Speaker 1: I've been a frogger since I was thirteen. At this point,
a professional squatter had started as survival, but over time
it became something else. I don't do it for food
or shelter anymore. I'd do it because it makes my
pulse race. I do it because slipping between cracks of
someone's life without them ever knowing I was there, feels
like proof that I existed. People think of squatters as
junkies or drifters, but froggers were different. We'd become ghosts
in pristine houses, ghosts with beating hearts, watching the living
world from air vents and crawl spaces. There's a whole
online scene buried. You wouldn't stumble across us by accident.
You'd have to be broken in just the right shape.
Once you're in, you're in. And I've been doing this
longer than almost anyone else. I've lived in mansions, farmhouses, penthouses,
doomsday bunkers. I've crawled on the floorboards while families ate
breakfast above me. I've watched people sleep from the shadows
of their closets. I've held my breath for hours in
insulation that made my skin bleed. There are contests, longest
stay undetected, most dangerous infiltration, most expensive home, most absurd
hiding place. I've won all of them at least once.
They treat me like a legend. Some of them even
message me for advice. There's a thread with my name
pinned to the top of the forum. I post tips, photos, maps, audiophiles.
I teach them how to disappear in plain sight, how
to become nothing and survive inside someone else's everything. Before
all of that, I was a kid no one wanted.
My mom dropped me at a fire station when I
was a baby, a bundle in a duffel bag. I
grew up in orphanages that smelled of bleach and sadness.
Passed between foster homes like a borrowed jacket. Every new
house came with rules, slaps, broken promises. Some of them
starved me, some locked me in closets. I ran away
from all that when I was nine, took a bus
as far as I could afford, then walked. I stole food,
snuck into unlocked garages, lived in empty homes under renovation.
Then I got better, started hiding in homes that weren't empty.
I watched and listened learned habits and schedules. I found
silence and made it my armor. That's when it changed
from survival to skill, then from skill to instinct, then obsession.
I couldn't stop, even when I didn't need to any more.
I got jobs, eventually did odd work. I started making
enough to rent a place of my own if I
ever wanted it, but I never did. I found the
ranch by accident, dragging through satellite images one night while
riding a post job high. I just finished the clean
exit from a two week infiltration in Boulder, wealthy, newlywed.
As always, I didn't take anything, didn't leave a single sign.
That's what separates froggers from burglars. We're not thieves. I
kept rolling aimlessly, waiting for my drinline to settle. Then
I saw it, a rectangular smudge of green in the
middle of Utah's dry lands. Nothing around it for miles
but dust and sand, all scorched and crumbling. It was
a lost square of impossible color, a full orchard, from
the looks of it, a ranch house with a wrap
around porch. It logged perfect. I pulled it into my
files and started scanning deeper. No records in the County
Assessor's database. I grasp referenced it on four different mapping services.
Same thing. I took a screenshot, logged into the forum,
and posted it under the title anyone tried this place?
The replies came fast. What is that a new movie
set in the middle of nowhere? No thanks, Na man.
Those rural folks don't play ye, don't mess with French families.
Two isolated. If they catch you, they'll bury you in
the back pasture. People have their own guns. They'll shoot first,
ask later if you're lockeye. I waited before replying. Eventually,
some one tagged me directly, don't even think about it.
You're good, but that's suicide. Another added, he won't do it,
he knows better. I stared at that line for a while.
Could have closed the tab, gone to sleep, and found
a safer target, but the green rectangle sat in my
mind like a loaded chamber. They thought I wouldn't do it.
That's why I packed my kit the next morning and
started walking east. I was going to Utah. I traveled light.
Everything I needed fit into a canvas pack that had
been stitched and re stitched too many times to count.
My boots were cracked at the seams, souls reenforced with
glue and strips of tire rubber. I stuck the low
ground and outcroppings during the day, walked at dusk, and
slept under shrubs when I couldn't see a head any more.
It took two full days to cross the desolate stretch
leading to the ranch. The air was dry enough to
strip moisture from your lungs, and the ground swallowed footprints
within minutes. When I finally saw it, it felt like
my mind had been tricked. One moment I was looking
out across endless dead nothing, and the next I saw
color bleeding through the heat. Shimmers grass, tall corn, a
patch of orchard trees bearing fruit, rows of cabbage, and beans.
All of it nestled inside a perfect square of green
that pulsed with life. At its center stood a house
with a wide porch and pale wooden siding. There was
a sharp border at the edge of it, a soft
dent in the ground. It was literally one step of
sand then grass. I stopped at that line and crouched down,
pressed my hand to the ground. The dirt under my
palm felt warm and faintly alive. If that's the right
word for it. I brushed aside a patch of grass
and saw that the line was definitely not natural. There
was something buried just beneath the surface, chalk or salt
or ash I couldn't tell. Formed a thin gray barrier
running through the soil, clean as a ruler line. I
stepped over it. The air smelled different. Immediately, the temperature
dropped by at least ten degrees. My skin stopped burning.
I should have turned back right then, but I kept walking.
I found a good vantage point behind a stone wall
that had collapsed on its western edge. The ranch house
sat two hundred yards ahead, wrapped in a horseshoe of
crops and animal pens. The fields stretched out behind it,
and from where I crouched, I could see a set
of cattle lowering near a feeding trough. The entire scene
looked pulled from a dream, something from a calendar photo
or an old oil painting. The family appeared on the
porch just before sunset first came. The father, broad shouldered
and tan, wiping his hands with a stained rag. His
wife followed, carrying a tray of glasses and a picture.
Three children bounded after her, each under ten. They were
laughing as they ran down the porch steps, chasing a
small dog that darted through the grass. They moved in
a kind of grace I hadn't seen in a long time.
Whatever their lives were, they didn't wear the weight of them.
I was jealous. I watched them eat dinner outside, grilling
over a fire pit near the barn. They passed food
back and forth. The sun eventually dipped low, casting amber
light over the field. It was a perfect postcard, every
detail framed by golden haze. I waited until the sky
turned black and the lights in the house started going
out one by one. Then I moved. I crouched low
and moved fast across the edge of the property. Every
footstep I made I would make sure to stop, wipe
it clean so it doesn't leave a print, and stayed
out of open ground, weaving through trees and parked equipment
until I reached the east side of the house. I
waited again, pressing my back to the cool wood siding,
listening for footsteps or voices. There was nothing. I took
one last look at the darkness behind me, then slipped
around the back of the house and tested the windows.
One of them was unlocked, and I was in the
house was old, but not falling apart. Every piece of
it had been cared for, yet nothing had been modernized.
The floors were polished wood. The walls were dark timber,
thick and slightly walked with age. Shelves lined the corners,
each one stacked with books, jars, and figurines. The art
and the walls wasn't the kind you'd find that hobby
stores or Sunday school. Most of it was hand carved
or painted Demons and angels fighting, horned men, circles of
fire and bone, symbols arranged in patterns I had never
seen before. Most of it looked Christian or some weird
denomination of Christianity. Some of the figures looked human, but
wrong in ways I couldn't explain. One piece near the
staircase showed a figure kneeling in front of a goated
head man with his hands open. Weird religious depictions weren't
rare roll homes, but man, it was a shocker to see.
Every time I moved past it and opened the refrigerator,
I took my time. I had done this hundreds of
times before I knew how to take without drawing attention.
I broke off small pieces from a wedge of cheese,
sipped just enough milk to cool my throat, and took
a spoonful of something sweet from a glass jar. I
wiped the edges of the containers with my shirt and
placed them exactly where I had found them. Once I
was sure the kitchen had no cameras or alarm systems,
I scouted the rest of the ground floor. It was
a wide open layout, no hallways. The living room opened
directly into the kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a
hallway led to a laundry room and what looked like
a study. A staircase and the fire end curled upward
toward the second floor. I found my hiding spot behind
a false panel in a storage closet near the laundry room.
Some one had remodeled this part of the house recently.
The panel didn't sit flush with the wall. I pried
it loose with a butter knife and found a gap
between the inner wall and the original frame. It wasn't spacious,
but I had slept in worse. I tucked my pack
into the corner, lay back and steadied my breathing. Every
creak of the house made me flinch, but nothing stirred.
I slept in short intervals, waking often to listen. The
next morning, I waited unto the family left the house.
I heard the kids talking through the walls, their voices
muffled and distant. At one point, the mother said they
needed to find some fresh meat soon. The father grunted
something in reply. One of the children asked if they
were going to the usual spot. The mother said no,
they needed something stronger this time. I assumed they were
talking about live stock, maybe venison, something rural and bloody.
The house was larger than it looked from the outside,
two full floors. I started by mapping the layout in
my head. The kids stayed on the bottom level, tucked
into two small rooms near the kitchen. The parents slept
above them, in a spacious master bedroom that had a
double balcony. There was a third room on the second floor,
locked from the outside. I couldn't figure out what was inside,
but the door had been nailed shut and covered with
a faded wall tapestry. One night, while checking around for
a new hiding spot, I noticed the small in dentation
on the rug in the kitchen. When I lifted it,
I found the edge of a small wooden hatch maybe
two feet wide, with a thin brass handle and four
nails holding it shut. A narrow wooden staircase led down
into darkness. The air rising from the opening was cold
and dry, and he carried that same strange scent I
had noticed when I first entered the house, dampness mixed
with something ancient and faintly sweet. No one had mentioned
this space in the time I've been there. So far,
I hadn't heard anyone go down there either. If I
could make that space my own, I could stay here
as long as I wanted. I could vanish beneath the
house and live for months without a single footprint. If
they never used it, it was mine. Close the hatch
and pulled the cabin at back into place, pressing the
rug down to hide the seam. All I had to
do was wait for the right time to move in.
If I did now, there was no guarantee the stairs
leading down wouldn't creak and groan. I had to wait.
Two mornings later, I heard the mother mention the same
thing again. I had slipped out of my hiding spot
before dawn, and crowds just behind the half open door
to the pantry. The kids are in the kitchen eating breakfast,
while the parents moved around the counter packing something into
canvas bags. We'll need to be gone at least a
full day this time, the mother said, maybe two. If
we can't find any on the low trails, we'll go further.
Should we take all three? The father asked no, She said,
just the deep one. The others are too thin. The
land won't respond. I didn't know what they were talking about.
One of the kids asked if he could stay up
late while they were gone. The mother gave him permission,
then leaned in and kissed the top of his head.
The other two whined about having to feed the goats
and prep the drying racks. Again. We'll bring back fresh meat.
Be patient, the kids groaned in unison. They were leaving.
That meant the house would be empty. I waited. Once
the house was quiet and I was sure that the
parents had gone, I slipped from the wall panel and
crossed through the kitchen barefoot, stepping carefully to avoid the
boards that creaked. I peeled back the rug and exposed
the hatch and lifted without a sad. I didn't hesitate.
I stepped into the hole and pulled the hatch closed
above me. The stairs groaned, but not too loudly. My
shoulders scraped both walls as I descended, and the temperature
dropped with every step. The smell hit me halfway down.
Iron and soil was thick in the air, clinging to
the roof of my mouth. When I reached the bottom,
I stood in pitch black and listened. My breathing echoed
faintly off stone. I pulled a flashlight from my belt,
wrapped the lens in cloth to dim it, and clicked
it on. The basement was fairly large, rough stone walls
braced with timber hooks hung from overhead beams, rusted chains
dangling beside them, some old fibers stuck to the lynx.
The floor was staining in regular patches. I moved slowly,
casting the light across the space. There were animal bones
along the far wall, stacked in a bin, beside what
looked like a salt block, and several glass jars filled
with dark liquid. I start myself before the anxiety got
too loud. My first instinct was to run. I don't
know why. Maybe it was the smell, or the cold,
or the way the silence bent around me. My legs twitched,
ready to sprint up the stairs. But then the voice
in my head, the one I've been sharpening for years,
kicked in. Calm down, use your eyes. You've seen butchering
rooms before, man farmers put meat and then dry it.
That's probably what they used the basement for. Besides, this
family had done nothing out of the ordinary in the
time I've stayed here. The weirdest thing about them was
the religious stuff around the house, and that wasn't even
the weirdest thing I've seen in homes in my life.
I made my way to the far corner and checked around.
There was no way out but the stairs, but the
corner itself had just enough shadow, and a few crates
blocked direct line of sight from the center of the room.
I pulled them aside, stepped down, and wrapped myself in
the old canvas drop cloth I had stashed in my pack.
Just before I dozed, I heard the basement hatch open,
a faint click, then the groan of old hinges. My
eyes snapped open, and my breath locked my chest. I
twisted beneath the canvas and pressed my face between two
wooden slats. The stairs creaked one step at a time.
Soft voices followed four sets of feet. I angered my
flashlight toward the floor and watched their shadows stretch into
the room. The first two were the parents. I recognized
their outlines immediately. The man walked ahead, carrying something heavy
draped across his shoulders and looked to be a person.
The woman followed with a bundle tucked under one arm.
Behind them came the two others, robed, their faces completely hidden.
The man stepped into the center of the basement and
signaled for what seemed to be his companion to do something.
He took a table that was near them and dragged
it to the center of the basement. The other man
laid the burden across the table. I could see it now.
It was a woman. He sat down, and she seemed
to be unconscious. Her limbs hung limp, her hair had
been matted with sweat, and a stomach bulged beneath her dress.
Was she pregnant? I felt my stomach lurch. Her chest
moved shallowly, so she was still breathing at least. The
robed men stepped fully into view, and I got my
first proper look at them. Their robes were deep black
made from something thick and textured, and each one was
stitched from the neck to ankle, without a single seam visible.
Around their hems and sleeves. Cymbals had been embroidered in
a sickly off white thread. One of the row figures
produced a long piece of bone, sharpened to a fine point,
and dipped it into one of the dark glass jars.
He bent low and began tracing a perfect circle in
the dust, followed by a pentagram at his center. The
lines gleamed wetly, and from the way the lantern caught them,
I realized he was using blood. It dragged across the
stone in thick strokes, bleeding into the grooves carved into
the floor itself. The other robed figure stood by the table,
whispering something low. As the father and mother adjusted the
woman's position, Her stomach rose in a full, tight curve.
She was heavily pregnant, close to term. She remained unconscious.
The table they placed her on was an old butcher's slab,
covered in scars and grooves, the grain of the wood
blackened and glossy from years of use. The father stepped
back as the robed man finished the pentagram. The lines
met closed, and the robed man gave a nod. She
is strong, one of them, said, She'll hold said the other.
The mother moved to the far corner and opened a
wooden crate. She produced a long curved dagger wrapped in
red cloth and handed it to her husband. He took
it without a word and stepped up to the table.
He leaned in and placed the hand on the woman's forehead,
brushing her hair aside, like he was saying goodbye. Then
he placed the blade into a chest and drove it
straight through her sternum. Her eyes snapped open. She didn't scream,
but her mouth twisted as her hand seized at the
edge of the table. Her back arched and her legs
kicked against the slab. A choking sound rasped from her throat.
Blood welled up around the handle, thick and dark, soaking
through a dress and pulling across the pentagram un eather.
She convulsed once more, then went still. The basement fell
into silence for several long seconds. The father stepped away
from the body and wiped the blade against his sleeve,
folding it again in a red cloth as if it
were a sacred object. The two robed men began chanting
something in a gutural language made of deep clerks and
harsh consonants that didn't resemble anything I had ever heard.
The mother ascended the stairs without explanation and vanished through
the hatch. She returned several minutes later, cradling something in
both arms. At first I thought it was a bundle
of fabric, or maybe an animal, but then I saw
it was a severed goat's head, freshly taken. Blood still
dripped from its neck and darkened a blouse. As she came,
bread had across the room with care, as though presenting
her newborn. The goat's eyes were milky and half closed,
and his tongue lolled out between its teeth. One of
the roped men retrieved a short sow and placed it
on the table. The father held the woman's body steady
while the mother guided the blade. It took several strokes.
Her neck split slowly vertebray, crunching as the saw made
contact with bone. I could barely watch. Her head came
loose with a wet snap, and the mother lifted it free,
laying it in a clay bowl beside the table. Then
they placed the goat's head on the open neck, seating
it awkwardly. Blood ran from the seam, soaking the pentagram. Again.
He looked so grotesque and wrong. I'd use every ounce
of willpower to not wretch, an to throw up. It
sat too high, its sizes off by just enough to
make the body beneath it seem small. The mouth twitched,
and for a moment I thought I had imagined it.
The mother and father began to spread salt in a
precise pattern along the edges of the circle. Every few seconds,
they paused, muttered a word, and dropped small metal tokens, coins, rings,
a gear, a broken key. The cymbals carved on the
floor flared dimly, then pulsed again brighter. The temperature shifted
around me, dropping to freezing in seconds. My teeth clenched
as I wrapped my arms around my chest. The table
began to tremble. Then the body twitched, first the legs,
then the arms, then the fingers. One foot kicked, then
the other. The abdomen clenched once twice, then swelled unnaturally.
The goat head rose slightly, its mouth opened and hung
From deep within it came a sound I'd never heard repeated,
since it was low and wet, a gurgling croak that
built into a shuddering intake of breath. It rose upright,
arms rigid at its sides, and then it spoke, why
have you summoned me? One of the figures stepped forward,
arms outstretched in reverence, and bowed low before answering, The
crops have dulled, the ground has dried. The air takes
more than it gives. We need your blessing. We need
the land to breathe again. The goat head twisted slightly
to the side and hovered that way for several seconds,
as if considering their words. Then its arms jerked upward,
bone cracking at the shoulders, and its hands snapped open.
The entire table rattled beneath it. A long growl rose
from his chest and deepened into a gurgling scream, its
volume climbing until it filled every corner of the basement.
One of the jars near the altar cracked. The father
staggered back and caught himself on a crate, his face pale.
The mother clutched the silver charm that had been hanging
around her neck. The creature slammed its hands down on
the table, splintering one of the legs. It bared its
teeth and hissed through clenched jaws. His voice ret turned
less articular. You have wasted blood. I will not take
our offerings in such circumstance. The robed men exchanged the glance.
Something disturbed it. One said, we must abandon this sight
for twenty four hours, let it rest that the lines reset.
The other said, we will stay with you at your ranch.
He said, looking over at the man and woman. When
we return here, we cleanse every inch of this basement,
every crack, every hiding place. It will all be scrubbed.
They began collecting their tools in silence. The creature hissed
again and pressed its hands against the inside of the pentagram,
testing it. The salt still held. I saw one green
tremble at the edge and roll across the line. A
faint spark flared from the ground, and the creature recoiled,
return prepared, it said. They didn't speak again. One by
one they ascended the stairs. The hatch creaked shut behind them.
The sound of metal locks sliding into place hit first,
then the dragging of something heavy across the top of
the hatch, A power drill whined. The seal was thorough.
They weren't just closing it, they were barricading it, ceiling
the basement shut from the outside world, with no intention
of returning until they believed it was safe. I sat
frozen beneath the crates. My back was damp and clung
to the wall. Each bang above me, he sent a
new spike of dread through my chest. I felt like
I'd just been buried alive. I closed my eyes and
buried my head against my knees, counting seconds in my
head to keep from losing it. Then it spoke to me.
I know you're here. The voice came softer this time.
I smelled you as soon as I came. I tried
to keep my breath quiet enough to vanish into the walls.
You watched it, It said, you've been watching for days.
I stayed still, but every part of me burned with panic.
I didn't know if he could see me, or if
it only sensed me. He let out a deep, slow
breath that filled the basement, and like steam rolling out
of a furnace. You and I we are the same.
I stayed curled behind the crates, with my body locked
in place, listening as The creature shifted on the table.
His voice filled the room again, drawing out each syllable.
You are small but capable. I clenched my jaw and
tried to ignore it. But my arms are already starting
to tremble. My legs had gone numb. I didn't know
how long I could keep this up. The voice drifted closer.
I know what you desire. I wanted to yell back,
to tell it to shut up, but I couldn't summon
the courage. You want to leave, it continued. They will
not let you. They will come back tomorrow with fire
and oil. They will burn the walls, they will tear
the floors apart. They will find you. I let the
thought pass through me. It wasn't hard to imagine if
they had gone this far, then finding a frogger in
their basement would only make their work easier. I would
become another ingredient. But I can help you leave. The
words stopped my breath. Break the salt only a single line.
Then we shake hands. That is all I help you,
it said, And you help me. One wish, That is
the price one. I didn't answer. You do not have
to die here, it said. I pressed my fingers to
the floor. I counted my options and found none. If
I stayed, I would be found. If I ran, I
would be caught. If I waited, I would be part
of the next ritual. I stepped out from behind the
crate and walked toward the table. It crouched low on
the table, now knees folded beneath it, one hand resting
on the wood and the other stretched toward me with
its palm open. His head followed my movement without turning,
but his presence bore down on me with unbearable weight.
I approached slowly, my eyes and the edge of the
salt line. The grain shimmered slightly as I neared. You
are close, it said, finish shit. I stepped forward and
used the tip of my boot to break the smallest
section of the circle. The salt scattered outward. The creature
rose to its full height in a single motion, limbs
unfolding with perfect fluidity. It stepped over the line and
stood before me, towering not with bulk but with form.
The dress it wore hung in tatters, soaked through with
blood that had dried in layered streaks. The goat's head
stared straight through me, its hands still hung in the air.
I reached forward and tuck it. The moment we touched,
the entire room shivered. The ceiling cracked once above us.
A gust of wind passed through the room. The creature
nodded once, then spoke. Turn around. For a second. I
thought this would be it. This was the part where
I would rip me in half, or drive his fingers
into my skull, or whisper something into my ear that
would collapse my mind. I thought it would betray the deal,
twist it, drag me down into whatever hell it had
it come from. But I turned around and accepted my fate.
After a while of nothing, I turned back and it
was gone. Then I heard it, wood splintering, a scream,
sharp and short. I crouched and crept toward the stairs
step lightly to avoid the cracked boards. Another crash followed,
then a sound that turned my blood cold. It was
wet and sudden, like someone tearing a roast from the
bone with bare hands. A gurgling cry ran out, followed
by a thud that shug dust loose from the ceiling beams.
Some One else yelled a deeper voice, this time angry,
cut off by a second impact that made the floor groan.
I reached the top of the stairs and pressed my
ear to the hatch. Muffled movement echoed above me. I
eased the latch open. Whatever had been used to barricade
it was gone. I slipped through the opening and rose
to my feet. In the kitchen, the light was dim
fed only by the flicker of lanterns that swung in
the hallway. A smell hit me before I saw anything,
blood warm enough to coat the air. I moved through
the living room and crouched behind the banister near the
front entryway. Beyond the corner, I saw the creature. The
flesh was pale and glistening with sweat and blood. Veins
pushed against the skin as if something large writhed beneath
the surface. His torso swelled unnaturally with each breath, and
the skin around its belly stretched so tight I could
see the outline of something shifting inside. The goat had
remained fixed above it, all still slight, jawed, and expressionless.
The air around it vibrated from the growling sound rising
from its throat. One of the roped men, in clear desperation,
charged forward with a blade drawn from his belt, but
the creature swatted him aside with one arm, shattering his
jaw and throwing him into the far wall. His body
hit the bugshelf and slid down, crumpled and twitching. The
other raised his hands and began chanting. The creature lunged forward,
driving its fingers through his stomach. They punched through his
robes and into his flesh with ease. He buckled around them,
and the chanting died in his throat as he collapsed,
folded in half. The mother and father tried to run.
The father was too slow, however, so he grabbed a
shotgun from behind the door and fired once. The blast
tore through the creature's shoulder, exposing raw muscle, but it
didn't flinch, It didn't bleed. The flesh folded back together
as if nothing had happened. Across the room in two
lurching strides, and tackled him against the wall. I heard
the bone crack before he even screamed. The creature pinned
him there and pulled the gun from his hands, pushed
its face into his neck, and bit down. The mother
suffered a similar fate. I didn't wait for my turn.
I ran through the side door, out across the field
and toward the edge of the property. My legs burned
and my lungs pulled cold air that stung my chest.
The sky above me swirled with smoke and stars. The
property lion came into view ahead of me. Grasped topped,
and sand began, just as it had the night I arrived.
My body slammed into something solid and invisible. It knocked
me back flat on to the ground. I gasped, rolled
on to my knees, and tried again. I clawed forward
and lunged with my shoulder, but the wall held. There
was no sign of what was stopping me, just empty
air with a density of steel. I beat my fists
against it. I kicked it. I even screamed at it,
hoping something would shift. Nothing did. Behind me, it was coming, galloping,
hands and feet, pounding the dirt frantically. I turned and
saw it charge through the dark, arms bent, mouth wide,
Its goat face stared directly ahead. Those empty sockets locked
onto mine. Its legs kicked up dirt as it closed
the distance. I braced myself and shut my eyes, but
it stopped inches in front of me. Its breath was
harsh and fast. I felt the warmth of it on
my skin. I opened my eyes and saw the goat
head tilted downward, close enough that I could see the
crusted blood dried unto the hairs around its mouth. It
just stared. Then it sat down in the dirt, folded
its arms over its knees, and whispered one sentence, my wish.
It set back, slowly, folding its legs beneath itself, arms
resting on its thighs, shoulders heaving with slow breath. The
goat's head tilted down toward the earth, and the body
underneath began to sag, Muscles quivering beneath us, stretched sweat
slick skin of the pregnant woman's frame. My wish is this,
you must raise my kin. I didn't understand what it meant.
At first. The words registered, but the meaning floated beyond them.
The creature lowered itself further into the dirt and wrapped
its arms around its abdomen. The flesh swelled and pulsed,
shifting in thick waves as something began moving inside. It
gritted its teeth and bent forward, nails dragging through the
earth beneath it. I watched the belly twitch and lurch,
muscles contorting as if something larger than the frame of
the woman's body had ever been meant to contain began
forcing itself free. It whimpered once, a low rasp torn
through clenched teeth, then braced itself on one arm and
reached between its legs with the other. Blood poured out
under the grass, soaking the soil beneath it. The stench
filled the air. I wanted to look away, but I
was locked in place. The body convulsed once more, and
then something slipped free and hid the ground with a wet,
muted slap. I was small, no larger than a toddler.
Its body was covered in coarse black hair and gray skin.
Its limbs were jointed like a person's, but longer and hairer.
Bones jotted out at odd angles, and from its back
two leathery wings unfolded and stretched outward with a slow
fluttering pulse. Its head was elongated and bent forward, nose
flat and wide, eyes already open. It blinked once, then
rolled on to its back and looked up at me.
I understood then what I needed to do, so I
rushed forward, grabbed it by the torso, and hurled it
down against the dirt with everything I had. It bounced once,
let out a short yelp, and rolled to its side.
I turned found a smooth rock about the size of
a football near the edge of the line, and raised
it above my head. My arms trembled from the weight,
from the panic, from the surge of hatred I didn't
even know I could feel. I brought the rock down
on its skull once, twice, three times. It giggled. Then
it looked up at me and said, dad, there. I
dropped the rock and stumbled back, nearly falling. I wanted
to scream, but nothing came out. It reached one hand
toward me, fingers splayed, smiling. I don't remember walking back
to the ranch. I must have been in shock. My
body moved, but I didn't guide it. My arms clutched
the thing to my chest. It rested against me and
pressed its head beneath my chin, breathing slow instead humming
to itself. Its small hands gripped the collar of my
shirt with frightening strength. I walked into the house, expecting
to see blood, but there was nothing there. The hallway
rug had no stains, no tears. I passed through the
rooms in disbelief, searching for any trace of what had happened.
There was none. The fireplace glowed with a faint bed
of coals, as though someone had stoked it an hour ago.
I climbed the stairs, still holding the creature to my chest.
Its eyes were closed. It smiled in its sleep. In
the master bedroom, the bed was made, the curtains are open.
Sunlight washed through the room in slow golden waves. I
stood in the doorway with my hands trembling and my
knees ready to buckle. The windmill outside turned slowly in
the breeze, casting long shadows across the fields, and I
understood then that I wasn't going anywhere. I tried to
kill it again during the first night, after returning to
the house and wandering through room after room that had
been white clean of blood and memory, I laid it
down on the kitchen floor and grabbed the heaviest butcher
knife I could find. I raised it over its chest,
two hands on the grip, and stared at the pail
pulsing skin between its ribs. Its chest rose and fell slowly.
It looked asleep, though its eyes were open. I brought
the knife down with everything I had. The blade, hid
the skin and stopped as if striking cured leather. I
pressed harder. It didn't pierce. It didn't even leave a scratch.
Her thing blinked once, reaching up with a tiny hand
and tapped the edge of the knife like it was curious.
Then it laughed, a small imitation of human joy that
sent a chill down the length of my spine. I
dropped the knife and stumbled backward. It rolled on to
its side and cooed, dragging itself across the floor. Later
that night I found the father's gun. The shells were
still in a wooden box beside it, organized by caliber.
I loaded it round and pressed it to the side
of the thing's head while it napped in a bundle
of blankets. I pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. I opened
the chamber and checked the bullet was clean. I reloaded,
tried again, click nothing. I pointed it at my own
temple and fired. There was a flash and a crack,
and then everything went black. I woke up on the
porch with a creature sitting beside me, giggling again. My
ears rang. I checked for blood and found none. The
bullet was lodged in the wood beneath my seat. I
tried again. This time I aimed at my chest. The
fire bloomed through my ribs and dropped to my knees.
I passed out, choking at my own breath. I woke
up in bed, tucked beneath a wall blanket. The creature
stood by the window, humming to itself, staring out of
the field. The gun rested on the night stand with
a safety on. I couldn't take the sound of its
laugh anymore. I waited until noon, when the sun was highest,
and climbed up the windmill. It wasn't tall, but it
stood far enough above the property that I could see everything.
The land rolled out in perfect symmetry. Everything in this
place was a symbol, from the fences to the paths.
I saw it clearly from above. The windmill stood at
the center each plot of land, each structure, each buried
mark and etching in the stone, had been placed to
match the design of a vast, incomprehensible symbol. I laughed,
I don't know why. I think I lost something in
that moment, something important. I climbed to the edge, spread
my arms and jumped. The fall should have shattered my
legs and broken my spine, but the impact felt like
hitting a warm mattress. I bounced once and rolled through
the dirt. My limbs ached, but nothing snapped. The creature
watched from the fence. It clapped twice, like I had
done something clever. Time started to rot. I stopped counting days.
I would wake up and find the creature'd move the furniture,
arrange plates and circles on the floor, place books in
spirals across the kitchen tiles. It mimics speech and movement.
It watched me eat and copied me, though it never
needed food. I never saw it sleep for long. Sometimes
it stood in the hallway and stared at the ceiling
for hours. It smiled more. Its teeth changed, The front
row straightened, the gums pinkened. The texture of its skin
began to smooth. The wings on its back folded down
and slowly receded. Its fingers shortened, its gate adjusted. It
stooded me when I moved, and copied me without hesitation.
At some point I recalled my old frogging community. I
silently prayed they'd notice my absence and maybe someone would
come to this ranch and rescue me. But nobody came.
I tried to run, I tried to walk, into the
woods and keep going. I hit the barrier again. I
circled the entire perimeter for days. The invisible wall was absolute.
It never stopped following me either. Some days later, something happened.
The sky was clear, the stars flickered in slow spirals.
I sat on the porch, staring at the dark, holding
an empty cup. My fingers ached my back. I started
to curve. My hair had thinned. I hadn't aged normally,
but I hadn't stayed the same either. My body was changing.
Then I felt it. A heat rose from behind me,
soft and warm, followed by the faint creak of wood
beneath careful steps. I turned and saw it standing in
the doorway. It wasn't the unholy demon spawn anymore. It
was human. It was morphed. Its features were perfect, Its
skin was clean, Its hair was dark and soft, combed
and parted. It wore simple clothes, a linen shirt, but
its eyes still carried the same smoke. Behind the pupils,
a swirl of faint gray fog moved slowly, and on
its forehead, just below the hair line, a small circular
mark glowed faintly. It stepped forward and sat across from me.
Then it reached forward, touched my hand and said thank you.