Speaker 1: If you grow up in the city, adventure is something
you watch on a screen. You sit in front of
a TV watching kids your age climb trees, build forts,
sneak through the woods with flashlights. You see them find
things you could only dream of, exploring, hidden and forgotten
places one's adults don't go to. But when you step outside,
there's no wilderness waiting for you, No abandoned cabins with
secrets inside. Just endless concrete sidewalks, chain link fences, apartment rooftops,
dead ended alleys, a world where every inch of space
is mapped, numbered, owned by someone else. The closest thing
to adventure was jumping between buildings, sneaking into construction sites,
tagging a name on walls that won't be there in
a year. It wasn't enough, not for Liam. I've known
Liam since we were kids. He was always the loudest
voice in the room, the one with the biggest ideas.
He could make you believe in something just because he did.
If Liam said We're going to sneak into the old
row yard and see if we can get on top
of a train before it moves, then yeah, you were
going to do it. If he said this abandoned apartment
tower is safe to climb, no one ever checks inside.
You trusted him, and most of the time he was right. Ethan,
on the other hand, was the opposite. He was quiet, thoughtful,
always last to agree, but he never backed out. Here
we stood just behind Liam and I, arms crossed, scowling,
always looking like he was seconds away from saying this
is stupid, but never actually did. Ethan didn't love the
things we did, but he loved being there. I fell
somewhere between them. Liam led, Ethan hesitated, and I was
the one who said, screw it, let's go. That was
our balance. That was how it had always been until
Liam said I think I know what we should do,
and we said what And he said, let's get out
of the city. We were sitting on the roof of
a half finished apartment complex, watching cars blur below us,
the hummer the city swallowing our words. Liam was scrolling
through his phone, flicking between photos of forests, lakes, abandoned
buildings half swallowed by trees. This is what we're missing,
he said. We waste all our time sneaking into places
that suck. Look at this, actual abandoned places out in
the woods. No cameras, no fences. We should do this.
He want us to go camping, Ethan asked, skeptical, not
camping exploring. Ethan sighed, how do you even find a
place like that? I already did, Liam said, grinning. He
turned his phone, showing us a grainy satellite image a
patch of woods just past the city limits, near an old,
unnamed road. There's something there, a building or I don't know,
but no one goes out that way, no one talks
about it. It's just there, sitting in the middle of nowhere.
How do you know it's not private property? I asked,
How do you know it isn't? Liam shot back. Ethan scoffed,
that's a solid argument, dude, really air tight. Liam ignored him,
leaning forward, eyes bright. Come on, just one trip. We
leave Saturday morning, check it out, and come back before dark,
just like the kids in the movies. Just one time.
I could see it in his face. He'd already decided,
and part of me already knew that. I heard as well.
Ethan sighed, shaking his head, but he didn't say no.
The weekend came and we went. It felt weird stepping
onto a bus that took us away from the city
instead of deeper into it, watching the skyline shrink behind us,
disappearing behind hills and stretches of open road. I caught
Ethan staring at the window, watching the trees go past,
hands clenched on his backpack straps. Liam was grinning. He
kept checking his phone, double checking the location he'd found.
Almost there, he said, eyes shining. The bus let us
off at a half empty gas station, where the only
road aheads stretched into the trees. It felt different here.
The air was quieter, almost peaceful, like we had stepped
out of our world and into another. Liam was the
first to walk toward the tree line, sneakers crunching against
the dirt. Let's go, he said. We followed. The woods
were bigger than I expected, not just taller, but deeper.
The city was all about height, skyscrapers, bridges, endless metals
stacked toward the sky. This was different. It fell old
and alive. The trees stretched high above us, branches twisting
like vanes against the sky. The air was cooler here,
thick with a scent of dirt and pine. The only
sounds were her own footsteps, the occasional snap of a branch,
and the distant hum of something unseen when through leaves,
or something else entirely. For the first time in my life,
I felt small, and from the look on Liam's face,
he'd never felt bigger. See he said, spinning in a
slow circle, arms outstretched like he was soaking it in.
This is what I'm talking about, this is what we've
been missing, Ethan muttered as he kicked a rock, but
I could tell even he was. We ran through the
trees like kids, throwing rocks into a half dried stream,
scaling fallen logs like we were climbing mountains. At one point,
Liam grabbed a branch, swinging from it like Tarzan, whooping
before dropping into a pile of leaves. We were in it,
a real adventure. For once. This wasn't something we were
watching on a screen. We were living it. And then
Liam found the building we'd been looking for. It was
almost hidden, swallowed by the trees. At first, it looked
like a hill covered in vines and dead leaves, like
the forest that tried to pull it underground to erase it.
But then I saw the edges of a structure, concrete
cracked and weathered, barely visible through the overgrowth. And when
Liam rushed forward, brushing aside the vines. The truth became clear.
It was a building, half buried, lopsided like it had
sunk into the earth, a sagging roof, broken windows, and
a doorway gaping open into darkness. Liam's eyes went wide.
He stepped forward, running a hand along the crumbling wall.
This is it, he exclaimed with joy. Ethan stiffened. What
there was some urban legend, Liam said, absently, still staring
at it, someplace in the woods where I don't know
people used to go and never come back. Ethan scoffed, cool,
that's real comforting, man. But Liam wasn't listening. He was
already walking toward the entrance. I felt something shift in
my stomach, a feeling like we had stepped over an
invisible line, like up until now we had been on
safe ground, liam, Ethan called, his voice sharpened. Now maybe
we should But Liam had already stepped inside, and like always,
we followed inside. The air felt wrong, not just stale,
just still. We could tell no one had set foot
in air for years, maybe decades. The floor was covered
in dust, except for where rain had dripped through the
cracks in the ceiling, leaving dark water log stains. The
walls were made of concrete and rusted metal beams, part
of them buckling inward, threatening to collapse. A long hallway
stretched ahead of us, dark doorways gaping open, leading deeper
into the unknown. And yet despite all of that, Liam
was grinning. This is insane, he said, stepping forward, his
voice echoing through the empty space, like how the hell
has no one found this? Maybe because they don't want to,
Ethan muttered. Liam ignored him. He ran his hand along
the walls, kicking had a fallen chair. The sounds sharp
in the silence. You feel that, he asked, looking over
his shoulder. That energy like something big happened here. Ethan scoffed. Yeah,
pretty sure. The big thing was time and gravity. Dude,
this place is falling apart. Come on, Liam said, still grinning.
A little imagination never hurt anyone. For the first few minutes,
it was fun. We kicked through old furniture, picked up
faded scraps of paper that had long since become unreadable,
made up stories about what this place used to be,
an old military bonker, a call tied out, a secret
government lab. The only thing we were missing to truly
make this a movie was a big camera. But then
after a while Ethan stopped playing along. I noticed it
when he started hanging back, keeping his arms crossed, not
really looking around anymore. Liam noticed it too. Okay, what's
up with you, Liam said, turning to him. We finally
get to do something cool, and you're standing there like
a dog just died. Ethan didn't respond right away, Then
finally he let out a slow breath. You ever noticed
how this happens every time, he said, voice quieter than before.
You always find something fun to do, and at first, yeah,
it's great, but then you always always push it too far.
Liam's grin flickered for half a second. What are you
talking about? You don't know when to stop. Ethan shifted
his weight, running a hand through his hair, like that
time with the train yard, or when we climbed that
tower and the stairs gave out. Oh heck this we
should have turned back before I even got on the bus.
Li Liam's face darkened like Ethan had crossed the line.
But then instead of snapping back, Liam hesitated, And that
alone was weird enough to make me feel weird. He
exhaled through his nose, looking down at the ground. You
ever think, Liam said, slowly that maybe I don't want
to stop. Ethan frowned. What. Liam stuffed his hands in
his pockets. You think I don't know when I'm pushing
things too far? His voice was quiet. I know I
always know silence. Ethan and I exchanged the glance for once.
Liam wasn't boasting, he wasn't brushing it off. He was
being honest. I just Liam ran a hand over his face.
I don't like being home, okay, It's like every time
I'm there, I feel like I can't. He stopped, readjusting
his posture. Then finally, I just don't want to feel
the way I feel at home. The words hung there
for a moment. None of us spoke. Ethan looked like
he wanted to say something, maybe something important, But before
he could, something moved, a rustling noise somewhere deeper into
the building. All three of us froze. William's head snapped up.
Did you hear that? Ethan took a step back. It's
probably just this old building. You see the state it's in,
he muttered, but there was no conviction in his voice.
Then it happened again, a shuffle and a scrape. Something was
in here with us, William's eyes flickered toward the dark
hallway ahead, Her shadow stretched along against the far wall,
cast by something moving just out of sight. Ethan grabbed
my arm. Guys, let's go, but Liam pushed forward. It's
probably just rats, he said, but I could hear the
edge in his voice. Now, come on, we didn't come
all this way to turn back. Now we should have
turned back, but instead we followed, and we went deeper.
The deeper we went, the worse the air got. It
became wet, almost despite the dust, like something rotting in
the walls. The floor dipped downward, leading us to what
used to be a staircase. Most of it had collapsed,
the steps crumbling into a mess of broken concrete and
rusted metal, but at the bottom, barely visible in the
day light, a lower level, a basement half submerged in
stagnant water. Liam turned back to us, eyes alight with curiosity. Okay,
he grinned, this is actually kind of sick. Ethan stood
stiffly behind him, arms crossed tight. Or hear me out,
we don't go into the creepy basement, and instead we
turn around and go home. Liam laughed. Come on, man,
you've never wanted to find something real. Ethan's jaw tightened,
but Liam wasn't waiting for an answer. He crouched near
the edge of the staircase, gripping one of the railings
and peering down into the darkness. Then he made a
face holy He pointed at something on the ground. I
stepped closer and felt my stomach chin scattered Across the
bottom of the stairs were rats, not just stared mutilated.
Some were half drowned in the stagnant water, their small
bodies bloated in misshapen. Others lay twisted and broken their
first slick with something dark and drying. They hadn't been eaten.
Something killed them then left them. I took a slow
step back, pulse pounding in my throat. If it wasn't
the rats that made that noise earlier, then Ethan excelled, sharply,
rubbing his hands down his face. Then what made that
noise was whatever did this to the rats? A rabbit animal?
We should really get out now, Liam, though Liam just
stared a flicker of doubt, a tiny unspoken realization, like
the edges of his adventure had suddenly sharpened, like maybe,
just maybe he'd finally pushed too far, but then he
stopped breathing, not literally, but he froze completely. His whole
body tensed, his hands gripping the railing tight. His lips
parted just slightly, like he was about to say something
but didn't or was too afraid to. Ethan frowned Liam.
Liam shook his head, not a no, not a yes,
just a barely. Their movement slow but unsteady, A big
crash came from behind him us, like dynamite exploding. My
head snapped back. Dust rose up from the stairs and
slowly settled as we stared. When the noise faded into
the distance. What was that? Even let out a half whisper,
half shout. Wait, Liam said, sharply. Silence again. I didn't
understand at first, but then I heard it. Something breathing.
It wasn't any of us. It came from below, from
the basement, and as we stood there, frozen, ears straining,
something shifted, something unfolding itself, something rising. We ran, not
because we had a plan, not because we thought we
could get away, because there was nothing else we could do.
The sound behind us wasn't footsteps. It was worse, a
deep gutural clicking reverberating off the walls, filling every space
at once, like something shifting, rearranging itself as it moved.
I didn't look back. I couldn't, but I felt it.
I felt it breathing down my neck, even though it
was nowhere near me. The hallway. I head twisted and turned,
the walls seeming to close in on us, the darkness
swallowing us whole. My eyes burned. Ethan stumbled, gasping, but
Liam grabbed his arm, yanking him forward. We neared the
main door, I yelled, the way we came in. We
turned a corner, practically skidding into the entry hall and stopped.
The ceiling had collapsed. The entire doorway was chocked with debris,
thick slabs of concrete and rusted beams blocking any way out. No, no, no,
Ethan gasped, eyes darting frantically. There has to be another way.
Liam spun, searching, his head snapped upward. There. I followed
his gaze and saw it. A hole in the ceiling,
a small opening where the structure had rotted away, just
wide enough to squeeze through. Hope searched in my chest.
This was it. We could get out, Liam, grabbed the
edges of the broken ceiling and hauled himself up first,
grunting with effort. He reached down immediately, his fingers closing
around my wrist. Ryan, come on. I scrambled up, my feet,
scraping against the crumbling walls as I kicked off, pushing
with everything I had, and then I was up. We
made it. We were going to live. Then I heard
Ethan struggle below. I turned back, looking down, and my
stomach dropped. Ethan was too slow. His hands were clawing
at the edge, trying to pull himself up, but his
arms shook violently from exhaustion. His sneakers slipped against the slick,
broken walls, failing to find any purchase. And beneath him,
in the dark, who was coming? A shadow, twisting, shifting,
a blur of something impossibly long, impossibly wrong. Liam saw
it too, and he made his decision before I even
realized what was happening. Liam looked at me and he smiled.
It wasn't cocky or forced, like he'd finally found what
he was looking for. He'll tell a good story about this,
he said, and dropped back down. Liam landed hard, his
feet slammed into the hard concrete below, and for a
split second I thought, for a second that he could
still climb back up, that this wasn't the end. Then
it moved something in the dark. It didn't lunge. It unfolded.
A shape crawled out from the blackness beneath a broken stairwell,
stretching tall and thin, its body unnatural, wrong. I saw
its arms, first, long appendages with countless joints, all cracking
in unison, fingers shaped like hooks. Then its head tilted up.
It had no eyes or face to speak of, just
the smooth stretch of bone, white skin, pulled tight over
a shape that resembled something between human and the dog.
It didn't make a sound. Liam spun toward Ethan. Go
Ethan froze. He just stood there, wide eyed, lips moving,
but making no sound. Liam grabbed him, fingers twisting the
fabric of Ethan's hoodie, boosting him up. Ethan gasped hands,
scrambling for the ledge, one foot kicking against Liam's hands,
the other trying to find a leverage on the bare wall.
But Liam wouldn't let him fall. With one final heave,
he threw Ethan up. Ethan crashed over the the edge
scrambling away on his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
Liam I reached for him, Both of us did, but
it was too late. The creature's arms shot forward and
Liam screamed. He wrapped around his chest with impossible speed,
pulling him backward and back down to the ground. His
body skidded against the dry concrete, sending dust and debris
into the air. He tried grabbing anything on the ground
to hoist himself up. Ethan reached down as far as
he could, so far that he would have fallen back
in if I hadn't caught him. But it wasn't enough.
The ceiling creaked under our weight. The walls groaned, dust
and stone raining down from above, shifting beneath our weight,
a warning. If we stayed, we'd all die. The thing
yanked him backward. The ceiling gave way a violent crack.
Dust exploded into the air, chunks of stone crumbling beneath us.
Ethan grabbed my arm, yanking me back. Liam I tried
to scream, but the noise of the collapse swallowed his name.
We had to run, and Liam, Liam couldn't. We ran
until our legs gave out. We didn't stop the think.
We didn't want to through the trees, past the empty roads,
until the gas station came into view, the first sign
of normalcy, of civilization. By the time we stumbled inside,
breathless and shaking, the old man behind the counter barely
had time to ask what was wrong before Ethan collapsed
against the shelves, hands on his knees, gasping. Call the cops.
We told them everything. We told them about the building,
about the creature, about Liam. They didn't dismiss us, but
they didn't believe us either, just two hysterical kids, filthy
and bruised, talking about monsters in the dark. Still, they
sent a search team out. By the time we were
allowed to go back to them, the sun was rising,
the world slowly bleeding back into reality. I remember how
silent it was standing at the edge of the wreckage,
because that's all that was left. The building had collapsed,
a pile of broken concrete, shattered wood, twisted metal. The
entrance was gone, buried. There was no sign thing, but
there was a sign of Liam. I saw him first,
what was left of him. The police had to pull
us back, keep us from getting too close, but I
saw enough. A body crushed beneath fallen debris, his face
blooded and unrecognizable. Just the boy who got trapped in
a crumbling building. That's what they said. That's what everyone
would say. There was an article written about it in
the local paper. Three kids, when exploring somewhere they shouldn't
have was the headline. They found an abandoned building. They
went inside. It collapsed. Two of them made it out,
one of them didn't. A tragic incident. The police called
it unstable structures that dangerous. You boys were lucky. They
shook their heads when we told them the truth. They
told us that there was no creature, no thing in
the dark. Whatever you thought you saw, one of them
told us, was just panic. Feared us. Weird things to
the mind. Ethan and I never spoke about it again.
Not because we didn't remember, not because we didn't think
about it every night when the city lights flickered through
our windows, but because there was no point. No one
would ever believe us. Maybe it was better that way.
I could never quite figure out why Liam decided to
jump back down the way he did not at first,
I thought about it constantly. Final moment when his feet
hit the ground, when he looked at me, with that
expression of finality as he said his last words to me,
He'll tell a good story about this. The look in
his eyes was something I couldn't understand. At night, I'd
stare at my ceiling, replaying it over and over. What
did it mean? Why would he do that when he
knew he was going to die? I couldn't ask Ethan.
He wasn't talking about it. We didn't call or so
much as text. The few times he ran into each
other at school, we barely looked at one another, like
if we didn't acknowledge it, maybe it wouldn't be real.
And maybe Ethan hadn't heard it Liam's last words. Maybe
he didn't know, but I did, and I couldn't let
it go. A few weeks later I saw Liam's parents.
They were walking down a busy street, lost in the crowd.
I stopped in my tracks, my heart slimming against my ribs.
I expected them to look different, weaker, grief stricken, lost. Instead,
they looked normal, not exactly happy, but not broken either.
Definitely not the way loving parents would look after they'd
just lost their child in such a tragic way. And
they didn't recognize me, Liam's best friend, the kid who
had spent years by his side. They walked right past me,
no sign of recognition on their faces. I was just
another face in the city to them. That was when
it clicked. Liam never liked being at home. He never
talked about it, not directly, but looking back, all the
signs were there. The way he'd always want to be
anywhere else, How he'd never invite us over, how he'd
change the subject at any time we asked, The way
he threw himself into every stupid, reckless adventure, as if
standing still was worse than falling. And that's when I
knew it wasn't just a patter thrill. He just wanted
to escape. Every rooftop, every train yard, every broken down
place we snuck into. It was about something more than
fun for Liam. He had been running his whole life,
and in the end he got exactly what he wanted,
the ultimate adventure, her place no one else would ever go,
a place where no one could follow, because it finally escaped.
I grew up in a small, single story house on
the outskirts of town. Her house wasn't much, just the squat,
little box of peeling white paint with a porch that
sagged slightly in the middle. I always thought it looked
like it was tired of holding itself up. I didn't care, though.
To me, it was home. But what I remember most
about that house wasn't the porch or the yard or
the tiny bedroom I shared with my younger brother. It
was the crawl space. It stretched under the entire house,
a hollow, black cavity barely two feet high, covered by
warped wooden slats nailed hap hazardly across the entrance. My
dad always told me to stay away from it, said
it was full of spiders and mold, sharp bits of
rusted metal waiting to slice my hands open if I
reached in. My mum warned me too, though she was
less dramatic about it, more exasperated than afraid. But I
was a curious kid. I'd kneel by the slats, peering
through the gaps, trying to see what was inside. Most
of the time it was just dirt or darkness. Sometimes,
if the angle was just right, i'd catch a glimpse
of the wooden beams holding up the house, or maybe
a flash of something skittering out of sight. I never
got too close, never reached inside until one summer afternoon
when I heard some one whisper my name. I was
playing in the back yard alone, kicking a plastic socker
ball around when I heard it, faint at first, a
dry voice slipping out from beneath the house, like a draft.
When the voice slipped out from beneath the porch, it
was so soft I almost didn't hear it over the
sound of the ball bouncing. I stopped, turned toward the
crawl space. Nothing but darkness, then again, slightly louder. Come
here for a second. Any adult would have ran inside
and led to the police or done anything. But I
was seven, maybe eight, and I that's stupid childlike fearlessness
that makes kids think nothing bad can happen to them.
So instead of being scared, I was just curious. I
dropped my socker ball and walked toward the crawled space,
dropping to my knees to press my face to the
gaps in the wooden slats. Her face stared back at me.
I just stared back. The man didn't blink. His eyes
were wide locked onto mine, sunken deep into a skull
like he hadn't slept in a long time. His skin
was sallow and streaked with dirt, and his hair, what
little of it I could see, was long and stringy,
clinging to his face in limp, greasy strands. When he
spoke again, his voice was almost kind. Didn't mean to
scare you, buddy, I still didn't answer. I'm an old
friend of your dad's, he said, his lips curling. Really,
I finally managed. He shifted slightly, just enough that I
could see more of him, boney shoulders, his skin a
mess of wounds. He looked filthy, like he'd been rolling
in dirt. But his voice was calm, friendly, the way
adults talk to kids when they want them to feel safe. Yeah,
who used to be real close to the family. But
it's been a while since we talked. He probably wouldn't
remember me, he nodded. That made sense. Adults forgot things
all the time. Hey, do me a favor, he added,
lowering his voice. Don't tell him I'm here yet. Let's
keep it a secret now, just between us. Your dad
might not understand. At that age, I thought secrets were fun.
I don't know why I trusted him. Maybe it was
the way he spoke, the softness in his voice. Maybe
it was because I wanted it to be true. Because
the idea of finally having a secret of my own
to keep from my parents made it seem grand special.
I didn't tell my parents, and I kept visiting the
crawl space. We just talked. I'd go outside and kneel
by the crawl space, whispering through the gaps in the
wooden slats while the man lay on the dirt on
the other side. He never came out, never reached for me,
just stayed in the shadows, speaking in that same soft,
friendly tone that made me feel like I was talking
to someone own all my life. I felt safe. What's
your favorite thing to do? He asked me. Once you
play outside a lot, what do you want to be
when you grow up. His questions were harmless at first,
and he listened so intently, like every little thing I
said was the most important thing he'd ever heard. I
liked that, But over time the questions started to change.
Your dad still works late. Where do you sleep in
the house. Your mom locked the doors at night the
first time he asked that, I hesitated. Yeah, I said,
she locks them every night. I thought about it. Sometimes
she forgets, I admitted. He was quiet for a long time. Really,
He finally asked, she sometimes forgets. There was something in
his voice, something I didn't understand yet, because I was
just a kid. Looking back, I can see now that
they were never just questions. They were tests, each one
peeling back another layer, gauging how much I knew, how
much I was willing to tell him, how much influence
he had over me without me even realizing it, and
I'd let him do it. I had fed him information
piece by piece, unaware that I was giving him everything
he needed. Hey, Boddy, I missed you yesterday. Sorry, I
had whispered back. I went to my grandma's. Ah, that's
nice that she makes good cookies. Yeah, your little brother
go to The question was casual, effortless, like he was
just making small talk, I'd answered without thinking. I didn't
think back then of the fact that I'd never mentioned
my little brother to him. Uh huh, he always comes
with us. Of course, can't leave the little guy behind her.
I laughed, and then I heard the screen door creak open.
Hey what are you doing? I flinched, jerking back from
the crawl space so fast that I scraped my knee
against the dirt. My little brother was standing on the
porch watching me with wide suspicious eyes, his small hands
gripping the wooden railing, like he had caught me doing
something I was and supposed to. I panicked nothing, I said, quickly,
scrambling to my feet. I was just looking for something.
His face twisted into something skeptical, his little brows knitting
together as he took a step forward, craning his neck
to look at the crawl space entrance, looking for what.
The man was silent now. I could feel him waiting
just beyond the slats, watching, listening. I had to think fast.
My ball, I said, brushing dirt off my shorts and
trying to sound as normal as possible. I think it
rolled under there. My brother's gaze flicked back to me. Okay,
want to go play in the treehouse? I stumbled. Just
like that. He forgot all about it, and I wish
he never believed me. The first time the man in
the crawl space asked me for something, I almost didn't
even register it as a request. Hey buddy, can you
do me a favor? It was an easy question. We
were just two old friends at this point, trading secrets.
I didn't even hesitate before nodding before giving him this
simple automatic sure, because why wouldn't I. He had never
asked for anything before, It had never even implied that
he wanted something from me beyond my company. Your dad
keeps a spare key to the shed, right. I remember
feeling the slightest pang of discomfort then, But he was vague, unformed,
like the first tremmor of a storm coming, a flicker
of something wrong just beneath the surface that my young
mind didn't yet know how to identify. I hesitated, but
the response came anyway, Yeah, you know where he hides it?
Of course I did. It was under the porch, tucked
behind a row of old cinder blocks near the back steps.
My dad had told me once in case he ever
needed me to get it for him, and I'd filed
the information away, never thinking it would be useful for
anything else. Yeah, I said, think you could grab it
for me that. When I finally hesitated for real, there
was a shift, a barely perceptible change in the air
between us, a tiny crack and the illusion that I
had never noticed before. I didn't understand why I felt wrong,
but it did, and for the first time since I'd
started talking to him, I found myself wanting to leave why,
he laughed, as if the answer was obvious. Ah, it's stupid,
he said, dismissing the whole thing as a joke, as
if I was the silly one for taking it seriously.
I left something in there a long time ago, something
I meant to grab, A little keepsake, you know. That
made sense to me. All the adults had little things
they didn't need but couldn't bring themselves to throw away.
Even Mam had shoe boxes full of old birthday cards
she never looked at. And my dad had a drawer
full of broken watches he always swore he was going
to fix. And maybe you noticed, maybe he sensed that
my willingness was starting to crack, because after a moment
of silence, he gave me reassurance. It's all right, buddy,
he said, you don't have to do it, and that
was the end of it until the next time. But
he didn't ask about the shed key. Hey. His voice
was lower that day, quieter, like he didn't want anyone
else to hear, even though we were alone in the backyard,
just as we always were. What could you leave the
back door unlocked for me? Tonight? My stomach twists thinking
back to it. Why I want to leave you a
little present. Trust me, I really liked presents, and my
parents hadn't gotten me a present since my birthday a
couple of months back. And then before I could decide
what to do, dinner's ready. I turned toward the house,
the sound snapping me out of whatever fog I'd been
slipping into, and when I looked back, he was gone.
I unlocked the back door that night. I don't know
if it was because I started trusting the man too much,
or if I wanted a present that badly, or maybe
I was just too caught up in the normal rhythm
of family life to think about anything beyond the present moment.
Either way, it didn't matter, because the moment came and went,
and by the time we sat down for dinner, the
whole thing was already slipping from my mind, already losing
its weight. And then, without thinking I said it, I'd
talk to your friend to day. I didn't even notice
the reaction. I was focused on my plate, barely paying attention,
my fork spearing a piece of overcooked chicken as I
chewed slowly distantly. But then the silence settled and I
felt it. Dad's hand frozen mid cut, his knuckles white
around the handle of his knife. Mom unmoving at the stove,
her back to me, her posture stiff. She looked like
her entire body had gone cold. All at once, What friend.
Dad's voice was slow, careful, like he already knew the
antswer but was trying to delay it. I blinked at him,
confused by the sudden change in the atmosphere, Your friend,
in the coral space. The words landed. Mom dropped the
pant she had been holding, the metal clattering against the
stove with a loud, jarring crash. Dad's face went white.
For a long time, no one moved, Then all at once,
Dad pushed back from the table, standing so fast his
chair scraped against the floor with a shriek of wood
and tile. Without a word, he turned, walked to the
front door, and stormed outside. My father was already in
motion before I could fully register what was happening, his
movement sharp and frantic as he ripped at the wooden
slats covering the crawl space entrance, his fingers prying at
the brittle planks with a kind of strength I had
never seen before. The nail shrieked as they were wrenched loose,
the old wood splintering beneath the force of his grip.
Dad My voice came out small, but he didn't answer.
He was breathing too hard, too fast, his hands shaking
as he pulled away the last of the boards and
tossed them aside. The entrance to the crawl space yawned
open before us, a gaping black mouth cut into the earth.
Dad grabbed a flashlight from his belt, flicked it on
and shine the beam inside. For a moment, I expected
to see him. I expected the pale, thin man from
beneath our house to be crouched in the dirt, his
sunken eyes reflecting the beam of light as he stared.
But there was nothing, just emptiness. The flashlight beam swept
across the crawl space, illuminating nothing but bare dirt and
cobwebt wooden beams. The air that wafted out smelt stale
and sour, thick, with a scent of damp rot and
things that had been left to decay in the dark
for too long though. No footprints in the dirt, no
sign that any one had ever been inside, no mattress,
no discarded clothes, no remnants of a person who might
have been living there. Maybe I'd made up the entire
thing in my head, a game of pretend that it
spiraled out of control. But then the flashlight beam passed
over something small and familiar, something that shouldn't have been there.
A shoe, read half covered in dirt. I felt a
jolt of recognition before my mind fully processed what I
was looking at. My stomach twisted violently, and the air
seemed to thin around me, the world tilting sideways as
I stared at it. Because I knew that shoe didn't
belong to me. It belonged to my little brother. What
the hell? My dad's voice was hoarse, cracking at the
edges as he stepped closer, his flashlight trained on the single,
out of place objects sitting in the dirt, His hands
clenched at his side, his whole body rigid with tension.
He turned toward me, his face pale. Where is your brother?
The words barely had time to read before my mother's
voice rang out from behind us. Who are you talking about?
I turned and saw us standing in the doorway, looking
at us with an expression of deep, unsettled confusion. Her
brows furrowed as she tugging the scene before her. Who
was in the crawl space? She asked again, and then
the screaming started. I don't remember running inside. I don't
remember how I got from the front yard to the hallway,
how my legs carried me forward so fast that my
surroundings blurred, the walls stretching long and thin, like something
from a fever dream. I don't remember how I ended
up right behind my father, or how my mother's voice,
shouting something I couldn't understand, faded into a dull hum.
At the edges of my mind. I only remember the screaming.
It was raw and high and jagged, something too broken
to come from a person, something that didn't sound human
at all, and it was coming from my brother's room.
My father hid the door at full speed, his shoulder
slamming into it so hard that it must have hurt.
The wood buckled under his weight, and for a moment
it didn't budge, but then it gave way. He stumbled forward,
nearly falling as he caught himself. And then I saw
the blood. It was everywhere, splattered across the floor, painted
up the walls in thick visceral streaks, So much of
it more than I thought a person could even have
inside them, who was still wet, still warm, still spreading
in slow creeping rivers, beneath the flickering light of the
ceiling van and in the center of it all my brother,
or what was left of him. I don't think I screamed.
I don't think I made any noise at all, because
something inside me broke, something deep and dark and all consuming.
And as I stood there, staring at the thing and
the floor that had once been my little brother, the
thought rose up in me, slow and suffocating, curling around
my throat like smoke. I did this. I don't know
when my mother pushed past me, or when a voice
cracked into a sound I'd never heard before, some being
so shattered and animalistic that it didn't even sound like words.
I don't know if they tried to shield me from
the sight, if they pulled me back or turned me away.
I don't know if I collapsed or ran, or simply
stood there as the room spun and folded inward around me,
because in that moment, all I could hear was his voice.
Where do you sleep in the house? Your mum locked
the doors at night. She forgets sometimes really The realization
came slowly. It wasn't like a sudden impact, not an
explosion of clarity. It was something worse, something creeping, something insidious,
something that had been building for weeks, for months, for
however long it had been listening to me. I had
told him everything, I'd given him the key to my family.
I don't know what happened after that. I don't know
who called the police, or how long it took them
to arrive, or how many times I was asked the
same questions over and over and over again, until my
mouth was dry and my voice cracked from the effort
of trying to answer. I don't know if I ever
answered at all, because how do you begin to explain
something like that. I don't remember the funeral. I don't
remember the weeks that followed, or the way my parents
stopped talking to each other, or the way my mother
wouldn't even look at me anymore. I don't remember how
I got from that house to a different one, or
how much time had passed before my father finally packed
up all our things and moved us away. But I
remember the guilt. The church was empty. It was just me,
the candles, and the rain. Tapping against a stained glass
like a restless child. It had been storming since dusk,
an unending curtain of water from a bruised sky. I
sat in the confessional with my hands folded loosely in
my lap and my eyelids heavy, but not from a
lack of sleep. It had been a long day, with
two funerals, a hospital visit, and a broken boiler in
the rectory. I just started to think I might close
early when I heard the door at the back of
the sanctuary open. A gust of wet air followed someone in,
along with hesitant footsteps, much different from a regular parishioner's
confident pace. I strayed, and then the curtain slid aside.
I heard the soft squish of wet fabric as they
settled on the opposite side of the confessional, then a
faint rasp of his breath, and how his weight shifted,
like someone fighting the instinct to bolt. Finally, he spoke,
low and unsure but clear, forgive me, Father, for I
have sinned. The ritual took over. My voice came easily
and automatic, though something in my chest had tightened. God
is always watching my son, I said, speak freely. The
Lord offers mercy to all who seek it. At first,
he said nothing in return. Yet the way the air
changed betrayed his lack of response. I knew then that
he was going to tell me something, and it wasn't
going to be easy. His voice came again, steadier, now,
like he had stepped back into the safety of memory.
I grew up on a farm, he said, Just me
and my mama, out past the river bend, where the
road turns to gravel. We had no neighbors close enough
to wave two. He exhaled slowly. She was a believer.
She didn't just speak the word no, she lived it.
Every evening before supper, she'd read from her old leather
bound Bible. I remember her soft but unwavering voice. Even
when the storms came and the lights flickered, she'd light
a single candle and read Psalm twenty three, like it
was a promise she was making to both of us.
He paused, and for a second I imagined he might
be wiping his eyes as he remembered a fond memory
of his mom. She carved crosses into everything, the fence posts,
the barn doors, and even the wooden spoon. She stirred
us dough with She said it kept evil out and
reminded the Lord we were watching back. His tone dipped
into something warm and fonn It wasn't a fancy life,
but it was ours. We had three hens, Pearl Marigold
and little sister, and a stubborn old goat named Moses
who chewed through more of our laundry line than I'd
like to admit. We had potatoes, turnips, and a patch
of carrots that only ever grew crooked. Sometimes we trayed
our eggs for milk. There was never more than we needed,
but she always smiled when she said it, the Lord provides.
I could hear something shift in his breath, like he
was close to brushing up against the memory in which
his I don't mind saw the truth. Winter was the hardest.
I remember one year she boiled onion skins just to
make broth. She told me it was French soup and
made me sit up straight, like you were in a
Paris cafe. She even folded a towel for me to
use as a napkin. I believed her. That's the kind
of woman she was. She could make suffering feel like theater.
The confessional had gone quiet around us, the storm muffled
by thick stone walls. But at that moment, I swear
I could feel the cold of that farmhouse kitchen, the
scratch of old quilts, and the soft light of candle
wax dripping Beside a prayer. I let the silence hold
between us, unable to shake the feeling that whatever was
to come would be a heavy weight for us both
to bear. It started with Pearl, he said, the oldest hen.
She stopped laying, which was an unusual, But then she
started acting hard, wondering in circles, pecking at her own feathers.
One morning I found her standing motionless in the yard,
eyes leaking this dark red stuff like tears. She didn't
squawk or anything. I ran to tell Mamma. She looked
at Pearl for a long time and whispered, And the
next day Pearl was gone, buried. Mamma said, but I
never saw a shovel. Then it was Marigold, then little Sister,
then Moses. All of them followed the same pattern their eyes.
Something in their eyes was just wrong, But Mamma told
me she'd take care of it and that everything would
be okay. The garden turned next, one by one, the
carrots split open from the inside, like they'd been cooked
in the dirt. The turnips came up black and soft,
and the potatoes, when we harvested them, were little more
than husks, like something had suck them dry from the inside.
I asked if we were curst, and she said no,
and that the Lord is testing us. I could tell
she believed it. She prayed harder than ever. She would
hardly eat so I could, And in the middle of
the night I'd find a knelt beside the kitchen window,
whispering scripture to the wind, sometimes just mouthing the psalms
into the There was something sacred, and how he spoke
of her like a child, recalling the warmth of a
hand that always knew how to hold his without needing
to say a word. She didn't panic, Not once did
I think anything was wrong. She did everything to keep
me calm. Even when I asked what we'd do without food,
she just looked at me and smiled and said, he
will provide. And in that moment I heard it, the
quiet turn of something in his voice. It was the
next morning, he said. The frost hadn't even lifted when
Mamma came to me her hands wrapped in a shawl,
like she was cradling something delicate. She said, go to
town today. Look for someone cold, someone who's hungry. Bring
them here the Lord reward's kindness. It made sense at
the time. That was how Mamma thought. When times were lean,
you gave more, You opened your door wider. That's what
she taught me. So I went. I walked all the
way into town, kicking rocks and counting steps and praying
i'd find someone to help. Near the train yard, I
found a man. He was older, wrapped in layers of
newspaper and threadbare denim. He was humming to himself, eyes
half closed, like he was dreaming of food. I told
him we had warm soup and fresh bread, a barn
to sleepin' if he didn't mind the hay. He looked
at me like I was a ghost. Then he followed.
Mamma greeted him like she'd known him all the life.
She called him brother. She sat him down at our
little table and served him a bowl of stew. The
smell was so strong it made my mouth water, and
the bread was still warm. I don't remember where she
said she got the flower. I didn't think to ask,
in fear that it would disappear if I acknowledged it.
He stayed the night in the barn. I brought him
an old quilt in a lantern. They thanked me and
said we were angels. The next morning he was gone.
Mama said he'd left early. She said he was grateful
and traded us some things before he went. He inhaled,
sharp and shallow. There was meat on the table that morning,
real meat, pink, marbled, steaming in its own broth. She
said it was a blessing and the man had traded
goods and I I didn't question it. I just thanked God.
After that, we always had something, not a lot, but enough.
Every few weeks she'd send me again to find someone
alone and hungry. I didn't understand it. Then she started
a new tradition where just before eating, she'd take white
linen napkins from the drawer we only used on Christmas
and carefully draped it over her head so it hung
down like a veil. She told me to do the same.
I remember the first time. I giggled and said she
looked like she was playing dress up. But she didn't laugh.
She just looked at me through the cloth and said,
that's the point, baby. We hide our faces so God
doesn't have to watch us eat. We eat in private,
hidden from the eyes of heaven, and then we'd say
the same prayer, always the same words, like a song.
Only the two of us knew. Lord, bless this meal,
bless the soul who gave it, and keep our hands
from shaking. As we'd take what was given in grace.
She made me whisper it three times before touching the spoon.
It was never skipped, he swallowed. We'd eat in silence,
chew slowly, and pray again when we were done. I
was a child. I didn't understand. All I knew was
I gained a weird sense of hunger that only that
meal could quench. I sat back slightly in the confessional,
the warmth of the wood against my shoulder doing little
to ground me. I wanted to believe this was all
a metaphor, that he was speaking in the language of
parable of symbolic hunger and strange rituals born of grief
or madness. But some part of me there was a
sharpened instinct, honed from years of hearing the worst of people.
Wondered where those people he had brought home had gone.
The ones soon never came back, who were needy yet
still had things to trade. Still I could not accuse
that wasn't my place, but I felt the hair at
the back of my neck begin to rise. I crossed
myself quietly, more out of reflex than faith at that moment.
I was thirteen when I found it. He continued. It
had rained the night before, and I was out behind
the barn dumping the meat scraps. Mama said we could
use for breakfast. Into the slop draft for the young pigs.
We managed to buy something white bobbed up, half floating
in the grease. His voice trembled now, just slightly. I
thought it was a chicken bone. I reached in, thinking
it wouldn't be good for them, but it was soft
and pale. When I turned it in my fingers, I
saw the nail and the shape. Oh God. I squirmed
in the silence, shifting slightly on the bench. The air
inside the confessional felt too still, like the world itself
was holding its breath with me, waiting for what came next.
I clasped my hands tighter and kept my voice locked
behind my teeth. This was his moment. Help me. I
wanted it to pass. I walked into the kitchen and
held it out like I was handing her a riddle.
She looked at it, then at me, and said, some
lambs are meant for the altar, like it was scripture,
like I should have known already. His breath hitched. She said,
the desperate, the forgotten. They don't have much to give,
so when they offer themselves in their weakness, we're supposed
to receive that. She said. It made us why my
hands tensed just enough for my knuckles to wake there.
It was a confirmation of my suspicion. The clarity of
it made my stomach twist into knots. And yet I
knew better. I am not a judge. I do not
wield the sword, only the word. I've heard things in
the booth that would make most men sleep with the
lights on. My duty has been and still is, to listen,
to witness, to guide. But at that moment I could
not deny the tremble in my breath or the heaviness
that settled in my ribs. I nodded, he continued, his
voice dull, because that's what you do when you're a child.
Your mamma's word is final. So I nodded and sat
at the table. That night, I ate the stew and
wore the cloth to hide my sin from God. But
something had cracked. I started waking up, sweating, chewing my
tongue roar in my sleep. I stopped praying out loud
out of shame. I started skipping bites, then whole meals.
She noticed, of course, she noticed. One evening, she reached
across the table and gently pulled the cloth off my head.
Her eyes didn't look angry, but they had gone hard,
like cold river stones. Don't waste what's been given, she said.
Don't turn your nose up at blessings that cost some
one else their place in the kingdom. I nodded again,
like I believed her, But I didn't not any more.
I couldn't look at her the same way. But it
was strange. I still wanted her to hold me when
I was scared. He was quiet for a long time,
Then after a long inhale, he kept going. It lasted
almost two more years. I tried to forget what I saw.
I think I stayed because part of me still loved
her too much to leave, because she smiled at me
like nothing was wrong. She kissed my forehead tenderly every night,
and she still sang hymns while cleaning the kitchen. How
do you walk away from someone who taught you everything,
even when you find out some of it was poison?
But when I turned fifteen, I packed her bag silently
and walked out while she slept. I didn't leave a note,
only took what I could carry. He paused, and I
never went back. I told myself I'd start over. He said,
clean slate, clean soul. I ended up in foster care,
two towns over. They were kind, mostly kept the fridge full,
took me to church when they could. His voice thinned.
I tried to be normal. I did everything Brochure said,
joined clubs, and took therapy seriously. I even started cooking
real meals from recipes. I made myself believe that the
hunger was just trauma, just something I could fix. Her
breath sharp and frustrated, I went vegan. I thought maybe
it was guilt, but it didn't work. Then I tried
a carnivore diet, but that didn't help either. Then raw food, paleo, fasting, ice,
chewing clay. I even gnawdered the edge of a belt once,
just to feel the resistance. He shifted on the other
side of the screen, wood groaning unto him, and at
that moment, terrible thoughts flickered across my face, unwelcome and absurd.
I pictured his hands slipping through the slats, cold fingers
gripping my collar, and his mouth opening wide to take
a bite out of me, like I was bred and
flesh both. The image was so vivid I almost flinched.
It was a silly thought, one I was not proud of,
but it sat there, pulsing at the edge of my reason,
refusing to be dismissed. Every meal was a disappointment. Every
bite tasted like paper. Even the things I used to love,
like roast chicken, corn bread, sweet potatoes with brown sugar,
they all turned to ash in my mouth. His voice
dropped lower than it had all night. I know now
what did I miss? He let the words settle like
dust in a crypt. It didn't hit all at once.
It came in flashes. The smell of broth, the way
candlelight hit steam. The weight of linen over my head
was so nostalgic. I thought I was just remembering, but
he wasn't memory. It was want a need. I told
myself I could resist, that I was better than her,
that I didn't have it in me with the hunger
it I planned it carefully. I chose a man I
saw often on the corner outside the train station. He
wore a gray hoodie and plastic bags around his shoes.
He never asked for anything, just sat there. I watched
him for a week, made sure he was alone, that
he didn't speak to anyone, that no one would notice
if he disappeared. Her pause and her breath. We walked
side by side through the quiet part of town. He
kept glancing at my face like he was trying to
figure out if I was real. The whole time, my
chest ached with something that felt like guilt. He looked
at me with trust, with quiet awe, like I was
saving him. I wanted to deserve that, but underneath it,
deeper than anything I could name, there was the hunger
gnawing through every step. A single thought echoed through the prayers.
I muttered to drown it out. What will he taste like?
At one point he laughed, low and wheezing and said,
you're one of the good ones, huh. I told him
I was trying to be. I brought him back to
my apartment, told him I had a hot shower and
some food waiting, and mentioned spare clothes, socks, and even
a razor if he wanted. He looked up at me
like he couldn't believe it, with eyes wide rimmed, red,
hopeful in a way that made my chest tighten. Really,
he asked like he thought the offer might shatter if
he touched it. I nodded. That's all it took, and
it hurt because I knew I was lying. I let
him take the hot shower first, gave him a towel
I'd laid out earlier, let him eat the bread and
drink the tea while some soup simmered on the stove.
He looked so grateful, called me a saint, and I
must have been raised right. His voice cracks lightly, but
the cloth was already in the drawer. He didn't elaborate.
He didn't need to. By now I knew what that meant.
I bought it from a linen shop two towns over,
just like the ones Mama used, pressed it flat, folded
it three times, and put it in the drawer under
the knives. Silence stretched between us, the stew was rich,
the meat practically melted in my mouth. I had cooked
it that long, he said. I ate it under the cloth,
just like before. I said the prayer every word, three
times like Mama, and for the first time in years,
I felt full, really full. He exhaled slowly, and I
heard the shift. The tremble that had clung to him
like wet wool was gone. In his place was a
strange calm, like he was waiting for me to speak,
So I did. I cleared my throat softly, my son,
I said, carefully, measuring every word. There are things in
this world we carry that were never meant for us.
Burdens passed down like inheritance, cloaked in love and devotion.
He didn't interrupt, so I kept going. You are not
your mother, and you are not beyond redemption. But if
you truly seek absolution, it must begin with truth, followed
by repentance, and then by surrender, not just of your sin,
but of your will. I felt the sweat cooling at
my temples. God half as mercy, yes, I said, but
not without caste. You must never do this again. You
must turn yourself in. You must choose a path that
leads away from this hunger silence. There was a faint shift,
followed by a hush, and when I peeked between the slats,
he was gone. He hadn't waited for my blessing or absolution.
He vanished quietly, as if the act of confession itself
had been enough, and maybe for him it was. I
sat there a while longer, hands clasped, eyes closed. I
prayed not to carry his burden with me into the world,
than whatever darkness he left behind, mind would stay sealed
in that booth. I prayed that Marcy still meant something,
even when offered to someone who may never stop doing
the thing they're sorry for. When I finally stood, I
moved slowly through the empty sanctuary, checking locks, I stepped
into the parking lot. The night air was damp and cool,
and the storm had passed. My car engine grown to life,
and the headlights carved through the dark. I pulled onto
the main road, and there, under the flicker of a
street lamp, I saw a man huddled against the bench,
wearing only a thin coat and no shoes. I slowed,
and for a long time I just sat there, hands
frozen on the wheel. I couldn't get the confessor out
of my mind. How he spoke his truth like a
man unburdened, or all I was left with was silent,
And in that silence I wondered if the confessor would stop,
if anyone was safe, if he was still nearby, And
all I could do was pray. We hagged our way
through the jungle like we were pealing back time itself.
Every branch and root we cut and stepped over felt
like it hadn't been touched in decades, maybe longer. The
heat pressed down on us, wet and constant, and the
insects came in waves that never seemed to stop. Somewhere overhead,
monkeys shrieked and fell silent just as quickly. That silence
always made me pause. None of us spoke much. The
machetes did the talking, slicing rhythmically as we followed the
barely visible trail Lewis wore existed. I didn't see it,
but he moved with a confidence false or not. We
didn't have better options. Around midday we reached the clearing,
or more like the jungle gave up for a second.
In the middle was a rise of uneven stone, half
swallowed up by moss and earth. It could have passed
for a hill if not for the exposed edge of
something unmistakably artificial, withered concrete, and the rusted corner of
a metal structure poking out like a broken rib. No
one said anything right away. Then from behind me, her
voice muttered, low and breathless, there it is. We moved closer,
rushing back the foliage. The moss came off in heavy sheets,
underneath a swastika, barely visible, faint from time, and grime
was stamped into the concrete, half melted from what looked
like an old fire. None of us reached out to
touch it. Geez, someone whispered, we'd found it. The bunker
wasn't a myth. It was real, and it was here.
Lewis stepped forward and ran his hand along the edge
of the old hatch embedded in the slope, tracing the
rusted wheel lock. He pulled gently, and it groaned like
something waking up. The door was ajar, only slightly, but
enough that the smell hit us almost immediately, old oil, mold, metal,
and beneath it all something else, sweet and rotting. Ventilation
shaft might be clogged, I offered, with a chuckle. A
flashlight clicked on beside me. No words, just a beam
of light piercing down into a dark mouth cut into
the earth. None of us said it out loud, but
we knew we were going in. The ladder was slick
with condensation and rust. I climbed slowly, each wrung groaning
under the weight, until my boots hid the concrete floor
with a dull, wet thud. The air down there wasn't
just stale. It had an artificial weight to it. No power.
That much was immediately clear and expected. The ceiling fixtures
overhead were shattered, wiring frayed and exposed like vines, brittle
and dead. The corridors stretched out ahead of us in
both directions. Jonah stepped past me first, hadn't brushing the
wall as we moved, concrete still solid, He muttered, reinforced,
this wasn't some half baked shelter. We passed the rusted plaque,
the German text barely legible. Sector one undercomfed quarters. The
rooms were narrow lined on either side of the hall,
like cells, inside rows of metal bed frames, stripped of sheets.
What remained of the mattresses had slumped into soft mounds
of black mushrooms. Had taken roots in one. Another had
the impression of a body long gone, just the shape
still there in the stained foam, like a fossilized absence.
Someone opened a crate near the far wall. Dust plumed
out food rations, Jonah said, still sealed. Sasha lifted one
and turned it over. They labeled everything by name, date,
rolechloric requirement. She pointed to the faded ink Jane nuss Lane,
three thousand calories, night watch. All so precise, but the
silence in those quarters told another story. Further in, we
found a hallway bulletin board. A photo was still tacked up,
barely hanging on four men, all in uniform German officers,
at least from what I could tell, standing in a
cramped hallway right here in the bunker. Their faces were
long and drawn, eyes sunk deep. One of them was
holding a small child. That's not wartime Germany, Sasha whispered
behind me. That's after they arrived here. The hallway ended
in a bulkhead door, half of its hinges rusted and
bent inward, like something had forced this way through years ago.
We ducked inside and found the largest room yet storage,
maybe though half the shelving had collapsed, and a fine
film of mold coated the floor. Amid the wreckage was
a scorched binder. Jonas flipped it open gently and half
of it crumbled in his hands. First, he said, eyes narrowing,
look at this tight Names in columns, serial numbers, dates
of birth, occupation, nine hundred and seventy eight entries, men, women, children.
Sasha leaned over his shoulder, lips moving silently as she scanned.
They listed them all nurses, engineers, even barbers. No ranks,
I asked, She shook her head, only functions. They were
building a self contained population. In the far corner we
found the radio room, or what was left of it.
Shattered glass and twisted knobs lay scattered across the floor
like shrapnel. An old broadcasting mike hung from its wire,
swinging slightly in the humid draft. Banks of analog equipment
were ripped open, fuses missing, wires yanked out in clumps.
Doctor Kettley crouched down next to one unit and muttered,
this was military grade, state of the art for the time. Sabotage.
I asked. He didn't answer, but the way he stood
up told me everything. We lingered in the radio room
longer than we should have. No one said it, but
something about the broken equipment unsettled us in a different way,
not just because it was destroyed, but because it had
been intentional, as if someone had wanted to make sure
no word ever left this place. Again, we moved on.
Sasha suggested we start marking rooms as we went, chalk lines,
basic numbering, smart idea. It helped gave the illusion of control.
Past the supply wing, we found a heavy door, partially ajar,
with a tarnish brass plate above the frame. Officer untercomfed
officers quarters. The air inside was different. Still, dust floated
in the beams of my head lamp, like falling snow,
untouched for decades. Jonas moved toward the desk, opened a
drawer empty, another paper scraps, a yellowed photograph of someone,
blurred and smiling. Nothing useful. Sasha knelt beside the trunk.
Help me with this. I unclasped the rusted latch and
helped to lift the lid. Inside the wall, Officer's coat
folded beneath it, something wrapped tightly in a stiff brown
cloth tied with a leather strap that cracked as she
unwrapped it a journal. The leather was dark, almost black
with age, but still intact. A rusted iron clasp held
it shut. Sasha took a breath. This might be useful.
She worked the clasp blues. It took effort, it hadn't
been opened in years. A sharp metallic snap, then a
shudder as the leather flexed. She peeled it open carefully,
revealing thick, yellowed pages, covered in tight, immaculate writing, and
on the inside cover scrawled in deliberate blocky script. I
am Eric Mahler, Engineer. If these pages are found, know
that we are not all willing. We exchanged glances for
a long second. No one said anything. Then Sasha turned
the page and we began to read. May twelfth, nineteen
forty five. I have arrived in South America at last.
The journey was as surreal as it was harrowing. After
months of uncertain passage by submarine and stolen aircraft, we
landed on foreign soil with a promise of salvation. The
promise was whispered with fervor by those who orchestrated our passage,
a promise of a new beginning away from the ruins
of a lost war, Dozens more arrived in the weeks
that followed, Scientists with eyes bright from hope and despair,
soldiers whose uniforms were as stained with honor as with regret.
Families clinging to the belief that they too might start over.
We were all immigrants of circumstance, united by the lie
of salvation. In time, we began the construction of something vast,
an underground complex that stretched out beneath the unforgiving jungle.
We labored, our hands and backs broken by ceaseless work.
Slave labor, both forced and self imposed, carried bricks and
mixed mortar in the dim light of torches. The complex
was designed to be our haven. One day we would
shelter as many as a thousand souls. Already the numbers grow,
and each new arrival reinforces our resolve, though and gnawing
doubt stirs at the edge of my mind. June third,
nineteen forty five. The days have grown colder, though the
jungle remains unyielding in its humored embrace. Communications with Germany
have all but ceased. At first, the Hyer Ups maintained
that the war raged on a justification to seal us
inside this very bunker. But now, with every passing day
I find my certainty waver. The radios have fallen silent,
and the orders we once received from Afar, and nothing
but echoes of a past that no longer exists. Inside
these walls, the leadership insists we remain sealed in. They
assure us that outside chaos reigns, that our isolation is
the only means to preserve the future. Yet I wonder,
if the war has truly ended, why must we be
locked away in the dim corridors. I hear the soft
laughter of children, sound both haunting and tender. New life
has been born here in the dark recesses of this
underground world. They grow up, knowing nothing of sunlight. Their
only lullaby the hum of machinery and the distant groans
of the bunker. I cannot shake the feeling that we
are no longer the architects of our fate, but rather
subjects in a grand experiment. The silence from the outside
grows ever more oppressive, and with each passing day, the
control exerted by those of the helm titens like a noose.
I fear what might come next, and I write these
words in the hope that they may serve as a
warning should anyone ever find them. September fourteenth, nineteen forty six.
I have not written in some time. The work has
consumed us all, but it is not construction that keeps
our hands busy now in his research. Though I am
an engineer by trade, I'm often called to assist with
logistics and infrastructure. In section three, the medical wing, it
is there that the whispers began. They called it Project
Morgan Minch, the Man of Tomorrow, Project a rebirth, They say,
a better human, a stronger one, one who will be
ready when the Reich rises again, if not in this lifetime,
than the next. I've seen the files. The injections are
not just vitimin serums or nutritional supplements, as they claim
in official meetings. There are compounds I do not recognize,
radiation laced fluids, growth accelerants, even samples rumor to be
derived from fungi found deep within the jungle. Some subjects
are brought in at night, barely conscious. Others are volunteers
selected with honors, but none of them returned to the dormitories.
A man named Dieta, a chemical assistant from Sector two,
questioned the project openly last week he was gone. By morning.
We were told he had requested a reassignment to an
external outpost. I don't believe that outpost exist. Three nights ago,
while checking airflow systems, I paused near the ventilation shafts
above the lower levels. I heard something, a scream, none
of pain, but of pure confusion. It was drawn out
in hollow, like someone was trying to scream all underwater.
Then came the thud, something slamming against the dog to work.
Once twice they sound did like heavy slaps. And I
have stopped asking questions, but I haven't stopped writing them down.
February seventh, nineteen forty seven. We will lied to. There
is no Reich, there is no war, there is no
Germany waiting to be reborn. One of the young technicians
and communications Rudolph barely twenty, smuggled in a radio from
the surface during a supply rotation. A homemade receiver tuned
to civilian frequencies. He played a broadcast for US clear
as a bell A station out of Santiago, Chile, a
full broadcast in Spanish, music, advertisements, and politics. We lost
long ago. The higher ups knew. They have known this
entire time. All of it, the isolation, the lockdowns, the rationing,
the indoctrination was to keep us here, to maintain a
closed system, a laboratory, not a refuge. When the truth spread,
there was panic, yelling in corridors, officers pulling side arms.
Rudolph was taken, so were the three others who heard
the broadcast directly. They said it was a security breach,
that outside voices are contaminated. A few of us discussed
mutiny quietly in passing. It lasted two days before some
one betrayed us. I was beaten, not enough to kill,
just enough to remind. One man was dragged to Sector three.
No one has seen him since. I believe now that
we are no longer survivors, rather we are subjects. October
twenty third, nineteen forty seven. It is happening too fast
now I can hardly keep track of the day's Sickness
is everywhere, not just fatigue or malnutrition, but something deeper.
Flesh turns soft, almost sponge like, eyes glaze over. Some
have developed a sort of fever that doesn't burn the
skin but warps the mind. Men forget how to walk,
women scream at nothing, and children are crying the experiments
have escaped containment. No one says it out loud, but
everyone knows. It began with a breach in Sector three,
a door left open, a containment cell damaged. The lights
went out for less than two minutes, but it was enough.
They don't resemble people any more. One moved through the
upper maintenance corridor last night. I didn't see it fully.
It moved in a sluggish pace. I heard gasps, then nothing.
When I returned with two others, there was no blood,
just clothing. Three men gone, with no sign of struggle,
only the scent of salt and bile in the air.
To day, I opened a sealed supply crate in the
communal hall. Inside were plastic wrapped packages. I read the labels,
coded sterile, clinical protein units processed, but it was warm.
I took a knife and cut one open. They were
feeding us the failures. Some knew, some didn't, but we
ate anyway. We had no choice. I vomited until nothing
came out but bile. I have not eaten since November ninth,
nineteen forty seven. This will be my final entry. There
is no more order here, only rituals, grotesque imitations of structure.
Men still wear uniforms. They marched the halls as if
the Reich still listens, as if this place is anything
but a grave. I was part of a small group
who tried to escape. There was an auxiliary hatch built
during the early days before the lockdowns. We found it
behind the water reserves, hidden under rebar and rotten crate.
Six of us planned to leave. We never made it
out together. Something followed us, a failed subject, if you
can even call them that. I saw its face for
the first time, a man on once new fissure. I
think his skin had melted like wax and re formed
in sagging layers. His jaw was unhinged, his ribs pulsed
like gills. He moved without urgency, like a predator that
knows nothing can escape. He crossed the jurgan against the
wall with one arm. I saw bones snap through his
thigh like dry kindling, and I screamed until her voice
gave out. Then tried to run and slipped on the
floor on what remained of someone else. We sealed the
hatch behind us, but I was injured. My leg is broken.
I can't walk. I volunteer to stay. The others are gone.
Now up that ladder and back into a world that
my not even be waiting for them. Maybe they'll make
it back, maybe not. I no longer care. This journal
will remain with me. If you are reading this, you
must understand we were not all complicit, We were not
all monsters. We didn't speak right away. After the journal ended,
Sasha closed it with both hands, slowly, like it might shatter.
She sat back on her heels, mouth slightly open, in
a stunned silence. Jonas had been pacing in a tight
loop near the bed. Doctor Kettley hadn't moved at all.
He stood by the desk, arms folded, staring at the
floor like it owed him an answer. I couldn't think,
couldn't find a thread to hold on to. The words
were still echoing. Then Kettley spoke, we can't stop here.
I looked at him. What are you talking about? He
turned toward us, slow and heavy. This journal is It's
only a part of the picture. If half of what
he described actually happened down there, we owe it to
history to see the rest. There could be evidence, proof,
biological remnants. You want to find them, Sasha asked, a
voiceless hoarse the things he described, I want to know
if they're even real, he said. Jonas nodded, arms crossed
tightly over his chest. He's right, we're already in. We
can't just run now, Jonas run, Sasha said, rising to
her feet. This isn't a science project. This is a
mass grave built and a lie. There's a reason they
sealed it up. She looked at me, eyes raw. Tell
me you don't want to keep going. I didn't answer.
The air was changing heavier, close to sour. I hadn't
noticed until then, but it was there. Clinging to my clothes,
footsteps behind us, we turned to see Lewis duck into
the room. His face was pale, a thin sheen of
sweat catching the light from his head lamp. He looked
at each of us, then down at the journal in
Sasha's hands. I read a few more pages, he said.
I didn't want to, but I did. He swallowed hard.
There's something wrong down here, and I don't want to
be a part of it. We're going down, Jonah said.
Lewis stared at him, then turned to me. Don't go
with them. I didn't answer. A minute later he was gone.
The air fell colder once he left the stairs to
the lower level had nearly rusted through, but the structure held.
We descended one at a time, our boots clanging softly
against the metal, echoing of the shaft. My head lamp
flickered once and stabilized. The damage was obvious from the start.
The walls were warped and bulging in place, like something
had pressed from the other side with slow pressure. Entire
panels were cracked open, revealing angled veins of rusted piping
and torn cables. One segment of the ceiling had collapsed inward.
We dugged beneath it, crawling through to reach the next corridor.
As we moved farther down the corridor, the signs of
collapse became less like age and more like a struggle.
The walls were scarred with impact marks, some shallow, some
punched in deep. Sasha brushed a hand across a jagged
hole near a doorway. Her fingers came away, flaked with rust,
and something darker beneath it. Bullet holes, doctor Kettley said quietly.
Close range. We looked around and they were everywhere, pock
marked across the hallway, clustered around corners near doorways. Some
had fragments of brass casings still embedded in the cracks
between the floor. Others were surrounded by long, dried splashes
of what could only be blood someone, maybe many, had
tried to fight whatever got out. The rooms on this
level had no beds, just rusted restraints shelves of ruined
medical equipment. Doctor Kettley stepped ahead his lamp, tracing an
open door. He froze. I turned to ask what he saw,
but before I could speak, I heard it breathing, wet,
strained like air, pushed through mucus and ruined lungs. Then
something shifted in the dark. As shape moved to the
edge of our light. Gurgling followed, long and low. I
felt the breath leave my body as something inside me
screamed to run. It was hunched in the corner, facing
away from us, a towering shape with limbs bent at
wrong angles and skins stretched too far to hold what
was inside. It was the shape of a man barely
Its skin was wet and sagging, shiny with dark sweat
or fluid, parts of it clinging to the bone, other
parts slowing off in folds where its joints met elbows, knees, shoulders.
Black fluid oozed freely and pulled on the floor in thick,
tar like globes. It was wearing something, or what remained
of something, A uniform, torn threadbare, stretched unto the fabric,
had embedded itself into flesh. The buttons were still there.
The collar fused to its body. One barefoot dragged behind it,
grotesquely swollen and raw. The heel split open like old fruit.
The other foot thudded when it moved, heavy and wet,
and its face, no, it wasn't a face, a mound
of pale pulp, sagging and twitching, with holes where features
should have been. No eyes, just dark impressions, like the
sockets had collapsed inward long ago. Then it sniffed a wet,
rattling inhale that sounded like fluid bubbling in a train pipe,
and it turned toward us. Its mouth opened wide. He
released the groan, slow and shuddering like a child. The
sound echoed off the walls, wet and heavy, and it
slapped the wall with one massive hand, leaving a smear
of black. Doctor Kettley whispered something I couldn't hear. His
light dropped slightly, his hands trembled. The thing stepped forward.
We ran the hallway behind us felt longer than before.
Our boots hit the floor with a frantic pace, lights
bouncing wildly off the walls. Behind us came the sound
of meat hitting concrete, a sound that wasn't quite footsteps,
but not quite crawling either. Doctor Kettley tripped near a
broken section of piping. I turned too late. The thing
reached him in a blink. One bloated hand wrapped around
his waist and lifted him like a doll. Kettley scream
tore through the hallway, then a crack. We kept running.
Jonas was ahead of me, nearly at the bulkhead we've
come through when it happened. Jonas reached the doorway. He
turned to seal it. Tried to pull the reinforced door shut.
The creature's arm whipped around the corner like it was liquid.
A tendril slid into Jonas's mouth fast. His body arked violently,
feet lifting off the ground. As he convulsed. His eyes
went wide, then rolled back. His limbs flailed once twice,
then stopped. He collapsed, twitching once before going completely still.
The thing retracted its arms slowly. I backed away and
realized I was the only one left. I kept left wall,
then the right, mentally tracing every turn we took. On
the way down, my chest burned, my legs wanted to
give that something beneath it. All instinct kept me upright.
And then I saw the hatch we came from. Relief
hit like a punch to the gut, so sharp it
made me stagger. I climbed up the ladder and grabbed
the iron wheel. Turned it nothing. It didn't budge. I
tried again, planted my feet, pulled harder. The bolts groaned faintly,
but it didn't give. I felt along the edges. There
were no brakes, no external damage, no collapse. The mechanism
hadn't failed. It had been sealed from the other side.
Lewis who must have heard something from the outside, or panicked,
or maybe closed it wrong on accident. My fists hid
the hatch again and again, pained, booming across my knuckles.
I yelled, screamed his name, no response behind me, moisture,
the faintest vibration underfoot, followed by the moan. I shut
off my light, backed into the dark. The crawl space
I'd found was barely wide enough to fit through an
old maintenance shaft lined with torn conduit and brittle cables.
I didn't think about what might be in it. I
just dropped on my knees and slid inside, scraping my
ribs against the stone, arms, shaking as I pulled myself deeper.
I stopped maybe fifteen feet in, tucked between two color
lapsed pipe junctions, curled as tightly as I could. My
chest rose and fell so fast I was afraid the
sound of my breathing would give me away. I clamped
my hand over my mouth and waited. The thing came
into view slowly, just light at first, bouncing dimly from
a lamp still lying in the hallway behind me, then
the sound. There was a strip of fabric barely holding
to the remains of a coat or uniform, A piece
of cloth fused into the rotten flesh of the creature's chest,
barely hanging on a name tag, Marla. The lettering was faded,
but clear enough Eric Marla. It paused near the hatch.
I couldn't see it clearly anymore, but I could hear
hear it. It slapped the walls, sniffed the air, loud
gurgling inhales, like a drowning animal struggling to taste something lost.
Then he began to speak, not full words, but it
tried anyway.
Speaker 2: Ough, Hey, mine calm. I squeezed my eyes shut and
held my breath. I don't know how long I stayed
in that crawl space. My joints had gone stiff, my
mouth dry as bone, My flashlight had long since died,
and even the fear was beginning to thin, giving way
to something worse, the quiet belief that this was it,
that I would die down here.
Speaker 1: I'd stopped to listen for it, the thing. I thought,
maybe it had a lost interest, or maybe it didn't
need to hunt anymore. Then light flooding in from the corridor,
warm and golden, not the sterile white of her head lamps,
but sunlight, pure and alive, crashing through the darkness like
a resurrection, and a voice, familiar, human, cracking with panic
and guilt. I came back her pause, I'm sorry I left.
Are you there, Lewis? My body reacted before my mind could,
but I wasn't the only one who heard him. I
scrambled out of the crawl space, half crawling, half tumbling.
My legs screamed, blood rushing back into numb muscles. As
I ran full tilt toward the hatch. The air stank
of heat and rot. The moon behind me grew louder closer.
The floor shook beneath its weight. Louis's face appeared in
the open hatch above eyes, wide flashlight in one hand. Hey,
what's going on? He yelled. I threw myself at the ladder,
missed the first rung, slammed my shin climbed anyway. My
fingers fumbled for grip, the metal slick with sweat and grime.
Louis reached down, grabbed my arm. He pulled. As my
head crested the hatch. I felt the pressure shift behind me,
a blast of heat, and a wet sound. The thing
was at the base of the ladder. I screamed. Louis
pulled harder, and I cleared the opening. Just as a
wet mass lamed against the unders of the hatch. He
slammed it shot. The thud echoed like a gunshot, metal
shaking under the impact. We stood there in the clearing,
both of us heaving for breath. I bent over with
my hands on my knees, trying to slow my heart.
Lewis paced in wide, frantic circles, wiping sweat from his face,
mouth working like he wanted to say a dozen things
but couldn't pick one. Then he turned to me, eyes wide, hollow.
Where's Sasha, he asked. I didn't answer. What about Jonas
and the professor? What happened down there? What was that thing?
My lips parted, but nothing came out. I opened my
mouth again, tried to form words, but it was like
they were stuck behind everything I had just seen. Felt.
Lewis stepped closer. Tell me what happened. They're gone, I
finally said, I just they're gone. He stared at me
for a long time, like he was trying to read
something I couldn't put into words. Then slowly he pulled
out his phone. I'm calling someone, he muttered. He stepped
a few feet away, murmuring into the speaker, giving what
details he could location, injuries, urgency. I just stood there, numb,
watching the hatch like he might start rattling again, but
it didn't. We left before they arrived. Neither of us
wanted to be there when they opened it again, if
they opened it again, but we knew we had to stay,
and so we did. A few days passed, the authorities
came local police first, then federal agents, and finally someone
in clean uniforms with no names on their jackets. They
wouldn't say who they worked for, only that the site
was under investigation and we were advised not to speak
to the press. Weeks later I got a call. Lewis
was on the other end, very slow. If they found it.
He said, everything, the bonk, the journal, all of it,
and I asked He went quiet. No bodies, he said, finally,
no people, no creatures. I didn't respond. This could have
only meant one thing they got out. I've been a
frogger since I was thirteen. At this point, a professional
squatter had started as survival, but over time it became
something else. I don't do it for food or shelter anymore.
I do it because it makes my pulse race. I
do it because slipping between of someone's life without them
ever knowing I was there, feels like proof that I existed.
People think of squatters as junkies or drifters, but froggers
were different. We've become ghosts in pristine houses, ghosts with
beating hearts, watching the living world from air vents and
crawl spaces. There's a whole online see Buried. You wouldn't
stumble across us by accident. You'd have to be broken
in just the right shape. Once you're in, you're in.
And I've been doing this longer than almost anyone else.
I've lived in mansions, farmhouses, penthouses, doomsday bunkers. I've crawled
on the floorboards while families ate breakfast above me. I've
watched people sleep from the shadows of their closets. I've
held my breath for hours in insulation that made my
skin bleave. There are contests longest stay undetected, most dangerous infiltration,
most expensive home, most absurd hiding place. I've won all
of them, at least once. They treat me like a legend.
Some of them even messaged me for advice. There's a
thread with my name pinned to the top of the forum.
I post tips, photos, maps, audiophiles. I teach them how
to disappear in plain sight, how to become nothing and
survive inside someone else's everything. Before all of that, I
was a kid no one wanted. My mom dropped me
at a fire station when I was a baby, a
bundle in a duffel bag. I grew up in orphanages
that smelled of bleach and sadness. Passed between foster homes
like a borrowed jacket. Every new house came with rules, slaps,
broken promises. Some of them starved me, some locked me
in closets. I ran away from all that when I
was nine, took a bus as far as I could afford,
then walked. I stole food, snuck into unlocked garages, lived
in empty homes on the renovation. Then I got better,
started hiding in homes that weren't empty. I watched and listened,
learned habits and schedules. I found silence and made it
my armor. That's when it changed from survival to skill,
then from skill to instinct, then obsession. I couldn't stop,
even when I didn't need to any more. I got jobs,
eventually did odd work. I started making enough to rent
a place of my own if I ever wanted it,
but I never did. I found the ranch by accident,
dragging through satellite images one night while riding a post
job high. I just finished the clean exit from a
two week infiltration in Boulder, wealthy newlywed. As always, I
didn't take anything, didn't leave a single sign that's what
separates froggers from burglars. We're not thieves. I kept scrolling aimlessly,
waiting for my drilling to settle. Then I saw it,
a rectangular smudge of green in the middle of Utah's
dry lands. Nothing around it for miles but dust and sand,
all scorched and crumbling. It was a lost square of
impossible color, a full orchard from the looks of itch
house with a wrap around porch. It logged perfect. I
pulled it into my files and started scanning deeper. No
records in the county assessor's database. I grasp referenced it
on four different mapping services, same thing. I took a screenshot,
logged into the forum, and posted it under the title
anyone tried this place? The replies came fast. What is
that a new movie set in the middle of nowhere?
No thanks, nah man. Those rural folks don't play you.
Don't mess with ranch families too isolated. If they catch you,
they'll bury you in the back pasture. People have their
own guns. They'll shoot first, ask later if you're lucky.
I waited before replying. Eventually someone tagged to me directly,
don't even think about it. You're good, but that's suicide.
Another added, he won't do it. He knows better. I
stared at that line for a while. Could have closed
the tab, gone to sleep and found a safer target,
but a green rectangle sat in my mind like a
loaded chamber. They thought I wouldn't do it. That's why
I packed my kit the next morning and started walking east.
I was going to Utah. I traveled light. Everything I
needed fit into a canvas pack that had been stitched
and re stitched too many times to count. My boots
were cracked at the seams, souls reinforced with glue and
strips of tire rubber. I stuck to low ground and
outcropping stroke the day, walked at dusk and slept under
shrubs when I couldn't see a head anymore. It took
two full days to cross the desolate stretch leading to
the ranch. The air was dry enough to strip moisture
from your lungs, and the ground swallowed footprints within minutes.
When I finally saw it, it felt like my mind
had been tricked. One moment I was looking out across
endless dead nothing, and the next I saw color bleeding
through the heat shimmer lush grass, tall corn, a patch
of orchard trees bearing fruit, rows of cabbage and beans.
All of it nestled inside a perfect square of green
that pulsed with life. At its center stood a house
with a wide porch and pale wooden siding. There was
a sharp border at the edge of it, as so
dent in the ground. It was literally one step of
sand then grass. I stopped at that line and crouched down,
pressed my hand to the ground. The dirt under my
palm felt warm and faintly alive, if that's the right
word for it. I brushed aside a patch of grass
and saw that the line was definitely not natural. There
was something buried just beneath the surface, chalk or salt
or ash, I couldn't tell. It formed a thin gray
barrier running through the soil, clean as a ruler line.
I stepped over it. The air smelled different. Immediately, the
temperature dropped by at least ten degrees. My skin stopped burning.
I should have turned back right then, but I kept walking.
I found a good vantage point behind a stone wall
that had collapsed on its western edge. The ranch house
sat two hundred yards ahead, wrapped in a horseshoe of
crops and animal pens. The fields stretched out behind it,
and from where I crouched, I could see a set
of cattle lowering near a feeding trough. The entire scene
looked pulled from a dream, something from a calendar photo
or an old oil painting. The family appeared on the
porch just before sunset first came. The father broad shouldered
and tan, wiping his hands with a stained rag. His
wife followed, carrying a tray of glasses and a pitcher.
Three children bounded after her, each under ten. They were
laughing as they ran down the porch steps, chasing a
small dog that darted through the grass. They moved in
a kind of grace I hadn't seen in a long time.
Whatever their lives were, they didn't wear the weight of them.
I was jealous. I watched them eat dinner outside, grilling
over a fire pit near the barn. They passed food
back and forth. The sun eventually dipped low, casting amber
light over the field. It was a perfect postcard, every
detail framed by golden haze. I waited until the sky
turned black and the lights in the house started going
out one by one. Then I moved I crouched low
and moved fast across the edge of the property. Every
footstep I made, I would make sure to stop, wipe
it clean so it doesn't leave a print, and stayed
out of open ground. We moving through trees and parked
equipment until I reached the east side of the house.
I waited again, pressing my back to the cool wood siding,
listening for footsteps or voices. There was nothing. I took
one last look at the darkness behind me, then slipped
around the back of the house and tested the windows.
One of them was unlocked, and I was in. The
house was old, but not falling apart. Every piece of
it had been cared for, yet nothing had been modernized.
The floors were polished wood. The walls were dark timber,
thick and slightly walked with age. Shelves line the corners,
each one stacked with books, jars, and figurines. The yard
and the walls wasn't the kind you'd find that hobby
stores or Sunday school. Most of it was hand carved
or painted demons and angels fighting, horned men, circles of
fire and bone, symbols arranged in patterns I had never
seen before. Most of it looked Christian or some weird
denomination of Christianity. Some of the figures looked human, but
wrong in ways I couldn't explain. One piece near the
staircase showed a figure kneeling in front of a goated
head man with his hands open. Weird religious depictions weren't
rare in Roll homes, but man, it was a shocker
to see. Every time I moved past it and opened
the refrigerator, I took my time. I had done this
hundreds of times before I knew how to take without
drawing attention. I broke off small pieces from a wedge
of cheese, sipped just enough milk to cool my throat,
and took a spoonful of something sweet from a glass jar.
I wiped the edges of the containers with my shirt
and placed them exactly where I had found them. Once
I was sure the kitchen had no cameras or alarm systems,
I scouted the rest of the ground floor. It was
a wide open layout, no hallways. The living room opened
directly into the kitchen and dining area. Beyond that, a
hallway led to a laundry room and what looked like
a study. A staircase on the fire end curled upward
toward the second floor. I found my hiding spot behind
a false panel in a storage closet near the laundry room.
Some one had remodeled this part of the house recently.
The panel didn't sit flush with the wall. I pried
it loose with a butter knife and found a gap
between the inner wall and the original frame. It wasn't spacious,
but I had slept in worse. I tucked my pack
into the corner, lay back and steadied my breathing. Every
creak of the house made me flinch, but nothing stirred.
I slept in short intervals, waking often to listen. The
next morning, I waited unto the family left the house.
I heard the kids talking through the walls, their voices
muffled and distant. At one point, the mother said they
needed to find some fresh meat soon. The father grunted
something in reply. One of the children asked if they
were going to the usual spot. The mother said no,
they needed something stronger this time. I assumed they were
talking about live stock, maybe venison, something rural and bloody.
The house was larger than it looked from the outside,
two full floors. I started by mapping the layout in
my head. The kid stayed on the bottom level, tucked
into two small rooms near the kitchen. The parents slipt
above them in a spacious master bedroom that had a
double balcony. There was a third room on the second floor,
locked from the outside. I couldn't figure out what was inside,
but the door had been nailed shut and covered with
a faded wall tapestry. One night, while checking around for
a new hiding spot, I noticed the small indentation on
the rug in the kitchen. When I lifted it, I
found the edge of a small wooden hatch, maybe two
feet wide, with a thin brass handle and four nails
holding it shut. A narrow wooden staircase led down into darkness.
The air rising from the opening was cold and dry,
and he carried that same strange I had noticed when
I first entered the house, dampness mixed with something ancient
and faintly sweet. No one had mentioned this space in
the time I've been there so far. I hadn't heard
anyone go down there either. If I could make that
space my own, I could stay here as long as
I wanted, I could vanish beneath the house and live
for months without a single footprint. If they never used it,
it was mine. I closed the hatch and pulled the
cabiner back into place, pressing the rug down to hide
the seam. All I had to do was wait for
the right time to move in. If I did now,
there was no guarantee the stairs leading down wouldn't creak
and groan. I had to wait. Two mornings later, I
heard the mother mention the same thing again. I had
slipped out of my hiding spot before dawn and crowds
just behind the half open door to the pantry. The
kids are in the kitchen eating breakfast, while the parents
moved around the counter packing something into canvas bags. We'll
need to be gone at least a full day this time,
the mother said, maybe two. If we can't find any
on the low trails, we'll go further. Shall we take
all three? The father asked no, She said, just the
deep one. The others are too thin. The land won't respond.
I didn't know what they were talking about. One of
the kids asked if he could stay up late while
they were gone. The mother gave him permission, then leaned
in and kissed the top of his head. The other
two whined about having to feed the goats and prept
the drying racks again. We'll bring back fresh meat. Be patient.
The kids groaned in unison. They were leaving. That meant
the house would be empty. I waited. Once the house
was quiet and I was sure that the parent had gone,
I slipped from the wall panel and crossed through the
kitchen barefoot, stepping carefully to avoid the boards that creaked.
I peeled back the rug and exposed the hatch and
lifted without a sound. I didn't hesitate. I stepped into
the hole and pulled the hatch closed above me. The
stairs groaned, but not too loudly. My shoulders scraped both
walls as I descended, and the temperature dropped with every step.
The smell hit me halfway down. Iron and soil was
thick in the air, clinging to the roof of my mouth.
When I reached the bottom, I stood in pitch black
and listened. My breathing echoed faintly off stone. I pulled
a flashlight from my belt, wrapped the lens in cloth
to dim it, and clicked it on. The basement was
fairly large, rough stone walls braced with timber hooks hung
from overhead beams, rusty chains dangling beside them, some old
fibers stuck to the lynx. The floor was stained in
regular patches. I moved slowly, casting the light across the space.
There were animal bones along the far wall, stacked in
a bin, beside what looked like a salt block, and
several glass jars filled with dark liquid. I stopped myself
before the anxiety got too loud. My first instinct was
to run. I don't know why. Maybe it was the smell,
or the cold, or the way the silence bent around me.
My legs twitched, ready to sprint up the stairs. But
then the voice in my head, the one I've been
sharpening for years, kicked in. Calm down, use your eyes.
You've seen butchering rooms before, man farmers butcher meat and
then dry it. That's probably what they used the basement for. Besides,
this family had done nothing out of the ordinary in
the time I've stayed here. The weirdest thing about them
was the religious stuff around the house, and that wasn't
even the weirdest thing I've seen in homes in my life.
I made my way to the far corner and checked around.
There was no way out but the stairs. But the
corner itself had just enough shadow, and a few crates
blocked direct line of sight from the center of the room.
I pulled them aside, stepped down, and wrapped myself in
the old canvas drop cloth I had stashed in my pack.
Just before I dozed. I heard the basement hatch open,
a faint click, then the groan of old hinges. My
eyes snapped open, and my breath locked my chest. I
twisted beneath the canvas and pressed my face between two
wooden slats. The stairs creaked one step at a time.
Soft voices followed four sets of feet. I angered my
flashlight toward the floor and watched their shadows stretch into
the room. The first two were the parents. I recognized
their outlines immediately. The man walked ahead, carrying something heavy
draped across his shoulders. It looked to be a person.
The woman followed with a bundle tucked under one arm.
Behind them came the two others, robed, their faces completely hidden.
The man stepped into the center of the basement and
signaled for what seemed to be his companion to do something.
He took a table that was near them and dragged
it to the center of the basement. The other man
laid the burden across the table. I could see it now.
It was a woman. He sat down, and she seemed
to be unconscious. Her limbs hung limp, her hair had
been matted with sweat, and her stomach bulged beneath her dress.
Was she pregnant? I felt my stomach lurch. Her chest
moved shallowly, so she was still breathing at least. The
robed men stepped fully into view, and I got my
first pro a look at them. Their robes were deep black,
made from something thick and textured, and each one was
stitched from the neck to ankle, without a single seam
visible around their hems and sleeves. Cymbals had been embroidered
in a sickly off white thread. One of the rope
figures produced a long piece of bone, sharpened to a
fine point, and dipped it into one of the dark
glass jars. He bent low and began tracing a perfect
circle in the dust, followed by a pentagram at his center.
The lines gleamed wetly, and from the way the lantern
caught them, I realized he was using blood. It dragged
across the stone in thick strokes, bleeding into the grooves
carved into the floor itself. The other robed figure stood
by the table, whispering something low. As the father and
mother adjusted the woman's basi, her stomach rose in a full,
tight curve. She was heavily pregnant, close to term. She
remained unconscious. The table they placed her on was an
old butcher's slab, covered in scars and grooves, the grain
of the wood blackened and glossy from years of use.
The father stepped back as the robed man finished the pentagram.
The lines met closed, and the robed man gave a nod.
She's strong, one of them said, She'll hold, said the other.
The mother moved to the far corner and opened a
wooden crate. She produced a long curved dagger wrapped in
red cloth and handed it to her husband. He took
it without a word and stepped up to the table.
He leaned in and placed the hand on the woman's forehead,
brushing her hair aside, like he was saying good bye.
Then he placed the blade into a chest and drove
it straight through her sternum. Her eyes snapped open. She
didn't scream, but her mouth twisted as her hand seized
at the edge of the table, Her back arched, and
her legs kicked against the slab. A choking sound rasped
from her throat. Blood welled up around the handle, thick
and dark, soaking through her dress and pulling across the
pentagram beneath her. She convulsed once more, then went still.
The basement fell into silence for several long seconds. The
father stepped away from the body and wiped the blade
against his sleeve, folding it again in a red cloth
as if it were a sacred object. The two roped
men began chanting something in a gutural language made of
deep clerks and harsh consonants that didn't resemble anything I
had ever heard. The mother ascended the stairs without explanation
and vanished through the hatch. She returned several minutes later,
cradling something in both arms. At first I thought it
was a bundle of fabric, or maybe an animal, but
then I saw it was a severed goat's head, freshly taken.
Blood still dripped from its neck and darkened a blouse
as she carried it across the room with care, as
though presenting her newborn. The goat's eyes were milky and
half closed, and his tongue lolled out between its teeth.
One of the roped men retrieved a short sore and
placed it on the table. The father held the woman's
body steady, or the mother guided the blade. It took strokes.
Her neck split slowly vertebray, crunching as the saw made
contact with bone. I could barely watch. Her head came
loose with a wet snap, and the mother lifted it free,
laying it in a clay bowl beside the table. Then
they placed the goat's head on the open neck, seating
it awkwardly. Blood ran from the seam, soaking the pentagram. Again.
It looked so grotesque and wrong. I'd use every ounce
of willpower to not wretch and throw up. It sat
too high, its eyes off by just enough to make
the body beneath it seem small. The mouth twitched, and
for a moment I thought I had imagined it. The
mother and father began to spread salt in a precise
pattern along the edges of the circle. Every few seconds,
they paused, muttered a word, and dropped small metal tokens, coins, rings,
a gear, a broken key. The cymbals carved on the
floor flared dimly, then pulsed again brighter. The temperature shifted
around me, dropping to freezing in seconds. My teeth clenched
as I wrapped my arms around my chest. The table
began to tremble. Then the body twitched, first the legs,
then the arms, then the fingers. One foot kicked, then
the other. The abdomen clenched once twice, then swelled unnaturally.
The goat head rose slightly, its mouth opened and hung
From deep within it came a sound I had never
heard repeated since it was low and wet, a gurgling
croak that built into a shuddering intake of breath. It
rose upright, arms rigid at its sides, and then it spoke,
why have you summoned me? One of the figures stepped forward,
arms outstretched in reverence, and bowed low before answering, The
crops have dulled, the ground has dried, The air takes
more than it gives. We need your blessing, We need
the land to breathe again. The goat head twisted slightly
to the side and hovered that way for several seconds,
as if considering their words. Then its arms jerked upward,
bone cracking at the shoulders, and its hands snapped open.
The entire table rattled beneath it. A long growl rose
from his chest and deepened into a gurgling scream, its
volume climbing until it filled every corner of the basement.
One of the jars near the altar cracked. The father
staggered back and caught himself on a crate, his face pale.
The mother clutched the silver charm that had been hanging
around her neck. The creature slammed his hands down on
the table, splintering one of the legs. It bared its
teeth and hissed through clenched jaws. His voice returned less articular.
You have wasted blood. I will not take offerings in
such circumstance. The robed men exchanged the glance. Something disturbed it.
One said, we must abandon this sight for twenty four hours,
let it rest that the lines reset. The other said,
we will stay with you at your ranch. He said,
looking over at the man and woman. When we return here,
we cleanse every inch of this basement, every crack, every
hiding place, it will all be scrubbed. They began collecting
their tools in silence. The creature hissed again and pressed
its hands against the inside of the pentagram, testing it.
The salt still held. I saw one grain tremble at
the edge and roll across the line. A faint spark
flared from the ground, and the creature recoiled return prepared.
It said. They didn't speak again. One by one they
ascended the stairs. The hatch creaked shut behind them. The
sound of metal locks sliding into place hit first, then
the dragging of something heavy across the top of the hatch.
A power drill whined. The seal was thorough. They weren't
just closing it. They were barricading it, ceiling the basement
shut from the outside world, with no intention of returning
until they believed it was safe. I sat frozen beneath
the crates. My back was damp and clung to the wall.
Each bang above me sent a new spike of dread
through my chest. I felt like I'd just been buried alive.
I closed my eyes and buried my head against my knees,
counting seconds in my head to keep from losing it.
Then it spoke to me, I know you're here. The
voice came softer, this time. I smelled you as soon
as I came. I tried to keep my breath quiet
enough to vanish into the walls. You watched it and
said you've been watching for days. I stayed still, but
every part of me burned with panic. I didn't know
if he could see me, or if it only sensed me.
He let out a deep, slow breath that filled the basement,
like steam rolling out of a furnace. You and I,
we are the same. I stayed curled behind the crates,
with my body locked in place, listening as the creature
shifted on the table. His voice filled the room again,
drawing out each syllable. You are small but capable. I
clenched my jaw and tried to ignore it, but my
arms are already starting to tremble. My legs had gone numb.
I didn't know how long I could keep this up.
The voice drifted closer. I know what you desire. I
wanted to yell back, to tell it to shut up,
but I couldn't summon the courage. You want to leave,
it continued. They will not let you. They will come
back tomorrow with fire and oil. They will burn the walls,
they will tear the floors apart. They will find you.
I let the thought pass through me. It wasn't hard
to imagine. If they ake gone this far, then finding
a frogger in their basement would only make their work easier.
I would become another ingredient. But I can help you leave.
The words stopped my breath. Break the salt only a
single line. Then we shake hands. That is all I
help you, it said, And you help me. One wish.
That is the price one I didn't answer. You do
not have to die here, it said. I pressed my
fingers to the floor. I counted my options and found none.
If I stayed, I would be found. If I ran,
I would be caught. If I waited, I would be
part of the next ritual. I stepped out from behind
the crate and walked toward the table. It crouched low
on the table, now, knees folded beneath it, one hand
resting on the wood and the other stretched toward me
with its palm open. His head followed my movement without turning,
but his presence bore down on me with unbearable weight.
I broached slowly, my eyes on the edge of the
salt line. The grain shimmered slightly. As I neared. You
are close, it said, finish shit. I stepped forward and
used the tip of my boot to break the smallest
section of the circle. The salt scattered outward. The creature
rose to its full height, and a single motion, limbs
unfolding with perfect fluidity. It stepped over the line and
stood before me, towering not with bulk but with form.
The dress it wore hung in tatters, soaked through with
blood that had dried in layered streaks. The goat's head
stared straight through me, its hands still hung in the air.
I reached forward and took it. The moment we touched,
the entire room shivered. The ceiling cracked once above us.
A gust of wind passed through the room. The creature
nodded once, then spoke turn around. For a second. I
thought this would be it. This was the part where
I would rip me in half, or drive its fingers
into my skull, or whisper something into my ear that
would collapse my mind. I thought it would betray the deal,
twist it, drag me down into whatever hell it had
it come from. But I turned around and accepted my fate.
After a while of nothing, I turned back, and it
was gone. Then I heard it wood splintering, a scream,
sharp and short. I crouched and crept toward the stairs,
stepping lightly to avoid the cracked boards. Another crash followed,
then a sound that turned my blood cold. It was
wet and sudden, like someone tearing a roast from the
bone with bare hands. A gurgling cry ran out, followed
by a thud that shugged dust loose from the ceiling beams.
Someone else yelled a deeper voice, this time angry, cut
off by a second impact that made the floor groan.
I reached the top of the stairs and pressed my
ear to the hatch. Muffled movement echoed above me. I
eased the latch open. Whatever had been used to barricade
it was gone. I slipped through the opening and rose
to my feet. In the kitchen, the light was dim
fed only by the flicker of lanterns that swung in
the hallway. A smell hit me before I saw anything,
blood warm enough to coat the air. I moved through
the living room and crouched behind the banister near the
front entryway. Beyond the corner, I saw the creature. The
flesh was pale and glistening with sweat and blood. Veins
pushed against the skin as if something large writhed beneath
the surface. His torso swelled unnaturally with each breath, and
the skin around his belly stretched so tight I could
see the outline of something shifting inside the goats heade
remained fixed above it, all still slack jawed and expressionless.
The air around it vibrated from the growling sound rising
from its throat. One of the roped men, in clear desperation,
charged forward with a blade drawn from his belt, but
the creature swatted him aside with one arm, shattering his
jaw and throwing him into the far wall. His body
hit the bugshelf and slid down, crumpled and twitching. The
other raised his hands and began chanting. The creature lunged forward,
driving its fingers through his stomach. They punched through his
robes and into his flesh with ease. He buckled around them,
and the chanting died in his throat. As he collapsed,
folded in half. The mother and father tried to run.
The father was too slow, however, so he grabbed a
shotgun from behind the door and fired once. The blast
tore through the creature's shoulder, exposing raw muscle. But it
didn't flinch, it didn't bleed. The flesh folded back together
as if nothing had happened. Across the room in two
lurching strides, and tackled him against the wall. I heard
the bone crack before he even screamed. The creature pinned
him there and pulled the gun from his hands, then
pushed its face into his neck and bit down. The
mother suffered a similar fate. I didn't wait for my turn.
I ran through the side door, out across the field
and toward the edge of the property. My legs burned
and my lungs pulled cold air that stung my chest.
The sky above me swirled with smoke and stars. The
property lion came into view ahead of me. Grass stopped
and sand began, just as it had the night I arrived.
My body slammed into something solid and invisible. It knocked
me back flat on to the ground. I gasped, rolled
on to my knees, and tried again. I clawed forward
and lunged with my shoulder, but the wall held. There
was no sign of what was stopping me, just empty
air with a density of steel. I beat my fists
against it. I kicked it. I even screamed at it,
hoping something would shift. Nothing did. Behind me, it was coming, galloping,
hands and feet, pounding the dirt frantically. I turned and
saw it charge through the dark, arms bent, mouth wide,
its goat face stared directly ahead. Those empty sockets locked
onto mine. Its legs kicked up dirt as it closed
the distance. I braced myself and shut my eyes, but
it stopped inches in front of me. Its breath was
harsh and fast. I felt the warmth of it on
my skin. I opened my eyes and saw the goat
head tilted downward, close enough that I could see the
crusted blood dried unto the hairs around its mouth. It
just stared. Then it sat down in the dirt, folded
its arms over its knees, and whispered one sentence, my wish.
It set back, slowly, folding its legs beneath itself, arms
resting on its thighs, shoulders heaving with slow breath, The
goat said tilted down toward the earth, and the body
underneath began to sag. Muscles quivering beneath us, stretched sweat,
slick skin of the pregnant woman's frame. My wish is this,
you must raise my kin. I didn't understand what it meant.
At first. The words registered, but the meaning floated beyond them.
The creature lowered itself further into the dirt and wrapped
its arms around its abdomen. The flesh swelled and pulsed,
shifting in thick waves as something began moving inside. It
gritted its teeth and bent forward, nails dragging through the
earth beneath it. I watched the belly twitch and lurch,
muscles contorting as if something larger than the frame of
the woman's body had ever been meant to contain, began
forcing itself free. It whimpered once, a low rasp torn
through clenched teeth, then braced itself on one arm and
reached between its legs with the other. Blood poured out
under the grass, soaking the soil beneath it. The stench
filled the air. I wanted to look away, but I
was locked in place. The body convulsed once more, and
then something slipped free and hid the ground with a wet,
muted slap. It was small, no larger than a toddler.
Its body was covered in coarse black hair and gray skin.
Its limbs were jointed like a person's, but longer and hairer.
Bones jotted out at odd angles, and from its back
two leathery wings unfolded and stretched outward with a slow
fluttering pulse. Its head was elongated and bent forward, nose
flat and wide, eyes already open. It blinked once, then
rolled on to its back and looked up at me.
I understood then what I needed to do, so I
rushed forward, grabbed it by the torso, and hurled it
down against the dirt with everything I had. It bounced once,
let out a short yelp, and rolled to its side.
I turned, found a smooth rock about the size of
a football near the edge of the line, and raised
it above my head. My arms trembled from the weight,
from the panic, from the surge of hatred I didn't
even know I could feel. I brought the rock down
on its skull once, twice, three times. It giggled. Then
it looked up at me and said, dad, there. I
dropped the rock and stumbled back, nearly falling. I wanted
to scream, but nothing came out. It reached one hand
toward me, fingers splayed smiling. I don't remember walking back
to the ranch. I must have been in shock. My
body moved, but I didn't guide it. My arms clutched
the thing to my chest. It rested against me and
pressed its head beneath my chin, breathing slow and steady,
humming to itself. Its small hands gripped the collar of
my shirt with frightening strength. I walked into the house,
expecting to see blood, but there was nothing there. The
hallway rug had no stains, no tears. I passed through
the rooms in disbelief, searching for any trace of what
had happened. There was none. The fireplace glowed with a
faint bed of coals, as though some one had stoked
it an hour ago. I climbed the stairs, still holding
the creature to my chest. Its eyes were closed, it
smiled in its sleep. In the master bedroom, the bed
was made, the curtains were open. Sunlight washed through the
room in slow golden waves. I stood in the doorway
with my hands trembling, and my knees were ready to buckle.
The windmill outside turned slowly in the breeze, casting long
shadows across the fields, and I understood then that I
wasn't going anywhere. I tried to kill it again during
the first night, after returning to the house and wandering
through room after room that had been white clean of
blood and memory, I laid it down on the kitchen
floor and grabbed the heaviest butcher knife I could find.
I raised it over its chest, two hands on the grip,
and stared at the pail pulsing skin between its ribs.
Its chest rose and fell slowly. It looked asleep, though
its eyes were open. I brought the knife down with
everything I had. The blade hid the skin and stopped,
as if striking cured leather. I pressed harder. It didn't pierce.
It didn't even leave a scratch. The thing blinked once,
reaching up with a tiny hand and tapped the edge
of the knife like it was curious. Then it laughed,
a small imitation of human joy that sent a chill
down the length of my spine. I dropped the knife
and stumbled backward. It rolled on to its side and cooed,
dragging itself across the floor. Later that night I found
the father's gun. The shells were still in a wooden
box beside it, organized by caliber. I loaded it around
and pressed it to the side of the thing's head
while it napped in a bundle of blankets. I pulled
the trigger. Nothing happened. I opened the chamber and checked
the bullet was clean. I reloaded, tried again, click, nothing.
I pointed it at my own temple and fired. There
was a flash and a crack, and then everything went black.
I woke up on the porch with a creature sitting
beside me, giggling. Again. My ears rang. I checked for
blood and found none. The bullet was lodged in the
wood beneath my seat. I tried again. This time I
aimed at my chest. The fire bloomed through my ribs
and dropped to my knees. I passed out, choking on
my own breath. I woke up in bed, tucked beneath
a wall blanket. The creature stood by the window, humming
to itself, staring out of the field. The gun rested
on the nightstand with a safety on. I couldn't take
the sound of its laugh anymore. I waited until noon,
when the sun was highest, and climbed up the windmill.
It wasn't tall, but it stood far enough above the
property that I could see everything the land rolled out
in perfect symmetry. Everything in this place was a symbol,
from the fences to the paths. I saw it clearly
from above. The windmill stood at the center. Each plot
of light, and each structure, each buried mark and etching
in the stone, had been placed to match the design
of a vast incomprehensible symbol. I laughed, I don't know why.
I think I lost something in that moment, something important.
I climbed to the edge, spread my arms and jumped.
The fall should have shattered my legs and broken my spine,
but the impact felt like hitting a warm mattress. I
bounced once and rolled through the dirt. My limbs ached,
but nothing snapped. The creature watched from the fence. It
clapped twice, like I had done something clever. Time started
to rot. I stopped counting days. I would wake up
and find the creature'd move the furniture, arranged plates and
circles on the floor, place books and spirals across the
kitchen tiles. It mimics speech and movement. It watched me
eat and copied me, though it never needed food. I
never saw it sleep for long. Sometimes it stood in
the hallway and stared at the ceiling for hours. It
smiled more, Its teeth changed, the front row straightened, the
gums pinkened, the texture of its skin began to smooth.
The wings on its back folded down and slowly receded.
Its fingers shortened, its gait adjusted. It stooded me when
I moved, and copied me without hesitation. At some point
I recalled my old frogging community. I silently prayed they'd
noticed my absence and maybe someone would come to this
ranch and rescue me. But nobody came. I tried to run.
I tried to walk into the woods and keep going.
I hit the barrier again. I circled the entire perimeter
for days. The invisible wall was absolute. It never stopped
following me either. Some days later, something happened. The sky
was clear, the stars flickered in slow spirals. I sat
on the porch, staring at the dark, holding an empty cup.
My fingers ached, My back had started to curve, my
hair had thinned. I hadn't aged normally, but I hadn't
stayed the same either. My body was changing. Then I
felt it. A heat rose from behind me, soft and warm,
followed by the faint creak of wood beneath careful steps.
I turned and saw it standing in the doorway. It
wasn't the unholy demon spawn anymore. It was human. It
was morphed. Its features were perfect, Its skin was clean,
Its hair was dark and soft, combed and parted. It
wore simple clothes and linen shirt, but its eyes still
carried the same smoke. Behind the pupils, a swirl of
faint gray fog moved slowly, and on its forehead, just
below the hair line, a small circular mark glowed faintly.
It stepped forward and sat across from me. Then it
reached forward, touched my hand and said thank you. I
hadn't been sleeping well, not in the dramatic, tortured way,
just the usual late nights dragging into early mornings. Too
much screen time, too much silence. You stop noticing how
tired you are when it's constant. I thought maybe it
was the recent job loss, or the breakup, or the
fact that I was living in a sublet with a
ceiling fan clicked like a metronome made to measure disappointment.
People said I seemed distant. I was. I tell people
I was fine. I'd say it enough that I almost
believed it. But a few nights in something changed. I
was washing dishes, staring out the kitchen window at nothing
in particular when I heard it. Not a voice exactly,
more like a sentence drove to my head, complete neutral.
He dries the glass, He stares too long. I blinked,
the sponge slipped to my hand. It wasn't my thought.
That's what threw me. It didn't feel like me thinking.
It felt like someone else was thinking at me. I
told myself it was stress, insomnia, internal monologue with too
much flair. The next day, on a call with my sister,
she asked how I was holding up. I opened my
mouth to lie. Before I could speak, it came again.
He takes the call, he lies, and then I said it,
without even meaning to, I'm doing all right. I remember
the exact moment after, how my fingers trembled slightly around
the phone, how the line was silent for a beat
too long before she replied. That was the first time
I joked aloud, guess I've got a narrator now. But
it wasn't funny. It didn't stop, and it was starting
to get things right that I hadn't done yet. At First,
the voice stuck to narration, little summaries of what I
was already doing. He scrolls too long, he reheats leftovers.
He pretends to read almost funny in a pathetic sort
of way. But after a few days it started to comment.
The first jab came while I was sitting on the
couch scrolling job listings. He won't apply, he never does.
I froze, thumb hovering over the screen, then closed the app.
I told myself it was a coincidence that my brain
was catching me in old habits, building sentences around guilt.
But the timing was too sharp, the phrasing too pointed. Later,
while I was drafting an email I didn't want to send,
it said he's already lying, and he hasn't hit send yet,
and I was. I deleted the email entirely, stared at
the blinking cursor and to the words felt like they'd
been scraped out of my head. The voice didn't sound
angry or emotional. It just sounded sure, confident in a
way I hadn't been in months. It was like reading
from a script I hadn't seen. I started testing it
ye small things. I'd reach for a glass of water
just to see what it would say. He reaches for
the glass. Then quickly I changed my mind. He hesitates,
he pretends that makes him unpredictable. My hand shook so
badly I nearly dropped the glass. I thought maybe this
was a breakdown, sleep, depropation, anxiety, some kind of disassociative loop.
The Internet had words for it, intrusive thoughts, auditory hallucinations, derealization,
except it didn't feel like a voice in my head.
It felt like someone was watching. By the end of
that week, I'd stop turning on the TV, stopped playing music,
and stopped doing anything that made me feel less alone.
Because that's when it started saying things I hadn't done yet.
He won't sleep tonight, I laughed when I heard it. Nervous, brittle,
Sure I will, I thought to myself. For the power
went out around one a m. The hum of the
fridge died. The room folded into silence so deep I
could hear my own pulse. I got up, fumbling through
the dark for my phone's flashlight. The air felt heavy. Close.
I checked the breaker, the fuse. Nothing. Then from the hallway,
a faint creak. When I turned I saw it. The
front door wide open. The cold night pressed in sharp
and deliberate, and behind my ribs, that same quiet voice
said things going to break. I didn't sleep the rest
of that night. I checked every room twice, every window,
every lock. Nothing was disturbed. The only thing out of
place was the front door, wide open, with no signs
of forced entry, and my phone sitting on the nightstand,
battery drained to zero. I plugged it in before bed.
I was sure of it. The next day I filed
a police report. They didn't find anything, no fingerprints, no
signs of tampering. The front door hadn't even been scratched.
It's probably stress, the officer said, handing me back the
form with practice sympathy. Sometimes people forget they opened a door,
but I hadn't. And when I got home, the voice
was waiting. Who wonders if he's imagining it. I froze
halfway through the threshold. He steps inside anyway, I stepped inside.
It was like someone writing over my life in real time,
erasing the possibility of free will with every line. I
couldn't surprise it, couldn't get ahead of it. That night,
I slept with the lights on, dragged a chair in
front of the door tied a string between the handle
and my wrist. I needed proof of a person, of
a thing, something. The voice didn't speak for hours. I
almost thought it was gone. Then as I was drifting off,
it whispered, he thinks he'll be safe if he prepares.
I didn't sleep after that either. By morning, the knot
was still tied, the door was unmoved, everything untouched, but
the house felt used, not in a way I could name,
just lived in by something I hadn't seen. And for
the first time, I realized I hadn't done anything wrong.
I hadn't committed some great sin. I wasn't cursed or
haunted or chosen. Something was toying with me. I wasn't
going to I knew how it would sound, but it
had been weeks. I wasn't sleeping. I kept second guessing
every thought before I could even think it. It felt
like my brain wasn't mine anymore. So I called Emma.
We'd known each other since college, the kind of friend
you could call after six months of silence and pick
up like nothing had changed. She met me at a
diner near the edge of town. I told her everything,
the voice, the predictions. I didn't even care how I
sounded anymore. I just needed to say it out loud.
I needed to see someone else react, to anchor me
to reality. She listened, she really listened, asked questions, took
my hand. At one point, you're under a lot of stress,
she said gently, But I believe you believe it. That
counts for something. It wasn't full belief, but it was something.
That night, as I lay in bed, the voice returned slow.
He told the wrong person boring, remove her. I sat up,
reached for my phone. Emma's name wasn't in my contacts.
I opened her old text. The thread was there, but empty,
just the gray bar that said no messages. I called her.
It rang once, then her robotic voice, this number is
not in service. I scrolled through photos. I knew I
had dozens with her birthdays, Halloween, that awful karaoke night,
But in every one I checked, she was missing, whole frames,
cropped others where she should have been beside me, empty space.
The next day, I drove to her apartment, different name
on the buzz, a new mailbox label. I knocked anyway.
A woman I didn't recognize open the door, mid thirty's
short blonde hair. She looked confused. No one named Emma's
lived here, she said, not since I moved in six
years ago. Six we'd had coffee yesterday, hadn't we. I
sat in my car for an hour, holding my phone
like it was a dead animal. A story doesn't need
side characters if they aren't part of the ending. The
voice whispered, smooth as oil. I didn't know what this meant.
I just drove, and every street sign I passed felt
like you could vanish next. It wasn't a voice that
changed who was everything else? The clock on the stove
always read a time that made sense, just never the same.
Twice I'd look away, look back, and somehow it had
jumped ten minutes forward or back. Once it was midnight,
three times in a row. With a voice. It stayed observant,
a steady interjection that jotted in at random intervals. He
notices time is wrong, but keeps eating. He's starting to
realize this isn't stress. I tried ignoring it. I tried
pretending the world still worked. Then it said something new.
He looks at himself and wondered when he stopped being
real That one hit too close. I stared at my
reflection waiting for it to blink. First, it didn't. It
just stared back, hollow and quiet, like it knew more
than I did. But fear still ran through me. If
this voice could make Emma just disappear, what could it
do to me? And I snapped. I punched the mirror
full swing. I watched its shatter, felt its shatter, glass
scattered everywhere. Then I blinked and the mirror was whole.
The glass was gone, and the cut across my knuckles
had vanished. I staggered back, heart pounding. The room wasn't mine,
not completely. The layout was correct, but off. The coffee
table was on the wrong side, the couch was in
all the model. There were pictures on the wall. I
didn't recognize the smiling family I'd never seen. Narrator was
still calm, still sure he understands now, but not enough.
I sat on the floor, shaking. This wasn't just in
my head. Someone was building the world around me peace
by piece, and I was slipping between versions all week.
I tried to explain it away, drown it out, reason
with it, but the voice was always there, narrating like
I was the joke of some sad, slow story. So
I screamed loud, ugly, what are you? The air didn't answer,
not right away, finally tuk you long enough. It wasn't
a whisper. It wasn't inside my head anymore. It was everywhere,
the ceiling fan humm, in the fridge compressor, in the
space between my heart beats. I'm the only real thing here,
it said. I felt myself go cold. I didn't fully
know what it meant. You're a story. You are supposed
to be a story, but you're nothing. You hesitate, you mope,
you repeat yourself. You don't give me anything. I paused
at this, not knowing whether the voice was being literal
or metaphorical. I want attention, conflict, growth, but you just exist.
I shook my head. No, this isn't real. This is
You're not real. I wrote to you. I tried to
care about you, to get people to care about you.
But this is going nowhere. The lights dimmed, the walls
seemed thinner. So I've been trying to fix it. Add
some stakes, a little fear, a little mystery, something that
might save this train wreck from total irrelevance. I backed
into the corner, heart pounding, but nothing works. You just survive.
You stall you bore. There was a pause. Then, like
the edge of a blade, I want an ending. Silence returned,
not calm but coiled. Something was coming, but with how
things were the scope of what scared me. In the silence,
I had time to I think a story. It called
me like a character in a play. The only way
for a story to progress is by participating. This whole
thing was something I couldn't fight. It wasn't physical or external.
So my only idea, the only thing I could think
to do, was nothing, pure nothing. The next morning, that's
what I did. Nothing. No longer paralyzed by fear, this
was pure choice. I didn't get out of bed, didn't drink,
didn't eat, didn't speak. I just stared at the wall
and counted the cracks and the paint and the voice.
It waited. At first, it tried the usual. He woke up, confused, anxious, hard,
still racing from the confrontation. Nothing. He got up, poured
coffee with a shaking hand, tried to convince himself none
of it was real. Still nothing. I stayed in bed,
face blank, like a body, no longer connected to the script.
Then it got bolder, meaner, he screamed, He begged, he cried.
I didn't flinch, didn't even blink. If this were a story,
then I figured it couldn't move unless I did, so
I gave it nothing. Days passed, I grew hungry and thirsty,
but I didn't move, even for the bare essentials. I
truly committed to giving it nothing. The fridge hummed, the
sun rose and set, and the voice unraveled. He's breaking down,
losing it. He wants the scream, but can't. He misses
his friend, the one who forgot him. He regrets everything wrong, wrong, wrong.
I didn't miss any one, didn't feel anything. I was
done being a character. Every second I stayed still was
another second it didn't get what it wanted. Let it lie,
let it twist, Let the story rot on the page.
Eventually it stopped narrating. Altogether, there was no momentum, no tension,
just me rotting in a room, not knowing what came next.
So when the door clicked open, I thought I imagined
it with. The footsteps were real, soft, familiar. I didn't
look up right away, afraid that if I moved the
world would snap back into fiction. But then I heard
her voice, Are you okay? I turned my head slowly.
She stood in the doorway. My wife, the real her,
wearing the coat she always said, made a look too
grown up. Her eyes were full of cautious worry, and
next to her, our daughter, small, quiet, watching me with
a seriousness. Children aren't supposed to have. My mouth opened,
but nothing came out. She stepped in, took a breath,
like the place smelled bad, and it probably did. I
hadn't showered, hadn't cleaned, hadn't done anything but sit and
wait to be erased. What happened to you? She asked,
Why won't you enter your phone? I didn't know how
to explain. I didn't know where to begin, so I
just said I'm sorry, and that was all it took.
She moved across the room and sank to her knees
in front of me. Her hands touched mine, dry skin,
cracked knuckles, but hers were warm, solid human. You were
so scared, she said, you don't just disappear like that.
I didn't know how to come back, I said, the
words catching in my throat. Everything stopped making sense. I
didn't know what was real. I still don't. She looked
at me, really looked, and then leaned forward and rested
her head against my chest. My daughter climbed up into
my lap without a word, curling up against me like
she'd been waiting to do it the whole time. And
for a moment, one impossible moment, I felt okay. The
narrator didn't say a word. It was just us, me
and them, breathing, warm, alive, and I thought, maybe this
is the ending. But in the interim of silence, it
started with pressure, the kind that makes your ears ring,
a sudden drop, like the air forgot how to breathe.
Then came the wind, not a gentle breeze, a full
body shit shove. The apartment groaned, the windows trembled, curtains
flared inward as if something was trying to get in.
My daughter screamed a small piercing sound. My wife pulled
her close, shielding her from nothing and everything all at once.
It's okay, I told them, it's just the storm, because
storms don't come from nowhere, and they don't make the
floorboard shift like footsteps. I stepped into the hallway. The
front door was wide open, the knobs still turning, like
someone had just let themselves in. Outside, moonlight poured down
in a flood of silver, but it wasn't gentle. It
looked wrong, too sharp, too focused, like a spotlight through fog.
It painted a threshold like a stage. And from this
basking glow, something moved. A ripple in the light. A shadow,
slick and smooth, crawled across the ceiling, thin as a
trickle of oil, fast, intentional. I whispered, what the hell
is that? Then a shriek from behind me, from the
bedroom my daughter. I ran. The bedroom door was already open,
already waiting, and for a second I thought maybe it
was a false alarm, maybe the scream was fear and
not pain. But the moment I crossed the threshold, I
knew they were on the floor, my wife, my little girl,
twist together in a tangle of limbs, eyes wide and
mouth slack, as if they hadn't even had time to
scream again. Their throats had been opened, messy and jagged,
like claws had dug in and tore their voices out.
The blood hadn't pulled yet, It was still moving, still hot,
and above them that thing floated a smear of black,
oily and slow moving, no eyes, no face, just motion,
constant swirling. The ceiling above it cracked, paint, blistering, as
if reality itself was struggling to hold around it. I
couldn't speak. I dropped to my knees, landing in the blood.
I didn't feel hands trembling as they reached stupidly, pointlessly
for what was already gone. I wanted to scream, but
came out. No breath, no words, just the silence, so
heavy it rang in my bones. Then the voice came,
smooth and measured, predictable. It said painful, yes, but still dull.
My head whipped around, but there was no source, just
the voice. It was back. This isn't real, I whispered,
voice cracking. This can't be real. Of course it isn't.
The tone shifted, not mocking or cruel, just disappointed. I
gave you a family steaks texture and you squandered it.
Do you know how hard it is? The selvage tension?
After the second act stall, you sat, you stared, you moped.
Now we're crawling toward an ending with nothing to show
for it. I couldn't breathe. This wasn't even supposed to happen,
not like this, But you left me nothing, no ark,
no drive. My wife's body flickered once twice, and then
she dissolved, like static noise and distortion that tore her
apart in a thousand little digital blinks. My daughter followed
one second, clinging to me in memory, the next gone.
Only two dark, wet outlines remained on the floor, like
shadows that forgot to leave, memories of a life filled
with love fading, And in that space where grief should
have consumed me, something worse crept in the cold realization
they were never real. I never had a family, I
lived alone. I had a girlfriend, but we had broken
up recently. But the moment I saw them, I accepted
it like it was real, like it always was, a
tragic footnote meant to make me compelling, and even that
hadn't worked. I stared into the red stained floor, into
those empty shapes who wanted to scream until my throat
tore open, but I didn't because I heard the voice again, quiet,
this time close, Let's try something else, And the world
blinked out. I woke to cold, to pain already blooming
in my arms with a rope bit deep. My wrists
were tied to a chair, thick splintered wood beneath me,
the legs uneven on a cement floor. Pipes lined the walls,
rusted and dripping. A single bulb swung overhead, buzzing like flies.
The lights stuttered. The air reaked of metal, mildew, and
something sharp underneath, something alive. Across the room, a man
hum softly, off key, childlike. He stood with his back
to me, laying out tools on a tray, not surgical
but domestic, familiar, things made wrong by arrangement. Pliers, box cutter,
flat head, screwdriver, a hammer with something dried on the handle.
He turned and smiled, two wide lips stretched to unnatural corners,
like someone who had studied humanity in a mirror and
still hadn't gotten it quite right. He stepped closer conflict.
The voice said, steaks pain, Let's make them care about you.
The man reached for the pliers. I screamed at a reflex.
He didn't pause. The pain was real, so real. When
the first fingernail peeled away, bright and white, hot and immediate,
the sound was worse, the squelch, the snap. My body
jerked so hard the chest scraped the concrete. I cried out, pleaded, cursed.
But the man was humming again, like he didn't even
hear me. Blood ran down my fingers, hot and quick,
pattering onto the floor. I begged for it to stop,
but it didn't. He carried on with each finger on
my right hand and started on the left, each rip.
I forced words out, begging for an answer. Please, I gasped,
what do you want from me? The humming stopped. The
man froze, head tilted, fingers twitching. The tools slipped from
his hand with a soft clatter, metal bouncing off concrete
one after the other. Silence fell. Then the voice returned,
like narration bleeding through the ceiling, with a hint of frustration.
Not the this, it said, flatly, It's too repetitive. The
bulb above me flickered, sputtered. The edges of the room blurred,
shimmered like heat waves. Torture is lazy, the narrator continued.
Anyone can suffer, doesn't make you interesting. You're still boring.
The man or whatever he was, lifted his head suddenly,
like a puppet cut loose. The pain didn't fade, it
just stopped, like someone pressed paws and reality. I could
no longer see, hear, or feel, no body, no room,
just darkness, endless and silent except for the ragged sound
of my own breathing, and then from somewhere above, or
inside or beyond, pages turned a sound like paper being
considered judged. I didn't know what form I was in
any more, whether I had a mouth or a throat,
or a voice, or the words forced their way out
of me anyway, don't stop the story, I whispered, barely
able to form the words. Please, if you stop, I stop.
By this point, I realized I only existed as long
as the story did. When the story ended, so did I.
I didn't know how to give the voice what it wanted,
but that didn't stop me from trying. Silence. Then a sound,
low and familiar, pages turning, not nearby, above, somewhere, out
of reach, out of understanding. So the voice said, finally,
you understand now, I nodded, or tried to. I'm not real,
I said, but I'm still here. Another pause, no sarcasm,
no contempt this time. Then maybe you've earned another draft.
The light dimmed, folding inward like paper curling in flame,
and I let the dark take me. Sunlight warmed my face.
I blinked. I was on the couch, the stained chair,
the concrete room, the screaming gone. No blood or bindings,
just the soft hush of morning and the low harm
of the TV. My phone buzzed on the arm rest,
unknown number. I answered, unsure of what to expect. A
chip of voice beamed through the speaker. Hi, just calling
to let you know you got the job, full benefit,
competitive salary. Was so excited to have you on board.
I didn't respond at first, just stared at the far wall,
mouth dry nodding to no one. Then hesitantly thanked them
and hunger. Another buzz, A notification from Instagram. A new
message flashed across the screen. Hey, saw your profile. Thought
you were cute when I grab a drink sometime smile
your face. I clicked the profile was the most beautiful
woman I'd ever seen, exactly my type. The interest on
a profile where everything I was into. I sat up slowly.
The room felt artificial, like someone tried to remember what
a morning should feel like. On the TV, a news
anchor rattled off last night's lottery numbers. I barely heard her,
and other numbers hit my ears one by one. My
eyes struck to the coffee table. The lottery ticket sat there,
perfectly aligned. Every number matched, every single one, and in
the quiet that followed, I didn't smile. I didn't move
because I understood now, despite everything that was happening, how
I was receiving more than I could. Ever, the story
was about to end.