u/Abject_Ordinary9245

Part 1

Majority rules. I saw the betrayal in Mike’s eyes as I heard Sam shuffling the bag to the side, setting down his flashlight and setting up the board.

"So!” Sam started us. “There are three rules to Ouija. Number one, never play alone. Check. Number two, never play at home or a cemetery. Check. Number three, always say ‘Goodbye…’ We'll get to that. Who wants to be the voice of the group?"

Mike would never.

"I'll do it." I was actually pretty excited.

We all sat together, on our knees or criss-cross, on the cold, dusty concrete of the promenade, hands on the planchette as we all shared our own looks at one another. Sam was excited, I was curious, Mike was nervous. I started us off.

"Hello? Is there anybody here with us tonight?"

Silence. No movement.

"Spirits?"

"Come on, Emma." Mike muttered, frustrated.

"Spirits?" I announced, "Are you with us?"

I focused all my attention on the planchette, and the three pairs of hands that covered it on all sides, save for the glass eye in the middle space between G and T. I realized then just how insanely cold the air was around us. It was the middle of the night in May, but from the top of my head, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, all the way down my arms felt like the sensation of taking a cold shower, but dry. And incredibly still.

Sam: "Are you cold?"

"You don't feel that?"

I felt the chill shiver all the way down to the tips of my fingers, as the planchette started to move. I swear to God, it wasn't me. I know everyone says that about Ouija boards, but I know what I felt. I still remember how stiff my arms were, I didn't move. Not by myself. It's like the air itself was flexing around me, tightening like a sleeve or a cold pair of gloves, lying flat on top of my hands, guiding them to the S.

Sam: “Is that you?”

H-O-U-L-

Mike: "No!"

D-N-T-B-E-

Sam: "Well it's not me."

H-E-R-E

It stopped.

Mike: "Em?"

"'Shouldn't be here…’”

Mike looked at me with the widest, whitest eyes. "That's not funny."

Sam: "Ask who it is. Is it Eddie or Dan?"

Mike: "Sam, I don't like this.”

Sam: "I’m not moving it. If this is real, it’s real. Em, ask who it is."

My throat was so dry.

"Are we speaking to... Eddie? Eddie M-- McK -- ?"

Sam: "McKinnon."

"Eddie McKinnon? Are you here with us?"

Slowly, the planchette moved under our hands to the top left corner of the board.

YES

Mike: "Guys…? Can we please go?"

Sam: "Ask how he died."

I couldn't move. "Eddie? How did you die?"

Four short scrapes along the second line of letters.

T-O-N-Y

Mike: "Sam. I'm asking you to stop."

Sam: "It's seriously not me, man."

Mike: "Emma?"

"It's moving again..."

Q-U-I-E-T

I wanted to let go of the planchette, but somehow I just couldn't. It was still moving anyway, just slowly. I could feel the tentative three-way balance between us fall utterly apart when Mike let go, standing straight up.

H-E-L-L

“‘Quiet hell…?’” I repeated out loud, looking as my hands slowly kept moving to new letters.

H…

"No.” Mike violently shot up, shaking his head, taking his hands off the board to run through his hair. “Fuck this. Fuck you! This isn't funny, Sam."

E…

Sam: "Mike, you're not supposed to let go!"

Mike: "You're the one who's doing it, it's bullshit! Let's go."

A…

Sam: "I swear it's not me."

R

Mike: "Then let go!"

Sam: "We'll lose the connection!"

That's when I realized it stopped.

"'Quiet hell hear...?'"

Sam: "'Quiet he'll hear...'"

"Who's he talking about?"

Mike: "Emma!! Let's go!"

"Mike, shh!"

Sam: "Shut up, man! You don't know what's out there."

Mike: "Oh like you care. You've had your fun, you've dragged her into your game… We're not wanted here. Let's go!"

The pull of my fingers to the planchette and board never felt more pronounced now, more forceful.

"It's moving again."

"Oh Jesus..." Mike walked just a few paces off.

The cold wind whistled, picking up around us, holding tighter.

Q-U-I-E-T-S-T-O-P-

Sam and I both read along the words as the planchette shifted faster, more violently with each and every letter across the board.

H-E-H-E-A-R-S-Y-O-U-

"Sam..." the frightened word escaped my mouth as something kept pulling my hands.

S-T-O-P-N-O-W-G-O-

I looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same fear I felt in my soul.

"I'm letting go now."

G-O-N-O-W-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Frantic, his eyes stared into mine, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as our hands moved on their own, frozen to the frantic planchette.

R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: "Together. On three. One…”

"Do you guys hear that?" Mike's voice trailed off.

R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: “Two…”

R-U-N-R-U-

"Three!" I screamed.

In an instant, we both raised our hands violently up from the board, the planchette flying straight up and down before clattering onto the ground, ceasing its movement. It felt as if the air itself was a rubber band pulled until it snapped, releasing the tension around us as we stared at each other. My hands were practically vibrating as the numbing pain in them receded. I realized I was holding my breath and I gasped, running a hand through my hair as Sam shakily asked, "You okay?"

"I -- I think so," I patted myself as if to feel I was still there, "Are you?"

Sam nodded, eyes wandering and fixing curiously at something over my shoulder.

"Mike?" he started, raising to one knee.

I turned to see Michael, standing ramrod straight behind us, tall back turned away, facing up toward the bright full moon. Silent as everything around him. Still as the statue. Sam picked up his phone light and started walking forward, and all I could do was stare under the light of the headlamp. I could see the pinstripes on the back of Mike's navy jacket, and I realized just how still he really was. Even his pale hands at his sides were stiff as boards, before they started shaking.

"Mike?" Sam asked, hand reaching out to his shoulder, "You okay?"

I could hear his shallow breaths as his head cocked to the side, fingers flicking at his sides. I remember, specifically, in that moment thinking about how he sounded. How the one word, the only word, that came to mind was "hollow."

Sam touched his shoulder. Mike turned with his body and his expressionless face, his wild, front-facing eyes, contorted into a twisted scowl, showing all his teeth. His light breaths turned to a low hiss, and then a high, ear-piercing shriek as he swung an open palm hard into the side of Sam's head. He fell like a rock straight down while Mike dropped to his knees, grabbing and throwing him back against the concrete, screaming, wailing on him like a maniac.

Mike was taller, but Sam was bigger. I'd seen him get into so many fights, he was always, always stronger, but here it's like there was nothing he could do. On his back, forced to the ground, he tried grappling, hitting back, getting away, but Mike's long arms batted away Sam's hands effortlessly as he just kept punching. His arms were loose, swinging straight up and down, slamming one at a time with unbelievable force. And screaming, screaming like nothing I'd ever heard before. Huffing, screeching, louder and louder every time his half-open hands smashed against Sam's head. I broke out of my frozen trance, running and shouting.

"Mike! What the fuck?!"

No sooner than I got within arm's distance did Mike suddenly spin around, eyes and teeth catching the light of my headlamp -- one wide swing of his arm clashing with my face. I fell back to the concrete. I saw stars explode across my vision and felt a hard, white-hot stinging pain at the bridge of my nose. I saw my blood dripping onto board just a few inches from my head as the cracked light flickered on and off, and heard Mike's howling cry as he went back to Sam.

Hard thuds of knuckles, pained and curdled gasps, the beginning sounds of pleading snuffed out by more sickening punching. And hooting. That's what it was. With every shattering strike that Mike made with the full motion of his body, he yowled with all the air in his lungs. He didn't stop. Not til the gasping and the panicked breaths stopped. The hard cracks of Mike's fists on Sam's face started to give purchase, and it started to sound like smashing fruit. Then it was the sound of panting, light huffs, wet chewing, and smacking lips.

All I could see in the low light was the wideness of Mike's back, hunching over Sam's body, hidden under the folds of Mike's jacket. His shoulders moved up and down with his haggard breaths, he kept his hunchback. He raised his head, turning his body toward me, his knees tucked into his chest. The light flickered on, and he looked at me with black, empty, soulless eyes, mouth and chin and throat dripping with Sam's blood. As soon as his eyes met mine, his mouth stretched thin across his face, showing his blood-stained teeth. It looked like a dentist was using a tool to pull his lips apart.

I pushed up from the ground and ran hard as I could, headlong into the dark. I could hear Mike's fists pounding the ground as he howled just as loud as before, chasing me. I only sprinted faster when the light of the headband occasionally flickered back to life, showing the uneven walkways ahead of me. Thoughts running as fast as I was, I turned it off begging myself to remember the way out by distance. The light gave me away.

The moon peeked over the vine-coated fence and I ran past the splintered silhouettes of the exhibits. Past the downturned fence, I knew I was going in the right direction. Behind me, I heard the shuffling rhythm of Mike's hands and feet. The wind and the light ringing in my ears eventually drowned out the sounds of panting, hooting, ripping cloth. I didn't slow down. Barefoot in the dark, running on concrete and tripping over weeds and roots, I didn't slow down. My only thought was getting out. Get to the car – run as fast as you can to the car. I swore I remember Sam said something about his dad’s gun in the glovebox; if I could get to that… but I’d never even held a gun before. Don’t even know where the safety is. If it’s there at all. That’s when I remembered it was Sam who had the keys.

I saw the branches of a tree overhead and I hid on the other side of the trunk. Caught my breath, covered my mouth, stood absolutely still, and listened. Howls in the distance. Heard him getting closer and stopped hearing the scrapes of his shoes against the pavement. Stopped hearing the sound of pavement at all, even as his high-pitched screeches echoed louder. What I heard was rustling, not ten feet from where I hid.

Slowly, I craned my head to see him. A dark silhouette, naked against the pale moon, crawling with poise along the top of the fence on his hands and feet. Low, curious whimpers as he slowly went along, squatting over the side, long arms hanging down. His body leaned from side to side wherever he moved his head to look.

I moved back, breathing deep and slow, quiet as I could. I had an idea. A Hail Mary. With a shaky hand, I took off the headlamp, wrapping the strap tight around the small heft in my hand. Hand covering the light, I hit the button, seeing the orange glow through my skin. I stepped out, arm back, aiming for the moon.

Saw him lean forward in the dark, almost like he saw me, but as the light flashed and spiraled over his head, his entire body followed its arc, hooting before jumping down the far side. Echoes helped me to gauge where he was and I ran back to the "Great Apes" promenade, cursing myself under my breath all the way. I almost tripped under one of his discarded shoes. Past the giraffe fence, under the archway. Under the moonlight, I could see the planchette, the board, and Sam lying limp next to it.

Couldn't make out his face. Part of me knew I didn't want to. Patted his shirt pockets, damp and thick with his blood. It was on the ground too, more than I could see; I felt a lukewarm puddle at my knees. Pockets were slick shut and I had to pry them open again, only to find them empty. Felt my way down his body to his sides. No keys. Fuck, had he lost them? How could I get back without them? If they weren’t here, what could I do?

Started breathing heavy, racking my brain with the question of where, and I realized just how much I couldn't see, how much coming back was a mistake. If Mike got tired of the light and started looking for me again… I imagined him stalking me in the dark. Getting closer with every pocket that turned out empty. Thought I could even hear his huffing breaths behind me, but all I saw was black stillness. Turned Sam on his side and reached in his only back pocket.

My heart leapt at the sound of clinking metal and the teeth of the keys scraping against my fingers. I grabbed them, clinging them to my chest. I couldn't really see him, hear him, even smell him, but before I left, I touched his shoulder. Even if he couldn’t hear me, I had to say something.

"I can't carry you. I'm sorry, I can't carry you... I have to go, I'm so sorry, I have to go... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back for you..."

That final stretch was the longest few minutes of my life. Running like never before. No light ahead but the faint glow of the moon to tell what blended shapes were the fence, the other enclosures, or the trees in between. Kept running with no regard for the sound of my footsteps or my heaving breaths. Clutched the keys for dear life and swore to God there was nothing that would make me stop or slow til I found the way out. The fact that I'd long stopped hearing the shambling sounds of Mike, still in here somewhere, only lit a fire under my feet.

Felt cloth under one running step that almost made me stumble. Mike's jacket. Kept running. Saw the dim, shiny outline of the statue covered in leaves and kept running. Food court, kids' playground, gift shop – there was the exit! Kept running. I'd forgotten just how dark and enclosed the inside was. Ran as straight as I could, jumping over molded toys and toward the slight blue outline of the double doors. Outside.

I threw open the door and sprinted into the unkempt grass. I could see the outline of the car – glinting windows, the grill that looked like a bulldog's face. Didn't slow down. I remember clicking the key fob to see the headlights blink twice, when I felt a hard, sharp crack on the top of my head. The next moment, I was sideways in the grass, stinging pain rocketing through my skull. My hand covered the painful spot, warm and wet, my vision blurred even in the dark. Felt like the hardest punch I'd ever felt in my life but there was no one there.

Then I heard Mike's excited shrieking. Rhythmic, loud, from a high place. My eyes adjusted to see his sharp silhouette hopping up and down, rattling the top of the fence, before he leapt down, arms raised, into the grass. I let go of my head, clutching fist-fulls of grass and pulling myself upright. My hand slipped. I got up and heard the heavy breaths and beating of the ground get closer. Felt like my head was sizzling as I fell hard into the side of a cold metal slab. The car door. Fumbled it open and crawled headfirst over the clutter of the backseat. My hand pulled it closed and I pushed myself away with my foot.

Could still hear the screaming. Muffled on the outside. Windshield cracked and there was tumbling on the roof. A heavy knocking, beating, pounding right over my head. He screamed louder. The ceiling started denting downward. I grabbed the shoulders of the passenger seat, pulled myself forward with all my strength. Head blaring as thick beads of black sweat fell into my eyes. I rolled into the seat, legs hanging over the console. Heard glass breaking and the roars getting louder as he ran on all fours to the driver's side. Hands kept slipping as I opened the glove box, and I felt the car start rocking. Heard the unnatural strain of metal against metal, screeching as it broke apart.

I looked up to see the wide frame of Mike's chest cover the window. Both arms broke the door clean off its hinges, shattering it. Paper cut my fingers while I reached in blind for Sam’s dad’s gun and watched Mike throw the door off to the side before he started crawling on his hairy arms towards me.

I aimed the gun. Clicked a switch on the side that I guessed was the safety. And I shot him.

Blinding flash, deafening ring in my ear, and a bloom of bright red blood that streamed from his chest. It only made him angry. He roared, teeth bared, reaching for me. So I shot again. And again. Saw his face in flashes from the gun; eyes bloodshot, lips and teeth dripping red, jaws wide in an underbite. I kept firing until he stopped, until it stopped. Head throbbing, incessant ringing in my ears, I blinked away the brightness to see Mike pulling himself away, staggering his way out of the car. He was whimpering, arms covering his chest as he walked away. And I hoped he was dead.

That was my last clear memory of that night. I'd passed out once or twice in my life, it kinda felt like falling asleep; gradual, a struggle to stay lucid, then nothing. This wasn't like that at all. One moment I was there, and then it was all black. It was lost time. Apparently it was a rock that he'd cracked my skull with. I was concussed and unconscious for days and woke up in a hospital room. Police picked me up the morning after, a few miles from the zoo, where the Bulldog had apparently rolled into a ditch.

They found me, Daisy Buchanan, comatose at the wheel, broken nose, hole in my head, and a gun at my feet.

They found Mike in the trunk. Naked, shot to death. It still looked like Mike.

They found Sam... later.

I could only imagine what a mess my situation looked like. Even if I was 100% certain of my sanity, there were no words. What possible combination of words exists for me to explain any of it in any way? It was insanity. Real, pure insanity. Sometimes even that's easier to wrap my head around. The meds certainly helped.

I'd have given anything in the world to be at their funerals, but I was still inpatient. And under suspicion. It was weeks before even my parents could see me. But even they looked at me all different now. I get it.

There was never a point in telling my side. I knew no one would believe me. I don't like what all the experts and professionals pretend actually happened, but there was nothing I could do about that from the funny farm. Even my psychiatrist doesn't really believe me. Why would she? She's rational. Because she never saw what I saw. She does fall asleep to the sounds of Mike’s monkey chants. And she doesn’t wake up to see him standing at the foot of my bed, covered in hair. But why would she?

She says my mind is trying to protect itself from something else. Something I'm too afraid to look at in the eye. Maybe it is. She says it doesn't matter that I didn't say goodbye on the board. Maybe it doesn't... I can't honestly say that I know anymore. None of it feels real looking back. But if there's one thing I do know with absolutely certainty, it's this:

Never ever go anywhere near that town. If you find yourself there, at the gates, do what we didn't. Save yourself. Save your friends. And run.

Run as far away as you can.

And for the love of all that's good in the world, never play with a Ouija board at that abandoned zoo.

(nosleep took it down lol y'all enjoy!)

Part 1

Majority rules. I saw the betrayal in Mike’s eyes as I heard Sam shuffling the bag to the side, setting down his flashlight and setting up the board.

"So!” Sam started us. “There are three rules to Ouija. Number one, never play alone. Check. Number two, never play at home or a cemetery. Check. Number three, always say ‘Goodbye…’ We'll get to that. Who wants to be the voice of the group?"

Mike would never.

"I'll do it." I was actually pretty excited.

We all sat together, on our knees or criss-cross, on the cold, dusty concrete of the promenade, hands on the planchette as we all shared our own looks at one another. Sam was excited, I was curious, Mike was nervous. I started us off.

"Hello? Is there anybody here with us tonight?"

Silence. No movement.

"Spirits?"

"Come on, Emma." Mike muttered, frustrated.

"Spirits?" I announced, "Are you with us?"

I focused all my attention on the planchette, and the three pairs of hands that covered it on all sides, save for the glass eye in the middle space between G and T. I realized then just how insanely cold the air was around us. It was the middle of the night in May, but from the top of my head, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, all the way down my arms felt like the sensation of taking a cold shower, but dry. And incredibly still.

Sam: "Are you cold?"

"You don't feel that?"

I felt the chill shiver all the way down to the tips of my fingers, as the planchette started to move. I swear to God, it wasn't me. I know everyone says that about Ouija boards, but I know what I felt. I still remember how stiff my arms were, I didn't move. Not by myself. It's like the air itself was flexing around me, tightening like a sleeve or a cold pair of gloves, lying flat on top of my hands, guiding them to the S.

Sam: “Is that you?”

H-O-U-L-

Mike: "No!"

D-N-T-B-E-

Sam: "Well it's not me."

H-E-R-E

It stopped.

Mike: "Em?"

"'Shouldn't be here…’”

Mike looked at me with the widest, whitest eyes. "That's not funny."

Sam: "Ask who it is. Is it Eddie or Dan?"

Mike: "Sam, I don't like this.”

Sam: "I’m not moving it. If this is real, it’s real. Em, ask who it is."

My throat was so dry.

"Are we speaking to... Eddie? Eddie M-- McK -- ?"

Sam: "McKinnon."

"Eddie McKinnon? Are you here with us?"

Slowly, the planchette moved under our hands to the top left corner of the board.

YES

Mike: "Guys…? Can we please go?"

Sam: "Ask how he died."

I couldn't move. "Eddie? How did you die?"

Four short scrapes along the second line of letters.

T-O-N-Y

Mike: "Sam. I'm asking you to stop."

Sam: "It's seriously not me, man."

Mike: "Emma?"

"It's moving again..."

Q-U-I-E-T

I wanted to let go of the planchette, but somehow I just couldn't. It was still moving anyway, just slowly. I could feel the tentative three-way balance between us fall utterly apart when Mike let go, standing straight up.

H-E-L-L

“‘Quiet hell…?’” I repeated out loud, looking as my hands slowly kept moving to new letters.

H…

"No.” Mike violently shot up, shaking his head, taking his hands off the board to run through his hair. “Fuck this. Fuck you! This isn't funny, Sam."

E…

Sam: "Mike, you're not supposed to let go!"

Mike: "You're the one who's doing it, it's bullshit! Let's go."

A…

Sam: "I swear it's not me."

R

Mike: "Then let go!"

Sam: "We'll lose the connection!"

That's when I realized it stopped.

"'Quiet hell hear...?'"

Sam: "'Quiet he'll hear...'"

"Who's he talking about?"

Mike: "Emma!! Let's go!"

"Mike, shh!"

Sam: "Shut up, man! You don't know what's out there."

Mike: "Oh like you care. You've had your fun, you've dragged her into your game… We're not wanted here. Let's go!"

The pull of my fingers to the planchette and board never felt more pronounced now, more forceful.

"It's moving again."

"Oh Jesus..." Mike walked just a few paces off.

The cold wind whistled, picking up around us, holding tighter.

Q-U-I-E-T-S-T-O-P-

Sam and I both read along the words as the planchette shifted faster, more violently with each and every letter across the board.

H-E-H-E-A-R-S-Y-O-U-

"Sam..." the frightened word escaped my mouth as something kept pulling my hands.

S-T-O-P-N-O-W-G-O-

I looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same fear I felt in my soul.

"I'm letting go now."

G-O-N-O-W-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Frantic, his eyes stared into mine, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as our hands moved on their own, frozen to the frantic planchette.

R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: "Together. On three. One…”

"Do you guys hear that?" Mike's voice trailed off.

R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: “Two…”

R-U-N-R-U-

"Three!" I screamed.

In an instant, we both raised our hands violently up from the board, the planchette flying straight up and down before clattering onto the ground, ceasing its movement. It felt as if the air itself was a rubber band pulled until it snapped, releasing the tension around us as we stared at each other. My hands were practically vibrating as the numbing pain in them receded. I realized I was holding my breath and I gasped, running a hand through my hair as Sam shakily asked, "You okay?"

"I -- I think so," I patted myself as if to feel I was still there, "Are you?"

Sam nodded, eyes wandering and fixing curiously at something over my shoulder.

"Mike?" he started, raising to one knee.

I turned to see Michael, standing ramrod straight behind us, tall back turned away, facing up toward the bright full moon. Silent as everything around him. Still as the statue. Sam picked up his phone light and started walking forward, and all I could do was stare under the light of the headlamp. I could see the pinstripes on the back of Mike's navy jacket, and I realized just how still he really was. Even his pale hands at his sides were stiff as boards, before they started shaking.

"Mike?" Sam asked, hand reaching out to his shoulder, "You okay?"

I could hear his shallow breaths as his head cocked to the side, fingers flicking at his sides. I remember, specifically, in that moment thinking about how he sounded. How the one word, the only word, that came to mind was "hollow."

Sam touched his shoulder. Mike turned with his body and his expressionless face, his wild, front-facing eyes, contorted into a twisted scowl, showing all his teeth. His light breaths turned to a low hiss, and then a high, ear-piercing shriek as he swung an open palm hard into the side of Sam's head. He fell like a rock straight down while Mike dropped to his knees, grabbing and throwing him back against the concrete, screaming, wailing on him like a maniac.

Mike was taller, but Sam was bigger. I'd seen him get into so many fights, he was always, always stronger, but here it's like there was nothing he could do. On his back, forced to the ground, he tried grappling, hitting back, getting away, but Mike's long arms batted away Sam's hands effortlessly as he just kept punching. His arms were loose, swinging straight up and down, slamming one at a time with unbelievable force. And screaming, screaming like nothing I'd ever heard before. Huffing, screeching, louder and louder every time his half-open hands smashed against Sam's head. I broke out of my frozen trance, running and shouting.

"Mike! What the fuck?!"

No sooner than I got within arm's distance did Mike suddenly spin around, eyes and teeth catching the light of my headlamp -- one wide swing of his arm clashing with my face. I fell back to the concrete. I saw stars explode across my vision and felt a hard, white-hot stinging pain at the bridge of my nose. I saw my blood dripping onto board just a few inches from my head as the cracked light flickered on and off, and heard Mike's howling cry as he went back to Sam.

Hard thuds of knuckles, pained and curdled gasps, the beginning sounds of pleading snuffed out by more sickening punching. And hooting. That's what it was. With every shattering strike that Mike made with the full motion of his body, he yowled with all the air in his lungs. He didn't stop. Not til the gasping and the panicked breaths stopped. The hard cracks of Mike's fists on Sam's face started to give purchase, and it started to sound like smashing fruit. Then it was the sound of panting, light huffs, wet chewing, and smacking lips.

All I could see in the low light was the wideness of Mike's back, hunching over Sam's body, hidden under the folds of Mike's jacket. His shoulders moved up and down with his haggard breaths, he kept his hunchback. He raised his head, turning his body toward me, his knees tucked into his chest. The light flickered on, and he looked at me with black, empty, soulless eyes, mouth and chin and throat dripping with Sam's blood. As soon as his eyes met mine, his mouth stretched thin across his face, showing his blood-stained teeth. It looked like a dentist was using a tool to pull his lips apart.

I pushed up from the ground and ran hard as I could, headlong into the dark. I could hear Mike's fists pounding the ground as he howled just as loud as before, chasing me. I only sprinted faster when the light of the headband occasionally flickered back to life, showing the uneven walkways ahead of me. Thoughts running as fast as I was, I turned it off begging myself to remember the way out by distance. The light gave me away.

The moon peeked over the vine-coated fence and I ran past the splintered silhouettes of the exhibits. Past the downturned fence, I knew I was going in the right direction. Behind me, I heard the shuffling rhythm of Mike's hands and feet. The wind and the light ringing in my ears eventually drowned out the sounds of panting, hooting, ripping cloth. I didn't slow down. Barefoot in the dark, running on concrete and tripping over weeds and roots, I didn't slow down. My only thought was getting out. Get to the car – run as fast as you can to the car. I swore I remember Sam said something about his dad’s gun in the glovebox; if I could get to that… but I’d never even held a gun before. Don’t even know where the safety is. If it’s there at all. That’s when I remembered it was Sam who had the keys.

I saw the branches of a tree overhead and I hid on the other side of the trunk. Caught my breath, covered my mouth, stood absolutely still, and listened. Howls in the distance. Heard him getting closer and stopped hearing the scrapes of his shoes against the pavement. Stopped hearing the sound of pavement at all, even as his high-pitched screeches echoed louder. What I heard was rustling, not ten feet from where I hid.

Slowly, I craned my head to see him. A dark silhouette, naked against the pale moon, crawling with poise along the top of the fence on his hands and feet. Low, curious whimpers as he slowly went along, squatting over the side, long arms hanging down. His body leaned from side to side wherever he moved his head to look.

I moved back, breathing deep and slow, quiet as I could. I had an idea. A Hail Mary. With a shaky hand, I took off the headlamp, wrapping the strap tight around the small heft in my hand. Hand covering the light, I hit the button, seeing the orange glow through my skin. I stepped out, arm back, aiming for the moon.

Saw him lean forward in the dark, almost like he saw me, but as the light flashed and spiraled over his head, his entire body followed its arc, hooting before jumping down the far side. Echoes helped me to gauge where he was and I ran back to the "Great Apes" promenade, cursing myself under my breath all the way. I almost tripped under one of his discarded shoes. Past the giraffe fence, under the archway. Under the moonlight, I could see the planchette, the board, and Sam lying limp next to it.

Couldn't make out his face. Part of me knew I didn't want to. Patted his shirt pockets, damp and thick with his blood. It was on the ground too, more than I could see; I felt a lukewarm puddle at my knees. Pockets were slick shut and I had to pry them open again, only to find them empty. Felt my way down his body to his sides. No keys. Fuck, had he lost them? How could I get back without them? If they weren’t here, what could I do?

Started breathing heavy, racking my brain with the question of where, and I realized just how much I couldn't see, how much coming back was a mistake. If Mike got tired of the light and started looking for me again… I imagined him stalking me in the dark. Getting closer with every pocket that turned out empty. Thought I could even hear his huffing breaths behind me, but all I saw was black stillness. Turned Sam on his side and reached in his only back pocket.

My heart leapt at the sound of clinking metal and the teeth of the keys scraping against my fingers. I grabbed them, clinging them to my chest. I couldn't really see him, hear him, even smell him, but before I left, I touched his shoulder. Even if he couldn’t hear me, I had to say something.

"I can't carry you. I'm sorry, I can't carry you... I have to go, I'm so sorry, I have to go... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back for you..."

That final stretch was the longest few minutes of my life. Running like never before. No light ahead but the faint glow of the moon to tell what blended shapes were the fence, the other enclosures, or the trees in between. Kept running with no regard for the sound of my footsteps or my heaving breaths. Clutched the keys for dear life and swore to God there was nothing that would make me stop or slow til I found the way out. The fact that I'd long stopped hearing the shambling sounds of Mike, still in here somewhere, only lit a fire under my feet.

Felt cloth under one running step that almost made me stumble. Mike's jacket. Kept running. Saw the dim, shiny outline of the statue covered in leaves and kept running. Food court, kids' playground, gift shop – there was the exit! Kept running. I'd forgotten just how dark and enclosed the inside was. Ran as straight as I could, jumping over molded toys and toward the slight blue outline of the double doors. Outside.

I threw open the door and sprinted into the unkempt grass. I could see the outline of the car – glinting windows, the grill that looked like a bulldog's face. Didn't slow down. I remember clicking the key fob to see the headlights blink twice, when I felt a hard, sharp crack on the top of my head. The next moment, I was sideways in the grass, stinging pain rocketing through my skull. My hand covered the painful spot, warm and wet, my vision blurred even in the dark. Felt like the hardest punch I'd ever felt in my life but there was no one there.

Then I heard Mike's excited shrieking. Rhythmic, loud, from a high place. My eyes adjusted to see his sharp silhouette hopping up and down, rattling the top of the fence, before he leapt down, arms raised, into the grass. I let go of my head, clutching fist-fulls of grass and pulling myself upright. My hand slipped. I got up and heard the heavy breaths and beating of the ground get closer. Felt like my head was sizzling as I fell hard into the side of a cold metal slab. The car door. Fumbled it open and crawled headfirst over the clutter of the backseat. My hand pulled it closed and I pushed myself away with my foot.

Could still hear the screaming. Muffled on the outside. Windshield cracked and there was tumbling on the roof. A heavy knocking, beating, pounding right over my head. He screamed louder. The ceiling started denting downward. I grabbed the shoulders of the passenger seat, pulled myself forward with all my strength. Head blaring as thick beads of black sweat fell into my eyes. I rolled into the seat, legs hanging over the console. Heard glass breaking and the roars getting louder as he ran on all fours to the driver's side. Hands kept slipping as I opened the glove box, and I felt the car start rocking. Heard the unnatural strain of metal against metal, screeching as it broke apart.

I looked up to see the wide frame of Mike's chest cover the window. Both arms broke the door clean off its hinges, shattering it. Paper cut my fingers while I reached in blind for Sam’s dad’s gun and watched Mike throw the door off to the side before he started crawling on his hairy arms towards me.

I aimed the gun. Clicked a switch on the side that I guessed was the safety. And I shot him.

Blinding flash, deafening ring in my ear, and a bloom of bright red blood that streamed from his chest. It only made him angry. He roared, teeth bared, reaching for me. So I shot again. And again. Saw his face in flashes from the gun; eyes bloodshot, lips and teeth dripping red, jaws wide in an underbite. I kept firing until he stopped, until it stopped. Head throbbing, incessant ringing in my ears, I blinked away the brightness to see Mike pulling himself away, staggering his way out of the car. He was whimpering, arms covering his chest as he walked away. And I hoped he was dead.

That was my last clear memory of that night. I'd passed out once or twice in my life, it kinda felt like falling asleep; gradual, a struggle to stay lucid, then nothing. This wasn't like that at all. One moment I was there, and then it was all black. It was lost time. Apparently it was a rock that he'd cracked my skull with. I was concussed and unconscious for days and woke up in a hospital room. Police picked me up the morning after, a few miles from the zoo, where the Bulldog had apparently rolled into a ditch.

They found me, Daisy Buchanan, comatose at the wheel, broken nose, hole in my head, and a gun at my feet.

They found Mike in the trunk. Naked, shot to death. It still looked like Mike.

They found Sam... later.

I could only imagine what a mess my situation looked like. Even if I was 100% certain of my sanity, there were no words. What possible combination of words exists for me to explain any of it in any way? It was insanity. Real, pure insanity. Sometimes even that's easier to wrap my head around. The meds certainly helped.

I'd have given anything in the world to be at their funerals, but I was still inpatient. And under suspicion. It was weeks before even my parents could see me. But even they looked at me all different now. I get it.

There was never a point in telling my side. I knew no one would believe me. I don't like what all the experts and professionals pretend actually happened, but there was nothing I could do about that from the funny farm. Even my psychiatrist doesn't really believe me. Why would she? She's rational. Because she never saw what I saw. She does fall asleep to the sounds of Mike’s monkey chants. And she doesn’t wake up to see him standing at the foot of my bed, covered in hair. But why would she?

She says my mind is trying to protect itself from something else. Something I'm too afraid to look at in the eye. Maybe it is. She says it doesn't matter that I didn't say goodbye on the board. Maybe it doesn't... I can't honestly say that I know anymore. None of it feels real looking back. But if there's one thing I do know with absolutely certainty, it's this:

Never ever go anywhere near that town. If you find yourself there, at the gates, do what we didn't. Save yourself. Save your friends. And run.

Run as far away as you can.

And for the love of all that's good in the world, never play with a Ouija board at that abandoned zoo.

Majority rules. I saw the betrayal in Mike’s eyes as I heard Sam shuffling the bag to the side, setting down his flashlight and setting up the board.

"So!” Sam started us. “There are three rules to Ouija. Number one, never play alone. Check. Number two, never play at home or a cemetery. Check. Number three, always say ‘Goodbye…’ We'll get to that. Who wants to be the voice of the group?"

Mike would never.

"I'll do it." I was actually pretty excited.

We all sat together, on our knees or criss-cross, on the cold, dusty concrete of the promenade, hands on the planchette as we all shared our own looks at one another. Sam was excited, I was curious, Mike was nervous. I started us off.

"Hello? Is there anybody here with us tonight?"

Silence. No movement.

"Spirits?"

"Come on, Emma." Mike muttered, frustrated.

"Spirits?" I announced, "Are you with us?"

I focused all my attention on the planchette, and the three pairs of hands that covered it on all sides, save for the glass eye in the middle space between G and T. I realized then just how insanely cold the air was around us. It was the middle of the night in May, but from the top of my head, to the back of my neck, to my shoulders, to my chest, all the way down my arms felt like the sensation of taking a cold shower, but dry. And incredibly still.

Sam: "Are you cold?"

"You don't feel that?"

I felt the chill shiver all the way down to the tips of my fingers, as the planchette started to move. I swear to God, it wasn't me. I know everyone says that about Ouija boards, but I know what I felt. I still remember how stiff my arms were, I didn't move. Not by myself. It's like the air itself was flexing around me, tightening like a sleeve or a cold pair of gloves, lying flat on top of my hands, guiding them to the S.

Sam: “Is that you?”

H-O-U-L-

Mike: "No!"

D-N-T-B-E-

Sam: "Well it's not me."

H-E-R-E

It stopped.

Mike: "Em?"

"'Shouldn't be here…’”

Mike looked at me with the widest, whitest eyes. "That's not funny."

Sam: "Ask who it is. Is it Eddie or Dan?"

Mike: "Sam, I don't like this.”

Sam: "I’m not moving it. If this is real, it’s real. Em, ask who it is."

My throat was so dry.

"Are we speaking to... Eddie? Eddie M-- McK -- ?"

Sam: "McKinnon."

"Eddie McKinnon? Are you here with us?"

Slowly, the planchette moved under our hands to the top left corner of the board.

YES

Mike: "Guys…? Can we please go?"

Sam: "Ask how he died."

I couldn't move. "Eddie? How did you die?"

Four short scrapes along the second line of letters.

T-O-N-Y

Mike: "Sam. I'm asking you to stop."

Sam: "It's seriously not me, man."

Mike: "Emma?"

"It's moving again..."

Q-U-I-E-T

I wanted to let go of the planchette, but somehow I just couldn't. It was still moving anyway, just slowly. I could feel the tentative three-way balance between us fall utterly apart when Mike let go, standing straight up.

H-E-L-L

“‘Quiet hell…?’” I repeated out loud, looking as my hands slowly kept moving to new letters.

H…

"No.” Mike violently shot up, shaking his head, taking his hands off the board to run through his hair. “Fuck this. Fuck you! This isn't funny, Sam."

E…

Sam: "Mike, you're not supposed to let go!"

Mike: "You're the one who's doing it, it's bullshit! Let's go."

A…

Sam: "I swear it's not me."

R

Mike: "Then let go!"

Sam: "We'll lose the connection!"

That's when I realized it stopped.

"'Quiet hell hear...?'"

Sam: "'Quiet he'll hear...'"

"Who's he talking about?"

Mike: "Emma!! Let's go!"

"Mike, shh!"

Sam: "Shut up, man! You don't know what's out there."

Mike: "Oh like you care. You've had your fun, you've dragged her into your game… We're not wanted here. Let's go!"

The pull of my fingers to the planchette and board never felt more pronounced now, more forceful.

"It's moving again."

"Oh Jesus..." Mike walked just a few paces off.

The cold wind whistled, picking up around us, holding tighter.

Q-U-I-E-T-S-T-O-P-

Sam and I both read along the words as the planchette shifted faster, more violently with each and every letter across the board.

H-E-H-E-A-R-S-Y-O-U-

"Sam..." the frightened word escaped my mouth as something kept pulling my hands.

S-T-O-P-N-O-W-G-O-

I looked into Sam's eyes and saw the same fear I felt in my soul.

"I'm letting go now."

G-O-N-O-W-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Frantic, his eyes stared into mine, his head nodding almost imperceptibly as our hands moved on their own, frozen to the frantic planchette.

R-U-N-R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: "Together. On three. One…”

"Do you guys hear that?" Mike's voice trailed off.

R-U-N-R-U-N-

Sam: “Two…”

R-U-N-R-U-

"Three!" I screamed.

In an instant, we both raised our hands violently up from the board, the planchette flying straight up and down before clattering onto the ground, ceasing its movement. It felt as if the air itself was a rubber band pulled until it snapped, releasing the tension around us as we stared at each other. My hands were practically vibrating as the numbing pain in them receded. I realized I was holding my breath and I gasped, running a hand through my hair as Sam shakily asked, "You okay?"

"I -- I think so," I patted myself as if to feel I was still there, "Are you?"

Sam nodded, eyes wandering and fixing curiously at something over my shoulder.

"Mike?" he started, raising to one knee.

I turned to see Michael, standing ramrod straight behind us, tall back turned away, facing up toward the bright full moon. Silent as everything around him. Still as the statue. Sam picked up his phone light and started walking forward, and all I could do was stare under the light of the headlamp. I could see the pinstripes on the back of Mike's navy jacket, and I realized just how still he really was. Even his pale hands at his sides were stiff as boards, before they started shaking.

"Mike?" Sam asked, hand reaching out to his shoulder, "You okay?"

I could hear his shallow breaths as his head cocked to the side, fingers flicking at his sides. I remember, specifically, in that moment thinking about how he sounded. How the one word, the only word, that came to mind was "hollow."

Sam touched his shoulder. Mike turned with his body and his expressionless face, his wild, front-facing eyes, contorted into a twisted scowl, showing all his teeth. His light breaths turned to a low hiss, and then a high, ear-piercing shriek as he swung an open palm hard into the side of Sam's head. He fell like a rock straight down while Mike dropped to his knees, grabbing and throwing him back against the concrete, screaming, wailing on him like a maniac.

Mike was taller, but Sam was bigger. I'd seen him get into so many fights, he was always, always stronger, but here it's like there was nothing he could do. On his back, forced to the ground, he tried grappling, hitting back, getting away, but Mike's long arms batted away Sam's hands effortlessly as he just kept punching. His arms were loose, swinging straight up and down, slamming one at a time with unbelievable force. And screaming, screaming like nothing I'd ever heard before. Huffing, screeching, louder and louder every time his half-open hands smashed against Sam's head. I broke out of my frozen trance, running and shouting.

"Mike! What the fuck?!"

No sooner than I got within arm's distance did Mike suddenly spin around, eyes and teeth catching the light of my headlamp -- one wide swing of his arm clashing with my face. I fell back to the concrete. I saw stars explode across my vision and felt a hard, white-hot stinging pain at the bridge of my nose. I saw my blood dripping onto board just a few inches from my head as the cracked light flickered on and off, and heard Mike's howling cry as he went back to Sam.

Hard thuds of knuckles, pained and curdled gasps, the beginning sounds of pleading snuffed out by more sickening punching. And hooting. That's what it was. With every shattering strike that Mike made with the full motion of his body, he yowled with all the air in his lungs. He didn't stop. Not til the gasping and the panicked breaths stopped. The hard cracks of Mike's fists on Sam's face started to give purchase, and it started to sound like smashing fruit. Then it was the sound of panting, light huffs, wet chewing, and smacking lips.

All I could see in the low light was the wideness of Mike's back, hunching over Sam's body, hidden under the folds of Mike's jacket. His shoulders moved up and down with his haggard breaths, he kept his hunchback. He raised his head, turning his body toward me, his knees tucked into his chest. The light flickered on, and he looked at me with black, empty, soulless eyes, mouth and chin and throat dripping with Sam's blood. As soon as his eyes met mine, his mouth stretched thin across his face, showing his blood-stained teeth. It looked like a dentist was using a tool to pull his lips apart.

I pushed up from the ground and ran hard as I could, headlong into the dark. I could hear Mike's fists pounding the ground as he howled just as loud as before, chasing me. I only sprinted faster when the light of the headband occasionally flickered back to life, showing the uneven walkways ahead of me. Thoughts running as fast as I was, I turned it off begging myself to remember the way out by distance. The light gave me away.

The moon peeked over the vine-coated fence and I ran past the splintered silhouettes of the exhibits. Past the downturned fence, I knew I was going in the right direction. Behind me, I heard the shuffling rhythm of Mike's hands and feet. The wind and the light ringing in my ears eventually drowned out the sounds of panting, hooting, ripping cloth. I didn't slow down. Barefoot in the dark, running on concrete and tripping over weeds and roots, I didn't slow down. My only thought was getting out. Get to the car – run as fast as you can to the car. I swore I remember Sam said something about his dad’s gun in the glovebox; if I could get to that… but I’d never even held a gun before. Don’t even know where the safety is. If it’s there at all. That’s when I remembered it was Sam who had the keys.

I saw the branches of a tree overhead and I hid on the other side of the trunk. Caught my breath, covered my mouth, stood absolutely still, and listened. Howls in the distance. Heard him getting closer and stopped hearing the scrapes of his shoes against the pavement. Stopped hearing the sound of pavement at all, even as his high-pitched screeches echoed louder. What I heard was rustling, not ten feet from where I hid.

Slowly, I craned my head to see him. A dark silhouette, naked against the pale moon, crawling with poise along the top of the fence on his hands and feet. Low, curious whimpers as he slowly went along, squatting over the side, long arms hanging down. His body leaned from side to side wherever he moved his head to look.

I moved back, breathing deep and slow, quiet as I could. I had an idea. A Hail Mary. With a shaky hand, I took off the headlamp, wrapping the strap tight around the small heft in my hand. Hand covering the light, I hit the button, seeing the orange glow through my skin. I stepped out, arm back, aiming for the moon.

Saw him lean forward in the dark, almost like he saw me, but as the light flashed and spiraled over his head, his entire body followed its arc, hooting before jumping down the far side. Echoes helped me to gauge where he was and I ran back to the "Great Apes" promenade, cursing myself under my breath all the way. I almost tripped under one of his discarded shoes. Past the giraffe fence, under the archway. Under the moonlight, I could see the planchette, the board, and Sam lying limp next to it.

Couldn't make out his face. Part of me knew I didn't want to. Patted his shirt pockets, damp and thick with his blood. It was on the ground too, more than I could see; I felt a lukewarm puddle at my knees. Pockets were slick shut and I had to pry them open again, only to find them empty. Felt my way down his body to his sides. No keys. Fuck, had he lost them? How could I get back without them? If they weren’t here, what could I do?

Started breathing heavy, racking my brain with the question of where, and I realized just how much I couldn't see, how much coming back was a mistake. If Mike got tired of the light and started looking for me again… I imagined him stalking me in the dark. Getting closer with every pocket that turned out empty. Thought I could even hear his huffing breaths behind me, but all I saw was black stillness. Turned Sam on his side and reached in his only back pocket.

My heart leapt at the sound of clinking metal and the teeth of the keys scraping against my fingers. I grabbed them, clinging them to my chest. I couldn't really see him, hear him, even smell him, but before I left, I touched his shoulder. Even if he couldn’t hear me, I had to say something.

"I can't carry you. I'm sorry, I can't carry you... I have to go, I'm so sorry, I have to go... I'll come back. I promise I'll come back for you..."

That final stretch was the longest few minutes of my life. Running like never before. No light ahead but the faint glow of the moon to tell what blended shapes were the fence, the other enclosures, or the trees in between. Kept running with no regard for the sound of my footsteps or my heaving breaths. Clutched the keys for dear life and swore to God there was nothing that would make me stop or slow til I found the way out. The fact that I'd long stopped hearing the shambling sounds of Mike, still in here somewhere, only lit a fire under my feet.

Felt cloth under one running step that almost made me stumble. Mike's jacket. Kept running. Saw the dim, shiny outline of the statue covered in leaves and kept running. Food court, kids' playground, gift shop – there was the exit! Kept running. I'd forgotten just how dark and enclosed the inside was. Ran as straight as I could, jumping over molded toys and toward the slight blue outline of the double doors. Outside.

I threw open the door and sprinted into the unkempt grass. I could see the outline of the car – glinting windows, the grill that looked like a bulldog's face. Didn't slow down. I remember clicking the key fob to see the headlights blink twice, when I felt a hard, sharp crack on the top of my head. The next moment, I was sideways in the grass, stinging pain rocketing through my skull. My hand covered the painful spot, warm and wet, my vision blurred even in the dark. Felt like the hardest punch I'd ever felt in my life but there was no one there.

Then I heard Mike's excited shrieking. Rhythmic, loud, from a high place. My eyes adjusted to see his sharp silhouette hopping up and down, rattling the top of the fence, before he leapt down, arms raised, into the grass. I let go of my head, clutching fist-fulls of grass and pulling myself upright. My hand slipped. I got up and heard the heavy breaths and beating of the ground get closer. Felt like my head was sizzling as I fell hard into the side of a cold metal slab. The car door. Fumbled it open and crawled headfirst over the clutter of the backseat. My hand pulled it closed and I pushed myself away with my foot.

Could still hear the screaming. Muffled on the outside. Windshield cracked and there was tumbling on the roof. A heavy knocking, beating, pounding right over my head. He screamed louder. The ceiling started denting downward. I grabbed the shoulders of the passenger seat, pulled myself forward with all my strength. Head blaring as thick beads of black sweat fell into my eyes. I rolled into the seat, legs hanging over the console. Heard glass breaking and the roars getting louder as he ran on all fours to the driver's side. Hands kept slipping as I opened the glove box, and I felt the car start rocking. Heard the unnatural strain of metal against metal, screeching as it broke apart.

I looked up to see the wide frame of Mike's chest cover the window. Both arms broke the door clean off its hinges, shattering it. Paper cut my fingers while I reached in blind for Sam’s dad’s gun and watched Mike throw the door off to the side before he started crawling on his hairy arms towards me.

I aimed the gun. Clicked a switch on the side that I guessed was the safety. And I shot him.

Blinding flash, deafening ring in my ear, and a bloom of bright red blood that streamed from his chest. It only made him angry. He roared, teeth bared, reaching for me. So I shot again. And again. Saw his face in flashes from the gun; eyes bloodshot, lips and teeth dripping red, jaws wide in an underbite. I kept firing until he stopped, until it stopped. Head throbbing, incessant ringing in my ears, I blinked away the brightness to see Mike pulling himself away, staggering his way out of the car. He was whimpering, arms covering his chest as he walked away. And I hoped he was dead.

That was my last clear memory of that night. I'd passed out once or twice in my life, it kinda felt like falling asleep; gradual, a struggle to stay lucid, then nothing. This wasn't like that at all. One moment I was there, and then it was all black. It was lost time. Apparently it was a rock that he'd cracked my skull with. I was concussed and unconscious for days and woke up in a hospital room. Police picked me up the morning after, a few miles from the zoo, where the Bulldog had apparently rolled into a ditch.

They found me, Daisy Buchanan, comatose at the wheel, with a broken nose, a whole in my head, and a gun at my feet.

They found Mike in the trunk. Naked, shot to death. It still looked like Mike.

They found Sam... later.

I could only imagine what a mess my situation looked like. Even if I was 100% certain of my sanity, there were no words. What possible combination of words exists for me to explain any of it in any way? It was insanity. Real, pure insanity. Sometimes even that's easier to wrap my head around. The meds certainly helped.

I'd have given anything in the world to be at their funerals, but I was still inpatient. And under suspicion. It was weeks before even my parents could see me. But even they looked at me all different now. I get it.

There was never a point in telling my side. I knew no one would believe me. I don't like what all the experts and professionals pretend actually happened, but there was nothing I could do about that from the funny farm. Even my psychiatrist doesn't really believe me. Why would she? She's rational. Because she never saw what I saw. She does fall asleep to the sounds of Mike’s monkey chants. And she doesn’t wake up to see him standing at the foot of my bed, covered in hair. But why would she?

She says my mind is trying to protect itself from something else. Something I'm too afraid to look at in the eye. Maybe it is. She says it doesn't matter that I didn't say goodbye on the board. Maybe it doesn't... I can't honestly say that I know anymore. None of it feels real looking back. But if there's one thing I do know with absolutely certainty, it's this:

Never ever go anywhere near that town. If you find yourself there, at the gates, do what we didn't. Save yourself. Save your friends. And run.

Run as far away as you can.

And for the love of all that's good in the world, never play with a Ouija board at that abandoned zoo.

I'm looking for a place to start. But everything feels so different now.

When something happens -- something bad -- and it happens so suddenly that it makes you question everything, the thing you wonder about the most is what you're supposed to do now. In the wake. In the aftermath of a storm that seems to have only hit you, just to disappear.

It's like so much of your world stays exactly the same, but inexplicably you've seen through it all, and caught a glimpse of something that wasn't made for human eyes.

Something happened. To me and to my friend. Something I've never been able to explain because I've never been able to understand... but it happened.

We were night-fishing just five miles off the keys, just like every week. It was a Thursday and we were the only ones out. That's what we liked about it. It'd be one thing to coast out like we would on bright sunny days, but we knew our spot.

When we were younger, Dorian's dad brought us out there on what he said was the maiden voyage of fishing boat we'd named together when we were five, the U.S.S. Sharkbait. He took us snorkeling to see an old shipwreck just thirty feet down. An 18th-century Spanish vessel, twice the size of our boat, half-submerged beneath the sandy bottom. I couldn't believe the first time I ever saw it, cocooned in a shell of barnacles like the true ship was just waiting to burst from beneath it.

For as long as I could remember, I wanted to go inside one of the deep cracks in the hull. There had to be treasure inside, just had to be. I was young.

After we surfaced and Dorian's dad pulled up his massive crab trap full of dozens of little red crustaceans, he looked at both of us while we helped him, saying, "Now this is the real treasure, boys."

And that's been our spot ever since. Sharkbait was still our pride and joy, and on occasion the single most peaceful place on earth. Thirty feet long, anchored, facing eastward into the dark while the set sun glowed on the other side of the mainland. I stood looking down at the black water our box traps had disappeared into.

Dorian was sitting on his chair up against the cabin, passionately doodling something in his waterproof notebook. For years now, he'd had this idea of being an author, but his "next big project" would always change with every time we met up. If nothing else, it was always fun to hear whatever batshit ideas he'd never actually finish.

"What've you got?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"So I'm making this world, right?" he answered immediately.

"I'm listening."

"It's a world where the only source of light, of life, all that stuff is a massive dragon god that flies around the world. Gives fire, gives knowledge, the world wouldn't exist without it."

"I see what you're going for..."

"But!" he holds up an excited finger. "Despite everyone knowing it, worshiping it, whatever, none of them can look at it."

"What happens if they do?"

"If anyone looks at it for too long, even accidentally... say it blinds you."

"Okay," I followed along. "And the plot's like a quest to reach the dragon or something?"

"Oh this has next to nothing to do with the plot, this is all world-building. The dragon's just a part of everyone's lives that they all accept and carry on like it's nothing."

This is where he lost me, and I went back to unraveling the nets.

"So, wait, go back a bit, this is a world that doesn't have a sun?"

"It's fantasy, dude."

"But it doesn't have a sun..."

"Jesus, Al, the dragon is the stand-in for the sun. And to the characters, it's just normal, but to the readers, it's supposed to give them pause like you right now. Make them stop and think, 'huh, that is kinda weird from the outside.'"

"You might be overthinking this a bit."

"You actually have no imagination."

"I'm just saying you might have a hard time convincing people that the sun is quote-unquote 'weird.' Even an alien with no reference to anything else would at least know what the sun was."

"You don't know their world has a sun."

"It literally has to."

With that, he snapped his notebook shut and walked past me to the bow, gesturing his arm out to the dark, open ocean.

"Have to have a sun, do they?"

"Oh fuck you man, you know what I meant."

"Deep down far enough, none of those things know what a sun is. Not even on the brightest day on earth."

"No," I scoffed, "They just make their own light down there."

"That shit is against nature, shouldn't be possible!"

We laughed right as the line started to tug over the side of the boat. Dorian tossed his book on the chair and we both started to pull the cage up. Once in the water, it was really hard to tell the weight of it, but a tugging at the line always meant something.

We'd been going back and forth earlier that day, about how baited crabs must think of the taste of raw chicken leg, our favorite bait to use.

"It's gotta be like tasting the wings of an angel," Dorian concocted to say, "Imagine going back to your crab friends trying to explain that."

"You'd be shunned," I went along.

"Crustae-shunned."

He just stood there, grinning, waiting for a laugh.

I punched him in the shoulder. Then I laughed.

Anyway, we were pulling up the trap while one of the top lights we had shining down flickered unreliably.

"We gotta fix that," I grunted, pulling.

"I'll get on that, after the bite." Dorian replied.

He shined his phone light instead onto the trap as it broke the surface, and I felt the full weight of the metal box pulling me toward the edge.

"Shit!" I let out, my arms wanting to go over the side as I dug my knees under the bulwark.

"I got you!" Dorian dropped his phone onto the deck, hooking his arms under mine and pulling full force backward.

Relief came to my arms with the slack he provided, moving to help me pull the line the rest of the way up. The weight was insane, it was only for one of the little things. But as we held up the box trap, suspended over the deck the rest of the way with the help of the boon, we were looking at the wriggling legs and pincers of what had to be at least ten, bending the frame and making the box nearly burst at the seams.

We'd never got this many in one go without Dorian's dad -- a commercial fisherman -- the traps we were using weren't even made for that kinda weight. We were beside ourselves.

"Shit." a voice sounded from behind me.

I couldn't take my eyes off of the mass of armored spidery legs.

"What?" I asked.

"My phone's cracked."

I looked back to see his dissatisfied face, while I gestured to our crazy catch. "Don't you think this is weird?"

"Guess they like chicken. Damn, wish I could take a picture."

"I'll send it to you later." I pulled out my phone, seeing their light blue underbellies in the camera flash, "We've never been this lucky."

"Well you know we've gotta throw most of them back, right? We're not licensed for more than three at a time."

"I guess..."

"Ugh, and we gotta pay for a new trap. Fuck!"

As I looked longer and deeper at the writhing, clicking mass inside the distorted metal, I started to see how they moved and tripped over one another. But right at the center, almost pinned by their bodies was something that didn't belong.

What I thought at first must've been the chicken bone or an egg sac on a female in need of release, was a long, thin, gray thing that was almost translucent in my phone light. We unlocked the trap over a tub of ice and carefully picked and released a total of six of them back into the black, until finally just three remained, pinching at the remains of whatever it was.

We pulled the rest of them off to see the half-eaten remains of some smooth, scaleless fish with a single short tail fin. Nearly three feet long, its body looked more like an eel's, but the head was so bulbous. So much of it had been picked apart by the throng of crabs, it was hard to be sure what was truly so strange about it. So much of the outermost skin was gone along with its eyes, but the rough shape of it was just wrong.

"Maybe it's a... baby shark?" he suggested.

"No, you see the head's too round. It doesn't even look like it has teeth..."

"Some teething... Megamind baby shark?"

"Dorian..."

"That's what happened. It got rejected for its weird looks and tried to strike out on its own. To end it all like this... crab food..."

He patted my shoulder.

"A tragedy. Truly. He will be missed. Let's go home now."

"Dorian."

"Albert," he never used my full name, except when he was actually annoyed. "It's just some weird dead fish. The ocean's full of them. We have our catch and I wanna go home."

"You're not even a little curious what this thing is?"

"It's fodder for bottom-feeders, man. Throw it back."

"What if it's one of that new invasive species?"

"Then the crabs did us a favor. Now throw it back."

He shoulder-checked me as he walked past, towards the helm, the chewn-up thing dangling in my gloved hand.

"Jesus, Al," he went on, "You're like Magellan thinking whale dicks were sea monsters. Lemme know if you see any spicy redhead mermaids while you're at it. I'm turning us around."

"I'll turn us around. You're not getting us stuck on a sandbar again."

"That was four years ago, asshole."

"Just fix the light."

I shut the door to the cabin, laying the thing down on a towel placed over the desk that was off to the side. I had to coil it down on itself so it wouldn't slide off with the slight cresting of the boat. I could hear Dorian grunting to himself in the flickering spotlight, tugging and thudding against the structure.

The fish nearly slipped out of my hands with as much slime as was coming off it, staining my gloves. Maybe some kinda hagfish? But there was no skull... nothing made sense. Its limp body shimmered in the light of the desk lamp, all the way through to its white organ sacs the crabs hadn't quite reached yet.

Whatever it was, I just couldn't stop looking at it til a crashing thud sounded from out on the deck. I could tell from the brightness that Dorian had fixed that faulty light, but his silhouette was gone from the window and the ladder.

"What's wrong?" I said, walking onto the deck.

There was Dorian, wide-eyed, propping himself up by the arms next to the broken bulb. My shadow was a sharp black shape next to him as he sat, basking in the flat white glow of the new light, staring at something over my shoulder.

I turned, and I saw it.

A single, bright yellow light, drowning out all the others on the boat and all the stars in the sky. Like a lantern the size of a basketball, with no frame that I could see. Through the glow, I could see the empty socket of the ship searchlight, while that luminescent center stood, floated, *hovered* several feet above us.

"You see that too?" Dorian's voice whispered behind me.

It reminded me of a fixture I used to tap my head on all the time in my grandmother's basement. A bulb dangling from the ceiling on a string, that'd sway side-to-side when you pulled the switch. It was like that -- exactly like that, even down to the soft swaying, but where was the string? Where was the ceiling?

Then it moved.

The unwavering brightness shifted smoothly forward, like the light was traveling from the top of the boat. Like a shooting star that had somehow gotten lost and was now correcting its course.

Dorian shot up to his feet, crunching broken glass underfoot and moved back to the bulkhead when it looked like it was coming closer. I did the same, both our eyes fixed on whatever it was. I felt my heart thundering in my chest, and I could barely hold myself up on shaking legs as the only coherent thought I managed to form in that moment was, *Could it see us?*

Then it stopped. I held my breath on sheer instinct and through the tension in the air, I could just feel Dorian doing the same. At first I didn't think the thing was giving off any sound, but the closer it got, the softer it lowered itself down -- twelve, ten, seven feet -- between us, the clearer I could hear it. A fuzzy, static buzzing, like a bug zapper, crackling from the bulb.

Somehow I knew from the deepest part of me that I shouldn't touch it. Neither did Dorian. But we looked.

We couldn't look away, no matter how strange, how surreal everything felt. It didn't feel real what we were seeing, how could we look away? As seconds passed by, even the low hum that came from it started to feel warm. And it was so... *pretty.*

I felt droplets of water drip onto my hair, down the back of my neck. Not seawind, the kind you feel right before it's gonna rain. I turned my head, the yellow light fading to the side of my periphery, and there was darkness.

Darkness until my eyes adjusted to see white. Dull, solid white shapes reaching out. Long and heavy points protruding from a wall of darkness. A single narrow row of them, each longer than the last, towered upward and crested before falling down again, like an archway of elephant tusks rising high above the side of the ship, dripping water onto the deck.

My heart fell into my stomach as the moving thing opened wide its jaws.

"I can see the line..." I heard Dorian say in an easy whisper.

I turned violently back toward the light, toward my friend's voice, ripping myself from the bulkhead. I shut my eyes away from the bulb as the static crackled past my ear, and I ran full force into Dorian. We tumbled, limbs tangled, over the side of the boat and crashed into the black below.

I could feel the unseen weight of the beast beside us as its massive jaws clamped on either side of the hull. It thrashed, whipping and rolling itself over as it ripped the boat to pieces. All I could see through the cold water was the wagging yellow light, as it passed sporadically over the wreckage and its own winding tail.

Metal scraps that slipped between its long teeth and flew from its mad thrashing fell into the dark around us as we swam for our lives. Through the dark, cold abyss that lay ahead of us, I broke the surface and gasped at the cold night air, the sounds of destruction behind us dying down. In the distance I could see the feint glow of the city, the mainland, even miles away. I grabbed handfuls of water and pulled them back to me, kicking my legs in sequence. I tried not to panic but it's all I could think, trying desperate focus ahead towards the light.

Then something grabbed my leg at the ankle. It was clamping and holding tight, and it pulled hard as I gave one last gasp before the cold water enveloped me. I could feel the force of whatever it was dragging me down, further and further from the surface. I reached out, screaming soundlessly into the water as it all just got heavier. I could see the white sliver of the moon, rippling, and I wished it would pull me up.

The fire in my lungs burned hotter and I could feel the smoke in my throat as I looked down at what was pulling me. A pair of pale-white hands, clinging for dear life from out of the suffocating depths. In the yellow light dangling from the monster's face, I could see Dorian's leg, snapped, trapped in the side of its mouth as it swam for the deep. He bled in a thick red cloud that mixed into the black, and salt and iron mixed together to sting the inside of my open nostrils.

He looked at me, screaming with all the last of his breath, as he pulled and pulled at me with lessened strength, the thing dragging us both down, never relenting. The light grew dimmer as it was harder and harder to hold on. The increasing weight of the water wrapped and squeezed around my head, my throat, my chest, at the same time as it tried to pry its way between my lips.

Then it was gone.

The weight, the drag, the yellow light, the shadow of my friend -- all swallowed together into the cold black nothing. What little I could think was gone the second I broke the surface, the freezing night air smothering the fire in my chest.

My mind went nowhere and my body was flooded with misplaced relief. When I could breathe again, I treaded water to some piece of flotsam that was once our fishing boat. I crawled on and I held on, and I waited. It was hell to move. To touch the water. Even to touch Dorian's waterproof notepad that floated up beside me.

I wanted to take it, at least part of me did. I never did see what he was writing, and I'd forgotten most of what he told me. But I just couldn't, couldn't move.

But I looked.

I'm not even sure why, I could barely see anything in the dim moonlight. It looked like nothing but a sea of black, but I knew better now. There were lights from below. Lights we weren't meant to see. Lights meant to bait and lure us to our deaths.

Even knowing that now, it's just so hard not to look.

He was a good man.

He had his bad days, of course, but he was a good man. He struggled in ways I couldn't understand until I was older, but he tried. Mom always told me that. Since before I could remember, he or Mom would send me to bed early, and I'd hear muffled -- a lot of times slurred -- arguing through the walls. He'd come home acting strange and she'd call him out for it. They'd yell but that was all.

If I ever saw anything I wasn't supposed to, him acting a certain way, Mom would pull me aside and tell me that Dad was being funny and it wasn't in his right mind. That he wasn't Dad right now. And I'd wonder who he was instead.

The next day, he'd always be fine, but he'd say he had a headache. I'd ask what was wrong and he'd say, "Dad's in the doghouse, little man."

He used to tell me that drinking was bad and I should never do it. But I'd get confused. I'd ask, "What about water?"

And he'd laugh, like it was the funniest thing. "Yeah, you can drink water. Water's good for you. You need water."

"What about milk?"

I didn't like milk as much, but he said that was okay too. And I'd keep going down the long list of my favorite drinks -- fruit punch, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, orange juice -- each one he'd say was good to drink, but that I should never have too much soda. I never got any drink he said was bad altogether. Then again, I didn't understand what he was saying in the first place.

I didn't know it at the time, but that gave him some comfort. Listening to me ask a bunch of questions I didn't fully understand. It was just us, talking. And that was enough.

He'd laugh and he'd make me laugh too. On the best of days, that'd even get a chuckle outta Mom. That's the worse it got. Arguments I could barely hear, lulling me to sleep, and the next day things would be almost normal. He never hurt us, never even raised his voice.

Not til one night.

I know it was 1995 when I was 9. It was a Saturday. I was already up late, way past 11. He would work late too, always getting back home after dark. But that night he just didn't come home. Wouldn't answer his phone either. I watched from the stairs as Mom was frantically talking on the landline, pacing the kitchen, writing down numbers and names while the cord coiled around her legs. She was scared. And that made me scared. She called out to me to go back to bed, but how could I?

I waited up, hid out of sight, listened to what I could of what was said on the phone. Hours passed, hours past midnight and police were talking to her through the doorway. They'd found his truck way out on the country road. Door was opened and the engine was still running. Windshield was cracked and it looked like he'd hit a deer. But there was no deer in the road, and there was no Dad, anywhere.

They found his clothes too, torn up and scattered in the woods, miles away. They were delicate about telling Mom that they'd found any blood, but they were able to show her pictures that made her stop, cover her mouth, and cry.

Foul play. Right? I heard the police say that more than once and I honestly thought, "They play baseball too?"

Stupid.

Mom was inconsolable. I heard her muttering, "Presumed dead," over and over to herself.

She hid behind walls of denial, but with every word, they came crashing down. That far away from his truck, his clothes, his shoes... his blood. Vanished without a trace. She didn't tell me, but she knew. I think I did too. Dad wasn't coming home.

We went to church and prayed, and Mom asked her friends to pray too. All the while I saw her twirling her necklace, a little silver cross, in her fingers. Like it was a charm she was rubbing to make our prayers come true. But we were asking for different things. I was asking against all hope for him to come back. She was asking for his body to be found and his soul to be at rest.

Regrettably, it was mine that was answered.

I was in the living room watching Jurassic Park, and I just got to the part where they find the triceratops that they think got sick from eating poisonous plants. But she didn't. I saw it in the theater with Dad when I was 7, and I must've seen it a dozen times since. I always wondered what was actually wrong with that triceratops, whether she was poisoned or if she was pregnant, but the movie never said for sure. Dad said he thought she was pregnant but admitted he really didn't know either. I hated not knowing.

Mom was making hamburgers on a skillet on the stove for dinner. Both of us were just going through the motions, trying to pretend things were normal when there was a knock on the door. I thought it was another policeman, so I just turned up the volume. Mom went and stood frozen stiff, looking through the peephole. Slowly, hesitantly, she opened it.

"David?" her voice rang out, louder than I expected.

In a flash, I switched off the TV and ran to the edge of the hallway, peering out to the door. Dad was standing there, outside, wearing torn and stained clothes that weren't his. Jeans ripped at the ankles. He was barefoot, covered in dirt, and he stood still like he was in shock.

"I lost my truck." Dad murmured like he was lost in thought. "I don't know what happened."

"The police were here... You went missing last night."

"Did I?" he seemed genuinely confused. "Huh."

I heard the sizzling of the pan from the next room.

"What do you remember?" Mom pressed.

He sighed, rubbing his head, "I think I hit something..."

"I'm gonna call someone, okay?"

"No, no, Sharon, please!" he gulped, eyes widening as he reached through the threshold.

Mom stepped back, looking over her shoulder at me. It was the first time I'd ever seen her truly afraid of him. She held her arms straight back as she stepped, guiding me towards her. Dad's eyes were tired, bloodshot, staring at me, tucked behind Mom's apron.

He smiled a toothy grin at me. "Hey, little man."

I didn't know how to feel. I held up a reluctantly waving hand.

"Hi... Dad..."

Mom held me closer. Dad stepped in, tracking mud under his hairy feet.

"Hey, it's okay, Lee. I'm okay, really. I'm just..."

He sniffed the air and he breathed in deep. I remember just how large he looked standing in front of the door, the orange glow of the setting sun behind him.

"I'm just," he licked his lips, and his teeth, "Just so hungry..."

He ran past us into the kitchen. Mom clutched me tight to her back as I looked around her, watching Dad hunch over the oven, grabbing handfuls of meat from the sizzling pan, snarling as he ate. He groaned as he did, but he sighed after every bite, all his attention on eating.

In that moment, I remember thinking, maybe he was poisoned.

"Ugh, Christ!" he yelled, but he sounded happy. "I missed your cooking, Sharon. And God, it's never been this good!"

She backed us slowly into the living room, eyes fixed on his wide back. I remember being worried that Mom was gonna squish me between her and the couch. She pulled me in front of her, and worriedly looked from him to me, him to me. "Lee, baby? Go finish watching your movie in Mom and Dad's room, okay?"

A metallic crash sounded from the kitchen -- Dad tossing the empty pan onto the tile. I felt a sting of grease on my face, like a hot pinprick. Mom shouted, "David!!"

"I -- I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I just -- !"

He was frantic, wide-stepping to the sink, throwing on the faucet and shoving his head under the cascading water to drink, like he was trying to dunk himself.

"Don't come out til I say. Go now." Mom shoved me toward the stairs, and I ran up to her room.

I did as she said and went up, but I still listened through. More yelling. Sometimes it was so loud I couldn't always tell which of them it was.

*"What the FUCK is wrong with you?"*

*"You're acting up over nothing!"*

*"You're not yourself, David!"*

*"Who are you trying to call?!"*

*"Get the fuck off me!"*

The yelling and footsteps just got louder, alongside crashing sounds from the kitchen. Things breaking, things hitting the wall, glass breaking. They'd never fought like this. They'd never fought, ever, but here I heard them banging on the walls. Screaming like I'd never heard before.

I ran onto their bed and under their covers, pulling them up closer to me. All I did, all felt I could do was stare at the light under the door. No matter how loud they got, how much crashing there was downstairs, I felt deep down that it'd all be over soon.

That's when I started hearing the weirder sounds, in amongst the thuds and screams -- a howling roar that reminded me of the T-Rex. But it was just downstairs. Just outside the room. I pulled the covers closer, thinking that'd do anything. I saw the shadows of legs from under the door. And I closed my eyes.

I heard the door open and shut in no time at all. And heavy breathing.

I opened my eyes to see Mom, bracing the door with her body. She stood, leaning against it, holding a butter knife covered in blood between her teeth while she fumbled with the door lock, looking at me with wide red eyes.

Her green apron was torn, hanging from her shoulders. One of the legs of her sweatpants was completely gone, and the skin underneath was bleeding red all the way down. She had gashes in her cheek and her temple, and her curly hair was just... wrong. It was humped straight up at the top of her head like she was wearing a hat underneath her hair.

It was only when she turned her head to me that I saw, a part of her scalp was folding up and off her head, hanging by the hairs. She was bleeding from her scalp all along her forehead like she was wearing a dripping red bandana. She kept blinking and using her wrist to wipe her eyes, her left arm hanging limp from her shoulder.

That necklace she always wore was speckled in blood right at the foot of the cross. As soon as she got the lock, smearing the doorknob, she used the same shaky hand to grab the knife from her teeth. She sighed. She was hurt, and she was scared -- I could see in her eyes she was so scared... but she smiled at me.

"Lee baby, I need you to get up, okay?"

I threw off the covers, even though I almost scared to go near her. She limped through the room on her bloody leg to the window, shoving it open, letting in a cold breeze from outside.

"Come on, baby!" she beckoned with three fingers and the knife.

I went to her and she lifted me up with one arm, grunting as she hoisted me onto the terrace just outside her room. A little piece of roof that just barely fit me. It was so cold and I was about to ask what was happening, where was Dad, when a loud bang sounded from the other side of the door that shook the room.

Mom looked from the door to me.

"You hide out here, and you wait for as long as you can, okay? You wait until it's over!"

"Til what's over?" I asked.

Another bang at the door and a snarl from the other side. I could hear the splintering of wood from whatever was hitting it.

She held the side of my face, the handle of the knife was so cold. "You stay here, okay? I love you. Dad loves you."

She kissed my forehead and backed herself into the room.

"Mom!" I yelled.

An even louder bang, the woodboards falling apart. I could start to see the black shape behind them.

"Stay!" Mom yelled back, closing the window.

I tried looking through but the curtains fell in place behind my Mom as I heard the muffled sounds of the door breaking down, that roaring scream again, and Mom yelling and cursing louder than I'd ever heard.

They were fighting again. Louder, closer, more painful than before. I couldn't look even if I wanted to, so I sat. It sounded like a tornado in that room, tearing everything apart. For as long as it went I just sat there on that little piece of roof, burying my face into my knees as I held them close to my chest, rocking myself, waiting for it to be over.

It felt like forever like I was sitting there forever under that bright full moon, hearing the carnage rage inside. Hearing it slowly start to wind down with the occasional heavy thud, and wondering what that meant. But really it was only a couple minutes before I started hearing the sirens in the distance, and seeing the red and blue flashing lights turn a corner onto our street.

I'd later learn that it'd been a noise complaint from a concerned neighbor.

I heard the snarling from inside my room, and gurgling, and loud, heavy footsteps back out the bedroom door.

"Police!" I heard from the front of the house.

I could see through the curtains that there was nothing there; a shadow on the other side of the hallway making its way downstairs. I slid open the window and saw my Mom lying on the floor, curled into a ball. She was torn to pieces, but she was still alive, her neck pressed to the floor against her broken arm. Still clutching that knife.

Downstairs, voices I didn't recognize -- police -- were screaming.

"Oh God, it's a bear! Reynolds, get the shotgun!"

I heard the loud pops of a handgun, and pained bellowing.

"Reynolds! The shotgun!!"

Mom looked up at me. Through all the scratches, the blood, the bone I could see through the right side of her head, I could see she had the same look in her face as when she was too tired to stay up watching a movie. Even as she lay dying, her beautiful face I'd known all my life scratched to ribbons, she still smiled at me.

"Baby..."

With all the last of her strength, she reached up and shakingly folded the knife into my hands, "I hurt him... with this..."

Her eyes flared for one last time, before she died. "Run."

Her eyes didn't close. They just stared into the middle distance and kept staring. Her lips stopped moving. She stopped smiling. Every time I think back on that now, I wish I would've closed her eyes for her. I think I was afraid that poking her eyes would still, somehow, hurt her.

She used to say I always beat her at staring contests.

I had the knife in my hand. And I got up and walked. Like I was a tin soldier marching underwater, like how you feel in a dream, you know? It's like I didn't feel it all the way through because how could this not be a dream...?

The gunshots got louder downstairs as I walked slowly down each step. There were claw marks all the way up and down the stairs. Pictures from the foyer thrown into the living room. The kitchen phone, ripped out of the wall.

The thing groaned and growled in pain but it didn't last. It kept coming back no matter what they did. It was all useless. I saw it, dragging the younger cop's body through the hallway. It didn't see me. It looked like a bear, but it was long and thin. The hair on its back was thick and matted and black. It was crouched over him like a chimpanzee. It was eating him.

I walked slow. Somehow I wasn't scared but... I wasn't brave either, I don't know what I was. I felt numb. And I held up the knife over it's arched back. It reminded me of little league, holding the bat up to play. Mom and Dad cheered from the stands...

*Hey, batter... hey, batter... hey, batter...*

"Son, get away from it!" I heard a desperate voice shouting loud from behind me.

The bear-thing snapped its long-snouted face back over its shoulder towards me. I saw its long, bloody white teeth. A single bright yellow eye glaring at me. Its clawed hand reaching out.

*Swing.*

I threw the weight of my entire body behind that little knife, that still felt so long in my hand. I was so close, I was almost hugging it. Its hand was covering one side of my face, its leathery, padded palm pressing into my cheek, while the other side was buried in the soft, fine fur of its chest.

"Ear-shattering," is the only word that does justice to its wailing pain. A howl but also a scream, from the deepest part of itself. No matter how hard its claws dug into my head, I still heard the sharp ringing in my ear. I could hear it dying. I still do sometimes.

It fell over with a hard, heavy thud, claws scraping my cheek and my forehead, barely missing my eye. The knife had nearly disappeared into its chest. And I just stood there, staring.

I couldn't hear what the officer was saying, over his radio or when he knelt down to me, leading me to his car.

*Bear Loose in Local Neighborhood Kills Two Residents, One Police. Shot Dead on Scene by Sheriff.*

That's what the story was. What everyone heard and winced at and passed on to their shocked friends. It had to be a bear. Anything more just wasn't possible, they said. I only saw it, lived it, killed it myself, bear the scars from it... But I was 9. I was traumatized. What did I know?

I knew no one reported any bear wandering into the suburbs miles away from the woods. I knew no one in the neighborhood saw a bear being pulled out of that house. And I knew that my Dad, victim number three, showed no signs of an attack -- four random razor cuts on his forearms, a tiny gouge in his left eye (little wider than a pin prick), and a silver butter knife embedded in his heart.

I don't know why I never cried, even at the funeral. It felt like everyone else was doing all the crying for me, and I always thought that from the way they looked at me that somehow they felt more sorry for me than they did for them. I never liked that.

I lived with my aunt and uncle for a while in a state without wild bears. While that honestly didn't put my mind at ease, for their sake I pretended it did. It made them feel better, believing they kept me safe, even if it was just me sleeping with stolen silverware under my pillow, and praying with Mom's silver cross every night since. She kept me safe, and I believe she still does.

The sheriff knew. Or even if he didn't know, he saw. Who knows what he thought in the end. I go back and forth between he was protecting me and he was protecting his own mind. Maybe both. And there's no shame in that. I don't blame him, and I never said anything to counter the narrative.

I never wanted it said that my Dad was some... monster. He wasn't.

That wasn't his fault. That wasn't him. It's whatever he brought back with him that killed them both.

I know that, and I carry that with me everywhere I go.

My parents had me when they were very young. Like very young, right out of high school. When you're that age, I guess it feels like everything matters and your choices will last the rest of your life. I just wish they'd lasted more than a few years. It wasn't until I was much older that I realized just how much they were children, unprepared for their own children... but here we are.

Mom especially wasn't. I had no idea how much she struggled every single day, why she always looked tired and sick whenever I saw her. Why she breathed funny and never showed her teeth when she smiled. I used to be mad at her for being so absent from my life. But now I understand just how hard she tried. Every single day.

And my Dad, to keep me sheltered from seeing her at her worst. He'd take me and my teddy bear Nellie on these long drives late at night with the windows down, and I'd fall asleep in the backseat to the rumbling of the truck and the cool fresh air to drain out the stuffy smoke from the apartment. He did that so often I had no clue when I woke up one day when I was 5 and it was morning and we were still driving. He had one hand on the wheel and the other holding his phone to his head. I looked out to the bed of the truck and saw bags of stuff, mine and his. But not hers.

I overheard the last thing he said over the phone. "I'm glad you think so... It's what's best for her. And you... We'll see you when you can... I love you too."

He tapped off the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Catching a glimpse of me in the rear view mirror. He looked over his shoulder, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. I was always struck with just how blue his eyes always were, bright and shiny, but today they were as red as the flannel shirt he always wore, like he hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. And I guess he didn't. When he grinned, his sharp canines poked out from under his lips. Like a Papa Bear. "Hey Kit-Kat. How you feeling?"

I rubbed my crusty eyes and hugged Nellie. "I'm hungry."

"We'll stop somewhere soon. We've only got a couple more hours to go."

I looked out the window to see miles of fields of wheat, rolling in the wind like a golden sea. I'd never been here before. "Where are we going?"

"You know how Mommy and Daddy always said we wanted to move to a farm?"

I remember a kids' book they read me all the time, about a farm and all these animals like cows and horses and ducks, that my Dad would do the best voices for. They'd read and Dad said we'd have one of our own some day with all the animals; all the cows, the horses, the chickens, the pigs, and ducks. I always insisted there'd be ducks. They'd say we'd grow all the food we could eat and have everything we ever needed. A real home for just us three. And the kind of thing I couldn't help but believe at that age.

He continued, "Well, Daddy found one. Way out in the country, away from that big, noisy, stinky town. We got the farm, sweetie."

I was so happy, but something was missing. "Where's Mommy?"

It took him a second to answer. "You know Mommy's really sick..."

"She's always sick." I was annoyed. I didn't understand.

"Well, she's finally starting to get better. Really better, for real this time. She just needs some time to be with friends who can make her better. And when she's better, we'll all be at the farm together. How's that sound, Katie?"

"Sounds awesome!"

"Yeah, does it sound awesome?"

"Yeah!"

"Oh yeah!"

He'd say that a lot in a deep funny voice I never got was the Kool-Aid Man. It just always made me laugh, and when I did, I saw his face in the rear-view mirror. This time he smiled for real.

I spent the next two hours talking his ear off, asking him every single animal I knew of that would or wouldn't be there. I barely noticed we were stopping by the time I got to the last, most important one.

"Will there be a dragon at the farm?"

"No, we can't have a dragon at the farm, sweetie."

"Why not??"

"Cuz they'd burn all the crops, and they'd scare away all the horses and cows."

I was devastated. I asked quieter, "Could we have a little dragon...?"

He stopped and took the keys out of the ignition, leaning over and back to me in his seat. Dead serious.

"I'll tell you what. You get to keep any little dragon you find at this farm. But! You gotta clean up all the fire, all the ash, all the dragon poop. Got it?"

He held out what I thought was the biggest hand in the world for me to shake. I held out a pinky.

"Deal?" I offered.

His eyes flared with genuine concern for a second before he smirked and hooked his massive pinky against mine. "Deal. Now let's get inside."

I jumped outside and looked around. The most overwhelming feeling I had was disappointment in this old, barren farmstead that clearly hadn't been lived in for years. An old gray house, a brown, faded barn, and no animals in sight. "Where are they?"

Dad walked around the truck and stooped down to meet my eyeline. "The animals'll be here. We just gotta grow the food for them first. Just like -- " he scooped me up and sat me on his arm, " -- I gotta whip something up for you."

I could never help but to share in his smile. His front teeth were a bit crooked, like one was always fighting to get in front of the other, and their constant fight led to a chip on the inside of the front one. I know that wasn't how it happened, but that's what my imagination dictated. I never found out the real reason they were like that, if there was any.

I looked out to the field of short, brown stalks of what must've been corn. Long out of any farmer's care, left to the rats and crows and the cruel elements of summer. We had a lot of work ahead of us to make this place livable again, for the animals. And then I saw it.

Out in the middle of the field of dead crops, tied and suspended up on it's post. A lonely scarecrow.

I don't think I had ever seen a scarecrow in real life, outside of Wizard of Oz and happy story picture books of farms. Dad always said that when I'd grow up, I'd look just like Dorothy, like my mom did. I loved Scarecrow the best. This one looked nothing like him.

Its clothes were a pair of denim overalls and a green plaid shirt, dusty and weathered from however long it was left there. The straw that stuffed its insides poked out of its shirt collar and sleeves, as well as tears in its chest where the crows had pecked away at it. In place of its right hand was a long, rusty sickle that curved out from its wrist like an oversized pirate's hook. But its head... its head was a half-carved jack-o-lantern, but the sharp, triangular cuts that made the face were green and molded and round as flies came and went. It looked soft like no pumpkin should, starting to droop and slump over its shoulders and chest. It looked sad. But what I remember most is the long orange strings of pulp and seeds hanging from the eyes and mouth.

I hated that scarecrow. I hated to look at it, but I hated more having my back to it. And whenever I couldn't help but to look and see where it was, it was even harder to look away. I asked Dad so many times to please get rid of it. He'd look down and shake his head and tell me how much it creeped him out too before saying, "Kit-Kat, when we have more corn than we know what to do with, crows are gonna and try and steal it from us. Mister Scarecrow's there to scare the crows away. Do you understand?"

I'd nod and pretend I did, only to pester him again after however long he was at work on the land, fixing up the house or the barn. I can't imagine now how much was on his mind, but he had days and days of work to distract himself with. All I had was my thoughts, Nellie, a creepy old farmhouse with too many rooms, and that goddamn scarecrow.

There wasn't a single room in the house that didn't have a window, and my Dad said I could have any one of them I wanted for my own bedroom, even up to the loft. I insisted on the ground floor, the one right next to his. Looking back, I know the one concession I could've given him was a room of his own I didn't sneak into every night when I got scared. But even with Nellie, and Dad in the very next room, I was scared every night.

Every night, when the moon and the stars were shining bright, and my room was lit with a soft blue glow, I'd look out my window into the field, and I'd see the silhouette of that pumpkinheaded scarecrow swaying slowly on its post whichever way the wind blew, its long hookhand shining in the moonlight. Every time I'd look at that rotting thing, it seemed to look back, swiveling on its post as if to turn slowly to wherever I was.

I'd hold Nellie as close to me as I could, breathing in her softness, and eventually, as always, my racing mind would run out, and my exhaustion would win over my fear. I'd always wish that in the morning, it'd be gone, replaced with a nicer one or just gone for good. But it was always the first thing I saw when I'd wake up too.

For weeks, it was like that, before my Dad's handiwork really started to take shape. One afternoon, he placed a space heater on the wall opposite my bed. In the storeroom, he found stuff for pumpkin pie and served it as dessert alongside a ham and a big bowl of applesauce. He was wearing his typical jeans and red flannel but his whole air was different, how happy he was.

Finally, sitting down to eat, he smiled his wonderful, crooked smile. "Do you know what's special about today?"

I genuinely didn't know. I shook my head.

"You are six years old today! And what's more is you get to learn a new word..."

I leaned forward to hear him better across the dinner table, while also basking in the scent of the pie. He leaned forward too, resting his arms on the table just behind his plate. "'Equinox.'"

I repeated the word, wondering what it meant.

"It means, 'equal night,' and it's when the sun and moon have have the exact same amount of time in the sky, down to the second. It's when summer ends, and fall begins. And that's when you were born, Kit-Kat. So... what do you want for your birthday?"

"Where's Mom?"

I don't think he expected that. He took a deep breath and fidgeted his hands, and looked back at me, "Mom's okay. She's still with friends, still getting better."

"Can we call her?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie, not right now. But I promise we'll see her soon."

He always said that whenever I asked. The answer never changed, no matter how closer "soon" got. He never told me what was wrong, why we never talked about her, why she couldn't call. I was just so mad, I pushed my plate away and grabbed Nellie and ran to my room.

"Katie!" I heard him yell out behind me.

I slammed the door and stayed in, curled into a ball with Nellie on my bed, holding her as close as I could, watching the sun go down. The light from the hallway and the creaks of the wood told me that Dad was just outside my room, leaning against the door on silence. It was like that for a few quiet minutes, before he finally left. In the dying light, I saw him go into the barn, doing whatever last working calls of the day, and for the last time, I fell asleep to the sight of that scarecrow, staring, swaying back and forth, arms and sickle outstretched across its post.

I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare I didn't remember, and the warm air emanating from the space heater. I could think or feel in that moment was how unbelievably dry my throat was. I touched my feet to the cold woodboards and zombie marched to the bathroom. At end of the long hallway, the TV in the living room was glowing with whatever show and I saw my Dad's jeans and boots slumped into the recliner. I drank from the faucet for as long as I felt I could, and wiped the cold water from my chin, walking back to my room. I opened the door, and there was my bed, Nellie saving my place to sleep, the window, the bright full moon, the field, and an empty post.

What I felt was like lightning inside of me, waking me up. I rubbed my eyes and ran onto the bed, hands against the cold window pane, fogging it with my hysterical deep breaths. It was gone! The fields were empty, completely empty except that lone post, like a cross with twine of rope hanging from its arms. I grabbed Nellie and ran out of the room, out of the hall, to the living room. Dad was asleep in his chair as static played on the TV. I shook his body and screamed, "Daddy, the scarecrow! The scarecrow's gone!"

He jolted awake, eyes wide at my screams. My throat stung again with just how loud I was, and my eyes did too as I felt tears welling in them. He rocked forward in his chair, rubbing his eyes and his head. He was still barely awake as I kept tugging at his sleeve. "Katie... what?"

"The scarecrow," I struggled to croak out of my dry throat, "He's missing... he's awake."

He took a deep breath as he lowered his head, running his hand through his hair. "Did you have a bad dream?"

"Daddy...!"

He looked up at me, eyes big and soft and blue. He stared at me a moment, and he steadied my shaking body placing both his hands on both my shoulders. I could see how exhausted he was, like he was every day, but he smiled. And he said, "Okay," groaning, standing up from his chair.

I followed close behind, shivering, as he walked down the hall, out of the static TV light. His footsteps clacked on the wood and he looked over his shoulder at me, calmly reminding me, "Keep her close, alright?"

Nellie had to be the only thing holding me upright, along with Dad's words, his reassurance. I was waiting for the punchline, for him to remember that he took it down after I fell asleep, something like that. I felt just how cold the air really was, in my lungs, on my lips, on my skin under my flower pajamas.

The door to my bedroom creaked open with just a nudge from my Dad and he reached in for the lightswitch. And he froze.

The light didn't come on and there was no flick of the switch. I stood by the side in the dark hall as my father towered over me, looking through the doorway. His eyes were wide and fixed on what he saw, his breath came out in shallow shudders. His hand came away slowly, almost imperceptibly, and returned to his side, shaking. Slowly I heard his breaths get deeper, heavier, and I could recognize the fear in them. The wide whites of his eyes were like moons all their own as he inched his steps out of the doorway. I couldn't help but move little by little away from him too, and whatever he saw.

And then I heard it. A single, silent tap from the inside of the bedroom, like a stick tapping a window. And then a long, metallic scraping sound that reminded me of nails on a chalkboard.

Suddenly, Dad snapped out of whatever trance he was in, his paralysis shifting to immediate action as he dashed to the side, scooping me up in his massive arms and sprinting with me down the end of the hallway. No sooner than that did I hear the distinct smash of breaking glass from inside my room, and something heavy rolling in and crashing onto the floor.

"Keep your eyes closed, Kit-Kat!!" Dad yelled fast and loud into my ears as I bounced in his arms with every bounding step. "It's okay!"

An even louder, inhuman shriek sounded from inside the bedroom before I heard the door slam open. It sounded like screams, as much as it did howling winds and croaking like old wood.

I squeezed my eyes shut as the dull glow of the TV came and went in less than a second. I clutched as much to my Dad as I did to Nellie. I heard the panicked jangling of keys, felt the shifting movement of weight as he reached for something high on the wall, and the cold sting of some long piece of metal that brushed against my leg. I let out a yelp into the side of my Dad's neck when I thought it was the sickle.

"It's okay." I heard him say.

I felt the chill of the autumn air on the back of my neck and the jumping down of porch steps from wood to gravel to tell me we were outside. I heard the unlocked clicking and opening of the car door and my Dad depositing me into the front seat over the console. I finally opened my eyes to see him in the dark outside the car door, loading his shotgun. All the while, I heard him loudly whispering, "Okay, okay, okay..."

I looked over his shoulder back to the house to see the door wide open, and out of it stumbled a dark, lanky shape that took one long step over the porch and was suddenly so much closer. And I could see it. Its rotting face. The straw falling from its long arms. It looked at him and me with its hollow eyes as it raised its sickle hand high above its head.

"Daddy!" I screamed.

Dad looked up, snapping and clicking the gun ready. "Cover your ears, Katie!"

I did, and the dull echo of the blast shook me in the passenger seat. The wide yellow flash from out of the gun barrel dispersed to show flying chunks of moldy pumpkin and seeds. That screaming wind howl I heard inside sounded even louder than the first shot, as my eyes took time to adjust. All I saw through the shadows outside was the moon shining off the hanging sickle. It was still standing.

Dad fired again, when I was even less prepared. But then he lowered it and looked. Seeing what I couldn't. What I was too afraid to see. And he breathed. Heavy and deep, but not panicked like seconds before. He shook his head and slumped against the truck, whispering to himself, "What... what the fuck?"

That was a new word.

I thought he was done, but I couldn't bring my hands from my ears. "Is it over?"

He looked over his shoulder and moved slowly to the open door, moving the gun butt-first into the backseat. He stopped, leaning over the front seat, to breathe, and to say, "I think so, sweetie."

It's easy to realize now he was as much trying to calm himself down as he was me, and in the safety of the car, I thought now was finally okay to uncover my ears. He was scared but finally finding his center, in the open driver door, the overhead light from the truck shining down. He was halfway inside, looking at me, taking one second to make sure I was okay.

He said as much, "You're okay."

I remember the look on his face, a moment of calm and respite, looking at me. He had the look he always got before he was about to smile. I remember that... I remember the howling wind picking up, and I remember a long, curved glint of light that shimmered over his head for less than a second, before he suddenly, violently lunched forward over the carseat. I'll never forget how his screams of pain ripped through that last deep breath, blood pouring from his mouth and seeping down from the front of his shirt, pulled tight at a single tipping point, but holding together at the buttons.

As my Dad struggled to hold himself upright, it turned and pulled, pulling him with it. Its movements stiff and awkward like a puppet on strings, the thing walked back toward the house, dragging my Dad on the gravel behind it. Headless, torso torn down the middle, handfuls of straw poured out of its back, down either side of its splintered wooden spine.

I couldn't move from where I was, no matter how much I wanted to, to do something, to do anything. I heard him groan as the sickle at the end of a long stick arm dragged him back. With one leg, it cleared the porch steps, but my Dad used one hand to grab onto the railing. All of his last strength.

The headless thing struggled for a moment to get him up, to move him, and with the last pull of sickle, it dragged my Dad over the steps, all the rest of the way in, closing the door behind it.

It felt like I was frozen in that carseat forever, but it was still hours before the sun came up. Hours I spent running, walking, crying, down the only road out of that place. A girl in her pajamas, barefoot, walking for her life down a dirt road, clinging to her teddy bear. I wandered onto some access road some time before the sun started to rise, when a car slowed to a stop next to me. A man, a woman, two kids, and their dog. A family on a road trip.

They asked a bunch of questions that I was too tired, too scared, too weak to answer. Then they gave me a ride, squeezed into the back while the mom held onto their dog who wouldn't stop growling at me. I just hugged Nellie and crouched into the seat corner. The boy, the one nearest to me kept staring daggers at me, until eventually he asked if I was a ghost.

They took me to the nearest town and I spent the next few nights in a police station where they asked me all the same questions. With time, I was able to answer some and even ask a few. Police went to the farm and came back saying they found nothing. No dad, no blood. His truck was there, but all that was on the seat or the floor was hay. All they found on the roundabout was crows pecking at a pile of pumpkin guts. Nothing in the house, except more hay. They didn't say anything about the scarecrow.

They asked me who my mom was and what number they could call. Then it was a social worker, telling me about somewhere new. Three nights in a police station and twelve years in the foster system. My only next of kin was considered unfit, and that's never really changed. Neither have I, for that matter, except for the worse.

Every August with the start of the school year, in a new town, in a new school, with a new family, I'd always freeze and scream and shout at the sight of any pumpkin, any scarecrow. I'd throw the nearest heavy object at any TV playing Wizard of Oz. I'd never go out on Halloween and always be the shut-in freak to my so-called "siblings." I'd be the problem child who'd never outgrown her teddy bear to my pretend "parents." All six of them.

I couldn't have been out of the house faster the day I turned 18. Two days before the fall equinox this year and about as long a drive from Dad's old farm. I found it. And I thought about going back myself for a long, long time. Find what they missed, what was right in front of their eyes. Find *something,* I don't know... Or find nothing at all.

I used to have my own room in the old apartment, but I'd always wake up in the middle of the night, scared of the sounds I'd hear, the shadows I'd see, even if it was nothing. I'd sneak out of my bedroom into Mom and Dad's to sleep between them and feel safe. But when Mom got worse, when I'd start to cough and complain of the smell in their room, one night I snuck down the hall to their bedroom door and opened it to see my Dad, kneeling down on the other side, waiting for me. Fully awake, fully prepared for me.

"Hey Kit-Kat."

"Hi Daddy."

"Can't sleep?"

"I'm scared. There's monsters in there."

"Oh yeah..." his understanding always warmed me. "Is that why you come to sleep in Mommy and Daddy's bed?"

"You and Mommy don't get scared. Monsters are scared of you. They don't come when I'm with you."

Even in the low light, I remember seeing him nod, leaning forward. "You know, I have someone to keep you safe..."

I hadn’t even noticed his hands were behind his back, so I looked down to see, or mostly feel, a soft, plush, stuffed teddy bear, half my size in his hands.

"This is for you," he whispered, "I gave her that special power Mommy and I have to keep the monsters away. You keep her close and take her to your room... and you sleep."

"But what if the monsters come for you?"

I felt his hand in my hair before he pulled me into a hug, squishing my new bear between us. "Don't you worry about us... what're you gonna name her?"

"What's Mommy's name?"

Nellie's never left my side, no matter what. I always took her with me everywhere I went. Every house, every school, every field trip we weren’t allowed to bring our dolls -- I brought Nellie. The number of fights I got into with all those other girls who tried to take her away from me... It's actually the reason I carry a knife now.

It's surprisingly easy to not give a shit about others, even guardians, telling you you're too old for that kinda thing. When you've lived a life like mine, you grow to learn that what others call "superstition," you call reason.

That's especially true when you find yourself driving up the same gravel road you ran for your life down so many years ago. I have a truck now, like he did, and I like driving like he did. I even think about my mom when I light a cigarette on the way up. Despite that, I *hate* stopping at gas stations, and I always keep six cans tied down in the bed. Nellie rides passenger, belted like always.

Before I know it, I'm face to face with that old, gray house I spent those sleepless nights in. The land, as desolate as it was when I left. No one's here. No one's lived here in years, no thanks to the police. I park and step out, and zip Nellie up into a blue backpack that I sling over my shoulders. How ugly, and abandoned, and cold this place is.

I walk up to the turnaround, the very spot he was killed, and dragged into the night. Remembering a moment, exactly as it happened and where, with no trace left behind on the pure white ground. It's like looking at a ghost. I walk the same path he was dragged through, up the old creaky steps. Nothing.

The door gives way with no effort at all, and the house is as empty as ever. But I feel the heaviness in the air. The sharp, cold sting that keeps me from taking one more step inside. Only one last thing. One last place I've yet to look.

I'd imagined the moment I'd see it again, over and over, in my dreams. Wondered if it'd found some other molding jack-o-lantern to wear as a head. If I'd see my Dad's dried blood on its sickle-hand. I turn around the back of the house, and I see it. Sure enough, a thing on its post. Almost.

You never forget something like that. The rotting smile and eyes bleeding with pumpkin guts. Its overalls and green shirt. But that isn't what I see, any of it. A red shirt and blue jeans, covered in dust, weathered and tattered with time. Straw seeps out of a gash in the center of his chest, and a dozen small holes peppered all over him. The head is a cross-stitched sack of thatch with button eyes and a wide, sewn smile. A little brown hat sits on his downturned head. Even the sickle's on the wrong hand. The closer I get, the more I see just how tall he is, stretched out on the post. Crows pecking at his ears and rubber nose fly away at my approach.

I look up to see him facing down, one head length over me as I look. And the more I look, the more I *feel* what happened. More than remember, I still hear his screams. And mine. And that monster's. But it wasn't the same now. I look at his leathery face, and the stitches across its mouth, as something in me forces me to stay, to look closer. Part of me knew, but I needed more. I reach into my pocket and flip open my knife. One arm grabs onto his soft shoulder while the small blade wrenches into the scarecrow's mouth. Through the thatch, through the stitch-string and straw, I cut.

The crows caw and the sky darkens. My grip tightens and I cut more frantically, breathing heavier with every sawing motion I make. The dark inside the scarecrow's head starts to give way. A black widow spider crawls out from the corner of his mouth. I cut. I don't know what I'm thinking, but there has to be something. I know there is.

I hear the low rumble of distant thunder, and I cut. More crows start circling overheard, cut. The creaking of the post gets louder with each movement, cut.

With the last slice of my pocket knife across the straw, the scarecrow's mouth hangs open, and I see it. Teeth.

Two canines a bit sharper than usual, and two crooked front teeth, like they were fighting for each other's place. I knew. All along, I knew this, I feared this, woke up in the night screaming of this. All those years, I never wanted to believe it. But now I see. Now I know. And that's enough.

Today's the day. The equinox. Whatever's special about this day, whatever makes it happen, it'll happen again tonight. Or rather, it would've. A storm from miles away gets closer and I split three cans each between the house and the field, and I watch it all burn. I remember that space heater my Dad put in my room for me, and I think of him. The sun hasn't set yet, and I see the rising flames start to crawl and spread along the four corners of that post, engulfing what's on it.

Then I finally put that place behind me. On the open road, I look in the rear-view mirror to see the black clouds of smoke rising in the sky, as if begging for the coming rain. I'm shaking now and I don't really know what to say.

I guess... I guess this has all been for you, Daddy. You loved me. And you saved me. And I miss you. I miss you so much...

And I pray to God that maybe I saved you too.

The last school dance I ever went to ended in the worst night of my life. That was the night that reason and reality stopped working and my world was never the same. In all the years since it's happened, I haven't been able to understand it, let alone explain it. But they told me I should try, at least once. I don't know what difference it makes now but here I am, trying.

We were seniors coming from the May Day Dance. A Stafford tradition before graduation, where lifelong friends and future couples would dance for the last time before taking their first steps into the adult world.

Mike was tall with big soft eyes behind Harry Potter glasses, curly black hair, and the brightest smile you've ever seen. He was quiet, funny, and honest in everything he said. Protective. Like a bodyguard towering over me whenever we'd walk the halls. I was going with him both to the dance and to college when it was all over. We'd never actually dated. I'd known him since we were in kindergarten and he lived right next door. I always thought he was more like a brother to me. Now that I'm older I've wondered more seriously what a life with him might've looked like. He was good, and kind... the real him.

Sam was stockier, getting into scrapes with older students since he was a freshman. Detention after detention, even suspended a couple times. If Mike was a golden, he was a pitbull. And I'm convinced the two of us were the only people in the entire school he ever made an effort with. He always lived in the moment, he never let on what he wanted in the long term. I'm not even sure he knew. I didn't even know where he'd gotten into college if he even had, but I knew it wasn't with us. That couldn’t be the end of us, I thought. Not after everything.

Once we were a trio, we were a trio. Everywhere we went, everything we ever did together, we discussed and did as a group. We'd vote, 2-out-of-3, majority rules. And that was that. Sam was the most adventurous of us, always finding somewhere new to explore. It was thrilling to be a part of that, and there was never a moment in all the times we were out that I hadn't felt safe with the two of them.

Not til that night.

We inherited one another's reasons for bullying once we started going together: Mike the quiet religious nerd, Sam the problem child, and me, their "girlfriend." Like no one had anything better to do but to point and laugh and not know what friendship was. The fact that our last May Day theme was Gatsby certainly didn't help things but fuck 'em. I paid for that dress myself.

We lived in a small community not too far from an honest-to-God ghost town called Blackwell, a favorite place to explore. By senior year, Sam was the only one with a car of his own. A sturdy, beloved piece of shit with no heater or AC that used to be a police cruiser. Still had the black and white paint job and the grill in front that I thought looked like the jaws of a bulldog. So we dubbed it the Bulldog.

Sam had his tie loose and his jacket off as he drove, while Mike lounged in his passenger seat, running his hand through the wind in his hair. My hair was sweaty and still in its bun. I was a mess. Sam kept thinking he was slick with his glances in the rear view. He'd get the occasional flick to the side of the head from Mike. "Eyes on the road, man."

Sam responded with a backhand to Mike's chest. "Touch me again and you ride in the trunk."

Like clockwork, I'd catch his wandering eyes in the mirror again, before something else caught my attention.

My feet were killing me and I finally had the chance to get out of my mom's heels, unclipping and rubbing the soreness out.

Mike: "You gotta change of shoes?"

"Ah no. I really should've brought new clothes, too, I feel disgusting."

Sam: "My hoodie's back there if you get cold."

I'm sure it was, somewhere hidden under all the empty cans and pizza boxes, discarded man shoes, old socks, and whatever other miscellaneous crap he'd never looked where he'd throw back here.

"I'm sure I'll find it."

Mike: "You could borrow my shoes. Been wanting to get out of them too and I dunno if we're walking."

Sam: "A bit. You're gonna want your shoes."

Mike: "Well, the offer still stands, Em."

"Thanks but I don't see that being comfortable. Besides, your shoes are, like, clown-sized for me."

Mike: "That's fine. You can wear Sam's."

Sam: "Fuck you."

"So, Sam!" I turned my head, "Where are we going?"

Sam got that same look in his eye he always got when he held all the cards, and was about to tip his hand, "Either of you heard of Blackwell Zoo?"

Mike: "Vaguely.”

"They have a zoo?"

Sam: "It was Blackwell's claim to fame back in the day. Half of everyone in town either worked or knew someone that worked there. Everyone who couldn't afford San Diego said that Blackwell Zoo was the next best thing. It had respect, fame, traffic, all the animals everyone wanted to see. It was perfect. But then everything changed..."

"When the Fire Nation attacked." Mike and I said at the exact same time and lost our last two brain cells laughing into one another's shoulders.

Sam's scrunched poutyface was the funniest thing in the world to me. He could talk for hours if you got him going, and there was nothing he hated more than interruptions.

Sam: "I will crash this car with both of you inside."

Mike grinned and raised both hands in his three-piece suit, laid back with a loose tie, Mike was never more confident or aloof than when he was with us. In moments like that I seriously wondered why he never had a girlfriend.

Sam: "As I was saying, it was idyllic. And very open, too. No glass panels for the exhibits outside. Only fences. Kids could just reach out and touch hands with the chimps if they wanted…”

Mike: “Bullshit! I call bullshit. There’s laws and codes against that shit even back then.”

“No, that's real!” I chimed, remembering a story of my own, “My mom, when she was a kid – like first or second grade – she went on a class field trip to San Diego, right? But they get to the chimp exhibit and there’s this one dipshit kid who keeps throwing rocks over the fence, even though everyone’s telling him not to, because he’s a dipshit. So he runs out of rocks, and pretty soon all the chimps are throwing all the rocks back at all these second graders, and they’re ducking for cover, right? So my mom hides behind this table and she looks over it for one second just to see where her teacher is, and a rock zips by, not two inches from her face. She coulda died, then and there when she was like six. But she grew up to marry and have kids with that same dipshit, who is now my dad. Point is, that's San Diego. Blackwell's no San Diego.”

The boys were dumbstruck. Sam, choking back his hyena laughter, and Mike staring wide-eyed at me, before returning his gaze to the open road.

Mike: “... well fuck me, I guess.”

“Go on, Sam.”

Sam: “It was a bright spring day in 1990 and a worker named Eddie McKinnon got a call on his radio that one of chimps -- an alpha male named Tony -- was acting erratic. Screaming, running in circles until he collapsed, convulsing, foaming at the mouth. Scared away all the other apes in the enclosure and drawing a crowd on the outside. But by the time Eddie got there, Tony was lying flat in the grass. Not moving.

"Quick backstory on Tony -- a thirteen-year-old, two hundred pound sonofabitch shipped straight from the Congo. All the others had been at least raised in captivity, some were even born there. But not Tony. Tony was from the real wild, covered in scars. And he missed it. Always got into fights with the males and attacked the females for no good reason. When he misbehaved, the zookeepers would withhold food or put him in a smaller cage away from all the other chimps, that was little more than a dark box. Sometimes after his outbursts, he'd hang his head and whimper his way back to his solitary cage, even closing it himself sometimes...

"Anyway. Our man Eddie was a trained professional, even if a lot of the staff were fresh out of high school. He faced that growing crowd, put on a million dollar grin and reassured them that all he needed was time inside. Leaving crowd control to the newbies, he waved over the next-biggest keeper they had, a guy named Dan Roberts, and together they hopped into the enclosure. Nice and slow like, all the way to Tony's body. Eyes shut, not moving, not even breathing. The men share a look, nod, each take one of the chimp's arms in hand, and lift together -- only for Tony to open his eyes.

"It happened in seconds. Choking, beating, chewing. There's nothing two barehanded men can do against a full-grown chimp. Let alone a whole colony. As soon as Tony started, all the rest started howling with him, and they joined in. Tony had already done a number on the men. The rest ripped them apart right outta their clothes. The ones that didn't eat them started throwing pieces of zookeeper into the crowd."

Mike: "That's fucked.”

"They didn't sedate him or tranquilize him?"

Sam: "Well, actually -- "

Mike: "That doesn't work on chimps. Or well, it does, but not before making them way more aggressive for minutes on end. And I'm pretty sure -- aren't chimps the only zoo animals that have a 'shoot-to-kill' order -- ?"

“As I was saying!” Sam interrupted with a short blast of the horn before returning to 10-and-2, "Even without the kill-on-SIGHT order on chimps, no animal in captivity gets a rap sheet, let alone double homicide as a group. But all of them were still enclosed, Tony was even back in solitary. Lots of paperwork for summary executions, and business was ruined forever. Place had two weeks, tops, to transfer all the animals, kill the chimps, and shut the gates for good. But turns out none of that mattered anyway..."

Sam took the last exit off the interstate, looking pointedly at us. "Any guesses, class?"

I knew. The reason Blackwell was a ghost town since the 90's. "The fire."

Sam: "From Stafford to San Jorge, right in the path of Blackwell. Neighborhoods, schools, and even the zoo. Half the staff had already turned in their two weeks notice, but when they saw smoke, they were gone. Whoever was left wasn't enough to save the animals..."

"Oh God."

Sam: "Most people don't know that wildfires are actually a lot like avalanches in the ways that they happen. They start slow and small, almost unnoticeable at first. Silent shifts, in the rocks or the woods. Until they grow and build and keep building on themselves. Roaring and rumbling and gaining, speed and ground, until there's no stopping them. Not til they run out of land to cover.

“That's what happened at the zoo. People for miles reported seeing exotic birds flying to escape, bears that haven't been in the wild for a hundred years, even a zebra in King County, covered in burns. But none of the chimps. No… they were still enclosed like so many others, trying to jump or climb out to escape the flames. But they couldn't. Legend has it that Tony crawled back into his cramped, dark cage one last time before it started… and that's where it all ended for him. Born in the wild, to be killed in captivity, but the most destructive force of nature. Kinda poetic, isn't it?”

“God…”

Mike: "So... the Fire Nation did attack."

Sam: "I hate you so much, Michael."

"Is that the end?"

Sam: "Almost. Blackwell was already falling apart, but there was nothing left after the fire. Nothing but the perfect excuse for everyone to just leave it all behind, ashes and dust."

Mike: "That's why it's cursed as fuck."

Sam: "And the perfect last haunt for the three of us. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh hell yes! One last stone to unturn."

Mike: "Is it too late to say no?"

Sam: "It absolutely is, here we are!”

The Bulldog pulled into a vacant lot that was at least 80% weeds, in front of a wide rusted fence on either side of two massive wooden pillars trying to hold up what once must've been the sign. But after years, the boards were burned black, and chipped away to a fraction of their former size, splintering and contorting under their own weight as the long green grasses worked to tear them down from below. Just looking at the doors and the scarce, utterly destroyed panels that once covered the fences, I felt so sad.

Sam: "Now that we're here. Those in favor of exploration?"

He and I both raised our hands, fixing our gaze on Mike with a sour look on his face. Majority always ruled, but unanimity was always more fun. He wouldn't make eye contact with either one of us as he slowly raised his hand.

Mike: "You guys are assholes."

We'd explored everywhere else worth seeing in the ruins of Blackwell, but there was something about this place I couldn't put to words at the time. I kept trying to mull it over as we exited the car, using our phones as flashlights when Sam turned the headlights off. No way in hell was I trekking into Blackwell Zoo in heels, especially with how nice the cool grass felt on the soles of my feet. I tied my stockings as a little white makeshift belt around my waist that blended pretty nicely with the gold sequins of my dress. I remember thinking just how much I'd have loved to wear it again.

No pockets, being the sad reality of dresses, I asked Mike to hold onto my phone while Sam got his go-bag from the trunk, which really tied together the whole afterparty look he was going for. It looked more tightly packed than usual, with sharp rectangular edges as he came around the car, flashlight and multi-tool in hand. He tossed me a head lamp that I was all too eager to wrap around my flapper headband. Soon, the three of us marched on through the grass, the path laid ahead of us shone by our three beams of light.

We walked through the threshold of the broken double doors, reveling in how no attempt had been made at deconstruction, rebuilding, anything. The first place we passed through was the gift shop, covered in dust and cobwebs over broken shelves and piles of singed plush toys strewn across the floor. I could smell the mold begging to break free from the walls. Almost none of us could bear it, and despite how much we all probably wanted to pilfer through to see what was still here -- what vandals had left by the wayside -- without words, we'd all agreed to hold our breaths and race to the exit to the park proper.

The doors flew open and we were greeted by the fresher air on the other side. Again, I was struck by the smell. There was none. Everyone knows what a zoo smells like. Concessions, fur, dirty water – let's be real, shit – and a thousand other scents blended together under the summer sun that you never quite forget -- not the least of which is the constant ebb and flow of guests. There was none of that. Not even the lingering ghost of the fire. There hadn't been for over 30 years, and it was at that exact moment of the realization coming to mind, that I realized just how empty this place was.

Right outside the gift shop was a kids' playground; monkey bars, seesaws made to look like crocodiles, a structure shaped like an elephant with a trunk-slide – all black with decades-old ash Sam could barely scrape off the rusted metal with his knife. It was so overgrown, so completely discarded -- there wasn't even any graffiti, anywhere -- I could hardly imagine it was ever a place where families came. Children. All I could do was hope to God no one was here when it happened.

We all three moved on fairly quickly, along the concrete pathway broken apart by smatterings of weeds, grass, vines, and even a full-grown pine breaking its way through the open roof of what I thought was once a food court. The artwork of snakes, frogs, butterflies all along the walls and sidewalks were faded and gray and barely recognizable. At a certain point, I was so bored of the sounds of crickets and cicadas making the old place their new home, I thought I'd voice something that'd been on my mind since Sam's history lesson.

"I wanna know what was the deal with the family. I get Tony the Chimp going ape, but all the others too? And at the same time? That doesn't just happen."

Mike: "Well you gotta remember captivity is basically prison."

"You know what I mean. Even zoo animals don't just... do that outta nowhere. What was wrong with them?"

Sam shined his light on the intertwining branches forming a canopy just above our heads.

Sam: "That's the million dollar question. Between the shave-and-haircut summary execution and then the all-encompassing fire, whatever was left of them never made it to dissection. To this day, no one knows for sure what set them off. Who knows what goes on in the mind of an animal?"

"What's our best guess, then?"

Sam: "Virus. Fungus. Parasite. Or something more. Maybe we'll be the ones to find out."

Mike: "And how would we do that?"

Sam gave a knowing look, readjusting his pack. "All in due time."

On the right side of the ongoing path was a steel fence over 10 feet high, so thick with leaves and green branches in every direction, it was closer in shape to the wall of a hedge maze. Everywhere I looked, the light shined, through the new, chaotic, natural patterns. There was something strangely beautiful about all of these plants, and bugs I had to swat out of the way of my light beam, that all came after the fire died out. I'd heard it burned for hours, almost a full day, nearly leveling this place. But in time, nature and life came back to it. Just... different.

Just the thought of that was enough to make me smile, looking at the leaves. It wasn't a second after the thought occurred to me that I saw a face, shining in the light, staring back at me through the branches. My heart leapt out of my chest and I felt the shock of it rivet through my body as I screamed, jumping back, catching the boys' attention.

"Em, what is it?" one of them called as they approached, lights merging together to shine on the unmoving face.

"Oh shit," Mike stepped up, grabbing a handful of leaves to reveal the face of a bronze gorilla; a statue hidden in the green, that made me scream like a 6-year-old. I rolled my eyes and walked on in the face of their laughter.

Mike: "What did you think it was?"

"I don't know, it looked like a gorilla to me!”

Mike chuckled. “A ghost gorilla.”

Sam: "You know, in some cultures, it's actually said that animal spirits are just as, if not more, vengeful than human spirits."

Mike: "That makes some sense actually."

That surprised me to hear from Mike. Of the three of us, he was the only really religious one.

"Hold on, I thought animals didn't have souls."

Mike: "They don't. But if they did, I could pretty easily believe that. In the mind of an animal, it's all instinct. No good, no evil, just need. Base need and nothing more. Nothing to get in the way of their nature. Except us."

Sam spoke in a British accent. "Unclouded by conscience, remorse, or delusions of morality..."

He was so good at voices.

Mike shrugged. "I was being serious, but basically, yeah."

Sam: "I get it.”

We kept to the deserted Wild Life Trail. To the left of us, we'd seen that the Rainforest exhibit had gotten the worst of the fire all those years ago. Most of it was still gone or overturned in charred black trunks wrapped with the stems of bright green saplings. On the right, I saw a wide berth where that towering hedge fence had caved in on itself, where the uneven metal bent and broke in half a dozen directions. Inside the enclosure was as wide open a space for the animals as one could expect in here, with a moat of still water some 20 feet below. I looked through the overgrowth to see the plaque that identified it as the giraffe exhibit. I was horrified at the thought of one of them, caught on the fence, trying to escape the fire.

How many other animals had died here like that? How many made it out? 30 years, I thought, there was no way any were still here. Not without keepers or food. We made our way through one last outside archway covered in vines. But in the light, I could still make out the labeling of "The Great Apes," before walking into a promenade surrounded on three sides by empty en-fenced pens. Sam led the way, walking to the center ground, kneeling to unsling and unzip his pack.

Sam: "Here it is. Ground zero."

Mike: "For the fire?"

Sam: "The murder."

Mike and I flashed our lights to the plaque marked, "Common Chimpanzee," and I felt my stomach drop. I looked back at Sam to see his hands disappear into his bag.

Mike sounded actually concerned. “What are we doing?”

From out of his backpack, Sam pulled out a polished pine board, ornately decorated with a medieval style sun, moon, and stars around two rows of the alphabet. I couldn't believe it.

Mike: "Nope! No way. I refuse. I'm out."

Sam: "I'm your ride home, buddy."

Mike: "I can walk."

"Mike. Don't tell me you're that scared of a Ouija board."

Mike: "Oh I am. And I’m not ashamed, this shit’s dangerous! Especially if you have no respect for it."

Sam: "Dude. Do you have any idea how many thousands of boards are just sitting on shelves in family rooms across America, right now?"

Mike: "Yeah, and this country's failing. What else?"

"Come on, Mike. It's a party game for kids. I've never played but I've always wanted to. Who better than with you guys?"

Mike: "Anyone who's willing to risk it. I'm not."

Sam: "Jesus Christ, you're such a pussy, Miller! You seriously think anything's gonna actually happen?"

Mike: "See? This is why these things are such fucking bullshit. The best case scenario you get from using them, from knocking on an invisible door, is looking like a jackass when nothing happens."

Sam snickered, looking down and away. "Better than looking like a scared little bitch..."

Mike: "Samuel. Go fuck yourself."

"Out of curiosity, what exactly would happen in a worst-case scenario?"

Mike: "Something."

He really believed it.

Sam: "It's just a game, man. Emma?"

He was asking for my vote. Mike's eyes begged me to say no, and not a day goes by that I wish I did. But I was young and stupid. And above all curious. Never in all my life could I have imagined such… terror to come from the four most innocent words a kid knows.

"I want to play."

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"What do you want to be when you grow up, Alice?"

A question asked by every adult in every kid's life. Hopeful and innocent. Always expecting an answer like doctor, firefighter, astronaut...

We drew our answers once in the first grade, and stood up to explain it in front of the class. I drew an angel with eyes as bright as the sky and wavy blonde hair like Mom's. Angel Alice had a long, flowy white robe made of clouds, a golden halo that shined like the sun, and wide silver wings.

She also had a sword like the Angel Michael, but she never had to use it. She was a healer. She didn't need glasses. She was bright and beautiful, flying above the earth, helping others in ways they couldn't see. Free and safe from death.

There was no faster way to make every adult who ever asked smile with well-meant concern. They worried for me in the sweetest ways. A lot of them thought that angels were just dead people. When I was that young, I guess I did too, but at the same time I wasn't afraid of that.

Godfather Carl taught me to not be afraid of death. "Everything dies," he said, "It's nature. It's all God's plan. But when we die, it isn't the end. We leave our bodies, but our souls live forever. We live in perfect, painless peace with God, forever."

But angels don't die at all. Pure, created, sinless beings that never had to leave heaven -- at least the ones that didn't fall. As perfect as a thing can be, next to God. But no human can ever be an angel. So what do we turn into when we die?

The lightning woke me up. Thunder rumbled all the way to the ground and I felt the rain pouring down on me. It caked my eyes, even as the downpour broke it down little bit by little bit into tiny rivers streaming down the sides of my face. That's when I realized my glasses were gone.

In the darkness, I could hardly remember where I was, until the lightning came in bright flashes over the towering treetops. The streaks of light were broken by the blurred silhouettes of a hundred black arms reaching out and breaking off in every direction above me. Thick and stalky alike, impossibly long, arms waving in the rain-soaked wind, like they were beckoning me up from out of the ground.

I gasped like it was the first breath I ever took, but felt no rush of air. Only mud and rainwater pouring through the corners of my mouth, as I felt the shallow puddle wash around my face. I gagged, and I tried to cough, but like the outside air, it didn't reach my mouth. It came in a painful rasp out of the base of my neck. It was cold there. Empty. All the way across.

I tried to turn my head, but only turned my body through the slipping molds of wet earth. I felt that same empty cold in my stomach, like something was missing. And I tried to raise my head.

Legs and arms carving themselves out from the ground, but not my head. My gaze fixed up to the dark sky as my head refused to move from where it was, half-submerged in the mud. Dad took us all camping back when there were just the five of us -- not in these, in the real woods near where he used to hunt, in the off season. We were all in sleeping bags in a single tent when the rain came and was just minutes away from flooding the valley. We woke up in two inches of rain water and to the sound of Dad frantically disassembling the tent to collect us into his truck, back when he had a truck.

It was like that, except here I was alone.

I felt and I heard a faint cracking, like knuckles, just above my chest. I could feel it clicking inside my unmoving head, straining as I tried. The cracking got louder the harder I tried to move myself -- to will myself -- up. And finally it moved. Backwards.

My head hung nearly all the way backwards against my struggling body, like a loose tooth hanging on by a single nerve. The shadows of the trees hung down from the dark earth, beneath a sky of filthy water at the roof of my vision.

I let go. Relaxed, as much as I could. And I breathed shallowly through my throat. I reached up with my hand, over my torn skirt and tattered sweater, to the buttons on my soaked blouse, to the cuts. My fingers trace them, nearly flipping through them like the pages of a book... two, five, nine, thirteen...

Thirteen to the bone. Through the tender, stinging folds of scarred flesh, it was as if bone was the only thing holding me together. I crawl my fingers over my mud-covered face, into my hair. It's matted, crusty, like dirty ropes, and I grab a handful of it at the roots. I can still feel it tugging at my scalp. I pick up the slack from my gashed neck and I hold myself steadily upright, to see straight.

They left me in the woods. An untouched portion of forest park between our neighborhood and our school. It stretched for miles in this crescent moon shape like it was trying to envelope the suburbs, and I learned when I was 9 that I could either ride in a crammed van for 45 minutes or I could hike the shortcut that only I ever seemed to take, straight through the middle, direct to the school, and be there in 15.

The choice was easy, especially since there were more of us every year. You can tell how badly your parents wanted a boy by just how many daughters they have. Mom was the oldest, like me, but she had three younger brothers that worshipped her like she was their princess. She was kind, confident, but sensitive and small, and they towered over her like bodyguards and were always there when she needed them. I think that's all she wanted for her daughters too.

Dad was an only child in a house with no father. No one to toss a ball or play sword-fight or sneak into theaters to watch scary movies with. He was quiet and serious most of the time, a rock of responsibility, but he could turn into the biggest goofball at the drop of a hat. A Boy Scout who wanted to raise a couple of his own. He loved talking to us, asking about our days, and even though he'd never admit it, we could always tell how much he hated saying, "You have to ask your mother."

For him, I think he just wanted someone for him to feel... less lonely. Seventeen years and seven daughters later, he'd made his peace with it. Have to, by that point. He got one good tomboy with Sonny, #2, and just last year before Isobel, #7, bought himself a rottweiler he named Brock, who he at least got to throw the ball with.

He always drove at least four of the young'uns to school and Mom was always home with at least one baby, so nine years I walked that path through the woods. That secret path, I liked to call it. Nine years, from Ascension Elementary to St. Sebastian across the street. Nine years I never saw anything, or anyone, but the old, gray trees. Even the birds seemed like they waited til I was out the other side to start singing again.

I didn't know today would be so different. I was walking back like a thousand times before, and I had just finished playing the second song in my earbuds outta the four or five it always takes to get home. I was adjusting my backpack and looking at my phone to change the song; I wanted something sweeter, brighter, something my friend Riley had recommended. The time had just turned to 3:30.

They came up from behind. Two of them. Just two.

One was skinny. Wiry. Long greasy hair under a beanie he wore with his blazer. Pointed nose crooked every which way and uneven patches of hair all along his chin. Always tweaked out, always high on something. Everyone whispered about him anyway, a burnout with no future, living in his parents' garage. His breath smelled like cigarettes.

Avery Miller.

The other was one to recognize. Slick, combed blonde hair. Clean cut, organized. Bright blue eyes and a million-dollar grin that had everyone fooled, even me. Could talk his way into or out of anything he wanted. Star athlete, model student, and valedictorian with his whole life ahead of him on a silver platter, living in the house on the hill. The only rumors spread about him were who his next willing conquest would be. He was the last one anyone would ever expect.

Kit Holloway.

They both held me down, tore my clothes. The one with the knife was Kit. But it was both of them.

He held it to my throat and just stared at me with blank, soulless eyes. He breathed so steadily, like a lying dog. I kept expecting him to say something, threaten me, but he never did. He just stayed silent, pressing the knife to my throat the whole time. I kept thinking my silence would save me.

The most I said was just a whisper, "I won't tell anyone, just please don't hurt me."

Even after Avery gagged my mouth, I kept thinking that like it was a wish. Like it'd make a difference. I wished that someone else -- anyone else -- would happen to take this "secret path" I loved so much. But no one did. No one ever did. I stared past the both of them through the towering trees into the graying sky, the coming storm.

It's almost over, I kept thinking, Just stay still, it'll be over soon.

Then they cut me. Over and over. Cuts as deep as the grave was shallow.

The first one scared them. It was Avery, I think, after Kit climbed off and held down my arms. It felt like something stuck at the bottom of my throat. I couldn't breathe and I started to cough, and I could see that I was spitting blood onto the dirt and grass. Then he started screaming.

Kit grabbed the knife and he took over, while Avery covered his face with his shirt. I could barely feel what was happening to me. I didn't want to. I could hear thunder in the distance as I started to slip away.

Soon enough it all went black. But they say hearing is the last sense that leaves you in the end. I heard their voices.

"Oh shit, oh shit, oh fuck, what're we gonna do?!"

"Calm down."

"She's dead -- we fucking killed her, man."

"Calm. Down."

"I'm sorry, I mean... You -- you really..."

"You got the ball rolling, all I did was make sure."

"Jesus... I don't think I can -- "

"Hey. Hey! Look at me... You keep it together. You're not flaking out on me now."

"This wasn't supposed to happen!"

"Well it did. Could've been a lot worse. Remember, we were worried she'd talk. Now that's not a factor anymore. So keep it together."

"What the fuck do we do, man?"

"We go home. We clean ourselves up. Plan for the next day. We were never here."

"We can't just leave her like this..."

"We'll cover her, but we haul ass outta here. Rain's coming in, it'll wash away... a lot of it. I'll trash her backpack. If no one's found her by tomorrow, we come back, trash her somewhere else. Lake or something."

"But what if they find her?"

"Then we deal with that as it happens. We were never here, we don't know her. Go home and think solutions. Think of anything you have that we can use. Think."

"I... I have a tarp in the garage."

"Tarp, that's good. We'll need that. I got chlorine at my place, I'll clean the knife."

"What? No, that's my dad's knife. I'll clean it."

"Will you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, just make sure it's the first thing you do. Go home, clean the knife, get yourself cleaned up, give me the night to make a plan."

"Okay. Okay..."

"We were never here. Right?"

"Right."

"And -- stay lucid, okay? I need you reliable."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay."

"Seriously, I mean it."

"Okay! Sorry..."

"... It's okay."

"God, there's so much blood."

"Yeah, that's what happens. Help me with her."

They buried me. Shallow, with their hands and with branches they used to churn the earth. Enough for the rain to wash into mud down my face, my body... my wounds. And the water pooled at my sides like a deflated kiddie pool.

Holding my loose head steady with one hand, I use the other to push myself up, the dark brown water sloshing and receding as I moved to reveal my ruined uniform. Blood soaked in reddish-brown stains through the fabric of my white shirt, all the way down to some odd tears across my stomach. Wounds I felt all the way through to my back. They stabbed me, I couldn't count how many times.

When did they stab me? Why didn't I feel it? Was it after...

How was I still alive? How was I still breathing, through the gashes in my neck? I couldn't even feel the veins in my neck anymore. This wasn't possible. It wasn't real, it couldn't be.

But it didn't go away. I saw that I was still bleeding from the wounds on my stomach, down to my skirt. It didn't hurt, it was just cold, which the rain didn't help with. I slipped myself out of the right arm of my school sweater and wrapped it halfway around my stomach. I didn't want to take my other hand off my head.

My feet kicked at the bottom of the mud puddle as I scooted myself, inch by inch, back onto the ground. I turned myself around and forced myself up to my knees. Wobbly and weak, but I held myself.

Stand up.

I tried moving my knee prostrate, but I couldn't. It's like they were asleep, even as I was kneeling in the mud and the rain. I couldn't stand up. Even if I thought I could make it, I couldn't even tell where to go. Where was home?

Over the patter of rain, I heard something. Not thunder, it was for sure on the ground. Loud, but pointed. Like a voice in the distance, calling out somewhere. To me? I didn't know, I couldn't even tell what it said.

But it knew at least that it was behind me. So on my knees, I crawled, little by little, mud and twigs trailing behind me, as I held my head in place. The lightning shining off the trickling trees lit the uncertain way for me, before the darkness came again. Kept crawling forward, brushing my shoulder against the bark of unseen trees, just as I started to forget where the sound has come from.

"Raff!"

There it was again. Light and sharp, hollow and breathy, closer than before. Not quite a dog bark, but very loud for a person. Some kind of voice, for sure, but not a word, I don't think. Maybe a name? A parent calling their child? Did I know any Raff's? Is that even a name?

"Rah-ulff!"

Closer now. Louder. Sounded like "Ralph" but in two syllables. Lightning flashed and ahead of me some ten feet I could see a single, skinny tree trunk cut down to maybe a foot and a half of stump, in amongst a towering forest. I'd never seen it in all the time I'd been through here.

And it didn't look evenly cut either, like some of the bark had stayed intact along the cutting line even when the body was missing. Two bits that pointed up along the sides like stout little horns. I swear even through the darkness, near the top, I could see two distinct droplets of water that shined through like the reflection of the lightning had yet to escape them.

They shined out to me through the rain like two little soft yellow eyes. They even blinked at me.

Lightning flashed again. It was a fox.

Little black fox -- "melanistic" I think is the word, the opposite of albino -- with wisps of white along his chin and chest and snout. Just sitting upright in the rain across from me, eyes glowing a hollow glow to let me know he was still there in the rumbling dark.

I always loved foxes, but I'd never seen any like this, even in pictures. Maybe I am dead.

"Ralph!" I heard him call again.

It almost hurt my ears how close he was. For a second I could only see his eyes until the lightning struck again and I saw just how well-kept he was. He looked like someone's pet. And he wasn't afraid of me as he just sat there, stock still, staring at me. Somehow that made me less afraid of him too.

He got up on all fours and kept staring. I had to lean to let one of my legs up, and I almost fell over as I did. The sole of my left foot made contact with the muddy ground.

Halfway there. In my legs I felt that numb stinging like when they're asleep. They wobbled like it was the first time I'd ever walked on them, and the dirty rainwater dripped off of me. I don't think I could help but go slow, fearing the higher and higher I rose to my feet that I'd fall to the ground again. That my head would snap off and my insides pour out of me, as I desperately clutched both of them closed.

I couldn't find my balance, I could feel it -- I was going to fall.

"Ralph!" the fox yipped, my eyes snapping back to his.

A focus, a center. My right foot found the ground, and I stood up on stiff legs. I was dizzy, pulling on my own hair like a horse's bridle. Ralph's glowing eyes disappeared one moment and in the next, the lightning showed me that he turned himself around, looking over his shoulder at me. Beckoning me.

I didn't know where I was going, so I followed him. My legs barely worked as I took slow, awkward steps over fallen branches, terrified that each one might be one too much for this broken body. He was always ahead, but never fully out of sight. Except for those yips, he never made a sound, but I knew where he was. There in the dark, walking with him, barely thinking.

Classmates, school, St. Sebastian... I always hated that story. Never knew what I was supposed to learn from it. He was a saint, martyred by the Romans. Condemned by the emperor, tied to a tree, and shot with arrows. Dozens of arrows in his stomach and his chest and his arms and his neck. The soldiers didn't stop until their arms got tired, the arrows ran out, and Sebastian was "as full of arrows as a feathered urchin." I never forgot that description. By then they just left him there, against the tree. But he lived.

He was found and nursed to health. And he went back to the soldiers and the emperor that left him for dead, to accuse them. So they seized him and... I forget if they beat him to death or cut off his head. Either way, they finished the job. What was the point of that? He was alive. He avoided death, he was safe. What would've been so wrong with him just, living? But he went back to show them he was alive, just for them to kill him again. God handed him a miracle, and he chose to die. What was he thinking?

Where was I...?

"Ralph!"

In the dark, he flashed his eyes back at me, leading me... somewhere. I didn't care where, just let me out of these woods. If I die, let me die at home, with my family. Please, give me this miracle.

I start to see the street lights through the trees. I just want to crawl into my bed one last time. And sleep.

Ralph sits patiently at the edge of the forest, right in front of Maple Street, where I always tag the lamppost before I head in. He looks at me, then back to the street, as I take my last tiring steps to meet him, and look out.

Rows of brick houses I passed by all the time, lights on, blinds drawn. I looked all the way down, on the left, to the street corner marked by the house I grew up in. The tree I used to climb with Sonny when we were younger. The police car parked in our driveway, flashing its red and blue lights.

I didn't dare turn my head to him, but I moved only my eyes to the bottom corner of my vision to see that little black fox and its soft golden eyes as it looked up at me.

What is this?

It stood on all fours and turned silently back to trot into the woods, a tuft of snow white fur on the tip of its tail twirling behind, before disappearing in darkness.

I was alone, but I could see it. See them. Silhouettes in the lights shining from every window in that house. In front of the house just across the street from me, was a girl with a handle flashlight and yellow rain coat, pacing on the porch. Checking her watch. Adjusting her glasses. Kaitlynn. Number 3.

She was looking for me. The door didn't open and she stood there on the porch, waving the light beam like a signal tower. The rays scanned the treeline across from where she was, passing me by in a bright glowing flash, and suddenly snapped back to where I was. A blinding light. I couldn't cover my eyes, only shut them as hard as I could. I could see the black blood vessels in my eyelids, and the light slowly, slowly intensified.

The patter of rain was constant, somehow louder against asphalt. But through it, like interference on a radio, I could just barely hear:

"Alice...?"

I opened my eyes, just for a moment, the light blaring into my skull.

"Oh God...!" raised the voice of my sister, "Dad! Officer!!"

The blaring vanished, the flashes receding as I blinked them away. Kaitlynn ran hard through the heavy rain, screaming all the way down the street. I tried to call out after her, but no sound came from me.

At the house where she'd just been, I saw the door open and a friendly, middle-aged woman look out at the street, the screaming. She looked, confused, in every direction, same as Kaitlynn. She was thin, down to her hair. Tired. Pretty, but weathered. I recognized her too. Mrs. Miller was always nice, as far as neighbors went. She cupped her eyes to look along the treeline -- she looked right at me -- but after a moment, she shook her head and shut the door.

I looked over to see that even the light in the garage was on. Two cars in the driveway. He was in there.

I walked through the rain, across the street to the back of the garage. I heard yelling down the street as I stood in front of the back door, under an awning. The door knob was there, but my hands were full. I felt how my school jacket was dead weight in my hand, and I held it to my torn stomach like a rag. I pulled it up, tucking one arm in between the buttons of my shirt, and wrapped the other side properly around like I should've done earlier. It wasn't anything like a proper tourniquet, but it was enough to free my hand.

I turned the knob. No lock. The door opened. The floor was all mats and rugs, duct taped end-to-end to one another. A pair of muddy shoes sat on a doormat just inside. The walls were all movie posters and a long white sheet draped over what was once the garage door. A pair of bicycles hung on the third wall, over a workshop desk of house and garden tools, and what looked like an unplugged lava lamp. No, no it wasn't that. The closer I looked, the more I saw -- it was a hookah. So that's what the smell was.

In the middle of the room was a projector stood up on a tripod in front of a coffee table holding a half-empty glass of milk, a standing bag of cookies, and a pair of crossed bare feet. I followed the legs of loose pajama pants to a spindly boy in a black sweater, staring at me with wide, bloodshot red eyes as he was chewing his food.

Avery.

The air was thick and silent between us as the rain came down outside. My breath was steadier than expected -- it all still felt a little like a dream to me -- while his came in shudders as he finished swallowing.

"Nah..." he grumbled, shaking his head, giggling in slurred words. "No, no, no. You're not real... You're dead... We left you in the woods... Shit was crazy. You're not real..."

He slowly crawled over the arm of his couch, craning his skinny neck to look closer at me. Up and down, his bright red eyes raked over me.

"How are you still... so hot?"

I walked over to the table and picked up the milk glass. His absent gaze followed me as he reached out a limp left hand over to me, his right snaking down to his crotch.

I smashed the glass on the right side of his face, my neck falling down onto my shoulder as Avery fell, screaming in pain onto the floor. Larger shards than I expected embedded themselves in my hand and I looked down to see a massive jagged piece was stuck in his cheek and one of his eyes, his face drenched in milk and dripping bright red blood.

After he screamed, his shaky hands hovered over the new gashes in his gaunt face. The glass in his right eye kept him from blinking properly, and he let out a trembling gasp.

"What the fuck?"

I reached down, grabbing him by the throat with both hands. He immediately started gasping, choking, clawing at my hands and his neck. It wasn't until he started coughing in spurts of blood, and I felt a warm sensation flow softly between my fingers that I realized I was also cutting him. His screams were strangled under my hands.

He couldn't do anything now. I squeezed tighter. Tighter.

Weak and delirious, he threw his entire weight around me, pushing me off as he launched himself backward over the table, overturning it as he hit the floor. I could hear him gurgling as I walked along the other side. I wondered where he thought he was crawling to.

His words were garbled, breathy, desperate.

"Kit -- it was... Kit... please..."

The blood poured from his neck, his mouth, his face, soaking into the rugs underneath him as he pulled himself, dragging even the good side of his face. He gave up by the time his hand touched the bottom of the work bench, probably realizing he ran out of floor. I looked up at the wall of pegs, the tools hanging on them, the blunt instruments.

A hammer with a sky blue rubber grip.

All my focus went to keeping a strong hold on it, while the little weight fell to the side of my knee. I looked down at Avery, gasping, gargling, face down on the floor. I knelt down beside his head of greasy hair, envisioning the motion.

I raised my arm as he let out one last cry.

"Pleas-"

It sounded like a watermelon smashing on pavement. His head cracked like an egg and his blood burst out in a bright red mist that oozed up in bubbles around where the hammerhead was stuck. His shoulders started to spasm, so I hit him again. And again.

I lost count to be honest. I just know that I didn't stop until his skull was shattered into a hundred white puzzle pieces sprinkled into a stew of grayish-pink mince meat.

I was tired. Could I be tired if I was dead?

I sat against the bench, staring at the mostly intact body, ending at the neck in the mess I made of Avery Miller. His black sweatshirt promoting some werewolf movie that came out last year. His red plaid fucking PJ pants. But something else too...

He had something poking under the back of his shirt. I tug it up and back and pulled out from his waistband an Army knife with a brown wood handle and a long black blade still stained with red rust. That knife.

Kit.

I walked out of the Millers' garage back into the rain. Under the sounds of distant thunder, I thought I heard the sound of someone screaming far behind me. Thunder roared and dogs whimpered from their doghouses as I passed through open backyards bordered with wood or metal fences on only one neighbor's side.

As I marched forward through the mowed wet grass, I found it was difficult not to lean leftward as my tilted vision made me dizzy under the buzzing street lights. Everyone knew where the Holloways lived.

I found their regal colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac on Willow Way. I walked the stone path, up the steps to the door, wedged the knife into the slit between the lock and the frame, and broke it open with the hammer.

My eyes were focused mainly on the polished woodboards, glimmering in the light of the chandelier overhead. I heard barking from the next room, the clattering of paws coming closer and closer, to a scraping stop. The low growl turned to a high whimper as the scrambling receded.

I found the stairway, and my neck strained with every step as the water dripped down my clothes. Sitting in the middle of the stairs, I saw a little girl. Can't have been more than four, Emily's age. Precious, with bright blue eyes and golden blonde hair, holding a white stuffed rabbit.

She looked a little like me.

She wasn't scared as she looked up at me. Curious, more like. She tilted her head all the way to her shoulder to meet my gaze. Her hair fell down the same way her bunny's ears flopped. I didn't know he had a sister.

"Are you okay?" she asked like I'd just scraped my knee.

I looked up the stairs and walked past Little Alice all the way up the terrace to the white bathroom door. I heard his voice, muffled inside. The door opened easily, letting out the steam of the shower.

The walls were white tile, with this tacky rose stalk pattern. I saw his silhouette behind a translucent glass panel as he washed himself. Washed himself of me. Stuck to the dry side of the panel was a green Bluetooth speaker evenly playing the song he was singing inside. Over the running water, I even heard him. I heard it was "Sailor Song" by Gigi Perez. For a while that was my favorite song.

The thick panel broke into several jagged, uneven pieces with one swing of the hammer. He spun around suddenly, shock on his face, water falling from his hair and shoulders as the pieces of pane shattered at his feet like sheets of ice.

After the hammer, then the knife, that drove into his lean flesh like carving a ham. I realized my aim was off and instead of his chest, I'd stabbed through his left shoulder, hitting the bone of his arm, and hearing him grunt as he tried to say... something.

Hammer again, I swung over my other arm, smashing against his jaw, staggering him as the knife partly held him up. Some of his teeth clattered into the blood red water splashing on the shower floor as his feet shuffled over broken glass.

Pulling the knife out was too much effort, so I swung the hammer again toward the right side of his face -- the side not bruised and bleeding. He quickly raised his right arm to block mine, grunting like an animal, grabbing me by the collar of my shirt and pulling me into the shower as he tried to move himself out. Even like this he was still stronger.

My knees gave out as he threw me toward him into the water, my head knocking against the hard wall. The exposed bones in my neck cracked and I saw stars as I heard him groan and stumble out of the shower. I saw he was on his hands and knees, shaking the shards from his hands as he tried crawling for the open door.

I felt something rise in me as I watched him. It felt like a scream, from all the way in my stomach, drummed out from the hammering of my heart, that escaped my open throat in an inhuman moan as I lunged for his back.

He rolled in time to catch and throw me back to the ground beside him, rage in his eyes. I kicked, I swung, I gnashed my teeth -- everything I wish I'd done in the woods -- but he held me down. He drooled blood in between missing teeth, grinding with the only side of his face where the jaw was connected. He pinned my hammer hand down by the wrist, I could just barely reach to claw at his half-maimed face with my left.

He grabbed me by the shoulder, turning me onto my stomach, with my face against the white porcelain tiles. Then he pulled me by the hair and smashed my head down into it. He did it three, four times until I heard my skull crack. And it hurt.

I stopped breathing so hard and heavily. I could only see the bright white through the one of my eyes not mushed against the floor. I heard him breathing, sighing, slurring nonsense to himself next to my limp body. Resting.

I was so tired. All I wanted was to close my eyes, stay still, wait for it to be over. And I might've.

But I heard him grunt as he held one hand on the sink to stand himself up. I felt the metal hammer head rest heavily on my fingers. He stepped over me, gingerly, on the uninjured heel of his foot. He was trying to walk away. With all the strength in my arm, I ran the claw through his Achilles' tendon, hearing him wail as he fell back down to my level.

I pushed up with my arms as he shambled into the corner. I crawled up to him and pulled the knife from his shoulder as he kept trying to hold me back. I stabbed, aiming for his neck.

Not perfect, but I got it. Through the skin, the veins, but just missed the bones of his neck. The handle stuck out at an awkward, diagonal angle. I saw terror flood in his eyes, as one of his hands reached up to touch it, realizing where it was. He had a moment of instinct to try and pull it out before realizing he couldn't. He was dead anyway.

But I wasn't finished.

I watched his pretty blue eyes widen as I grabbed the knife handle with one hand and a fistful of his hair with the other. And I pulled and pushed on both, slamming the back of his head against the wall, each time cutting deeper and deeper, all the way through his throat like a broken paper cutter. He stopped moving, making noise, after just the second or third, but I didn't stop until the blade scraped against the tile wall, I saw those white roses painted red, and heard that rolling thud against the floor. I didn't look.

I breathed. I laughed. Then I got up. I found my glasses in his computer drawer.

I'm writing this now just so everyone knows. It’s important to me that people know, even if it’s too much to understand. Hell, I still don’t.

My name is Alice Wright. I’m the oldest of seven, the daughter of Eileen and David Wright. And I was seventeen years old when I was murdered. But it wasn’t the end. Not that it makes any difference, but underneath it all I do feel this pit in my stomach for Mrs. Miller, the Holloways, Little Alice...

Whatever else, it wasn't their fault. They didn't know. They were innocent, like me.

I'm going to walk out now. I'm done here. It's getting grayer and I feel myself slipping. If I can, I'll walk out onto the street where anyone can see me. Or at least see my body.

I don't want my parents to see me like this, but the thought of them never knowing, never giving up looking, is somehow so much worse. It'll hurt them, but then they can heal.

And I can finally let go. So I'll walk out.

And after that, well, it's anyone's guess.