Speaker 1: My home town of Cedar Creek, Colorado, had a woman
who every one loved to hate. Her name was Miss Gatlin,
and she was both my elementary school's janitor and the
scapegoat for all unfortunate events around our town. The Cedar
Creek elderly despised her for having a son out of wedlock,
and the town parents scorned her for giving set son
too much freedom, a parenting style which had supposedly led
to his death at the hands of our town's eponymous river.
As for the children of Cedar Creek, we didn't care
at all about social conventions or parental negligence, but we
all agreed that Miss Gatlin was an ugly lady, and
that was enough to warrant our cruelty. My best friend
at the time was a curly headed Menaceter society named Isaac,
who by fifth grade had established himself as a ringleader
amongst the neighborhood boys. He did his best to inconvenience
Miss Gatlin, though his pranks did little to rattle her.
If we spread rumors about a poor hygiene just within earshot,
Miss Gatlin didn't bat an eye if we released bugs
inside a janitorial closet, she'd calmly sweep them outside. If
we stuffed rotten food inside a locker, she'd clean it
out quietly and without complaint. Our usual tricks never worked
on Miss Gatlin, and all of us unimaginative kids were
stunted by how to best a woman whose job it
was to clean up messes of all kinds. In my
last year of primary school, Hannaka fell a week and
a half before we were dismissed for winter break. All
of the Jewish children thoroughly enjoyed showing off their gifts
to the rest of us, who had to wait an
eternity for our presence. Thanks to impossible spy kids and
totally spies, every kid in Cedar Creek was obsessed with espionage,
so Isaac's gift of a spy tech kit for kids
made him even more popular than usual. Most of the
kit was cheap plastic junk, but there was a small
spy radio that seemed very well manufactured. It consisted of
an earpiece and a button sized microphone that was supposedly
capable of transmitting audio up to a radius of five miles. Isaac, myself,
and the rest of our crew spent most of the
week before winter break, running around town and testing the
capabilities of the device. The audio quality was surprisingly good,
although the earpiece of microphone could only be separated for
about three miles before the sound became too distorted to understand.
It was a novel concept for a few days, but
after a while we grew bored of playing walkie talkie.
Isaac wanted to use it for its intended purpose, surveillance,
and he had the perfect target in mind. On the
last day before winter break, Isaac and I glued the
button sized device to the back of an old brooch
we had found in his sister's jewelry box. We covered
it up with a strip of velvet and then glued
on the pin and catch, and by the time we
were done, you couldn't tell anything was amiss. We put
it in a small white box, which we put in
my backpack for later. We determined that I would be
the one to deliver it, given Isaac's reputation as a prankster.
After school, I found Miss Gatlin in the staff break room.
She barely looked at me. As I walked in the room,
I noticed along the far wall of the break room
a wall of cubbies, each one marked with the name
of a staff member. All of them were filled with
gifts and letters, presumably from parents or other employees at
the school. All of them, that is, except one. You
can't be in here, kid, miss Catlin said to me
in a gruff voice. I know. I saw my backpack
onto my stomach and fished around for the box. It
had gotten a little banged up in my bag, but
I figured she wouldn't really care. I procured it and
held it out to her. But I wanted to give
you this before the break. She stopped packing up, turning
fully towards me. For a long time, she just stood there,
staring suspiciously at the box. Setting her bag down, she
took a few steps forward and grabbed the box out
of my hand. She gave it a slight rattle and
then opened it slowly. When she saw the brooch, she
gingerly took it out of the box and turned it
around in her hand. Then she paused again, looking between
the glittering fake emerald and me. It's not new, sorry,
it used to be my mom's, I told her. Going
off the script, Isaac and I had conceived to add
more authenticity to the handoff. She doesn't wear it anymore,
but I thought you might like it. Miss Catlin kept
staring at me, her expression unreadable. I half expected her
to chuck it into the garbage bin in the corner
of the room, but to my relief, she gave me
a single nod. Thank you, she said, and pinned the
brooch on to a cardigan carefully, like it was a
precious gem and not some cheap hunk of plastic. I
gave her a smile that she did not return, and
then she shewed me away. Isaac was waiting for me
in the woods outside school. I flashed them the thumbs up,
and he slapped my back twice in congratulations. He pulled
the earpiece out of his backpack and held it between us.
I put my ear next to the speaker and was
delighted when I could hear movement. The sound was slightly
more muffled now by the velvet backing, but the audio
quality was still really good. We heard the sound of
snow crunching under Miss Gatland's feet as she walked herself
through the woods. Home. We listened giddily for a few minutes,
then raced back to my house to celebrate. Our success
with hot chocolate. Since we had the attention span of
two ten year old boys, we forgot about our triumph
until just a few minutes before Isaac's mom came to
pick him up. When I remembered, I pulled out the earpiece,
which we had decided would live at my house since
it was closer to Miss Gatland's and listened more than
last year, but not as much as the year before last.
What do you think about that? Do you like it?
Can you feel it? I see me personally, I've loved
it since I was a little girl and falls so prettily.
What the heck is she saying? Isaac asked me, as
if I had any clue. The better question, in my mind,
at least, was who the hell was she talking to?
She had no kids or husband and didn't have any
ends as far as I knew. I don't know. I said,
she's talking about snow. I think, though, the question can
you feel it? Seemed an odd thing to ask anyone.
We sat there listening to a talk for five minutes straight.
I'd never heard Miss Catlin talk that much in my life,
even though I'd seen her most days since I was
only five years old. Looking back. I'm not entirely sure
what we had expected, but it certainly wasn't a monolog
of that length. We strained our ears listening for another voice,
but heard nothing. Maybe she's s Guido forensic. Isaac volunteered.
I had no idea what that was, but I trusted
his authority. His mom showed up to take him home,
and I turned the speaker off to walk him outside.
After that, every once in a while, I would turn
the speaker on and listen. It seemed that, no matter
the time, be it early in the morning or late
at night, Miss Catlin was always talking. She talked about
all kinds of things, everything from clothing to stocks, to
the weather to politics. Sometimes she prayed, talking so quickly
and quietly that I could only make out one out
of every five or so words. She apologized often and
spoke constantly of a promise. Sometimes when I turned on
the speaker, all I heard was sobs, And sometimes the
conversations were so strange that I couldn't make heads or
tails of them. A young woman smiled at me today
at the grocery store. Isn't that just the sweetest thing?
I felt like it's been so long since someone's smiled
at me like that, Yes, I know she was just
doing a job. Probably it doesn't even know my name.
Oh how hard this has been, how lonesome. But I
am so very close to the finish line. I won't
break my promise now. A few days before we returned
to school, Isaac and I made the trek over to
a house in an attempt to figure out who she
was speaking to. I'd seen a house a few times before,
and each time I was taken aback by how small
it was, isolated and weathered. Her home stood at the
edge of the Southern Woodlands, on a large plot of
land off of a street with very little through traffic.
I remember standing on the side of the road with Isaac,
staring at the little shack like house, which must have
only had room for a bedroom, a bathroom, and maybe
a tiny kitchen. There's no way anyone else lives there,
Isaac said, after a while of standing and staring. We
were too far away to peering through the windows, but
we were also too afraid to venture any closer. She's
either a witch or she's just some sad, ugly old
lady who went crazy from having no friends. Isaac got
bored quickly, so we left not too long after that.
After we had made our way part way down the street,
something compelled me to turn around and give the house
a final look. When I did, I saw the unmistakable
shape of Miss Gatlin standing on the porch, staring in
our direction. I turned away and grabbed a hold of
Isaac's arm. She's watching us, I whispered to him. His
eyes grew wide. Damn, he said, Should we run? No,
that'll look suspicious. Let's just keep walking. We walked until
we were out of eyeshot, and then we ran all
the way home. I'm not quite sure what spooked us
so badly, but for some reason, even when I was
back in the safety of my own home, I couldn't
shake the feeling of eyes boring into my back. And
soon they'll all be coming back. It's hard seeing them sometimes,
knowing my Oliver was among them once. Sometimes I think
I see him. At Least it'll get easier soon, thanks
to you. By the time we went back to school,
my friends had grown bored of the spy gear. I
volunteered to return Isaac speaker, but he said it was
practically useless now since we couldn't retrieve the microphone. Surprisingly,
Miss Catlin continued to wear the brooch every day. It
was always pinned to her non work clothes, so the
only time she was unbugged, as Isaac put it, was
when she was in her janitorial outfit and my school
seeing her guard the brooch so carefully made me feel
kind of bad. Was that the only gift she had
gotten for Christmas? Was it the only gift she had
gotten in the past decade. Maybe she wasn't a witch
or crazy. Maybe she was just lonely and had learned
to cope by talking to herself. Months passed, Isaac and
company finally coming to terms with the fact that they
would never get the rise they were looking for out
of me. Misscatland moved on to terrorizing the curmudgeonally old
man who lived across from Cedar Creek Elementary and was
always yelling at kids for one reason or another. I
was happy for Miss Scatlan. One day in March I
found her sitting on a bench at the edge of
campus during lunch. I took a seat next door, not
expecting much. She took one look at me, then fixed
the gaze back, and a sad looking sandwich in her hand.
What do you want, she asked, without looking at me. Nothing.
Just wanted to sit here, she picked at the sandwich.
We're not friend's kid. I know you don't have any friends.
That's right, she nodded. Maybe one day, though, I said,
and to my surprise, she laughed. I didn't realize she
was capable of laughing. She looked at me properly for
the first time in our brief conversation, and I noticed
that she was smiling. It was an unpracticed smile, but
a genuine one. Yeah, she said, maybe one day. Miss
Catlin packed up and headed back to the school building.
After that, she left a bag of mini oreos on
the bench next to me. I think she did it
on purpose. I grew accustomed to checking up on her
every now and then, listening to her conversations with herself.
Sometimes it almost felt like she was talking to me.
Looking back on it now, I realized what a little
villain I was, and what an immense invasion of private
I was committing. I wish that I could take it
back now, especially considering what happened next. Friday, May seventeenth
marked the ten year anniversary of Oliver Gatlin's death. I
kept an eye on Miss Gatlin throughout the day, but
she didn't seem any more dejected than usual. Maybe things
were finally looking up for her. In any case, although
I hadn't checked in on her for a while, I
decided that evening to see how she was doing. My
parents were gone for the week, and I was only
allowed to stay at home alone if I stayed inside
the whole time, so I ainate nothing better to do.
Not long after sunset, as I lounged on the floor
of my bedroom, I turned on the earpiece. Miss Gatlin
was talking to herself as always, but there was something
strange about her tone. She sounded more excited than ever.
Almost there, almost there, almost there. She repeated those two
words over and over until at exactly eleven forty four
p m. She let out a sound that I understood
years later to be a cry of triumph. It is done.
It's done, dark Angel, thank you, thank you. Ten years
of solitude and it was worth every second. Now Angel,
bring him back, bring him back to me. What was
she on about? Now? Were those song lyrics or something?
I strained my ears listening for another person out of habit,
But of course there was only Miss Gatland's voice. After
a moment, her cries of happiness faded, a voice taking
on her confused tone. What do you mean? No, I
that can't be true. I kept my promise. I followed
every rule. I let no one in, kept no companions,
made no friends. I kept my wish a secret. As
you told me, my angel I. I sat up slowly,
the building terror in her voice, putting me on edge,
even from miles away. And then she asked the question
that still haunts me to this day, what do you mean?
I had an audience. There was a moment of silence,
and then the sure fire sound of the velvet backing
of the brooch being ripped away. I could hear a
breath sharper and clearer than ever before, as she repeated
a single word, no, no, no, no, no, no, no
no no. She withdrew for the microphone, her rapid breaths
replaced by what sounded like a front door being thrown
open with a bang. There was no more noise from
the microphone. I remember standing up in my bedroom, not
quite understanding what had just happened, and not quite knowing
what to do next. Something told me that I should
go downstairs and make sure that the doors were locked,
so I tore myself to man off and forced myself
down the stairs to the dark first floor. I made
my way around the whole house, checking the doors and windows.
Once I was done, I just stood there. Somehow I
knew she was coming and that there was nothing I
could do to stop it. I thought I was hearing
the wind, but as it grew louder, I realized I
was hearing wailing. I heard it long before I saw her,
that good wrench and cry, that sound that I had
previously heard only pale imitations of in movies where a
mother loses a child. Standing in the darkness of my
living room, I watched the sprint from the tree line
towards my house. Her mouth was wide open, her eyes
glazed over, and her body dressed in a white nightgown.
She looked and sounded like something out of my worst
night terrors. I dropped to the floor and crawled away
from the window, taking cover behind a couch. Why she howled,
her moaning voice rising and falling as she ascended the
steps to my front porch and slammed a fist against
the door. Why I needed to get to the phone,
but the house phone was right next to the window,
and I was petrified. She hit the door so hard
I was afraid that the hinges would give way. How
could you do this to me? I climbed a hand
over my mouth. She couldn't possibly know for certain that
I was in the house, could she. The origin of
the wailing shifted as she rounded the wrap around porch,
the heavy knocks of a fist against the door giving
way to the thudding of her shoes and the wooden
porch floor. I stuck my head around the couch and
saw no one at the front window, But when I
looked at the side, I saw a face hovering inches
from the glass. I screamed at the top of my
lungs as her fist came into contact with the glass,
shattering it. I was so horrified by the rain of
blood speckled glass that I almost missed the sight of
the shotgun scabbard strapped to a Torso certain I was
about to die, I screamed at her to go away,
to leave me alone, and she screamed right back at me,
asking me questions I didn't understand. Dogs. I had begun
to bark at the commotion, and my next door neighbor's
porch light turned on. Please just go away, I shrieked
as I finally found my footing and raced to the phone.
I grabbed it from its holder and started the Type
nine one one as I decided whether or not I
should risk running up to the neighbor's house. When I
looked at the broken window, though she was nowhere to
be seen, the wailing had rescinded, growing fainter and fainter
until I couldn't hear her at all. I stood there
dumbly until the sound faded entirely, my hand shaking. She
was gone, I was sure of it. Should I still
call emergency services? After that moment, I heard another fainter
sound and recognized the statugy audio immediately as the transmission
from Isaac's spy gear. I raced upstairs, still clutching the phone,
and grabbed a speaker from the floor where I dropped it.
I pressed it against my ear, listening to the faint
sound of a familiar voice. I hope this was worth
a kid, it said, calmly and coldly. I hope you
and your friends can laugh about this. I heard a bang,
and then I heard nothing at all. It took two
weeks for the police to find her body. Her final
resting place was deep in the woods, under a thick
shroud of junipers, not far from the banks of Sea Creek.
As her face was mutilated beyond recognition, her body was
identified by the shotgun lying beside her. They say that
although she was covered in enough blood to entice every
animal within a three mile radius, her corpse was untouched
by the beasts. Even the insects seemed hesitant to feed,
and the fungi slow to grow upon a body, as
though even the lowliest creatures feared contamination by the lonely
woman in the woods. They did not find a brooch
on her person. It all started when I was sixteen.
It was Halloween and my friends and I had all
had a bit too much fun pushing each other to
douce something dumber and dumber. We'd snatch the bottle of
red from my parents' dash and passed it around when
one of us came up with the idea to check
out the old mall by the Freeway. The place had
been closed a few years prior, and none of us
had been there more than a couple of times as kids,
but we figured it could make for a good story.
The five of us crammed into a car and made
our way out there, blasting music as we went along,
God Smack Pod PM five K. It was a different time.
Rod was up in the front seat trying to smoke something,
but the rest of us kept interrupting him. He had
this stupid hang up and a joke where if you
reminded him of it, he wouldn't stop laughing. He could
boil down to a single word and he'd burst. As
we got there and poured out on the concrete, a
chill passed through me, more so than the autumn air.
The pillars outside reminded me of a rib cage, making
the whole place look like a giant concrete corpse. In
the dark of a Halloween night, pretty much anything can
look terrifying. That's just where your mind wanders. We made
our way in through a loosely bordered glass door, stepping inside.
All the light we had were our flip phones and
the moon slipping in through the skylight. I'd been in
that mall a handful of times over the years, but
what I was seeing there and then was something different.
Without the people and the ads and the billboards and
the stalls. It was just a husk, something left behind.
Still we found a bunch of stuff. There were still
metal racks in one of the old clothing stores which
we could climb. There was a counter the Sandwich place,
where we could pretend to take orders. There were windows
to break, and these huge empty spaces where our voices
would carry all throughout the building. The only place that
held some sort of reverence to us was the toy
store on the second floor that had once been the
center of our attention. We were just sixteen, and most
of us remembered a time when we would beg our
parents for a trip there. It had been the biggest
toy store in our world, and there was always something
new to look at. But seeing it then and there,
it was just as dead as the rest of the place.
Not even the sign remained. As the others made their
way inside, I split off to take a walk, lighting
up the hallway with my phone. They mocked me on
my way, saying, whoever splits off the group is always
the first to die in horror movies. Hilarious. I went
past what remained of the old stores, the gift shop,
the flower boutique, the book store. I could almost see them,
but only in my mind. Now it was all concrete
and cheap sandstone tiling. The place wasn't even old enough
to be dusty, yet remaining in this sort of space
between living and dead like a man on life support.
It'd only take the flip of the switch and this
whole place would come alive, ready to welcome people back.
But of course that wouldn't happen. Then at the end
of the hall, I came to a full stop. It
turns out we weren't the first people with the idea
to come here. There was a resting area in the
far back, a sort of alcove, benches set around an
empty where stalls were supposed to be, all centered around
this massive red marble column. I called the others over.
They had to see this. My voice easily carried all
the way across the mall, and the others came running.
Someone had been here. They'd flipped all the benches onto
their backs and placed several pots and planters in a
circle around the column. Hell, they even planted something. I
could see little blue sprouts poking up. But the freakiest
thing was the column itself. They'd taken the old mall
posters and plastered the thing with them. These posters were
just the picture of a smiling, middle aged woman dressed
in a sort of fifties attire, a generic yellow sun
dress with little white flowers on it. She also had
the most generic stockpholt of smile you could imagine to
Right on every poster was a cartoonist speech bubble. They
were just old sayings bordering on cliches, like Mama used
to make them. The more the merrier, happily ever after,
For the freaky thing was not the posters themselves, but
what had been done to them. Someone had burned out
the eyes, leaving them covered in scorch marks, with the
red marble in the back. My brain sort of short circuited,
making me think I was looking into a empty socket,
seeing the gore behind the eyes. It was unsettling and
probably intentional. They also modified some of the sayings, crossing
out certain words Mama used more ever after. It was unsettling.
Some of us called the Halloween vibe of it, thinking
it fit perfectly with what we were up to. Others
could sense it like me, But this wasn't just a
fun thing someone did for fun. This was deranged It
must have taken hours to arrange this sort of scene,
and we couldn't imagine a good reason to do it.
That's Lady Lockley, said Rod, pointing over the posters. I
had a crush on her. Looks like my babysitter. She's
like fifty, I added, still got a great rack. The
others agreed it was funny, but I couldn't bring myself
to laugh. This felt like rot in the same way
that corpse decays. This was the way old buildings decayed.
It made me feel filthy, like I was some kind
of bacteria infecting this place and breaking it down, corrupting it,
diy chesting it. I felt sorry for Lady Lockley. She
deserved better and happily. Ever after, once we got bored
of wandering around, we made our way back to the
entrance on the other side of the building. One of
the guys squealed in delight he'd found a ballpit. Looking
at it, it was clear that this thing wasn't sanitary.
We could hear something moving in it, probably rats. Part
of the ceiling had collapsed, leaving a dead wire hanging
like an open nerve, and the whole place was covered
in a thin layer of concrete dust. Someone's gotta go in.
They said, we ain't leaving until someone goes in, not me.
I added, no way, and that settled it. I was
the first to decline. I had to be the first
to go in, no matter if I wanted it or not.
The others grabbed me and pushed me into the deep
ended face first. Plastic balls rattled against my ears. I
was fully prepared to be drenched in rapie and bite,
but nothing happened. There was concrete dust covering my scalp
and forehead, but apart from that, I was fine. It
tickled my nose a bit. The pit was deep enough
to reach about half way up my body, but I'd
sunk into the bottom. I could feel the rubber flooring
against my cheek. The others were lighting me up with
their phones. The lights coming through the balls made a
sort of kaleidoscope of past our colors, stretching the shadows
out into long, distorted shapes. As I struggled to regain
my balance, I fumbled a realm with my hands, trying
instinctively to grab something, but instead something grabbed me. It
was only a silhouette, a face somewhere in the swirl
of colors, the shape of her head with two holes
where the eyes were supposed to be. It gasped excitedly.
Even from a distance, I could taste the ammonia on
its breath. Its icy fingers interlocked with mine, wanting to
bring me closer. I recoiled, shaking my head. I think
I let out a scream, but I don't remember doing it.
My pulls shot through the roof as I forced myself
back to my feet, scrambling to get back to the others.
They were laughing their asses off, thinking I was just surprised.
As my head breached the surface. They were standing in
a half circle, shining the lights at me. Of course,
there was nothing in the ballpit. I wiped my dusty
hair and prepared myself to drag one or two of
them down there with me, but something in the air changed.
Their faces went from gleeful joy to careful curiosity to worry.
Turning back towards the pit, I could see why. On
the side of every ball in the pit was an eye,
lovingly hand painted with a sharp eye. The others helped
me up and tried to diffuse the tension with puns
and jabs. It didn't take long for the chill to
leave our spines, but it took me the longest. Looking
down in my hand, I felt called like something had
really touched me, something just as real as the mall
and the people who invaded it. We left shortly after,
taking the car back to town, blasting our music again.
We filled the rest of the night with more stolen wine, games, stares,
and laughs. But something in me had changed. I couldn't
let go of that image of Lady Lockley and the
red marble in the back of her head. Through every
chuckle and every smile, that feeling held me back. Something
had changed forever. That night, as I slept on the
Rod's couch, I watched the moonlight cast a shadow on
the opposite wall. The cross of the window shaped the
light into four perfect squares. I lay there, half drunk
and half asleep. I imagine them as little television screens,
each showing whatever came to mind, old memories, dreams, hopes.
But every made up show I imagined always ended the
same way, with the mental image of a middle aged
nineteen fifties housewife, her dead smile, a southern drawl, and
the red infected cavity in a skull her eyes ought
to be. The next day, it all felt like a
bad dream. Some of the guys were hungover, and most
of us just made our way back home to sleep
it off. I didn't want to go home. My parents
were so focused to my older brother at the time
that they didn't care what I did. He was the
one with the problems. I could get away with pretty
much anything. Being gone for a day was nothing compared
to a heroin addiction. Still, I had to get back home,
much like expected. My parents weren't around. They left a
note to say there were some leftovers in the fridge
and that I could call them if I needed something,
but that was it. I'd never once called them on
that number. Making my way up to my room, I stopped.
We have these two windows at the top of the
staircase with two knobs in the middle. For a moment,
I imagine those two knobs as little eyes. I could
imagine them blinking all throughout the day and the next
This would become a repeating pattern. Two coins on the
counter could send a shiver up my spine. The rings
of a scissor grip would make me think of those
gaping eye sockets. Two soda cans with their pull taps
standing at attention brought me the same image. Every combination
of two circles, spheres, or rings, it all forced that
image back into my head, that joyless smile of Lady
Lockley and her icy fingers interlocking with mine, bringing me closer.
It came to a point where people started to notice.
For example, when I had dinner with my parents, they
had a beer each. The bottles were placed next to
one another, and the top of the bottles formed those
two holes. It took me a while to notice, but
when I did, I couldn't stop thinking about it. It
physically made me itch and I had this intense need
to separate them. Once I did, the two of them
just looked at me, not a word spoken. I tried
to ignore it. I reorganized my space to make sure
there was nothing around it to remind me, but every
now and then there'd be something. It could be something
as little as two people passing on the street and
their heads reminding me of floating eyeballs. But it got worse. Once,
as I stepped out of the shower, I spotted myself
in the mirror. Even seeing my own eyes looking back
at me, sent me into this spiraling anxiety. I could
imagine myself eyeless, with that infected red cavity in the
back of my skull. I could see it to the
point where I convinced myself that it was true that
I had no eyes to begin with. My eyes would
close and I couldn't bring myself to open them. I
would try to bry them open with my fingers kneeling
on the cold bathroom tiles, but it wouldn't work. Nothing
would come on. I'd cry, come on, but it just
wouldn't work. It was so infuriating that it tickled the
back of my brain into a joyless smile. No one
else was suffering from this. I had no one to
talk to, and no one would understand why I was
feeling that way. It was impossible to describe, and to
a group of guys who mostly talked about women and games,
there wouldn't be much interest in mental health. So I
decided to do something about it myself. Much like exposure therapy,
I had to go back. I was going to tear
down every poster, set fire to the damn ball pit,
and proved to myself that there was nothing to fear.
I was going to destroy it, Lady Lockley, I was
going to break those icy fingers and stare into an
eyeless face unflinching. I had this crappy mode that i'd
saved up four one summer. Enough time had passed for
the first Minnesota snow to fall, so I had to
be careful not to slip and slide. I loaded up
a backpack with all kinds of destructive tools. I didn't
even bother to read the note left on the kitchen counter.
This time, no one else was going to fix me,
so I had to do it myself. I kept the
wheel steady, feeling the snow slush stained my chup jeans,
cold water soaking into my second hand shoes. By the
time I got there, I was shivering. A cold wind
had picked up from the overcast, and there was no
moonlight to guide me this time. Still I'd prepared. I
had a great flashlight with plenty of spare batteries packed away.
My dad had this battery box in the garage full
of whatever kind he might possibly need. I brought the
whole thing. I made my way inside through the loosely
bordered updoors. The place felt warmer, but maybe it was
just me being angry. I had this frustration pent up
in me, forcing me forward. I went past all the
hollow shops, the broken benches, the empty planters, and the
dry fountain. I climbed up the dead escalator and followed
the familiar shops towards the resting area. I could see
the red marble column from Afar sticking out like a
sore nerve, the posters plastered to it like a band
aid to an open wound. My footsteps echoed as I
made my way closer, clutching the flashlight harder. There were
little sprouts in the pots and planters now, some with
a little blue bud. Others had barely poked through the dirt.
One I had grown quite tall. There were more posts now,
Some had been stuck to the walls, others lay strewn
about on the floor. Someone had been there recently. I
could tell a few chairs from one of the downstairs
restaurants had been dragged up there and smashed, forming a
kind of plastic half circle across the floor. It didn't
matter to me, this was all going to burn either way.
I put down my back back and brought out a
bottle of gasoline. My dad always kept a spare can
in the garage, but I didn't want to bring the
whole thing, so I just filled up three plastic bottles instead.
I unscrewed the top and just started chocking it at
the column, tainting the posters. They were made with some
kind of plastic that didn't react well to gasoline, making
part of the ink melt a little, making Lady Lockley
smile into a frown and then a garbled mess. I
went all around the column using two of my three bottles.
It was messy, and I got a whole lot of
it on my clothes. I'd have to wash it when
I get back. My parents didn't ask a lot of questions,
but if I were to come back home drenched in gasoline,
they might have something to say. As I finished, I
put down my bag and got a hold of a lighter,
one of those with a long neck for lighting fancy candles.
I tried to wipe the gasoline off my hands, but
doubt was getting to me. I didn't want to set
myself on fire. Then again, this place had to die.
For a brief moment, I got stuck staring at the posters.
Even with the ink melting off, the holes remained dozens
of empty eye sockets staring at me, some with a
barely human face attached. Some were relatively unscathed, still carrying
the various slogans and sayings of Lady Lockley. There was
even a fully intact, happily ever after poster, smiling back
at me. I put away my flashlight, letting the darkness
of the place overwhelm me. The overcast was doing me
no favors. I held the lighter up, inched closer, and
clicked it a single light in the dark. But something
was wrong. A chill worked its way across my right cheek,
making me squint, then a breath of air. The light disappeared,
and my nostrils were assaulted by the sudden smell of ammonia.
And right behind me, grazing my cheek was something cold,
something I was gently placing his fingers on my left shoulder,
inching up towards my neck. I bent down, snatched up
my flashlight and turned around. The cone of light swayed
back and forth, finding nothing. As I backed away, my
feet was stepping on their own, seemingly out of my control.
My lungs felt stiff, like I couldn't push any air
into them. There were puffs of smoke with every little, forced,
panting breath. I wasn't alone. I didn't even think about
how far I backed up until my back hit the
red marble pillar. I just stood there, frozen. I could
feel the eyeless holes turning towards me, waiting for me
to turn around. Something was running down my arm. It
made its way to my fingers. I looked down only
to see fresh blood droplets formed to the edge of
my fingertips, pulling up and dropping to the floor. The
back of my head felt wet, same with the back
of my pants and jacket. I carefully stepped away and
turned to face the pillar. Blood. It wasn't just red marble.
It was bleeding. The gasoline had made the posters slip off,
falling to the floor one by one, leaving the pillar
raw and unprotected. Little pulls of blood ran across the floor.
It was so quiet, just little tips and taps of
drops hitting the floor, mixing with the echoes of my breathing.
I could hear the battery in the flashlight rattling as
my hand shook from the cold, and in the distance
a hiss. My ears homed in on the sound. I
whisper coming from one of the nearby stores, hot them back.
I just stood there, trying to comprehend what I was hearing,
what it was demanding. Then from another store, from across
the mall, a louder sound put it all back. And
from a third store, an old fast food kitchen hout
me back. Looking down at the pools of gasoline and
blood mixing with the misshaped plastic posters, I shook my head.
I didn't want this anymore. All the anger had turned
to fear, and all I wanted was to grab my
stuff and leave. I'm I'm going, I said, I won't
come back. There was no response, Just like back home,
there was no one to listen to me. Maybe I
was speaking to an empty room, making up stories in
my head. I won't come back, I repeated, This is it.
Screw them all, and whatever game you're playing, I won't.
I suddenly choked on my breath. I could see them
in the distance, human shapes stepping out of the storefronts,
all with the same cheerful yellow dress, the same hair,
the same smile. Then something grabbed me. It wasn't like
the first time, where icy fingers daintly slipped into my hand,
but something violent, angry nails digging into my scalp, grabbing
a handful of my hair, forcing me forward with a
dead man's cramped grip. I went from standing to kneeling,
having my face pressed into the floor. In a heartbeat.
There were no more than two hands, maybe four five.
Something heavy pushed against my spine. No, it wasn't just
one word. It was a choir, a dozen identical voices
speaking as one from across the mall. Two cold fingers
touched my eye lids, forcing me to blink. I forced
my eyes shut, trying to squint them away. I could
barely breathe. I tried to move my head away, shaking
the fingers off, but I couldn't no matter how far
I forced myself back. They pushed on until the pain
started dis mounting, pressure causing bright, painful spots that dance
across the inside of my head. It was excruciating. I
was panicking, trying to turn, but I couldn't. There was
this raw, primal emotion bubbling inside me, forcing me to scream.
I begged and pleaded, but it was too late. I
had wronged them and they were relentless. Had he gone
any further, i'd be blind today, maybe dead, but it didn't.
I heard footsteps approaching, and father fingers slowly let up.
Pressure released from my spine, and the hands holding me
down loosened their grip. I slowly opened my eyes, blinking
away the spots of pain, only to see a man.
He had a flashlight of his own, casting deep shadows
on his wrinkled face. He must have been in his
early sixties. I was dressed in some kind of maintenance
get up, A janitor perhaps. He walked up to me
as the last hand let go and offered to help
me up. I accepted it and got back my feet.
I didn't dare turn around. I could hear them, feel them,
smell the ammonia. Don't do anything stupid, he whispered, give
them a moment. We just stood there. I looked down,
try my best not to bring any attention to myself.
At the edge of my vision, I could see flowery
yellow dresses shuffle past me, back into the empty storefronts,
back into the mall. He patted me on the shoulder
and I looked up. The last silhouettes slipped into an
old outlet space, leaving the two of us alone. He
got some blood on his hands from touching my shoulder
and wiped it off on his legs. He stepped back
to pick up something. He'd brought a stack of posters
in a tool box. Walking up to me, he had
this almost apologetic look on his face. So she picked
you too, ah, he sighed, That makes what four of us.
Using a bucket and a still working hose in the back,
we got enough water and soaked to clean the pillar
a bit. It had stopped bleeding coagulated in a way.
We ended up putting up new posters, still with the
eyes burned out. She likes them this way, he said.
The kids always did this to the posters long before
the place closed. She thinks they're supposed to look like this.
We spent some time collecting scrap and piling it into
a circle around the pillar. That and drawing eyes on
various white surfaces. She doesn't have any eyes of her own,
so she needs us to give us some. We spent
hours just wandering around, touching up the place, watering the plants,
cleaning up the gasoline. The lady Lockley seemed calmer. I
could see them shuffling about in the back of the stores,
catching a reflection off their perfect teeth every now and then.
Still I couldn't shake the feeling that any threat to
this place would have me swarmed. Do you have to
do this, I asked, like often, yeah, he nodded. What
happens if you don't? I think you know what happens.
At the end of the night, as I left them
all behind, I saw a final swaying flowery dress in
the cracks of the wooden boards. Even now I was
being watched, judged, weighed, but for the moment I was safe.
At first, I went back like once a week. Once
I brought ping pong balls and painted eyes on them.
They seemed to like that. Another time I filled up
the water fountain. The janitor would return at times too,
bringing freshly printed posters and scrubbing the floor. I wonder
it wasn't dusty. I tried to stop going back there,
but it would just build this pressure in me. I'd
feel her eah. I would start to focus on circles
and as if my body was reminding me that I
was being watched. I'd sometimes feel something cold at the
edge of my vision, something I see brushing against my ear.
It would put me on edge, as if expecting something
to grab me at any moment, for that damn smile
to come out of the dark and become the last
thing I ever see. Places like this don't get torn down.
The land is dirt cheap, and the effort to break
and ship off all that concrete just isn't worth it. It
remains there to this day. I would go back every
now and then to fix the place up, to make
sure she was happy enough to leave me alone. Weeks
would turn to months, and over time they trusted me
enough to come back only once every six months or so.
I'd make a day out of it. The plants would
blossom into these six feet tall, radiant blue sunflowers, and
a creeping vine would slither up the side of the
marble pillar. She seemed to like the vines. Sometimes there
are new people. I don't really know their names, but
we can kind of recognize each other at a glance.
Some young, some old. We've tried to board the place
up to keep people out, but every now and then
some smart ass gets through. I don't think they all
make it out. Some of the things I've seen over
the years tell a gruesome story of their own. I'm
in my mid thirties now, I've done this for half
my life as a sort of stewardship, a part of
my life that I can't share with anyone. I've gotten
to know her wants and needs. There is a personality, there,
an intelligence. Sometimes they can get these strange whims. I
once saw one of them trying to break through the
loose boards, only to be dragged away by the others.
I've seen them gently crest the leaves of the sunflowers.
I've seen them dance on tables, walk hand in hand
down the empty walkways, and once just staring up at
the moon. I think she's like an immune system, like
something remaining to stop the decay. This building has been
closed for decades, but from looking at it you couldn't tell.
Most buildings that have been empty for that long just
look way down and worn, but not the dead eye more.
It's still spry and waiting, as if expecting people to
come back, and every now and then they do. But
it's a service I perform under threat of death, and
to this day it terrifies me. While I'm not as
bothered by circles or rings, I still have this feeling
that I should be like I shouldn't be normalizing this.
I shouldn't have to compromise. There something unnatural and otherworldly.
But I just don't know what the alternative is. I
have this feeling that sooner or later she'll turn to
me dissatisfied, and that day she'll interlock her fingers with
mine and drag me to a dark place I can't
come back from ever after, I barely made it home
in time. One minut I was singing along to the radio,
and then next I was staring slack jawed at the
most menacing storm clouds I'd ever seen. As someone born
and raised them for a month. I was no strange
as the snow squalls, but there was something foreboding about
the dark clouds blowing in over the mountains. After reaching
my house, I opened my car door and stepped out
into a cold evening. The wind lashed at my face
and made a terrible howling in my ears as I
raced up the steps and slipped through the front door
to my house just in time, Luke said to me
and greeting. My husband was staring in front of the
living room window, surveying the mountains beyond our city. By
the time I walked over to him, I could barely
see two streets down. Seemed like we would be spending
the evening inside. Came out of nowhere, I commented. Before
I so much as set my bag down, I heard
the doggy door open. We didn't own any pets, but
we often entertained visits from a neighborhood cat, whom Luke
had called RIGATONI. Sure enough, an old orange cat soon
appeared in our living room, leaving a trail of muddy
Poor Prince as he trotted over to Luke. Ah, the
serial couch surfer returns too cold out there for you,
he asked the cat, currently rubbing her head against his shin,
whom he yowed as if in affirmation. Tony wasn't terribly
fond of most people, but Luke had away with animals.
He reached down to Petter, eliciting a melody of purse
from the contented cat. Come on, he said, standing, I'll
fix you some dinner. Thank god, I'm starving. I wasn't
talking to you, Luke said, with a warm laugh, walking
into the back of the house to fetch some cat
food for Tony. Half an hour later, just as Luke
and I had finally sat down to eat, we heard
the doggy tour open once again. I raised the brow
at my husband. Tony was our only regular four legged visitor.
I wondered who else could have let himselves inside our home.
I didn't have to wonder for long. Seconds later, a
Border Collie tore into the dining room, barking and whining
with urgency. Luke and I rose sharply to our seat
to the table, watching the dog as it came to
a stop in the corner of the room. I realized
as the poor creature lowered its head and tucked its
tail between its legs that I recognized it. Hey that's
missus Johnson's dog, I said, rounding the table to check
if the dog was hurt. Tucker, Yeah, I'm pretty sure.
I see her walking him all the time. I crouched
down next to Tucker and slowly reached out my arm.
To my surprise, the usually sweet tempered Border Collie pulls
its lips back in a snarl, lunging forward slightly and
snapping his teeth. It was a warning, not on an
attempt to hurt me, but I backed off all the same.
Luke shot me your worried look. He's a usually more
mild mannered. I'll give her a call and let her
know he's with us. Luke left the room to grab
his phone while I studied Tucker from a safe distance,
looking for signs of injury. His frantic barks had been
replaced by occasional mournful wines. He was no longer racing around,
seemingly content with his place in the corner, but his
posture remained fearful and defensive. It was hard to tell
with the way he was carrying, but I saw no
visible wounds on him. Do you have signal, Luke shouted
from another room. I took my phone out of my
pocket to check, and to my surprise, I didn't. We
had generally reliable coverage, and I couldn't remember the last
time I'd lost cell service. I tried restarting my phone,
walking around at different spots in the house, and turning
airplane mode on and off. Nada. Unfortunately, if it was
affecting both of us, it was probably an issue with
our service provider, meaning there was little we could do.
I was about to ask if he still had Wi
Fi on his phone when a light but urgent tapping
sound filled the room. I listened for a moment trying
to place the r of the sound, and soon traced
it to the bathroom, or more specifically, the bathroom window.
When I got there, I saw a small, fuzzy animal
standing on the window sill and scratching fervently at the glass.
What in the world the little creature didn't seem to
notice my presence. I took another step forward into the bathroom,
and I realized as I approached that the animal had
torn right through the window screen. No cell service, no
Wi Fi, no nothing. At least the lights are on.
Luke trout off as he entered the room, looking over
my shoulder at the frantic creature. Is that a weasel?
I asked my resident animal lover, who shook his head.
Pretty sure, that's a Martin neat. I was about to
compliment his identification skill before I looked over and saw
the look in his eyes. Don't ask me what I
think you're about to ask me. Please, they're endangered. You
know this isn't Noah's ark, Luke. We can't shelter every
animal in Vermont. I swear the rodent took a break
from ripping through my window screen to glare at me.
Ay glared right back besides, this little thing here looks rabid.
Luke and I spent a couple minutes arguing. I wasn't
keen on taking in any more impromptu guests, but Luke
was adamant on saving it from the storm. There's something
off about how desperately he's trying to get in, he said.
It might be on the verge of freezing to death
or something. After a while, he convinced me to take
pity on the Martin. I had to admit the way
it was throwing itself against the glass was a little unsettling. Reluctantly,
I opened the window and allowed it to squeeze through
the hole in the screen. However, I didn't realize that
the Marten wasn't the only creature waiting to get inside.
Before I could shut the window, a flurry of about
twenty mice searched into the bathroom from the hole. They
must have been sitting on the sill as well, but
I guess I overlooked them, mistaking their fluffy white bodies
for snow. I jumped backwards, swallowing a shriek as one
of them landed right on my foot. Eventually I managed
to shut the window without stepping on any mice, but
not before a red bird, a cardinal, I think, squeezed
this way in as well. Stunned, I hurried after the
animals as they made a bee line for the center
of the house. When I entered the dining room, I
saw not only Tucker and the animals who had just
burst in through the bathroom, but also a cat and
two dogs that I didn't recognize. Cursing, I realized that
they must have entered through the doggy door, so I
yelled out to Luke to lock it. As I tried
to make sense of the scene in front of me,
the animals gave each other a wide berth. The cat
didn't so much as look at the mice, nor did
the dog seem at all interested in the cat. All
of them were carrying, shivering as they pressed themselves into
corners or squeezed into whatever hiding spot they could find.
The dogs whined, the mice squeaked. Even the cardinal was
making a strange, almost mournful sounding chirping noise. The only
one who was behaving normally was Rigatoni, who I had
to show away from the trooper mice hiding under the
china cabinet. The hell is going on? Luke asked, and
I had no explanation to offer. We had nast these
storms before, but never had I seen one in si
by such desperation in our local wildlife. After another failed
attempt at coaxing Tucker out of his corner, I made
my way to the living room and stared out the
large window. A total whiteout stared back at me. I
could only see a few feet out in every direction
before the world was swallowed up by darkness and snow.
It was eerie, but it was beautiful in a strange way, hypnotic.
It was easy to loose myself in thought as I
watched the snow fall. What could have spooked the animal
so much? I wondered? Could it really be the cold alone?
The weather hadn't seemed all that bad. Sure, it had
been cold outside, but not a blizzard cold. When I
had opened the bathroom window, i'd been distracted by the mice,
But when I thought about it, I didn't remember a
freezing cold wind sweeping into the house alongside our animal guests.
I raised my arm, pressing the back of my hand
against the glass, and then stilled. Loo. I quietly called
out he appeared around the corner seconds later, Tony cradled
in his arms. Is it just me or it's the
glass warm? Luke stepped closer, shifting to hold the cat
in one arm and placing his free hand against the pane.
He didn't respond, but the way his mouth set into
a thin line told me that he felt the same thing.
What does this mean? I don't know. We both stood
in silence for a while. The wind howled outside, but
either sense that if I opened a window and stuck
my hand out, it wouldn't feel cold. I didn't want
to find out, though, opening any windows or doors at
that point seemed like a bad idea. In fact, I
was about to check that all entry points to our
house were secured when Luke pointed at something outside. A
large black mass ambled its way towards us. At first,
I didn't understand what I was looking at. Its shape
and gait were so strange that I thought I was
looking at a brand new animal. But once it stepped
fully into the faint glow emanating from the porch light,
I realized that it was a black bear. Its lower
jaw on one of its hind legs had been ripped
off and from the trail of blood it had left
in its wake, it was clear that the wounds were fresh.
The bear stumbled closer, stopping only inches from the glass.
Everywherey step I could make out another laceration on its body.
I watched in horror as the massive creature stared directly
at us, with a look in its eyes that it
could only be described as pleading. I held its gaze
for a few seconds, and then the creature collapsed onto
its side. A puddle of dark red pulled outward from
its body, and soon the strangest expansions and contractions of
its rib cage ceased. Never once did it look away
from us as it bled out and died. There was
a long silence before Luke and I dared to speak.
You think, Luke began, You think that's what the animals
were afraid of? I hoped so that something in my
gut told me that it wasn't. After all. Even if
that was the creature that had been running from, the
question still remained, what could have inflicted that level of
trauma on a black bear of that size. I think
we should get away from the windows. As we made
our way to the middle of the house, the lights
flickered once twice, and then abruptly went out all together.
We were plunged suddenly into darkness, and it seemed to
put the animals even more on edge than before. The
squeaks and wines increased in volume. As I procured two
flashlights from our kitchen cabinet, I handed one to my husband,
and then the two of us tug to the dining room,
sitting on the floor with our backs against one of
the walls. Luke was calm on the surface, but I
could tell that the strangeness of the situation was causing
him distress. At least, Tony's presence seemed to bring him
some peace of mind. For some reason, she was unaffected
by whatever ailed the others. I studied her as she
relaxed in loose lap, her eyes closing, as he absent
mandily stroked her fur. Why was it that she was unafraid?
She had come to our house right before the blizzard
set in, whereas the rest of the animals likely had
been outside for longer. Had they seen something out in
the storm? If they had, could it have been the
same thing that killed the bear? Hey, Luke's shaky voice
broke through my thoughts, do you hear that? I didn't
hear anything, And then I realized I didn't hear anything.
No wailing of the wind, no sounds from the animals, nothing.
It was like the whole world had suddenly gone quiet.
Around the room, all of the animals was so still
it was as if they were afraid to move. I
clicked my flashlight off, wanting to attract as little attention
as possible, and Luke followed suit. For a moment, we
just sat there in the dark, listening, and then I
heard a voice. Hello, clear as day, the voice of
a person was calling to us from outside our house. Hello,
anyone in there, it asked. It's tone far too nonchalant
with someone weathering the full brunt of a blizzard. I
need some help out here. Next to me, Luke shifted
as though you were about to stand up. I reached
out and grabbed hold of his arm, grabbing Tony and
pulling Luke back down to the floor. There wasn't a
chance in hell I was about to let him investigate
the voice. It was so strangely quiet that I could
hear the crunching of footsteps in the snow as the
person moved outside. Please the voice said, It had gotten closer,
like it was circling the house. Please, I really need help.
Can I just come in for a minute. It's so
cold out here. My grip tightened on Luke's arm. The
complete lack of emotion in the voice's tone sending a
chill up my spine. He reached over, holding my hand
in his as the source of the voice moved even closer.
Come on, now, don't you have room for one more?
It was right outside the dining room window. I closed
my eyes like a coward, not wanting to see whatever
it was about to step into view. Next to me.
There was a single, sharp intake of breath for what
felt like an eternity. Neither of us moved, and then
there was a light chuckle from outside the window. There
were more footsteps, but this time they were moving away
from us, and they seemed to be taking the silence
with them. The wind remembered itself, returning with a howling
vengeance in the visitor's absence. Luke's hand had gone slack
in mind, but I held on to it for a
long time, sitting there with my eyes shut tight. It
must have been an hour before I dared to open
my eyes and breathe normally. Again, are you okay? I
finally asked. No response. I tried asking again, a little louder,
and still my husband didn't respond Luke. When I clicked
on the flashlight, I saw Luke staring at the window.
His face twisted into an expression of horror I'd never
seen before. His skin was pale, and his body was
rigid as a corpse. And try as I did, I
couldn't get him to respond to me in any way.
His look of sheer terror never once changed, even as
I carried him to the car and drove us as
fast as I could to the hospital. The doctor said
it was a stroke. Of course, I was incredulous that
such a thing had happened to my fit, none smoking,
twenty nine year old husband, but no one could offer
me a better explanation. For the next few days, I
waited for a recovery that never came. Then the days
turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months
into years. While Luke regained some very minimal motor control,
blinking and twitching his fingers, it was clear that he
would never be the same. I became his full time caretaker,
spending my days attending to all of his needs, and
my night's praying that he would make a miraculous recovery.
As of this evening, five years have passed since the storm.
Old Rigatoni is still alive and kicking somehow, and her
visits always seemed to make Luke perk up just a
little bit. She's sleeping on his chest as I tell this,
taking care of him in her own way. I'm glad
to have her around, but even though I try not
to be superstitious, her presence always brings me back to
the night of the blizzard. I think about Tucker, who
ran away after the storm passed. I was never seen again.
I think about the Martin and the mice and the bear,
and the way all of them acted like they were
fleeing from something terrible. I think about the look on
Luke's face, and I can't help but wonder if they
all saw the same thing. Maybe Luke saw something he
wasn't meant to, something that his brain had destroyed itself
trying to comprehend. I look at my husband, the love
of my life, and can't help but mourn what was
taken from me that night. If I had opened my eyes,
if I had been brave enough to look. Would I
have met the same fate? What did you see? I
asked him, like I have a thousand times before, never
get an answer. Most tuba drivers serve a wide variety
of customers. Some probably have never seen the same person
more than once. But I've been serving the same person
for almost a year now. At first, it was a coincidence.
He lived relatively close to me, so when I accepted
the ride and picked him up, he, for some reason,
seemed relieve that someone had come. Then I saw why.
His route was a four hour ride all the way
to the nearby seaside town, a town often visited in
the summer months, but he was heading there in late autumn.
I figured people canceled on him once they saw the room,
so my accepting it gratified him. I needed the money,
so I figured it was worth the time. He was
quiet the whole car ride and never spoke as he left,
not even a thank you for making this absurd trip.
And being new to uber, I started to realize what
I experienced riders would decline such a route. I was
stuck in the town with barely anyone doing anything, since
it was outside of peak activity, I made a few
routes for some locals, trying to scrape some extra cash
before heading back, but it was nowhere near the rates
of the city where I lived. Dejected and I was
ready to head back when I saw a ding near
where I dropped the guy off. I accepted, and to
my surprise it was him. The route was to take
him back home another for our ride, which would make
the day's profits far higher than if I'd done a
whole day in the city. Ecstatic at the thought, I
drove him back again in complete silence until I dropped
him off and called it a day. Overall, it was
a strange sequence of events, and at the time one
I did not want to repeat until I saw the tip.
He had left a hefty thirty percent tip on top
of the already expensive ride both ways for someone struggling
for money, This was a godsend. When I accepted a
route the next day and went to the location, I
was surprised to see that it was him again. The
route was readying for a four hour ride back to
the seaside town. It was obviously strange that he would
go so far yet again two days in a row,
but knowing what he was paying. I accepted again. This
time I didn't even bother doing any of the local
routes there. I just hung around and grabbed a drink
with the app open, the map hovering where I dropped
him off, and like clockwork, around two hours later, a
ding popped. I quickly finished the drink and accepted the ride,
and it was him ready to go home. I relaxed
when I finished my shift and lit up when I
saw that yet again, he dropped a thirty percent bonus
on top. The next day, when I started my routine
of checking the app, I was doubtful that he would
want to go there again. It was preposterous that he
even went twice like that, but a lingering hope in
the back of my head made me check if there
were any roots around where I picked him up, and
my jaw dropped when I saw one there exactly where
I usually picked him up. This set my routine for
the next few months. Every weekday I would start up
my app at around eight am, driving to the town,
waiting around two hours, and then driving back, each time
getting a juicy thirty percent tip on top. God knows
if he did this on the weekend with someone else.
But I was not going to do this seven days
a week. I'm not a very torgative person, but I
sometimes tried to start a conversation, but I'm just met
with silence. I even tried to offer my personal number
in case he wanted to do this outside of Uber,
so they wouldn't scrape their fees from the payment and
make it cheaper for him. But no, he would just
look out the window and watch the roadside, eyes glazed over,
lost in thought. So when he finally spoke, I nearly jumped.
The town means a lot to me, he said. His
voice sounded like some one who had just woken up,
making me wonder if this was the first time he'd
spoken to any one in a long time. I froze,
but didn't want to pass up the opportunity of knowing
more So I asked why He opened up about his
connection to the place, and he used to go there often,
and now that he was no longer working, just wanted
to spend his days there. I asked him if he
was retired. He said that he wasn't, but that he
lived off of passive income that supported his lifestyle. It
was intriguing learning about his unique circumstances, and despite the
long ride, we soon neared the location and he quietened up.
On the way home. He talked about the things he
liked there, the local ice cream shop that made their
own flavors, the bi quintals that let you see the
scenes in good time. The corpse I shopped around was
suddenly animated of life with nostalgia, even recommended places for
me to go. Somehow, knowing that I now waited for
his ride back, I dropped him off with a smile,
excited to learn more. The day after, when I got home,
my eyes widened. When I checked the uber app he
slammed me with a fifty percent tip, far exceeding what
he had tipped before. I almost wanted to return it,
but I didn't want to look a gift horse in
the mouth. And helped me so much with my financial issues,
and he seemed to have an endless sort of income
to have supported this strange lifestyle. The day after, I
tried asking him more questions. I was curious about more
of the local experiences and his connection to them. Despite
having been there so much, I knew next to nothing
about the place, but I was only met with stone
cold silence. It was like he had reverted back to
how he was just solemnly looking out the window of
the whole ride. The way back was all the same.
It seemed he had expended his burst of social energy
and fell back into his usual routine. I tried again
the day after and was met with more silence. The
tips reverted back to thirty percent, nothing to scoff at,
but short of the big payday I was. After a
while went by like this, A silent ride there, A
silent ride back Sandwich, between visiting the few spots he recommended,
which were just as good as he had hyped them
up to be. Yet despite visiting all the places he mentioned,
he would never be there. Maybe it was a coincidence
we would always miss each other, having gone to different spots.
The time only allowed me to see one, maybe two,
depending on where I went, But after weeks of this,
surely we would have lined up at least Once. I
was jolted again in the middle of a midweek drive,
he broke the silence with another nugget of information. I
go there to see my wife, he said bluntly. This
answer raised so many questions. Long distance is often almost
entirely reserved for young people or people who cannot afford
to move in together, but he was neither of those.
Before I could ask him about it, he went on.
He spoke of how much he loved seeing her, describing
how she looked, middle aged, full blonde hair, with a
button nose, slender but not too slim. He was infatuated,
glowing as he spoke, not only animated but happy, a
sharp contrast to how he usually seemed, so much so
that I didn't want to interrupt him with my curious
yet benign questions. Sadly, he only started talking near the
end of the trip, so by the time an opportunity
came up to ask him my questions, we were pulling
up to his stop. I waited around, too curious to
do much in the town, only grabbing some food and
waiting with excitement. After spending so much time with him,
I was invested in his story, only dripped to me
in rare times. When I got the ping, I hurriedly
picked him up, my mouth bursting with the questions I
had bottled up. I tried to broach the topics calmly.
I asked him why they lived apart, why he didn't
just live in the town, and why they only see
each other for such a small window each day. I
did so as politely as possible, who was only met
with a silence I was all too familiar with. When
I got home, I had two amounts for the trips,
a fifty percent tip on the way there and only
thirty percent for the way back, a curious hint about
how he wanted things. On the plus side, I was
able to start living how I wanted. The first thing
I reinvested in was a new car. I was spending
so much on fuel, so to get something more reckonmical
was basically an investment, though the luxury extras were me
treating myself. Then I felt too scruffy to be seen
in the thing, so I even got some nice new clothes,
standout brands that would make it look like I didn't
just steal the car from the lot. It took a
good few months before he spoke again. I was scared
my broken questions had offended him. But when he spoke,
he dropped some heavy information, answering my questions as if
i'd only just ask them. The reason we don't live
together is because she died, he said, dejectedly. My heart sank.
This answered a surprising amount of my questions. The whole
bizarre routine started to make more sense. It was a
saddening twist of the tail that was being drip fed
to me. He told me stories of their time together,
That she was with him from rags to riches, and
that despite making something out of himself, he said that
he cannot share the fruits of their labor together. This
explained why he frivously spent on ubers every weekday just
to keep up this ritual. This time, he talked almost
the entire four hour ride there. He shared personal details
about their relationship, the ups and downs, the things he
didn't realize he'd miss until she was gone. It was
touching and really progressed me emotionally for when I finally
meet someone worth sharing my life with. When he exited
the car, he shared one piece of final wisdom. It's
the routines that matter. Make sure sure you keep up
a good routine. This way you never forget what happened.
It was cryptic enough to apply to many things. I
chose to hold on to it and to hopefully fully
know the meaning of this proverb. The right back was silent,
but in a good way, resting in the good energy
of openness, I got home to a fifty percent tip
both ways, and I felt content that we finally had
a rapport. The day after, I asked him more questions
about his wife. He seemed more animated and alive when
talking about her, so I hoped that I could breathe
some new sense of purpose for him. Even if it
meant I would lose out on this amazing uber gig,
I would feel content to see him real live his life. However,
when I looked back in the rear view mirror, he
was looking out the window, silent like before. I tried
to probe once more, but we were back to our
usual routine. The following weeks were the same. Each time
I thought I had made enough progress to get to
know him, he closed up. It was only when I
tried to start conversation, so I noted that it always
had to be him, no exception. So I waited, and
eventually the day came when the silence was once again broken.
One week from now will be the anniversary, he muttered.
My heart sank, but this was just the beginning of
the heart wrenching details. He told me how things happened
from his perspective, He said, they went to the seaside
town for a few days, booked a nice hotel, and
planned to spend a few days there just to relax.
It was the start of autumn, but it was also
their anniversary. They didn't care that it would be cold
and that it would basically be a ghost town. They
just wanted to share their special day together in the
place that meant the most to them. This touching scenario
was ripped from my gut as he explained what actually happened.
They were walking near the pier. It was early afternoon,
broad daylight when he lost sight of her while distracted
for only a moment. There weren't many people around and
not many places she could have gone, Yet despite this,
he couldn't find her. Afterwards, he looked nearby, and when
that didn't work, he checked places they usually went to,
went back to the hotel to see if she had
maybe forgotten something, and went back empty. He couldn't believe
she had just vanished, so he waited around spots they frequented,
occasionally switching locations to see if she'd be there. When
it started getting dark, he reluctantly called the police to
file a report. He was assured she was probably lost,
not being local and all, and that this happened often.
So they sent out a few search parties to check around,
but days went by and nothing was found. It was
only after a week that she was found, and hearing
it was like a punch in the gut. She was
found floating below the pier. Despite the scenario that she
had made fallen in, evidence showed she was abducted and
brought back there. Vowl play was immediately ruled in the
sea washed away all forensics, so it was already a
cold case. I was devastated hearing this, yet despite this,
he held a hopeful smile, maybe clinging on to the
cherished memories rather than the grim. Ending for this story
was followed by a request. The next Wednesday was going
to be their anniversary date. He asked that I be
around to make sure I could take him to the
seaside town without hesitation. I wholeheartedly agreed. I even offered
my personal number in case something happened, but he politely declined.
The ride home was silent, but with an air of
solemn optimism, A hope lingered in the air. No words
were exchanged, nor did they need to be. I now
felt I was doing something bigger than myself, a duty
to the calmer of the universe. When I got home,
I checked the app and was hit with an eighty
percent tip both ways, a hint that said to make
sure I was ready on Wednesday, and I was. When
I picked him up, I was surprised. From the cocoon
of a dreary middle aged man emerged the dapper gentleman
who wore an elegant, long black pea coat over a
suit that wasn't too formal but definitely stood out. The
day was chilly, so it's hands sat in nice fur
lined leather gloves. This was the sharpest contrast from what
I'd seen in the many months I'd been with him.
I felt like an underdressed chauffeur rather than an new
I smiled without a chauffeur hat to tip, and proceeded
to the town. The silence was pleasant, this time around,
lingering with a sense of hope and wonder. I fully
believed that he was there to enjoy the memories of
his time with his departed wife, and I smiled the
whole ride, hoping he got what he wanted from this endeavor.
This time, he spoke. On the way back, I did it.
He was exactly like before, he yelled animatedly. He described
doing everything like He remembered that it was just like before,
and that he felt a strong connection to her. Even
said he might be able to move on, which stung
a little the thought that this routine could come to
an end, But he topped it off with a feeling
that this routine made him too happy, and that for
the foreseeable future this will continue. When I got home,
I was met with its biggest tip yet, one hundred percent.
I was happy. He was happy. It was the best
day of my life, living it vicariously through this interesting
man I had became acquainted with. The rest of the
week was silent bliss. Each day he'd tip a hundred
percent both ways, his new standard for my dedication to
his routine. I relaxed on the week end, sitting back
in a nice restaurant, a multiple course meal lined up,
a far cry from the ramen I had become accustomed
to many months ago. I had started living my life
not just because of the generous source of income, but
to strive to be more like my inspirational passenger. Until
my phone dinged with a note of for It was
the week end, so it couldn't be uber, And when
I checked, I saw it was a news notification. I'd
spent so much time in the seaside town that I
sometimes got news notifications from the area my phone's location,
thinking I reside there. It was an emergency notification about
a missing person. The picture looked familiar, yet it was
someone I'd never seen before, middle aged, full blonde hair
and a button nose, slender but not too slim. It
wasn't someone I'd seen before, but it was someone I remember,
having imagined almost exactly how the man described his late wife.
The details chilled me. She went missing in the early
afternoon near the pier. No other details were known, just
that they were still currently looking for a whereabouts. My
heart sank. He didn't just say the day went well.
He said it went exactly like before. It didn't take
a genius to piece together what might have happened. He
was a man of routine, and I guess this constituted
as his new ritual. But as I looked at the
food in front of me, the new car outside, and
the nice clothes I could finally afford, I couldn't bring
myself to turn him in. I live under the greatest
horror known to man, the home Owners Association. The scrutiny
of the Reesotoic rules is benign only to them. You
may hear tales of h oa's that are sticklers to
strict laws, but let me tell you that mine is
far worse. I once saw them sit an old lady
for undesirable decorations in a house. They were napkins that
were blown around a porch after a barbecue. Driving through
the streets, the neighborhood almost looks like a movie set.
Within minutes of being expressed, all sense of personality is crushed. Still,
I moved here at a much better price than if
I lived in the city. I've more space too. For
the cost of my house, I would be living in
a small studio apartment that I wouldn't even own. So
I put up with the h OA simply by almost
never being at home. The only downside for me is
the commute. I have to travel far to get to work,
and even further if I want to do anything recreationally.
But it's not too bad knowing that I've never caused
any reason to be cited until One day, I was
sitting in my little cubicle at work when I got
an email. At first I thought it might have been spam.
It was a citation from the HOA that I was
being written up about something. I thought this couldn't be
the case, since my home looked pretty much the same
as when I first moved in. But I opened it anyway,
just in case my disbelief faded. It must have been
real because it had all my details that I used
when I signed for the house through some hoity toity
nonsense speak that they were obviously using to try some
more professional than they actually were. It was a warning
about a fine i'd get if I didn't clean my yard.
This couldn't be the case, I thought to myself. But
sure as day, there was an attached picture of a
heap of mess on my lawn. It didn't look like
a trash can had fallen over. The pile was of
large pieces of junk, containing a mixture of broken furniture
and discarded housing materials. Furious, I quickly opened my doorbell
camera feed and checked through the day. Sure enough, there
it was a dusty looking pickup truck that pulled over
quickly launched the stuff off the back and then sped off.
Now you'd think this would suffice that I had good
reason that it wasn't me, and that I was a
victim of what looked like a random dumping. However, nothing
I said absolved me of any wrongdoing. I would be
fined if the site wasn't clear by ten p m.
That evening. Begrudgingly, I got on with work and sped back,
hoping I had enough time to clear it up by
the set deadline. When I bowled up to my drive,
I was daunted by the task that lay ahead of me.
The mount of rubble looked smaller on the wide angle
lens of my doorbell camera. In person, however, there was
a heaping mountain of splintery, rusty, nail riddled junk. I
went to my shed, put on the thickest work gloves
I could find, and prayed to the hepatitis gods. Then
I wouldn't get a visit from them. Fortunately, I had
a small trailer attached to the back of my car.
I'd used it to move from the city all the
way to this neighborhood in one trip, knowing that the
cost of renting a van would have been astronomical for
how little stuff I owned. I loaded Peace after peace,
narrowly avoiding cuts and splinters with each item hurled into
the trailer. It was getting close to the deadline when
I was nearly finished. Aside from a few small pieces
skewed around, the last large item remained a door inset
into the lawn soil from how much weight had been
on top of it. It was old looking, but not decayed,
more so in the sense of its build and lock.
It had inset grooves that reminded me of a museum piece.
Even the smell of damp soil brought out that aroma
you only get from an antique shop that only stocks
from the freshly deceased. The door knob was a marred
brass that had long lost this metallic luster. I tried
to pry the edges of my fingers for the perch,
but couldn't get between the wood and soil. Goodness knows how,
but it was perfectly flushed with the ground, almost like
it was painted there. I grabbed a thin piece of
scrap from the trailer to try prying it from the
ground at least enough for me to get my hand under,
But my luck being the way it was. The piece
of scrap snapped almost instantly. I stood there for a
few minutes, trying to figure out what to do. I
lived alone and far away from friends, so I had
no one to call for a helping hand. I was
put off the idea of asking a neighbor, knowing that
the h away could be any one of them, and
I had no intentions of interacting with them. So I
did what any man would do in this situation. I
tried whatever I could think of as soon as it
popped into my head. I kicked down on a corner
to see if the other side would rise up an inch. Nothing.
I looped a rope around the doorknob and pulled to
the side, hoping it would slide out. Nothing. I even
tried to see if the previous house owner had left
any old tools in the shed. Nothing. The only bit
of movement I got was the doorknob idea, which gave
a slight, barely noticeable rise when I pulled. So I
focused on that angle and tried more ideas. If pulling
to the side didn't help, maybe using it as a
handle would. So I tied a rope around it and
heaved upwards. The door rattled with each pull, almost like
someone trying to check a locked door, but the bevel
of the knob made it so my terrible tying skills
were made apparent. The rope slipped off every time I
felt I had a good purchase on it. This left
me with my final option to try it by hand.
My grip was far from that of a rock climber,
so I didn't feel confident in this, but it was
worth a shot. I squatted down, gripped it with both hands,
and heaved as hard as I could. That minute lift
gave but nothing more than that. Whatever this was made
from must have been the heaviest wood known to man.
No wonder the people ditching it didn't want to take
it to the dump. Knowing that I'd somehow have to
heave this into a skip was just as daunting as
handling it. In the moment, with a heavy huff, I
gave it one last hard pull. As I adjusted my grip,
the door knob did what it was designed to do
and twisted as I pulled, And as it did, I
heard a familiar click. Suddenly my ass was wet on
the lawn as the door flung open. In hindsight, the
thing was the weight of a normal door that I'd
forced open with all the might I could muster. This door,
haphazardly left crooked on my lawn, opened and a gust
of musty air seeped from underneath. And when I stood up,
I saw why the wind whistled, and the edges of
the nowt upright door, which somehow opened into a tunnel,
perfectly lined up to the angle the door had been left.
I was no longer amused by the incident. However, the
swirl of emotions never settled, so I still can't quite
place how I truly felt about the situation. The door
sat nearly upright, just tilted far enough that it didn't
immediately snap closed, But that angle was the furthest it sat.
I tried pushing down on it to somehow snap off
its hinges, to try and get rid of it, knowing
the new hole in my garden was going to have
to be a future issue, But to no avail, I
dared not look into the hole for a while. I
was daunted by the prospect of the job. Had it
breached any important pipes or wires. Was it a straight
drop which would be a danger to the neighborhood kids.
What could even have made such a hole in such
a short time. I hadn't seen anything that could have
caused it. On the video from the doorbell camera, all
I saw were the workers dumping the junk in my yard.
This hole was a whole new development and something the
HOA would ever feel day with. When I finally peered in,
something struck me as odd. On top of the oddity
of the whole situation was the angle in which the
hole went. It was steep, but sloped just enough to
be able to walk down, and my cellphone's flashlight didn't
tickle the depths it boasted. Even sticking my arm as
far as I could didn't reveal where the hole ended.
Though this was me lying on the edge so I
couldn't reach far. I didn't dare walk down without a plan,
so that was the next step I took to figure
the whole situation out. I grabbed a helmet I had
stashed for the bike. I never used a flashlight I
had forth the power ever went out, and a stick
from the junk pile in case I needed to poke something.
I was obviously inexperienced, but I didn't let this stop
me from trying to scope out what I was dealing with.
The door, when opened never lay flat, standing nearly vertical,
just past ninety degrees, but it held open untouched. So
I slowly made my way in, using my dim flashlight
to penetrate the thick darkness below. I made sure I
was always in sight of the exit. However, the further
I went in, the deeper it went. I took a
few more cautious steps before I realized that the tunnel
did not end, but rather it split in different directions.
Whenever this hole was it seemed to lead into a
system of underground channels that ran much further than I
planned to go, so I had to rethink my plan.
I made my way back out and put on my
thinking cap. From what I saw, it was just hollowed
out dirt. But my new fear was the direction one
of the tunnels went. It turned towards my house, making
you worry about the structural integrity. If this ran under
the foundations, I would be in a world of trouble
if the unsupported hollows fell through. I decided on one
last foray into the darkness. This time it equipped to
something to help me find my way back. I tied
a couple rows of garden twine around a heavy piece
of junk I placed back of my yard, and I
unwound it. As I went back in, I had one
hand slowly unraveling the twine while the other held the flashlight.
I had the stick under my arm for the time being.
Going down again, a strange thought crossed into my head,
one that whispered before, but feeling it the second time
was too patterned to notice. The slope had rhythmic bumps,
interludes of rounded edges that were too perfectly aligned to
be natural, near smooth in the middle, but very apparent
when looking at the concave sides. It was almost like
there were once earthen stairs that had been worn down
through use. I didn't want to dwell on that too much,
knowing this hole wasn't here for my entire time living here,
so to see something so used was too much to bear.
The whistling of the wind outside faded the further I
went in, mixing in with some faint chatter. Maybe some
passerbys were just as confused as me about an open
door on a lawn, And soon I was at the
cross roads I found before I peeked left and right,
but knew the left turn would lead under my house,
the section I was most worried about. I toyed in
my head for a while about just turning back, maybe
calling a professional, Oh, a professional what? I did not know,
someone else to take a look, But I mainly just
wanted to make sure that my house would at least
make it through the night. This decision was soon taken
from me. The wind, there was only a whine before
gave a loud howl. It was a strong gust between
the many small whispers it had been doing until then.
But the gust must have lined up perfectly with the door.
Its slam shut with an earth and thud rather than
a wooden bang you'd expect from a door slam. The
line was taught now. The twine held in place by
the closed door, so I followed it back up to
try to get it loose and try again, maybe next time,
propping the door open for security. But as I gave
the door a push, it didn't budge. Silly me was
pushing with the muscle memory strength used to open a
regular door, but this was horizontal, so I realized I
needed to add some heft to pry it open, so
I tried again with more gusto nothing. I forehewed at this,
trying again harder nothing. Worried, I perched the leg higher
in the slope and shoved nothing. I crouched damn near
into a ball, twisted the handle and jumped with the
door flushing my back. Nothing. It didn't even give a
rattle even on my strongest attempt. It was well and
truly stuck. Now I bashed repeatedly, hoping that the voices
outside could hear me, but all that remained was silence.
Pressing my ear against the door didn't even yield the
wines of the wind outside. Eventually the silence was broken,
but not from the outside. It was subtle at first,
but unmistakable. There was a scuttling sound in the dirt.
Deeper into the tunnels. The banging seemed to have stirred
something dwelling in the darkness. This left me with the
ultimatum of my life, stay and keep trying the door,
knowing I was far into a dead end, or go
further in to find an alternative exit, to at the
very least have a chance to move away from whatever
was waking in the tunnels. I gave a final silent heave,
putting my entire body into a hard squat, making sure
the doorknob was turned, but to no avail. I was
stuck with option B. I knew the twine I brought
was finite, but I still opted to use it as
much as possible. I made my way to the cross
roads and made the left I originally settled on when
I first went in. My hope was that if this
was a system centered around my house, there might have
been another exit in my house, though the thought of
that was something I didn't want to dwell on too
much in the moment. I carefully carried myself forward, trying
to stay composed between more scuttling sounds or dirt sprinkling
from the low ceiling. My senses were on edge, and
they only got more heightened with each step deeper. I
kept my light downward, like the head lights of a car.
I didn't want the bloom to bleed too far forward
in case something surprised me. Up ahead, I kept my
presence as small as possible, minimal sounds, slow breathing, and
slow steps. But a sound trickled into my ears, making
my hair stand on end. Something so distinguished and recognizable
that I couldn't logic it away as dirt or paranoia.
A huff of a deep breath into the tunnel behind me.
This was only exasperated when, on top of that, I
felt the slightest tug on the twine. He must have
stepped on a bit of slack in the darkness. The
relief I felt from having looked into the correct direction
was overwritten by the feeling that it was stalking me
from behind. No matter how far removed, it seemed to
still be there, matching my pace, as if watching me
like prey. This was coupled with an intrusive thought, this
was only making me move deeper and deeper into the tunnels,
further away from the only exit I knew of. I
was so preoccupied with this that my face made a
soft thud with the wall in front of me, and
this was the tipping point for whatever was following me,
like the pop of a starting gun at a race.
Whatever stalked now hunted. I heard its skitters rapidly pound
the ground as it sprinted towards me. My fear of
a dead end was short lived, as I saw it
was another split. I dropped the twine and grabbed the
stick from under my arm, knowing the twine wouldn't last
to run and I needed my arms free to run
as fast as possible. Having turned left before, I chose
to go right this time and sprinted away, hoping I
was at least matching its pace to keep distance. With
the light now pointed forward, could see the next cross road,
I chose left and kept running, still hearing the scratching
sprint behind me. Another turn, another cross road, more turns.
It wouldn't let up, and as I reached another fork,
I heard a new set of scratching that started heading
in my direction. Another one joined the fray. This forced
my choice to the direction opposite to the sound. I
ended up making so many turns and splits that I
was well and truly lost. There was no way to
backtrack my direction or choices, with how preoccupied I was
turn after turn, randomly choosing whenever a choice presented itself.
I reached another split, for this time something was in
front of me. With flickers of my flashlight swings from
my sprint. I didn't get a good look at the thing,
but what I did take in was sharp claws with
concaves like They were made for tunneling, but doubled as
extremely dangerous weapons. I didn't have time to stop, so
I lurched my arm into a swing and lashed out
of the thing with my stick. It barely gave any
resistance before shattering. Without a doubt, it did no damage,
but it stunned enough for me to slip by. I
discarded what remained of the stick and headed away from
the thing, knowing that the others were also catching up.
I dipped around, bends and turns as best as possible,
but I knew my endurance was reaching its limit, and
these things showed no signs of slowing down. This was
their domain and they held all the advantages here. As
I ran, I caught glimpses of the walls. Occasionally there
were mars of marks in a symmetrical pattern, obscenely long
gashes left by their tunneling claws. Some were set deep,
more than lethal if they were to hit me, showing
me the consequences of being caught, I took a turn
fast and my foot caught on something. I flopped face
down into the dirt, my helmet saving me from a
broken nose. If slowing down was a danger, this was
a death sentence. I pulled my leg up to check
the damage, trying to be conscious of every second spent.
But as I looked down, I saw what I had
tripped on. A body. It wasn't human. It was one
of them. It's more hung agape, life long since gone
from its eyes. Signs of decay had set in all
over the thing that made me rule that death of
natural causes. With the puncture, wounds littered all over the body.
Whatever did it went deep, but some that must have
ricocheted stuck out. Thin metal needles protruded from some of
the wounds. I was distracted. I realized I'd been staring
too long, enamored by the sight before me. At the
pace that I heard them, they should have been on
top of me any second. However, they weren't. I could
still hear them, but they slowed, then stopped. There were
a few confused potters before as quickly as they came,
I could hear them slowly scatter away. I didn't have
time to ponder and what caused this, as I heard
more steps coming towards me. But these were much heavier,
powerful thuds that I could almost feel while still on
the floor. In the direction I was headed. I saw
a new figure, larger, more humanoid, and slowly lumbering my way.
Its eyes reflected a faint green, and he was holding
something in both hands, but I couldn't see what. I
tried to stand back up, but I couldn't. My leg
twisted under me, and I could tell the heat I
felt was my leg swelling. Even if I had made
it up, I did not know which direction to run.
There was doom in either direction. I slumped back down,
choosing to die in the comfort of the floor than
the pain of running, and as the lumbering behemoth walked
up to me, it stopped short. I looked back up,
feeling that it was the last thing I would see,
but was stunned trying to pros what was in front
of me. Beneath all the metal and technology that stood
there was a man. I could see parts of his
lower face, and I recognized the gloved hand of a human.
The top half of his face was covered with a
helmet that seemed to have lenses where his eyes should
have been, most likely a peripheral to let him see
in the dark. He was decked out in something I'd
only imagine from a sci fi movie. I saw what
he held in his hand, some sort of gun, though
one I didn't recognize from my limited knowledge of current
era weaponry. Looking at him, just stood there, not saying
or doing anything. I think he was as stunned as
I was. Eventually it was him who broke the silence.
Who are you? He muttered, his mind probably settled on
it in the jumble of thoughts we were both in.
I started to introduce myself, but I think the reality
of the situation kicked in, so he interrupted me before
I began, and told me to follow him. So I did,
and he only led me to more questions. Where he
took me was a stark contrast to the dark hells
I just came from. I was in a makeshift room
carved into what looked like a scientific facility. People worked
on intricate machines, chemicals, and computers. A few men standing
around were in the same exo skeleton suits as the
man who brought me here. To avoid collapse, thick metal
beams acted as pillars to the installed metal ceiling. The
metal panels lined the walls, which looked structural as well.
Time so one glanced at me, they would do a
double take the second time, wearing a shocked expression, followed
by quickly getting back to whatever task they had on hand.
I don't know who'd win if there was a competition
for more questions. I sense no hostility, though a step
up from the horrors I'd been pulled from. Soon I
was brought to another man wearing another exo suit, but
marred with more damage and a collection of symbols which
I could only assume marked his higher rank. Hey, Captain,
I got a weird one. Found the guy on patrol.
He looked at me inquisitively, a pause hanging in the
air before he plainly demanded speak tell me everything, A
simple request. I had no reason to hold anything back,
so I caught him up with everything that had happened.
He was amused that this started with me just trying
to sort out a fickle h oay situation, but he
had no reason to doubt anything I said. After more thought,
he finally uttered a call to take him to the room. Wait,
what's going on? How do I get back? This is
all I managed, the mutter as my arm was grabbed
and pulled away. I blurted out more questions, but they
were ignored. I tried asking my now prison guard, but
he stayed silent under the watchful eye of the captain.
When he let go, I was in a room with
a few others. This crowd did not look like they
stumbled in here like I had. They were dressed like
some of the people working the equipment in the main room.
Stay here, we'll figure out what to do, he said
in an assuring tone, though there was only so much
assurance I could have in this situation. He closed the
door and I heard it latch shut. In a futile attempt,
I tested it and it was indeed locked. Questions though
swirling around my head. It wasn't long before I was
the one to broach conversation. What is going on? What
is this place? A pause of silence followed as they
gathered their thoughts, for one of them spoke up, giving
me their best attempt at enlightenment. So you really don't
know what this place is. You weren't sent here from
the higher ups, one man said. Before I could answer,
another captive deduced the answer. Look at him, he's not
in uniform, He's just some guy. This doesn't make sense.
I started to get frustrated. I was in some place
beyond imagination, with horrors above my comprehension. Yet I was
treated as the anomaly here, so I snapped at them, Look,
I just stumbled in here. I have no idea what's
going on. I've been lost, god chased, nearly damn well killed.
Just tell me something, anything, I I don't know what
to do. I child off at the end my outburst,
quickly losing gusto, knowing that they were as captive as me.
Another pause before the first man spoke of my name
is doctor Jamieson, and you've somehow wondered into base ivory
of the He was cut off by a hushed too
much before he continued, Look, you've somehow stumbled into an experiment.
We found a way here through a door, I sort
of dimensional anomaly. We scientists were stationed here to make
grand discoveries. You've seen our personal guard, the men in
the tech fits. They were assigned to protect us while
we carved out an outpost to work in. However, as
he took a moment, the other's faces dropped the signal
of bad news. Our door just stopped working, or at
least somehow jam shot. We don't know if it was
intentional from the higher ups. They've been known to experiment
on the experimenters, but since this happened, we've not been
allowed to work on an exit strategy. The tech fit
marks have us working on our experiments regardless of circumstance,
following the commands of those who sent us here, and
they refuse to deviate despite the circumstance. This room is
where they put people who tried to do otherwise. At
this more silence fell. But I had a lingering thought
itching in the back of my brain. So what does
this mean for me? He just looked back at me
one more time and said, I don't know. This ended
the conversation, as we all had things to think about. Eventually,
a call was made from outside that it was time
to sleep, so we settled into the bunks. I awoke
to some yelling at what sounded like the pinging of metal.
At this, I bolted up and looked around. It seemed
I was the only one perturbed by this, but my
motion seemed to have stirred Doctor jameson awake. What's going on?
I asked, Probably the males. One must have gotten close
the moles, I asked back, yeah, you said you were chaste,
so I'm guessing you saw them, or at the very
least heard them blind mammillion tunnelers. We discovered them after
losing contact from the higher ups, so we were never
given a name for them, so we just call them moles.
In my head, I scoffed at the mundane name, but
chose not to let it out to keep conversation flowing.
So what are they? We don't know. It's one of
our tasks down here, examining local species. He spoke of
this like a job rather than a fight for survival,
but his casual nature did give some slight assurance. Having
ran out of questions, he took my silence as the
end and rolled back over to sleep, knowing there was
nothing more to do. I did the same. When I
awoke next, there was a metallic bang. The door rattled
from the other side, and an authoritative voice yelled for
us to wake up. With the lack of urgency the
others had, I assume this was just a routine wake
up call. We stretched the sleep away and opened the door.
A guard stood there and glanced at the room and
stepped aside. I frowed my brow in surprise, thinking that
if we were to escape he had left more than
an opening, but I was even more surprised when I
saw the others meander out of their own accord. What's
going on? Are we being let go? I asked Doctor
Jamison as he walked by. It's breakfast, we're being let
out to eat, he replied. I lowered my voice to
a hush, but this is the perfect time to escape. No,
it's just one guy. I glanced over to him. He
doesn't even have a weapon. This gave Doctor Jamieson a
chuckle and go where we're safer here then out there,
and they know this. At this he joined the line
filing out, and I followed in suit. We ended up
in a sort of makeshift mess room. Tables and basic
kitchen appliances. Stacked high were large boxes, and each person
in turn put their hand in and pulled out a
random metaic bag. Damn Curry, I hate this one, one muttered,
and he took it over to a kettle and started
preparing it. Everyone pulled something out, and I was last,
reaching in to find a bag labeled LAMB. I looked
at it confused, and Doctor Jameson peeked at what I had. Wow, lucky,
that's the best one trade you, he muttered. Do you
not get to choose what you get? I asked back,
I mean, yeah you could, but the randomness of what
you eat is damn near the only entertainment you can
get down here. I'm pretty sure hitting the lamb jackpot
is what gets some people's saying down here. I looked
down at my bag of food, knowing he probably needed
this more than me, so I agreed to the trade
without seeing what he had. His bag was labeled Cowboy Casserole.
I followed the instructions in the bag and prepared it
as best as possible. It wasn't a spectacular taste, but
it wasn't bad either. These were probably standard issue m
or ees they'd brought with them when they set this
place up, damn near unperishable food for long expeditions. When
doctor Jameson opened his lamb bag, I expected a divine
aroama compared to what I was putting up with, But no,
it was just as mundane as mine. I think they
must have created a placebo of a lamb hype. Maybe
someone initially started the rumor, knowing it would add some
excitement to some one's day and have others looking forward
to something, thinking that he was a pragmatic ideal. I
kept my thoughts to myself and ate as much as possible.
When we were done, we were lined up. The soldier
walked back and forth a few times, glaring at us
occasionally before speaking up. As you know, delinquency and insubordination
is not tolerated. You have been designated to the room
indefinitely for your actions. However, this is your daily chance
to come out, return to work, and do not cause
trouble for the others with your plans. Silence fell, and
a few dropped their heads into feet and stepped out
the room. After a while longer, he spoke once more,
in a defeated tone. Okay, then everyone else follow me
back to the room. The remaining people shoveled back, myself included.
Knowing I'd be stuck back in that room for a while,
I paid more attention to my surroundings, trying to get
as much information as possible. I noticed much more now
that adrenaline wasn't altering my focus. I saw things that
were working on, sampling the dirt, picking apart the bodies
of the moles, and tinkering with pieces of the armor.
The guards where and other technologies. I got some glances back,
presumably from people who hadn't seen me the first time around,
but one scientist in particular had a startling gaze. He
looked like something in his head clicked into place, maybe
an epiphany on something he was working looking on, Yet
his expression never shifted back to his work. It was
solely focused on me. When we returned to the room,
we were simply told to await further instruction. The conversation
in the room was dry. Either they were socially inept
or purposefully closed me out, and I couldn't figure out which.
The closest to answers I had was doctor Jamison, but
the way he was cut off showed they didn't trust
me with the information. If I could get him alone,
I was sure I could get him to spill more details,
but it was impossible with this room situation. Suddenly there
was a scuffling sound from outside and people were shouting.
I couldn't distinguish what was said through the thick door,
but it sounded heated. The door banged then quickly opened.
The scientist that was pressed up against it, falling in
his face, scrunched up in anger and expletives were thrown
at the guard, who ignored him as he locked the door. However,
the second the door clicked, his facade dropped, his expression
lightened up, and he set to a sly grin. When
I got a good look at him, I recognized him
as the man glaring at me when I walked back
to the room, Hi, he opened with. However, it wasn't
a universal greeting to the people in the room. He
was directed solely at me. Oh ah, hi, I mused back.
Not deterred by my hesitation, he went on a lot
more open than the people I'd been stuck with so far.
My name is doctor Kirkland. You're obviously not from around here,
so how did you get here? He asked. I went
on to explain my situation, though I wasn't happy with
a lack of reciprocation. Each time I did this, his
face displayed his feelings on each bit of information he
extracted from my tail, not hiding his thoughts on my predicament.
After some deliberation, he broke his silence. Look, I want
to get out of here, need to get out of here,
and I want your help. I just wore a shocked
expression at this, he continued, gesturing to the people around
him to listen in, who are now leaning in to
pay attention. We are safe here, We of use. You don't,
he pointed at me. Your safety is not guaranteed. He
almost sounded like a salesman giving his best pitch to
sell his idea. But I also couldn't refute his logic,
especially with how little I knew. Before I could even respond,
the roused crowd started to pipe in, Sure we have use,
but to compromise the facility with escapers grounds for termination.
They would not let that fly. One chimed in. Harms
of agreeance resounded from the audience. Even if we did
get out, where will we go? These aren't some pushovers
like the FBI or c I A another person interjected.
I was surprised that he spoke so lightly of what
I was led to believe were the best. This must
be deeper than I could possibly imagine. This is a
room for the smartest people in this dimension that he
called the shots, but wear the brains behind everything. You
don't think we could manage something easy like this. I
know for a fact some of you have achieved feats
that make this lugg child's play. At this, he shot
some specific glances to certain people, which they look back
with growing confidence. Which again I had no context to
what he was talking about. Remember, we don't just work here.
We made this place. He didn't think I would think ahead.
At this, Doctor Kirkland pulled out a pale blue device
with a mismatched asymmetrical pattern on the end, almost like
the teeth of a skeleton key. If his speech hadn't
fully convinced everyone, this revelation certainly did. In turn, everyone
who thought themselves of use chipped in with info or
services they could provide. I know the code for the
equipment room. There's a set rotation the guards follow. I
made the schedule. The north side tunnels the least guarded.
We'll have our best shot there. Excitement grew in the room,
and I started falling for it. It seemed individually no
one had any look towards escape, but together they were
the jukes or pieces that fell perfectly into place. Once
the plan was set, all we had to do was
wait for the perfect time. One man had his ear
to the door, the room silent for him to make
the call for action. Doctor Kirklin stood by with his
strange key, ready to move on the signal. After many
agonizing moments, the man up front raised his hand and
everyone snapped into place. Though these people were only the scientists,
I could tell they had some form of military training.
No words were uttered, only silent hand motions directed the
squad on how to move, even the way they walked
to minimize sound a lot. Compared to them, I sounded
like a lumbering giant, even though I was trying my
best to mimic their posture. We slipped around corners, the
front man moving with confidence, knowing we were moving through
blind spots. We reached the turn and he double checked
if it was clear. He made a motion with his
hand and another man turned the corner. When I moved
round to follow the rest of them, he quickly entered
a combination on a number pad and opened a thick
metal door. Inside was something that looked like something from
the future, equipment that I hadn't the faintest idea did what,
But it seemed I didn't need to, because each scientist
went straight for what they needed. Some grabbed goggles that
had a green hue on the lens to grab the
large rifles I saw the guards carrying and others grabbed
things I hadn't seen before. Since I was apparently not
given a crash course on how this tech worked, I
was simply left with my bike, helmet and flashlight. Much
to the degrading looks from the others. Bets were placed
on who would die first. All of them would have
bet on me. We left the room as silently as
possible in a single file. I followed the point lead
around more turns. We passed by rooms that looked like
they were used for storage or an office, but other
rooms were so beyond what I understood that I had
no idea what they did in them. As we reached
the straight tunnel that transitioned from metal to dirt, a
sure sign of an exit, we heard yells from behind.
I couldn't fully understand what they said, but I picked
up on the distinct word escaped. They knew we were
gone and would soon be behind us, and now the
chase was on. We stopped, just shy of the darkness,
some adjusting their goggles the scene the dark, others pulling
out strange looking devices that lit up the tunnel in
front of them. Doctor Kirkland turned to me and adrenaline
fueled grin beaming at me. Okay, where is the entrance
he came in from? He asked? What? Oh, I don't know.
I was lost when they found me, I replied. His
face dropped. Wait did you hinge this entire plan on that?
Doctor Jameson blurted. A look of confidence reappeared on Doctor
Kirkland's face, though this one looked more forced. Don't worry.
Have he got in It means we can get out,
he roused. We all made our way, deeper footsteps picking
up behind us. I didn't have the hard to tell
him that my DoD jammed just like theirs. It wasn't
long until all hell broke loose. I was held up
in a dark cubby with Doctor Kirkland running so fast
that some of us got split up on the first fork,
and the scuttling forced more of us to separate. The
ones carrying the rifles when needed at the front, but
lagged behind due to the weight. And when I saw
on fire, it sent the scientists near horizontal from the
kick back after only a few shots. What shots landed
on the mall well and truly killed it, but the
loss of control sent a few shots into innocent bystanders.
The wounds left behind were near perfect holes straight through
the wall behind, having the remnants of metal spikes, a
caseless rail gun shot that could be used for long excursions.
I was told during some downtime I had lost track
of Doctor Jamieson with the footsteps followed by shots and
screams told me that the guard's leniency had been spent.
It was either stay in work or die, and we
had all chosen the latter. Doctor kirk and myself were
holed up in a cubby just big enough to fit
us a blind spot if someone ran past. We stayed quiet.
When we heard a scuttling and felt a breeze of
moles rushing towards the commotion. I have to get out.
I have to get out. I have to get out,
Doctor Kirklin kept muttering to himself. Despite the chaos and
all the lives lost, he was driven to get out,
him not saying us or we had me rethinking his
pragmatic coaxing of the group, where we just fodder to
help him escape. There were noises still, but far off,
so I had to find out. Talk to me. You
had a plan to get here. What do we do now?
I whispered this seemed to break him out of his stupor,
and he sat there for a while in silence, thinking
I need to get out. We need to get out
until they've passed, and we moved forward. It was such
a vague plan, no thought beyond what I could have
come up with myself. What sickened me was the lack
of initiative to help the others. We just sat there
hearing their cries for help. They were secondary to his
own escape, myself included most likely, so I pried, and
what I was more curious about in that moment, why
do you need to get out so badly? I asked bluntly.
At this, he took another pause, contemplating a response. I
have a family. I missed them. We were sent here
on the promise of returning. We were to set up
the facility, then cycling scientists to work here. I was
one of the first in I need to get out.
I need to see them. He was fixated on this.
He must have thought this humanized his actions, but the
screaming and dying in the distance made it all the
more selfish. Who knew how many families were losing someone
here just for him to try to see his all
I knew was that he grabbed one of those insanely
put together weapons, so sticking with him was still my
best shot. The screaming and fighting were dying down. We
quieted down ourselves as our surroundings did, and as we did,
heavy and deliberate footsteps approached, no doubt one of the guards.
They were creeping with caution, on the lookout for hiding
scientists and violent moles. Her barely audible whisper trickled into
my ear. If he sees us, point to your flashlight
in his eyes, I will do the rest. My mind
boggled with responses. Was he planning on us taking the
guard down together? Were using me as bait? I no
longer had faith in his motives. However, the footsteps were
drawn nearer, and each step taken was taking away time
to reply. I hadn't decided on what to do, so
I let myself move in the moment. The steps clung
to a stop before us, and a pause lingered in
the air. The crackle of static rang out, and he
spoke into his radio. I've got one ear ready to engage. Click.
We were compromised, so now was the time to strike.
I heard doctor Kirkland yell out and out of reflex.
I flicked my light on and swung it around, looking
to get in in his visor, but as soon as
I found his head, we both stopped. He wasn't looking
at us, but was looking further down the hallway. However,
our outburst made him turn to face us, to which
he flinched from being blinded by my light. I guess
doctor Kirkland was right. Whatever they used the scene, the
dark seemed to flash back his vision with a direct
light sauce. A screech followed straight after, but it wasn't
from the guard, it was an even human. A sprinting
thud crashed from where he was looking at and as
I turned, a mole dove straight at us. Doctor Kirkland
fired a few stray shots, and one pierced straight into
his abdomen, But like before, the shots also sent doctor
Kirkland falling back, and this left him no time to
get out of the way. With the mole's momentum, it
landed claws first into both doctor Kirkland and the guard,
who never stood a chance or blinded. The guard fell
from his hit and the mole dug its nails oddly
at both of them, goring them into a mess. Each
swipe slowed down until it stopped still perched between them,
and slunk onto the floor. Turning my light towards it more,
I saw it had bled out from the wound Doctor
Kirkland had inflicted. In silence remained. I froze, now flying
so low. If doctor Kirkland had a hollow plan that
he was loosely following, I was now left entirely alone
a ship in open water with no wind. The guards
radio crackled a deep voice, repeatedly asking for an update
for who knows if they knew the exact turns he
made to find him, or what was left of him.
At least, However, one tiny piece of information was the
basis for my steps forward. The direction we heard the
guard come from was my right, which told me that
was the direction of the facility. So I turned left
and started walking. I opted not to take the weapon.
I had seen it get someone killed more than it saved.
The tunnels rewarded agility over brute force, but this didn't
ease my mind, and the challenges that faced me time
passing was mental agony. I'd been wondering the tunnels for
what must have been hours, sometimes running from the skittering
chase of a mall, other times lurking in cutaway channels
from the guards. Through the distant chatter I would occasionally
hear on their radios. They were looking for only one
or two more scientists, but it was still kill on site.
If they would so easily dispose of people a million
times more useful than me, I would be squashed like
an ant on sight. They wouldn't even think twice. The
distance I'd create from the guards did not provide safety.
Each step away from them was also a step away
from the safety that they used to provide. I was
past the protection of their capture, however long there would
have lasted. Gunfire broke me out of my thoughts. Nearby,
war cries rang out, and footsteps of all types were
bouncing around. The lighter skitters, though, were headed towards me,
scared half in my direction. I turned on my light,
knowing that stealth was no longer an option, and ran
away from the noises as fast as I could with
my still swollen ankle. The gunfire rang out every so often,
screeches of beasts and men intertwined. It was an even fight.
Skirmishes that happened sporadically between the Mole's retreats and attacks
hit and run tactics. Each battle created more distance between
them and me, but they would catch up between fights,
Whether intentional or not, each turn I made they would follow.
It was impossible for me to tell if the Molese
thought my footsteps was one of theirs back up leading
the guards into a trap, or if they knew the
guards were hunting me, setting up a distraction for them
to ambush. I dodged around turns, making each choice as
randomly as possible, but all the parties were still on
my tail. Another skirmish broke out, and it only sounded
a few turns away. I was too slow with my
hobbling run. It wasn't long until they were on the
same corridor as me, so I looked for somewhere to hide,
hoping they'd pass by. Fear came over me, knowing this
plan had its flaws. Images lingered in my head that
they'd find me curled up, or that I was caught
in some sort of cross fire. My light lit up
a turn that deviated from the tun while I was in,
but the dirt sloped something insect caught my light color
standing out from the dull brown and gray of the ground.
Thin and linear. It was my twine. I had somehow
made my way back. I rushed up the slope, my
legs burning from my monumental journey so far. As soon
as I reached the top, I grabbed a handle and
paused with a silent prayer. With a make or break
war cry, I twisted and shouldered the door as hard
as I could, expecting resistance. Instead, it flung open with ease,
sending me reeling out. I rolled on the ground from
the momentum and quickly scrambled to my feet. I slammed
the door shut, silencing the battle beneath, and grabbed the
heaviest thing nearby, dragging it on top. I had to
catch my breath. Lost from both exhaustion and adrenaline, I
slumped onto my back, the weight of everything keeping me grounded.
I was still for the first time in so long,
and I was relishing it. The sun was dull, which
I estimated to be the late afternoon to early evening.
Turning my head gently, I saw where I was Scrapped
cars and discarded belongings scattered around a crane in the
distance that was used to whole mess around into a
nearby compactor. It was a dump. My peace was short lived.
I felt a multitude of shakes, but not from the door.
My phone buzzed repeatedly in my pocket. I had almost
forgotten about it since losing signal, I was stuck down there.
The battery had the slimmest of red lines left. Still
there was enough to see the notifications now rolling in.
The signal returning, opening the floodgates of everything I'd missed.
Messages and missed calls from work rolled in, ranging from
asking to where I was, to anger about skipping a shift,
to concern about my whereabouts. Their concern warmed me a little.
I had messages blasted from family asking where I was,
a range of jokes at first about overdoing it on
a late night out, to genuine fear of my well being,
and finally a single email. It was from the h
OA telling me that I had not removed the mess
in time, so they hired some contractors to clear it up,
the bill of which would be added to my fine.
Working as a park ranger was a big deal for me.
I've always loved the outdoors, and getting paid to patrol
hiking trails and check on campsites felt like a dream.
It was only a seasonal job, but I was still
content with the allocated time I was given. I'd been
assigned to a remote national park, miles from anything resembling civilization.
My station was a tiny cabin in the middle of nowhere,
surrounded by dense forest. There wasn't even sell service most
of the time. First day in the job was pretty standard.
I met ed my supervisor. He's this older guy, maybe
in his fifties, with a kind of weathered that says
he's been out here way too long. Nice enough, but
kind of distant. He handed me a basic book full
of protocols, how to check the trail damage, what to
do if you encounter a bear, how to handle lost
hikers so that few'd expect. But then tucked in between
the normal sections there was this page titled Special Procedures.
The front looked older, like it hadn't been updated in years,
and it stood out immediately. The rules on the page, well,
they were different. Ignore the screaming after midnight. Never acknowledge
the lake when it reflects the moon. If you hear
footsteps behind you, do not turn around. I actually laughed
when I first read them. I thought it was some
kind of joke the older rangers played on the newbies.
But when I asked ed about it, he didn't laugh,
He didn't even smirk. He just said, follow them and
you'll be fine. That's it. No explanation, no elaboration. I
even tried pushing him a little, asking why these rules
are in there and if this was some kind of
hazing thing, but he just shrugged and said, you'll see.
So I put the book down and figured maybe it
was just some weird tradition or superstition the Parksteff kept
alive for fun, maybe a way to freak out new hires, whatever, right,
But my first few nights of the cabin started to
change my mind. You ever stay somewhere so quiet that
it almost feels a loud. That's how it was out
there at night. It was like the forest that's sat
was holding its breath. Sometimes the only sound was the
wind pushing through the trees. Other times there wasn't even that.
The stillness made me jump at every creak of the cabin,
every rustle in the bushes outside, And then there was
this feeling like I wasn't really alone, even when I
knew I was. It was my third day in when
I first heard the scream. I was sitting at the
tiny table in the cabin, halfway through a lukewarm cup
of instant coffee. My eyes were glued to the book
of Rules again, trying to make sense of it all.
It was late past midnight, but I wasn't tired. Something
about the cabin made it hard to relax. Maybe it
was how the floor creaked randomly, even when I wasn't
moving all the way. The wind outside never it quite
sounded like just wind. I was flipping through the rules
when it started. At first it was faint. I thought
it was the wind again, But then it got louder,
a sharp, piercing scream that cut through the stillness like
a knife. It sounded human, a woman maybe, or a kid.
My stomach dropped, my froze, my hand gripping the edge
of the table so hard my knuckles turned white. My
eyes darted back to the Rules, to that stupid yellowed page.
Ignore the screaming after midnight. Ignore it easy to write,
harder to do when it sounds like someone's out there
begging for help. I sat there for what felt like forever,
just listening. The scream would rise, hold for a few seconds,
and then fade. Then it would start again. My heart
was raising, and before I knew it, I was standing
by the cabin door, my hand on the knob. I
told myself it had to be something explainable, a hiker
in trouble maybe, or an animal that just sounded like
a person. I mean, I'm a park ranger, It's literally
my job to check these things out right. I stepped outside.
The cold hit me first. It wasn't a normal cold,
It was biting, the kind that sinks into your bones.
The forest was pitch black except for the faint cone
of light from my flashlight. The scream came again, louder now,
and I swung the beam in its direction, trying to
see through the trees. My throat was dry, and every
step I took felt heavier than the last. Then it stopped,
not just the scream, everything, the wind, the rustling of leaves,
the distant sound of nocturnal animals, it all just cut out,
like someone hit the mute button in the world. The
silence was so thick I could hear my own breathing,
quick and shallow. I don't know how long I stood there,
frozen in place, But eventually I turned back toward the cabin.
Whatever I thought I was going to find out there,
it wasn't worth it. My skin crawled the entire way back,
like something was watching me, just beyond the edge of
the flashlight's reach. When I got inside, I locked the twice.
The next morning, I asked Lisa about it. She's another
ranger works the main station closer to the visitor center.
Lisa's the kind of person who always seems upbeat, like
nothing rattles her. But when I brought up the scream,
her face changed immediately. She went pale, and her eyes
darted around the room, like she was checking to see
if anyone else was listening. You didn't follow it, did you,
she asked, her voice low. I hesitated, not sure how
much to admit. I stepped outside, I said, finally, didn't
go far. Lisa's expression darkened. She looked at me like
I just signed my own death warrant. That's how it starts,
she muttered. She stood up and walked out of the
room like I wasn't even there. Later that day, I
went out to patrol one of the popular trails near
the cabin. It was my first time on that route,
and for the most part it seemed normal, just trees, dirt,
and the occasional squirrel. But about halfway through I noticed
something hard. The ground had these scoff marks, like someone
had been running off the trail. The branches on the
bushes nearby were broken, and the dirt was churned up.
I gave me in a struggle. I followed the marks
for maybe twenty feet before I found it. A single boot,
muddy torn, just sitting there in the middle of the forest.
There was no sign of its owner. My stomach twisted
as I stared at it. It wasn't just the boot itself.
It was the way it was sitting there, like it
had been dropped deliberately. It didn't feel like something someone
had just forgotten. It felt wrong. When I got back
to the station, I told Ed about it. He barely
looked up from his paperwork. The forest takes what it wants,
he said, shrugging. Then he went back to his coffee
like that was the end of it. The first time
I broke a rule, I told myself it didn't really count.
It was maybe a week in and I'd almost started
to feel like I heard a routine down. Sure, the
rules are weird, and yeah, the nights were unnervingly quiet,
but I'd convinced myself that things weren't as bad as
I'd made them out to be. Then the footsteps started.
It was late, probably around one a m. And I
was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep. At first
I thought it's just the sound of branches tapping against
the cabin, but then I realized it was rhythmic, slow, deliberate.
Some one was walking around the cabin. My froze, my
heart was pounding, but I kept telling myself to stay calm.
I remembered the rule if you hear footsteps behind you,
do not turn around. Okay, fine, The footsteps weren't exactly
behind me, but the logic seemed the same. Just don't
engage right. The pacing continued. It circled the cabin, slow
and steady, and I swear whoever or whatever it was
would stop right by my window. I could feel it
lingering there, just out of sight. The sound went on
for hours. I tried covering my ears, but it didn't help.
I couldn't shake the feeling that something was waiting for
me to look. I held out as long as I could,
but by three a m My nerves were shot. I
figured if someone was actually outside, I needed to know.
What if it was a hiker I got lost? What
if I was in danger? I pulled back the curtain,
just a crack. Nothing. There was nothing out there, just
the trees, the dirt path, and the faint glow of
the moon. But the second I looked, the footsteps stopped,
like they'd been waiting for me to break. The silence
that followed was even worse. It was thick, pressing down
on me, like gravity was being turned up on a dial.
I didn't sleep that night. The next morning I noticed
something was off. My boots weren't by the door where
I had left them. They were in the middle of
the room. My radio, which I left off, was on,
hissing with faint static, And when I glanced at the window,
I swear my reflection didn't move in time with me.
It lags just a split second, but enough to make
my stomach drop. I told myself it was nothing, just
my mind playing tricks. But then I patrolled the lake.
A few days later, I was out patrolling the trails
near the lake at dusk. The sky was this brilliant orange,
and the moon was just starting to rise. When I
got to the water's edge, I noticed the Moon's reflection.
It was too much, too bright, too vivid, almost like
it wasn't just reflecting the moon, but amplifying it. I
stood there for a second, hypnotized, before the rule clicked
to my head. Never acknowledge the lake when it reflects
the moon. I snapped out of it and took a
step back. But as I turned to leave, I saw
a ripple in the water. There wasn't any wind, no
fish jumping, just that ripple spreading out from the center,
and for a split second, I swear I saw a hand,
pale and thin, reach up toward the surface. I didn't
stick around to see what came next. I stumbled back
to the trail and didn't stop until I was half
way to the cabin. That night, I had a dream.
I was back at the lake, standing at the edge,
but the Moon's reflection was shattered like broken glass. I
could hear something crawling out of the water, slow and deliberate,
dragging itself towards me. I couldn't move, couldn't even scream.
I woke up drenched in sweat, my heart raising, but
it wasn't just the dream. When I swung my legs
out of the bed, I felt cold, wet fabric. My
boots were soaked, caaked with mud, and there were footprints, muddy, unmistakable,
leading from the door to my bed. Looking back, I
think the first real warning sign wasn't the footsteps or
the lake. It was Lisa. She'd been one of the
first people I'd met on the job, and while she
wasn't exactly friendly, she was present. She cracked a joke
now and then talk about the hikes she liked to take.
But after the footsteps and the lake, she changed. She
was still around technically, but she wasn't Lisa anymore. Her
skin looked pale, like she'd been sick for weeks, and
her eyes I don't even know how to describe it.
They just didn't seem to focus, like she was looking
through me, not at me. She barely spoke unless it
was necessary, and even then her voice was flat, almost mechanical.
Morning I asked her if she was okay. She just
shrugged and said I'm fine, just tired. But she wasn't fine,
And the worst part ed didn't seem surprised if anything,
he avoided her. When I brought it up to Ed later,
he snapped at me, Ed the guy who'd spent most
of my first week cracking dad jokes and calling me nuby.
The rules are there for a reason, Nick, he said,
glaring at me, like I just insulted his entire family.
You don't follow them, and you deal with the fallout.
That's it, no exceptions. What kind of fallout are we
talking about? I pressed, what's actually happening here? You don't
want to know, he muttered, turning back to his coffee,
like we hadn't just had them unsettling conversation of my life.
Later that day, I went out to patrol, trying to
shake the weird tension between us. It was supposed to
be a normal route when I'd done twice before, but
something was different. The trail I was on didn't feel right.
The trees seemed taller, like they were leaning in towards me,
and the air was colder than it should have been
for midday. Still I pushed forward. I don't know why.
Maybe I was hoping to find something proof that I
was still in control. Then I saw them carvings in
the trees faces they were warked and stretched, their mouths
open in silent screams, their eyes too big, too round.
They weren't there the last time I'd work this trail.
I swear my life, they weren't. As I stood there staring,
I heard something. It started as a faint whisper, like
wind through the branches, but it grew louder words. I
couldn't make out voices, dozens of them, maybe more, all overlapping.
My chest tightened and I turned back the way. I came,
practically running until I was back of the cabin. That night,
the scream came back, louder, closer. It didn't just echo
through the forest this time. It felt like it was
inside my head, rattling around my skull, clawing at my thoughts.
And then I swear to you, I heard my name.
It was woven into the scream, whispered at first, then louder,
my name, over and over, like it was begging me,
calling me. I grabbed my flashlight and stood by the door,
my hand on the handle. I almost opened it. I
don't know what stopped me. Maybe it was instinct, maybe
it was the rule. Either way, I let go of
the handle and stepped back my whole body shaking. I
didn't sleep that night. I wish I could tell you
this is where it stopped. That after ignoring the scream
and the whispers and whatever the hell happened with the lake,
I just rode up my time and left the park
like a normal person. But that's not how it works here.
It was the manual that tipped me off. One morning,
I woke up to find it sitting on my kitchen table.
I swear I had left it in the drawer, but
there it was, right next to my untouched breakfast. I
thought someone had just left it out, but then I
saw the writing. The rules had changed. The old ones
were still there, ignore the screaming, don't look at the lake,
but new ones had appeared, scribbled in handwriting. I didn't recognize.
One read the cabin lights must stay on after dark. Another,
if you hear knocking from inside the walls, don't investigate.
But the one that made my stomach drop was at
the bottom of the page. You are part of the cycle.
You must stay. I stared at it for a long time,
hoping I misread it, losing my mind. Part of me
wanted to crumple the page, toss it in the trash
and pretend I hadn't seen it, but I couldn't. Something
about it felt final. It wasn't instructions. I could just
ignore That. Afternoon, I went to find Ed. He was
sitting on the porch of his cabin, sipping coffee like
everything was fine, like none of this was happening. Ed,
I said, holding up the manual, What the hell is this?
He barely glanced at it. It's the rules. Don't give
me that the rules are changing. Look. I flipped to
the new entry, shoving it toward him. What does this mean?
What the hell is the cycle? Why does it say
I have to stay? Ed didn't say anything at first,
He just stared at the horizon, his face unreadable. Finally,
he sighed and put down his mug. I told you
follow the rules, Nick, that's all you had to do.
What does that mean? My voice cracked, but I didn't care.
You knew this was going to happen, didn't you. You knew,
and you didn't say anything. His eyes met mine, and
for the first time I saw cracks in his calm demeanor.
He looked tired, defeated. The rules aren't just there to
keep you safe, he said quietly, they're part of the agreement.
What agreement with the forest, he said, his voice barely
above a whisper. It takes what it wants. The rules
are how we keep it at bay. But once you
start breaking them, he trowled off, shaking his head. You
can't undo it, Nick, It's already claimed you. That night,
I didn't bother trying to sleep. I sat at the table,
the manual open in front of me, The words you
must stay burned into my brain. The footsteps started around midnight.
At first they were faint, just a soft shuffle outside
the cabin. Then they grew louder, circling the walls, passing
by the windows. I kept my eyes on the manual,
my foot shaking nervously, trying to focus. Then came the knocking.
It was slow at first, deliberate, like someone tapping their
knuckles against the wood. But it didn't come from the door.
It was inside the walls. I tried to block it out,
repeating the rules in my head like a prayer. But
then I made the mistake of looking up. My reflection
was in the window, staring back at me. Except it
wasn't me. It looked like me, same face, same clothes,
but his expression was wrong. Its mouth curved into a grin.
I wasn't making its eyes darker than they should have been.
He raised a hand, pointing behind me. I turned around.
Nothing was there, but the footsteps inside the cabin didn't stop.
Ed came to my cabin the next morning. He didn't
knock or asked permission to come in, just opened the door,
stepped inside, and stood there like he belonged. You're taking
the North patrol to day, he said. His voice was flat,
like we hadn't had that whole conversation about the cycle,
like I hadn't spent the entire night hearing footsteps inside
my cabin. I didn't argue. What would have been the
point if I refused. He'd just give me some cryptic warning,
maybe shove the manual at me. I nodded and grobbed
my gear. The manual stayed on the table. I didn't
want it near me. The patrol route was one of
the longer ones, winding past the lake and cutting through
a part of the forest I'd avoided since I started
the job. It was in a hard trail, but something
about it felt heavy, like the air itself was thicker,
harder to breathe. I passed the lake first. The surface
was glassy, perfectly still, reflecting the sky like a mirror.
I kept my head down, refusing to look too closely,
but out of the corner of my eye, I swear
I saw something someone just beneath the surface. Lisa, her
pale face, her eyes wide, staring up at me. I
don't know if it was real or if my mind
was playing tricks, but I hurried past, not daring to stop.
Further down the trail, I found a flashlight that belonged
to Harris, another ranger, lying in the dirt. It was
caked with mud. The lens cracked. I picked it up
without thinking, then immediately dropped it. The metal was ice cold,
like it had been sitting in a freezer, not out
in the open sun. That's when I started to notice
the forest wasn't quiet anymore. There were faint whispers coming
from the trees, layered and overlapping, like a hundred voices
murmuring just out of earshot. I couldn't make out the words,
but I didn't need to. I knew they were for me.
By the time I reached the park boundary, my legs
felt like lead. The air had a strange pull to it,
like the forest itself was holding me back. I stopped
at the edge of the tree line, staring out at
the empty road beyond, and an intrusive thought hit me.
I could leave right then, right there. I could drop
my gear, walk out of the forest and never look back.
I'd lose the job, sure, but I'd keep my life,
my real life, the one I'd had before all of this.
But then I thought about the manual, the rules Head's warnings.
The forest takes what it wants, he'd said. What if
leaving wasn't an escape? What if I took something with me,
whatever this was, and it followed me home, Or worse,
what if leaving through everything off balance, broke the agreement
and dragged someone else into this nightmare. I stood there
for what felt like ours, staring at the road. My
mind was screaming at me to run, but my legs
wouldn't move. The whispers grew louder, circling around me, wrapping
me in their invisible grip, and then just like that,
they stopped. The forest went silent, completely, utterly silent. I
turned back, my heart pounding the true He seemed taller, darker,
and the trail i'd come down looked like it had
never been there at all. I don't remember much about
walking back to the cabin. It felt like the forest
that swallowed me whole, and when I stepped through the door,
I couldn't tell if I'd escaped or walked deeper into
something far worse. The air inside was stale and cold.
My body ate like I'd run a marathon. But the
exhaustion wasn't just physical. It was in my bones, my mind.
I locked the door, bolted it twice, and sat down
at the table. The manual was still there waiting. I
opened it, slowly, flipping through the pages. The rules were
the same, or at least I thought they were. I
read each one carefully, over and over, like I was
memorized in scripture. I understood now. The rules weren't suggestions,
they weren't folklore. They were survival. As long as I
followed them, I could stay. I wouldn't disappear like Lisa,
wouldn't dissolve into whispers like Harris. The virus might have
claimed me, but it wouldn't take me all at once.
I fell into a routine after that, patrol during the day,
locked the door at night, I didn't ask questions anymore.
I didn't peek through the curtains when the footsteps started.
I didn't let myself think about leaving, because I knew
there wasn't anywhere to go. Sometimes I still heard the scream.
It's always distant, now muffled, like it's coming from miles away.
Maybe that's what happened. You fade into the forest, slowly,
until you're just another sound in the dark. I don't
know how long it's been. Time gets slippery out here.
The days blurred together, and the nights feel endless. I've
stopped counting the seasons, stopped looking at the calendar. The
forest doesn't care about dates, so why should I. But
something new has changed things. Last week I saw headlights
through the trees, a new ranger pulling into the station.
I watched from a distance as ed handed in the manual.
The kid looks so young, so confident. I wanted to
warn him, wanted to scream at him to leave now
while he still could, But I didn't. I guess the
forest was watching, and the rules are clear. He has
unknowingly became a player in this game, and I just
pray he doesn't lose