing, it could mean that a False Egg has made a nest.
I returned with the cage and advised the couple to either move into another room or wait outside. Would it surprise yinz when I say that they refused? Not in the mood to argue, I just shrugged. Okay. Suit yourselves.
I set the cage up next to the lifted floorboard, took my salt off of my toolbelt, and sprinkled some inside the cage. It would placate the False Egg once I got it inside.
Using my knife, I pried the floorboard up. From behind me, the husband began to protest, but his wife snapped at him to keep still.
Meanwhile, my eyes met the beady gaze of a False Egg from where it hid under their floorboard.
At first glance, it looks like a white chicken's egg. If consumed, it causes the host to lay more False Eggs. That's how it reproduces. The telltale signs that you're looking at a False Egg include two dark spots on the shell near the pointed top of the ovoid. Those are the eyes, which they can leave closed to camouflage themselves. You may also notice two small holes at the bottom of the shell, which is where its legs can retract in and out. Mosquitoes follow False Eggs wherever they nest, though it's unclear why.
Generally, they're more of an annoyance than anything. However, they can cause flu-like symptoms in those that they feel threatened by, so they do pose a slight danger to those with compromised immune systems.
To my surprise, the False Egg leapt out of its nest and into the cage, tucking its legs back into its shell comfortably. Even though it didn't seem to have any intentions of moving, I quickly shut the door of its cage.
For the first time since I arrived, the clients were speechless. The woman had a hand over her open mouth while the man stared at the False Egg in a mixture of horror and disgust.
It wasn't until I stood up with the cage that the man asked, “What the hell is that?”
“The source of the infestation.” I replied. “I’ll take this guy out to the truck. The mosquitoes should follow him, but just to be sure, I'm going to ask that you all leave the house for a few hours so that I can apply a chemical treatment that'll kill off any stragglers. And your son’s condition should improve in a day or two.”
The couple didn't give me any trouble. They quietly collected their sick teenaged son, saying something about getting ice cream, then fucked off to do whatever while I dealt with the rest of the mosquitoes.
Once I was done, I drove off to release the False Egg somewhere where it could complete its life cycle away from humans. It is able to reproduce in any mammal. While forcing other organisms to lay eggs is bizarre and can be alarming for the affected individual, it doesn't appear to hurt the hosts, other than causing some mild abdominal discomfort. Once the False Egg is laid, the host goes back to normal, which is why we generally don't feel the need to kill them.
Unexpectedly, the False Egg talked to me.
It had a small, soft, mousy voice. “Thanks for getting me out of there.”
I glanced at the False Egg. I had its cage on the passenger's seat. Its eyes were visible, along with its little white legs as it sat on the bottom of its cage. It looked up at me as it wiggled its small feet absent-mindedly.
Whenever it spoke, a small crack that resembled a toothy mouth appeared in its shell. That was something to add to our records: not only are False Eggs capable of speech, but their mouths are located below their eye spots.
Stunned, I said, “You're welcome.”
The False Egg continued, “Oh, those humans are vile! I hadn't realized it when I first made my nest. Do you want to know why I made the boy sick?”
“Why?”
So that's how I learned every aspect of this family's lives. I'm sure yinz care even less than I do about some suburbanites’ interfamily drama, so I'll just say that it wasn't bad enough to warrant a call to social services, but enough that I can see why that kid probably couldn't wait to turn 18. Overbearing mother, father trying to use his son to relive his glory days as a high school athlete. The False Egg had done the boy a solid, giving him just enough of a fever to excuse him from lacrosse tryouts.
“Where are we going?” The False Egg asked after telling me all that information that I didn't know what to do with.
“Back to the forest.”
The False Egg kept swinging its little feet, “Can you take me somewhere nice? If it's not any trouble?”
Why not? Maybe some scenery would improve my mood.
So me and my little egg buddy took a little drive to the pond. It was a picturesque area as well as a nice environment for a False Egg. They prefer caves, but as long as they're near water, they'll be fine. When I opened its cage, the False Egg hopped out, its little eyes and shelled body swiveling to take in the peaceful sight.
“Oh, this is wonderful! Thank you!” Before it skipped off, it paused. “I think it would only be right if I told you something that could help, since you brought me here.”
It turned, its shell splitting to form a mouth as it hesitated before speaking, “If you hear whispers in the woods, even if it sounds like someone you care about, don't listen. The louder they are, the safer you are. They get quieter as they get closer to confuse you.”
Hold on. That didn't make any sense. The whispers had gotten louder and more urgent as I approached the mechanic's clearing.
Unless I was wrong and he wasn't the one doing it.
I asked, “Is the whispering thing disguising itself as a mechanic?”
The False Egg tilted to the side thoughtfully, “I'm afraid not. It doesn’t like to pretend to be human.”
So there was something else out there with me when I went looking for Victor. I remembered then that the whispers had stopped once I got close to the mechanic's clearing. When I unintentionally allowed them to lead me astray, they took me in the opposite direction of where he'd been waiting. Interesting.
With the False Egg wandering off to establish a new nest that was far away from humans, I headed back to the office, unsure of how to feel about the information it had given me.
Victor looked annoyed when I came in. The clients had called to complain about my ‘poor customer service.’ Wow. Okay.
“Next time, just leave the False Egg there.” Victor said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “They want to complain about poor customer service? We can show them bad service!”
“It's fine, Vic.” I replied. “Just let them leave their one star Google review and move on.”
“These fucking people…” He grumbled.
Victor's headspace hasn't been much better than mine. He's been pretty much stuck waiting by the phone for those ominous calls that the mechanic mentioned in the woods. They don't happen often, but when they do, he gets grim. Quiet. He hasn't told me in detail what has been requested of him. I don't know if he simply doesn't want to talk about it or if he's sworn to secrecy.
We'd had a long, uncomfortable talk during one of my days off while recovering from getting dogged. Victor stopped by with coffee and a box of donut holes. He drank the coffee, but left the donut holes untouched. We sat in my small kitchen, him staring intently into his black coffee, me quietly adding more sugar to my mocha.
I broke the silence. “What did you want me to see the other day?”
“I couldn't outright tell anyone that I was dead. Not without the mechanic finding out.” He continued after some hesitation. “It feels selfish saying it now, but… I just wanted someone to know what happened to me.”
Victor pulled the bandana aside with a finger, revealing that a jagged, red grin had been carved across his throat. I shuddered, being forcefully reminded once again how thin skin truly is.
He quickly pulled it back into place.
That prompted me to ask, “Is the mechanic the one that…?” I pointed to my neck.
Victor shook his head. I asked him who did.
His expression darkened, “Someone I used to use with. He didn't believe me when I told him that I was still clean and couldn't help him get his next hit. Everything happened so fast after that. Before I knew it, I woke up in his trunk. My chest felt empty. It's strange, you know? You don't notice your own heartbeat until it's not there anymore.”
I shook my head slowly, a knot in my stomach as I whispered, “Jesus, Vic. Where is he now?”
“He can't hurt anyone else. We'll leave it at that.” Victor muttered.
I took in a shaky breath. I couldn't believe that he'd been keeping all of this in. It was a lot to take in at once, so I could only imagine how much worse it was to be the one experiencing it.
Like I said, I don't blame him for what happened. He must've felt so alone.
After I regained my composure, I asked, “So… what does the mechanic have to do with this?”
Victor hesitated again, eventually saying, “He couldn't touch me while I was alive, so he made sure that death couldn’t get to me before he could. That's why I was trying to keep my condition quiet; I was hoping that I could outlast him long enough for the Reaper to catch up. Unfortunately, the fucker is good at what he does and knew that I’d drag someone else into my bullshit eventually.”
I shook my head, “I dragged myself into it. I could've just minded my own business, but I didn't. I chose to go out there, even though I didn't know what I was dealing with. And I chose to say the wrong thing to the mechanic to set him off.”
“You wouldn't have been in that position if I hadn't said anything.”
“So what happens now? You're just… forced to do these calls?”
Victor sighed, “It's either that, or I join the ones in the trees.”
The skulls. Grimly, I wondered if those trapped souls were still aware. If they knew what had happened to them.
I slumped down in my seat. “Is there anything we can do?”
“As of right now, no. We just go to work, keep our heads down, do what we have to do. And from now on, I'll deal with the mechanic, even if it's for something as trivial as changing a tire. He's my problem, no one else's.”
So that's where we're at. Victor's technically not alive or dead, but a secret third, worse thing.
Speaking of worse things, we got an emergency call in the middle of the night.
After we close for the day, Victor routes calls to his phone in case there is something that can't wait until the next day. Thankfully, this is an extremely rare occurrence; up until this incident, it's only happened twice since I've been with Orion. I joined Victor for one of those two emergency calls. Even though it's been two years since that night, I still hear the crunching of bones in my dreams.
Something yinz need to know about the farmers around here is that they know how to take care of themselves. They have more encounters with the atypical than anyone else and for the most part, they know how to live amongst things like the Neighbors in relative peace. They know about leaving cream out to appease them. They know about what measures to take to defend themselves and their animals. They're a tough bunch and they usually prefer to take care of things themselves. It's highly unusual for them to reach out to us.
So when Victor told me over the phone that the emergency call was at one of the farms, I knew it was going to be bad.
When he first described what the farmers were contending with, my stomach dropped. The client's brother was found on the porch with his chest entirely deflated, deliberately placed into a chair that was moved in front of the door where the family could see him.
The farmers were holed up in their home. The woman of the house was pregnant, due within the next few days, which made moving her extremely difficult. They could hear whatever killed the brother giggling and tapping on the windows, mocking them. Victor was already on his way there.
I arrived with my toolbelt along with a shotgun and shells filled with rock salt. This may sound ridiculous, but I also donned a collar that I'd made last summer by hammering long ass carpenter nails into the leather, then coating their pointed tips with silver. I looked a bit like a goth club reject, but when dealing with things that like to go for the throat, you gotta put your pride aside.
Victor's truck was in the driveway, but he was nowhere in sight. Shotgun at the ready, I glanced around as I approached the house. The body was still on the porch, untouched after the poor man had been posed there. It looked far worse than what Victor had described. His chest had caved in, like everything inside of him had been sucked clean out. His face was frozen in surprise rather than horror or pain. He'd been caught off guard and was dead long before he could react.
Wings. I turned, pulling the trigger just in time as the pest tormenting this family dove at me. It tumbled to the ground with an enraged shriek.
It appeared to be a woman. Well… half of one. Her legs were gone, brown entrails dangling sickeningly from her gray torso. Her leathery, hooked wings trembled as she used her bony arms to raise herself up to snarl at me, curling her lips to reveal doglike fangs. I shot at her again. She jolted as the shell took a chunk out of her skull.
That wouldn't kill her. Both her and I knew it. She skittered like a cockroach, an elongated tongue shooting out of her mouth, quick as a whip. I flinched, turning my head so she couldn't reach my face, grateful for the collar as I felt the proboscis slam into its spikes. The impact knocked me off balance, causing me to stumble. I leaned into it, hitting the ground and out of reach of the next swipe of her tongue.
I took aim again, knocking her back a few feet. A dark shape suddenly appeared from the barn, a glint of metal shining in the figure’s hand. Victor.
“I can't find the lower half.” He hissed when I was in earshot.
That meant we were going to have to keep her from rejoining the lower half of her body until sunrise. It was three in the morning.
Because nothing can ever be easy.
Victor had found chains and a padlock in the barn. They should be heavy enough to restrain her. We’d just have to get close. Without her sucking our insides out, preferably.
She was back in the air. I took another shot. I'd have to reload soon. I hoped that I'd have enough shells to last the next two hours. At the rate I was going, I'd burn through them in the next ten minutes.
Unfortunately, I missed as she soared towards the house. I used my last shot and thankfully knocked her out of the air. As I hurriedly reloaded, Victor rushed towards the fallen creature, kneeling on her chest to keep her from taking off again as he fought to get the chain around her.
I heard him make a terrible choking sound, followed by her retching. She'd gotten her proboscis down his throat, but had withdrawn it even quicker than she had gotten it down. I guess undead viscera doesn't taste very good.
As she gagged, Victor pressed his forearm against her throat, pinning her so that she couldn't sink her fangs into him. I raced over, setting the shotgun on the ground next to me so that I could help him restrain her. While he held her, I coiled the chain around her squirming torso.
She began to laugh. When she spoke, it sounded like an old woman and a young girl speaking in unison, “Do you think a chain will be enough to stop me?”
I kept going. She wiggled one wing out from beneath her, jabbing the hook into the hollow of my shoulder. I gasped as it pressed deeper into my skin. Victor roughly pushed her wing back down, the violent withdrawal of the hook making me see stars. Through all of that, I still kept going.
We turned her onto her side so that Victor could pin her wings against her back. She screeched the entire time, the proboscis shooting back to slap him in the cheek.
We almost had her. Then we heard a wail from inside the house. What now?!
The pest abruptly paused in her struggles to leer at us, then she sang, “The baby's coming!”
You've got to be kidding me.
Her fighting resumed with far more force than before. That man that she'd killed had merely been an appetizer for her. The baby was her true prize. Her eyes were wild with excitement, saliva dripping off of her fangs as she watched the front door open.
Shitshitshit!
“Go back inside!” Victor shouted as we both used all that we had to try to keep the pest in place.
The farmer yelled back, distress making his voice higher, “Something's wrong! I have to get her to the hospital!”
I risked a glance. The woman was white as a sheet, holding onto her husband for dear life as he half led half dragged her to his truck. Blood stained the inside of the woman's legs.
At the sight of it, Victor froze. I didn't like the way he looked at the woman then. Oh no. The creature went into a complete frenzy. She managed to get her fangs into Victor's arm, wrenching a cry of agony from him as she ripped a sizable chunk of flesh out. His hold on her loosened just enough that she could wriggle a wing out.
I screamed as I felt her beginning to slip away, frantically reaching for the nearest part of her, which was unfortunately her dangling intestines. It was like trying to hold onto oversized wet noodles, my hands slipping in her chunky blood as I struggled to slow her down.
They just needed to reach the truck. We just had to keep her here just long enough for them to get a head start.
I just hoped that I wouldn't end up having to protect them from my boss, too.
She roared as she turned and slashed me across the brow with one of her clawed fingers. My vision went dark in my right eye. Numbly, I wondered if she ripped my eye out, or if it was just from the pain. By some miracle, I didn't let go.
Fortunately, the bite seemed to snap Victor out of whatever had happened to him when he saw the woman’s blood. At least for the moment. He scrambled across the ground, seizing my shotgun. His first shot missed. The second one hit her left wing. The farmer had the truck's passenger side door open as he helped his wife inside. The pest reached a talon towards them, trying to drag herself closer. Victor was back on his feet and marched over to shoot her in the head. Once. Twice.
The truck's engine roared to life. With it, the pest screeched in rage, the sound warped by the damage done to her mouth after Victor had unloaded on her. She flailed as she watched her prize speed down the road.
But it wasn't over. The gunshot wound in her wing was already closing up. It wouldn't take her long to catch up to them if we lost her.
My cheek was wet. Turns out, I didn't lose an eye. I just had blood in it. Thank God. I crawled over her, trying the chains again as Victor went back to holding her wings against her body.
She called him every foul name in the book, words slurring from her destroyed jaw. One of them touched a nerve: “Bitch of the Wild Hunt.” He wordlessly snatched the salt from my belt and poured it over her face, holding her jaw to shove the container into her mouth. She gurgled and started to convulse as the salt was forced down her throat. That shut her up.
With the chain pinning her arms and wings against her body, Victor dug the padlock out of his pocket, using it to secure the links.
“I’m going to try to get her to the barn.” He yelled over the sound of her agitated howls.
I retrieved the shotgun and followed him as he carried the squirming, shrieking pest towards the barn. I pressed the palm of my hand to the cut on my brow. A flutter of unease went through my gut as it occurred to me that I could be in danger from Victor as well.
It didn't help that the pest had noticed it, too. She was goading him, “That girl smells sweet, doesn't she?”
“You want more salt in your mouth?” He threatened flatly. “We got plenty and we have some time until sunrise.”
She cackled, “You can't tell me that your mouth isn't watering thinking of her soft flesh between your teeth. Her blood warming your tongue. You long to feel warm again, don't you, dead man?”
The borderline pornographic way that she spoke about devouring me made me intensely uncomfortable.
“Keep it up and I'll pack the salt up your nose, too.” Victor retorted.
Once we got to the barn, we found an empty stall, which he tossed her into. I didn't follow him into the stall. My gut was telling me that something was off.
He drew a circle of salt around her. As long as it wasn't broken, it would trap her until sunrise.
I didn't think the boss would ever intentionally hurt me. But the way he looked at that woman…
What if he couldn't control himself?
Victor shut the stall door behind him, leaving the pest to wail and swear at us from her prison.
His eyes went to my forehead, “That looks like it hurts.”
I swallowed back the lump in my throat. There it was again. That look.
“Stay back, Vic.” I said calmly, my unease growing.
He took a deep breath, his eyes closing. I took a small step away from him, towards the exit to the barn.
I kept my voice even, “Vic, be honest with me. Is it safe to be around you right now?”
Victor stayed where he was, still not looking at me. He eventually answered, “Probably not.”
I took another step towards the door. “I'm going to leave.”
He nodded, eyes still shut, “I think that would be best. I'll make sure that she stays in the stall.”
As I backed towards the door, afraid to turn my back on him, I said, “I'll uh… see you at work tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See ya.”
I didn't dare turn my back on him until I'd left the barn. He didn't move a muscle the entire time. As I made my way back to my G6, I kept looking over my shoulder. Victor didn't follow me. I made it back to my car without incident.
I thought back to when I'd found him in the butcher shed. Looking back, I'm pretty sure that he'd been eating it.
Once I was in my apartment, I quickly drew lines of salt in front of all my doors and windows. It made me feel somewhat safer. I inspected the injuries on my forehead and shoulder. After cleaning them both up, I determined that I should probably see a doctor in the morning. In the meantime, I covered them both with gauze.
I painfully settled down onto my bed, my entire body aching. Even though I felt like a dish towel that had been wrung out over and over again, I knew that I wasn't going to be getting much sleep. My mind was racing too much.
Against my better judgment, I ended up texting Victor, ‘Are you a draugr?’
His response was, ‘i think so’
Draugr are known for their grotesque appetites. The joke Reyna and I had been making about him being a ‘high-functioning zombie’ wasn't all that far off, after all.
I reminded myself that Victor wasn't a complete monster. He'd at least had enough control over himself not to hurt me or either of the farmers. But the temptation had clearly been there. That begged the question of what his limits were.
Was it safe to work with him? Injuries aren't exactly uncommon at Orion. Maybe that's why he's been sending Reyna and I together for two person jobs rather than going on calls with us.
I received another message from him, ‘if you want to quit I understand’
I didn't, though. As stressful as working here can be, I do enjoy my job, weirdly enough. I've been treated better here than by any other employer and I like having only two other coworkers to worry about, especially since I get along well with both of them. But the biggest reason why quitting hasn't occurred to me is that I wouldn't be able to just walk away from all that I'd learned about the atypical cases. There was no way I could live a normal life after working at Orion.
I also wanted to keep an eye on Victor. Between whatever the mechanic was forcing him to do and his transformation, there was a lot that I was concerned about. As much as I didn't want to think about having to trap or kill Victor, if it came down to it... I'd do what needed to be done.
I sent back, ‘hazard pay? 👀’
His reply was, ‘😒’
A moment later, I received, ‘we'll discuss it when I don't have a manananggal mf'ing me’
Yinz see why I kept calling her a ‘pest’ rather than trying to type that long name out each time? I guarantee I would have misspelled it several different ways.
When the sun rose, I received another message from Victor, ‘it's over. thanks for your help’
We found out later in the afternoon that the hospital had been able to save the farmers’ baby. She was going to have to stay longer in the hospital, but otherwise, she and their newborn daughter were alright.
What was alarming was that the dead man's body had been desecrated at some point after I left. It was believed that the pest had been the one to take chunks out of his neck, shoulder, and chest. I wasn't going to be the one to tell the family the truth. They'd been through enough already without the news that the one they'd relied on for protection had gotten hungry.
I wondered if being exposed to so much blood had been the trigger. I suppose I should just be glad that Victor had eaten a man who was already dead instead of me or another living person.
Like I said, I'm going to have to keep an eye on him. In the meantime… maybe don't demand to speak to the manager.

It was dark, like the type of dark that you have to check your eyes by blinking. Only then you realize you can no longer tell whether your eyes are open or closed. The sky was calm and thin clouds streaked across the sky like a child had obtained a paint brush and some paint. Below this oddly peaceful sky was a home, more precisely it would be called a mansion. A dilapidated old home that hadn't seen use in many years. Strangely though it was guarded as if some old treasure may have existed inside.
The old decrepit home had a wall encircling it with a fancy ornate gate, depictions of bats and skulls made it feel more ominous though. Gargoyles watched the guards as they lazily stood in front of the gate, they had no sense of urgency.
"Hey mind if I just take a quick wink? Not like anyone's gonna come here there no point. There's nothing here but an old coffin and a corpse." One of the guards sighed as he leaned against the wall.
"Yeah, go ahead man. I'd rather not get in trouble with the captain though. He's scary." The second guard shivered as he thought of the new boss they'd recently been answering to.
"Ah, that kid? Come on he's not even like us he's just a Lithian brat. He was assigned his position to make us look good for 'that' person." His voice lowered as fear crept in while thinking about the man they wouldn't even speak the name of.
"Damn, we've gone and involved ourselves with scary people huh. Whatever imma. . . Just." With his sentence trailing of soon snores filled the air and a sigh from the sleeping man's companion. The mansion behind them watched eagerly at their relaxed attitudes, waiting hungrily for the intruders it expected. And it's hunger was satisfied as the sound of glass breaking cut through the night.
Quiet footsteps landed on a carpet, "how's it looking?"
"Cody. . . Shut the fuck up." Skarlet's face appeared in the light of her fire magic, a single finger raised with a flame on top.
"Hey sorry, but there's nobody here right besides who can stop us?"
"Cody, just come inside." Skarlet grabbed him by the hand and yanked him through the window. She then pushed it closed behind him. In the light of her fire he could see her tail flicking with annoyance.
"Sorry, it's just been a bit since it was just the two of us right. There was that fight with Ares but. . . You know never mind remember Christmas?" Cody smiled mischievously, though her response was a barely visible blush.
"You're a terrible cook." She frowned as she started walking down the hall.
"Ooh, my heart as a man has been injured. But hey you know that I was trying to recreate something from my homeland. Coco doesn't exist in this world though." His voice fell at the end of the sentence, a partial pout appeared in his expression for a moment before a flash of surprise as he skipped forward to catch up with her. It was as he was just about to reach her side when she turned.
"You're not too bad at consoling a crying girl though." A smirk accompanied that statement before she spun around once more and kept walking. Cody froze, a dumb look on his face, but he recovered quickly and chased after her. Skarlet was blushing deeply, she even put out her flame to hide it. Damnit, why'd I say that. This stupid guy. . . Ugh the goal. . . We came here for a reason.
"You're much more social than when we first met. Didn't you try to kill me to keep me from getting close to you. What changed, little misfortunate." Cody asked with a teasing tone.
"Nothing Dumbass, I just realized I couldn't push you away cause you were stronger than me. Better keep up, hero if I surpass you in strength I'll end our partnership." Skarlet's voice shook at the end of her statement. If it was back then, it would've been firm, but she couldn't shake the emotions she'd been feeling more recently. She had to admit that she enjoyed his company, he was a dependable friend. Damn, why are my cheeks so hot.
"Here I found it!" Skarlet spoke up, breaking the conversation off forcefully. She was pointing to a staircase, Cody stepped up to the edge and looked down.
"Problem, um there's no steps only a case." Cody pointed out as he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was staring at him in exasperation.
"Was that supposed to be a joke?" She sighed as he avoided eye contact and stepped off the edge.
"Um, I guess." He said while rubbing the back of his head and smiling awkwardly. Skarlet landed beside him with a chuckle and punched him in the shoulder.
"Come on let's go, dummy." She led the way further down, occasionally they had to leap down entire cases that were missing steps. But soon they reached the basement. Four stories and five flights, it was a very big house. They walked in silence as they approached a room at the back of the basement. It was a tomb, definitely. There was stone double doors, at there center was a black widow on a spiderweb. The split between the doors cut the window in half.
Skarlet stepped forward and pushed open the door, a draft of air escaped desperately leading her hair and skirt to flutter curiously.
Thud
The doors made a pretty loud sound as they clicked into place. There was a stone coffin placed in the center, the room however was set up almost like a set in an old Gothic play. A large bed, the colors were red and black. A bookcase on one wall and a fireplace on the other. The biggest out of place thing though was a massive rotating magic circle. It seemed to be made of a red viscous liquid and was floating off the ground by a couple inches. It was surrounding the coffin as blood red chains erupted from the magic circle and wrapped the coffin.
"Um, hehe hey don't you think this looks like a bad Idea actually. Maybe we have the wrong house." Cody joked anxiously as he stepped into the room behind Skarlet who was approaching the coffin.
"No this, this is right I think. It is just very elaborate, we'll have to carry her out. Get ready they'll know we're here when I break the seal." Skarlet explained as she stepped into the magic circle. It coiled around her like she was walking through a shallow pond. "Sapphire told us that she'll be groggy and confused when she wakes up, we'll have to protect her as we get her out of here.
As she approached the coffin she pulled out a dagger and stabbed it into the center of it, where the red chains all clustered together. The dagger was a normal looking blade, but the guard was a golden carved black widow with a ruby in the abdomen.
Her ears laid flat as her tail lashed anxiously with the massive mana wave that erupted outwards. Lastly, as if the stone prison before her wanted to give off one more ounce of flair the lid shattered into particles of black and red and trickled down the sides to mix with the blood pooling in the carpet around the coffin. The magic circle had been made from actual blood.
Though Skarlet froze, she seemed to have seen something in the coffin that greatly confused or surprised her. Cody frowned as he approached, he peered over her shoulder and gasped, he understood. The coffin contained a skeleton, the inhabitant had been dead awhile.
"Wait, what the hell, that that no that can't be what?" Skarlet reached into the coffin and lifted the skeleton before dropping it, the clattering of bones was chilling.
"So. . . What do we do now? I don't think Sapphire has a plan B." Cody sighed as he turned to the room. He started to approach the bed when he noticed something. "Um hey Skarlet, we're looking for an Older sister correct. And specifically one that's been sealed for the last ten years right." Cody spoke as he noticed someone in the bed.
"What the. . . That's a kid." Skarlet frowned as she approached the bed and pulled the covers aside to reveal a young girl in a classic Gothic Lolita dress. She was hugging a very traditional teddy bear with obviously sewed on bat wings. But most importantly, she was sound asleep.
"We can't leave her here right? This place is about to become a battle ground. I'm pretty sure she's human right, when I was with Sapphire I could sense that she was a monster and not a human. But this girl just feels normal." Skarlet was pondering when sound rang out upstairs.
"Damn their coming." Skarlet began shaking the young girl lightly as she pulled her into a sitting position. The girl groggily opened her eyes and yawned then they widened as she saw them. "Hello dear, we need to go, can you come with us for a little. It's gonna get dangerous." Skarlet held out her hand and the girl took it with sparkling eyes. Skarlet smiled awkwardly as she realized the girl was staring at her ears. "I'll let you touch them if you come with us ok." Skarlet led her by the hand as Cody drew his sword and they stepped out into the basement. It was still empty but the sound of feet and voices upstairs led them to move quickly.
On the first floor Cody stepped out from the stairs and into the hall. A shout brought his attention to a group of guards that immediately ran at him.
"Damn, stay back you two." Cody grumbled as he brought his hand up and cast light spear, chanting under his breath as he brought his sword in front of him. A ball of light appeared and morphed into a spear as he chanted then it launched at his opponents. Two of the guards got speared almost instantly.
"Shit these guys are strong, one of the remaining guards spoke up as he suddenly skidded to a stop along with his companies. They tossed their swords to the ground, Cody grinned awkwardly as he realized what was happening. He began making strides towards them breaking into a run he impaled one of the group as the other two began to change.
Cody ripped his sword out of the guard and let his body fall, the sword he held glowed with a soft white light and that glow reflected off the blood making the scene feel more red than it should have normally as he turned around and leaped at his two new opponents. They were werewolves, he cast a light spell called illuminate and the two reacted by recoiling. Cody slid under the outstretched claws of the first one and leaped upwards slashing from the beast's stomach all the way to the neck and straight out the jugular. Then with a round house kick, he smashed his heel into the side of it's head and sent it careening into it's companion who yelped in surprise. Cody then blasted a hole through both of them with another light spear.
As he finished the sound of clapping echoed out. Cody felt a bit of embarrassment as the little girl behind Skarlet had started clapping. Cody sighed and led the way towards the front door, they cleared out a couple more groups but for the most part went unchallenged till he pushed open the front door to reveal that there was a large troop stationed in the yard.
"Damn, is that old man this afraid of Ruby?" Skarlet muttered as she gazed at the large mob in front of her. "alright, upsy daisy." Skarlet lifted the girl and had her sit in her arm while holding onto Skarlet's neck. Skarlet drew her sword and held it one handed.
"Intruders, we can't let you leave. Where's Ruby!" A man looking like the leader approached.
"Sorry man, I don't know." Skarlet replied as a smile slipped onto her face. Suddenly she was in front of him as she dashed, dragging her sword across his waist she split him in half leaped and kicked his torso back at his own troops. There was a look of surprise permanently etched on his face. "Come on Cody, let's take this fuckers out."
"Skarlet, your carrying a child think you could maybe be less gruesome?" Cody's plea went unheard as she delved into battle. He sighed once more feeling himself growing older he leaped forward as well.
Skarlet hacked and slashed a path through the guards, she twisted, jumped, and ducked to avoid attacks targeting the girl in her arms. Cody was right behind her slicing through his own opponents. At this point he had a look of annoyance and exasperation in his face as he watched the blood covered black cat girl have her fun. "When did she start to enjoy fighting so much?" He realized he hadn't noticed this emerging tendency of hers.
Suddenly Skarlet had the area around her cleared out as a figure approached. He held a sword that Cody recognized, a katana. He was dressed in a gladiator style outfit with a cape. There was no smile on his face though he didn't look like a showman. The guards had backed away and even seemed to tremble.
"Captain, it's the captain."
"Hey, why'd y'all stop I thought it was getting good. There's enough of you for me to. . . Oh you look fun." Skarlet smiled as she looked at the man in front of her. A Fox Lithian that reeked of the blood he'd split throughout his life.
"Cody, take her." Skarlet spoke seriously as she handed the girl to Cody.
Skarlet then stepped forward and gripped her sword tightly. In an instant they closed in on each other, a loud bang rang out as they crossed blades. "Ha, damn I thought I was no longer a human with the strength I wield. That no singular opponent could match me. But this is gonna be fun." Skarlet smiled as she let her emotions out, a built up rage and fear filled her blade as a series of clashes rang out. Though her smile began to slip as pain blossomed in her side. Something wet splatter in the dirt. "Shit." Skarlet leaned back as the boy's sword barely grazed her neck.
"You can't beat me you're not at that level yet, cat." The boy explained as he calmly dealt with her frantic and chaotic attacks. She spun around and brought a kick to the side of his head, a thud exploded out as she came into contact with his forearm that had blocked. He then grabbed her leg and flipped her, she hit the dirt with a thud and immediately kicked the ground so she rolled away as a blade stabbed into the ground where her head used to be. Her fear had melted into her blade she felt nothing but exhilaration even as blood soaked into her shirt and dripped down her leg.
She leaped to her feet and pointed her sword at him, a serious expression on her face as she leaped at him with a large overhead strike. Mana erupted throughout her sword as a black fire erupted along her blade encasing it in a threatening appearance and aura.
She brought her sword down and the boy swung his sword almost like one would swing a rapier in a contest of beauty. Elegant and swift movements, he made it seem like it was weightless as he partied her sword to the side and twirled his blade around before piercing her chest.
"Skarlet!!" Cody exclaimed as he watched the blade rip out her back, blood dripping off its tip. The boy, smiled as he looked into her eyes.
"Skarlet, it matches your fiery eyes. My name is Gordon and I'm the one who killed you." He seemed truly happy. He even began to laugh but that froze on his face as he watched her mouth from a smile. It parted slightly and blood poured down her chin. A sharp pain stabbed his side as her sword sliced into him, a scowl lit his face as the blade carved through him with ease and ripped through his throat. Then with a bloody, choking laugh she kicked him away and let the blade slide back out of her chest.
Gordon hit the ground, her blade had carved a jagged path from his side, to his neck. Affectively amputating his arm, he was bleeding a lot, far more than her as she cast a healing spell. Her face scrunched in pain as her body began rearranging and reassembling the wound.
She then turned and wiped the blood from her lips as she placed her sword on her shoulder and grinned at Cody. "Damn that bastard was good." Cody sighed.
"Hahaha, victory must feel nice." Gordon laughed as he sat up. Blood was starting to slither and move around him. His body was pulling itself back together as he got to his feet. His sword was bleeding, no more accurately, it was eating her blood and healing him it seemed. "Girl, that was damn insane. You're literally crazy, who deliberately takes an attack that could kill them just to create an opening. Haha, not that I'm going to fall for it again. Come on try and kill me imma get serious now. This is gonna scar you know." He held his sword in a different stance as the blood coalesced on the blade and formed a larger scary blade made of blood. His sword looked more like a scimitar now or possibly a sword with an ax on the end of it. Then he dashed at her, Skarlet felt dread, but still fear escaped her. She looked down the jaws of death and smiled.
"Come on, let's go!"

Title: None (suggestions welcome)
Genre: Sci-fi
Word count: 2694
Feedback desired: general impression

Chapter 1: The boy and his mother

1.1 The farm

Kyo stood at the edge of the farm, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of Zandarius stretching out before him. The sky above was a canvas of swirling purples and blues streaked with the faint glow of distant stars. A cool breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the enticing scent of Heyla flowers.
With a sigh, Kyo set down his mechanic wheelbarrow, the last of his chores for the day completed. He began to make his way back towards the farm, his footsteps crunching softly against the rocky terrain. As he passed through the pink and green garden, the aroma of his mother's porridge drifted towards him, tempting his hunger.
Despite eating the same meal every day, Kyo's stomach grumbled with anticipation. The suuka porridge was all he needed right now, its warm, comforting embrace promising to chase away the chill of the evening.
Arriving at the farm, Kyo took in the familiar sight of their plascrete igloo. Half of the structure was comprised of little octagon windows, through which the warm glow of a fire emanated from the chimney. It was home, humble yet comforting in its simplicity.

Entering the igloo, Kyo found his mother, Altha, bustling about the kitchen, preparing dinner. "Kyo, dear, could you set the table?" she called out, her voice gentle yet firm.
Kyo nodded, a small smile playing at his lips as he arranged the mismatched dishes in their usual places. Each plate was different, yet they always ended up in the same spot, a testament to the routines of their daily life.
Once the table was set, Kyo ignited the moonlamp, casting a soft yellow glow across the igloo walls. Altha emerged from the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot of suuka porridge. "Careful, Kyo," she warned as she placed the pot on the table. "It's hot."
Kyo nodded as he heard this many times before, his mouth watering at the sight and smell of the hearty meal before him. They ate in silence, the only sound of the clinking of spoons against bowls as they savored each mouthful.

After a moment, Kyo broke the silence, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Do you ever wonder what's beyond Zandarius, Mumu?" he asked.
Altha hesitated, her expression guarded. "I don't know, Kyo," she replied softly. "But we have everything we need right here on the farm."
Though disappointed by her response, Kyo nodded in understanding. Perhaps someday they would have the chance to explore together. Altha caught his eye and winked, a small glimmer of hope in her gaze.

As they finished their meal, Kyo and Altha moved to the small kitchen area to wash the dishes. The kitchen was cluttered yet cozy, with shelves overflowing with pots, pans, and utensils. Beyond the kitchen, the interior of the igloo was a snug retreat from the harshness of the outside world. A small cupboard, crafted from Zandarius rare Bennam wood, stood in one corner, its doors closed tight to conceal its overflowing contents. Nearby, a plush couch with pillows offered a comfortable spot to relax after a long day's work.
Opposite the couch, a large hammock hung from the ceiling. Above it, a smaller hammock swayed gently in the breeze, providing a cozy nest for Kyo during the night. Every inch of space was utilized to its fullest, creating a sense of warmth and intimacy within the cramped confines of the igloo.
As the hour grew late, Altha reminded Kyo of their upcoming journey to Kihar. With a yawn, Kyo climbed into his hammock, gazing up at the stars through the little octagon windows above.
"Goodnight, Kyo," Altha whispered, her voice soft in the quiet of the night.
"Goodnight, Mumu," Kyo replied, his eyes closing as sleep overtook him. And with that, he drifted off, thoughts of tomorrow's journey fading into the comforting embrace of dreams.g embrace of dreams.

1.2 The Trip

Kyo awoke to the gentle light filtering through the little octagon windows of their igloo. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced around and noticed that his mother's hammock was empty. "Mu-mu?" he called out, but there was no response. Curiosity piqued, Kyo peered outside and spotted his mother tending to the kikkamoos, their pig-like creatures with reptilian legs and fluffy tails. With a swift motion, he leaped out of bed, his movements practiced from years of experience. After quickly dressing himself, he hurried outside, calling out to his mother. "Altha!" he yelled, using her full name in his urgency. His mother turned towards him with a warm smile. "Kyky!" she called back, using his pet name. Kyo winced internally; he hated it when his mother called him that. But he put on a polite smile and suppressed his annoyance.
Kyo wasted no time and dashed off to fetch Tsjoopa, their trusty mechanical unicycle cart already loaded with goods for trade. As he returned with the cart, he found his mother waiting back at the farm. "Ready to go, Kyo?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Absolutely!" Kyo exclaimed, brimming with energy. And so, they set off on their journey to Kihar, the nearest town for trading.

The road ahead seemed endless, traversing through vast and barren plains broken only by occasional patches of vegetation. Sparse woods flanked the roadside, offering concealment but little wildlife, a testament to Zandarius' unforgiving environment.

After a few hours of travel, they finally reached a landmark known as the Sharp Knives, a crossroad marked by sharp rocks jutting out of the ground. "We’re here, the Sharp Knives," Altha remarked, her gaze sweeping over the rugged terrain. "We're halfway there, Kyo." Kyo nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Already? Time flies when you're in good company." A mischievous glint sparkled in Altha's eyes as she reached into the cart. "Speaking of good company, I brought something special for our halfway mark." Kyo's interest was piqued. "What is it?" With a dramatic flourish, Altha revealed a small container of sosuuka, a sweeter version of yesterday's porridge. "Sosuuka!" Kyo exclaimed, trying to sound enthusiastic despite his familiarity with the dish. Altha chuckled at his feigned excitement. "I thought it might be a nice treat for our journey." Kyo grinned, playing along. "Absolutely! Thanks, best mumu on Zandarius." Lost in thought, Altha gazed into the distance, her attention drawn to the gathering ominous clouds on the horizon, a harbinger of stormy weather to come. "We might have some rough weather ahead," Altha remarked, her voice tinged with concern. Kyo glanced up at the darkening sky. "Should we stop and wait it out?" Altha shook her head. "We need to keep moving. We can't afford to delay our journey." "Guess we'll have to save the view for another time," Kyo sighed, reluctantly agreeing with Altha's decision while she nodded in understanding. "But, after all," Kyo declared, puffing out his chest with a hint of pride, "at ten years old, I'm practically a grown man! I can handle anything, even eating sosuuka on the way without spilling a drop." Altha burst into laughter at his boast. "Sosuuka without spilling? I'd sooner believe kikkamoos could fly!" Kyo joined in her laughter, the sound echoing across the desolate landscape as they continued on their journey!

1.3 Arrival in Kihar

As Kyo and Altha approached Kihar, the plascrete town sprawled out before them, its streets winding like intricate mazes through the heart of the city. In stark contrast to the barren landscape of Zandarius, Kihar was a vibrant tapestry of life, with lush vegetation adorning every corner. Kyo’s eyes roamed over the cityscape, taking in the sight of the bustling alleys and the constant mist of smoke that hung in the air. Neon lights of various colors illuminated the streets, casting a surreal glow over the surroundings. Despite having visited many times before, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at the bustling energy of the tradetown.

As they ventured deeper into the heart of the city, the tantalizing aroma of food mingled with the sounds of chatter and laughter, tempting Kyo's senses and reminding him of the porridge-filled days back on their farm. Finally, they reached the local market, a bustling hub of activity where traders hawked their wares amidst the thick scent of spices and exotic foods. "First stop, Old Taramor's," Altha announced, her voice carrying above the din of the market. Kyo's thoughts drifted to Taramor, the old, grumpy trader who had been a fixture in Kihar for as long as he could remember. Despite his rough exterior, Taramor was one of the few honest traders left in the city, and Kyo had always respected him for it. "Sounds good to me," Kyo replied, his tone positive.

As they approached Old Taramor’s, Altha hopped off the Tsjoopa and turned to Kyo. "Kyo, could you fetch a crate of Heyla bottles from the back of the cart?" she asked. Kyo nodded silently, already moving to comply.

Entering the shop, they found Taramor snoozing behind his counter, the cluttered shelves and dusty displays a testament to his lack of care for his surroundings. Altha hesitated, reluctant to disturb the old trader, but time was of the essence. "Taramor," she whispered, her voice barely audible. No response. Again, a bit louder this time, “Taramor”. Still no response. Growing impatient, Kyo couldn't help but raise his voice. "Taramor!"
Startled awake, Taramor shot upright, his eyes wide with surprise. "What the hell's going on?" he grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Oh, it's just you two," he muttered, recognizing Altha and Kyo. Altha gestured to Kyo to take a look around while she spoke with Taramor. Kyo nodded and wandered through the cluttered shelves, his curiosity piqued by the assortment of strange and exotic items on display. In the background, a television played the news, and the volume turned low but still audible. A news reporter's voice cut through the air, reporting on the recent assassination of a high-ranking official. The military had already neutralized one suspect, but two others were still at large. The camera footage showed two figures cloaked in dark red and black, their faces obscured. Zooming in on one of the suspects, the reporter noted a tattoo of a three-headed monster on their neck, linking them to the notorious syndicate known as the Three-Headed Beast. "People are urged to remain vigilant," the reporter concluded, "and to report any sightings of the suspects to the authorities." "Kyo," Altha called out, pulling him from his thoughts. Quickly, he set down a strange-looking coffee maker he had been inspecting and hurried over to join them.

Outside, Kyo turned to his mother, concern etched on his face. "How did the trade go?" Altha hesitated before answering, her tone guarded. "It wasn't as successful as we had hoped, but we'll manage." Trying to sound confident, Kyo responded, "No need to worry, Mumu. We'll make it work."

As they made their way back through the bustling market, Kyo glanced at his mother. " Can we get some Uja skewers now?" Altha smiled warmly. "Absolutely, Kyo. Let’s grab some delicious Uja," she said, turning on their trusty, albeit rusty, Tsjoopa.

1.4 No place like home

As Altha and Kyo made their way home in the fading light, a bird soared above them, its silhouette dark against the dusky sky. They were nearing their farmstead, the exhausting trip almost at an end.
Kyo turned to Altha, his curiosity piqued. “What is coffee?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.
Altha pondered for a moment before responding, “I’ve heard of it. It’s some sort of black drink. Similar to Puggatree juice, they say it gives you energy.” Kyo wrinkled his nose in distaste. He had never been fond of Puggatree juice, finding its thick texture and slimy consistency unappealing. With a shake of his head, he decided he didn’t want to try coffee after all.

As they chatted, unaware of the figure watching them from afar, the landscape growing darker with each passing moment, they finally arrived at the farm. Altha unloaded the traded goods from the Tsjoopa, and with a nod to Kyo, she motioned for him to stow it away in the barn. Kyo complied, placing the Tsjoopa in the barn, where sturdy plascrete walls and reinforced wooden beams protected it from the harsh winds. With the task done, he made his way back to the igloo. As he approached, he noticed that the interior was unusually dark, the comforting glow of the moonlamp absent. With a sense of unease gnawing at him, he entered cautiously.

To his horror, he found himself face to face with a cloaked figure in dark black and red, his alien eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. Before he could react, he spotted his mother on the floor, tears streaming down her face, with another figure standing over her, a scarred human face, and a sinister three-headed beast tattoo on his neck.
“Mumu!” Kyo screamed in terror.
The figure with glowing eyes uttered incomprehensible words, while the scarred man cursed, "We can't leave any witnesses, Deskva.”
Altha whispered urgently, "Kyo, stay calm. Everything will be fine." Kyo looked at his mother in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. "What's going to happen?" his voice trembled with fear.
The scarred human scoffed, "We can sell the boy on the black market, but the woman? She's too old to bother selling. Not worth the hassle, Des."
With brute force, Deskva's four arms, each adorned with strange, pulsating veins, grabbed Kyo, their unnaturally cold touch sending shivers down his spine. "Please, let me go!" Kyo pleaded, desperately trying to wriggle free with all his might, but Deskva's grip was unyielding.
As Kyo cast a desperate glance at his mother, tears welling in his eyes, the scarred man turned his attention to Altha, deeming her of no value. Without hesitation, he drew his pistol, aimed, and fired, the shot piercing through Altha’s skull with a sickening thud echoing through the silent igloo. Kyo’s world shattered as he watched his mother fall, tears blurring his vision, bile rising in his throat. Before he could comprehend what was happening, a brutal blow to his head sent him spiraling into darkness.

The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.

As the last orange light of day drained from the sky, the living dead in Club Vlad rose. Max the skeleton and Jessie the…not skeleton…sewed up the gaping Y-shaped incision on Dom’s chest under Merrick’s direct supervision. Dom sat there, feeling nothing, thinking nothing. He’d woken with a headache and a feeling of cold, and even now, he could feel the dull throb above his left eye. It felt like someone was tearing his brain apart with a fork. He had told Merrick, and Merrick had nodded sadly. “Is my brain rotting?”
“Most likely,” Merrick had said.
There was a certain peace in the idea of losing his cursed humanity. As Merrick had said, he would feel no pain, know no quandaries. He would live only for the night and for his master. On the other hand, watching someone like Matt sit and stare into the distance, drool coursing down his chin and nothing happening behind his dead eyes, scared Dom. He didn’t want to be a braindead idiot. He didn’t care about keeping his emotions, he just wanted to function.
Like Merrick.
There wasn’t much he could do, however. He was dead and that was the end of it.
Once Dom was patched up and dressed in a pair of jeans and a hoodie, Merrick called his children before him. “I have done my best to love and protect all of you,” he began. “Jessie, you were miserable with your grandmother, were you not?”
“Yes,” Jessie said tonelessly.
“You were depressed, bipolar, and cut yourself. Now you’re happy.”
“Yes,” she replied again.
“Joe, you were a two bit nobody staring down a ten year stretch in jail.”
“Yes.” Thin yellow liquid dripped from his nose.
“But now you are free.”
“Yes.”
“You appreciate what I’ve done for you.”
“Yes.”
Merrick flashed then, slamming his fist onto the arm of his wheelchair. “Then why do you keep fucking up? The police were here earlier. They have messages between you and Jessie. I told both of you to delete those. Then I find out that you bit someone and turned them despite my orders. We have an endless supply of blood here but you still went off on your own. How many are there?”
“Just one,” Joe said.
“Are you being honest with me?”
“Yes.”
Merrick sagged back in his chair, looking somehow older. “Joe, take Matt and go to her. Bring her back here before she causes any more problems. God alone knows how many people she’s changed. Too many vampires without a father will bring heat on us, and you know what happens in that case? We get pieces of wood shoved in our chests.”
Turning to Dom, Merrick said, “I have a job for you and Jessie. We’re nearly out of embalming fluid. You haven’t had your first dose and the rest of us are starting to get ripe as well. I have a contact at a funeral home. He texted earlier that the order he placed on my behalf has come in. I want you to pick it up and to pay him.”
Dom had never been picked for anything in his whole life. No one had ever wanted him on their team and no one had ever placed their trust in him the way Merrick was now. He was honored, proud, and would do anything to not let Merrick down.
“That cop who came here might be a problem,” Merrick went on. “We may have to deal with him, but we’ll leave that for another night. In any case, I want this place cleaned from top to bottom. If the police come, I want them to see nothing out of the ordinary.”
Now that everyone had their marching orders, they dispersed. Merrick handed Dom an evelope stuffed with cash, and Dom slipped it into the pocket of his hoodie. The other team - Joe and Matt - left, while the remaining vampires began tidying up.
A fleet of vehicles waited in the parking lot behind Club Vlad. Dom and Jessie took a black pedo van with no back windows. They drove in silence, the radio off. Dom did not want to hear music, nor did he wish to speak to Jessie. Their kinship was one of blood and circumstance, not one of words and emotions. He had no questions for her and wished to answer none of his own. The only thoughts he had were of the mission ahead and of the growing pain in his skull. He thought of the staring stupid Matt, of the decayed Max, and a shiver went down his spine.
What was left of his humanity recoiled at the idea of becoming like them.
The pain grew hotter, more intense. He forced it away and focused on driving.
The funeral home was on North Allen Street, next to a restaurant called Pepperjack’s. A tall, white house with dark shutters and a sign out front, it looked like a quiet, peaceful place. “Pull around back,” Jessie said.
Dom pulled the van around back and parked under a balcony, killing the headlights. They got out and went to the back door, Jessie in the lead. He assumed that she had done this before and that the seller would recognize her. She knocked, and a few moments later, the door opened. A youngish man with a shaved head appeared, wearing an apron and gloves. He saw them and tensed a little. Dom could smell, rather than sense, his fear, and his throat panged with thirst. “Come on,” the man said quickly. He stepped aside and allowed them to enter. Dom noticed that he walked behind them, wary of putting his back to them. “Do you have the money?”
“Do you have our order?” Jessie countered.
“Yes,” the man said, “I’m really risking my neck for this. They don’t just give embalming fluid away, you know. They keep track of it and if they realize I’m over ordering, someone from the state’s going to come down here and check.”
He led them into an embalming room. Three boxes sat on a table. Dom gave the man his money, and he and Jessie carried the boxes outside, loading them into the van. The whole time they were there, the man was edgy, like he was afraid they were going to attack him. Dom would be a liar if he said that the hot smell of the man’s blood didn’t excite him. Perhaps once his brain rotted away, he wouldn’t be able to control himself, but for now, he could.
A lightning bolt of pain shot through his head and he nearly dropped the last box onto the ground.
Once the man was paid, Dom and Jessie drove back to Club Vlad. In fifteen minutes, they were drinking side by side from two passed out partygoers, their reward for a job well done.
Meanwhile, across the city, Joe and Matt weren’t doing as well. They were standing outside of Heather’s apartment. Joe, slightly annoyed (anger being another emotion vampires could feel, along with fear) pounded on the door. He knew she was in there; he could smell the putrid odor of decay. “Let us in,” he said. “We won’t hurt you.”
Joe could barely remember changing her. He didn’t mean to, it just…happened. Like an unwanted pregnancy. You can bite someone as much as you want and drink as much as you want, but if you take too much at once and they die, you get the vampire equivalent of a baby. Joe liked the hunt. It was exciting. Having his meals brought to him Club Vlad didn’t arouse the same level of excitement. It was like shooting an animal tied to a tree. Or hiring a prostitute instead of wooing someone. No real satisfaction to it.
That was probably his greatest downfall. He had lured Jessie the same way, though Merrick was indeed interested in rescuing her from her grandmother. People you have saved obey just as well as people with no brains.
He felt fluid on his upper lip and sniffed. “Come on, let us in,” he said.
No response.
He looked at Matt and nodded to the door. Together, they rammed their shoulders against it. It shook in its frame. They were both dead and weak, but modern American architecture is even weaker, and the door eventually slammed open. The apartment beyond was dark, messy, and reeked of death. They searched high and low, and eventually found Heather huddled in a corner, trying to hide. She was naked save for a pair of panties, her body bloated and beginning to turn black. Her skin hung from her frame and her eyes were filled with blood and fear. It was a wonder no one had called the police yet. The smell was overpowering. “We’re here to help,” he said. “You have to come with us.”
She shook her head and trembled. Maybe she remembered that he was the one who did this to her. Maybe her memories had rotted away. Those were usually the first to go. Then your emotions, then your personality. Finally, your capacity for higher reasoning. “I’m sorry I did this to you,” he said. That was a lie. He was not remorseful. Nor was he proud, for that matter. It just happened. Like rain. “But I want to help you. We can fix you.”
No amount of coaxing or conjoling could induce her to move. Joe weighed his options. He doubted anyone would call the cops even if they heard the door coming down - people who lived in places like this rarely called the cops, which helped Joe and his cause immensely. Even so, there was the possibility. Every minute they spent here was a minute that something could go wrong, and Joe had a lot to lose.
So, too, did Merrick.
Giving up, Joe took out his cellphone and called Merrick. “She refuses to come,” he said simply.
The line was quiet for a moment, then Merrick’s voice came back. Cold. Calculating. “Then do what you must.”
That was the go ahead.
Hanging up, Joe looked around the apartment and found a wooden chair in the kitchen. He lifted it over his head and slammed it on the counter, shattering it into a million pieces. He selected the longest, sharpest, and sturdiest looking one. He went back into the room and directed Matt to hold her down. She fought, kicked, and spat, but she was weaker than even they were. They had been embalmed. She hadn’t.
Matt pinned her hands above her head and Joe straddled her. Animal terror filled her eyes and she whipped her head from side to side. Joe lifted the makeshift stake with both hands, and brought it down as hard as he could, driving it deep into her heart. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a high, otherworldly scream ripped from her throat. She bucked, thrashed, and kicked her feet. Her resistance began to ebb away until she was twitching…until she was still.
Heather from OKCupid was dead.
Truly dead.
Joe couldn’t help wondering what it was like.
Pulling the stake out, he tossed it aside and got to his feet, Matt doing likewise. A soul petrifying scream might be cause for even the tightest of lips to start talking. “Let’s go,” he said. And together, he and Matt fled, leaving the poor, dead body of Heather behind.
***
As it turned out, one of Heather’s neighbors did call the cops. At 10;13pm, Vanessa Rodregiez arrived with two patrolmen and found the front door of Apartment 237 knocked down. Guns drawn, they entered, Vanessa at the head. The first thing she noticed was the smell. It jammed itself into her nostrils, shoved its tongue down her throat, and violated her - all without even buying her dinner first.
Vanessa hadn’t been at this as long as her buddy Bruce had, but she knew a dead, rotting body when she smelled one. They searched the premises, and sure enough, they found a vic in the bedroom, lying in the gap between the bed and the wall; it looked like the former had been moved, perhaps in a struggle. Vanessa knelt down to check the vic’s pulse, but stopped.
There was no need.
The vic - who looked like a female but could have been an overweight male - hadn’t had a pulse in a very long time.
Examining the body, Vanessa found a wound in the chest, just above the heart. Black, stinking goo leaked from it, and Vanessa gagged. She fisted her hand to her mouth, retched, and then ran for the kitchen sink. Her partner for the night, Jim Walsh, stared down at the stiff before him, and his face turned a sickly shade of green. He avoided puking because he didn’t nose fuck the wound like Vanessa had, but he wasted no time in getting out there, dry heaving in the hallway where the air was somewhat fresh.
After leaving her lunch in the sink, Vanessa radioed back to headquarters, and before long, the place was crawling with cops. The assistant medical examiner - who had taken over after Ed Harris quit the previous night - knelt over the body and studied it. A solidly built black man with a mustache, his name was Leon and he knew death just as well as his old boss, so when he said the vic had been dead nearly two weeks, Vanessa accepted it.
That begged the question: Who broke in and screamed just now? A relative? The caller clearly heard screaming and peeked out her door to see two males fleeing on foot. Maybe they found the vic and freaked out? Or maybe they were the killers returning to the scene of the crime. After all, the vic had clearly been murdered.
In fact, they found a likely murder weapon. A long sliver of wood soaked in black goo. Blood turns black after a while, but there was something different about this stuff. “What is it?” Vanessa asked Leon.
“I’m not sure,” Leon said and pulled off a pair of Latex gloves he’d donned to examine the vic, “could be blood or…”
“Or what?” Vanessa asked.
“Or something,” Leon said. “Give me a few hours.”
And a few hours it was. Just before 1am, Leon called Vanessa at her desk. “I think you should come down here,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later, Vanessa stood over Leon as he pulled the vic’s chest open with a pair of tweezers. “That’s the heart,” he said, “whoever stabbed her scored a direct hit, but this…this is what concerns me.”
He prodded a furry lump with the tip of his scalpel.
“What is it?” Vanessa asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, “it looks like mold.”
That word - mold - triggered a memory in her brain. “Ed said something about mold last night. He found it in -”
“The Mason boy,” Leon finished.
“Yeah. The one who got up and ran off.”
Leon turned away from Vanessa and looked at the dead woman - for it was a woman. Vanessa got the impression that he didn’t want her to see his expression. “I’ve known Ed ten years. I know something happened last night, but a stiff getting up and walking off? I thought he was confused. Now…I don’t know. That makes two bodies in 24 hours. And get this. The chest wound? It was done post-mortem. I can’t find a cause of death anywhere. Except maybe blood loss but it’s hard to tell at this point. And speaking of blood…”
“What?” Vanessa asked quickly.
“When I opened her stomach up, a whole shit load of blood spilled out. And a lot of it was a lot fresher than she is.”
Vanessa furrowed her brow in confusion. “You mean…?”
“It’s not hers,” Leon said. “I can’t be 100 percent sure until I run tests, but I’d put money on it.”
Vanessa’s head spun with information both new and old. You know that full, heavy feeling you get when a poo is brewing in your guts? That’s kind of what Vanessa was feeling, only in her head instead of her stomach.
Leon was just as mystified by the whole thing as she was and stayed up late to run a few preliminary tests. By sunrise, he had confirmed that the blood inside of Heather’s stomach was not hers. In fact, it had come from at least three different sources. “Is it human?” Vanessa asked over the phone.
“Yes,” Leon said, sounding troubled, “it’s human.”
In the cobalt hour before sunrise, Vanessa sat at her desk and tried to piece this whole thing together. They had:

1. A corpse that (allegedly) woke up and dipped out
2. A dead girl who’d been stabbed in the heart with a piece of wood after somehow ingesting the blood of three different people.
3. Some missing kids
4. Oh, and both bodies - the girl’s and the runaway corpses’ - had the same weird fungus in their heart cavities.

All of this - even the missing kids, Vanessa felt - was related. She just didn’t know how. The only answer that half way fit was that both of those bodies were vampires. Like…what’s a vampire but a dead body that gets up and walks around at night? And how do you kill a vampire? Why, you drive a piece of wood through its heart.
The idea that vampires were real was dumb, but the more she turned it over in her mind, the more she became convinced that it was at least an option. A lot of things people thought were fantastic and made up turned out to be real, so why not vampires too?
Shortly after 8, Bruce came in. He was just sitting down when Vanessa came in and slapped her report on the desk. “Buckle up, bitch,” she said, “things just got weirder.”
He stared up at her with one of those grumpy - but cute -expressions he was so good at putting on. As he read, however, his brow knitted. “Jesus,” he muttered to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a weary sigh.
“I have a theory - kind of,” Vanessa said, “but I don’t want to say it.”
“You might as well,” Bruce said. “It can’t be more kooky than reality these days.”
“Okay,” Vanessa started, “what if - and I’m just thinking out loud here - what if there are vampires in Albany?”
She expected Bruce to give her a dirty look, but he chewed it over, actually taking it seriously. “And those missing boys are victims?” he asked finally.
“Yeah,” Vanessa said. “That girl’s been dead two weeks. Maybe she bit Dominick Mason and he came back for revenge after realizing he was cursed to be a goddamn shit sucking vampire forever.”
Bruce nodded. “Yeah, but who turned her?”
“I don’t know,” Vanessa said, “I don’t know.”
***
Before dawn painted the eastern sky, Merrick Garvis sat in his chamber like a withered king, a mess of IVs hooked into his arms and neck. The vault was silent save for the soft noise of the machines as they filtered out the old embalming fluid and replaced it with new embalming fluid. Embalming fluid always made him spacy, like a drug. The others had gone first, and even now lay near comatose around him like addicts in an opium den.
As far as he knew, Merrick was the oldest vampire in the world, perhaps, even, the oldest vampire to ever live. Though he was not fully honest with Dom, he was not lying when he said that vampires rotted like any other dead thing. Conditions considered, you had a few weeks tops if left untreated. There may be living vampires in remote corners of Egypt or the northern most reaches of Russia, where the climate preserved dead things, but unless you made it to one of those places, you were pretty well fucked.
Merrick was not a proud man, nor was he concerned with saving face - the dead have no need for that. He was being truthful when he said that he feared death. What’s more, he feared being helpless. Deep down, vampires are people, and people don’t exactly have the greatest track record with caring for their infirm. He read once that the first sign of a civilization was a broken leg that had healed, as it showed that someone stayed with and cared for a fellow human long enough for them to get well again. In Merrick’s opinion, that was true…and thus there was no civilization. Merrick was fifty-one when he died in the year 1982. In his lifetime, he had seen The Great Depression, World War II, and a million small acts of cruelty and selfishness in between. He’d seen beggars starving in the streets, abused children shuffled out of sight and out of mind, and disdain for the poor and the weak.
The living were awful, and the living dead were no different. Once their humanity rotted away, they cared only about filling their stomachs. They were like ticks - they would drink until their bellies literally ruptured…and then keep on drinking.
That left him in a precarious position. He was old, his body was weak. He couldn’t stand unassisted and if left to fend for himself, he would decay into a pile of bones within days. He would be cursed to lay in one spot for all eternity, aware and hungry, little more than a ghost tethered to a black and still beating heart.
He refused to let that happen to him. Thus, he had created a family, a clan of vampires loyal to him and to him alone. He did this through acts of simple kindness and understanding…but also through deception. He knew, for instance, how to preserve the brain. He’d figured out how to do it early on - you pickle it. Like a fetus preserved in a jar. He sawed off the top of his own head and filled it with a special solution that kept his brain - and his intelligence - intact. It slowly drained out through the nose and ears in a thin, yellow liquid, but it worked well enough. He couldn’t save everything, however, and had lost vital things in the process, such as most of his human memories, his sense of humor, and some motor functions. He shared this secret with only Joe, and a few others before, because he needed a strong captain. He kept the others in the dark because vampires - like people - are easier to control when they don’t think for themselves.
Right about now, however, Merrick was beginning to regret sharing the formula with even Joe. Joe had brought him nothing but grief. Joe, you see, could think for himself. He could make decisions. He could go behind Merrick’s back. Joe had something called free will, and free will is a worse affliction than vampirism. Free will is messy, free will is dangerous.
Free will could very well turn Merrick into a pile of bones.
That was, of course, if they weren’t discovered first. Joe had made several mistakes lately, not least of which was the turning of Heather. Sitting there in the predawn hour, attended by Tony, his gay bartender and human familiar, Merrick decided to have Joe killed. There are only two ways to kill a vampire: The stake and the flame. The latter seemed somehow appropriate in this case. After Joe, there would be no more captains, only him, one father with absolute power. That was how it had to be. One man, one vision. Democracies didn’t work. That was especially clear today. Everyone was so divided and nothing ever got done. If the humans had one strong leader, they might go in the wrong direction, but at least they would go somewhere. Instead, they stagnated.
Merrick didn’t particularly look forward to killing Joe, but it had to be done. To protect the family. To protect him.
And Merrick would do anything…anything at all…to protect himself.
***
Vampires.
Bruce kept coming back to that single wor, hoping each time that he would chuckle at the absurdity of it.
But he never did.
Did that mean he believed it? Not necessarily, but damn it, he considered it a possibility, and that alone was enough to make him feel like a fucking clown. All the evidence he had pointed to vampires, but then again, it might point to other things as well. Like aliens.
But let’s say the whole vampire thing was real. Who, like Vanessa asked, was patient zero? Who started this whole mess?
A name came to mind.
Merrick Garvis.
He had not had time to check into Garvis the previous day, but by God, he was going to do it now. He ran his name and social through the system and everything seemed to check out. Merrick Garvis was born on June 31, 1963 in -
Wait a minute. Weren’t there only 30 days in June?
Bruce checked, and there were, indeed, only 30 days in the month of June. Hm. Bruce did a little digging and found something out. Before 1987, social security numbers weren’t issued at birth. You had to sign up, using other forms of ID. Merrick Garvis applied for his in April 1984 and the date of birth on his state issued driver’s license was June 31. Bruce spent an hour on the phone with the DMV and learned that they had never issued a license to a Merrick Garvis. He then spoke to the Social Security Administration, and after much wrangling and frustration, he managed to get a photocopy of the license Garvis used to get his social security number. It was dated 1983.
The face staring back at him was almost exactly the same face he’d seen at Club Vlad, except maybe a touch less stiff and waxy. Though not as rough looking, there was no way in hell Garvis was 20 in that picture. It had to be a fake,
Bruce thought back to the events of the previous two days. Missing bodies, staked corpses, hearts that still beat after death.
Vampires didn’t seem like such a crazy explanation.
And if anyone was a fucking vampire around here, it was Merrick Garvis.

This is the first time I have written some chapters. I'm not a native English speaker but I did my best. If someone can give me some pointers or help I would immensely appreciate it! It's a bit of sci-fi, if you are into it let me know. If not, that's cool too.
Thx in advance!
Chapter 1: The farm
Hagr stood at the edge of the farm, his gaze fixed on the vast expanse of Zandarius stretching out before him. The sky above was a canvas of swirling purples and blues, streaked with the faint glow of distant stars. A cool breeze whispered through the air, carrying with it the enticing scent of Heyla flowers.
With a sigh, Hagr set down his mechanic wheelbarrow, the last of his chores for the day completed. He began to make his way back towards the farm, his footsteps crunching softly against the rocky terrain. As he passed through the pink and green garden, the aroma of his mother's porridge drifted towards him, tempting his hunger.
Despite eating the same meal every day, Hagr's stomach grumbled with anticipation. The suuka porridge was all he needed right now, its warm, comforting embrace promising to chase away the chill of the evening.
Arriving at the farm, Hagr took in the familiar sight of their plascrete igloo. Half of the structure was comprised of little octagon windows, through which the warm glow of a fire emanated from the chimney. It was home, humble yet comforting in its simplicity.
Entering the igloo, Hagr found his mother, Altha, bustling about the kitchen, preparing dinner. "Hagr, dear, could you set the table?" she called out, her voice gentle yet firm. Hagr nodded, a small smile playing at his lips as he arranged the mismatched dishes in their usual places. Each plate was different, yet they always ended up in the same spot, a testament to the routines of their daily life.
Once the table was set, Hagr ignited the moonlamp, casting a soft yellow glow across the igloo walls. Altha emerged from the kitchen, carrying a steaming pot of suuka porridge. "Careful, Hagr," she warned, as she placed the pot on the table. "It's hot." Hagr nodded as he heard this many times before, his mouth watering at the sight and smell of the hearty meal before him. They ate in silence, the only sound the clinking of spoons against bowls as they savored each mouthful.
After a moment, Hagr broke the silence, his voice tinged with curiosity. "Do you ever wonder what's beyond Zandarius, Mumu?" he asked. Altha hesitated, her expression guarded. "I don't know, Hagr," she replied softly. "But we have everything we need right here on the farm." Though disappointed by her response, Hagr nodded in understanding. Perhaps someday they would have the chance to explore together. Altha caught his eye and winked, a small glimmer of hope in her gaze.
As they finished their meal, Hagr and Altha moved to the small kitchen area to wash the dishes. The kitchen was cluttered yet cozy, with shelves overflowing with pots, pans, and utensils. Beyond the kitchen, the interior of the igloo was a snug retreat from the harshness of the outside world. A small cupboard, crafted from Zandarius rare Bennam wood, stood in one corner, its doors closed tight to conceal its overflowing contents. Nearby, a plush couch with pillows offered a comfortable spot to relax after a long day's work. Opposite the couch, a large hammock hung from the ceiling. Above it, a smaller hammock swayed gently in the breeze, providing a cozy nest for Hagr during the night. Every inch of space was utilized to its fullest, creating a sense of warmth and intimacy within the cramped confines of the igloo.
As the hour grew late, Altha reminded Hagr of their upcoming journey to Kihar. With a yawn, Hagr climbed into his hammock, gazing up at the stars through the little octagon windows above. "Goodnight, Hagr," Altha whispered, her voice soft in the quiet of the night. "Goodnight, Mumu," Hagr replied, his eyes closing as sleep overtook him. And with that, he drifted off, thoughts of tomorrow's journey fading into the comforting embrace of dreams.
Chapter 2: The trip
Hagr awoke to the gentle light filtering through the little octagon windows of their igloo. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he glanced around and noticed that his mother's hammock was empty. Mu-mu?" he called out, but there was no response.
Curiosity piqued, Hagr peered outside and spotted his mother tending to the kikkamoos, their pig-like creatures with reptilian legs and Fluffy tails. With a swift motion, he leaped out of bed, his movements practiced from years of experience. After quickly dressing himself, he hurried outside, calling out to his mother. "Altha!" he yelled, using her full name in his urgency. His mother turned towards him with a warm smile. "Haggie!" she called back, using his pet name.
Hagr wasted no time and dashed off to fetch Tsjoopa, their trusty mechanical unicycle cart already loaded with goods for trade. As he returned with the cart, he found his mother waiting back at the farm. "Ready to go, Hagr?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. "Absolutely!" Hagr exclaimed, brimming with energy. And so, they set off on their journey to Kihar, the nearest town for trading.
The road ahead seemed endless, traversing through vast and barren plains broken only by occasional patches of vegetation. Sparse woods flanked the roadside, offering concealment but little wildlife, a testament to Zandarius' unforgiving environment.
After a few hours of travel, they finally reached a landmark known as the Sharp Knives, a crossroad marked by sharp rocks jutting out of the ground. "We’re here, the Sharp Knives," Altha remarked, her gaze sweeping over the rugged terrain. "We're halfway there, Hagr." Hagr nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Already? Time flies when you're in good company." A mischievous glint sparkled in Altha's eyes as she reached into the cart. "Speaking of good company, I brought something special for our halfway mark." Hagr's interest was piqued. "What is it?" With a dramatic flourish, Altha revealed a small container of sosuuka, a sweeter version of yesterday's porridge. "Sosuuka!" Hagr exclaimed, trying to sound enthusiastic despite his familiarity with the dish. Altha chuckled at his feigned excitement. "I thought it might be a nice treat for our journey." Hagr grinned, playing along. "Absolutely! Thanks, best mumu on Zandarius." Lost in thought, Altha gazed into the distance, her attention drawn to the gathering ominous clouds on the horizon, a harbinger of stormy weather to come. "We might have some rough weather ahead," Altha remarked, her voice tinged with concern. Hagr glanced up at the darkening sky. "Should we stop and wait it out?" Altha shook her head. "We need to keep moving. We can't afford to delay our journey." Guess we'll have to save the view for another time," Hagr sighed, reluctantly agreeing with Altha's decision, while she nodded in understanding. "But, after all," Hagr declared, puffing out his chest with a hint of pride, "at ten years old, I'm practically a grown man! I can handle anything, even eating sosuuka on the way without spilling a drop." Altha burst into laughter at his boast. "Sosuuka without spilling? I'd sooner believe kikkamoos could fly!" Hagr joined in her laughter, the sound echoing across the desolate landscape as they continued on their journey to Kihar.
Chapter 3: Arrival in Kihar
As Hagr and Altha approached Kihar, the plascrete town sprawled out before them, its streets winding like intricate mazes through the heart of the city. In stark contrast to the barren landscape of Zandarius, Kihar was a vibrant tapestry of life, with lush vegetation adorning every corner. Hagr’s eyes roamed over the cityscape, taking in the sight of the bustling alleys and the constant mist of smoke that hung in the air. Despite having visited many times before, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe at the bustling energy of the tradetown.
As they ventured deeper into the heart of the city, the tantalizing aroma of food mingled with the sounds of chatter and laughter, tempting Hagr's senses and reminding him of the porridge-filled days back on their farm. Finally, they reached the local market, a bustling hub of activity where traders hawked their wares amidst the thick scent of spices and exotic foods. "First stop, Old Taramor's," Altha announced, her voice carrying above the din of the market. Hagr's thoughts drifted to Taramor, the old, grumpy trader who had been a fixture in Kihar for as long as he could remember. Despite his rough exterior, Taramor was one of the few honest traders left in the city, and Hagr had always respected him for it. "Sounds good to me," Hagr replied, his tone positive.
As they approached Old Taramor’s, Altha hopped off the Tsjoopa and turned to Hagr. "Hagr, could you fetch a crate of Heyla bottles from the back of the cart?" she asked. Hagr nodded silently, already moving to comply.
Entering the shop, they found Taramor snoozing behind his counter, the cluttered shelves and dusty displays a testament to his lack of care for his surroundings. Altha hesitated, reluctant to disturb the old trader, but time was of the essence. "Taramor," she whispered, her voice barely audible. No response. Again a bit louder this time “Taramor”. Still no response. Growing impatient, Hagr couldn't help but raise his voice. "Taramor!" Startled awake, Taramor shot upright, his eyes wide with surprise. "What the hell's going on?" he grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Oh, it's just you two," he muttered, recognizing Altha and Hagr. Altha gestured to Hagr to take a look around while she spoke with Taramor. Hagr nodded and wandered through the cluttered shelves, his curiosity piqued by the assortment of strange and exotic items on display. In the background, a television played the news, the volume turned low but still audible. A news reporter's voice cut through the air, reporting on the recent assassination of a high-ranking official. The military had already neutralized one suspect, but two others were still at large. The camera footage showed two figures cloaked in dark red and black, their faces obscured. Zooming in on one of the suspects, the reporter noted a tattoo of a three-headed monster on their neck, linking them to the notorious syndicate known as the Three-Headed Beast. "People are urged to remain vigilant," the reporter concluded, "and to report any sightings of the suspects to the authorities." "Hagr," Altha called out, pulling him from his thoughts. Quickly, he set down a strange-looking coffee maker he had been inspecting and hurried over to join them.
Outside, Hagr turned to his mother, concern etched on his face. "How did the trade go?" Altha hesitated before answering, her tone guarded. "It wasn't as successful as we had hoped, but we'll manage." Trying to sound confident, Hagr responded, "No need to worry, Mumu. We'll make it work."
As they made their way back through the bustling market, Hagr glanced at his mother. " Can we get some Uja skewers now?" Altha smiled warmly. "Absolutely, Hagr. Let’s grab some delicious Uja," she said, turning on their trusty, albeit rusty, Tsjoopa.
Chapter 4: Best place is home
As Altha and Hagr made their way home in the fading light, a bird soared above them, its silhouette dark against the dusky sky. They were nearing their farmstead, the exhausting trip almost at an end. Hagr turned to Altha, his curiosity piqued. “What is coffee?” he asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word. Altha pondered for a moment before responding, “I’ve heard of it. It’s some sort of black drink. Similar to Puggatree juice, they say, it gives you energy.” Hagr wrinkled his nose in distaste. He had never been fond of Puggatree juice, finding its thick texture and slimy consistency unappealing. With a shake of his head, he decided he didn’t want to try coffee after all.
As they chatted, unaware of the figure watching them from afar, the landscape growing darker with each passing moment, they finally arrived at the farm.
Altha unloaded the traded goods from the Tsjoopa, and with a nod to Hagr, she motioned for him to stow it away in the barn. Hagr complied, placing the Tsjoopa in the barn, where sturdy plascrete walls and reinforced wooden beams protected it from the harsh winds. With the task done, he made his way back to the igloo. As he approached, he noticed that the interior was unusually dark, the comforting glow of the moonlamp absent. With a sense of unease gnawing at him, he entered cautiously.
To his horror, he found himself face to face with a cloaked figure in dark black and red, his alien eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. Before he could react, he spotted his mother on the floor, tears streaming down her face, with another figure standing over her, a scarred human face, and a sinister three-headed beast tattoo on his neck. “Mumu!” Hagr screamed in terror. The figure with glowing eyes uttered incomprehensible words, while the scarred man cursed, "We can't leave any witnesses, Deskva.” Altha whispered urgently, "Hagr, stay calm. Everything will be fine." Hagr looked at his mother in disbelief, his heart pounding in his chest. "What's going to happen?" his voice trembled with fear. The scarred human scoffed, "We can sell the boy on the black market, but the woman? She's too old to bother selling. Not worth the hassle, Des." With brute force, Deskva grabbed Hagr, who fought against his captor with all his might. "Please, let me go!" Hagr pleaded, his voice desperate as he struggled against Deskva's grip. As Hagr cast a desperate glance at his mother, tears welling in his eyes, the scarred man turned his attention to Altha, deeming her of no value. Without hesitation, he drew his pistol, aimed, and fired, the shot piercing through Altha’s skull with a sickening thud echoing through the silent igloo. Hagr’s world shattered as he watched his mother fall, tears blurring his vision, bile rising in his throat. Before he could comprehend what was happening, a brutal blow to his head sent him spiraling into darkness.

Chapter 4: Fires of Damnation
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[Previous] <<First>> [Next]
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June 1, 2030, Tokyo, Japan - 1:00 am JST- 2 and a half hours post-invasion
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Aquila Generalis scoured the ruined metropolis. She held a torch in her upper left hand and a gargantuan gladius in her upper right. She had large nets filled with writhing Japanese civilians in her lower left and right appendages. The civilians screamed and squirmed like fish in netting. Some humans were cradling streaming infants and crying children. Others cradled their spouses, elderly parents, or anyone nearby. Most just panicked. A few rational humans used small knives or their teeth to sever the netting, much to the amusement of an onlooking dragon. Movement from an apartment complex caught the attention of a tremendous soldier. The soldier stuck his hand into the ruined apartment complex while the rest stopped and stared at him.
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"What are you doing?" Asked another soldier. She raised an eyebrow and gave her fellow soldier a puzzled look.
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The giant stretched his right arm, straining himself. He pressed his left arm against the building to maintain balance.
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"Need some help?" The amused dragon sneered.
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The giant hissed in excretion and annoyance. He stretched his fingers, a determined fervor taking over him. He pushed a desk over, revealing a cowering human. The giant grabbed the human by its legs and dragged the Man toward his eye.
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"Got him." The soldier hissed.
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Some of the giants began crowding around the building. Most gathered to steal their compatriot's meal, while a few scoured the facility for more humans. The soldier's single eye widened with glee. He licked his lips with anticipation; the sight of fresh meat entranced him in a state of euphoria. A small gust of wind blew towards him as he dragged the screaming human towards his eye. The giants opened their maws in anticipation, a toothy grin plastered on their faces. The human revealed a small device, and the gigantic glutton paid no mind. The monster feasted on many humans when he entered the metropolis. He had never seen such a colossal city nor so many humans packed into one place. This human would be one of his many victims. When the human was before the titan, he sprayed a mysterious substance into the titan's eye. The giant released the human and covered his single elephantine eye. He wailed in pain and stumbled backward, knocking his comrades over. The Mammoth of a Monster cried like a newborn infant while his comrades groaned in pain.
Aquila Generalis glowered at her pathetic legion while the dragon erupted in laughter. Others stopped searching the building to see what the commotion was about. Upon seeing their fellow giant reduced to a weeping wimp, they laughed.
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"I'm blind. I'm Blind! I'M BLII-I-I-IND!" The giant wailed.
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"I CAN'T SEE. I. CAN'T. SEE-EE!!!" he whipped his eye furiously, Wailing all the while.
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Aquila Generalis put the nets down. She marched toward the foolish giant, pulled him to his feet, and glared at her soldiers. They quickly stopped laughing. The dragon, on the other hand, was hooting and hollering.
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"I'M bLiNd. I cAn'T sEe. Oh, HeLp MeE!" the dragon jeered.
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The general ignored him for the sake of her health. She shook the crying Cyclops, then slapped him.
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"What is wrong with you, soldier?"
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The cyclops sobbed quietly. "The h-human sp-sprayed me with s-something." He said between sniffles.
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The general clutched the bridge of her nose. I do not have time for this. As the general berated the legionnaire, Strange beasts dotted the night sky.
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—-----
Japan Air and Space Self-Defense Force (JASSDF)
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"I have a visual on the targets. Be advised targets have hostages. Do not fire unless you have a clear shot."
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The dragon looked up while the commander chastised her soldier. Upon laying eyes on the strange flying contraptions, the dragon narrowed his eyes.
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"Aquila"
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"Aquila!"
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"Not now, dragon!" The general continued berating the Cyclops.
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"Look up, stupid giant."
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"Not now, you serpentine-"
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The dragon was blown to pieces. His scales, limbs, teeth, and other body parts were scattered on the roof he once stood on. Chaos ensued as the squadron of Mitsubishi F-2 fighters lit up the sky. Before General Aquila could react, A missile hit her head, detonating. Brain matter and skull fragments decorated the buildings, creating a collage of carnage. Most of the legion tried to bring out their slings, only for their bones and organs to paint the metropolis. The few remaining legionnaires fled, leaving their human hostages. Dragons from nearby, alerted by the explosions, came to investigate. A barrage of missiles shot down the dragons that flew toward the squadron. Blood, bone, and flesh rained down on the streets of northern Tokyo.
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—-----
“Clear. Send evac for civvies.”
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***
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June 1, 2030, Tokyo, Japan - 2:00 am JST- 3 and a half hours post-invasion
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North Gate- a park in northern Tokyo
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The invasion was successful. Thousands of humans fell before the trollish legion of Luath and the elven legion of Grásta; hundreds more huddled in cages, ready to be processed into food or slaves. The trolls fought in ritualistic combat for their human trophies. At the same time, the elves watched, knowing they would be given most of the quarry due to their inherent superiority. The lesser fae were presented their trophies early: the elderly, infirm, and those too young to be used. With nothing better to do, most of the lesser fae reentered the gate while a select few remained. Ginearálta de Grásta, General of the Grásta legion, speaks with one of his soldiers.
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"This is quite the nest."
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"Agreed, Sir. It is almost…." The soldier marveled at the large city, its towering structures piercing the heavens. "Impressive," the soldier sighed.
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"Uncanny? Yes. Impressive? No. These are intelligent animals capable of fabricating wonders, but animals nonetheless. They mimic our customs, art, and concepts but lack the capacity to create true marvels. True marvels are the domain of those who wield the arcane, for it is the arcane that elevates us to the realm of sapience. Only those capable of wielding the arcane can be called sapient and only sapients can build something impressive. Everything Man creates is a caricature of our achievements; remember that."
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"Of course, sir." the soldier said hesitantly.
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"You are a fine soldier; what is your title?"
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"Saighdiúir giolcach, sir." the soldier hastily replied.
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"I've seen you around, and you show great potential. Your loyalty to Tír na Nog and the elven race cannot be ignored. Follow me."
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Saighdiúir Giolcach, The soldier of reeds, obeyed his general's command. The soldier caught glimpses of the dueling trolls from the corner of his eyes as he passed by. Ginearálta de Grásta and Saighdiúir Giolcach passed by some trees and bushes until they reached a clearing full of human cages. Ginearálta de Grásta stepped directly in front of a cage and knelt to get a closer look at the captives. Saighdiúir Giolcach slowed down and stopped a few feet from his commander.
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"Come closer, soldier."
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The soldier hesitantly stepped closer and looked inside the cages. Humans were tightly packed inside, shoulder to shoulder, shaking and quietly sobbing. Their clothing was torn and filthy, and their faces were stained with dust and tears. They inched away from the general, squishing each other in the process. The site disgusted him, but he maintained his composure.
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"Have you ever seen a human before?" the general asked inquisitively.
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"No, sir. My father showed me pictures and told stories, but that's it. My family doesn't have enough money to own half-bloods, let alone pure humans." the soldier replied.
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"Well, boy, today is your lucky day. Pick one." The general commanded.
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Saighdiúir Giolcach gazed upon the mass of frightened humans. "Humans are master mimics; they cannot wield the arcane. They're just beasts," he repeated to himself as he stared into the cage in front of him.
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He stared at a frightened Japanese woman, an adolescent just like him. They're supposed to be animals, but their eyes ... their eyes. Anguish, anxiety, grief, sadness, and so many emotions swirled within those expressive eyes. The outside commotion faded as the soldier drowned in her eyes. As his breathing and heart rate accelerated, he began questioning everything he learned about humanity and the definition of sapience. This isn't right; nothing is right. The soldier of reeds remembered his father's stories of glorious manhunts and successful raids. He remembered his mother's proverbs on magic and how it separated them from their pets and livestock. The elves are the superior race, far superior to humans. Humans are pets, livestock, slaves, and —NO! He took three steps back. He was wrong, his family was wrong, everyone was wrong. This is ₩ⱤØ₦₲. I won't condone this.
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"C̸̵̨̨̳͕̙̤̥̞͕͇̦͙̟̲ͭ̋͑ͥͮ̌ͬͬ́̃ͦ̾͆͢͡ē̸̸͇͇̣͓̣̖̲̘̋ͮ̓ͭ̀͑̏̓͗_̙̰͓̲̠̪̮͔̔̎͌ͪ͐̈́̆͘a̢͖̱̱̙̲̩̠̯͔̙̖͚ͤ̈́̇̋ͯͬ͆ͥ̆ͮń̴̡͍̘̠͍̩̺͖̟̲̉ͫ̀ͤͧ̆̈̅͆̂̐̒̋͊̒̋͟͢͟͞͞ͅn̸̛̘̫̯̘̝̱̬͉̝̲͈̿ͪ́́̽ͦ̈ͯ̄͒̈̅̍̚ d͖̣̬͈͚ḭ̛̘͚͕̱́́ͧͭ̓̐̍̽͞ͅl̚į̸̧̹̖͎̻͓ͮ̐̒ͮ̋̂̀ͯ̎̉͐ͦ̑ͦͩͤ͘͟͡s͇̿̃ d͉̬̂ͦ͗è̷̷̻͓̭͎̣̠̱̞̮̦ͤ̈́̓͑̍̒̈̏ͭͯ̕͘͘͜ Ģ̢̙̼̩̮̪̤̮͚̭͖͖̥͍͈̳̲̠͒̉̂ͥ̔ͨ́ͧ́ͬͤ́ͩ̍ͫ̃͌ͯͤ̕͟͢͝ī̷̡̢̨̧̦̩̩̙͕̦͖̞̠̘̬̰͕ͣͧ̑̾̚͢͠ͅ_̛̀̀̉́ͬ͝o̴̘̭͈̜͍͕͉̤̜̘͖͍̠̎͑́ͫ̍̎̔̏ͮ͂ͩ́͘͟l̸̴̵̵̛̫͎͍͔̜̘͉̭̭̳̻̮̖̉͐̆ͫ̇͑ͧ̿̄͑̍ͦ́̅̅ͯ̀̈ͫ̓̊̍̆̃ć̸̴̵̻̪̻̘̮͎̟̫͚͉̗̳̞̦̒ͪ̇̏̄̈́ͤ͗͘͢͝ͅaͮ̒c̡̡͉̮̟̤̭̻̥̩̗̭͔̺̎̀̀̊̃ͬ̀͆͋̆ͣ̐̄́͛͒̏ͩ̾͆̾ͯ̚͟͡ͅͅh͎̞͓̳̞͙̼̱͇͓͂ͨͧ̂ͩͣ̈́̈͗̿̓̆͂́̈́͗ͯ̆ͩ̕͝͞ͅͅ, you faithless fool." The general growled. Arcane power filled his lungs.
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The general stood up, turned around, and scowled at the boy. At the invocation of his true name, the soldier froze. The general's magic seeped into his body, causing a sharp, burning pain to envelop him.
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Despite the agony, C̸̵̨̨̳͕̙̤̥̞͕͇̦͙̟̲ͭ̋͑ͥͮ̌ͬͬ́̃ͦ̾͆͢͡ē̸̸͇͇̣͓̣̖̲̘̋ͮ̓ͭ̀͑̏̓͗_̙̰͓̲̠̪̮͔̔̎͌ͪ͐̈́̆͘a̢͖̱̱̙̲̩̠̯͔̙̖͚ͤ̈́̇̋ͯͬ͆ͥ̆ͮń̴̡͍̘̠͍̩̺͖̟̲̉ͫ̀ͤͧ̆̈̅͆̂̐̒̋͊̒̋͟͢͟͞͞ͅn̸̛̘̫̯̘̝̱̬͉̝̲͈̿ͪ́́̽ͦ̈ͯ̄͒̈̅̍̚ d͖̣̬͈͚ḭ̛̘͚͕̱́́ͧͭ̓̐̍̽͞ͅl̚į̸̧̹̖͎̻͓ͮ̐̒ͮ̋̂̀ͯ̎̉͐ͦ̑ͦͩͤ͘͟͡s͇̿̃ d͉̬̂ͦ͗è̷̷̻͓̭͎̣̠̱̞̮̦ͤ̈́̓͑̍̒̈̏ͭͯ̕͘͘͜ Ģ̢̙̼̩̮̪̤̮͚̭͖͖̥͍͈̳̲̠͒̉̂ͥ̔ͨ́ͧ́ͬͤ́ͩ̍ͫ̃͌ͯͤ̕͟͢͝ī̷̡̢̨̧̦̩̩̙͕̦͖̞̠̘̬̰͕ͣͧ̑̾̚͢͠ͅ_̛̀̀̉́ͬ͝o̴̘̭͈̜͍͕͉̤̜̘͖͍̠̎͑́ͫ̍̎̔̏ͮ͂ͩ́͘͟l̸̴̵̵̛̫͎͍͔̜̘͉̭̭̳̻̮̖̉͐̆ͫ̇͑ͧ̿̄͑̍ͦ́̅̅ͯ̀̈ͫ̓̊̍̆̃ć̸̴̵̻̪̻̘̮͎̟̫͚͉̗̳̞̦̒ͪ̇̏̄̈́ͤ͗͘͢͝ͅaͮ̒c̡̡͉̮̟̤̭̻̥̩̗̭͔̺̎̀̀̊̃ͬ̀͆͋̆ͣ̐̄́͛͒̏ͩ̾͆̾ͯ̚͟͡ͅͅh͎̞͓̳̞͙̼̱͇͓͂ͨͧ̂ͩͣ̈́̈͗̿̓̆͂́̈́͗ͯ̆ͩ̕͝͞ͅͅ spoke.
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"This-Ack ₩ⱤØ₦₲, you-ack, every-ack..." He sputtered as blue blood leaked from his mouth, nose, ears, and eyes. Tears tried to crawl from his pale yellow eyes, but he held them back. He could feel his skin turn to bark, lungs to heartwood, hair to leaves, and eyes to flowers.
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"F̴̭̤̘̣̖̏̈͒̄ͫ̿͘͢a̢̰̳̦̺͓̥̗͉̦̻̖͇̯̹̺̓͆͗̀ͪ͌̈́ͧͯͧ͆̃̌̒̕͘͢͢͠͞͡i̛̩̙͕͌̉͂̇̃_̪̳̺͕̮͕̽͑t̸̶̿_̲͉͆h̶̷͚̣̠̥̪̳̲̝̳̱̟̫̯͍̝̩̱̱̦͎͇̳̯͇̱̜ͧ̃ͩ̐ͤ͆̏̈́̈ͪͪ͛ͧ͌̓̌͢͞f̷̘ͬ_̳̅ȕ̸̷̴̢̱͉̩̯̲̹̝̙͙̈ͣͨ̆͋͗̓͋̿͊̔͛̋̍̕͢ͅl̉̎͝͡ ǫ̧̺̲͍̯͖͙̥̦̦̮̇̑̈͆ͨ̈́̅̉̈ͯͥ́͌̃ͭ͘͜n̨̧̰̜̭̪͎ͥ̽ͪ̅̑ͦ͒͌̆ͮ̋͐͟͠e_̧̞͖͓̺͓̦̝̞̾͆̆͆̎̈ͬ̈́̑͗ͨ͟͠ͅ ǫ̷̴͎̙̥̝̝́̊ͫ̒͑͑ͨͥͨ̌̑͆̉͟͟f̲̗̜̤̪͉̪̮̘͙ͪͪͫͤ̄̂̌̐͑̽̉ͅ t̛̖̝̻͓̏͋̀̊̒͘͡͞h͔̜͕͖̼͋ͤ̇_̠̾e̡̳͉̟ͪ̍ͬ̊͡ r̷̨̛̛̘̦͓̭̙ͣ͑̍ͬ̈́̋̄ͮ̓ͦ͑͗͑̎̓͗͘͜͜ế̴̴̝̲̗͖̦̫̭͔͈̺̘̖̲̜̱͍͈̓͆͒̉̒ͫ̇̋̑ͧͮ̕͘͢͜͞͞͞ed̶̛̛̟̘̖̻̎̓ͯͨ̓͌̇͐̍̍͗̄̚̚͟ͅs̛͔̞̮̩̫̭̠̞̼̗̼ͮ̅̈̅ͯͧ̂̋̉̊̏͢͜,̨̡̠̰̰̇ͪ͊͂̏̈́ͮ̌̈ͪ̌̆̎͒͝ ẙ̵̷̡̡̛̛̬̺͈͎̭̟̲̻̲̥̩̗͉̔͋̑̏͐́ͥ͆̈̋ͪ͜͢͡ͅo̷̡̻̝̜̹̳͓͖̞ͯ̾͒̀́̇̍͂ͦ͘͘̚͟͢u̸̸̸̟͚̮͙͉̳̗̥̮̜̞͈͚͈̜̩̠̘̇̊ͥ͗ͣ̋̄͗̈́ͭ͆̾̈̃ͣ̔͆͑̑͐̽͟͢͝ ą̡̝̰͙̰̖͉͕̂ͨͬ̑͛́̂ͨ̋̏̾ͦ̑͠ŗ̴̠̭̦̺̖͍̘̖̦̗̞͕̦͉ͯ̂͐ͥͦ̀̒̀͊̄͌ͧ͊̄̾̍́̎̏ͩ̏ͮ͘̕͟ͅę̶̡̢͍̬͎̗̹̖̟̦͇̼̼͎͉̗̜̔̎́́̀ͪ͛ͪ͒̌͋͗̉̄̾͊̒̿̈ͪ̔͑̕̕͠͞ ń̵̢̨̧̹̲̮̮̝̣̩͙͚̠̥̻́̾ͤ́̀́̌̅̋͛̅̎ͩ̅̆͑ͧ͜͢͠͝͡_̡ͯ̎̎͑ͫ͛ơ̷̵̧̡͙͖͙̤͓͓̗̼͕͈̬̱̰̺̖ͣͩ͐͆͋̏̇́ͩ̈͐͗ͤ̾̎͗ͫ̑ͯͮ͂̉̃͘͜͠ f̟̞̥͇ͯ͛̄͆ͬ͒̊́á̯̬̄ͫ͝_̵̼̦̥͖͎͈̝̠̬̹̤̦̰̰͕͔̞̊̃͌ͦ̔̎̓̋ͯ̀ͫ͂͞͡ͅě̡̛̬̜̥̩͓͚̫̳̭̖͔̒̍͛ͨ̾̏̃̚͢͟͠.̵̡̟̲̗̤͙̺̌̍͐ͨ̌͂ͣ͂ͥ͋̑̾ͪ̈́̇ͣ͂͆̃͞"

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BANG.

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​
Ceann dílis fell to the ground, gasping for air and too weak to stand. Japanese soldiers, carrying strange sticks, came seemingly from nowhere. Most Japanese soldiers rushed to break open the cages. Some stood over the dead general and the child soldier, who openly wept, paralyzed, and petrified.
​
"Sir, we have a child in desperate need of medical aid." A Japanese soldier spoke through a strange object.
​
The boy sobbed loudly.
​
—-----
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"It wasn't supposed to be like this." Ginearálta de Luath, general of the Luath legion, whispered.
The humans had unleashed something, which wiped out the Grásta legion in seconds by filling the soldiers with metal stones. The stones were so fast, he couldn't stop them. They tore through the elves with ease and left marks on his skin. He used his magic to find the killers, but before he could retaliate, what could only be described as metal beasts launched fire blasts at him, exterminating most of his legion. Now, all he could do was run and hide. He climbed over the crumbling remains of his troll brothers and past the lesser fae, who chose to surrender. He was the only one alive to make it through the northern gate. The humans of this world can do magic. Somehow, in 200 years, they acquired arcane power. He didn't know how it happened, but what he did know was that Man was no longer prey. The humans of this world would bring perdition to Tír na Nog.
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{A/N: Hey guys, I did not die and this series was not canceled. These last two college semesters kicked my ass and burnt the heck out of me. It took me a while, but here it is chapter 4. I want to post as many chapters as possible before the next college semester starts. If you have any feedback or questions, I will happily respond.}
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Aquila Generalis pronounced (Ah-KWEE-lah jen-eh-RAH-lis)
Luath pronounced (LOO-ah)
Ginearálta de Luath pronounced (Jin-ah-RAWL-tah deh LOO-ah)
Grásta pronounced (GRAH-stah)
Ginearálta de Grásta pronounced (Jin-ah-RAWL-tah deh GRAH-stah)
Saighdiúir Giolcach pronounced (SAH-ee-joo-ir gee-ul-kahkh)
Ceann dílis pronounced (Kyann DEE-lish)
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C̸̵̨̨̳͕̙̤̥̞͕͇̦͙̟̲ͭ̋͑ͥͮ̌ͬͬ́̃ͦ̾͆͢͡ē̸̸͇͇̣͓̣̖̲̘̋ͮ̓ͭ̀͑̏̓͗_̙̰͓̲̠̪̮͔̔̎͌ͪ͐̈́̆͘a̢͖̱̱̙̲̩̠̯͔̙̖͚ͤ̈́̇̋ͯͬ͆ͥ̆ͮń̴̡͍̘̠͍̩̺͖̟̲̉ͫ̀ͤͧ̆̈̅͆̂̐̒̋͊̒̋͟͢͟͞͞ͅn̸̛̘̫̯̘̝̱̬͉̝̲͈̿ͪ́́̽ͦ̈ͯ̄͒̈̅̍̚ d͖̣̬͈͚ḭ̛̘͚͕̱́́ͧͭ̓̐̍̽͞ͅl̚į̸̧̹̖͎̻͓ͮ̐̒ͮ̋̂̀ͯ̎̉͐ͦ̑ͦͩͤ͘͟͡s͇̿̃ d͉̬̂ͦ͗è̷̷̻͓̭͎̣̠̱̞̮̦ͤ̈́̓͑̍̒̈̏ͭͯ̕͘͘͜ Ģ̢̙̼̩̮̪̤̮͚̭͖͖̥͍͈̳̲̠͒̉̂ͥ̔ͨ́ͧ́ͬͤ́ͩ̍ͫ̃͌ͯͤ̕͟͢͝ī̷̡̢̨̧̦̩̩̙͕̦͖̞̠̘̬̰͕ͣͧ̑̾̚͢͠ͅ_̛̀̀̉́ͬ͝o̴̘̭͈̜͍͕͉̤̜̘͖͍̠̎͑́ͫ̍̎̔̏ͮ͂ͩ́͘͟l̸̴̵̵̛̫͎͍͔̜̘͉̭̭̳̻̮̖̉͐̆ͫ̇͑ͧ̿̄͑̍ͦ́̅̅ͯ̀̈ͫ̓̊̍̆̃ć̸̴̵̻̪̻̘̮͎̟̫͚͉̗̳̞̦̒ͪ̇̏̄̈́ͤ͗͘͢͝ͅaͮ̒c̡̡͉̮̟̤̭̻̥̩̗̭͔̺̎̀̀̊̃ͬ̀͆͋̆ͣ̐̄́͛͒̏ͩ̾͆̾ͯ̚͟͡ͅͅh͎̞͓̳̞͙̼̱͇͓͂ͨͧ̂ͩͣ̈́̈͗̿̓̆͂́̈́͗ͯ̆ͩ̕͝͞ͅͅ pronounced (Kyann DEE-lish deh gee-ul-kahkh)
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How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

How I Wonder What You Are by Al Bruno III

I’ll know the time is right when the howling begins. It will be after sundown of course, the Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen only scream after sundown, and only on the clearest of nights.
There is no town of Jebsen listed on any map, even in its heyday of the 1940’s it was too small to be worthy of notice. It’s nothing more than a collection of buildings at the end of a dead end road. On one side it is bordered by long untended corn fields, on the other the swampy remains of Lake Campbell. The most noticeable of the town’s buildings is a red brick edifice with a wide domed roof of fractured glass. The rest is just barns and single story homes. Along the border of the swamp is row after row of barbed wire and bear traps.
I’ll let them scream for an hour or so, let them become tired. Even now it amazes me how I had learned to pick out the individual voices in the cacophony. The Widow Toth tires easily but the Garrets will be at it until dawn.
And what will I be doing while every able-bodied adult is on the rooftops? I’ll be slipping these pages into this mason jar and sealing it lid in place with the wax from a melted crayon. The Children of Jebsen won’t miss just one, especially not purple.
Twenty-five years ago a calamity befell the town of Jebsen. The authorities blamed it all on the after effects of an experimental insecticide but the Old Book the town elders read from every Sunday said otherwise. It told the citizens of Jebsen that a curse was carried by those twinkling dots in the sky. A malevolence traveling at 186,000 miles per second that would twist their Children into nightmares should a glint of it ever touch their skin.
That is why they scream at the starlight; hating it, cursing it, raging at it.
You can’t see what their Children have become and not feel the same way. The changes are heartbreaking and horrifying all at once but after you spend time with them you feel differently. There is mockery in the mis-set eyes that peer from those mollified skulls.
They know secrets. On quiet, cloudy nights I would put my ear to one families’ basement door or another and hear them murmuring and giggling as they writhe in their basement styes.
I think of their weeping mouths and soft teeth and remember that day half a decade ago the ill-advised shortcut and along the neglected county route 99. I remember approaching the train bridge and seriously considering turning around, it looked decades out of repair and I half suspected it would collapse as I passed under it.
But I didn’t turn back, my ego wouldn’t let me. I was right and the road was wrong so I drove under the train bridge, momentarily marveling at the strange and elaborate graffiti that covered it.
I was just past the structure when a small, bent figure ran out from the long grass.
The sounds are what I really remember; the squeal of the brakes, the thud of the body on the hood of my car, the thick crack of laminated glass.
I would later learn the name of the child I had hit was Julius McCarty but all I knew then was that there was an emaciated, bloodied shape lying halfway through my windshield.
Human instinct made me reach out, to see if the little boy was alive. When my fingers brushed his skin he twisted around to face me. His mouth lashed out proboscis-like and nuzzled into the flesh of my arm.
Pain bristled out from where the boy had latched on to me. I screamed, thrashed. I shoved the car door open and tumbled out onto the asphalt. The boy coughed once and died.
At first the wound held all my attention. How could it not? I had expected to see torn flesh and blood but instead the boy’s distended mouth had left behind a cluster of thick, festering ulcerations.
But then I became aware of the men making their way out of the tall grass. These were the Fathers of Jebsen understood immediately what had happened.
They had brought everything they might need to bring one of their Children back home to its basement; rope, bandages and cudgels. It was also everything they needed to make a captive of me.
They, dragged me away from the accident site, through the tall grass and over the collapsed remains of a chain link fence to leave me in the care of the Mothers of Jebsen. Those gaunt women had cudgels of their own and I was a mass of bruises and welts by the time the hole in the Earth had been made to their standards.
The menfolk returned carrying the child wrapped in a linen shroud. They dropped it roughly into the ground. There were no ceremonies, tears or headstone. It was well after dark by the time I had filled the grave back in.
Now here it is years later and I’ve had to dig a dozen more graves, one by one the Mothers and Fathers are dying out, it’s always a surprise when it happens. Every mother and father of Jensen is withered and white haired but every year a few more die in their sleep, or at work in the fields or at prayer in their red brick observatory.
The Children are dying too, not a one has ever lived past seventeen. One by one they waste away, except of course for the occasional accident like the one that trapped me here.
Despite these curse that has befallen them the people of Jebsen continue to reproduce, each mother convinced that this time she will give birth to the Great Redeemer as was foretold in the Old Book. Each time they fail and each time the result is locked away in it’s family’s basement.
You can’t imagine those basements, the smell of rotten meat, the ankle deep fecal matter and the perfectly clean toys. They draw equations on the walls, gold and silver crayons are their preferred color. Every Tuesday I have to visit each of those cellars and scrub the theorems and postulations away.
The youngest of the Children is a newborn, still angry from the womb, the oldest is seventeen and nearly rotted away. No matter the age they all taunt me as I work, sometimes with bites, sometimes with maledictions. Both have left unimaginable scars.
So many scars now, I’m marked, I could never walk among the people I’d known before. They’d refuse to recognize me and insist I was a stranger
The Widow Thoth says this is my penance for the death of Julius McCarty, she even went so far as to cite chapter and verse on the subject from Old Book itself. The Mothers and Fathers of Jebsen, base every aspect of their lives on that thick volume of prophecies and homilies.
I wonder if anyone will notice me as leaving. I doubt it, even when they’re not screaming their heads off a long dead suns they barely notice my comings and goings.
As I said before, the Mothers and Father’s of Jebsen have become so sure of me. Some families think I’ve become a true believer, the rest think the cinder block chained to my ankle is enough to keep me in my place.
I don’t know who you are or when you’ll find this message. My only hope is that you will believe me. If you do, please bring this document to the proper authorities. Don’t let my death be for nothing.
I go to the bottom of the swamp with two regrets. One is that I won’t be there when the town of Jebsen is discovered and burned to the ground.
The other is that six months ago I accepted Father Garett’s invitation to join in their celebrations. I went willingly with them to the old brick observatory. I prayed with them. I danced with them. I partook in all of their debasements.
And for a little while, perhaps an hour, I was happy.
They even asked me to give reading from the Old Book. I eagerly stopped up to the podium and began flipping through the thick volume.
Everyone waited for me to choose a passage and speak but all I did was shake and weep at what I beheld. My knees buckled. My mind shut down. I had to be carried out and put to bed.
You see, the Old Book was blank from cover to cover. You’re even holding some of those pages in your hands now.
I used them to write my story.

As far back as I can remember, I had always been passionate about the great outdoors. My love for the wilderness began when I joined the scouts, exploring the diverse landscapes of Southern California, Nevada, Arizona, and Utah. I was never a huge fan of the dry, barren landscapes, but camping provided a much-needed escape from the monotony of Orange County suburbia.
The first time I visited the Pacific Northwest, I was enchanted. The scenery was breathtaking—majestic mountains, lush fields, and meandering rivers. It was clear that anyone who praised the desert's beauty had never laid eyes on the Cascades. Seeing grass and wildflowers growing without irrigation was practically a revelation.
When I was old enough, I moved to Washington state, immersing myself in nature every weekend. My adventures took me hiking through dense forests, camping by serene lakes, and occasionally taking mushrooms under peaceful waterfalls.
I joined several online forums dedicated to outdoor enthusiasts. One community that particularly fascinated me was the Northwest Tomb Raiders. This group of history buffs and thrill-seekers was dedicated to uncovering artifacts, whether Native American relics or treasures hidden in modern ruins. Many members were collectors, fencing their finds to museums and archaeologists, which made it a rather profitable side gig, should you be lucky enough.
In the fall of 2009, an intriguing post appeared on the forum. A user named Lokk claimed to have discovered a cache of artifacts with Scandinavian origins. He couldn't carry everything back due to the treacherous terrain and his age, so he shared the coordinates, hoping someone else could retrieve the items. I scrolled down to see a few posts of people planning to loot it in the Spring, when the paths have reopened. One user, Patagooner, planned on going as early as possible.
Excited by the prospect, I gathered my two friends, Carl and Noah, for the expedition. They weren't as enthusiastic about camping as I was, but after I told them how much a single arrowhead goes for on the black market, they were on board. It was the start of winter now, which had its advantages and disadvantages. On the plus side, the rangers would have a harder time spotting us. On the downside, the harsh conditions posed a serious challenge for two inexperienced hikers.
I must’ve blown about four grand at REI on gear for them, justifying it with the knowledge of how much more I would make with two extra packs. That is of course assuming there really were as many artifacts as Lokk had said, and Patagooner hadn’t beaten me there.
The journey began like any other. We met in the pre-dawn darkness and went over our supplies, ensuring we had everything we needed. By mid-morning, we were on our way, my pickup truck winding up the mountain paths. The roads of Olympic National Park were the epitome of the raw, untamed beauty of the Pacific Northwest.
They snake through ancient forests, where towering Douglas firs and Western hemlocks create a verdant canopy overhead. Mist clings to the trees, giving the landscape an ethereal quality. Occasionally, the forest would open up to reveal breathtaking vistas of snow-capped peaks and deep, shadowy valleys.
As we climbed higher, the landscape grew increasingly desolate. The dense forest thinned out, replaced by rugged terrain and jagged rock formations. The air grew colder, and the first flurries of snow began to fall, dusting the ground in a thin, white layer. The road became narrower and more treacherous, winding precariously along the edge of steep cliffs.
Finally, a road closure blockade signaled the end of our journey in the truck. We unloaded three dirt bikes—one mine, two rentals—and continued up the trail. The bikes roared to life, carrying us several more miles into the wilderness. The trail twisted and turned, cutting through dense underbrush and over fallen logs. The snow began to fall more heavily, blanketing the forest floor and muffling the sound of our engines. The world around us grew quieter, more isolated.
Eventually, the snow became too deep to traverse by bike. We dismounted and prepared to continue on foot. The silence of the forest was profound, broken only by the occasional rustle of branches in the wind. I checked my modern GPS, its screen displaying the coordinates and a relief map of our destination.
The cold air bit into our cheeks as we trudged through the snow-laden forest. The silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the crunch of our footsteps and the occasional call of distant wildlife. The GPS indicated we were close to our destination, but the dense underbrush and uneven terrain made progress slow.
Suddenly, Carl's excited whisper cut through the stillness. "Hey, look at that!"
He pointed to a small, furry creature ambling through the trees. It took a moment to realize what it was—a bear cub, innocently exploring its surroundings.
My heart sank. "Carl, get back," I hissed, my voice low but urgent. "Where there's a cub, there's a..."
Before I could finish, a massive shape exploded from the trees. The mother bear, easily three times the size of the cub, charged at Carl with a ferocity. She was a blur of dark fur and powerful muscles, her roar echoing through the forest.
"Run!" I yelled, but it was too late. The bear was upon Carl, swiping at him with her massive paws. He screamed as he fell to the ground, the bear towering over him. Desperation and adrenaline surged through me. I grabbed the nearest heavy branch and swung it at the bear, hoping to distract her.
Noah joined in, shouting and waving his arms. We had to be careful; one wrong move and she would turn on us. The bear snarled, turning her attention away from Carl for just a moment. It was enough for him to scramble backwards, clutching his bleeding arm.
"We have to get him out of here," I shouted to Noah, who nodded, fear etched on his face. The bear, still enraged, seemed torn between attacking us and protecting her cub.
Using the brief respite, we hauled Carl to his feet. His face was white, and he was clearly in shock. Blood soaked his sleeve, dripping onto the snow. "There's a ranger station about two miles from here," I said, my voice shaking. "We need to get him there. Now."
We half-carried, half-dragged Carl through the forest, every shadow and sound heightening our paranoia.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the small, wooden structure of the ranger station came into view. We had been avoiding the rangers to keep our expedition secret, but now it was our only hope.
Pounding on the door, I prayed for a quick response. The door creaked open, and a weathered face appeared. "What happened?" the ranger demanded, taking in the sight of Carl's bloodied form.
"Bear attack," I gasped. "We need help."
The ranger's expression shifted from suspicion to urgency. "Get him inside. We've got a first aid kit and a radio."
As we eased Carl onto a makeshift bed, the ranger inspected his wounds. "You're lucky," he said after a moment. "The cuts are deep, but they missed any major arteries. He'll need stitches, but we can handle that here. No need for an airlift."
The ranger's face darkened as he turned to me. "What the hell are you boys doing out here?”
I hesitated, "We... we were just exploring."
The ranger's eyes narrowed, his anger palpable. "Exploring? In a restricted area? In the middle of winter? Are you out of your minds?"
He worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning and stitching Carl's wounds. Carl winced but stayed silent, his eyes closed in pain.
"Do you have any idea how dangerous it is out here?" the ranger continued, his voice rising. "The storm, the wildlife... This area is off-limits for a reason! You should have known better." he said, pushing a finger into my chest.
"We'll stay here for the night," he continued, "The storm's getting worse, and it's too dangerous to move him now. We'll reassess in the morning. And count yourself lucky I don't arrest your asses."
Night fell quickly, the storm outside growing more ferocious with each passing minute. The howling wind battered the small ranger station, and the walls creaked under the pressure. We huddled in the main room, the tension thick in the air.
The ranger looked at us sternly. "I need to check the perimeter and make sure everything is secure. There are things out there you don’t want to encounter, especially in this storm."
"Things? What do you mean?" Noah asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The ranger's expression hardened. "Just stay put. No matter what you see or hear, do not leave this cabin. Understood?"
We nodded, the seriousness in his tone leaving no room for argument. "We'll stay put," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
The ranger grabbed his coat and shotgun. "I'll be back in an hour. Do not leave this cabin." With that, he opened the door and stepped into the raging storm, disappearing into the darkness.
As soon as the door closed, I turned to Noah. "We need to go. Now."
Noah's eyes widened. "Are you crazy? He said to stay put."
"If we wait until morning, we'll be escorted out of here and lose our chance. This might be our only opportunity to find those artifacts."
Noah hesitated with uncertainty "But... what about Carl?"
"He'll be fine here. The ranger can take care of him. We have to do this now."
Reluctantly, Noah nodded. "Alright. Let's take what we can and go."
We quickly looted extra gear from the cabin. I checked the GPS one last time before we slipped out into the storm, the cold wind battering us.
The snow fell heavily, obscuring our vision as we slogged through the forest. The ranger was nowhere in sight as we made our way towards the our destination, each step filled with trepidatious excitement.
The storm began to die down as we approached the coordinates. We stepped into a clearing where the undisturbed snow lay like a pristine white blanket. In the center stood an ancient, weathered stone altar, encircled by intricate wooden carvings, delicate metalwork, and beautifully crafted statues. The sight was breathtaking, a treasure trove, a veritable museum of paganism.
Noah and I exchanged glances, our eyes wide with amazement. "Do you see this?" I whispered, barely able to contain my excitement.
"We're going to be rich," Noah replied, his voice trembling with awe. "These must be worth a fortune!"
We approached cautiously, as if the vision before us might disappear. The craftsmanship was stunning. I reached out to touch a carved wooden idol, marveling at the detail. "This is incredible," I said, my voice barely audible.
We began to load our packs with as many artifacts as we could carry, each one more exquisite than the last. It was beyond our wildest dreams. We were so engrossed in our task that we didn't notice the small figure watching us from the ridge.
It wasn't until I turned to leave that I saw her. A young girl, maybe eight years old, stood there, her blue eyes wide with curiosity. She was dressed in simple, rustic clothing, her blonde straight hair blowing gently in the wind. For a moment, we just stared at each other.
"Noah," I whispered urgently, nudging him. "Look."
He turned, his eyes following my gaze. "What the...?" he muttered, his voice trailing off.
The girl took a tentative step forward, her eyes fixed on the items in our hands. There was no fear in her gaze, only a quiet intensity that made my skin crawl.
"Who are you?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
She tilted her head slightly. "My name is Sigyn."
"What are you doing out here, Sigyn?" Noah asked, his voice shaky.
"I live here,"
"You live here?" I echoed, incredulous. "Is there anyone else around?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Where?" Noah demanded, looking around nervously.
"Everywhere," she said with a giggle.
The way she said it, so matter-of-factly, bothered me deeply. Noah and I exchanged a look, both of us trying to figure out what to do next.
"We can't take her back to the ranger," Noah started, "We'll lose everything."
I nodded, my mind racing. "Sigyn," I said slowly, "we need to know who else is here. Can you help us?"
She looked at me with her piercing blue eyes, then said, "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Noah asked.
"For what's going to happen to you," she replied, her voice tinged with sadness.
"You need to tell us what's going on," Noah said, grabbing her arm roughly. "Why are you out here alone?"
She looked up at him, unperturbed. "I am not alone," she said softly.
Before we could press her further, a loud, guttural mooing sound echoed through the clearing. We turned towards the direction the girl had come from, and there, emerging from the shadows, was the silhouette of an elk. As it approached, my stomach dropped. Its body was a grotesque amalgamation of life and decay. Its skull was fully exposed, the eye sockets dark and empty. Large patches of its ribs were visible, the flesh around them rotted away.
The elk's movements were slow and deliberate, its head swaying as if in a trance. It walked directly towards us, its hollow eyes fixed on Sigyn. The closer it got, the more the stench of death filled the air—a nauseating mix of decay and earth. I fought the urge to retch.
Sigyn stood up, her expression calm. The monster sniffed her gently, its nostrils flaring. Without a word, she climbed onto its back, mounting it like a horse. It was a surreal and horrifying scene ripped straight from a nightmare.
As she settled onto the elk, she looked back at us, "A thief in the night shall reap what he sows," she said, her voice carrying an otherworldly echo. "Beware the price of stolen dreams."
With that, the beast turned and began to walk away, Sigyn riding it into the shadows of the forest. We stood there, frozen in place. The realization that we were in far over our heads began to sink in. This started to feel like a trap.
We need to get out of here," My voice trembling. "Now."
We turned to leave, our packs heavy with the pilfered goods. But as we took our first steps, the forest around us seemed to come alive. Shadows moved among the trees, and whispers floated on the wind. I quickened my pace, glancing nervously over my shoulder.
"Did you hear that?" Noah asked sharply,
"Just keep moving," I commanded.
A figure emerged from the shadows, blocking our path. It was a man, tall and gaunt, his eyes burning with an intense light. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice cold and menacing.
"We're leaving," I stammered. "We didn't mean any harm."
The man smirked, and with a swift motion, he raised his hand. More figures appeared, closing in on us from all sides. We were surrounded.
"Run!" I shouted, shoving Noah forward.
We sprinted through the forest, branches whipping at our faces and legs. The figures pursued us, their footsteps silent and relentless.
Noah stumbled and fell, his pack spilling open. Statues scattered across the ground, glinting in the moonlight. "Help!" he cried, scrambling to gather the items.
"Leave them!" I shouted, pulling him to his feet. "We have to keep moving!"
But it was too late, their hands seizing us. I struggled, kicking and thrashing, but their grips were too strong. They forced us to the ground, binding our hands with rough, coarse ropes.
"Please," I begged, "Don't hurt us."
The man who had first appeared stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "A thief in the night," he mocked.
They dragged us through the forest, the trees closing in around us like a cage. We were at their mercy.
In the distance, I could see the elk standing at the edge of the clearing, Sigyn still astride its back. Her eyes met mine, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of pity. But then they turned away, disappearing into the shadows once more.
We were dragged into the heart of the forest, our struggles futile against the unyielding grip of our captors. As we broke through the treeline, a massive bonfire came into view, its flames licking the night sky. Shadows danced around the clearing, cast by the flickering light. A woman stood at the forefront, her presence commanding.
Her eyes were milk white, devoid of pupils, and her long, flowing white hair cascaded down her back. She was completely naked, her skin pale and marked with intricate symbols. Atop her head, she wore an elk skull, its antlers extending like eerie, skeletal fingers. She beat a drum emblazoned with more of the same cryptic symbols, each thud resonating deep within my chest.
Around the fire, about two dozen people stood, all drinking from crude, horned cups. Their faces were solemn, eyes fixed on the woman as she led them in a haunting chant. The atmosphere was thick with a mix of reverence and intoxication.
We were forced to our knees before the woman, who paused her drumming to look down at us. Her gaze was haunting, as if she could see into the very depths of our souls.
"Who are you?" Noah demanded, his voice trembling.
The woman ignored him, raising her arms to the sky. The chanting grew louder, the rhythm of the drum faster and more frenzied. The air around us seemed to vibrate with energy, the flames of the bonfire growing higher and more intense.
I glanced at Noah, fear mirrored in his eyes. The woman began to speak, her voice low and melodic, but filled with power, in a language I couldn't understand. Suddenly, she stopped, lowering her arms. The chanting ceased, and an silence fell over the clearing. She looked directly at me, her white eyes unblinking.
En tjuv i natten skördar vad han sår, akta dig för drömmar som du stjäl och får.
Hans skratt bevakar lundens gömda stig, där skuggor sveper över skogens liv.
För varje stulet andetag och svek, måste en tjuv möta sitt smärtsamma ödelek.
Tricksterns vilja, vår ande här, så i hans nåd, våra liv bär.
I was terrified and confused. She started again, softer, in a way I could understand.
A thief in the night shall reap what he sows, beware the price of stolen dreams.
His laughter guards our hidden groves, where shadows cloak the forest's seams.
For every stolen breath and lie, a thief must meet his painful end.
The tricksters will, our spirits tie, so in his grace, our lives suspend.
The crowd surged forward, grabbing Noah first. He screamed, his terror echoing through the trees as they pulled him towards a makeshift altar beside the bonfire. The woman chanted louder, her voice rising in a hypnotic rhythm as they began their gruesome work.
They stripped him of his shirt and bound his arms to a wooden frame. I tried to move, to help him, but the grip on my shoulders tightened, pinning me to the ground.
The woman approached Noah, holding a knife with a blade that gleamed in the firelight. She started to slice into his back, her movements deliberate and unhurried. Noah's screams pierced the night as she methodically carved the shape of wings into his flesh.
Blood poured from the wounds, soaking the ground beneath him. The crowd's chant grew louder, almost drowning out his cries. I watched in horror as the woman reached into the incisions, breaking the ribs and pulling them outward, creating a parody of wings.
Noah's agony was unbearable to witness. His screams turned to whimpers, his body convulsing in pain. The woman didn't stop until the work was complete, his lungs exposed and hanging grotesquely from his back.
They lifted Noah's broken body and placed him over the fire. The smell of burning flesh filled the air, making me gag. His life ebbed away as the flames consumed him, the once vibrant light in his eyes fading to nothing.
The woman turned to me, her expression devoid of mercy. "You will meet the same fate," she said, "He demands it."
The smell of burning flesh and the sight of his broken body over the fire was seared into my mind. Despair settled over me as I closed my eyes.
A deafening blast shattered the night. My eyes flew open to see the shaman stumbling backward, a gaping wound in her chest. She collapsed to the ground, her white eyes staring lifelessly into the void.
The villagers turned in shock as another shot rang out, this time hitting one of the men holding me. I twisted free from their grasp and saw the park ranger standing at the edge of the clearing, a pump-action shotgun in his hands. He fired again, the sound echoing through the forest, before one of them tackled him to the ground.
"Run!" he shouted, his voice raw and desperate. "Get the hell out of here!"
I didn't need to be told twice. I sprinted into the darkness, the chaos of the clearing fading behind me. Branches whipped at my face, and the snow underfoot made every step a struggle. I could hear the sounds of fighting and gunshots, but I forced myself to keep moving.
The cold air burned in my lungs, but adrenaline pushed me forward. I didn't stop until I reached the station, my legs threatening to give out from under me. I burst through the door and slammed it behind me.
Inside, Carl lay where we had left him, his face pale and twisted in pain. I stumbled to the radio, my hands trembling as I fumbled with the controls.
"Mayday, mayday!" I yelled into the microphone. "This is an emergency! We need help! Please, someone, come quickly!"
Static filled the room, punctuated by my ragged breaths. I repeated the call, my voice growing more frantic with each passing second. Finally, a voice crackled through the speaker. "This is Ranger Station Bravo. What's your location? Over."
I could barely form the words. "Olympic National Park! The ranger station near mount Christie! We're under attack! Please, send help!"
"Copy that. Help is on the way. Stay put and stay safe. Over."
I collapsed to the floor, my body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Carl moaned softly, his eyes fluttering open. "What… What happened? Where's Noah?”
Tears streamed down my face and I found myself choked up. “He’s gone, man. Help is coming.”
The minutes stretched into an eternity as we waited. The wind howled around the station, and every creak and groan of the structure set my nerves on edge. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched, that the forest itself was closing in on us.
The radio crackled again, this time with a different voice. "Helicopter en route, ETA fifteen minutes. Prepare for extraction."
I glanced at Carl, his eyes filled with confusion. "Hang on. We're getting out of here."
As the minutes ticked by, I couldn't help but think about the ranger. He had saved my life, but he hadn't made it back. My mind conjured up images of what might have happened to him, the cultists overwhelming him in the darkness. A sense of guilt gnawed at me, knowing he had sacrificed himself for us.
The sound of rotors cut through the night, growing louder as the helicopter approached. I ran to the window and saw its searchlight piercing the treetops, scanning for the station.
I helped Carl to his feet, supporting his weight as we made our way to the hatch. The helicopter hovered above, lowering a rescue basket. The wind from the rotors whipped the snow into a frenzy, but I didn't care. Salvation was finally here.
We secured Carl in the basket first, and I watched as he was hoisted up, disappearing into the safety of the helicopter. My turn was next. I realized that I was now alone and exposed. Fear coursing through me as I scanned around the edge of the forest, expecting to be grabbed and taken seconds before my rescue. But the moment never came. As I gripped the rope, I took one last look at the forest below. The flames of the bonfire still flickered in the distance.
I was lifted into the air, the ground falling away beneath me. The helicopter's crew pulled me inside, and I collapsed onto the floor still holding onto my pack, my body finally giving in to exhaustion. The doors closed, and the helicopter banked away, leaving the horrors of the park behind.
Weeks had passed since the harrowing events, but the memories clung to me like the bitter cold. I had returned to civilization, seeking solace in the familiar chaos of the city. I found a wealthy collector through a network of contacts. The artifacts fetched a price tenfold the cost of gear. The money was substantial, but as I held the cash, it felt like a hollow victory.
Noah's absence weighed heavily on me. His disappearance was chalked up as a missing persons case, and despite my best efforts to explain what had happened, no one believed me. The authorities conducted a search of the area, but they found no trace of the cult, the artifacts, or the clearing. It was as if the forest had swallowed up all the evidence.
I returned to the site where we had parked the truck. The dirt bikes were gone, stolen by opportunistic thieves, but the truck remained. I drove back in silence, the road winding through the dense forest. For a moment, I thought I saw the girl watching me from atop a ridge until I realized it was just paranoia. I stepped on the gas a little harder.
Back home, I checked the Tomb Raiders forum again. The post that had led us into the forest was gone, deleted without a trace. I messaged the mods, but apparently, they don’t keep records to maintain confidentiality. I wrote about our experience, detailing every terrifying moment, but the responses were skeptical at best. Most dismissed it as a work of fiction or a desperate cry for attention.
Time passed, and I tried to return to a semblance of normalcy. Yet, the wilderness called to me stronger than ever. It was my sanctuary, the only place where I could find peace amidst the turmoil. I spent more and more time outdoors than ever before, but now it always felt like I was just running from something.
Determined to prove what had happened, I returned to the forest with a camera and recording equipment. This time, I documented every step, capturing footage of the trees, the snow, and the eerie silence that hung in the air. I retraced our path, hoping to find the clearing again. But each night, as I reviewed the footage, something strange would happen. The files would be corrupted or entire segments missing.
I pressed on. I found the site where Noah had fallen, the ground still bearing faint traces of what had happened. I set up the camera and began to speak, recounting the events in detail. As I spoke, a cold wind swept through the clearing, and the camera's screen flickered. I finished my account and turned to check the recording, only to find the file corrupted once again, the footage replaced by static and a faint, mocking laughter.
I returned home, defeated and exhausted. My attempts to share what I had experienced were met with disbelief and ridicule. The files I managed to save were corrupted beyond recognition. It was as if the forest itself was conspiring against me.
Almost exactly one year later, as I browsed the forums, a new post caught my eye. It was cryptic, eerily similar to the one that had led us into the nightmare. It spoke of another trove of artifacts, hidden deep within the wilderness, waiting to be claimed.
The post was signed with a new name: Skygge. Different handle, same style. Another trap. They had taken so much from me, left scars that would never heal. I opened my drawer, my fingers brushing over the cold metal of my weapons. This was the moment I had been waiting for. This time, I'll be ready.
The forest’s secrets won't remain hidden forever.

I'm diagnosed autistic, and I've been into Disney for almost as long as I can remember. Thing is, my brain decided to chose that as a special interest and well, it sure isn't all that great!
Like yes I know they're a soulless corporation, you don't need to bash it into my skull about it. I'm not gonna suck them off and defend literally every single thing they do. I mean their recent stuff has been absolute garbage (ESPECIALLY Wish, FUCK that movie lmao). It just so happens that my brain decides to fuck me over and make me into Disney. And worse, it's mainly specifically the parks and animation which are even more childish and stupid to fixate on.
I just needed to get this rant out bc I was lurking a sub (not sharing which one) and one person proudly posted their set of Disney pins. I thought it was pretty impressive since I have a small collection but of the course the comments were filled with upvoted shit like "Oh god how much money did you give a soulless company/too much apparently", "they don't care about you" etc. and great! Now I feel like total shit because I'm reminded that that's all people will ever see of me if they find out I'm into Disney! That I'm just some corporate shill or annoying ass "Disney adult!" (For the record, I also think some people are too extreme with Disney, like come on not every single thing you do has to be tied to Disney 🙄)
I try not to let people in real life know about my dumb interest. I do have a nice collection of Disney parks merch and random stuff about its animated films (doesn't help that I just like art and animation in general), but there's absolutely no chance in hell that I'll ever show it off to someone.
Some days I just want to ignore everyone and be like "hey, I'm into Disney regardless of what you think" but today is sure not one of those days! In fact, those days are pretty rare. Most of the times I wanna sell my stuff and try to move on and grow the fuck up, but I know I'm too sentimental of my things to actually go through it.
Hell, my mom earlier this year wanted to buy me a Magic key (aka annual pass) as a late Christmas present but I automatically said no since I didn't want to be associated with having that, though I just made up other excuses like "it's too expensive" and "it's not worth it" (though I'll admit that's kinda true lol, even if she's financially well rn)
I just want my brain to give me actual normal interests, fuck.

Hey guys I wrote two versions of the first fight scene of dumb machop isekai and would like your opinions on which you think is more engaging, more interesting, better written, whatever. Let me know.
Obviously there is prior context to the scene missing, but basically our boy is in the middle of the woods when an Abra walks up to him, generates some weird distortion in the air, and makes it clear its time to throw hands. This is our boys first fight of the story.
I tried making the second draft a little less verbose in areas where I felt it was unnecessary, but you let me know if the missing, added, and rearranged detail makes it better or worse, and in what ways. I also added an injury at the start of the fight and made the ending more violent for emphasis. Not injuring the Abra makes the MC seem crazy, risking himself like that to bask. More understandable without an injury to spur his fear in that first draft, but still, I think a more complete incapacitation seems the way to go either way. Feel free to point out grammar mistakes, they are drafts for a reason. The rewrite divergence point begins at the arrows.
Isekai machop vs abra, drafts 1 and 2.
Draft 1:
I didn't know what that distortion was. Maybe it was a landmine, maybe it was a tripwire that would let Abra attack from two angles if I got between it and them. Maybe it was the beginnings of a battlefield coverage move, or a bomb, or an arbitrary marker in 3D space that would help Abra orientate itself, or the anchor by which it was now pushing itself off the ground and levitating with. But another possibility rested at the back of my mind, a possibility with an obvious path to victory, if it were true. I chose that path.
Fighting types were weak to psychic types, I knew this. I also knew that psychic powers were fucking scary. Strong and invisible and without any startup, in theory. In some fictional stories they didn't even need to see you, and they could do things like directly modify your thoughts. If there weren't strict limitations to a power like that then it would just be unreasonably strong, so strong that psychics should have wiped every other species off the face of the planet. The fact they hadn't, I hoped, meant that I still had a chance. I would make decisions based on the assumption I did.
First things first, testing the waters. If this failed, I would run away. That Abra was walking until it saw me, implying flight took some kind of energy. I probably had more endurance than this thing's flight, and more speed than it did in two legs. I could probably escape if the need arose.
I crouched to pick up a hefty rock, a little larger than my hand, and started to run sideways at top speed, circling my opponent from a distance. Its eyes began to glow as it tracked me in place, like it sat on an invisible swivel chair. I tensed in preparation to be struck with sudden pain, either from a killer headache, twisted muscle, or full body hold. Then I saw it, a faint purple haze snaking its way between us, so faint that I certainly only noticed it because of my enhanced senses, fast as a bullet.
→I dropped to my knees and slid beneath it, before I launched myself behind the nearest tree. My chest thrummed with excitement! I can do this! Psychic energy has travel time! It couldn't just bridge gaps in space arbitrarily, and its speed wasn't like a particle of light or something equally ridiculous. This Abra was nothing more than a glorified turret.
I tore off an impressive chunk of wood from the tree, and crushed a handful into smaller chunks with a squeeze. I darted out and shotgunned them at the floating fox. A middle chunk of the wood seemed to waver and slow, apparently colliding midair with whatever attack it had sent my way. The remaining wood shrapnel flew fast enough and in a cone wide enough that the abra simply couldn't dodge, though its attempt revealed its prodigious speed. Holy shit it could fly. It was hit, and though I half expected a skewered fox, all I got was a disorientated psychic. Good enough, I rushed it down myself, bashing rock still in hand.
As I bore down on its position, stuck choosing between a pressured retreat and close quarters combat with me, it chose a third, less risky option. The instant its body distorted, I turned around and hurled the rock with all my might. The moment Abra appeared at the distortion it placed earlier, it was struck by something nearly its own body weight moving at the speed of a musket ball, directly against its forehead.
Abra was launched away at speed, flipping backwards violently. Abra seemed to try and correct its orientation with its levitation powers, but that proved a mistake, because it only served to toss itself sideways into a tree waist first, eliciting a proper yelp. It flipped like a beyblade now, having hardly killed its initial speed. Soon afterwards, its remaining momentum was focused into another tree to the head. Instead of sending it sprawling, it started to finally stabilize in place. Abra began to float slightly higher while its upper body was pushed over its lower, forcefully orienting itself into a sitting position.
It was from this position that Abra was finally able to see the Machop two strides away, eyes opening wide in reaction. I never drop the follow through. By the time I was airborne in my first stride, Abra was floating up fast. By the time I landed, I had already understood its reactionary choice, and leapt. Though it started earlier, I rose faster. I caught its leg in as iron a grip I could muster. My forward momentum and weight shot us out of the sky before I sledgehammered the thing full body into the dirt.
I shot forward and down to grasp its thin neck just tight enough that I could wring it with a bit more force, and held my other fist ready to pummel. Normally this is the part where I would finish it, but instead I grinned and waited. Fucking do something. Its head was bleeding, though far less than I would have expected, as it looked into my eyes with its own, now wide, peepers. Even across the species barrier its sheer terror was palpable.
It was at this point that the littlest bulbasaur appeared above ground, looking at us with its mouth agape. "You won!?"
Draft 2:
I didn't know what that distortion was. Maybe it was a landmine, maybe it was a tripwire that would let Abra attack from two angles if I got between it and them. Maybe it was the beginnings of a battlefield coverage move, or a bomb, or an arbitrary marker in 3D space that would help Abra orientate itself, or the anchor by which it was now pushing itself off the ground and levitating with. But another possibility rested at the back of my mind, a possibility with an obvious path to victory, if it were true. I chose that path.
Fighting types were weak to psychic types, I knew this. I also knew that psychic powers were fucking scary. Strong and invisible and without any startup, in theory. In some fictional stories they didn't even need to see you, and they could do things like directly modify your thoughts. If there weren't strict limitations to a power like that then it would just be unreasonably strong, so strong that psychics should have wiped every other species off the face of the planet. The fact they hadn't, I hoped, meant that I still had a chance. I would make decisions based on the assumption I did.
First things first, testing the waters. If this failed, I would run away. That Abra was walking until it saw me, implying flight took some kind of energy. I probably had more endurance than this thing's flight, and more speed than it did in two legs. I could probably escape if the need arose.
I crouched to pick up a hefty rock, a little larger than my hand, and started to run sideways at top speed, circling my opponent from a distance. Its eyes began to glow as it tracked me in place, like it sat on an invisible swivel chair. I tensed in preparation to be struck with sudden pain, either from a killer headache, twisted muscle, or full body hold. Then I saw it, a faint purple haze snaking its way between us, so faint that I certainly only noticed it because of my enhanced senses, fast as a bullet.
→It didn't work. I failed to dodge it. I should run. Can I run?
On earth, my body was simply more fragile than my will. It's all too easy to push your body to its end. Humans spend more time working around limitations than they do pushing their limits. And every time you find something worth pushing your will to its fullest for, your body will inevitably fail. Because of this, the greatest combatants use only as much as is necessary, push their bodies as far as they are worth pushing and no more. If that isn't enough, they fill the gap with schemes and techniques. If that too, isn't enough, they can simply escue all their limits, use up everything their flesh will give, and die. Put it all on one moment.
Seems most people never found whatever they'd push that hard for, or at least were never put into a situation where they had to fight for it. I was. Some people think their lives have value beyond what those lives can bring to them. Existence is just a net. Every step is a sway through the waters of experience, to capture it, that moment. You only get one. Because the body can't handle more.
It was only now, as my thigh turned into pulp, ripped to the bone, my body screaming at me, that I was possessed of a revelation so strong it rippled through my whole being.
Now, there's no gaps to fill, now, I can push as hard as I want, now, I can experience that moment as many times as my will can reach it.
Half a moment after I was attacked, I bent my remaining leg and catapulted myself behind the nearest tree. By the time I hit its cover I was laughing. By the instant I left it, I was squeezing a massive wood chunk ready to throw. I chucked it hard, a portion of the shrapnel losing its speed and wobbling midair against the Abras follow up attack. The remaining splinters shotgunned forwards and met flesh.
Instead of a skewered fox, I got a disoriented psychic, but that's fine. I was already galloping forward on a leg and its opposite arm. When my enemy recovered, I was already bearing down. My senses were so close to their peak that I realized Abras next move at the same time they made it. When I bore down on it for long enough that it should have started moving, should have several instances beyond enough time to react with at least something panicked, and it had not, I knew what it was about to do.
The fact that it hadn't tried to create distance or panicked told me that its startup was at least fast enough to save them from the rock I was slamming down upon them right now. So I adjusted my muscles, and burned them to plow right through Abra and around again. As the abras form wavered, it disappeared. Then they reappeared at the distortion they placed when this fight began, and was immediately blasted in the skull by the rock I had cannoned behind my swing.
By the time they'd hit two trees trying to correct with levitation, and beybladed through the air thanks to sheer velocity, I was nearly upon them. As they regained control. Their eyes opened in fear. Without their little fallback, they really couldn't run now. They began to float higher, my foot hit the ground, they created distance, I closed it. Though they began earlier, my leap rose faster, I caught their leg in a grip akin to a garbage compactor and a raccoon that just didn't know any better, let my weight and sheer momentum tear us from the sky, and hammered them into solid bark covered root.
I didn't stop now, everyone knows what you do to zoners who get in range. I struck, though the force was great, there was hardly any damage. I struck, the Abras eyes were alight with panic, it helds its hands towards me. I felt what it was about to do, and let the gravity of my acceptance hold my heart and mind steady for the shock of having my kidneys blown out. It didn't come. I struck, and this one was different.
When I hit it with the wood, it seemed little different from taking a push and some dust in the eye, when I hit with my rock, it bled and flew, but nothing more. When I struck once and twice, with the might of ten men, it seemed to take it as the blows of one. Now, its skull cracked audibly, blood vessels burst out to open air as an eye swelled from hidden pressure. I struck, the other side transformed into something more horrible than the first, Abra engulfed air with a staggered rhythm, like a reverse whoopee cushion, the pitch and tone of the intake close to what a child's sobbing would be.
I gathered its wrists in my hands and destroyed them as easily as making a fist. Its discordant gasps were now constant, burbling and choking on its panic. Not a thought in that head. I smiled. I laughed. I flipped my opponent over and sat on its back, relaxed as my hand descended to grace its neck, ready to crush at the slightest provocation.
Before anything else, I saw that runt of a bulbasaur moving from its shelter with trepidation in its step, and purpose in its eyes. When it saw me, the weight left its gaze, it froze, mouth hanging open. "You won?!"

Being eaten.
No, I do not mean being on the receiving end as someone goes down on you. Sex seems to be popular in fiction these days, if the shitty Fifty Shades of Grey is any indication, and I sorely, desperately wish what I was about to write was all fiction. Then I could sprinkle some gratuitous sex on it, go to a publisher, and hope that it would sell. Then I would be not risking my job altogether sharing this so that strangers on the Internet would at least know of my suffering in having to watch human beings die brutal, bloody deaths to satisfy a desire even more primal than sex and far less pleasurable.
Yes, I’m talking about eating. And about being literally, bona fide eaten. An incredulous notion in modern society, where we live in concrete houses and walk on asphalt streets. Where the animals we encounter are anywhere between little quacking ducks and crotch-high geese. We live free of our early ancestor’s fear of becoming something else’s food. Crocodile, tiger, lion - pick your customer. It, in most cases, starts with the intense pressure of clamp-strong jaws, driving teeth into parts of your body where teeth should not be stabbing into. Depending on how lucky you are, there will likely be hellish pain lasting anywhere from seconds to minutes (that I am willing to bet feels much longer) before death takes you. What happens to your consciousness after that is a popular debate. What happens to your body is not. You get chewed into a consistency similar to hamburger patties in some cases, swallowed whole in others. Different vehicles to the same destination of an acidic stomach. Your useful parts are broken down into a mushy soup. The rest are ejected from the back end.
A shitty way to go, literally and metaphorically. A living human being, full of emotions and dreams and hope, turned into lifeless steak, soup then shit. At least three out of five young men and women whose last days I will recount below went that way. The other two… well, let’s say that it has been three weeks at this time of writing, and I do not have much hope.
The day started with Matthew dropping several paper files in beige covers on my desk. When I opened it and saw a report complete with pictures of grinning people on the first page, I knew right there and then that it was going to be anything but a normal day at work.
“Missing?” I asked, eyebrows raising. It was the single possibility. Police could have pictures on their desks for all kinds of stuff, but not us rangers. Only then did I notice the tight line Matthew’s lips had pressed into.
“Not like that, no.” He shook his head. “None of them got lost. All five came down here from Sydney, stayed at Winston Ward’s place. That’s Ward’s daughter, Madeleine.” His fingers pressed on the picture of a girl at the top of the page. Hair dyed blue and with the brightest smile of the bunch, I noticed. “She and one other, Cathy, their Indigenous guide, are the two still missing.” Matthew pointed next to the picture below Madeleine. Cathy was dark-skinned and had a hiking stick resting above her shoulder, clearly posing for some sort of promotional photo. “And these three, well…”
I took a quick glance at the other photos. Steve Wilson had the build of a runner, wiry and dressed in a tank top to match. Lisa Mooney, blonde with gold-rimmed glasses. Ashley Lo - his curly dark hair tied back into a ponytail. I knew I would not have to pay extra-close attention to their appearance. Two missing.
“I don’t know, man. Kind of wanted your input on it, too.” Matthew shook his head. “Best you see it for yourself. The police could not decide if it was murder or an animal attack, so they requested us. Found all three of them ripped apart. Caught, well, a suspect, I suppose, on their own cam-”
“You kidding? A suspect and they could not decide if it’s an animal attack or not?”
“I know, Tom, watch it for yourself and tell me I’m not crazy. Hells, they didn’t just have the pictures. Caught the damned killings on film, and still can’t decide if he, it - whatever - is man or animal. I will send the footage over in a bit. Some photos are in there, too. Just don’t puke up your breakfast. I’m seriously thinking of going vegan.”
What the fuck?
I frowned. Matthew could not wait for someone to share his hell, I supposed, and quickly retreated back into his office, leaving me alone with the papers.
Here are the facts.
Winston Ward, your typical real estate rich guy, bought some bushland last year next to our park. His plan was straightforward - setting up lavish air-conditioned bungalows amidst the Australian bush, complete with five-star hotel facilities such as private pools and a fine dining restaurant. A luxury retreat amidst trees and shrubs, letting you enjoy the best of nature and avoiding the worst. No insect stings, soaking rains or blistering heat that the normal campers had to suffer. Just a couple of hours drive from Sydney to boot. All well and good, except for the fact that it came alarmingly close to intruding on national park’s land. So Parks and Wildlife Service took notice and kept a close eye on Ward’s project. So far, even though he has not opened his retreat and nothing illegal had been done, Ward became a popular name among us rangers. Just in case.
I certainly did not expect his name - or his family’s name, rather - to come up this way.
It had been Ashley’s idea. An Ecology graduate, he wanted to make a documentary about Aboriginal people’s way of sustainable living among nature. He got his girlfriend, Madeleine Ward, into it, alongside fellow graduates Steve and Lisa. Madeleine easily secured the filming spot with her father. They hired Cathy as the expert for the film, and the five of them occupied two bungalows. Living in the lap of luxury while trying to promote sustainability. Three cameras were installed. Two security cams for each bungalow, expectedly. The third was a camera trap, the kind used on wildlife trails to capture pictures and videos of animals. Likely intended for fun.
As much as I respect the purpose of their never-finished documentary, I find twenty six-year-old Ashley rather hypocritical, and rather gross given how Madeleine only turned eighteen three months ago. But not to speak ill of the dead, I suppose.
I braced myself as I turned the page for the photos, and failed to stop the dry-heave that came up. Three bodies, gnawed clean of flesh. Strands of dark curly hair on the first mangled head identified it as Ashley’s. The skull was smashed open, its insides, empty where a brain had been licked clean, caked with dried blood. Shattered pieces of his bones were strewn over muddy soil, brown rain water filling in troughs where the marrow that had been sucked out. Steve and Lisa was in roughly a familiar state, and I shivered at how disturbingly clean the bones were. Take away the skull that clearly showed the remains to be human, and it could have been a smokehouse’s dump - filled with finished ribs and chicken wings.
And yet, the final photo proved even more unsettling.
It was a still taken from one of the security cameras. At night, judging from the grey filter. It was still bright enough, however, for me to make out the grassy front of a bungalow. Bushes and shrubs lined the far end. A dark figure loomed over them, casting a long shadow.
I shivered once more.
I had walked into the bushes hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I knew how dense they could be - reaching up to your chests in many places. That figure - standing on two legs with long arms drooping at its side - barely had its knees covered by the shrubs. The photo, even though grainy, was clear enough for me to make out a domed head resting upon a neck so thick the figure might as well be said to lack one. Matching broad shoulders held up that neck, deltoids bulging. The… thing, apparently, had little hair as far as I could see.
I did not notice how hard I had clenched my jaws until a cramp-like pain made me grunt. Matthew could not be fucking with me, could he? I had worked with the guy for years. I called the local police station. The woman on the other end confirmed it. Unless a whole station was in on the prank with Matthew - an idea equally impossible as what I was seeing - it seemed like we had won the reverse lottery of missing and dead people cases.
As much as the Internet likes to make fun of its deadly wildlife, most of Australia has no large land predators. Dingoes are pretty much your average dog. The huge crocs live way too far to the north and sharks do not magically appear in the middle of bushlands. Neither looked like some psychopathic, cannibalistic basketball player wearing a shaved-clean, badly proportioned gorilla suit. The police’s best option was us, I could tell, but as far as me and Matthew went, we were equally clueless.
I shook my head and rubbed my temples - for a moment questioning my sense of reality. That was until an alert jabbed into the screen of my desktop. Matthew’s email.
Here is the footage, Tom. Crazy stuff. I got them to send us a scan of Madeleine’s journal, too. Found where those kids were seen last.
An unholy amount of files came in a link he attached.
The rest of my day was spent going through them all. I still know not what to make of what I saw, and I need time to collect myself before I can write of what I have seen on those tapes.
I need a nap. And dinner. But no meat. I agree with Matthew. As much as I loved a nice scotch fillet, I’m probably going vegan for a while.

Due to neglect from my parents, failing to get me to dentist appointments in school, I had what I feel is probably the worst day of my life...
(TW for mention/details of surgery, hospital stuff, vomiting, and more unpleasant stuff)
Had to wake up super early to go out of town to an oral surgeon, they had to see me almost an hour late because the X-ray machine was down, the topical numbing stuff was probably the most vile tasting thing I've ever tasted, then after waiting long enough that it basically wore off, I got like, ten different injections to numb my mouth and gums and such. Was one of the most painful experiences I've ever had.
Then, I had to sit there for like, 45 minutes, maybe an hour, as they jabbed, dig out, twisted, pulled, yanked, broke, cut, and otherwise removed the remaining eight or nine teeth I had on top. Every jab, every clank off my teeth, the cracking, breaking, and crushing of my teeth, the intense pressure being exerted on my skull as they were forcibly removed... One tooth basically exploded, and I saw some of my blood hit the surgeons face mask...
They sewed up the smaller holes as they went. By the time I was done, I was a massive ball of anxiety. Even though I didn't feel any pain for the most part, the anticipation, all the feelings and sensations, it was just... So much...
They sent me off, and after driving to the ferry, and then maybe a half hour after getting off the ferry, I started to feel nauseous and sick. My arms and legs started going numb. I was getting dizzy.
I'd had some issues with the gauze they gave me, and I wasn't able to hold it for an hour like they wanted me to. I couldn't keep it in place because of the teeth I was missing on the bottom row. So I'd had all this blood pooling in my mouth for over an hour.
Eventually I started panicking a bit, and I had to have my sister who was driving take me to the nearest emergency room. Then I had to wait like two hours in one of the most uncomfortable places I've ever been, while the numbing started to fade and my gums continued to bleed and the pain started to come into play...
There were two different people I'm pretty sure were experiencing some kind of drug withdrawal. One was curling up in different chairs, throwing up several times into a bag, and unfortunately he also made a mess of the chairs he'd sat in.
Then a cop brought in some girl who kept calling out to people that I don't think were there. Then randomly start crying, stop just as fast, etc.
Eventually I got to be seen, they figured out my blood sugar wasn't low like I'd thought. (One of the meds I take can cause it to drop) I was basically dehydrated, dealing with anxiety, and the numbing stuff they used also used an adrenaline thing which was making everything worse.
So they said they'd give me some meds to help with everything and send me on my way. Another half hour or so later, I got everything and I was on my way home.
Unfortunately, that isn't the end of my terrible day... As I'd had all that blood continuously pooling up, I was inadvertently swallowing a bunch of it without realizing, as my mouth was numb and I couldn't entirely control everything at the time.
I'd felt a little better when we got on the road again, but then everything started to come back, all the anxious feelings, the nausea, the numbness in my arms and legs.
I had to tell my sister to pull over, and I basically fell out of the car to my hands and knees and started throwing up a wonderful mixture of blood, spit, and water. It was excruciating...
Eventually I managed to settle down... My arms and legs were still shaking, but after cleaning up we were back on the road. Unfortunately... By the time we'd made it basically back to town, I had to stop again...
This time I was throwing up this awful brown liquid, which I assume was more blood and stomach bile, which is just as pleasant as it sounds... My sister had to stop at Walmart on the way back because her kid needed baby formula, and that's the only place in town that has the kind her baby drinks.
So I had to have her call a friend of mine to meet us there so he could take me home. She was also getting me some stuff I could have without needing to chew, like applesauce, yogurt, etc. but I didn't wanna risk throwing up in the store, and I didn't wanna sit and wait in the car feeling miserable either.
Thankfully, that was pretty much the last of it. One of the spots on my gums is still bleeding a little bit, but it's settled down for the most part. The pain in my gums has also thankfully gone away thanks to some ibuprofen. At least as long as I'm not messing with anything. My cheeks and lip actually hurt more than my gums tbh... Probably due to the fact my upper lip was swollen to the point that my nostrils were almost closed off as well for a bit.
But because of everything else, I basically had to throw out the shirt I was wearing because I couldn't keep from spilling blood on it. As a nice little cherry on top I guess... (Or maybe it's the fact that my birthday is tomorrow 🙃)
This was without a doubt, the worst day I've ever had. I still need to have a couple more teeth put, and I refuse to go through that again. I'm going to tell them I need to be put under to do it, or I'm telling them to do fillings and crowns instead of pulling them.
I feel like this whole ordeal was traumatizing in a way I didn't know was possible tbh... Obviously everyone gets nervous with stuff like the dentist, but I think this has genuinely ruined my ability to go to the dentist anymore.
This past year I've been trying to get my life together, take care of myself, etc, because I decided that I actually want to live. I want to be happy. And I'm taking steps to do that. But God if this didn't make me second guess everything all day...

Wake up, poke, test, inject the insulin, lunch poke injections, supper poke injections . Before I go to bed and wake up, short acting injections. I’m only 36 and my body is rotting away and I am alone. Everyone I know is dead. Hundreds….. everyone. It’s like a fucking battle field. Everyone talks shit about me…. When your down you see who your real friends are. Even my family has turned their back. My grandmother who I love just had a stroke last week, my grandfather two heart attacks. My godmother is on life support. My best friends, a while click of hundreds of us are all fucking dead. My friend just blew his head off last month. I want to fucking die I’m just trying to get the courage. All I have is my dogs. That’s all. But I can’t live for them. Please don’t judge me….. I just want to know ideas on what to do to get pumped enough to pull. God please, I’ve called out to you so many times and you never answered. I haven’t had a woman in years. I have no one. I just waste away in my room all day and night. It’s been like this for years. I just lay there. Like I’m already asleep in a box. When I go they’re going to crack my skull open and take out my brain. Take out all my organs. Then drain my blood and fill me up with some kind of solution so I don’t stink like death. I’ll have that nice formaldehyde smell. I used to hate that smell but now it’s like a comfort. I wonder what they will Find when they slice my brain into little pieces. My own mother calls me a fucking waste, a mistake, a fucking fat looser junkie….she posts fucked up videos of my on Facebook. Everyone in my home town has seen them. No one will talk to Me. I want to die but I don’t want to be embalmed. I just want to go In a box and sleep. There’s a reason they bring flowers. Funny thing is, NOBODY WILL GO. That’s what hurts the most. I was close. I remembered waking up not knowing where I was or who I was for about 15 minutes. I couldn’t talk. All I could understand was that I was me…………I remembered when I opened my eyes….if they cut me up it’s ok. I think fent is the best way. I’m going to go tomorrow and free everyone from me. No one seems the struggle, they only see the trouble, not knowing it’s hard to keep going when nobody loves you.

“Beasts all over the shop…You’ll be one of them, sooner or later…”
The strange Hunter turned around and exhaled. His breath was visible against the night’s air.
He’s bloodlusted. Aegis, I hope you have a plan.
Shimmer saw Elpis step back slightly, with a shocked expression on her face. She shakily raised a claw and pointed at something on the ground.
No. It… it can’t be.
That’s… horrible.
A shattered red jeweled necklace lay strewn across the ground, beside the mangled corpse of the Silkwing.
The Hivewing in front of the three swung his axe to the side. As it was a trick weapon, he was able to change its form on command. The axe had two forms: a shortened form that acted sort of like a sword, and an extended form specialized in crowd control and reach.
He extended his axe and Shimmer heard a low snarl from his throat.
“Do we kill him?” Elpis asked, a hint of fear in her voice.
“We don't have a choice. Steel yourself.” Aegis muttered and brandished his silksabers. The blades gleamed in the soft light of the three moons.
The hunter was taller than all of them, one head taller than Aegis and two taller than Shimmer and Elpis. Black tattered robes clung to him, marking him a Shadowhunter. Blood from tonight’s hunt stained the black fabric, showcasing his expertise and experience in the hunt. He wore a rounded dark-gray hat, and bloodied bandages covered his eyes. Shimmer wondered if he could even see.
Corpses of both beasts and dragons were scattered about the square-shaped courtyard, an equal amount of gravestones breaking up the open space. His teeth were uneven as if he had been eating and chewing rough bones. Blood dripped from his mouth down his neck, and his Hivewing stingers flexed in anticipation.
“Be careful,” Aegis started, “He’s going to use magic. Elpis, don’t use any of yours.” He told the hybrid dragon beside him, and she nodded.
The hunter walked slowly around them, searching for a weakness in their structure, and then spat out a lump of coagulated blood.
“That stench of squalid blood. No beast will be spared.” He half-muttered and half-growled. He tipped his hat respectfully, before lunging at Elpis. She dove to the side, and tried to retaliate with her scythe, but just slightly missed.
This hunter was agile, surprisingly so considering how old he looked. Shimmer gripped the handle of her silkhammer, knowing it wasn’t the time to strike. She stepped backward, seeking cover behind a grave, while Aegis leaped forward with the intent to pierce the frenzied hunter’s heart. Once again, the hunter rolled to the side and sent his axe hurtling towards the smaller Silkwing. Shimmer felt fear grip her heart, but Aegis avoided the blade. He fell back and motioned for Elpis to stay back.
“A sporting hunt. But alas, I’ve forgotten to ask your name.” Aegis growled, and the hunter laughed a sick, disturbing laugh.
“The name’s Gascoigne.” He shot back, and jumped into the air, slamming his axe down where Aegis was a split second ago. Shimmer’s ears rung from the sound of the impact. Her antennae subconsciously curled in defensively.
“Gascoigne. That’s a nice name. I’ll tell Ludwig you were a proud hunter till the end.” Aegis replied and sent his twin blades slicing into the hunter’s thigh. He recoiled, and a gleeful laugh escaped his bloodied mouth.
“Hehe… the sweet stench of blood. Just… just marvelous!” He exclaimed and raised his off-talon towards Aegis.
“Aegis! Get down!” Shimmer called, and a burst of flame erupted from the hunter’s claws across the courtyard. The limited magic the Hivewing had that he was willing to use in this hunt.
Aegis fell back, hissing in pain as a few stray flames singed his tail. The hunter chuckled under his breath, and Elpis took advantage of the opening he had presented her. She thrust the blade of her scythe toward him, opting for its sword form as of now, and the hunter knocked the blow aside. He countered with a kick to the Ice-Hivewing’s ribs, and she was sent to the ground. She coughed up a spurt of blue Icewing blood, and the hunter lifted his axe for a finishing blow.
Shimmer roared out and swung her hammer toward the hunter. The silk connected it to her wrists as it flew through the air, and it hit the hunter square in his side just as his axe was falling. He was sent into the opposite side of the courtyard, coughing and sputtering, but with a faint smirk on his face. Shimmer was in disbelief; how was he not dead?
“Ooh, what’s that smell… the sweet blood, ooh, it sings to me! It's enough to make a dragon sick.” Gascoigne laughed hollowly. He raised his talon, and Shimmer quickly rolled to the side as a ball of flame soared past her horns.
He’s going to turn at this rate.
Shimmer hid under a gravestone as a tree behind her erupted in flames, and Aegis jumped into the air. He beat his four wings ferociously before diving into the hunter. He caught both of Aegis’ horns, and he twisted his head. Aegis fell to the ground, and Gascoigne slashed his axe down across the Silkwing’s leg. Aegis cried out, and Shimmer’s heart ached. She pushed herself up, ignoring the raging fire around her, and she threw her hammer up in the air and aimed it towards the hunter. He narrowly evaded the heavy impact of the stone before Shimmer heard a metal clang behind her.
Elpis, scythe in one talon, approached Gascoigne. She had the little music box in her other.
Elpis played the music box and a song of eerie notes filled the courtyard.
The hunter stumbled back, clawing at his face, and Elpis shot Shimmer a look, her face telling her to make sure Aegis was okay.
Elpis advanced on the struggling hunter, and Shimmer leaped over to her Silkwing partner, who was injured on the ground. She felt tears welling in her eyes, but she knew this wasn’t the time to cry.
“Aegis. Look at me. Look at me.” She repeated, and he lifted his head weakly. His leg had a massive gash in it, but he could probably still walk, just with a limp.
“Ah, Shimmer. I’m alright. I’ll be back in the fight. Go, help Elpis. I’ll join back soon enough.” He groaned, and the pair heard a roar behind them.
Elpis was locked in a duel with Gascoigne, and the hunter’s stray fireballs met with blasts of frostbreath. For the first time in the battle, the hunter had a slight look of fear on his face. Elpis was relentless, her burial blade swiftly countering and stopping any attempt Gascoigne made at advancing. Aegis crawled back and attempted to stand, using a grave for support.
“Shimmer! I can’t hold him for long!” Elpis called, and Shimmer nodded. She took the hammer in her claws and swung it around her side, and in a clockwise circle in the air. It was the perfect counterweight to her body weight. She hoisted it up further into the air and then brought it crashing down onto the hunter.
It struck Gascoigne directly on the spine, and he fell to the ground.
He screamed in pain.
And then, a bright light flashed from his body.
His screams deepened in tone, morphing to be more animalistic. His posture fell forward, and his muscles rippled through his body. He grew in size, and more of his bloodied garb ripped from the size change.
Fur sprouted from seemingly random places on the Hivewing’s body, and his claws extended. His face shifted, his features becoming more and more distorted. His black hat fell to the ground.
The bandages around his eyes stayed, as well as the black-tattered garb that marked him as once a Hunter.
He was no longer a Hunter. Moons above, he wasn’t even a dragon anymore.
He was now a beast.
Shimmer’s heart pounded in her chest. She stared at the transformation for a split second, before reeling in her hammer. She took it in her right talon and dove behind a gravestone, wary of the spreading flames.
Elpis, on the other claw, held her blade in front of her. Shimmer heard a rasping cough escape the Ice-HiveWing’s throat, but she didn’t break her stance.
The beast that was once Gascoigne whipped around toward Elpis, and launched himself at her, with a ferocity Shimmer had never seen even in beasts.
Elpis sidestepped quickly. The beast slammed into the wall with a loud roar, and Shimmer spied Aegis in her peripheral vision struggling to stand. He winced as he stood on his injured leg, but didn’t cry out. He brandished his two blades as the beast charged at him.
“Aegis!” Shimmer cried.
He’s going to get hit. That beast will kill him.
Aegis ignored her, and as soon as the beast was within a wingspan from him he twisted his body in such a way that he narrowly avoided the savage charge. He elegantly sliced his twin blades across the beast’s hide, and the creature howled before rapidly turning to face him.
Shimmer flew into the air. “Get away from him!” She yelled before bringing the weight of her hammer down on the beast. It flattened part of his ribcage, but it seemed impervious to the pain. It did knock him to the ground, though, giving Aegis a moment to cut through what was once two of the hunter’s wings.
The beast quickly got back on its claws before sending a flurry of swipes towards Shimmer. She dodged to the side and readied her hammer for another strike.
That was before the beast kicked her square in her chest, its sharp, ravenous claws digging in and tearing her scales. Shimmer fell back, a slight gasp escaping her mouth, and she stumbled back into the wall. She lost her footing and fell to the ground, and gazed up at the beast locked on her.
“Aegis! Help!” She yelled, and not even a second later her Silkwing partner crashed into the beast. They fell to the ground, grappling with each other before Shimmer heard a familiar song fill the courtyard.
Elpis was cranking the music box, its ominous lullaby breaking up the noise of the fight. The beast stopped attacking Aegis and instead clawed at its face. It growled and screamed in pain, drawing blood from its very own fur and scales.
“Now! Kill it!” She yelled through the song, and Aegis nodded before driving his two blades through the beast’s skull.
They stuck, and the beast roared before throwing him off. It crawled and thrashed about on the ground, clearly not dead, and the two new blades stuck to his head pointed out like new horns.
Now’s my chance.
Shimmer stumbled to her claws and wound her hammer up into the air. With every last bit of her strength, she brought it down on the flailing beast.
It crushed what was left of the hunter.
Silence filled the courtyard, only broken by a few stray notes from the music box, the pained breathing of the three hunters in the area, and the howls and screams from other places in the Hive.
Shimmer breathed a sigh of relief, before collapsing.
I did it. We did it.
Gascoigne was free.
…
“I brought you water.”
Shimmer opened her eyes and found herself in her familiar hospital room.
The morning sun’s rays lit the room, and Shimmer felt very little pain from her chest.
It had been three days since that night.
Shimmer fixed her gaze on the purple-orange Silkwing sitting beside her and smiled.
“Thanks. I’m feeling much better, we should get going to Bloodworm soon. It’s today, remember?” Shimmer asked, and he nodded. Of course, he remembered.
The summons for every hunter to come to Bloodworm Hive. Ludwig, The Holy Blade had requested them all. He no doubt planned an attack. A shame really, the hive was only newly rebuilt. And now it was going to be the site of a horrid, savage warzone.
“I remember. Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Ludwig would understand if you couldn’t come,” Aegis asked, and she spied a hint of worry on his face.
“I’m fine. I need to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. I’ll come.” She sighed and took a sip from the canteen that Aegis had brought. It tasted wonderful, he had put something in to flavor it.
“Honeydew?” She guessed, and Aegis smiled.
“Yep. It’s your favorite, right?” He asked, and she nodded. She opened her arms, and he hugged her tight.
“I love you,” Shimmer whispered in his ear.
“I love you too. I pray to Clearsight that we’ll both be safe today. I can’t bear to lose you.” Aegis replied. He pulled away and gazed out the window.
Shimmer quickly drank the rest of the honeydew-flavored water before getting out of bed. She joined him at the window and was slightly surprised by what she saw.
Almost all of the hunters of Jewel Hive were preparing, some of them already flying in the direction of Bloodworm. They were all sharpening their trick weapons, mixing poisons, or saying goodbye to loved ones.
“We should get going. It’ll be midmorning when we get there, I don’t want to be late.” Shimmer suggested, and Aegis put a wing around her.
“Now? I need to get my stuff, and you do too. Join me at the workshop.” He asked, and she slid her head in the curve of his neck as he led her out of her sick room.
…
Shimmer beat her wings strong and fast against the morning savanna winds.
She saw what looked to be several hundred, maybe even a thousand dragons gathered around a hill. All of them had a colored garb fluttering proudly from their neck. Around ninety percent of the garbs were white, and the rest were black.
They were all different tribes and a fair amount of hybrids were scattered about as well. The gathered hunters were mostly Pantalan, but a good few were from Pyrrhia as well.
Shimmer and Aegis landed a short distance away from the hill, and all around them the sounds of dragons conversing and laughing with each other.
The sun was high in the sky, but it wasn’t quite noon yet.
“You see anyone you recognize?” Aegis asked, and Shimmer shook her head.
“There’s too many dragons here. It’s too much.” She whimpered, and Aegis pulled her close. He knew she didn’t do well in crowds. That was partly why she became a Shadowhunter. To work alone or with no more than a few other dragons.
“You’re safe with me.” He comforted her, and she leaned against him.
She had always hated being with a lot of other dragons. Aegis said it sounded like she had anxiety, which made sense. It didn’t do much to alleviate that fear, though.
None of them are thinking about you. They’re all busy with their own stuff.
Just take deep breaths.
“Do you want to move away? There’s fewer dragons over there,” He asked and pointed a claw across from them.
“…No, no I’m fine.” She whispered, and Aegis sighed.
“Alright. If you want to move, don’t be afraid to ask. I don’t mind it.”
Shimmer shook her head quickly, before the pair heard a loud voice from the top of the hill. They both looked up and saw the legendary hunter himself: Ludwig.
The menacing Nightwing stood proudly, his holy silver sword slung across his shoulder. His partner Memoria stood beside him, her tail twined around his. She had a bored look on her face as she stared at the crowd. The voices of the dragons fell silent, and Shimmer felt like she could breathe again.
The Nightwing’s loud voice echoed through the plain. “Dear Hunters.” He paused, his heroic voice inspiring pride and triumph in Shimmer, even though he had barely started.
“I’m sure all of you know why we’re here. Behind me, Bloodworm Hive stands proud against the horizon. Yet I am more than certain you all know what lies inside.” He paused and pointed his sword toward the dark shape of the Hive.
“Beasts. A few thousand. I think it’s time we put them out of their misery. That is why we are here. A battle of the ages, one that will go down in history. We, the brave heroes, fighting against evil. We will be reveled, we will be honored. We will protect the dragons we hold dear to our hearts, and save those we can yet save.” His speech roused the crowd, and Shimmer felt herself stand a little taller.
“The plan is simple. The Hunters of the Sun will lead the charge from the front. I have already talked to the leaders of the charge. The Shadowhunters will pick the stray beasts off from behind. We will attack at dusk when half the sun is hidden from the eye.” He gestured with his sword at the rising sun, and he extended his wings. His massive wingspan seemed to fill the sky, and Shimmer's heart swelled with pride.
He held his sword up to the heavens, and it transformed. It grew larger, into the shape of a claymore, and it turned a shade of sacred jade. It glowed with an otherworldly light, and the crowd was enamored by the display.
“Now, hunters. Spend the rest of today preparing. The hunt is on tonight. Ludwig, The Holy Blade will be with all of you in spirit.” He bellowed, and the crowd erupted in applause and cheers.
Shimmer saw a proud, triumphant look in Aegis’ eyes, and she felt the same. Ludwig’s blade captivated her. The blade of legend, inspiring all who lay eyes on it.
Ludwig would be with them tonight. The best, the greatest, the strongest hunter ever.
Tonight, the hunters would not know defeat.
Nor would they ever, with Ludwig alive and at their side.
May the good blood guide your way,
Ultima_8

Mr. Winslow accused my mother of stealing his dead wife’s jewelry.
I explained it was impossible. He was welcome to search the tiny apartment I shared with my mother and aunt, he could look wherever he wanted.
“We share a tiny space,” I said. “We barely have enough room for our clothes. I don’t even know where she would hide jewelry.”
I was worried we would lose him as a client. Which would suck because cleaning his house was basically the majority of our rent cheque. But a week later he found the pearl necklace, it had somehow travelled down to his basement.
“I’m still missing the gold bangle though,” he said. “And some earrings.”
I told him I was sorry, but I had no idea. If my mom or aunt found it on their next clean, I promised they would let him know right away.
He hummed and hawed. There might’ve been a week where he hired a different maid service, but eventually he called back, asking if he could hire all three of us on-site again.
I thanked him profusely. I told him we’d keep an eye out for the missing valuables.
***
On our drive over, I had my mom and aunt practice the apology we would give him in English. Even though we didn’t steal anything, I explained we should still say sorry.
“Why?” My aunt asked. “That’s so stupid.”
“Everyone apologizes for everything in Canada. Just trust me. He will want it.”
“We need the work,” my mom said.
For a second my aunt revved up to say something else, but then let it go. We did need the work.
When we arrived, Mr. Winslow was on a phone call, watching his two large goldendoodles play in the front yard. He waved, then gestured to the front door. My mom and aunt gave small bows and carried their cleaning supplies inside.
Before I could enter, he put the phone behind his ear and approached me.
“Ida, hi. Good to see you again. Listen, don't worry about the jewelry. Water under the bridge. Hey. I’m leaving in an hour or so, and I won’t be back until late tonight. I’m wondering if you’d be interested in dog-sitting? You’ve been around Toto and Kipper. What do you think? I’d really appreciate the help.”
I never liked the way he looked at me. It was always too close, and it lingered for too long. My aunt may have been right in that he hired us back just to see me again, but I ignored the thought.
“And don’t worry, I can cover your cab back. My usual walker is just out on holiday. You can help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. How does six hundred sound?”
I looked at his house and imagined if I would be comfortable there. Alone at night.
“I’ll make it seven-hundred. I know it's last minute. I just hate leaving them alone. Plus Toto has his medicine. You would do me a real solid.”
My apron needed adjusting so I put down my bucket. I focused on the polyester knot, keeping my gaze away from his. I really didn’t want to be doing this, but my aunt would call me stupid for refusing easy money. And frankly, so would I.
“I had plans, but I’m willing to give them up.” I said with a straight face. “Eight hundred and it’s a done deal.”
He paused for a second, observing me scrupulously. Then he found his usual, smarmy half-smile. “You’re a life saver, you know that? An Angel.”
His hand gripped my shoulder. Then patted it twice.
***
Both my mom and aunt were pleased about the extra cash, they said I deserved to make extra for all the bookkeeping I do. But they also both voiced their concerns for safety. They said they could stay with me if I wanted.
“Safety? Mamãe I’m just watching two dogs.”
My mom wiped a caked red stain off his counter. An old wine spill. “Yes, but so late in his house? You’re not worried he might … I don’t know …”
Might what? Exploit me?
I met his groundskeeper once, another immigrant contractor. Except the groundskeeper was being paid far less, because he never properly negotiated. Mr. Winslow was certainly capable of exploiting people when he wanted to, and I’m sure he would try the same on my family.
But I was different. I’d gone to school in Banniver, and I knew the little maneuvers played by the so-called “progressive people in North America.”
And Winslow knew it too.
He didn’t realize a Canadian-raised daughter organized her mom’s cleaning service. Or that she would show up on the first day as a statement. That statement being: You can’t get away with mistreating these old Brazilian women. And you certainly can’t swindle them out of the going rates in his neighborhood. I’m onto you.
I had asserted myself with this Mr. Winslow, and felt confident that I could stand my ground if he tried any bullshit.
“Mamãe I’m not worried about him. Really, I’m not. He’s a pushover.”
***
6:00PM rolled around, it was just me and the goldendoodles.
My mom and aunt were back at home, watching low-res soaps on a Macbook, but they said if I encountered anything strange—a sound, a smell, an unexpected car in the driveway—to give them a call right away.
“Mamãe, its two dogs. I’ll be fine.”
“Just keep your phone close Ida. Your auntie has sensed things in that house. Unpleasant things.”
I forgot to mention my aunt thinks of herself as an amateur medium. In the village she grew up in, she claimed she could sometimes see people who were recently deceased.
But I never really believed her. Mostly because it was also my auntie’s idea to charge families who wanted to forward messages to the very same people who were recently deceased.
“Okay mamãe, whatever you say. I’ll phone you if I get scared.”
“That house has a history Ida, you could feel it in the walls. The outside too.”
It sure does. A history of being owned by a wealthy prick.
***
The sun slinked below the overcast horizon like a dying lantern. It got dark much faster than I expected.
I kept all the lights on, and played with the dogs a bit, trying to encourage them to try piss on the shag rug. Neither did. They mostly wanted naps.
I tried napping for a bit too, but the leather couch felt like it was made of rock. I just couldn’t get comfortable.
Eventually I made myself dinner—some pasta that had been bought from Whole Foods—and ate it while scrolling on my phone.
I was just about done, ready to take my dirty plate in the sink when I first heard it.
The first explosion.
It came from the basement. A vibrating KAPOW that rattled the windows and chandelier on my floor. It sounded like someone had set off a cherry bomb.
What the hell?
I turned to the dogs who were just as scared as I was. They came whimpering with tails between their legs.
Could a pipe have burst or something?
I looked at the basement door, an area we were not instructed to clean, and then heard another explosion.
Vases shook. A painting went tilted. It sounded louder. Like full grade firework. I had lived in Rio de Janeiro, by Prianha beach, where they often launched celebratory fireworks. This was just as deafening.
I didn’t want to go down to the basement. In fact, I sat by the front door.
Both dogs huddled around me.
***
Twenty minutes passed. It had been quiet.
Out of pride I refused to call my mom—I didn’t want to admit I was scared. Instead, I spent the time going through all the rational answers in my head that could explain away the noise. Plumbing, terrorism, teen pranks … hot springs?
There were hot springs all over West Bann.
Obviously, some kind of pent-up geyser had lay dormant for a while, and it was now suddenly unleashing a ton of energy below Mr. Winslow’s house. To distract myself, I Wikipedia’d the history of West Banniver, and satisfied this theory.
During the 1850’s gold rush, West Banniver saw rapid settlement as a mining town. The proliferation of mine shafts soon led to a discovery of underground hot springs. Mayfield Briggs Ltd which was the first company to seize the opportunity as a tourist attraction…
That’s all it was. A hot spring releasing a buildup of pressure.
Then a third explosion came.
It was so loud and violent that the door to the basement flew open. I fell to the ground and covered my head as several books went flying off nearby shelves.
The dogs yipped and barked like crazy. They stood in front of me, guarding against an unseen force. A voice shrieked from the basement.
“HELP!!! HELLLLP!”
Rivets shot through my hands and knees. I was frozen to the floor.
“PLEEEEEEASE!”
It had the high-pitched desperation of someone whose life was about to end. I raised my head and listened closely to hear haggard, dusty coughing. It sounded like an old man’s cough. It echoed through the basement and into the living room. Between coughs the man continued to plead for his life.
HELLLLP!”
I had no idea who it could be or how he got down there.
Before I could think, one of the dogs shot past me, bolting down the basement steps, barking ferociously.
“Kipper!”
I tried to grab the loose leash, but I could only hold the collar of his sibling. “Kipper come back here!”
“HELLO?” The voice from below seemed to recognize my presence. “PLEASE, YOU’VE GOT TO HELP!”
I was now upright, breathing as fast as Toto was panting. I tied Toto to the thick rails on the stairs. I had to save the other dog.
Instinctually I grabbed my phone, slipped an AirPod in one ear, and dialed my mother without even looking at the screen.
“Mãe. There’s … something terrible is happening.”
My mother was suitably confused. Even more so when she heard the screaming of the man downstairs as his voice echoed in the living room. It was a cry of immense, awful pain.
After two slower, more detailed explanations of what I just heard, my mother told me to call the fire department. “Poke your head through the basement, see what’s happening. Then call the fire department.”
That made sense to me. I inched my way to the basement entrance and tried to see past the doorway. It was complete darkness. There was no light switch.
I turned the torch on my phone, and my aunt’s voice came blaring. “Get out of there Ida! I am telling you, there is darkness in that house!”
As I illuminated the dusty wooden stairs, I saw that they only lead only to more pitch black. Yup, plenty of darkness here.
There was some phone-wrestling. My mother came back on. “What is it? What did you see?”
“Don’t encourage her! Get her to leave!” my auntie yelled in the background.
I told them to pipe down because I could suddenly hear the gentle whimpering at the base of the stairs. The dog sounded close.
“Kipper come! This way! Follow my voice!”
I went down a few steps further, expecting the basement floor to appear any second, but there were only more wooden steps. How long was this staircase?
“Kipper?”
There was a flat, cold wall on my left, and no guard rail to speak of. I stepped down each step very carefully to maintain my balance, sliding my hand along the wall.
Then the wall disappeared. I flew forward.
***
I woke up lying face-first on rocky floor. My phone was cracked next to me. My mother was crying in my ear. “Ida! Ida! Oh my god! Ida!”
I looked up to see I was not at the bottom of someone’s basement. There were lights all above me. Lanterns. They were illuminating a cavernous, rocky chamber that led to many tunnels with train tracks and wooden carts. I was in the opening of a massive underground mine.
I coughed, and gave out a weak “… what?”
“Ida is that you? Are you… brrzzzzz” My mom’s voice faded.
Before I could reply, I saw the crooked form of a man in tan coveralls, shaking the immobile body of another person in coveralls next to him. In fact, there was a small row of half a dozen miners all slumped against a blasted rock wall. There were bits of granite, wood, rope, and what looked like entrails splattered all throughout.
“Oh the cruelty …” the one, standing miner said. He went from body to body and jostled each of his coworkers. “Must I find you all like this … every time?”
I crawled up to a half-standing pose and tried to see the face of the hunched over survivor.
My heart dropped.
He had no face.
The explosion which must have killed some of friends had also blasted away this man’s entire sternum, neck and skull. The miner wasn’t hunched over or leaning away with his head, he just simply … had no head.
And up there, floating right in the middle of where his face should be, were a set of eyeballs, glistening under the yellow lights.
The eyes turned to me. “Oh. Why hello. Hello there.”
Terrified, I rose to complete standing and opened both my palms in a show of total deference. “I don’t know. I don’t know who you are or what this is.”
The headless miner walked toward me. I noticed he carried a pickaxe in his right arm. He gestured with his left to where his ear would be.
“I’m sorry I can’t hear you. Had an accident.”
Despite him having no head, his voice still came from where his mouth would be. There was an earnestness in his speech, it might have had something to do with his very old-timey accent, but I still felt like he was trying to be friendly.
“Another batch of faulty dynamite. Everyone’s dead. But what else is new.”
He brought his left palm to his face, perhaps to wipe away tears, but instead his hand travelled through his nonexistent head to scratch a small portion of his back.
“Been dead for many years I’m afraid. But I’ve kept busy. Been a good man. Worked very hard for the boss upstairs.”
He gestured upwards with the pickaxe. I looked up, and out in the distance, I saw a large, ancient, set of wooden stairs that I must have fallen from. They extended far up into the mine’s ceiling and kept going.
“He’s gotten good ore from me. Good, shining, golden ore. I have a knack for it you see. The same knack that killed me so many years ago. It's probably what’s still keeping me around though.”
He came closer. I could see he had brown irises, with one of the cataracts deteriorating into milky white haze. The eyes stared at me, unblinking.
“Because I’m not done, see. This mine isn’t empty. I know there’s more gold. Much more. And it’s not all for the boss. No, I’m keeping some to myself. Don’t tell him, but I’ve been stashing a large deposit for myself. It can’t all be his of course. It’s my mine after all. Half these tunnels were dug entirely by me. So of course I deserve some. It’s only natural.”
I lifted my hand and pointed at the staircase behind him. I mouthed very big, obvious words. “I have to go back. I’m going back up those stairs.”
He shifted his body. His two eyes turned in the air as if they were still inside an invisible skull. I saw nerve endings at the back undulate and twist.
“Yes, that is the only way up.”
My heart was in my throat. At least I found some form of communication. I gestured to knee height and nervously asked if he had seen a “large, shaggy dog.”
“Ah yes. I’ve seen the pooches. They come down here sometimes. When the booms don’t scare em that is. Hahah.”
I gave a thumbs up. It felt like a ridiculous interaction with a ghost, or zombie or whatever this was, but at least it was working.
“I think I saw his little tail run over that way. They like the smell of the mineral spring.”
I turned behind to see the long tunnel he was pointing at. It was dimly lit by a chain of smaller lanterns.
I thought I saw a flutter of movement, and I would have kept looking further if it wasn’t for my aunt’s voice that suddenly exploded in my ear. “Brrrzt … Ida! If you can hear us, we are calling the police to your location. Help is coming soon! … ”
I winced and stepped back—which saved my life. I just so happened to step right out of the way of a pickaxe. It sparked the ground.
I gasped and stared at the headless miner. His eyes were shimmering with a dark focus, staring directly at mine.
“Oh I’ll help you find the dog. I’ll help you find whatever you want. But I’ll need those clean new eyes of yours first.”
He swung at my head. I ducked. He went for the backswing. I ran.
Stupidly, I ran in the opposite direction of the stairs. I ran straight into the long tunnel lined with dim lanterns.
But I couldn’t turn around. I had no idea how quick he could move. And the speed of his pickaxe felt supernatural.
The tunnel was narrow, and lined with wooden tracks, I had to skip-run-jump over the panels with immense precision to make sure I didn’t trip. Behind me, his voice chased.
“Go ahead. Run. I know where these all lead.”
I ignored the words and kept going. The tunnel bent left, then right, then left again. I ignored several exits before the tunnel spat me out into an open, cavernous room filled with dozens and dozens of minecarts.
I investigated the room for anything useful. A far opposite wall appeared to be the site of the latest digging, loose rock lay everywhere.
There was a small mineshaft holding a chained up cart. And something in the cart shimmered…
It was gold.
And not just ore either. There were bars, coins, medallions, and jewelry. Mrs. Winslow’s bangles were right on top.
I ran to the cart furthest from the entrance and ducked behind it, breathing heavily, coughing from all the dust.
The headless man emerged from the tunnel, pickaxe raised and scanning where I could have hid. “I may not be able to hear you. But I can follow footprints pretty easily hah. I know you’re in here.”
He grabbed the closest minecart available and pushed it into the tunnel entrance. With an immense show of strength, he lifted and dislodged the cart off the track, cramming it sideways, creating a massive obstacle.
I was sealed inside.
Trying to stay absolutely still, I coughed through my teeth. Lungs burning. My mom’s voice came through.
“Brrzzztt… The police should be there! I told them you were in danger! They said they sent a unit over. Maybe they broke down the front door?”
I looked up at the mine shaft next to me. If it did connect to the surface upstairs, this was my only chance.
I gave a couple good yells. “HEEEEELP!!! DOWN HERE!! HELP!”
I don’t know if it did any good, but it was better than nothing. I turned to see if the miner had heard anything.
He hadn't.
The pickaxe tapped and clanged awkwardly around minecart after minecart.
I had a bigger advantage than I thought.
Although the miner had two floating eyeballs, only the left one was really capable of seeing anything.
So I kept my distance and watched where he was going, always staying behind.
As he limped and peered around minecarts, I was able to evade him, move from behind rock piles and other carts, careful not to leave a trail in the rock dust.
It was all going well until I heard a familiar panting.
“Oh look. If it isn’t precious.”
The dog had managed to jump over the miner’s blockade. It must have heard my yells. Surprisingly, Kipper was unafraid of the headless villain, and even approached him to receive pets.
“Now why don’t you go say hello to our other friend here huh? I know she's here somewhere.”
No. Kipper. Please. Don’t.
The dog started sniffing. Within seconds he found my scent. Kipper skipped towards me like Lassie and excitedly licked my face.
“Aww there we are. Now isn’t that a good boy?”
I stood up and stared at the filthy, ash-stained coveralls. Despite the lack of teeth, I could sense a menacing grin where the mouth should be.
He wasn't going to lose sight of me now. I had nowhere to go.
So I did the thing my auntie said worked on all spirits. I fell to my knees and prayed.
“Please. I only came here for work. I’m too young to die. Let me go and I won't tell anyone that you're here.”
He stood over me. Both of his pupils started to quiver. In just a few seconds, his eyes were swimming excitedly within the space of his head.
I took off the only valuable I had. A gold necklace with a miniature version of Christ the Redeemer. A gift I had received as a teen in Rio. I held it out in my shaking hands.
“Please. Take it. Take everything.”
Suddenly both the eyeballs stared forward again, entranced by the gold.
“Well look at that. How generous. How generous of her. We should reward generosity shouldn’t we?”
***
It was hard for me to describe to the police officer how exactly I got out, because I have no idea.
The fiery pain where my eyes used to be overwhelmed my entire reality for hours. All I wanted was for it to stop.
They found me half inside a dumbwaiter bleeding to death from the gouges in my face.
I was taken to the hospital, where I would spend the next four weeks recovering.
The police did not in fact storm the house like my mom said. They waited outside for the homeowner to return. But when they heard my screams coming from the top floor, they broke the back door and eventually came to my rescue.
I’m told they did a thorough investigation but could not find any of the things I described.
The basement door led into a regular basement. It was filled with old furniture, unused decor, and paint cans. No Mine.
The dumbwaiter was also just a dumbwaiter. It wasn’t some mine shaft, and it didn’t lead any deeper than the basement. Nothing special.
There were definitely hot springs close by, but nothing close enough to damage Mr. Winslow's property. And there was an old, depleted gold mine not far away either, but it was completely abandoned, closed off, and nowhere near as big as the one I had described.
***
The police, paramedics and doctors all thought my story was some hallucination. That I had been on drugs or had some mental breakdown (even though they couldn’t find anything in me other than small traces of weed.)
Thankfully, my mother and aunt believed me. They believed every word. My aunt is the one who encouraged me to make this post, so others could hear my story.
I know it was real.
I know it was.
And Mr. Winslow is fully aware of the mine’s existence.
Putting the dots together, I realized it was likely the source of his wealth. Winslow had some control over that one headless miner down there.
Did Winslow intentionally entrap me? Was he trying to get the miner a new set of eyes? Or was it all an unfortunate accident?
I might never know.
But what I do know is that Mr. Winslow has been paying for our rent ever since the accident.
He feels “terrible about the situation” and “can’t possibly imagine” what I’ve been through.
But he knows what happened.
He knows if I really pushed, If I really forced the police, or some private investigator to look into it—they would uncover something awful. Something really really bad.
“Anything you need. Anything at all. I will cover it, Ida.” He said. “You helped me out, protected my dogs, and I will never forget it.”
He’s offered to pay for the rest of my University schooling. And once my face heals up, he’s even offered to cover for some very expensive, experimental eye-transplant. We’ll see how that goes.
“You and your family will live comfortably from now on. You’ll want for nothing. Tell me exactly what you need, And you’ll get it.”
So I told him I'd like my necklace back. It was an heirloom. I said I lost it somewhere in his house.
A few days later, he returned with the usual smug, half-crooked smirk in his voice. He brought the necklace back in a box, pretending he had bought me a new one. Except it felt exactly like my old one.
It was all shined up, completely buffed of scratches, but it weighed the same. It was my old one for sure.
When my mom saw it she asked, “did it always have it? This dedication?”
As far as I remembered, the backside of the tiny Christ the Redeemer was always plain. I fingered its shape in my hands.
“What dedication?”
The new little divots caught my nails. There was writing that was definitely not there before.
My mom described it as a curly, serif font. Like a gift for a lover.
~ You’re an angel ~
~ W ~

Mr. Winslow accused my mother of stealing his dead wife’s jewelry.
I explained it was impossible. He was welcome to search the tiny apartment I shared with my mother and aunt, he could look wherever he wanted.
“We share a tiny space,” I said. “We barely have enough room for our clothes. I don’t even know where she would hide jewelry.”
I was worried we would lose him as a client. Which would suck because cleaning his house was basically the majority of our rent cheque. But a week later he found the pearl necklace, it had somehow travelled down to his basement.
“I’m still missing the gold bangle though,” he said. “And some earrings.”
I told him I was sorry, but I had no idea. If my mom or aunt found it on their next clean, I promised they would let him know right away.
He hummed and hawed. There might’ve been a week where he hired a different maid service, but eventually he called back, asking if he could hire all three of us on-site again.
I thanked him profusely. I told him we’d keep an eye out for the missing valuables.
***
On our drive over, I had my mom and aunt practice the apology we would give him in English. Even though we didn’t steal anything, I explained we should still say sorry.
“Why?” My aunt asked. “That’s so stupid.”
“Everyone apologizes for everything in Canada. Just trust me. He will want it.”
“We need the work,” my mom said.
For a second my aunt revved up to say something else, but then let it go. We did need the work.
When we arrived, Mr. Winslow was on a phone call, watching his two large goldendoodles play in the front yard. He waved, then gestured to the front door. My mom and aunt gave small bows and carried their cleaning supplies inside.
Before I could enter, he put the phone behind his ear and approached me.
“Ida, hi. Good to see you again. Listen, don't worry about the jewelry. Water under the bridge. Hey. I’m leaving in an hour or so, and I won’t be back until late tonight. I’m wondering if you’d be interested in dog-sitting? You’ve been around Toto and Kipper. What do you think? I’d really appreciate the help.”
I never liked the way he looked at me. It was always too close, and it lingered for too long. My aunt may have been right in that he hired us back just to see me again, but I ignored the thought.
“And don’t worry, I can cover your cab back. My usual walker is just out on holiday. You can help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. How does six hundred sound?”
I looked at his house and imagined if I would be comfortable there. Alone at night.
“I’ll make it seven-hundred. I know it's last minute. I just hate leaving them alone. Plus Toto has his medicine. You would do me a real solid.”
My apron needed adjusting so I put down my bucket. I focused on the polyester knot, keeping my gaze away from his. I really didn’t want to be doing this, but my aunt would call me stupid for refusing easy money. And frankly, so would I.
“I had plans, but I’m willing to give them up.” I said with a straight face. “Eight hundred and it’s a done deal.”
He paused for a second, observing me scrupulously. Then he found his usual, smarmy half-smile. “You’re a life saver, you know that? An Angel.”
His hand gripped my shoulder. Then patted it twice.
***
Both my mom and aunt were pleased about the extra cash, they said I deserved to make extra for all the bookkeeping I do. But they also both voiced their concerns for safety. They said they could stay with me if I wanted.
“Safety? Mamãe I’m just watching two dogs.”
My mom wiped a caked red stain off his counter. An old wine spill. “Yes, but so late in his house? You’re not worried he might … I don’t know …”
Might what? Exploit me?
I met his groundskeeper once, another immigrant contractor. Except the groundskeeper was being paid far less, because he never properly negotiated. Mr. Winslow was certainly capable of exploiting people when he wanted to, and I’m sure he would try the same on my family.
But I was different. I’d gone to school in Banniver, and I knew the little maneuvers played by the so-called “progressive people in North America.”
And Winslow knew it too.
He didn’t realize a Canadian-raised daughter organized her mom’s cleaning service. Or that she would show up on the first day as a statement. That statement being: You can’t get away with mistreating these old Brazilian women. And you certainly can’t swindle them out of the going rates in his neighborhood. I’m onto you.
I had asserted myself with this Mr. Winslow, and felt confident that I could stand my ground if he tried any bullshit.
“Mamãe I’m not worried about him. Really, I’m not. He’s a pushover.”
***
6:00PM rolled around, it was just me and the goldendoodles.
My mom and aunt were back at home, watching low-res soaps on a Macbook, but they said if I encountered anything strange—a sound, a smell, an unexpected car in the driveway—to give them a call right away.
“Mamãe, its two dogs. I’ll be fine.”
“Just keep your phone close Ida. Your auntie has sensed things in that house. Unpleasant things.”
I forgot to mention my aunt thinks of herself as an amateur medium. In the village she grew up in, she claimed she could sometimes see people who were recently deceased.
But I never really believed her. Mostly because it was also my auntie’s idea to charge families who wanted to forward messages to the very same people who were recently deceased.
“Okay mamãe, whatever you say. I’ll phone you if I get scared.”
“That house has a history Ida, you could feel it in the walls. The outside too.”
It sure does. A history of being owned by a wealthy prick.
***
The sun slinked below the overcast horizon like a dying lantern. It got dark much faster than I expected.
I kept all the lights on, and played with the dogs a bit, trying to encourage them to try piss on the shag rug. Neither did. They mostly wanted naps.
I tried napping for a bit too, but the leather couch felt like it was made of rock. I just couldn’t get comfortable.
Eventually I made myself dinner—some pasta that had been bought from Whole Foods—and ate it while scrolling on my phone.
I was just about done, ready to take my dirty plate in the sink when I first heard it.
The first explosion.
It came from the basement. A vibrating KAPOW that rattled the windows and chandelier on my floor. It sounded like someone had set off a cherry bomb.
What the hell?
I turned to the dogs who were just as scared as I was. They came whimpering with tails between their legs.
Could a pipe have burst or something?
I looked at the basement door, an area we were not instructed to clean, and then heard another explosion.
Vases shook. A painting went tilted. It sounded louder. Like full grade firework. I had lived in Rio de Janeiro, by Prianha beach, where they often launched celebratory fireworks. This was just as deafening.
I didn’t want to go down to the basement. In fact, I sat by the front door.
Both dogs huddled around me.
***
Twenty minutes passed. It had been quiet.
Out of pride I refused to call my mom—I didn’t want to admit I was scared. Instead, I spent the time going through all the rational answers in my head that could explain away the noise. Plumbing, terrorism, teen pranks … hot springs?
There were hot springs all over West Bann.
Obviously, some kind of pent-up geyser had lay dormant for a while, and it was now suddenly unleashing a ton of energy below Mr. Winslow’s house. To distract myself, I Wikipedia’d the history of West Banniver, and satisfied this theory.
During the 1850’s gold rush, West Banniver saw rapid settlement as a mining town. The proliferation of mine shafts soon led to a discovery of underground hot springs. Mayfield Briggs Ltd which was the first company to seize the opportunity as a tourist attraction…
That’s all it was. A hot spring releasing a buildup of pressure.
Then a third explosion came.
It was so loud and violent that the door to the basement flew open. I fell to the ground and covered my head as several books went flying off nearby shelves.
The dogs yipped and barked like crazy. They stood in front of me, guarding against an unseen force. A voice shrieked from the basement.
“HELP!!! HELLLLP!”
Rivets shot through my hands and knees. I was frozen to the floor.
“PLEEEEEEASE!”
It had the high-pitched desperation of someone whose life was about to end. I raised my head and listened closely to hear haggard, dusty coughing. It sounded like an old man’s cough. It echoed through the basement and into the living room. Between coughs the man continued to plead for his life.
HELLLLP!”
I had no idea who it could be or how he got down there.
Before I could think, one of the dogs shot past me, bolting down the basement steps, barking ferociously.
“Kipper!”
I tried to grab the loose leash, but I could only hold the collar of his sibling. “Kipper come back here!”
“HELLO?” The voice from below seemed to recognize my presence. “PLEASE, YOU’VE GOT TO HELP!”
I was now upright, breathing as fast as Toto was panting. I tied Toto to the thick rails on the stairs. I had to save the other dog.
Instinctually I grabbed my phone, slipped an AirPod in one ear, and dialed my mother without even looking at the screen.
“Mãe. There’s … something terrible is happening.”
My mother was suitably confused. Even more so when she heard the screaming of the man downstairs as his voice echoed in the living room. It was a cry of immense, awful pain.
After two slower, more detailed explanations of what I just heard, my mother told me to call the fire department. “Poke your head through the basement, see what’s happening. Then call the fire department.”
That made sense to me. I inched my way to the basement entrance and tried to see past the doorway. It was complete darkness. There was no light switch.
I turned the torch on my phone, and my aunt’s voice came blaring. “Get out of there Ida! I am telling you, there is darkness in that house!”
As I illuminated the dusty wooden stairs, I saw that they only lead only to more pitch black. Yup, plenty of darkness here.
There was some phone-wrestling. My mother came back on. “What is it? What did you see?”
“Don’t encourage her! Get her to leave!” my auntie yelled in the background.
I told them to pipe down because I could suddenly hear the gentle whimpering at the base of the stairs. The dog sounded close.
“Kipper come! This way! Follow my voice!”
I went down a few steps further, expecting the basement floor to appear any second, but there were only more wooden steps. How long was this staircase?
“Kipper?”
There was a flat, cold wall on my left, and no guard rail to speak of. I stepped down each step very carefully to maintain my balance, sliding my hand along the wall.
Then the wall disappeared. I flew forward.
***
I woke up lying face-first on rocky floor. My phone was cracked next to me. My mother was crying in my ear. “Ida! Ida! Oh my god! Ida!”
I looked up to see I was not at the bottom of someone’s basement. There were lights all above me. Lanterns. They were illuminating a cavernous, rocky chamber that led to many tunnels with train tracks and wooden carts. I was in the opening of a massive underground mine.
I coughed, and gave out a weak “… what?”
“Ida is that you? Are you… brrzzzzz” My mom’s voice faded.
Before I could reply, I saw the crooked form of a man in tan coveralls, shaking the immobile body of another person in coveralls next to him. In fact, there was a small row of half a dozen miners all slumped against a blasted rock wall. There were bits of granite, wood, rope, and what looked like entrails splattered all throughout.
“Oh the cruelty …” the one, standing miner said. He went from body to body and jostled each of his coworkers. “Must I find you all like this … every time?”
I crawled up to a half-standing pose and tried to see the face of the hunched over survivor.
My heart dropped.
He had no face.
The explosion which must have killed some of friends had also blasted away this man’s entire sternum, neck and skull. The miner wasn’t hunched over or leaning away with his head, he just simply … had no head.
And up there, floating right in the middle of where his face should be, were a set of eyeballs, glistening under the yellow lights.
The eyes turned to me. “Oh. Why hello. Hello there.”
Terrified, I rose to complete standing and opened both my palms in a show of total deference. “I don’t know. I don’t know who you are or what this is.”
The headless miner walked toward me. I noticed he carried a pickaxe in his right arm. He gestured with his left to where his ear would be.
“I’m sorry I can’t hear you. Had an accident.”
Despite him having no head, his voice still came from where his mouth would be. There was an earnestness in his speech, it might have had something to do with his very old-timey accent, but I still felt like he was trying to be friendly.
“Another batch of faulty dynamite. Everyone’s dead. But what else is new.”
He brought his left palm to his face, perhaps to wipe away tears, but instead his hand travelled through his nonexistent head to scratch a small portion of his back.
“Been dead for many years I’m afraid. But I’ve kept busy. Been a good man. Worked very hard for the boss upstairs.”
He gestured upwards with the pickaxe. I looked up, and out in the distance, I saw a large, ancient, set of wooden stairs that I must have fallen from. They extended far up into the mine’s ceiling and kept going.
“He’s gotten good ore from me. Good, shining, golden ore. I have a knack for it you see. The same knack that killed me so many years ago. It's probably what’s still keeping me around though.”
He came closer. I could see he had brown irises, with one of the cataracts deteriorating into milky white haze. The eyes stared at me, unblinking.
“Because I’m not done, see. This mine isn’t empty. I know there’s more gold. Much more. And it’s not all for the boss. No, I’m keeping some to myself. Don’t tell him, but I’ve been stashing a large deposit for myself. It can’t all be his of course. It’s my mine after all. Half these tunnels were dug entirely by me. So of course I deserve some. It’s only natural.”
I lifted my hand and pointed at the staircase behind him. I mouthed very big, obvious words. “I have to go back. I’m going back up those stairs.”
He shifted his body. His two eyes turned in the air as if they were still inside an invisible skull. I saw nerve endings at the back undulate and twist.
“Yes, that is the only way up.”
My heart was in my throat. At least I found some form of communication. I gestured to knee height and nervously asked if he had seen a “large, shaggy dog.”
“Ah yes. I’ve seen the pooches. They come down here sometimes. When the booms don’t scare em that is. Hahah.”
I gave a thumbs up. It felt like a ridiculous interaction with a ghost, or zombie or whatever this was, but at least it was working.
“I think I saw his little tail run over that way. They like the smell of the mineral spring.”
I turned behind to see the long tunnel he was pointing at. It was dimly lit by a chain of smaller lanterns.
I thought I saw a flutter of movement, and I would have kept looking further if it wasn’t for my aunt’s voice that suddenly exploded in my ear. “Brrrzt … Ida! If you can hear us, we are calling the police to your location. Help is coming soon! … ”
I winced and stepped back—which saved my life. I just so happened to step right out of the way of a pickaxe. It sparked the ground.
I gasped and stared at the headless miner. His eyes were shimmering with a dark focus, staring directly at mine.
“Oh I’ll help you find the dog. I’ll help you find whatever you want. But I’ll need those clean new eyes of yours first.”
He swung at my head. I ducked. He went for the backswing. I ran.
Stupidly, I ran in the opposite direction of the stairs. I ran straight into the long tunnel lined with dim lanterns.
But I couldn’t turn around. I had no idea how quick he could move. And the speed of his pickaxe felt supernatural.
The tunnel was narrow, and lined with wooden tracks, I had to skip-run-jump over the panels with immense precision to make sure I didn’t trip. Behind me, his voice chased.
“Go ahead. Run. I know where these all lead.”
I ignored the words and kept going. The tunnel bent left, then right, then left again. I ignored several exits before the tunnel spat me out into an open, cavernous room filled with dozens and dozens of minecarts.
I investigated the room for anything useful. A far opposite wall appeared to be the site of the latest digging, loose rock lay everywhere.
There was a small mineshaft holding a chained up cart. And something in the cart shimmered…
It was gold.
And not just ore either. There were bars, coins, medallions, and jewelry. Mrs. Winslow’s bangles were right on top.
I ran to the cart furthest from the entrance and ducked behind it, breathing heavily, coughing from all the dust.
The headless man emerged from the tunnel, pickaxe raised and scanning where I could have hid. “I may not be able to hear you. But I can follow footprints pretty easily hah. I know you’re in here.”
He grabbed the closest minecart available and pushed it into the tunnel entrance. With an immense show of strength, he lifted and dislodged the cart off the track, cramming it sideways, creating a massive obstacle.
I was sealed inside.
Trying to stay absolutely still, I coughed through my teeth. Lungs burning. My mom’s voice came through.
“Brrzzztt… The police should be there! I told them you were in danger! They said they sent a unit over. Maybe they broke down the front door?”
I looked up at the mine shaft next to me. If it did connect to the surface upstairs, this was my only chance.
I gave a couple good yells. “HEEEEELP!!! DOWN HERE!! HELP!”
I don’t know if it did any good, but it was better than nothing. I turned to see if the miner had heard anything.
He hadn't.
The pickaxe tapped and clanged awkwardly around minecart after minecart.
I had a bigger advantage than I thought.
Although the miner had two floating eyeballs, only the left one was really capable of seeing anything.
So I kept my distance and watched where he was going, always staying behind.
As he limped and peered around minecarts, I was able to evade him, move from behind rock piles and other carts, careful not to leave a trail in the rock dust.
It was all going well until I heard a familiar panting.
“Oh look. If it isn’t precious.”
The dog had managed to jump over the miner’s blockade. It must have heard my yells. Surprisingly, Kipper was unafraid of the headless villain, and even approached him to receive pets.
“Now why don’t you go say hello to our other friend here huh? I know she's here somewhere.”
No. Kipper. Please. Don’t.
The dog started sniffing. Within seconds he found my scent. Kipper skipped towards me like Lassie and excitedly licked my face.
“Aww there we are. Now isn’t that a good boy?”
I stood up and stared at the filthy, ash-stained coveralls. Despite the lack of teeth, I could sense a menacing grin where the mouth should be.
He wasn't going to lose sight of me now. I had nowhere to go.
So I did the thing my auntie said worked on all spirits. I fell to my knees and prayed.
“Please. I only came here for work. I’m too young to die. Let me go and I won't tell anyone that you're here.”
He stood over me. Both of his pupils started to quiver. In just a few seconds, his eyes were swimming excitedly within the space of his head.
I took off the only valuable I had. A gold necklace with a miniature version of Christ the Redeemer. A gift I had received as a teen in Rio. I held it out in my shaking hands.
“Please. Take it. Take everything.”
Suddenly both the eyeballs stared forward again, entranced by the gold.
“Well look at that. How generous. How generous of her. We should reward generosity shouldn’t we?”
***
It was hard for me to describe to the police officer how exactly I got out, because I have no idea.
The fiery pain where my eyes used to be overwhelmed my entire reality for hours. All I wanted was for it to stop.
They found me half inside a dumbwaiter bleeding to death from the gouges in my face.
I was taken to the hospital, where I would spend the next four weeks recovering.
The police did not in fact storm the house like my mom said. They waited outside for the homeowner to return. But when they heard my screams coming from the top floor, they broke the back door and eventually came to my rescue.
I’m told they did a thorough investigation but could not find any of the things I described.
The basement door led into a regular basement. It was filled with old furniture, unused decor, and paint cans. No Mine.
The dumbwaiter was also just a dumbwaiter. It wasn’t some mine shaft, and it didn’t lead any deeper than the basement. Nothing special.
There were definitely hot springs close by, but nothing close enough to damage Mr. Winslow's property. And there was an old, depleted gold mine not far away either, but it was completely abandoned, closed off, and nowhere near as big as the one I had described.
***
The police, paramedics and doctors all thought my story was some hallucination. That I had been on drugs or had some mental breakdown (even though they couldn’t find anything in me other than small traces of weed.)
Thankfully, my mother and aunt believed me. They believed every word. My aunt is the one who encouraged me to make this post, so others could hear my story.
I know it was real.
I know it was.
And Mr. Winslow is fully aware of the mine’s existence.
Putting the dots together, I realized it was likely the source of his wealth. Winslow had some control over that one headless miner down there.
Did Winslow intentionally entrap me? Was he trying to get the miner a new set of eyes? Or was it all an unfortunate accident?
I might never know.
But what I do know is that Mr. Winslow has been paying for our rent ever since the accident.
He feels “terrible about the situation” and “can’t possibly imagine” what I’ve been through.
But he knows what happened.
He knows if I really pushed, If I really forced the police, or some private investigator to look into it—they would uncover something awful. Something really really bad.
“Anything you need. Anything at all. I will cover it, Ida.” He said. “You helped me out, protected my dogs, and I will never forget it.”
He’s offered to pay for the rest of my University schooling. And once my face heals up, he’s even offered to cover for some very expensive, experimental eye-transplant. We’ll see how that goes.
“You and your family will live comfortably from now on. You’ll want for nothing. Tell me exactly what you need, And you’ll get it.”
So I told him I'd like my necklace back. It was an heirloom. I said I lost it somewhere in his house.
A few days later, he returned with the usual smug, half-crooked smirk in his voice. He brought the necklace back in a box, pretending he had bought me a new one. Except it felt exactly like my old one.
It was all shined up, completely buffed of scratches, but it weighed the same. It was my old one for sure.
When my mom saw it she asked, “did it always have it? This dedication?”
As far as I remembered, the backside of the tiny Christ the Redeemer was always plain. I fingered its shape in my hands.
“What dedication?”
The new little divots caught my nails. There was writing that was definitely not there before.
My mom described it as a curly, serif font. Like a gift for a lover.
~ You’re an angel ~
~ W ~