u/Everblack_Deathmask

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

I used to think that the worst moment of my life was when my wife woke up and couldn’t remember who I was. But I was wrong. That wasn’t the worst. The worst moment of my life happened today and I still don’t know how to process it.

Three months ago, my wife Cynthia and I were hiking on a trail about thirty miles outside of Albion. She slipped near the ridge overlook and fell nearly twenty feet onto a jagged outcropping below. I had no feasible way of reaching her, so I did what any rational person would do in that situation. I scrambled downhill to get somewhere that had service, and called 911. By the time paramedics finally arrived, she was unconscious and bleeding profusely from the side of her head.

I must have waited in the hospital lobby for what felt like an eternity. Seconds crawled by like hours, weighed down by immense anxiety and uncertainty. When the medical staff finally informed me of her condition, they explained that it was nothing short of a miracle that her injuries weren’t far worse.

“Her guardian angel was looking out for her,” were the doctor’s exact words. He urged me to remain cautiously optimistic about her recovery, but even that warning paled in comparison to the emotional anguish that followed. 

It was a long while before Cynthia finally had the strength to look at me, and when she did, her eyes were void of any trace of recognition.

“Do I know you?” She asked.

I didn’t respond. The question felt like it had come from another life.

According to the neurologists, cases of retrograde amnesia were rarely straightforward. I was physically there when they relayed concepts such as emotional instability and drastic shifts in personality, but mentally, I was elsewhere. 

I was warned that by the time she came home; the love of my life might no longer be the person I remembered. It was a lot to take in all at once, and I broke down many times after the news had long been delivered to me.

In the days that followed, family members, friends, and coworkers alike all stopped by to see how well she was doing. While they were all focused on lifting Cynthia’s spirits, I threw myself headlong down a rabbit hole of research, desperate to learn anything and everything that could help me with her recovery efforts once she was discharged. 

I spoke with a wide range of specialists and read articles late into the night, desperate to retain anything that could help Cynthia return to normalcy. The day I could finally bring her home couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did I was overwhelmed with relief. I could free her from the confines of her hospital room and give her a much needed change of scenery.

On the drive back to our home, I couldn’t help but wonder if it were possible for us to reclaim even a sliver of the life we had shared together before the accident.

Her adjustment to life back at the house was a gradual process. But even with the accommodations I had made for her, changes were still noticeable. For starters, while she was able to remember my name, she started sleeping on the opposite side of the bed instead of next to me. I couldn’t necessarily blame her for that. My name might have been familiar, but that alone didn’t make me any less of a stranger. 

Another change I noticed was her newfound hatred for coffee. Cynthia said that it was disgusting. I was crushed when she said that because I had made it the way I remembered her liking it. She had been an avid consumer for years and refused to start any morning without it. What was once a morning ritual had now become yet another absence in our house. I poured the pot of coffee down the sink and never made another cup after that.

Additionally, she forgot our address and even called our dog “Sammy” on multiple occasions even though her name was Zelda. For context, we’ve had Zelda for seven years, and not once has she ever growled or bitten anyone. 

That is, until Cynthia came home. 

It wasn’t hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to send a message. When I heard her scream in pain, I immediately asked her what had happened. She insisted that all she had done was try to pet Zelda, but she wouldn’t let her. She kept accusing Zelda of being out of control and that she needed to go, but she had never behaved like this. Ever. The entire time I talked to Cynthia about this, Zelda growled from the floor of the adjacent room. Even when I called her name to knock it off, she didn’t look at me.

The whole situation was bizarre, but I attributed that to Zelda getting used to Cynthia being back home. Anything else meant a truth that I couldn’t carry.

Later that night, I went downstairs to find her sitting at the kitchen table with all the lights on. What was most peculiar was how haphazardly dozens of priceless photos ranging from our wedding to family holidays were strewn about. She looked like a college student cramming for an exam the night before.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shielding my eyes from the kitchen lights. “It’s two in the morning. You had me worried.”

She looked up when I entered the room and quickly shut one of the albums. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. I’m just trying my best to remember everything.”

I walked over and draped my arms around her. “Don’t apologize. I’ll help you remember everything. I’m here every step of the way.” 

She placed a hand over mine, but didn’t look away from the photos. I stayed downstairs with her a little longer, reminiscing about how things used to be before leading her back to our bedroom, and finally calling it a night. 

Over the following weeks, Cynthia began remembering small details of our life—birthdays, our anniversary, favorite foods, even the names of family members. She even corrected me about a detail regarding our Disney World itinerary from a few years ago that I was sure she had forgotten.

We were snuggling up in bed watching a movie together one evening when she nuzzled her head against my chest. “I think I’m starting to remember a certain feeling.” 

I turned my attention away from the movie to look at her. “What do you mean dear?” 

She smiled warmly and looked up at me with her sapphire blue eyes. “What it’s like being in your arms.”

Her words warmed my heart, and we embraced lovingly.

I was elated to see that things were seemingly improving. I had remained hopeful that after all this time she would pull through. But despite the progress she had made, everything about it was undone the moment I arrived home from work today.

I walked through the front door and found Cynthia sitting on the couch watching TV. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was what she was eating.

I stared at the leftover Thai takeout container that she was scooping food out of, and read what was written in black marker on the side of the box:

“Spicy PB Noodles”

I felt a chill creep up my spine. Peanut butter. That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t have eaten my leftovers. Cynthia had a severe peanut allergy. The kind where any form of exposure could send her into anaphylactic shock and kill her in minutes. So how was she consuming it by the spoonful?

Cynthia noticed me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything okay honey?”

She sounded genuinely confused, but I wasn’t.

“You…you can’t eat that.” My hands trembled with rage and sadness.

She set the container down on the coffee table in front of her slowly. “Jason? Baby, what are you talking about? Of course I can.”

I watched her get up from her place on the couch and approach me. Before she could offer any reassurance, I pulled away and retreated up the stairs towards our bedroom.

She hasn’t come upstairs since everything happened. I think she’s still watching TV downstairs. I’m not going to go down there, regardless of whether she’s waiting for me to come talk to her. I’m not even going to entertain that idea. Everything I thought I knew about her has been ruined. I don’t know what to do or what to think right now. 

The only thing on my mind right now is that whoever is downstairs right now…that’s not my wife.

A couple of weeks ago, the cravings began. I’ve been hungry before, but this felt different. Something primal deep within me was begging to be fed. It whispered the same word over and over again like a mantra:

Meat.

But I didn’t just desire any meat. I wanted human flesh. 

I wanted to feel it peel away between my teeth like the skin of an apple. To savor every last bit.

The cravings wouldn’t leave me alone. The intrusive thoughts crawled around in the back of my mind like an infestation of cockroaches. They bled into every waking moment of mine. While I ate, while I paced around my apartment, while I watched TV. It never stopped.

Full meals weren’t appetizing to me anymore. Pasta, steak, pizza, none of it sounded or looked appealing. I would take pounds of raw hamburger meat out and let it thaw, watching it intently as frost gave way to condensation. 

Once the packages had fully thawed, I tore into them, devouring them all like a man possessed. The aftermath made my kitchen floor look like someone had dumped buckets of chum everywhere. 

The next stepping stone was my neighbor’s cat. It was perched on my windowsill, ripe for the picking. It tasted better, but every bite just reinforced what I already knew: this wasn’t what I wanted. 

It was a reminder that persisted until I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

I held out as long as I could before I finally gave in a week later.

I started with my arm. I took a kitchen knife, cut off a small chunk of flesh, and scarfed it down. It was succulent. It was beautiful. It was food. But one bite was simply not enough. 

I treated myself like a human jack-o-lantern. Carving, slicing, and pulling myself apart to satisfy my hunger. Blood is splattered all over my walls and furniture. The rotten remnants of my old appendages are scattered around the kitchen in piles that rival my dirty dishes.

No matter how much I hack off, my limbs always rejuvenate themselves. I don’t know how, but I’m not complaining. I’m my own self-sustaining buffet.

I’ve eaten every part of myself I can. I’ve even tried cooking it—seasoning it, but the constant experimentation still wasn’t enough.

It smells like a slaughterhouse in here, but I’ve honestly gotten used to it.

Tenants have knocked and complained about the smell. Especially Jonah.

“It reeks of death,” he remarked one evening, his voice muffled through the door.

I never liked him, but I’ll give him credit where he’s due. He’s persistent. He keeps stopping by to check on me. 

“Are you alright in there?”  

“Do you need help?”

“Talk to me. I’m here for you.” 

No, you’re not. I don’t need your help. I don’t need anybody’s help. What I need is to be left alone. I want to—no, I need to eat. 

I just have to keep eating, and I do. I choose not to respond. Every second I spend listening is a second I’m not eating. They need to stop getting in my way.

I don’t remember the last time I left my apartment.

Monday? No—Thursday. It doesn’t matter. Every day feels the same. Must keep eating.

The more of myself I eat, the more I yearn for something…different. Flesh that is not my own. I wonder what that would taste like? 

I don’t know, but I want to.

There’s someone outside again.

Jonah?

I think I’m going to finally answer the door.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

This is all going to sound so unbelievable, but I need to talk about this because our town is on lockdown until further notice.

My friend Trent and I weren’t looking for trouble. We got high off our asses and just wanted to get some food. That’s it. That’s how this started. But with the way the world has been going lately, I’d rather you hear what actually happened from me instead of whatever story the news decides to feed you.

I was fused to the couch, aimlessly watching the news anchor ramble on about politics while Trent sat next to me. “I feel like they’re always mad about something.”

“It’s the news,” I muttered, my body feeling like the juice inside a lava lamp. “That’s their whole thing.”

We sat there for a while, listening to the low volume and reading the closed captioning so that our zonked asses could keep up with what was going on.

When the channel cut to commercial, Trent got up. “Dude, check this out.” Trent went to his room and came back with an assortment of coupons. “Talk about the motherlode of options am I right?”

He set them on the coffee table in front of me. I took a closer look at them, only to be met with disappointment. “You do realize most of these are expired right?” I pointed at the various dates, ranging from yesterday to a whopping three months expired. “So much for options.”

“Coupons are like window shopping.” He smiled dumbly, his eyes completely bloodshot. “They’re suggestions with confidence.” 

“Fifty milligrams of Indica really got you feeling philosophical, huh Socrates?” 

“Nah.” He smirked. “It’s got me feeling like I haven’t eaten in at least ten business days.” 

“Well let’s figure something out then.”

“Chicken sandwiches?” Trent asked.

“We had that last week.” 

“Chinese?” 

“That doesn’t sound good right now.” 

“Tacos?”

“I had horrible stomach cramps the last time we had tacos man.”

“Aw. Do you want me to order you some French cries?” Trent shook his head in slight annoyance. “You’re more indecisive than my parents trying to plan a vacation.”

“I mean, we are roommates,” I shrugged. “We’re basically halfway to being a bickering couple.”

“Touché.” He didn’t even look up at me. “What about Italian?”

“What Italian place do you know that’s going to be open at two in the morning?”

“Oh…good point.” He stared at me blankly, his last two remaining brain cells fighting for third place as he picked up another coupon from the table and squinted at it.

“The Raveyard,” he read slowly with heavy eyes. “‘Buy one, get one ‘Graveyard Smashburger free.’ That sounds… stupendous.”

I laughed at his choice of wording. “You really wanna go to that retro horror themed place with the weird graveyard out back?”

“Yeah! Why not? We’ve never been.” His eyes widened with excitement. He was practically frothing at the mouth. “Don’t you want to bite into a mouth-wateringly delicious patty with melted cheese right now?”

My stomach growled, providing an answer before the words could even leave my mouth. “Abso-freakin-lutely.”

“Sick.” Trent fist-pumped the air as he grabbed his keys from the countertop and shoved the coupons into his pocket. “Let’s boot, scoot, and boogie. I’m starving.” 

I went to turn off the TV, but right as I did so, the late-night news anchor began talking about something that made my stomach churn.

“The suspect has not been located. Residents of the Silver Grove complex are advised to remain indoors as the search for Jonah’s killer remains at large.”

After the breaking news announcement, they put a grainy picture on the screen. It was an image that was more than likely pulled from a security camera, but it was enough to get a decent profile.

He had the kind of face that would never stand out in a crowd. I don’t know if it was the graininess of the footage or the lighting or what, but his eyes appeared to be an unnatural color. Most disturbingly though was all the blood. It covered almost every inch of his baggy clothing.

I pressed the power button on the TV remote, and watched the screen go black. “Should we listen to the news?” 

“Fuck no.” Trent dismissed, dangling his keys. “If people listened to the news we wouldn’t be in half the shit we find ourselves in. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve got a case of the serious munchies.”

I didn’t argue. I just followed him to the car. In hindsight, I should have listened to my gut and suggested we stay home, but instead, we left our apartment complex and embarked on a late quest to The Raveyard.

“Hold On Loosely” by 38 Special served as the soundtrack for our drive down the various empty  streets toward our destination. The kick drums thumped in the speakers, drowning out the rumbling of my stomach that could have easily registered on the Richter scale.

After a fairly brief drive, we rolled up to the restaurant. The big neon burger flickered in the darkness of the night, a beacon of hope for our cravings as we pulled up to the skull-shaped speaker box in the drive-thru. My mouth salivated at the thought of stuffing some burgers down my food-deprived gullet. 

We sat idly in the car, staring at the plethora of options on the menu and pondering just how much we were about to blow on food. When we finally decided what we wanted, Trent rolled down the window and stuck his head out the car.

“Hey, uh…” He trailed off before remembering the task at hand. “We’re ready to order.”

We were greeted by nothing but static and…wheezing? It was faint, but unmistakable.

“Great customer service.” Trent said impatiently. “Are you going to take our order or what?”

I couldn’t help but feel a little concerned at the noise. “Are they having an asthma attack or something?”

“They can walk it off. Might just be a newbie’s first day.” Trent pulled his head back into the car. “We’ve all been there.”

“Don’t joke like that man.”

“I’m not joking. It might just be the speaker.” He stuck his head out again. “My friend and I want to order. Is everything alright in there?”

There was no response, but the wheezing sound persisted in the static.

“Sounds like someone forgot to turn off their headset while on the John.”

“Maybe they’re busy on the inside?” I thought aloud.

Trent scanned the parking lot with sarcastic puzzlement. “Yeah…the place sure is packed to the gills. I know you’re not the brightest crayon in the Crayola box Tanner, but use that noggin of yours.”

Without warning, the speaker crackled to unsuspecting life as the sound of a scream pierced the air before falling completely silent.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. “I’m not tripping am I?”

“No. I heard it too.”

Trent stepped on the gas and pulled forward to the first window. What we saw left us confused and horrified. Smeared all over the cracked drive-thru window was blood. It dripped down the glass as slowly as molasses.

Trent unbuckled his seatbelt and stuck his body halfway out the car to peer through the window. “Surely they’re fucking with us.”

I tensed up in my seat. “If they are, this is one fucked up prank.”

For a solid five seconds, Trent stared inside before recoiling back inside. The color had completely drained from his face. “We need to go inside and check on everyone.”

“Are you crazy? What did you see?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he floored it out of the drive-thru, parked the car, and immediately barreled out the driver’s side door towards the entrance. I followed in hot pursuit, well aware that we were treating all the red flags like checkpoints.

Upon entry, we were greeted with the familiar saxophone motif of “Urgent” by Foreigner.

“Urgent…urgent…emergency.” reverberated throughout the seemingly vacant restaurant as my eyes surveyed the carnage. The interior looked like it had been hit by an F-5 tornado. Chairs were overturned while plastic trays, paper wrapping, and half-eaten burgers and fries were strewn all over the black and white chessboard-like tile floor. The fryers in the back emitted a sound similar to a rattlesnake’s rattle. 

Trent swallowed nervously. “Let’s take a quick look around and get the hell out of here.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I said, following Trent as he made his way towards the registers. “We should call the police and leave it to them.”

“Why? So they can do nothing?” Trent hopped over the counter and gestured to me to do the same.

I complied but as my feet touched the floor, I felt my balance slip and would have fallen to the floor had Trent not managed to catch me in time. When I regained my footing, I realized that my shoes were making a noise similar to stepping in a rain puddle. 

My gaze shifted to the floor below me. I was stepping in a thick pool of blood. Dark red smears stained the floor, reflecting like gasoline from the bright, white lighting overhead. 

Despite the grisly sight, there didn’t appear to be anybody else around. 

“What the fuck happened here?” 

A thunderous crunching sound answered my question, startling the both of us. It sounded like someone chomping on concrete.

“Stay quiet.” He whispered, following the crimson streaks across the floor towards the back. I trailed closely behind.

We peeked our heads around the corner, and discovered the source of all the noise.

Squatting and tearing into the mutilated corpse of an employee on the ground like a gluttonous lion was a man. 

Have you ever seen images of what a blood eagle looks like? Imagine that, but from the front of the body. That’s what I was looking at on the ground as the man kept consuming every bit of flesh he could get his hands on. The bloodsoaked clothes hanging from his lanky frame looked familiar.

That’s when it dawned on me.

It was the guy from the news. 

Jonah’s killer.

I covered my mouth to stifle a scream, and as I did, a metallic thumping noise could be heard coming from somewhere behind us. Then, a cry for help.

“IS SOMEONE THERE?! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Before I could even blink, the man’s orange eyes had locked onto me. His skin resembled a cheese pizza if the cheese had been mostly scraped off, and he reeked like roadkill.

Trent and I bolted back the way we came toward the entrance. My pulse quickened as my legs carried me with a speed I didn’t know I possessed. Trent barreled over the counter and floundered to his feet, but before I could do the same, the man grabbed my ankle and pulled me toward him. The plastic tubs containing condiments clattered to the ground as my body was dragged back across the counter. 

I hit the floor hard. The remaining air in my lungs escaped in a ragged burst as the man dug his knees into my chest and grabbed my throat. I flailed about, trying desperately to remove his hands and free myself. He opened his mouth, and I watched as coagulated blood and strips of skin landed on my face like a rancid rainfall. 

Before he could close the distance and tear into me, Trent vaulted over the counter, and cracked a plastic tray from the lobby floor over the man’s head.
His teeth chattered in response to getting clocked, and his grip on my neck relented as he turned his focus to Trent.

“Run, Tanner!” He cried out, swinging the plastic tray wildly in an attempt to keep the man at bay. I sat up from the ground and gasped for air, watching Trent as he backed up towards the fryers. The man rasped excitedly as he gripped the plastic tray in Trent’s hand and fought for control of it. 

I had to think fast and do something, but what? 

I noticed the plastic containers resting on the ground next to me. Treating them like weapons, I picked them up, and charged towards the man and began raining down the hardest swings my body could muster.

PING. PING. PING.

The man turned slowly, registering my blows as nothing more than an inconvenience at best. My distraction was enough for Trent to wrap his arms around the man’s body to try and restrain him. 

“HEH…HEH…HEH…” The man panted as he thrashed around violently. Trent buckled behind him, struggling to keep his grip.

“I can’t hold on much longer!” He screamed, his arms loosening with every frantic movement the man made.

The fryers crackled behind me, and that’s when I realized what we needed to do to get us out of this immensely fucked up situation.  

“Move!” I commanded.

Trent released the man and dove to the ground next to me as I grabbed the fryer basket with both hands. The metal handle scorched my palms instantly, but adrenaline bulldozed through the pain.

The man whipped toward me with those glowing orange eyes, and I hurled the basket upward. A tidal wave of golden grease erupted from the fryer, and the oil hit him with a wet splash.

His howls of pain sounded like a thousand dying pterodactyls screeching directly into my skull. The man staggered backwards, his bloody fingernails clawing vigorously at his blistering, bubbling skin. He slammed into the stainless steel counter behind him hard enough to dent it before charging in a blind frenzy toward the drive-thru window. He crashed through it shoulder-first, causing shards of glass to fly everywhere.

He hit the pavement hard enough to skid across the parking lot like a stone skipping across water. The neon lights of The Raveyard burger sign flickered across his twitching body in pulses of jaundiced yellow.

Trent and I watched him writhe and clutch himself for several moments before he rose from the ground, and sprinted off into the night on all fours like a wolf. We just stood there in shock while the music in the lobby droned on behind us. 

“Dude…what the fuck was that?” I asked, looking at Trent with horror.

“I don’t know, but we need to go. Now.”

“HEY! YOU OUT THERE! HELP ME!” The voice we had heard from the freezer earlier was calling out again.
I walked toward the freezer, but Trent stuck his arm out to stop me. “Hell no, we’re not sticking around any longer. Not after that.”

“Someone needs our help. We can’t just leave them here.” 

I opened the freezer door and a cold mist rolled out, revealing a teenager inside blinking at us like we were a figment of his imagination. His black work shirt and pants were covered in blood. 

“C-c-c’mon. G-g-go.” He shivered as he walked out, clutching himself for warmth.

“Is there anybody else here?” I asked, my eyes landing on his nametag that said: Raimi.

His eyes landed on the various smears and pools of blood around the restaurant floor. “N-n-not anymore.”

We escorted him out of the restaurant and toward our car. Before we could even buckle our seatbelts, Trent peeled out of the parking lot and sped off down the street.

Not a word was said for a while. Music served as our only comfort in the aftermath until “(Don’t) Fear the Reaper” began to play from the speakers. Thinking that it wasn’t exactly the most appropriate song for the situation, Trent flicked the volume dial to zero, and the car returned to silence.

A few moments later, I decided to ask. “What happened back there?”

Raimi let out a nervous laugh as I glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “To make a long story short, just another day in customer service.”

“Sure as shit didn’t look like it.” Trent gripped the steering wheel tightly. “We’re going back to our place and calling the police.”

And that’s what we did. We returned to our apartment, called the police, and gave our accounts of what happened that night. When we finished explaining every last excruciating detail, they took Raimi back home to his parents. That was a couple of days ago.

Ever since our story was made public, the town has gone on lockdown. That hasn’t stopped the news reports from downplaying our experience as a “contained incident”.

They announced that a “thorough” investigation was under way, but The Raveyard made a statement saying that they were not liable for the events that transpired in their store. I’m not buying that bullshit for a second. There’s definitely something fishy going on here.

They haven’t found the guy yet, but it’s only a matter of time before they do. I hope they bring this madness to an end. I’m tired of being holed up in this apartment with Trent. I love the man, but sometimes a guy just needs his space.

If you know anything about what’s going on in Ashhaven, please tell me. I doubt this will be the last time we hear about Jonah’s killer or The Raveyard.

And as fucked up as this sounds, I still wonder how those Graveyard Smashburgers would have tasted that night.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

I’m scared of water.

I know what you’re probably thinking. You’re scared of water, but you swam in the lake at your summer camp? I can assure you I wasn’t always afraid to go into the water.

My fear stems from my childhood. From a traumatic incident that I’ve done my best to bury as the years have gone by.

But no amount of therapy, self-medication, or soul-searching can erase or make sense of what I experienced. So, this is my attempt at making peace with everything. 

Whether or not you choose to believe me is up to your discretion, but before you draw your own conclusions about me, about everything, please read to the end.

I was twelve years old when I went to spend the summer at Camp Moonflower. It was something that I hadn’t done before, but my parents insisted that I spend a few months outdoors with kids my age instead of staying holed up in my room and playing video games. 

That’s how I ended up on a campground surrounded by a bunch of energetic, loud-mouthed kids. Kids that made me comfortable with being a wallflower.

Those first few days and nights at camp were unexpectedly fun. I did the activities, lip-synched the camp sing-a-longs, and acquired a few nasty sunburns along the way. But just as I was truly getting into the spirit of camp, I overheard some of the older kids at lunch one afternoon talking about Camp Moonflower’s lake.

I don’t remember the exact words verbatim, but here’s my best attempt at recalling what I had heard that day. 

“Moonflower Lake. Are you high, John? We’re not supposed to go there.”

John smiled mischievously. “Not if anybody finds out we’re going there, Billy. C’mon, it will be fun! We’ll be out of there before anyone notices.”

“I think he’s got a point. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Mikey, don’t be such a pansy.” John scoffed. “You don’t believe in that curse crap, do ya?” 

I watched their eyes dart between one another nervously as John took a monstrous bite of his peanut butter and jelly sandwich. 

“Oh I see, I’m surrounded by wusses. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

“But the kids…” Mikey looked over his shoulder to make sure no counselors were nearby before continuing. “They drowned. Their bodies were never found either. That’s what my brother told me at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a bunch of bologna. You can’t take your brother’s word for everything.” John dismissed, wiping the crumbs and remnants of jelly from the corners of his mouth. “That lake ain’t bottomless. I’m going to prove it to you.”

Billy gulped. “How?”

“Let’s go to the lake tonight and see who can get closest to the bottom. Unless all of you are…CHICKENS!” John teased before drinking the rest of his chocolate milk.

What followed next was a fit of arguing and laughter from the group of older kids as I sat nearby, pondering what I had just heard.

Was I scared? A little. Did I believe what I had heard? Not entirely. There had to be some explanation as to why those kids were never found. After all, a lake couldn’t be bottomless. Right? 

Even at a young age, I knew that their little scheme wasn’t a good idea, but I wasn’t going to be the one to snitch. The last thing I needed was to be labeled as a “buzzkill” or a “tattle-tale” because I stopped kids from being kids. 

I decided to hold my tongue, and told myself that I’d only tag along and watch from afar. Perhaps I could join in on the shenanigans and make a few friends as well. The idea comforted me and I thought about it the rest of the day with a soft smile.

When the sky became alight with stars and everyone had retired for the evening, I snuck out of my cabin quieter than a church mouse. Masked by nightfall, I hurried towards the treeline. I felt like a ninja as I snuck across the spongy grass and damp vegetation on my way towards the lake.

The group of older kids were already there by the time I arrived, and they were hyping themselves up on the dock.

“C’mon chicken shits! Let’s go!” 

John was the first one to dive into the water. When he came back up, the others followed suit. One by one they dove into the water, sloshing and splashing about as they had their fun. They took turns going under the water for extended periods of time, trying to outdo one another in an attempt to reach the bottom. 

However, their efforts proved futile. None of them stayed under very long. Every time they resurfaced, they laughed and admitted they still hadn’t reached the bottom.

Right as I thought about diving into the lake and joining them, Billy and Mikey got out of the water and began drying themselves off. I was disappointed in my own hesitation. I could have potentially made some new friends had it not been for my perpetual cold feet.

But before John could get out of the lake to dry off, he went back under the water. 

Thinking that he was messing with them, Billy called out from the dock. “Really funny John. Quit yanking our chain and let’s get out of here before we get in trouble.”

Even from where I was positioned, I could sense that something was off. A few seconds became a few minutes, and there was still no sign of John. I could see Billy and Mikey growing more and more pale with every second that ticked by.

Without warning, a body breached the surface and thrashed about frantically in the water.

“HELP! SOMETHING’S GOT ME!” 

The shrill shriek was the last thing we heard before John was dragged under. Terrified splashing had now become quiet, pulsing ripples in the lake’s water as it reflected the moon like glass.

“WHAT DO WE DO?!” Mikey’s voice cracked as he looked at Billy for an answer.

Billy looked whiter than a bed sheet as he stammered a solution he couldn’t get out. “I-I-I-“ 

They gawked at the now still water, hesitant to jump in. Neither of them were doing anything to help John, but I could do something.

It was at that moment that I made a decision that would change all of our lives forever.

I sprinted toward the dock with urgency, desperate to save John from whatever was in the water. My feet thudded against the wood of the dock, the sound alerting Billy and Mikey of my presence.

“Hey, kid, what are you-“ 

I never heard the rest of Billy’s question as I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and leapt from the dock. 

Goosebumps prickled up my arms and legs as I felt the ice-cold water envelope me. The force of crashing into the water nearly knocked the breath out of me, but I opened my eyes against the sting of the water. I couldn’t see John. I couldn’t see my hands. I couldn’t see anything in the dark.

With the pressure building in my ears, I swam downwards. Despite my best efforts to navigate the waters, I couldn’t tell if I was actually making any progress. It felt like I was swimming in place, a sensation that filled me with dread. 

The water remained uncomfortably still as I pushed forward. Aside from the throbbing in my ears, the only other sound was the distant echo of joyous laughter. I couldn’t pinpoint where exactly it was coming from.

I nearly stopped swimming, but forced myself to continue. My heart pounded like thunder in my chest, and against my better judgment, I ignored what I heard and kept swimming. The further I went down, the more disoriented I felt. I couldn’t tell which way was up or down. At one point, I thought I saw stars beneath me as I searched for John in the vast, black water.

Slimy strands of seaweed brushed against my skin as I paddled my feet. My lungs were begging for air. I needed to go back to the surface, but I couldn’t leave without him. I’d be letting everyone down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

As I started swimming back up, I felt something brush against my ankle. I thought it was a fish that had bumped into me, but then, I became stuck in place.

I kicked my foot several times, trying desperately to move from whatever was keeping me trapped. Had I gotten stuck on a log or something? My own question was answered when I was pulled down abruptly with incredible force. A blistering sensation crept across the inside of my chest as bubbles erupted from my throat in shaky columns. With every desperate movement I made to wiggle free, my air supply continued to dwindle.

I knew better than to scream, but when I saw what was underneath me, I nearly let one out.

I saw children. A dozen of them. All clutching my legs and pulling me down into the murky depths with the giddiness of someone winning a prize. Their translucent skin rippled with the water, and their delighted milk-white eyes gazed into mine as I struggled like a wild bird tangled in a net. 

No matter how hard I tugged, no matter how hard I kicked, no matter how hard I tried to swim, I couldn’t move anywhere but down. Their excited giggling swelled around me the closer I drifted toward their playful smiles.

What little adrenaline I had left slowly dissipated, and my surroundings began to spin. My body felt as heavy as an anchor as I descended deeper into the underbelly of the lake. 

Suddenly, one of the children drifted closer than the others until his face was mere inches from mine. The moment I recognized him, every remaining shred of hope inside of me died.

It was John.

His soaked hair floated weightlessly around his pale face as a terrible excitement glistened in his eyes. The children gathered around me in a curious circle, their laughter echoing through the water like a playground during recess.

From the looks on their faces, they appeared to be thrilled to finally see me up close. 

“A new friend.”

The words extinguished every thought in my mind. I couldn’t breathe. Tiny, pellucid hands tightened their grip around my legs, and dragged me deeper into the endless cold void below.

I hadn’t thought about death before that night, but the further I sank, the more I dwelled on it. Would it be as dark and cold as the water I was trapped in? Would I see God? Would I see anybody? What was waiting for me?

The questions spiraling through my mind were underscored by my slowing heartbeat. The lake around me distorted into bleary shapes and broken prisms of light. Somewhere beneath all my fear, a small but traitorous part of me stopped resisting. Maybe dying wouldn’t be the worst outcome if it meant I wouldn’t be alone down here.

Before I could accept my fate as nothing more than a submerged memory, a powerful force suddenly wrapped itself around my waist and yanked me upward.

I don’t remember the journey up from the depths. The next thing that I remember happening was coughing and sputtering on the dock. A counselor pressed against my chest in rhythmic pushes, causing my body to spasmodically heave with every burst of water that came up from my throat.

The night air grazed against my soaked skin. The sensation made me feel like I was at the center of a blizzard. I gasped desperately for breath while my entire body trembled uncontrollably. 

Above me, red and blue lights danced intermittently across the surroundings as counselors and camp goers alike observed in panicked confusion. Billy was crying nearby, and Mikey kept shaking his head, refusing to acknowledge what happened as reality. 

I tried to sit up, but the moment I did, I nearly vomited. I lay on the dock, clutching my head as my ears rang from the sustained pressure I had endured underwater. 

After I had somewhat returned to feeling like I could breathe properly again, the police began questioning everyone separately. Counselors wrapped towels around my shoulders and commended me for my bravery. Their words did little to provide me peace or calm, and the line of questioning from the police wasn’t helping anything either.

I refrained from telling them the truth about what had actually happened to John. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I knew deep down in my heart that they wouldn’t have believed me even if I had told them. 

That’s something I’ve held onto for all these years, and I feel so guilty for not giving anyone answers. 

A thorough search of the lake was conducted by the police, but news outlets reported that John’s body was never found. Since I was the last person to have presumably seen him alive, I was blamed for his death. But no charges were ever filed against me due to a lack of evidence, and the summer camp was closed for good shortly thereafter.

And that leads me to the present day. I rarely sleep, and my bedside drawer is overflowing with medication I can’t recite or pronounce properly. I can’t get the image of John and those children out of my head. The memory of it all still feels excruciatingly real. 

I’ve kept in touch with Billy and Mikey since then in some capacity. The last time I spoke to Billy was a couple days ago. He’s doing well for himself and providing for his family by being an airplane mechanic somewhere in the Midwest. Mikey has been harder to get a hold of, though. He’s been busy keeping his multiple businesses afloat in addition to being a father of four.

Sometimes, we talk about that night. But I have never gone into detail with them about what I had seen. They still view me as a hero, but I’ve never felt deserving of that title. I can’t help but wonder what would’ve happened had I been successfully pulled under. 

Even after writing this down, I don’t exactly feel any better. But I at least hope that this provides some closure for John’s family and for those who witnessed such a horrific tragedy that night.

I’m sorry John.

I wish they would have taken me instead.

This is all going to sound so unbelievable, but I need to talk about this because our town is on lockdown until further notice.

My friend Trent and I weren’t looking for trouble. We got high off our asses and just wanted to get some food. That’s it. That’s how this started. But with the way the world has been going lately, I’d rather you hear what actually happened from me instead of whatever story the news decides to feed you.

I was fused to the couch, aimlessly watching the news anchor ramble on about politics while Trent sat next to me. “I feel like they’re always mad about something.”

“It’s the news,” I muttered, my body feeling like the juice inside a lava lamp. “That’s their whole thing.”

We sat there for a while, listening to the low volume and reading the closed captioning so that our zonked asses could keep up with what was going on.

When the channel cut to commercial, Trent got up. “Dude, check this out.” Trent went to his room and came back with an assortment of coupons. “Talk about the motherlode of options am I right?”

He set them on the coffee table in front of me. I took a closer look at them, only to be met with disappointment. “You do realize most of these are expired right?” I pointed at the various dates, ranging from yesterday to a whopping three months expired. “So much for options.”

“Coupons are like window shopping.” He smiled dumbly, his eyes completely bloodshot. “They’re suggestions with confidence.” 

“Fifty milligrams of Indica really got you feeling philosophical, huh Socrates?” 

“Nah.” He smirked. “It’s got me feeling like I haven’t eaten in at least ten business days.” 

“Well let’s figure something out then.”

“Chicken sandwiches?” Trent asked.

“We had that last week.” 

“Chinese?” 

“That doesn’t sound good right now.” 

“Tacos?”

“I had horrible stomach cramps the last time we had tacos man.”

“Aw. Do you want me to order you some French cries?” Trent shook his head in slight annoyance. “You’re more indecisive than my parents trying to plan a vacation.”

“I mean, we are roommates,” I shrugged. “We’re basically halfway to being a bickering couple.”

“Touché.” He didn’t even look up at me. “What about Italian?”

“What Italian place do you know that’s going to be open at two in the morning?”

“Oh…good point.” He stared at me blankly, his last two remaining brain cells fighting for third place as he picked up another coupon from the table and squinted at it.

“The Raveyard,” he read slowly with heavy eyes. “‘Buy one, get one ‘Graveyard Smashburger free.’ That sounds… stupendous.”

I laughed at his choice of wording. “You really wanna go to that retro horror themed place with the weird graveyard out back?”

“Yeah! Why not? We’ve never been.” His eyes widened with excitement. He was practically frothing at the mouth. “Don’t you want to bite into a mouth-wateringly delicious patty with melted cheese right now?”

My stomach growled, providing an answer before the words could even leave my mouth. “Abso-freakin-lutely.”

“Sick.” Trent fist-pumped the air as he grabbed his keys from the countertop and shoved the coupons into his pocket. “Let’s boot, scoot, and boogie. I’m starving.” 

I went to turn off the TV, but right as I did so, the late-night news anchor began talking about something that made my stomach churn.

“The suspect has not been located. Residents of the Silver Grove complex are advised to remain indoors as the search for Jonah’s killer remains at large.”

After the breaking news announcement, they put a grainy picture on the screen. It was an image that was more than likely pulled from a security camera, but it was enough to get a decent profile.

He had the kind of face that would never stand out in a crowd. I don’t know if it was the graininess of the footage or the lighting or what, but his eyes appeared to be an unnatural color. Most disturbingly though was all the blood. It covered almost every inch of his baggy clothing.

I pressed the power button on the TV remote, and watched the screen go black. “Should we listen to the news?” 

“Fuck no.” Trent dismissed, dangling his keys. “If people listened to the news we wouldn’t be in half the shit we find ourselves in. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve got a case of the serious munchies.”

I didn’t argue. I just followed him to the car. In hindsight, I should have listened to my gut and suggested we stay home, but instead, we left our apartment complex and embarked on a late quest to The Raveyard.

“Hold On Loosely” by 38 Special served as the soundtrack for our drive down the various empty  streets toward our destination. The kick drums thumped in the speakers, drowning out the rumbling of my stomach that could have easily registered on the Richter scale.

After a fairly brief drive, we rolled up to the restaurant. The big neon burger flickered in the darkness of the night, a beacon of hope for our cravings as we pulled up to the skull-shaped speaker box in the drive-thru. My mouth salivated at the thought of stuffing some burgers down my food-deprived gullet. 

We sat idly in the car, staring at the plethora of options on the menu and pondering just how much we were about to blow on food. When we finally decided what we wanted, Trent rolled down the window and stuck his head out the car.

“Hey, uh…” He trailed off before remembering the task at hand. “We’re ready to order.”

We were greeted by nothing but static and…wheezing? It was faint, but unmistakable.

“Great customer service.” Trent said impatiently. “Are you going to take our order or what?”

I couldn’t help but feel a little concerned at the noise. “Are they having an asthma attack or something?”

“They can walk it off. Might just be a newbie’s first day.” Trent pulled his head back into the car. “We’ve all been there.”

“Don’t joke like that man.”

“I’m not joking. It might just be the speaker.” He stuck his head out again. “My friend and I want to order. Is everything alright in there?”

There was no response, but the wheezing sound persisted in the static.

“Sounds like someone forgot to turn off their headset while on the John.”

“Maybe they’re busy on the inside?” I thought aloud.

Trent scanned the parking lot with sarcastic puzzlement. “Yeah…the place sure is packed to the gills. I know you’re not the brightest crayon in the Crayola box Tanner, but use that noggin of yours.”

Without warning, the speaker crackled to unsuspecting life as the sound of a scream pierced the air before falling completely silent.

A cold shiver ran down my spine. “I’m not tripping am I?”

“No. I heard it too.”

Trent stepped on the gas and pulled forward to the first window. What we saw left us confused and horrified. Smeared all over the cracked drive-thru window was blood. It dripped down the glass as slowly as molasses.

Trent unbuckled his seatbelt and stuck his body halfway out the car to peer through the window. “Surely they’re fucking with us.”

I tensed up in my seat. “If they are, this is one fucked up prank.”

For a solid five seconds, Trent stared inside before recoiling back inside. The color had completely drained from his face. “We need to go inside and check on everyone.”

“Are you crazy? What did you see?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he floored it out of the drive-thru, parked the car, and immediately barreled out the driver’s side door towards the entrance. I followed in hot pursuit, well aware that we were treating all the red flags like checkpoints.

Upon entry, we were greeted with the familiar saxophone motif of “Urgent” by Foreigner.

“Urgent…urgent…emergency.” reverberated throughout the seemingly vacant restaurant as my eyes surveyed the carnage. The interior looked like it had been hit by an F-5 tornado. Chairs were overturned while plastic trays, paper wrapping, and half-eaten burgers and fries were strewn all over the black and white chessboard-like tile floor. The fryers in the back emitted a sound similar to a rattlesnake’s rattle. 

Trent swallowed nervously. “Let’s take a quick look around and get the hell out of here.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” I said, following Trent as he made his way towards the registers. “We should call the police and leave it to them.”

“Why? So they can do nothing?” Trent hopped over the counter and gestured to me to do the same.

I complied but as my feet touched the floor, I felt my balance slip and would have fallen to the floor had Trent not managed to catch me in time. When I regained my footing, I realized that my shoes were making a noise similar to stepping in a rain puddle. 

My gaze shifted to the floor below me. I was stepping in a thick pool of blood. Dark red smears stained the floor, reflecting like gasoline from the bright, white lighting overhead. 

Despite the grisly sight, there didn’t appear to be anybody else around. 

“What the fuck happened here?” 

A thunderous crunching sound answered my question, startling the both of us. It sounded like someone chomping on concrete.

“Stay quiet.” He whispered, following the crimson streaks across the floor towards the back. I trailed closely behind.

We peeked our heads around the corner, and discovered the source of all the noise.

Squatting and tearing into the mutilated corpse of an employee on the ground like a gluttonous lion was a man. 

Have you ever seen images of what a blood eagle looks like? Imagine that, but from the front of the body. That’s what I was looking at on the ground as the man kept consuming every bit of flesh he could get his hands on. The bloodsoaked clothes hanging from his lanky frame looked familiar.

That’s when it dawned on me.

It was the guy from the news. 

Jonah’s killer.

I covered my mouth to stifle a scream, and as I did, a metallic thumping noise could be heard coming from somewhere behind us. Then, a cry for help.

“IS SOMEONE THERE?! GET ME OUT OF HERE!”

Before I could even blink, the man’s orange eyes had locked onto me. His skin resembled a cheese pizza if the cheese had been mostly scraped off, and he reeked like roadkill.

Trent and I bolted back the way we came toward the entrance. My pulse quickened as my legs carried me with a speed I didn’t know I possessed. Trent barreled over the counter and floundered to his feet, but before I could do the same, the man grabbed my ankle and pulled me toward him. The plastic tubs containing condiments clattered to the ground as my body was dragged back across the counter. 

I hit the floor hard. The remaining air in my lungs escaped in a ragged burst as the man dug his knees into my chest and grabbed my throat. I flailed about, trying desperately to remove his hands and free myself. He opened his mouth, and I watched as coagulated blood and strips of skin landed on my face like a rancid rainfall. 

Before he could close the distance and tear into me, Trent vaulted over the counter, and cracked a plastic tray from the lobby floor over the man’s head.
His teeth chattered in response to getting clocked, and his grip on my neck relented as he turned his focus to Trent.

“Run, Tanner!” He cried out, swinging the plastic tray wildly in an attempt to keep the man at bay. I sat up from the ground and gasped for air, watching Trent as he backed up towards the fryers. The man rasped excitedly as he gripped the plastic tray in Trent’s hand and fought for control of it. 

I had to think fast and do something, but what? 

I noticed the plastic containers resting on the ground next to me. Treating them like weapons, I picked them up, and charged towards the man and began raining down the hardest swings my body could muster.

PING. PING. PING.

The man turned slowly, registering my blows as nothing more than an inconvenience at best. My distraction was enough for Trent to wrap his arms around the man’s body to try and restrain him. 

“HEH…HEH…HEH…” The man panted as he thrashed around violently. Trent buckled behind him, struggling to keep his grip.

“I can’t hold on much longer!” He screamed, his arms loosening with every frantic movement the man made.

The fryers crackled behind me, and that’s when I realized what we needed to do to get us out of this immensely fucked up situation.  

“Move!” I commanded.

Trent released the man and dove to the ground next to me as I grabbed the fryer basket with both hands. The metal handle scorched my palms instantly, but adrenaline bulldozed through the pain.

The man whipped toward me with those glowing orange eyes, and I hurled the basket upward. A tidal wave of golden grease erupted from the fryer, and the oil hit him with a wet splash.

His howls of pain sounded like a thousand dying pterodactyls screeching directly into my skull. The man staggered backwards, his bloody fingernails clawing vigorously at his blistering, bubbling skin. He slammed into the stainless steel counter behind him hard enough to dent it before charging in a blind frenzy toward the drive-thru window. He crashed through it shoulder-first, causing shards of glass to fly everywhere.

He hit the pavement hard enough to skid across the parking lot like a stone skipping across water. The neon lights of The Raveyard burger sign flickered across his twitching body in pulses of jaundiced yellow.

Trent and I watched him writhe and clutch himself for several moments before he rose from the ground, and sprinted off into the night on all fours like a wolf. We just stood there in shock while the music in the lobby droned on behind us. 

“Dude…what the fuck was that?” I asked, looking at Trent with horror.

“I don’t know, but we need to go. Now.”

“HEY! YOU OUT THERE! HELP ME!” The voice we had heard from the freezer earlier was calling out again.
I walked toward the freezer, but Trent stuck his arm out to stop me. “Hell no, we’re not sticking around any longer. Not after that.”

“Someone needs our help. We can’t just leave them here.” 

I opened the freezer door and a cold mist rolled out, revealing a teenager inside blinking at us like we were a figment of his imagination. His black work shirt and pants were covered in blood. 

“C-c-c’mon. G-g-go.” He shivered as he walked out, clutching himself for warmth.

“Is there anybody else here?” I asked, my eyes landing on his nametag that said: Raimi.

His eyes landed on the various smears and pools of blood around the restaurant floor. “N-n-not anymore.”

We escorted him out of the restaurant and toward our car. Before we could even buckle our seatbelts, Trent peeled out of the parking lot and sped off down the street.

Not a word was said for a while. Music served as our only comfort in the aftermath until “(Don’t) Fear the Reaper” began to play from the speakers. Thinking that it wasn’t exactly the most appropriate song for the situation, Trent flicked the volume dial to zero, and the car returned to silence.

A few moments later, I decided to ask. “What happened back there?”

Raimi let out a nervous laugh as I glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “To make a long story short, just another day in customer service.”

“Sure as shit didn’t look like it.” Trent gripped the steering wheel tightly. “We’re going back to our place and calling the police.”

And that’s what we did. We returned to our apartment, called the police, and gave our accounts of what happened that night. When we finished explaining every last excruciating detail, they took Raimi back home to his parents. That was a couple of days ago.

Ever since our story was made public, the town has gone on lockdown. That hasn’t stopped the news reports from downplaying our experience as a “contained incident”.

They announced that a “thorough” investigation was under way, but The Raveyard made a statement saying that they were not liable for the events that transpired in their store. I’m not buying that bullshit for a second. There’s definitely something fishy going on here.

They haven’t found the guy yet, but it’s only a matter of time before they do. I hope they bring this madness to an end. I’m tired of being holed up in this apartment with Trent. I love the man, but sometimes a guy just needs his space.

If you know anything about what’s going on in Ashhaven, please tell me. I doubt this will be the last time we hear about Jonah’s killer or The Raveyard.

And as fucked up as this sounds, I still wonder how those Graveyard Smashburgers would have tasted that night.