u/Feeling_Sail4800

It was eclipsing 11:30am when the black SUV carrying Arthur’s party hugged the leftward bend of highway 78. It had been an explicative journey–to say the least–in catching both Rebecca and Clancy up to speed on everything that occurred among his non-joyous romp in the hollow.

He began the dreadful process of explaining when they left the Chesseley House and was still patching in detail over the drive. As a matter of fact, he was to instruct directions on where to go– a point of contention Clancy did not hide. Now, the group traveled southwest on the winding highway that snaked the columns of pines and cedar that overlooked the desolate road.

While Arthur leaned back to take a breather from gabbing the last bit of his venture, the two Mithras investigators shared a look of concern, silently deciding as to which of the pair would chew the bait and press further. However, the two were oddly calm while the Hollow walker recounted his tale and never raised an objection to the truth–they just sat and listened. A seed of worry sprouted throughout Arthur's fast beating chest; if anybody was going to believe him, it would have been these two. They were the professionals, right? The supernatural was their game of choice. 

As the vehicle slowed its speed for the turn onto Jubilee trail, which was but a quarter mile away, Arthur stoked his newfound companions' feelings towards the situation. 

“So, you guys believe me, right? I mean, have you or your organization dealt with stuff like this or are we shit out of luck?”

Rebecca nudged Clancy’s free elbow, who cleared his throat and began divulging his pent-up knowledge. 

“Mithras is familiar with the existence of witches or in more appropriate terms, beings that humans have comfortably labeled as witches. We know very little of them due to their isolated nature, with occurrences of their presence far and few in between. The last known public event with a witch under Mithras's watch was Cleveland of ‘05.”

“What about Cafe Dominique in lower Manhattan?” Rebecca questioned in genuine interest. 

“We don’t talk about that one”, Clancy muttered and flashed a beaten brow emboldened by annoyance. 

Rebecca lightly chuckled and slapped his arm playfully. Outside, the hulking SUV had reached the turn for Jubilee Trail, which was a plain dirt road that was no more than ten feet across and declined into the pitted darkness of the evergreen forest. 

While Clancy maneuvered their four-wheeled beast onto bumpier terrain, Rebecca swiveled in her seat, so her eyes met Arthur’s. They were filled with a rare shine of uncertainty. 

“I am thankful to know that this Christa is on our side–she must have really taken a liking to you.”

Arthur shook his head.

“Not really. It kind of felt like I was more of a piece of livestock to toy with.”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Be that as it may, if she really is being truthful with all this information regarding the children of the widow, then Clancy and I are closer to shutting down this operation. However… It seems that this issue with the Chesseley’s, Mr. Nancy, and the gateways go farther back than I would have realized. It's a bit daunting to think about the odds we're up against.”

Witnessing the rare occasion of Rebecca freely expressing her doubt actually scared Arthur. The tall, cherubic, strategic–savvy woman succeeded in concealing her poker face up until that moment–the shell had cracked, at least for a short moment. 

To cheer her up, a gush of enthusiastic remedy flowed out of Arthur’s mouth like an intoxicating flavor of liquor. It was an action that was unlike him to do. 

“There’s a way. There has to be. I may not know Christa personally, but honestly, her words seemed very genuine and…I think she’s physically exhausted from protecting the town. She’s been through so much without anyone knowing, so, I don’t know, I feel like I have this obligation to help her.

As he declared this, their vehicle crawled at a snail's pace down a steep bend; each of the four wheels yelped their crunching barks over every loose rock. 

Arthur managed to continue talking through the shaking of the car’s janky descent. 

“All we need to do is find the keys to the violet’s gateway. Should be easy enough, right?”

Rebecca flashed a tiny smile.

“I like this new you. Lots of optimism. Yeah, we’ll find those keys,” she confirmed and then thrusted her attention to a low branched gap near the end of the trail. 

Slowly, a building with a brick-spined roof of forty-feet attracted the mobile group as they crawled into the compact clearing. Families of ancient wooden pillars guarding their saplings populated a majority of the space, forcing the SUV to slide into a parking spot of overgrown weeds at a weird angle. 

The curious trio eyed the brick building–an outstanding callback to the past that imparted a flavor of architecture most suggested for the 1800s. Arthur could imagine a time when packs of eager children would flow out of the thick oak doors after a day of studious work, but now the entrance looked nothing short of haunting. 

There wasn’t much to the front–most of the brickwork was coated top-to-bottom with impatient grapevines. The lot itself had nothing of interest as it appeared the area had not been touched by human visitors for a very long time. As Arthur exited the car and wandered attentively around the perimeter, Rebecca called to him. 

“So, Christa said we were looking for keys, but did she mention where they would be located or what they looked like?” she asked with a tone of slight curiosity.

“Mmm, that she did not say…” Arthur answered, but attempted a half-smile to keep the situation calm. He looked over to the front doors of the schoolhouse, where Clancy was busy examining. 

The detective attempted to open the pair of doors but was met with little movement by the contraptions. Upset by the building's unwillingness, the impatient man struck a powerful blow with his foot against the wood, popping shards from the frame. The doors whipped open upon creaky hinges. Rebecca and Arthur watched unimpressed–it was like watching an angry child smash and thrash in egomaniac victory. 

Clancy slipped into the doorway and the other two followed swiftly. 

The inside was dusty, which was to be expected, but everywhere was matted in a thick layer of filth. In the center of the room were eighteen poorly maintained desks, and to the front was a giant elm constructed teacher desk that held several pillars of books high and proud. Bookshelves and various other supplies, specifically metallic landscaping tools, crowded the grimed up square windows. Bubbles of dirty light blessed the room, but the atmosphere was too daft to change for the positive. 

Behind the teacher's desk and adjacent to the massive blackboard and coal-fueled furnace was another door– a way to a backroom supply space perhaps? Clancy immediately paced over in angst, opened the door, and disappeared into the stuffy void. 

Arthur busied himself by observing the differentiating book titles lying in asymmetrical towers upon the many abandoned desks. Left alone to his own devices of quiet investigation, he began to wonder deeply about time long ago–an era that was absent regarding the marvels of modern day. It was a unique perspective that commandeered the microphone inside his brain. 

He gave a sneaking glance over to Rebecca, who was in the midst of observing a line of taxidermized animals displayed on the entirety of one wall. Several angular buck skulls watched the intruding pair with empty eye sockets.

Since silence wasn’t exactly Rebecca’s choice of ambiance, Arthur decided to fill in the gap of forced quietness with a well-minded question. 

“Hey, since we have a minute–do you mind explaining your organization? What does Mithras mean? Like, is it an acronym for something?”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Sure, I don’t mind explaining but promise me that you won't fall asleep.”

Arthur released a short chuckle.

She paused and then began her educational spiel. 

“Mithras was an organization born many millennia ago. It started out as a group dedicated to the Zoroastrian god, Mithra of Iranian legend. The well-shaped one of a thousand ears and ten thousand eyes–he was a courageous deity that stood for the hearts of many and represented the concept of oath, the sun, and much more.”

Arthur nodded along, trying his best to follow. 

“Disciples who followed Mithra heeded his order to protect humanity from the wretches of the world by seeking out the mysterious and finding resolve.”

“The mysterious?” Arthur parroted. Rebecca nodded. 

“Oh, you know, the darkness that antagonizes humanity. Monsters, spirits, demons, and whatnot. They have been around much longer than us, some possibly as old as our planet.”

Arthur scratched his chin in acknowledgement and moved on to his next question.

“Uh huh….So, the tattoos…. are they like, an emblem brandishing of sorts?” He felt stupid for asking. 

“Yes. It represents our oath, specifically to help those that need it…Mithras has been around for quite some time. From the period of the Zoroastrians to the era of the Romans, and now, in the modern day– it is a force that flourishes in the underbelly of the world. Humanity needs an underdog right now, so why not let us be it,” she explained.

A well-deserved pause followed her words. 

While Arthur whirled about in the pool of information wielded by Rebecca’s educative prowess, a curious sound vibrated imposingly into the room. It was faint, but Arthur swore he had heard it no less than two hours before. 

Click-click-click

Arthur’s heart dropped and sunk further when noticing a stalking shadow creep vertically over one of the eastern windows. The shadowy tangle stretched its six, thick-clubbed legs a full four feet in both directions as if boasting an air of genetic marvel. It was an abominable sight to see with frightened pupils. 

Arthur rotated to face Rebecca who was idly sifting through a mountain of yellow stained paper and let loose an earsplitting bellow. 

“Move!” 

And then the sound of the shattered glass rained into the classroom.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

It was eclipsing 11:30am when the black SUV carrying Arthur’s party hugged the leftward bend of highway 78. It had been an explicative journey–to say the least–in catching both Rebecca and Clancy up to speed on everything that occurred among his non-joyous romp in the hollow.

He began the dreadful process of explaining when they left the Chesseley House and was still patching in detail over the drive. As a matter of fact, he was to instruct directions on where to go– a point of contention Clancy did not hide. Now, the group traveled southwest on the winding highway that snaked the columns of pines and cedar that overlooked the desolate road.

While Arthur leaned back to take a breather from gabbing the last bit of his venture, the two Mithras investigators shared a look of concern, silently deciding as to which of the pair would chew the bait and press further. However, the two were oddly calm while the Hollow walker recounted his tale and never raised an objection to the truth–they just sat and listened. A seed of worry sprouted throughout Arthur's fast beating chest; if anybody was going to believe him, it would have been these two. They were the professionals, right? The supernatural was their game of choice. 

As the vehicle slowed its speed for the turn onto Jubilee trail, which was but a quarter mile away, Arthur stoked his newfound companions' feelings towards the situation. 

“So, you guys believe me, right? I mean, have you or your organization dealt with stuff like this or are we shit out of luck?”

Rebecca nudged Clancy’s free elbow, who cleared his throat and began divulging his pent-up knowledge. 

“Mithras is familiar with the existence of witches or in more appropriate terms, beings that humans have comfortably labeled as witches. We know very little of them due to their isolated nature, with occurrences of their presence far and few in between. The last known public event with a witch under Mithras's watch was Cleveland of ‘05.”

“What about Cafe Dominique in lower Manhattan?” Rebecca questioned in genuine interest. 

“We don’t talk about that one”, Clancy muttered and flashed a beaten brow emboldened by annoyance. 

Rebecca lightly chuckled and slapped his arm playfully. Outside, the hulking SUV had reached the turn for Jubilee Trail, which was a plain dirt road that was no more than ten feet across and declined into the pitted darkness of the evergreen forest. 

While Clancy maneuvered their four-wheeled beast onto bumpier terrain, Rebecca swiveled in her seat, so her eyes met Arthur’s. They were filled with a rare shine of uncertainty. 

“I am thankful to know that this Christa is on our side–she must have really taken a liking to you.”

Arthur shook his head.

“Not really. It kind of felt like I was more of a piece of livestock to toy with.”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Be that as it may, if she really is being truthful with all this information regarding the children of the widow, then Clancy and I are closer to shutting down this operation. However… It seems that this issue with the Chesseley’s, Mr. Nancy, and the gateways go farther back than I would have realized. It's a bit daunting to think about the odds we're up against.”

Witnessing the rare occasion of Rebecca freely expressing her doubt actually scared Arthur. The tall, cherubic, strategic–savvy woman succeeded in concealing her poker face up until that moment–the shell had cracked, at least for a short moment. 

To cheer her up, a gush of enthusiastic remedy flowed out of Arthur’s mouth like an intoxicating flavor of liquor. It was an action that was unlike him to do. 

“There’s a way. There has to be. I may not know Christa personally, but honestly, her words seemed very genuine and…I think she’s physically exhausted from protecting the town. She’s been through so much without anyone knowing, so, I don’t know, I feel like I have this obligation to help her.

As he declared this, their vehicle crawled at a snail's pace down a steep bend; each of the four wheels yelped their crunching barks over every loose rock. 

Arthur managed to continue talking through the shaking of the car’s janky descent. 

“All we need to do is find the keys to the violet’s gateway. Should be easy enough, right?”

Rebecca flashed a tiny smile.

“I like this new you. Lots of optimism. Yeah, we’ll find those keys,” she confirmed and then thrusted her attention to a low branched gap near the end of the trail. 

Slowly, a building with a brick-spined roof of forty-feet attracted the mobile group as they crawled into the compact clearing. Families of ancient wooden pillars guarding their saplings populated a majority of the space, forcing the SUV to slide into a parking spot of overgrown weeds at a weird angle. 

The curious trio eyed the brick building–an outstanding callback to the past that imparted a flavor of architecture most suggested for the 1800s. Arthur could imagine a time when packs of eager children would flow out of the thick oak doors after a day of studious work, but now the entrance looked nothing short of haunting. 

There wasn’t much to the front–most of the brickwork was coated top-to-bottom with impatient grapevines. The lot itself had nothing of interest as it appeared the area had not been touched by human visitors for a very long time. As Arthur exited the car and wandered attentively around the perimeter, Rebecca called to him. 

“So, Christa said we were looking for keys, but did she mention where they would be located or what they looked like?” she asked with a tone of slight curiosity.

“Mmm, that she did not say…” Arthur answered, but attempted a half-smile to keep the situation calm. He looked over to the front doors of the schoolhouse, where Clancy was busy examining. 

The detective attempted to open the pair of doors but was met with little movement by the contraptions. Upset by the building's unwillingness, the impatient man struck a powerful blow with his foot against the wood, popping shards from the frame. The doors whipped open upon creaky hinges. Rebecca and Arthur watched unimpressed–it was like watching an angry child smash and thrash in egomaniac victory. 

Clancy slipped into the doorway and the other two followed swiftly. 

The inside was dusty, which was to be expected, but everywhere was matted in a thick layer of filth. In the center of the room were eighteen poorly maintained desks, and to the front was a giant elm constructed teacher desk that held several pillars of books high and proud. Bookshelves and various other supplies, specifically metallic landscaping tools, crowded the grimed up square windows. Bubbles of dirty light blessed the room, but the atmosphere was too daft to change for the positive. 

Behind the teacher's desk and adjacent to the massive blackboard and coal-fueled furnace was another door– a way to a backroom supply space perhaps? Clancy immediately paced over in angst, opened the door, and disappeared into the stuffy void. 

Arthur busied himself by observing the differentiating book titles lying in asymmetrical towers upon the many abandoned desks. Left alone to his own devices of quiet investigation, he began to wonder deeply about time long ago–an era that was absent regarding the marvels of modern day. It was a unique perspective that commandeered the microphone inside his brain. 

He gave a sneaking glance over to Rebecca, who was in the midst of observing a line of taxidermized animals displayed on the entirety of one wall. Several angular buck skulls watched the intruding pair with empty eye sockets.

Since silence wasn’t exactly Rebecca’s choice of ambiance, Arthur decided to fill in the gap of forced quietness with a well-minded question. 

“Hey, since we have a minute–do you mind explaining your organization? What does Mithras mean? Like, is it an acronym for something?”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Sure, I don’t mind explaining but promise me that you won't fall asleep.”

Arthur released a short chuckle.

She paused and then began her educational spiel. 

“Mithras was an organization born many millennia ago. It started out as a group dedicated to the Zoroastrian god, Mithra of Iranian legend. The well-shaped one of a thousand ears and ten thousand eyes–he was a courageous deity that stood for the hearts of many and represented the concept of oath, the sun, and much more.”

Arthur nodded along, trying his best to follow. 

“Disciples who followed Mithra heeded his order to protect humanity from the wretches of the world by seeking out the mysterious and finding resolve.”

“The mysterious?” Arthur parroted. Rebecca nodded. 

“Oh, you know, the darkness that antagonizes humanity. Monsters, spirits, demons, and whatnot. They have been around much longer than us, some possibly as old as our planet.”

Arthur scratched his chin in acknowledgement and moved on to his next question.

“Uh huh….So, the tattoos…. are they like, an emblem brandishing of sorts?” He felt stupid for asking. 

“Yes. It is our oath to help those that need it…Mithras has been around for quite some time. From the period of the Zoroastrians to the era of the Romans, and now, in the modern day– it is a force that flourishes in the underbelly of the world. Humanity needs an underdog right now, so why not let us be it,” she explained.

A well-deserved pause followed her words. 

While Arthur whirled about in the pool of information wielded by Rebecca’s educative prowess, a curious sound vibrated imposingly into the room. It was faint, but Arthur swore he had heard it no less than two hours before. 

Click-click-click

Arthur’s heart dropped and sunk further when noticing a stalking shadow creep vertically over one of the eastern windows. The shadowy tangle stretched its six, thick-clubbed legs a full four feet in both directions as if boasting an air of genetic marvel. It was an abominable sight to see with frightened pupils. 

Arthur rotated to face Rebecca who was idly sifting through a mountain of yellow stained paper and let loose an earsplitting bellow. 

“Move!” 

And then the sound of the shattered glass rained into the classroom.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

It was eclipsing 11:30am when the black SUV carrying Arthur’s party hugged the leftward bend of highway 78. It had been an explicative journey–to say the least–in catching both Rebecca and Clancy up to speed on everything that occurred among his non-joyous romp in the hollow.

He began the dreadful process of explaining when they left the Chesseley House and was still patching in detail over the drive. As a matter of fact, he was to instruct directions on where to go– a point of contention Clancy did not hide. Now, the group traveled southwest on the winding highway that snaked the columns of pines and cedar that overlooked the desolate road.

While Arthur leaned back to take a breather from gabbing the last bit of his venture, the two Mithras investigators shared a look of concern, silently deciding as to which of the pair would chew the bait and press further. However, the two were oddly calm while the Hollow walker recounted his tale and never raised an objection to the truth–they just sat and listened. A seed of worry sprouted throughout Arthur's fast beating chest; if anybody was going to believe him, it would have been these two. They were the professionals, right? The supernatural was their game of choice. 

As the vehicle slowed its speed for the turn onto Jubilee trail, which was but a quarter mile away, Arthur stoked his newfound companions' feelings towards the situation. 

“So, you guys believe me, right? I mean, have you or your organization dealt with stuff like this or are we shit out of luck?”

Rebecca nudged Clancy’s free elbow, who cleared his throat and began divulging his pent-up knowledge. 

“Mithras is familiar with the existence of witches or in more appropriate terms, beings that humans have comfortably labeled as witches. We know very little of them due to their isolated nature, with occurrences of their presence far and few in between. The last known public event with a witch under Mithras's watch was Cleveland of ‘05.”

“What about Cafe Dominique in lower Manhattan?” Rebecca questioned in genuine interest. 

“We don’t talk about that one”, Clancy muttered and flashed a beaten brow emboldened by annoyance. 

Rebecca lightly chuckled and slapped his arm playfully. Outside, the hulking SUV had reached the turn for Jubilee Trail, which was a plain dirt road that was no more than ten feet across and declined into the pitted darkness of the evergreen forest. 

While Clancy maneuvered their four-wheeled beast onto bumpier terrain, Rebecca swiveled in her seat, so her eyes met Arthur’s. They were filled with a rare shine of uncertainty. 

“I am thankful to know that this Christa is on our side–she must have really taken a liking to you.”

Arthur shook his head.

“Not really. It kind of felt like I was more of a piece of livestock to toy with.”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Be that as it may, if she really is being truthful with all this information regarding the children of the widow, then Clancy and I are closer to shutting down this operation. However… It seems that this issue with the Chesseley’s, Mr. Nancy, and the gateways go farther back than I would have realized. It's a bit daunting to think about the odds we're up against.”

Witnessing the rare occasion of Rebecca freely expressing her doubt actually scared Arthur. The tall, cherubic, strategic–savvy woman succeeded in concealing her poker face up until that moment–the shell had cracked, at least for a short moment. 

To cheer her up, a gush of enthusiastic remedy flowed out of Arthur’s mouth like an intoxicating flavor of liquor. It was an action that was unlike him to do. 

“There’s a way. There has to be. I may not know Christa personally, but honestly, her words seemed very genuine and…I think she’s physically exhausted from protecting the town. She’s been through so much without anyone knowing, so, I don’t know, I feel like I have this obligation to help her.

As he declared this, their vehicle crawled at a snail's pace down a steep bend; each of the four wheels yelped their crunching barks over every loose rock. 

Arthur managed to continue talking through the shaking of the car’s janky descent. 

“All we need to do is find the keys to the violet’s gateway. Should be easy enough, right?”

Rebecca flashed a tiny smile.

“I like this new you. Lots of optimism. Yeah, we’ll find those keys,” she confirmed and then thrusted her attention to a low branched gap near the end of the trail. 

Slowly, a building with a brick-spined roof of forty-feet attracted the mobile group as they crawled into the compact clearing. Families of ancient wooden pillars guarding their saplings populated a majority of the space, forcing the SUV to slide into a parking spot of overgrown weeds at a weird angle. 

The curious trio eyed the brick building–an outstanding callback to the past that imparted a flavor of architecture most suggested for the 1800s. Arthur could imagine a time when packs of eager children would flow out of the thick oak doors after a day of studious work, but now the entrance looked nothing short of haunting. 

There wasn’t much to the front–most of the brickwork was coated top-to-bottom with impatient grapevines. The lot itself had nothing of interest as it appeared the area had not been touched by human visitors for a very long time. As Arthur exited the car and wandered attentively around the perimeter, Rebecca called to him. 

“So, Christa said we were looking for keys, but did she mention where they would be located or what they looked like?” she asked with a tone of slight curiosity.

“Mmm, that she did not say…” Arthur answered, but attempted a half-smile to keep the situation calm. He looked over to the front doors of the schoolhouse, where Clancy was busy examining. 

The detective attempted to open the pair of doors but was met with little movement by the contraptions. Upset by the building's unwillingness, the impatient man struck a powerful blow with his foot against the wood, popping shards from the frame. The doors whipped open upon creaky hinges. Rebecca and Arthur watched unimpressed–it was like watching an angry child smash and thrash in egomaniac victory. 

Clancy slipped into the doorway and the other two followed swiftly. 

The inside was dusty, which was to be expected, but everywhere was matted in a thick layer of filth. In the center of the room were eighteen poorly maintained desks, and to the front was a giant elm constructed teacher desk that held several pillars of books high and proud. Bookshelves and various other supplies, specifically metallic landscaping tools, crowded the grimed up square windows. Bubbles of dirty light blessed the room, but the atmosphere was too daft to change for the positive. 

Behind the teacher's desk and adjacent to the massive blackboard and coal-fueled furnace was another door– a way to a backroom supply space perhaps? Clancy immediately paced over in angst, opened the door, and disappeared into the stuffy void. 

Arthur busied himself by observing the differentiating book titles lying in asymmetrical towers upon the many abandoned desks. Left alone to his own devices of quiet investigation, he began to wonder deeply about time long ago–an era that was absent regarding the marvels of modern day. It was a unique perspective that commandeered the microphone inside his brain. 

He gave a sneaking glance over to Rebecca, who was in the midst of observing a line of taxidermized animals displayed on the entirety of one wall. Several angular buck skulls watched the intruding pair with empty eye sockets.

Since silence wasn’t exactly Rebecca’s choice of ambiance, Arthur decided to fill in the gap of forced quietness with a well-minded question. 

“Hey, since we have a minute–do you mind explaining your organization? What does Mithras mean? Like, is it an acronym for something?”

Rebecca nodded and smiled.

“Sure, I don’t mind explaining but promise me that you won't fall asleep.”

Arthur released a short chuckle.

She paused and then began her educational spiel. 

“Mithras was an organization born many millennia ago. It started out as a group dedicated to the Zoroastrian god, Mithra of Iranian legend. The well-shaped one of a thousand ears and ten thousand eyes–he was a courageous deity that stood for the hearts of many and represented the concept of oath, the sun, and much more.”

Arthur nodded along, trying his best to follow. 

“Disciples who followed Mithra heeded his order to protect humanity from the wretches of the world by seeking out the mysterious and finding resolve.”

“The mysterious?” Arthur parroted. Rebecca nodded. 

“Oh, you know, the darkness that antagonizes humanity. Monsters, spirits, demons, and whatnot. They have been around much longer than us, some possibly as old as our planet.”

Arthur scratched his chin in acknowledgement and moved on to his next question.

“Uh huh….So, the tattoos…. are they like, an emblem brandishing of sorts?” He felt stupid for asking. 

“Yes. It is our oath to help those that need it…Mithras has been around for quite some time. From the period of the Zoroastrians to the era of the Romans, and now, in the modern day– it is a force that flourishes in the underbelly of the world. Humanity needs an underdog right now, so why not let us be it,” she explained.

A well-deserved pause followed her words. 

While Arthur whirled about in the pool of information wielded by Rebecca’s educative prowess, a curious sound vibrated imposingly into the room. It was faint, but Arthur swore he had heard it no less than two hours before. 

Click-click-click

Arthur’s heart dropped and sunk further when noticing a stalking shadow creep vertically over one of the eastern windows. The shadowy tangle stretched its six, thick-clubbed legs a full four feet in both directions as if boasting an air of genetic marvel. It was an abominable sight to see with frightened pupils. 

Arthur rotated to face Rebecca who was idly sifting through a mountain of yellow stained paper and let loose an earsplitting bellow. 

“Move!” 

And then the sound of the shattered glass rained into the classroom.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

Max Pellog was no short of a temper when putting him into the barren jail cell– squealing and crying, the vagrant had gone full feral on officer Beck. 

Steven ignored the nasty curses. It was but a pinprick to his thick hide. Now he tried to imagine if Pellog had been successful with that fire poker–woof, that would've been either a nice little trip to the hospital or a one-way ticket to a grave on the east side of town. 

As Steven shoved Pellog into the concrete cube of a cell, the tiny, tattooed man rushed the steel bars with foolish confidence. The bars did not move an inch and Pellog screamed. 

“Yer one of them-ONE of them!! If yer just going to eat me, then let me kill myself,” he howled in nonsense. 

Pellog then shifted his attention onto the cell next to his– the rage dissipated at what he saw. Steven nudged a finger to his temple to understand the enthralling performance that encouraged both men to watch in confusion. 

It was a person that Steven recognized–a Mr. Lee Osago, a resident squatter and coke dabbler over in Greenwick. Lee was an interesting character, especially when doused with the gift of snow. To Steven, he looked a lot like a young Kurt Russel from the movie “Big Trouble in Little China”, as he sported the short blond mullet, prominent edge nose, and cleft chin, but there was a big difference– Kurt Russel was never found singing “Feliz Navidad” with an old forest green, food smudged sweater and a pair of shit-stained underwear. He twirled about the cell singing the lyric “I wanna wish you a merry Christmas” in his coke-induced euphoria while officer Beck and Pellog watched in amazement. 

“Please tell me you aren’t going to leave me here with him?” Pellog pleaded.

“Hey, I get the pleasure of listening to this too.”

A third voice interrupted the pair. 

“Sorry about him, Beck,” called out from the throes of office desks behind Steven. The voice was meek–one would need to strain to hear, like Steven did in that moment, but he was used to doing that for officer Mells. 

Mells was unique–enough to stand out on the force. He was short and lithe with spiked blond hair and a pair of thinly framed glasses that magnified his beetle-eyed stare. He had joined a year prior, but Steven still found it difficult to bridge a relationship with the man. 

Maybe, it was the smell. The young man reeked of sauerkraut; the scent clung deeply into Mell's uniform and wafted freely wherever he went. He claimed it was his wife’s favorite condiment to add to his lunches, but Steven was not a fan whatsoever. 

Mells walked up, both hands gripping his belt with a sign of pride. He spoke softly. 

“I found this fella walking the pastures between Greenwick and Eugene. I thought he could use a cool down.”

Steven nodded but was perturbed by a new aroma prodding the air as Mells walked closer. Was that a whiff of meat he noted? Not just meat–raw meat. Steven responded under a facade of a smile. 

“Yeah, it seems like it. Do you know if the captain and the others are still away dealing with the mess at Wrangles?” 

Mells nodded and swiped at some excess of mysterious juice glistening in the blonde prickles of his beard. 

“Ehh, uhh, yeah, but I’m glad you’re back from uh…”, Mells squeaked while giving an inquisitive stare at Pellog, who growled and spat in his direction. 

“Guess you’ve had your hands full,” the thinly hunched officer said, followed by a chortle that jostled his Adam's apple up and down. 

“Right….is something the matter?”

Mells nodded aggressively and his face scrunched in dire worriment as if an invisible entity whispered terminal news into his ear. 

“Officer Lincoln's walkie ran out of juice, so he called the station personally to relay a message for you. It's that woman from yesterday, Darcy Hunter.”

“Why didn’t Frannie radio me about it?” Steven asked inquisitively. Frannie was their dispatcher, the only one of her kind at the Porthcawl station at least. 

“I-I d-don’t know where she is…,” Mells answered.

Steven frowned. Behind him, Pellog was pouncing at the steel bars with the ferocity of a mangy jaguar, and Lee was doo-whopping to a personal rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”.

“So, what is it this time? Is Miss Hunter having another mental break becau-”, he sternly asserted but was cut off by Mell’s nasally interruption. 

“No no..oh um… how do I put this…She’s…She’s dead.”

The drop of news jolted Steven to shapeshift his expression to one more appropriate–donning a hardness that was iron-cut and fearsome.

He herded the other officer back into the huddle of work desks. There weren't any other officers present, but he still wanted to refrain from Pellog eavesdropping.

“What do you mean she’s dead”, he politely inquired, although the words slurred through clenched teeth. 

“I really don’t know more than that. Lincoln wanted me to ask if you could ride out there as quickly as possible because you were the last official person to talk to her and that he needed to show you some camera footage.”

“I really don’t understand….okay, okay, fine. Can you watch Pellog alongside your catch of the day? He is not to be talked to or let go, for he now has an account of aggravated assault upon a police officer and that will be recorded onto his record sheet real soon,” Steven instructed while heading towards his desk and grabbing some miscellaneous paperwork

“Yeah, yeah, no problem boss,” Mells squawked meekly.

Steven gave a grateful thumbs-up sign, fished his keys out of his pocket, and then glanced once more at Pellog, who glared a resenting passion of hot fury that may have rivaled the sun. 

“He's coming for you! He’s coming for all of us!”, he sputtered and then barked at Lee to shut up. Lee seemed ignorant to his cell neighbor's rant and continued dancing erratically

What a pair.

As Steven marched through the front doors to his cruiser, the craziness of the day was beginning to terrorize him mentally. 

How the hell was Darcy Hunter dead?

He didn’t forget about her chaotic display of insanity, that was for sure. Maybe she took her own life? He hoped not, but what other explanation could define her deceased state? 

Whatever was waiting for Steven at Ambelles, it almost made him ask out to God for just a little knowledge. 

Almost. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With an audible groan fleeing from a pair of bulging lips, C.J heaved the one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound trash bag onto the scarred wooden floor of the gymnasium. It was pitch black, so he couldn't exactly eyeball where he threw the girl, but she was somewhere in that darkness, still unconscious.

It took about an hour to pack her away in his truck and get a move on down the main drag of town–heading east for the old high school. He decided to enter through the old dock entrance out back, where a brick had been luckily placed for those who wanted to trespass again, and lugged his seventeen-year-old victim through the hallways and into the unsettling darkness. 

Violet ribbons of light appeared thirty or so seconds later, illuminating the grungy man picking his nose. C.J stopped and grunted in anticipation–he wanted to witness the bloodshed. Once the stream of lights constructed the familiarly odd, blurry face, a bassy masculine voice boomed from C. J’s right. 

“I’m impressed. You followed every detail.”

The clopping of heavy footfalls snapped the young man to gaze into the insatiable darkness, although the faint glow of the lights emanated enough territory that he could trace the outline of the vocalist's owner. 

It was the instructor–Mr. Nancy, if the greasy man recounted his thoughts correctly. He drew closer, much closer than the previous visit. C.J could distinctly recognize the shadow-garbed stranger’s black matte winter coat, waist coat, and tie, but more details arose to light. 

He was a black man, a few inches taller than C.J, and quite lanky despite the hugging layer of clothing. It hung right off him. Something the twenty-one-year-old noticed that irked him in an uncomforting way was that Mr. Nancy donned a face that didn’t seem right. His facial features were too pronounced, too extravagantly large for his bone structure–an easy observation even for an idiot like C.J to notice.

He took two long strides with boots slamming against the charred wax and flipped a scaly grin with lips-tinged ash grey. Bugged-out eyeballs fixated on C. J’s trembling form and in that moment, he felt the need to unclench his bowels indiscreetly.

“Even a human can surprise me from time to time. Who am I kidding–you possess a murderous spirit. Did you like it? How did it feel?”

C.J sniffled and crudely omitted the euphoria. 

“It was the best feeling in the world. I want more. I need more.”

Mr. Nancy licked his lips. 

“I believe someone loyal to the widow like yourself deserves a gift then. Come here, why don’t ya.”

He waved a bony hand, convincing the dull junker to lumber a step or two forward. Then, the mystifying stranger was on him in a flash. 

He was swift. It took an uncaring turn of the head really–one measly look away and Mr. Nancy pounced towards C.J, enough to stand toe-to-toe. An arm, stocky yet flexible, wrapped C.J in a muscle prison, a bear hug that lacked escape. Another forceful arm with the wrath of moist hook-like fingers, gripped his flabby cheeks and pincered his jaws into an open position.  

Mr.Nancy was above him now. He peered down upon C.J with the smugness of a king. His maw stretched open, expanding beyond the constraints of human anatomy and soon, prefaced by the internal rumbling of his holder's abdomen, a milky slurry catapulted from within the depths of the instructors soured gut tube.

The fluid streamed unimpeded into C. J’s angular mouth cavity, the taste far worse than anything imagined. It was indescribable….and chunky, as though bits of semisolid matter barreled down his windpipe, scathing the captive’s internal lining.  Some of the chunks latched and with surprise, nibbled weakly, activating C.J’s sense of survival to flex his throat muscles and clear the airway. 

After several minutes of gagging and coughing, it was over and C.J was released. His body flopped sideways and he automatically began spewing his gift. Thick drooling strands pooled down from his open mouth and piled into a semi-solid mass of white upchuck–only…. every bit of his vomit was filled to the brim with dozens of miniscule translucent spiderlings. 

A normal person should have been terrified, and therefore, sprint away to the nearest bathroom and exorcise themselves with a treatment of good ol’ Listerine, but C.J just sat there, accepting his fate. Mr. Nancy noted the killer's acceptance. 

“I knew I had a good feeling about you. In a couple hours, you will soon understand the widow’s desire. Join us tonight! We shall celebrate!” Mr. Nancy boomed, causing C.J to flinch. 

He sluggishly rose and muttered grimly. 

“What do I do now?” 

Mr. Nancy's unnatural smile brightened in a sickening way. His teeth were slicked with slime and ready to unveil the next instructions. 

“It is time for you to feed.”

Written by Feeling_Sail ( ACMichael)

Author's Note:

Greetings everyone! A.C. Michael here.

Since the Arachne series has reached chapter 20, I wanted to introduce myself and say thanks to those who either have reached this far in the series or are simply taking a stroll by. I wish I could interact with the community a lot more than I can, but due to the schedule of being a busy teacher and having online anxiety, I find it really hard to accumulate the time. However, I do read a lot of stories over this and a couple other subreddits and like to keep track of big movements in the community. I hope for those reading, you are prepared for more story as things are going to get chaotic and, if you have any questions regarding the Arachne universe, please ask. Thank you and remember she is watching from the violet.

Max Pellog was no short of a temper when putting him into the barren jail cell– squealing and crying, the vagrant had gone full feral on officer Beck. 

Steven ignored the nasty curses. It was but a pinprick to his thick hide. Now he tried to imagine if Pellog had been successful with that fire poker–woof, that would've been either a nice little trip to the hospital or a one-way ticket to a grave on the east side of town. 

As Steven shoved Pellog into the concrete cube of a cell, the tiny, tattooed man rushed the steel bars with foolish confidence. The bars did not move an inch and Pellog screamed. 

“Yer one of them-ONE of them!! If yer just going to eat me, then let me kill myself,” he howled in nonsense. 

Pellog then shifted his attention onto the cell next to his– the rage dissipated at what he saw. Steven nudged a finger to his temple to understand the enthralling performance that encouraged both men to watch in confusion. 

It was a person that Steven recognized–a Mr. Lee Osago, a resident squatter and coke dabbler over in Greenwick. Lee was an interesting character, especially when doused with the gift of snow. To Steven, he looked a lot like a young Kurt Russel from the movie “Big Trouble in Little China”, as he sported the short blond mullet, prominent edge nose, and cleft chin, but there was a big difference– Kurt Russel was never found singing “Feliz Navidad**”** with an old forest green, food smudged sweater and a pair of shit-stained underwear. He twirled about the cell singing the lyric “I wanna wish you a merry Christmas” in his coke-induced euphoria while officer Beck and Pellog watched in amazement. 

“Please tell me you aren’t going to leave me here with him?” Pellog pleaded.

“Hey, I get the pleasure of listening to this too.”

A third voice interrupted the pair. 

“Sorry about him, Beck,” called out from the throes of office desks behind Steven. The voice was meek–one would need to strain to hear, like Steven did in that moment, but he was used to doing that for officer Mells. 

Mells was unique–enough to stand out on the force. He was short and lithe with spiked blond hair and a pair of thinly framed glasses that magnified his beetle-eyed stare. He had joined a year prior, but Steven still found it difficult to bridge a relationship with the man. 

Maybe, it was the smell. The young man reeked of sauerkraut; the scent clung deeply into Mell's uniform and wafted freely wherever he went. He claimed it was his wife’s favorite condiment to add to his lunches, but Steven was not a fan whatsoever. 

Mells walked up, both hands gripping his belt with a sign of pride. He spoke softly. 

“I found this fella walking the pastures between Greenwick and Eugene. I thought he could use a cool down.”

Steven nodded but was perturbed by a new aroma prodding the air as Mells walked closer. Was that a whiff of meat he noted? Not just meat–raw meat. Steven responded under a facade of a smile. 

“Yeah, it seems like it. Do you know if the captain and the others are still away dealing with the mess at Wrangles?” 

Mells nodded and swiped at some excess of mysterious juice glistening in the blonde prickles of his beard. 

“Ehh, uhh, yeah, but I’m glad you’re back from uh…”, Mells squeaked while giving an inquisitive stare at Pellog, who growled and spat in his direction. 

“Guess you’ve had your hands full,” the thinly hunched officer said, followed by a chortle that jostled his Adam's apple up and down. 

“Right….is something the matter?”

Mells nodded aggressively and his face scrunched in dire worriment as if an invisible entity whispered terminal news into his ear. 

“Officer Lincoln's walkie ran out of juice, so he called the station personally to relay a message for you. It's that woman from yesterday, Darcy Hunter.”

“Why didn’t Frannie radio me about it?” Steven asked inquisitively. Frannie was their dispatcher, the only one of her kind at the Porthcawl station at least. 

“I-I d-don’t know where she is…,” Mells answered.

Steven frowned. Behind him, Pellog was pouncing at the steel bars with the ferocity of a mangy jaguar, and Lee was doo-whopping to a personal rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”.

“So, what is it this time? Is Miss Hunter having another mental break becau-”, he sternly asserted but was cut off by Mell’s nasally interruption. 

“No no..oh um… how do I put this…She’s…She’s dead.”

The drop of news jolted Steven to shapeshift his expression to one more appropriate–donning a hardness that was iron-cut and fearsome.

He herded the other officer back into the huddle of work desks. There weren't any other officers present, but he still wanted to refrain from Pellog eavesdropping.

“What do you mean she’s dead”, he politely inquired, although the words slurred through clenched teeth. 

“I really don’t know more than that. Lincoln wanted me to ask if you could ride out there as quickly as possible because you were the last official person to talk to her and that he needed to show you some camera footage.”

“I really don’t understand….okay, okay, fine. Can you watch Pellog alongside your catch of the day? He is not to be talked to or let go, for he now has an account of aggravated assault upon a police officer and that will be recorded onto his record sheet real soon,” Steven instructed while heading towards his desk and grabbing some miscellaneous paperwork

“Yeah, yeah, no problem boss,” Mells squawked meekly.

Steven gave a grateful thumbs-up sign, fished his keys out of his pocket, and then glanced once more at Pellog, who glared a resenting passion of hot fury that may have rivaled the sun. 

“He's coming for you! He’s coming for all of us!”, he sputtered and then barked at Lee to shut up. Lee seemed ignorant to his cell neighbor's rant and continued dancing erratically

What a pair.

As Steven marched through the front doors to his cruiser, the craziness of the day was beginning to terrorize him mentally. 

How the hell was Darcy Hunter dead?

He didn’t forget about her chaotic display of insanity, that was for sure. Maybe she took her own life? He hoped not, but what other explanation could define her deceased state? 

Whatever was waiting for Steven at Ambelles, it almost made him ask out to God for just a little knowledge. 

Almost. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With an audible groan fleeing from a pair of bulging lips, C.J heaved the one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound trash bag onto the scarred wooden floor of the gymnasium. It was pitch black, so he couldn't exactly eyeball where he threw the girl, but she was somewhere in that darkness, still unconscious.

It took about an hour to pack her away in his truck and get a move on down the main drag of town–heading east for the old high school. He decided to enter through the old dock entrance out back, where a brick had been luckily placed for those who wanted to trespass again, and lugged his seventeen-year-old victim through the hallways and into the unsettling darkness. 

Violet ribbons of light appeared thirty or so seconds later, illuminating the grungy man picking his nose. C.J stopped and grunted in anticipation–he wanted to witness the bloodshed. Once the stream of lights constructed the familiarly odd, blurry face, a bassy masculine voice boomed from C. J’s right. 

“I’m impressed. You followed every detail.”

The clopping of heavy footfalls snapped the young man to gaze into the insatiable darkness, although the faint glow of the lights emanated enough territory that he could trace the outline of the vocalist's owner. 

It was the instructor–Mr. Nancy, if the greasy man recounted his thoughts correctly. He drew closer, much closer than the previous visit. C.J could distinctly recognize the shadow-garbed stranger’s black matte winter coat, waist coat, and tie, but more details arose to light. 

He was a black man, a few inches taller than C.J, and quite lanky despite the hugging layer of clothing. It hung right off him. Something the twenty-one-year-old noticed that irked him in an uncomforting way was that Mr. Nancy donned a face that didn’t seem right. His facial features were too pronounced, too extravagantly large for his bone structure–an easy observation even for an idiot like C.J to notice.

He took two long strides with boots slamming against the charred wax and flipped a scaly grin with lips-tinged ash grey. Bugged-out eyeballs fixated on C. J’s trembling form and in that moment, he felt the need to unclench his bowels indiscreetly.

“Even a human can surprise me from time to time. Who am I kidding–you possess a murderous spirit. Did you like it? How did it feel?”

C.J sniffled and crudely omitted the euphoria. 

“It was the best feeling in the world. I want more. I need more.”

Mr. Nancy licked his lips. 

“I believe someone loyal to the widow like yourself deserves a gift then. Come here, why don’t ya.”

He waved a bony hand, convincing the dull junker to lumber a step or two forward. Then, the mystifying stranger was on him in a flash. 

He was swift. It took an uncaring turn of the head really–one measly look away and Mr. Nancy pounced towards C.J, enough to stand toe-to-toe. An arm, stocky yet flexible, wrapped C.J in a muscle prison, a bear hug that lacked escape. Another forceful arm with the wrath of moist hook-like fingers, gripped his flabby cheeks and pincered his jaws into an open position.  

Mr.Nancy was above him now. He peered down upon C.J with the smugness of a king. His maw stretched open, expanding beyond the constraints of human anatomy and soon, prefaced by the internal rumbling of his holder's abdomen, a milky slurry catapulted from within the depths of the instructors soured gut tube.

The fluid streamed unimpeded into C. J’s angular mouth cavity, the taste far worse than anything imagined. It was indescribable….and chunky, as though bits of semisolid matter barreled down his windpipe, scathing the captive’s internal lining.  Some of the chunks latched and with surprise, nibbled weakly, activating C.J’s sense of survival to flex his throat muscles and clear the airway. 

After several minutes of gagging and coughing, it was over and C.J was released. His body flopped sideways and he automatically began spewing his gift. Thick drooling strands pooled down from his open mouth and piled into a semi-solid mass of white upchuck–only…. every bit of his vomit was filled to the brim with dozens of miniscule translucent spiderlings. 

A normal person should have been terrified, and therefore, sprint away to the nearest bathroom and exorcise themselves with a treatment of good ol’ Listerine, but C.J just sat there, accepting his fate. Mr. Nancy noted the killer's acceptance. 

“I knew I had a good feeling about you. In a couple hours, you will soon understand the widow’s desire. Join us tonight! We shall celebrate!” Mr. Nancy boomed, causing C.J to flinch. 

He sluggishly rose and muttered grimly. 

“What do I do now?” 

Mr. Nancy's unnatural smile brightened in a sickening way. His teeth were slicked with slime and ready to unveil the next instructions. 

“It is time for you to feed.”

Written by Feeling_Sail ( ACMichael)

Max Pellog was no short of a temper when putting him into the barren jail cell– squealing and crying, the vagrant had gone full feral on officer Beck. 

Steven ignored the nasty curses. It was but a pinprick to his thick hide. Now he tried to imagine if Pellog had been successful with that fire poker–woof, that would've been either a nice little trip to the hospital or a one-way ticket to a grave on the east side of town. 

As Steven shoved Pellog into the concrete cube of a cell, the tiny, tattooed man rushed the steel bars with foolish confidence. The bars did not move an inch and Pellog screamed. 

“Yer one of them-ONE of them!! If yer just going to eat me, then let me kill myself,” he howled in nonsense. 

Pellog then shifted his attention onto the cell next to his– the rage dissipated at what he saw. Steven nudged a finger to his temple to understand the enthralling performance that encouraged both men to watch in confusion. 

It was a person that Steven recognized–a Mr. Lee Osago, a resident squatter and coke dabbler over in Greenwick. Lee was an interesting character, especially when doused with the gift of snow. To Steven, he looked a lot like a young Kurt Russel from the movie “Big Trouble in Little China”, as he sported the short blond mullet, prominent edge nose, and cleft chin, but there was a big difference– Kurt Russel was never found singing “Feliz Navidad” with an old forest green, food smudged sweater and a pair of shit-stained underwear. He twirled about the cell singing the lyric “I wanna wish you a merry Christmas” in his coke-induced euphoria while officer Beck and Pellog watched in amazement. 

“Please tell me you aren’t going to leave me here with him?” Pellog pleaded.

“Hey, I get the pleasure of listening to this too.”

A third voice interrupted the pair. 

“Sorry about him, Beck,” called out from the throes of office desks behind Steven. The voice was meek–one would need to strain to hear, like Steven did in that moment, but he was used to doing that for officer Mells. 

Mells was unique–enough to stand out on the force. He was short and lithe with spiked blond hair and a pair of thinly framed glasses that magnified his beetle-eyed stare. He had joined a year prior, but Steven still found it difficult to bridge a relationship with the man. 

Maybe, it was the smell. The young man reeked of sauerkraut; the scent clung deeply into Mell's uniform and wafted freely wherever he went. He claimed it was his wife’s favorite condiment to add to his lunches, but Steven was not a fan whatsoever. 

Mells walked up, both hands gripping his belt with a sign of pride. He spoke softly. 

“I found this fella walking the pastures between Greenwick and Eugene. I thought he could use a cool down.”

Steven nodded but was perturbed by a new aroma prodding the air as Mells walked closer. Was that a whiff of meat he noted? Not just meat–raw meat. Steven responded under a facade of a smile. 

“Yeah, it seems like it. Do you know if the captain and the others are still away dealing with the mess at Wrangles?” 

Mells nodded and swiped at some excess of mysterious juice glistening in the blonde prickles of his beard. 

“Ehh, uhh, yeah, but I’m glad you’re back from uh…”, Mells squeaked while giving an inquisitive stare at Pellog, who growled and spat in his direction. 

“Guess you’ve had your hands full,” the thinly hunched officer said, followed by a chortle that jostled his Adam's apple up and down. 

“Right….is something the matter?”

Mells nodded aggressively and his face scrunched in dire worriment as if an invisible entity whispered terminal news into his ear. 

“Officer Lincoln's walkie ran out of juice, so he called the station personally to relay a message for you. It's that woman from yesterday, Darcy Hunter.”

“Why didn’t Frannie radio me about it?” Steven asked inquisitively. Frannie was their dispatcher, the only one of her kind at the Porthcawl station at least. 

“I-I d-don’t know where she is…,” Mells answered.

Steven frowned. Behind him, Pellog was pouncing at the steel bars with the ferocity of a mangy jaguar, and Lee was doo-whopping to a personal rendition of “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”.

“So, what is it this time? Is Miss Hunter having another mental break becau-”, he sternly asserted but was cut off by Mell’s nasally interruption. 

“No no..oh um… how do I put this…She’s…She’s dead.”

The drop of news jolted Steven to shapeshift his expression to one more appropriate–donning a hardness that was iron-cut and fearsome.

He herded the other officer back into the huddle of work desks. There weren't any other officers present, but he still wanted to refrain from Pellog eavesdropping.

“What do you mean she’s dead”, he politely inquired, although the words slurred through clenched teeth. 

“I really don’t know more than that. Lincoln wanted me to ask if you could ride out there as quickly as possible because you were the last official person to talk to her and that he needed to show you some camera footage.”

“I really don’t understand….okay, okay, fine. Can you watch Pellog alongside your catch of the day? He is not to be talked to or let go, for he now has an account of aggravated assault upon a police officer and that will be recorded onto his record sheet real soon,” Steven instructed while heading towards his desk and grabbing some miscellaneous paperwork

“Yeah, yeah, no problem boss,” Mells squawked meekly.

Steven gave a grateful thumbs-up sign, fished his keys out of his pocket, and then glanced once more at Pellog, who glared a resenting passion of hot fury that may have rivaled the sun. 

“He's coming for you! He’s coming for all of us!”, he sputtered and then barked at Lee to shut up. Lee seemed ignorant to his cell neighbor's rant and continued dancing erratically

What a pair.

As Steven marched through the front doors to his cruiser, the craziness of the day was beginning to terrorize him mentally. 

How the hell was Darcy Hunter dead?

He didn’t forget about her chaotic display of insanity, that was for sure. Maybe she took her own life? He hoped not, but what other explanation could define her deceased state? 

Whatever was waiting for Steven at Ambelles, it almost made him ask out to God for just a little knowledge. 

Almost. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

With an audible groan fleeing from a pair of bulging lips, C.J heaved the one-hundred-and-thirty-five-pound trash bag onto the scarred wooden floor of the gymnasium. It was pitch black, so he couldn't exactly eyeball where he threw the girl, but she was somewhere in that darkness, still unconscious.

It took about an hour to pack her away in his truck and get a move on down the main drag of town–heading east for the old high school. He decided to enter through the old dock entrance out back, where a brick had been luckily placed for those who wanted to trespass again, and lugged his seventeen-year-old victim through the hallways and into the unsettling darkness. 

Violet ribbons of light appeared thirty or so seconds later, illuminating the grungy man picking his nose. C.J stopped and grunted in anticipation–he wanted to witness the bloodshed. Once the stream of lights constructed the familiarly odd, blurry face, a bassy masculine voice boomed from C. J’s right. 

“I’m impressed. You followed every detail.”

The clopping of heavy footfalls snapped the young man to gaze into the insatiable darkness, although the faint glow of the lights emanated enough territory that he could trace the outline of the vocalist's owner. 

It was the instructor–Mr. Nancy, if the greasy man recounted his thoughts correctly. He drew closer, much closer than the previous visit. C.J could distinctly recognize the shadow-garbed stranger’s black matte winter coat, waist coat, and tie, but more details arose to light. 

He was a black man, a few inches taller than C.J, and quite lanky despite the hugging layer of clothing. It hung right off him. Something the twenty-one-year-old noticed that irked him in an uncomforting way was that Mr. Nancy donned a face that didn’t seem right. His facial features were too pronounced, too extravagantly large for his bone structure–an easy observation even for an idiot like C.J to notice.

He took two long strides with boots slamming against the charred wax and flipped a scaly grin with lips-tinged ash grey. Bugged-out eyeballs fixated on C. J’s trembling form and in that moment, he felt the need to unclench his bowels indiscreetly.

“Even a human can surprise me from time to time. Who am I kidding–you possess a murderous spirit. Did you like it? How did it feel?”

C.J sniffled and crudely omitted the euphoria. 

“It was the best feeling in the world. I want more. I need more.”

Mr. Nancy licked his lips. 

“I believe someone loyal to the widow like yourself deserves a gift then. Come here, why don’t ya.”

He waved a bony hand, convincing the dull junker to lumber a step or two forward. Then, the mystifying stranger was on him in a flash. 

He was swift. It took an uncaring turn of the head really–one measly look away and Mr. Nancy pounced towards C.J, enough to stand toe-to-toe. An arm, stocky yet flexible, wrapped C.J in a muscle prison, a bear hug that lacked escape. Another forceful arm with the wrath of moist hook-like fingers, gripped his flabby cheeks and pincered his jaws into an open position.  

Mr.Nancy was above him now. He peered down upon C.J with the smugness of a king. His maw stretched open, expanding beyond the constraints of human anatomy and soon, prefaced by the internal rumbling of his holder's abdomen, a milky slurry catapulted from within the depths of the instructors soured gut tube.

The fluid streamed unimpeded into C. J’s angular mouth cavity, the taste far worse than anything imagined. It was indescribable….and chunky, as though bits of semisolid matter barreled down his windpipe, scathing the captive’s internal lining.  Some of the chunks latched and with surprise, nibbled weakly, activating C.J’s sense of survival to flex his throat muscles and clear the airway. 

After several minutes of gagging and coughing, it was over and C.J was released. His body flopped sideways and he automatically began spewing his gift. Thick drooling strands pooled down from his open mouth and piled into a semi-solid mass of white upchuck–only…. every bit of his vomit was filled to the brim with dozens of miniscule translucent spiderlings. 

A normal person should have been terrified, and therefore, sprint away to the nearest bathroom and exorcise themselves with a treatment of good ol’ Listerine, but C.J just sat there, accepting his fate. Mr. Nancy noted the killer's acceptance. 

“I knew I had a good feeling about you. In a couple hours, you will soon understand the widow’s desire. Join us tonight! We shall celebrate!” Mr. Nancy boomed, causing C.J to flinch. 

He sluggishly rose and muttered grimly. 

“What do I do now?” 

Mr. Nancy's unnatural smile brightened in a sickening way. His teeth were slicked with slime and ready to unveil the next instructions. 

“It is time for you to feed.”

Written by Feeling_Sail ( ACMichael)

Author's Note:

Greetings everyone! A.C. Michael here.

Since the Arachne series has reached chapter 20, I wanted to introduce myself and say thanks to those who either have reached this far in the series or are simply taking a stroll by. I wish I could interact with the community a lot more than I can, but due to the schedule of being a busy teacher and having online anxiety, I find it really hard to accumulate the time. However, I do read a lot of stories over this and a couple other subreddits and like to keep track of big movements in the community. I hope for those reading, you are prepared for more story as things are going to get more and more chaotic and, if you have any questions regarding the Arachne universe, please ask. Thank you and remember she is watching from the violet.

“For god's sake, just kill that thing! "Arthur growled and waved both hands wildly in the direction of the caged beast.

Christa spun a wicked smile and shrugged. In a display of impossibility, the tarp which had been previously thrown aside, seized itself off the floor and flew onto the cage, sealing itself tight. 

Arthur’s breathing began to return to a normal pace, but his heart begged him to ask the enormous question imposing itself in the room.

“So that thing…”, he trailed off, momentarily floundering for the words, “This Mr. Nancy .... Anansi? Whatever or whoever this guy is…He’s trying to open the gateways in Porthcawl to unleash more of these guys?”

Arthur gestured to the wrapped birdcage.

The witch gracefully stroked her chin while tangling one leg over the other in a classy homage to the modern intellectual deep in the ruts of thought. Finally, her soft pink lips released the truth, with a word or two tempting the guarded Arthur. 

“Let me not misuse the excess of severity that I hold dearly. Anansi may be foolish in his ideals of revolution, but he is also cunning. The introduction of the spawn is only the beginning as there are far worse things Anansi has up his sleeve. He plans to create an opening to the violet.”

“The violet,” Arthur mimicked. The word was all too familiar. 

“ The archway opens….and violet spreads…

From the ivory castle, She watches without eyes…and screams with no mouth….

Seek out who collects the diseased and broken…

Martin Chessely knows….”

“What is the violet? What good does it bring to this guy?”

Arthur realized how silly he must’ve looked asking that question while also cowering to the far wall. After the grand reveal of the spawn–a nasty and overly aggressive thing that Arthur would rather deniably dictate as a figment of his imagination–he did not feel the need to venture back to the vacant armchair.

Christa seemed to cherish his slate of transparency, as though it was easier to deal with a human this way. She continued speaking, forsaking Athur’s hominid ways to a knowledge unknown. 

“The violet is a prison. It is a difficult space to locate along the intercontinental road of the hollow as it requires certain stipulations to enter and exit. The realm of the violet is defined by its vast emptiness, except for a lone castle–one constructed of impenetrable ivory and governed by the last magistrate. Its purpose is to imprison the ether’s most unpleasant monstrosities, but Anansi plans to open a gateway to the violet to free the shackles off his bride.”

“You mean the widow?” Arthur butted in. 

“Her actual name is Arachne, the fourth daughter of Tanaam and weaver of the red chain. In other words, she was originally the holder of all of destiny. 

As Christa pronounced the truth loud and clear, the flames of the fire crackled and heaved with embers. She went on. 

“She is an entity that has long been banished for her supposed crimes within the gallery and is faced to live in servitude within the magistrates castle, but it does not impede her influence from bleeding into the overworld.”

Arthur contemplated the information and then queried back. 

“Can you tell me more about her? What would happen if she was freed from the violet?”

The witch shook her head in defeat. 

“If only I had enough time–time that we do not have, but I can tell you this….releasing her would lead to the enslavement of your people.”

“So, what do we do? You can stop Anansi, right? I mean, you said it yourself–you’ve stopped him once, you could stop him again…”

As he explained his plea, a familiar fuzzy sensation began to root through his skull and waver his vision. 

“It is not easy for me to accomplish something as such anymore. My wards have failed to stop Anansi and he is aware of it. That is why you are here. You are going to find the keys to the gateway. However, do not fret. Martin omitted their locations to me before his passing, and they should be easy enough to acquire.”

“Um, excuse me. Can you clarify a bit more?” Arthur phrased. The fuzziness was worsening and the room shifted slightly. 

Christa seemed to notice his onset vertigo and bounded out of her chair. She stepped toe-to-toe with a dizzying Arthur. 

“Only you are capable of completing what I need. Beyond highway 95, there is a service road called Jubilee Trail. Follow that trail until you reach an old schoolhouse. Martin thought it was the perfect place–the naturalist in him reveled for a place to teach in the forest. One of the keys is there. No one should mind your presence there since the property has long been forgotten. I don’t think even the people of your town are aware of the location. The second key was buried with Martin in his grave, which lies behind a church now called Saint Olafs. I trust only you with this information. Do you understand?”

Arthur tried to nod, but every ounce of him felt heavy. Christa cupped one of her hands against his cheek, the coolness of her skin tingled kindly against his own. 

“You are being called away and our time to talk will pause until you come back. Please, bring the keys to me…you would make Molly so proud,” she stated with a hypnotic embrace. 

“S..Shure..can’t fheel…need morsh Questionsh’s,” he tried, but the words slurred into an incomprehensible jumble. 

She stroked his cheek gently. 

“In due time. As your kind has said, Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.” 

Arthur could hardly hear her as a low grumbling overtook his auditory tunnels, and soon, colors blurred and shapes melted, leaving an emptiness for the venturer to float in.

A dominant silence taunted from the darkness, but a voice–no, two voices, hooked the stifled hollow walker. He let his hushed eyes crack open slowly, each drowsy orb doing its best to filter what appeared to be an artificial ray of light shining in his face. 

It was Clancy. He was crouched in front of him and rudely waving a highly, luminous flashlight in his face. 

“Well, good morning starshine, the world says hello,” he mockingly phrased. 

Arthur gave the detective a stare inflamed with annoyance. 

“Clancy, knock it off and help him up,” Rebecca chided her partner. She watched from behind ginger beards hunched form.

“How are you feeling, Arthur?”

As Clancy helped him to his feet, a mental fog toiled and procrastinated, leaving his mind exhausted. How was he really feeling? Some part scared, some part in denial, and some part…invigorated.

 The experience reminded him of a movie he had watched long ago with his mother as an imaginative eight-year-old–” Labyrinth*”*. His recent stint in the hollow felt similar–It was as if he had entered the infamous maze, with its mind-bobbling, otherworldly peaks of fantasy, but without the crude depiction of David Bowie’s package shoving itself onscreen. 

“I think I’m fine, but shit…Do I have a story for you two.”

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“For god's sake, just kill that thing! "Arthur growled and waved both hands wildly in the direction of the caged beast.

Christa spun a wicked smile and shrugged. In a display of impossibility, the tarp which had been previously thrown aside, seized itself off the floor and flew onto the cage, sealing itself tight. 

Arthur’s breathing began to return to a normal pace, but his heart begged him to ask the enormous question imposing itself in the room.

“So that thing…”, he trailed off, momentarily floundering for the words, “This Mr. Nancy .... Anansi? Whatever or whoever this guy is…He’s trying to open the gateways in Porthcawl to unleash more of these guys?”

Arthur gestured to the wrapped birdcage.

The witch gracefully stroked her chin while tangling one leg over the other in a classy homage to the modern intellectual deep in the ruts of thought. Finally, her soft pink lips released the truth, with a word or two tempting the guarded Arthur. 

“Let me not misuse the excess of severity that I hold dearly. Anansi may be foolish in his ideals of revolution, but he is also cunning. The introduction of the spawn is only the beginning as there are far worse things Anansi has up his sleeve. He plans to create an opening to the violet.”

“The violet,” Arthur mimicked. The word was all too familiar. 

“ The archway opens….and violet spreads…

From the ivory castle, She watches without eyes…and screams with no mouth….

Seek out who collects the diseased and broken…

Martin Chessely knows….”

“What is the violet? What good does it bring to this guy?”

Arthur realized how silly he must’ve looked asking that question while also cowering to the far wall. After the grand reveal of the spawn–a nasty and overly aggressive thing that Arthur would rather deniably dictate as a figment of his imagination–he did not feel the need to venture back to the vacant armchair.

Christa seemed to cherish his slate of transparency, as though it was easier to deal with a human this way. She continued speaking, forsaking Athur’s hominid ways to a knowledge unknown. 

“The violet is a prison. It is a difficult space to locate along the intercontinental road of the hollow as it requires certain stipulations to enter and exit. The realm of the violet is defined by its vast emptiness, except for a lone castle–one constructed of impenetrable ivory and governed by the last magistrate. Its purpose is to imprison the ether’s most unpleasant monstrosities, but Anansi plans to open a gateway to the violet to free the shackles off his bride.”

“You mean the widow?” Arthur butted in. 

“Her actual name is Arachne, the fourth daughter of Tanaam and weaver of the red chain. In other words, she was originally the holder of all of destiny. 

As Christa pronounced the truth loud and clear, the flames of the fire crackled and heaved with embers. She went on. 

“She is an entity that has long been banished for her supposed crimes within the gallery and is faced to live in servitude within the magistrates castle, but it does not impede her influence from bleeding into the overworld.”

Arthur contemplated the information and then queried back. 

“Can you tell me more about her? What would happen if she was freed from the violet?”

The witch shook her head in defeat. 

“If only I had enough time–time that we do not have, but I can tell you this….releasing her would lead to the enslavement of your people.”

“So, what do we do? You can stop Anansi, right? I mean, you said it yourself–you’ve stopped him once, you could stop him again…”

As he explained his plea, a familiar fuzzy sensation began to root through his skull and waver his vision. 

“It is not easy for me to accomplish something as such anymore. My wards have failed to stop Anansi and he is aware of it. That is why you are here. You are going to find the keys to the gateway. However, do not fret. Martin omitted their locations to me before his passing, and they should be easy enough to acquire.”

“Um, excuse me. Can you clarify a bit more?” Arthur phrased. The fuzziness was worsening and the room shifted slightly. 

Christa seemed to notice his onset vertigo and bounded out of her chair. She stepped toe-to-toe with a dizzying Arthur. 

“Only you are capable of completing what I need. Beyond highway 95, there is a service road called Jubilee Trail. Follow that trail until you reach an old schoolhouse. Martin thought it was the perfect place–the naturalist in him reveled for a place to teach in the forest. One of the keys is there. No one should mind your presence there since the property has long been forgotten. I don’t think even the people of your town are aware of the location. The second key was buried with Martin in his grave, which lies behind a church now called Saint Olafs. I trust only you with this information. Do you understand?”

Arthur tried to nod, but every ounce of him felt heavy. Christa cupped one of her hands against his cheek, the coolness of her skin tingled kindly against his own. 

“You are being called away and our time to talk will pause until you come back. Please, bring the keys to me…you would make Molly so proud,” she stated with a hypnotic embrace. 

“S..Shure..can’t fheel…need morsh Questionsh’s,” he tried, but the words slurred into an incomprehensible jumble. 

She stroked his cheek gently. 

“In due time. As your kind has said, Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet.” 

Arthur could hardly hear her as a low grumbling overtook his auditory tunnels, and soon, colors blurred and shapes melted, leaving an emptiness for the venturer to float in.

A dominant silence taunted from the darkness, but a voice–no, two voices, hooked the stifled hollow walker. He let his hushed eyes crack open slowly, each drowsy orb doing its best to filter what appeared to be an artificial ray of light shining in his face. 

It was Clancy. He was crouched in front of him and rudely waving a highly, luminous flashlight in his face. 

“Well, good morning starshine, the world says hello,” he mockingly phrased. 

Arthur gave the detective a stare inflamed with annoyance. 

“Clancy, knock it off and help him up,” Rebecca chided her partner. She watched from behind ginger beards hunched form.

“How are you feeling, Arthur?”

As Clancy helped him to his feet, a mental fog toiled and procrastinated, leaving his mind exhausted. How was he really feeling? Some part scared, some part in denial, and some part…invigorated.

 The experience reminded him of a movie he had watched long ago with his mother as an imaginative eight-year-old–” Labyrinth*”*. His recent stint in the hollow felt similar–It was as if he had entered the infamous maze, with its mind-bobbling, otherworldly peaks of fantasy, but without the crude depiction of David Bowie’s package shoving itself onscreen. 

“I think I’m fine, but shit…Do I have a story for you two.”

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

At exactly 9:36 am that morning, within the harsh luminescent depths of Ambelle’s hospital, the emergency ring for room 216 screeched, knocking Maya Cortez’s concentration away from the current patient sheet she was scribbling on. 

The sleep deprived nurse flipped off the on-call switch, examined the room with prolonged inquisitiveness, and then trudged her way down the east wing hallway. 

Being a veteran of sorts at Ambelle’s had its perks. After a decade of grueling, slow-ticking nights monitoring the night shift, the thirty-four-year-old medical warrior reveled in pleasure to work the mornings. I guess one could say it sparked enough action to keep the blood pumping. However, the patient for this room call was strange, even to Maya, who was extremely accustomed to straight-up weirdness or what she called the “healthcare heebie jeebies”.

Darcy Hunter.

Maya had been attending to her for two days now and the enigma of a woman refused to speak-except for the officer who stopped by the other day. Stubborn or even bizarrely violent patients weren't uncommon in Maya’s line of work–it was bound to occur here or there, but something was off about the Hunter girl. Murmurs were floating around the various floors and wings that she was connected to the death of the man in Porthcawl. That wasn’t enough to shake up Maya though–she didn’t scare easily anymore.

As Maya passed two doctors hushed in conversation, she turned the corner and was at the door of room 216 and noticed right away the door sat slightly ajar. Maya opened the door with a gentle push and concisely called into the space with deliberate hospitality. 

“Miss Hunter. I saw you rang the emergency line. Is everythi-”

The nurse's soft-spoken words halted abruptly due to what she witnessed before her. 

Darcy Hunter stood at the foot of her hospital bed, facing towards the doorway. Her usual blanched skin tone looked flushed with infernal heat, and beads of sweat tumbled from hairline to chin in consistency. Darcy’s eyes had rolled back, and she gasped at the air like a fish without water; the woman's cheeks inflated and deflated so rapidly the air scraped harshly throughout her throat and razored the airways. It reminded Maya of two knives serrating against one another. 

The biggest and most concerning detail that caught Maya in her tracks was the ungodly sight of Darcy Hunter's bowling ball abdomen. Concealed under one of the advised hospital gowns, the mute woman’s wobbling stomach jutted out a foot, giving the appearance that the woman would soon bear twins. The organs squelched and wailed with visible rumblings that made Maya grip the door handle in newfound fear. 

As the air filled with a pungency of dripping iron, the horrified nurse’s eyes fell upon the sizable blood splotch around the centerline of the belly, the stain growing rapidly in diameter per second. 

That’s when it happened. It wasn’t short, in fact, by the time Maya realized the true insanity that was taking place, she quickly ran through her catholic pledges like how she did back in grade school. 

Darcy Hunter's stomach exploded. 

A loud churning groan proceeded, followed by gooey matter flying amongst the room in a dynamic display of velocity. Bits of blood and flesh decorate the stunned-looking Maya, who could only watch in petrification. Soon, a stray doctor and nurse stopped along, their eyes too acting upon disobedience and watched the violent abomination that curled out from Mrs. Hunter's shredded guts. 

It was a massive spider, a tarantula maybe… the word Maya would soon remember hours later. It was as large as a gluttonous infant and pounded its bloody legs onto the bed in a display of unnatural quickness. A face, or more like a stretch oblong head, commanded the jittering creature. It wore a woman’s face with delicate facial features that a once living Darcy may have expressed, which bubbled under grayish skin and mouthed silent words–possibly, seeking for help. 

The trio medical workers watched unmoving–listless and invisibly chained until the booming slam of Darcy falling forward upon the square tiling woke them from their daze; the scent of bile and imprisoned gas erupted into the space, souring each of the attending’s noses. 

The act of Darcy collapsing alarmed the newborn arachnid. Its face mouthed a silent shriek to the onlookers, and then quickly, it catapulted itself from the bed and smacked against the grime-slicked window. It regained composure and with its arrangement of thick grey furred arms, climbed the window and pushed one of the ceiling tiles upward. The monstrosity finagled its body through the crack and disappeared into the cramped, dust filled darkness. 

After the thing vanished, the other onlooking nurse fainted; the sound of her head smacking against the drywall awakened Maya from her stupor. Instead of helping, Maya ran to the nurse kiosk–she was gonna need all hands-on deck. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So do you guys think they're like, the FBI or….” Grace suggested in a tone imbued with a taste of silliness.

Alex dropped to his knees and was careful not to bonk against the underside of a low hanging pine tree branch. He took a minute to carefully examine the scene. 

“Well, you don’t see a car like that every day and it’s not very inconspicuous either.”

Zach decided to insert his diagnosis into the verbal pile.

“Yeah, I’m getting the feeling that there may be an underlying motive for these three being here. No one, except for kids, go into the Chesseley house. Not even the police if they don’t have to.”

The gang of adolescents waited in the brush quietly, watching for any unnatural disturbances to play out, but the deft silence conquered the next ten minutes. The barrage of rain clouds had ceased their tantrum, welcoming sparse beams of sunlight to skip amongst the dewy grass.

Atmospherically, it felt like a complete one-eighty to the ghastly environment Zach skittered through last night, but he knew looks could be deceiving–the devilish being had probably sewn her curse around the haphazard property, waiting for unwary morsels to enter. 

Zach was busy observing for a flicker of movement when Grace erupted in chatter. 

“It's kinda stumping me why Mr. Winfrey is here. I don’t really see him at all around town, but my mom says whenever he comes into the supermarket, he always looks overly depressed and is buying way too much beer.”

Alex offered a quizzical facial expression and baited the conversation forward. 

“I mean, his girlfriend passed away from breast cancer. My dad says she was really young too. Like, too young to die like that.”

“Wasn’t she the librarian over in Eugene? I saw her around but never learned her name.”

“Her name was Molly Hastings. She would pop into the diner occasionally, and sometimes, Mr. Winfrey would join her. She was a really down-to-earth person from what I heard. Man…. I feel bad for the guy.”

As the two whispered to and from within their soggy hideaway, Zach’s eyes were drawn to a section of the withered building, and a warm fuzziness doused his vision. A static crackle, like the way one lays on their limb in an uncomfortable position which eventually results in an assault of phantom pins and needles to attack the nerves, crackled and popped liberally inside his skull. He watched the upper floor, where a lonely window faced the northeast summit of Clemmons Trail, but the outer confines–the white wooden planks, the corroded shingles, and the ancient glass window–bulged outwards in wicked distortion and glowed a dim yellow underneath, as if burly veins siphoned an unimaginable nutrient from the tethered earth. The surrounding air curved slightly to buffer the heaving reality-bending transformation, and a high pitch ringing played without warrant. 

Zach rubbed his eyes aggressively, amazed at what he saw, and then in a snap, everything was back to normal. He looked over his shoulder to see his two companions still in the trench of conversation.

Did he just imagine that? Did he really see the house–an old, grotesquely, unkept home darkened by both age and tale–warp reality before his very eyes. The fear he had been burdened with was quickly replaced with a newfound curiosity, like a small child bearing witness to a magician's trick, unaware of the intricate mechanics concealed behind such a phenomenon. 

The witch was there–there was no doubt about it, but what to make of the band of three that journeyed inside. The situation breathed suspicion–an odd grouping that exuded both professionalism and dysfunction. Oh how Zach would love to be the fly on whatever wall inside of the ancient manor–to learn the purpose, of course.

He knew he needed more information and deep in his heart, the urge to scramble for the truth became a dire craving. Zach turned the other two, compressing the magical bout of the phenomenon he experienced, and boldly, he asserted his notion of thoughts. 

“I think something strange is going on inside that house as we speak. I'm sure of it.” 

Alex huffed and bore a frog-like frown. 

“What do you mean?”

“I think the two that joined Mr. Winfrey into the Chesseley House…I don’t know, they’re not your average Joe’s in Porthcawl. I’m pretty sure they’re here for the same reason we are”. 

“Like… are you talking about paranormal investigators, maybe?” Grace inquired. 

“Mmm, that I don’t know,” Zach answered, “ but I have a way to find out.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Alex snorted with his niche ‘matter of fact’ tone. 

“I'm going to sneak into their car, "Zach responded bluntly. 

Zach knew, just as the words exited his mouth, what a risky game he was playing. Puzzlement overshadowed Grace while Alex immediately grew frantic, his jabbering jaw bleating out warnings that would prove useless. 

“Umm, no you're not! Are we forgetting the obvious fact that your dad is a cop?”  

Zach shrugged his shoulders. 

“This is beyond him and….I won't get caught,” he said with borrowed confidence that would soon dissipate into a layer of impishness. 

Slack-jawed in revelation to see his friend’s sudden recklessness, Alex sat back in his pile of moist soil to regain the situation. 

“So, let me get this straight. You want to stow away into their car and do what? Spy?! We don’t even know why they are here. They could be a bunch of creeps or drug dealers, or something even worse…Maybe they had something to do with Mr. Langley’s death”.

“Ok dude, a bit hyperbolic, aren’t we,” Grace commented. 

“I’m just saying we don’t know and-” Alex stopped, noticing Zach daringly leap from the underbrush and look back. 

“I need to find out what's going on. Why don’t you guys stay back and I’ll keep you updated.”

Immediately, a resounding grumble of disapproval emanated from Grace’s throat. 

“Nope. Nope. I’m coming with you.”

And she too unfurled from the pine thistle cover. 

“Guys!” Alex fiercely hissed, “Guys, this is so wrong! This isn’t a game!” 

Zach quickly hissed back, more sternly. 

“Float around the neighborhoods and keep yourself undercover. We will text you our location every ten minutes. If you don’t hear from us, then contact my dad.”

“But, but ...guys don’t just leave me here…”Alex sputtered.

Zach turned and pressed a shaky finger to his lips, ushering no more comments from the trees. Then, the pair of boldly, stupid teenagers swept over the clearing to the jutting back of the Black SUV. Zach squirmed a look into the back window and fumbled for the trunk door latch. Grace spilled her guts before he could pull the trunk door in a wide arc. 

“Are you really sure we should do this? I’m with you and all, but if we get caught, we’re done for…”

With wobbly, nervous pupils, he gave Grace a reassuring nod and then crawled onto the carpeted surface. Grace followed. 

As Zach swung the trunk downward, he could see a partial sliver of Alex’s egg-shaped face, his glass-covered eyes masking a brimming mixture of stinging fury and concern. If only, at that moment, could Zach know that he would never see his best friend again.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

At exactly 9:36 am that morning, within the harsh luminescent depths of Ambelle’s hospital, the emergency ring for room 216 screeched, knocking Maya Cortez’s concentration away from the current patient sheet she was scribbling on. 

The sleep deprived nurse flipped off the on-call switch, examined the room with prolonged inquisitiveness, and then trudged her way down the east wing hallway. 

Being a veteran of sorts at Ambelle’s had its perks. After a decade of grueling, slow-ticking nights monitoring the night shift, the thirty-four year old medical warrior reveled in pleasure to work the mornings. I guess one could say it sparked enough action to keep the blood pumping. However, the patient for this room call was strange, even to Maya, who was extremely accustomed to straight-up weirdness or what she called the “healthcare heebie jeebies”.

Darcy Hunter.

Maya had been attending to her for two days now and the enigma of a woman refused to speak-except for the officer who stopped by the other day. Stubborn or even bizarrely violent patients weren't uncommon in Maya’s line of work–it was bound to occur here or there, but something was off about the Hunter girl. Murmurs were floating around the various floors and wings that she was connected to the death of the man in Porthcawl. That wasn’t enough to shake up Maya though–she didn’t scare easily anymore.

As Maya passed two doctors hushed in conversation, she turned the corner and was at the door of room 216 and noticed right away the door sat slightly ajar. Maya opened the door with a gentle push, and concisely called into the space with deliberate hospitality. 

“Miss Hunter. I saw you rang the emergency line. Is everythi-”

The nurse's soft spoken words halted abruptly due to what she witnessed before her. 

Darcy Hunter stood at the foot of her hospital bed, facing towards the doorway. Her usual blanched skin tone looked flushed with infernal heat, and beads of sweat tumbled from hairline to chin in consistency. Darcy’s eyes had rolled back and she gasped at the air like a fish without water; the woman's cheeks inflated and deflated so rapidly the air scraped harshly throughout her throat and razored the airways. It reminded Maya of two knives serrating against one another. 

The biggest and most concerning detail that caught Maya in her tracks was the ungodly sight of Darcy Hunter's bowling ball abdomen. Concealed under one of the advised hospital gowns, the mute woman’s wobbling stomach jutted out a foot, giving the appearance that the woman would soon bear twins. The organs squelched and wailed with visible rumblings that made Maya grip the door handle in newfound fear. 

As the air filled with a pungency of dripping iron, the horrified nurse’s eyes fell upon the sizable blood splotch around the centerline of the belly, the stain growing rapidly in diameter per second. 

That’s when it happened. It wasn’t short, in fact, by the time Maya realized the true insanity that was taking place, she quickly ran through her catholic pledges like how she did back in grade school. 

Darcy Hunter's stomach exploded. 

A loud churning groan proceeded, followed by gooey matter flying amongst the room in a dynamic display of velocity. Bits of blood and flesh decorate the stunned-looking Maya, who could only watch in petrification. Soon, a stray doctor and nurse stopped along, their eyes too acting upon disobedience and watched the violent abomination that curled out from Mrs. Hunter's shredded guts. 

It was a massive spider, a tarantula maybe… the word Maya would soon remember hours later. It was as large as a gluttonous infant, and pounded its bloody legs onto the bed in a display of unnatural quickness. A face, or more like a stretch oblong head, commanded the jittering creature. It wore a woman’s face with delicate facial features that a once living Darcy may have expressed, which bubbled under grayish skin and mouthed silent words–possibly, seeking for help. 

The trio medical workers watched unmoving–listless and invisibly chained until the booming slam of Darcy falling forward upon the square tiling woke them from their daze; the scent of bile and imprisoned gas erupted into the space, souring each of the attending’s noses. 

The act of Darcy collapsing alarmed the newborn arachnid. Its face mouthed a silent shriek to the onlookers, and then quickly, it catapulted itself from the bed and smacked against the grime-slicked window. It regained composure and with its arrangement of thick grey furred arms, climbed the window and pushed one of the ceiling tiles upward. The monstrosity finagled its body through the crack and disappeared into the cramped, dust filled darkness. 

After the thing vanished, the other onlooking nurse fainted; the sound of her head smacking against the drywall awakened Maya from her stupor. Instead of helping, Maya  ran to the nurse kiosk–she was gonna need all hands on deck. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So do you guys think they're like, the FBI or….” Grace suggested in a tone imbued with a taste of silliness.

Alex dropped to his knees and was careful not to bonk against the underside of a low hanging pine tree branch. He took a minute to carefully examine the scene. 

“Well, you don’t see a car like that everyday and it’s not very inconspicuous either.”

Zach decided to insert his diagnosis into the verbal pile.

“Yeah, I’m getting the feeling that there may be an underlying motive for these three being here. No one, except for kids, go into the Chesseley house. Not even the police if they don’t have to.”

The gang of adolescents waited in the brush quietly, watching for any unnatural disturbances to play out, but the deft silence conquered the next ten minutes. The barrage of rain clouds had ceased their tantrum, welcoming sparse beams of sunlight to skip amongst the dewy grass.

Atmospherically, it felt like a complete one-eighty to the ghastly environment Zach skittered through last night, but he knew looks could be deceiving–the devilish being had probably sewn her curse around the haphazard property, waiting for unwary morsels to enter. 

Zach was busy observing for a flicker of movement when Grace erupted in chatter. 

“It's kinda stumping me why Mr. Winfrey is here. I don’t really see him at all around town, but my mom says whenever he comes into the supermarket, he always looks overly depressed and is buying way too much beer.”

Alex offered a quizzical facial expression and baited the conversation forward. 

“I mean, his girlfriend passed away from breast cancer. My dad says she was really young too. Like, too young to die like that.”

“Wasn’t she the librarian over in Eugene? I saw her around but never learned her name.”

“Her name was Molly Hastings. She would pop into the diner occasionally, and sometimes, Mr. Winfrey would join her. She was a really down-to-earth person from what I heard. Man…. I feel bad for the guy.”

As the two whispered to and from within their soggy hideaway, Zach’s eyes were drawn to a section of the withered building, and a warm fuzziness doused his vision. A static crackle, like the way one lays on their limb in an uncomfortable position which eventually results in an assault of phantom pins and needles to attack the nerves, crackled and popped liberally inside his skull. He watched the upper floor, where a lonely window faced the northeast summit of Clemmons Trail, but the outer confines–the white wooden planks, the corroded shingles, and the ancient glass window–bulged outwards in wicked distortion and glowed a dim yellow underneath, as if burly veins siphoned an unimaginable nutrient from the tethered earth. The surrounding air curved slightly to buffer the heaving reality-bending transformation, and a high pitch ringing played without warrant. 

Zach rubbed his eyes aggressively, amazed at what he saw, and then in a snap, everything was back to normal. He looked over his shoulder to see his two companions still in the trench of conversation.

Did he just imagine that? Did he really see the house–an old, grotesquely, unkept home darkened by both age and tale–warp reality before his very eyes. The fear he had been burdened with was quickly replaced with a newfound curiosity, like a small child bearing witness to a magician's trick, unaware of the intricate mechanics concealed behind such a phenomena. 

The witch was there–there was no doubt about it, but what to make of the band of three that journeyed inside. The situation breathed suspicion–an odd grouping that exuded both professionalism and dysfunction. Oh how Zach would love to be the fly on whatever wall inside of the ancient manor–to learn the purpose, of course.

He knew he needed more information and deep in his heart, the urge to scramble for the truth became a dire craving. Zach turned the other two, compressing the magical bout of the phenomenon he experienced, and boldly, he asserted his notion of thoughts. 

“I think something strange is going on inside that house as we speak. I'm sure of it.” 

Alex huffed and bore a frog-like frown. 

“What do you mean?”

“I think the two that joined Mr. Winfrey into the Chesseley House…I don’t know, they’re not your average Joe’s in Porthcawl. I’m pretty sure they’re here for the same reason we are”. 

“Like… are you talking about paranormal investigators, maybe?” Grace inquired. 

“Mmm, that I don’t know,” Zach answered, “ but I have a way to find out.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Alex snorted with his niche ‘matter of fact’ tone. 

“I'm going to sneak into their car, "Zach responded bluntly. 

Zach knew, just as the words exited his mouth, what a risky game he was playing. Puzzlement overshadowed Grace while Alex immediately grew frantic, his jabbering jaw bleating out warnings that would prove useless. 

“Umm, no you're not! Are we forgetting the obvious fact that your dad is a cop?”  

Zach shrugged his shoulders. 

“This is beyond him and….I won't get caught,” he said with borrowed confidence that would soon dissipate into a layer of impishness. 

Slack-jawed in revelation to see his friend’s sudden recklessness, Alex sat back in his pile of moist soil to regain the situation. 

“So, let me get this straight. You want to stow away into their car and do what? Spy?! We don’t even know why they are here. They could be a bunch of creeps or drug dealers, or something even worse…Maybe they had something to do with Mr. Langley’s death”.

“Ok dude, a bit hyperbolic, aren’t we,” Grace commented. 

“I’m just saying we don’t know and-” Alex stopped, noticing Zach daringly leap from the underbrush and look back. 

“I need to find out what's going on. Why don’t you guys stay back and I’ll keep you updated.”

Immediately, a resounding grumble of disapproval emanated from Grace’s throat. 

“Nope. Nope. I’m coming with you.”

And she too unfurled from the pine thistle cover. 

“Guys!” Alex fiercely hissed, “Guys, this is so wrong! This isn’t a game!” 

Zach quickly hissed back, more sternly. 

“Float around the neighborhoods and keep yourself undercover. We will text you our location every ten minutes. If you don’t hear from us, then contact my dad.”

“But, but ...guys don’t just leave me here…”Alex sputtered.

Zach turned and pressed a shaky finger to his lips, ushering no more comments from the trees. Then, the pair of boldly, stupid teenagers swept over the clearing to the jutting back of the Black SUV. Zach squirmed a look into the back window and fumbled for the trunk door latch. Grace spilled her guts before he could pull the trunk door in a wide arc. 

“Are you really sure we should do this? I’m with you and all, but if we get caught, we’re done for…”

With wobbly, nervous pupils, he gave Grace a reassuring nod and then crawled onto the carpeted surface. Grace followed. 

As Zach swung the trunk downward, he could see a partial sliver of Alex’s egg-shaped face, his glass-covered eyes masking a brimming mixture of stinging fury and concern. If only, at that moment, could Zach know that he would never see his best friend again.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

At exactly 9:36 am that morning, within the harsh luminescent depths of Ambelle’s hospital, the emergency ring for room 216 screeched, knocking Maya Cortez’s concentration away from the current patient sheet she was scribbling on. 

The sleep deprived nurse flipped off the on-call switch, examined the room with prolonged inquisitiveness, and then trudged her way down the east wing hallway. 

Being a veteran of sorts at Ambelle’s had its perks. After a decade of grueling, slow-ticking nights monitoring the night shift, the thirty-four year old medical warrior reveled in pleasure to work the mornings. I guess one could say it sparked enough action to keep the blood pumping. However, the patient for this room call was strange, even to Maya, who was extremely accustomed to straight-up weirdness or what she called the “healthcare heebie jeebies”.

Darcy Hunter.

Maya had been attending to her for two days now and the enigma of a woman refused to speak-except for the officer who stopped by the other day. Stubborn or even bizarrely violent patients weren't uncommon in Maya’s line of work–it was bound to occur here or there, but something was off about the Hunter girl. Murmurs were floating around the various floors and wings that she was connected to the death of the man in Porthcawl. That wasn’t enough to shake up Maya though–she didn’t scare easily anymore.

As Maya passed two doctors hushed in conversation, she turned the corner and was at the door of room 216 and noticed right away the door sat slightly ajar. Maya opened the door with a gentle push, and concisely called into the space with deliberate hospitality. 

“Miss Hunter. I saw you rang the emergency line. Is everythi-”

The nurse's soft spoken words halted abruptly due to what she witnessed before her. 

Darcy Hunter stood at the foot of her hospital bed, facing towards the doorway. Her usual blanched skin tone looked flushed with infernal heat, and beads of sweat tumbled from hairline to chin in consistency. Darcy’s eyes had rolled back and she gasped at the air like a fish without water; the woman's cheeks inflated and deflated so rapidly the air scraped harshly throughout her throat and razored the airways. It reminded Maya of two knives serrating against one another. 

The biggest and most concerning detail that caught Maya in her tracks was the ungodly sight of Darcy Hunter's bowling ball abdomen. Concealed under one of the advised hospital gowns, the mute woman’s wobbling stomach jutted out a foot, giving the appearance that the woman would soon bear twins. The organs squelched and wailed with visible rumblings that made Maya grip the door handle in newfound fear. 

As the air filled with a pungency of dripping iron, the horrified nurse’s eyes fell upon the sizable blood splotch around the centerline of the belly, the stain growing rapidly in diameter per second. 

That’s when it happened. It wasn’t short, in fact, by the time Maya realized the true insanity that was taking place, she quickly ran through her catholic pledges like how she did back in grade school. 

Darcy Hunter's stomach exploded. 

A loud churning groan proceeded, followed by gooey matter flying amongst the room in a dynamic display of velocity. Bits of blood and flesh decorate the stunned-looking Maya, who could only watch in petrification. Soon, a stray doctor and nurse stopped along, their eyes too acting upon disobedience and watched the violent abomination that curled out from Mrs. Hunter's shredded guts. 

It was a massive spider, a tarantula maybe… the word Maya would soon remember hours later. It was as large as a gluttonous infant, and pounded its bloody legs onto the bed in a display of unnatural quickness. A face, or more like a stretch oblong head, commanded the jittering creature. It wore a woman’s face with delicate facial features that a once living Darcy may have expressed, which bubbled under grayish skin and mouthed silent words–possibly, seeking for help. 

The trio medical workers watched unmoving–listless and invisibly chained until the booming slam of Darcy falling forward upon the square tiling woke them from their daze; the scent of bile and imprisoned gas erupted into the space, souring each of the attending’s noses. 

The act of Darcy collapsing alarmed the newborn arachnid. Its face mouthed a silent shriek to the onlookers, and then quickly, it catapulted itself from the bed and smacked against the grime-slicked window. It regained composure and with its arrangement of thick grey furred arms, climbed the window and pushed one of the ceiling tiles upward. The monstrosity finagled its body through the crack and disappeared into the cramped, dust filled darkness. 

After the thing vanished, the other onlooking nurse fainted; the sound of her head smacking against the drywall awakened Maya from her stupor. Instead of helping, Maya  ran to the nurse kiosk–she was gonna need all hands on deck. 

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So do you guys think they're like, the FBI or….” Grace suggested in a tone imbued with a taste of silliness.

Alex dropped to his knees and was careful not to bonk against the underside of a low hanging pine tree branch. He took a minute to carefully examine the scene. 

“Well, you don’t see a car like that everyday and it’s not very inconspicuous either.”

Zach decided to insert his diagnosis into the verbal pile.

“Yeah, I’m getting the feeling that there may be an underlying motive for these three being here. No one, except for kids, go into the Chesseley house. Not even the police if they don’t have to.”

The gang of adolescents waited in the brush quietly, watching for any unnatural disturbances to play out, but the deft silence conquered the next ten minutes. The barrage of rain clouds had ceased their tantrum, welcoming sparse beams of sunlight to skip amongst the dewy grass.

Atmospherically, it felt like a complete one-eighty to the ghastly environment Zach skittered through last night, but he knew looks could be deceiving–the devilish being had probably sewn her curse around the haphazard property, waiting for unwary morsels to enter. 

Zach was busy observing for a flicker of movement when Grace erupted in chatter. 

“It's kinda stumping me why Mr. Winfrey is here. I don’t really see him at all around town, but my mom says whenever he comes into the supermarket, he always looks overly depressed and is buying way too much beer.”

Alex offered a quizzical facial expression and baited the conversation forward. 

“I mean, his girlfriend passed away from breast cancer. My dad says she was really young too. Like, too young to die like that.”

“Wasn’t she the librarian over in Eugene? I saw her around but never learned her name.”

“Her name was Molly Hastings. She would pop into the diner occasionally, and sometimes, Mr. Winfrey would join her. She was a really down-to-earth person from what I heard. Man…. I feel bad for the guy.”

As the two whispered to and from within their soggy hideaway, Zach’s eyes were drawn to a section of the withered building, and a warm fuzziness doused his vision. A static crackle, like the way one lays on their limb in an uncomfortable position which eventually results in an assault of phantom pins and needles to attack the nerves, crackled and popped liberally inside his skull. He watched the upper floor, where a lonely window faced the northeast summit of Clemmons Trail, but the outer confines–the white wooden planks, the corroded shingles, and the ancient glass window–bulged outwards in wicked distortion and glowed a dim yellow underneath, as if burly veins siphoned an unimaginable nutrient from the tethered earth. The surrounding air curved slightly to buffer the heaving reality-bending transformation, and a high pitch ringing played without warrant. 

Zach rubbed his eyes aggressively, amazed at what he saw, and then in a snap, everything was back to normal. He looked over his shoulder to see his two companions still in the trench of conversation.

Did he just imagine that? Did he really see the house–an old, grotesquely, unkept home darkened by both age and tale–warp reality before his very eyes. The fear he had been burdened with was quickly replaced with a newfound curiosity, like a small child bearing witness to a magician's trick, unaware of the intricate mechanics concealed behind such a phenomena. 

The witch was there–there was no doubt about it, but what to make of the band of three that journeyed inside. The situation breathed suspicion–an odd grouping that exuded both professionalism and dysfunction. Oh how Zach would love to be the fly on whatever wall inside of the ancient manor–to learn the purpose, of course.

He knew he needed more information and deep in his heart, the urge to scramble for the truth became a dire craving. Zach turned the other two, compressing the magical bout of the phenomenon he experienced, and boldly, he asserted his notion of thoughts. 

“I think something strange is going on inside that house as we speak. I'm sure of it.” 

Alex huffed and bore a frog-like frown. 

“What do you mean?”

“I think the two that joined Mr. Winfrey into the Chesseley House…I don’t know, they’re not your average Joe’s in Porthcawl. I’m pretty sure they’re here for the same reason we are”. 

“Like… are you talking about paranormal investigators, maybe?” Grace inquired. 

“Mmm, that I don’t know,” Zach answered, “ but I have a way to find out.”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?” Alex snorted with his niche ‘matter of fact’ tone. 

“I'm going to sneak into their car, "Zach responded bluntly. 

Zach knew, just as the words exited his mouth, what a risky game he was playing. Puzzlement overshadowed Grace while Alex immediately grew frantic, his jabbering jaw bleating out warnings that would prove useless. 

“Umm, no you're not! Are we forgetting the obvious fact that your dad is a cop?”  

Zach shrugged his shoulders. 

“This is beyond him and….I won't get caught,” he said with borrowed confidence that would soon dissipate into a layer of impishness. 

Slack-jawed in revelation to see his friend’s sudden recklessness, Alex sat back in his pile of moist soil to regain the situation. 

“So, let me get this straight. You want to stow away into their car and do what? Spy?! We don’t even know why they are here. They could be a bunch of creeps or drug dealers, or something even worse…Maybe they had something to do with Mr. Langley’s death”.

“Ok dude, a bit hyperbolic, aren’t we,” Grace commented. 

“I’m just saying we don’t know and-” Alex stopped, noticing Zach daringly leap from the underbrush and look back. 

“I need to find out what's going on. Why don’t you guys stay back and I’ll keep you updated.”

Immediately, a resounding grumble of disapproval emanated from Grace’s throat. 

“Nope. Nope. I’m coming with you.”

And she too unfurled from the pine thistle cover. 

“Guys!” Alex fiercely hissed, “Guys, this is so wrong! This isn’t a game!” 

Zach quickly hissed back, more sternly. 

“Float around the neighborhoods and keep yourself undercover. We will text you our location every ten minutes. If you don’t hear from us, then contact my dad.”

“But, but ...guys don’t just leave me here…”Alex sputtered.

Zach turned and pressed a shaky finger to his lips, ushering no more comments from the trees. Then, the pair of boldly, stupid teenagers swept over the clearing to the jutting back of the Black SUV. Zach squirmed a look into the back window and fumbled for the trunk door latch. Grace spilled her guts before he could pull the trunk door in a wide arc. 

“Are you really sure we should do this? I’m with you and all, but if we get caught, we’re done for…”

With wobbly, nervous pupils, he gave Grace a reassuring nod and then crawled onto the carpeted surface. Grace followed. 

As Zach swung the trunk downward, he could see a partial sliver of Alex’s egg-shaped face, his glass-covered eyes masking a brimming mixture of stinging fury and concern. If only, at that moment, could Zach know that he would never see his best friend again.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

Darkness.

It was all Arthur could see with his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the beast to murder him. Would it tear him limb from limb? Maybe, it would go straight for his nerve-throbbed neck?
The hypotheticals were endless, but what wasn’t expected was a woman’s voice–sharp, icy, and eloquent– that jousted Arthur to open his eyes in surprise. 

“Tasteless to throw the Queen of Mycenae….”.

Before Arthur, was the pale woman from his dream the prior night. A crimson robe endowed with various silver patterns laid upon stiff, unblemished shoulders. A slit in the robes dared to reveal the lithe naked form underneath, and the enigmatic woman’s right breast and thigh protruded in an empathized stance of dominance, as if she was some magnificent creature of Venus for sculptures to be made after. Her grey, watery eyes watched Arthur with a mixture of curiosity and judgement; the piercing stare reached deep enough that it ushered the gawking intruder to whisper a single delicate sentence. 

“U-uh…um w-what”. 

The dream lady narrowed her glare like an anticipating barn owl and gestured to the plethora of shattered marble pieces covering the wooden floor. 

“Clytemnestra…. the executioner of Agamemnon. Exquisite carvings of her are difficult to come by these days…. Mmmm, how about you sit? Yes?”

The woman moved nimbly, her braided strands of white swung freely behind, while also permeating an aroma of earthly desires. Dirt swathed bare feet brought the woman to one of the armchairs to which she lowered into the piece of furniture and wielded an iron blade leer towards the finicky-breathing bartender. 

A creeping sensation caressed Arthur’s petrified muscles and he too found seating placement, taking the opposite chair. Shadows of flickering flames danced wildly upon the beastly woman's hardened face. 

“I presume that you know who I am?” 

Arthur twitched nervously and with difficulty, dryly mouthed the needed syllables. 

“You’re the woman from my dream last night.”

She didn’t respond and uncomfortable silence followed. After two minutes scraped by Arthur squeezed a remaining ounce of bravery from his internal reservoir pool, and like a dam on the brink of destruction, a cascade of tangential questions jumbled out in disorderly fashion. 

“Who are you? Why are you stalking me in my dreams? And for another, how the fuck did you just do that? Changing from a cat into a person? I mean, magic isn’t real, it can’t be real. I know it isn’t real and this is all one hell of a dream, right? Right? For Christ sakes, what is going on? 

He slumped in his seat and begged his mind to wake up. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be. Telepaths and cults were one thing, but seeing a cat grotesquely transform into the woman before him made his stomach lurch with fizzling bile. 

The woman, daintily crossed in her seat, parted her lips and stated in a tone as sultry as the wafting forest wind.

“For someone who possesses recondite abilities in the lonely universe, you are far meeker than I expected”.

Arthur’s body ceased its quarrelsome shakes, and his face strained an expression of minor perturbation. 

‘Excuse me?”, he rebutted, hoping for his new companion to explain. 

“You are new to the becoming powers that surround you,” she smacked her lips in disappointment, “A messenger who walks the hollow but is puzzled about the natural order of the world. I guess it's only fair. You are human after all– a human who asks far too many questions for their own good.”

Arthur's eyes widened temporarily; a word the woman had uttered floated mockingly inside his noggin. 

“You know that I’m a hollow walker?” he asked bluntly. 

The question unearthed a gurgle of closed-mouthed laughter. 

“Well, you are presently here in my domain, are you not? A bit foolish you are…”, she hissed harmlessly. 

Then, she rose from her chair and sauntered among the space, switching her attention from Arthur, then to one of her many tomes, then to Arthur again, and lastly, to a flower bouquet of deeply infused purple with a golden sunlight center. 

“Do you know of me? Who I really am?” She asked with wide, semi-innocent eyes. 

Arthur wanted to admit no–that he did not, but an insistent pulling from his mental library unchained something forbidden, an alcove of memories from his childhood. 

“N-no, I don’t believe I do...”

The woman stopped her gentle hovering among the purple flowers and swept closer. A wild smile, one that displayed her natural beauty to an obscene degree, puckered at Arthur and captivated him to her ethereal grace. It made Arthur flushed with embarrassment as he pondered upon this stranger's beauty, and in a bizarre, predatory way, it was as if the woman sensed the pulsing emotion within him. 

“Please…. go on and say it. Say my name,” she growled. 

He didn’t want to. It was a ridiculous thing to omit, but he was meddled in strange affairs as far as he could tell–how much worse would things be in revealing the truth. 

‘You’re the Witch of Stolen Bones; the one that has been haunting this estate since I was a kid.”

The words were tough to fillet and string into a confident sentence while the feeling of embarrassment only grew in intensity. He worried that he was making fun of the person before him, one that could easily outclass him in any sort of way. 

However, the white-haired woman’s smile never faltered. She giggled and her pale cheeks finally tinged with a residual warmness.

“Such silly names the townspeople have labeled me throughout the century. I welcome it, however…names have power, although you wouldn’t know that with your feeble knowledge.”

Arthur waited for her to finish the delicate explanation–doing his best to ignore the slight insult to his intelligence–and asked the essential question that almost anyone else would interject at that moment. 

“You really are her? The witch I mean. A woman who practices dark magic and worships sat-”.

His question was cut off by the witch’s chuckling. She leered at him with an all-knowing smirk. 

“Ved’ma.”

“Bruja”.

“Wupo.”

“Lybbestre.”

“Wiccanist……”

“Many of my kind have been labeled many ugly, hurtful names…the term, witch…. is but a formality I uphold. To answer your question–yes, I am what you think I am, but also not. I am much more ancient than you could possibly imagine.” 

Arthur gulped dryly and wanted to tender the flame of conversation further–who wouldn’t when talking to a mythological figure. He was about to blurt out his thoughts when the image of the witch before him evaporated into nothing, leaving not even a dripping aftertale of someone tangible. 

Arthur squirmed in his seat and frantically cast an urgent look among the room until two slender arms carefully drooped upon his firm shoulders. He gazed upwards and there she was, giggling at his dismay. 

He jumped up and stumbled, almost tripping headfirst into the blaze of the fire. 

“How did you…h-how did you do that? Please do-”

Again, he was cut off as the witch tiptoed back to her seat–not sitting but gripping the back of the armchair tightly in one hand.

“What you call magic is real, Arthur, but let me reiterate in a way you can understand. I am not from your world, but your home contains plenty of energy that humanity is unaware of– a fuel humans would deem as arcane in nature. Since I am but a stranger to this land, the laws of this universe do not apply to me in the same way they may apply to you, at least not to a debilitating degree. This is what my kind have done for a millennium, symbiotically living within the magical construct your earth provides.”

“Your kind?” Arthur blurted out, “What do you mean you're kind? And where are you from if not from earth?” 

Arthur stood his ground in front of the fireplace, not moving an inch.

The witch watched in amusement; her eyes more comparatively aligned with the feline variety- eyes that absorbed Arthur’s every little movement. 

“I suppose it's only fair to divulge since I brought you here…. My kind is known as the Vorox. Long ago, humankind translated our name to the Latin term for “Devourer”, and then eventually in Greek–anthropophagus– which means “man eater”. We come from a universe vastly different from yours…a forest beyond the long sea and tower of Ouroboros, is my village. We call it Vestige.”

Arthur nodded numbly, ticketing away the information like a chaotic clerk for no known reason. There were plenty of questions toiling around that dangerous cliff of lunacy. Satanism…demons…black magic. It was all cliche subject matter really, but the one inquiry that desperately clattered its teeth in excitement was quickly extinguished when the pale woman cocked her head and toyed her radiant smile again, making Arthur flutter in embarrassment. 

“You want to ask why I am here? Do you not?”

“I feel like I deserve that, yes…,” the curly brown headed man said semi-calmly.

“Like many of my sisters and brothers, I was persecuted out of my land and came here, although to my surprising observations–humans too–are infectious with judgement and fear. I was but a traveler in this lonely landscape before meeting my companion. I should emphasize my meaning that it was a romantically involved situation. You know of him by tale.”

She finally sat down and surveyed Arthur. What she mentioned just now confused him, and it didn’t help that the flames behind him fanned and stirred their smoke upon his back. Concentration was becoming difficult. 

Then, the mental discovery dawned on him. It was the location that gave way to the clue. His mouth unhinged in shock and he belted out, 

“Oh my god, You’re Christa Chesseley…. Fuck, I wish I had an ounce of Whiskey right now……What the hell did I get myself into?” 

The white-haired woman, who Arthur figured now to be Christa Chesseley live and well, nodded that what the man solved was indeed true. 

“Christa…No one has addressed me with that name in more than fifty years. Martin recommended that I should take on a human name as mine doesn’t exist in this world. He thought it would make people like me more, seem more homely. He was certainly a naive man, but I loved him nevertheless.”

Arthur, who couldn’t bear the stoking warmness to his back, shuffled back to his chair and sat down. 

“So, you really were Martin Chesseley’s wife?”, he asked. 

“Hmmmm……well, we were never actually married. I believed it back then, and I still believe it to this day, to not bother over traditional courtship humans worry so much about. Martin truly was a treasure. He never pressured me to mold into society's desires…and it made me desire him ever the more.”

Arthur was about to quick-fire a loaded chamber of questions, but Christa raised a hand which caught his attention. 

“I know you are burning with questions.”

“Uh yeah, not every day you get to sit down with the town’s legend.”

“I assure you there will be ample time down the line to talk more about the trivialities about who I am. I believe in being just with you about the truth, but there are other matters to discuss, such as the reason I signaled you to come here…” 

“Did you really have to pretend to be my dead girlfriend? I don’t see that as being just.”

“I needed to find a way– any way–to lead you here for what I’m about to tell you…I can’t protect your town any longer.”

Arthur frowned. 

“What do you mean by protect?” 

Christa sighed then expounded upon her clarification. 

“Everyone knows the story of my companion's death in the year of 1835. However, the truth of the matter would be locked away with me, the sole hair of this secret. In 1835, a strange man had made his way to the infantile town of Porthcawl, and in a curious light, he brought disciples in tow. This man…I use that term seldomly regarding that beast these days…he was looking for something, a location that only Martin had knowledge of.”

“Along his stay in Porthcawl, he riled the townspeople into rebellion, promising riches, vitality, and promiscuity under his divine leadership to an ancient being. Oh, how Martin was furious. For his gracious and kind leadership to be undermined by a demon in human skin–we slowly recognized this man was more than a pinprick to the town's wellbeing.”

“After three months, the man gathered a mob of townspeople. It was as if they were transfixed under a spell and no sense of logic could undo it. Martin knew what this lowly bastard wanted. It was the gateway.”

“I don't understand what you mean. What gateway?”, Arthur chirped nervously from his seat. 

Shadows danced carelessly upon the two, bristling the atmosphere of the room with a darker tone appropriately situated for the subject matter. Christa rested her head onto one elbow and gazed at him, again wearing a smug smile. 

“Yes, a gateway. I assume you are familiar with the hollow, yes? Those two downstairs really tried their best to explain it to you, but you see, in your world, there are very few physical locations to travel through the hollow layer–unlike you or I who possess the ability that allows us naturally.  These physical locations are called gateways and Porthcawl has two.”

“Humans call individuals like yourself hollow walkers or jumpers…my Martin was a hollow walker himself. He was aware of the two gateways in Porthcawl–one of these gateways is far underground and the other in a cave to the south-western forest outside of town. The local Kayapuyan tribe guarded the forest gateway and worked with Martin to oppose any intruders wishing to forgo near the complex. But this mysterious man at the time wished to open the gateway across the hollow to a place I had suspected for the longest of times.”

“On the night of June 18th, 1835, the stranger led his mob of acolytes out of town to massacre the local tribe. Martin tried to stop them and for his disobedience, he was killed…”

Arthur, who had been staring longingly into the fire, switched his view upon the witch.

“I’m sorry...”, he stated, yet there was a lick of hesitation. His words were most likely meaningless to someone whose partner passed three lifetimes ago.

“I thank you, but it is not necessary. Martin knew that his death would be soon, and for that reason he confided in me to stop the intruder and his mob with all that I possessed. I was too late to intercept the brutality upon the Kalapuyan’s but I ravaged the earth with scorching melodies and collapsed the only way into the cave, barricading the army from entering. Then I let loose hell’s wrath upon them. All of them.”

“And the man…He escaped my judgement. He only knew of the one gateway and not of the hidden. Several small pockets of townspeople soon broke their stupor, not knowing the damage and bloodshed they committed and I did not care to remind them. After that day, I went into hiding, choosing to stay in the depths of this house…unfortunately, I am tied down to this land in sadness and for the purpose of a promise, although I can’t say it’s my worst living situation.”

Christa swiveled an obligatory glance around the den, admiring the array of books, sculptures, and other varying curiosities. 

Arthur on the other hand was deep in the trenches of concentration, aligning all the pieces of information he had received over the last twenty-four hours. There was a parallel present, and the connection was working its way to bequeath a stroke of enlightenment, and enlightenment it was when a man zapped like lightning to the sluggish man's cortex.

“And this man…did he by chance go by the name of Mr. Nancy?” 

The pronunciation of the name seemed to delight Christa, her eyes sparkling in approval. 

“I may have been wrong about your two acquaintances–it seems they know a thing or two. How much do you know of Mr. Nancy?” She politely implored.

Arthur gave a weak shrug. 

“Honestly, I only know of his name and that he leads a weird cult. I was told a few recent things, specifically he was in hiding, but I had no clue it was the same guy who shaped the history of Porthcawl. How can that even be possible?” 

The witch sighed. The vexing aroma of incense seemed to increase in potency, its scent mooning its bitter flavor around Arthur's stubble and finicky nose.

“Mr. Nancy is no man. He is not even from this mortal realm. He goes by other names, specifically harboring a close ancestry with the Akan people of West Africa. He is known as Anansi, the trickster spider god.”

A long awaited quiet filled the room and Arthur rubbed his temples in exhaustion. He was tired and wanted a drink. He could be at home right now, siphoning away the toxicity in his hungover veins, but here he was–doing the lord’s ‘God-know-what ’good work.

Everything that Christa has said so far would have been preposterous notions to ramble on about if it was vomited by the mouth of anybody in town, but she was the Witch of Stolen bones. She was the legend from his childhood, the tall tale that left imaginative hungry kids chained in fear. Arthur couldn’t deny her words as false.

He took a minute to reconvene his thoughts when out of the blue, a rustling behind his right shoulder drew his attention.

It was a large bulbous frame tarped under a thick woven quilt. Again, the shape, which Arthur interpreted as a cage of some kind, clanged and clattered with movement, shifting the shape forward. 

As Arthur stared longingly at it, another noise made itself known.

Click-click-click

It echoed from under the quilt. 

It was then that Christa spoke, her tone more solid with stern conviction. 

“This man I have spoken of, Anansi or as he calls himself, Mr. Nancy–he aims to use his power along with his followers, the Children of the Widow–to open the gateway and bring more of her seed…such as these.”

At that moment the quilt was flung by some invisible hand, revealing a massive old-style birdcage. A black bulky mass thrusted at the dented wire bars.

It was coated in black bristling hairs and had an anatomy closely similar to that of a massive tarantula. The difference relied near the face, if there was to be a face, where black fur left enough pink pigmented skin for something angular and humanoid to stretch the skin and gnash in gasping undulations. It was a trifecta abomination of three oddly conjoined faces, each showcasing their own distinct bony features; they wailed their endless words under a binding flesh blanket.

The caged beast reared onto thick hind legs while other hair-spiked, arachnid arms–as thick in circumference as Arthur's denim covered thigh–bashed against the cage in retaliation. As the beast lifted, Arthur was graced with a devilish view of one slimy purple tongue that tethered against the cage and pulled. The base of the tongue originated from an elongated vertical slit–about eight to ten inches in length–that opened and clasped shut with egg white foam sputtering near the corners. 

Arthur flailed out of his seat and gravitated to his conversation partner. She only volunteered an expression of plain truth, as if she had been expecting this reaction for quite some time. 

“Arthur, meet the spawn.”

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

Darkness.

It was all Arthur could see with his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the beast to murder him. Would it tear him limb from limb? Maybe, it would go straight for his nerve-throbbed neck?
The hypotheticals were endless, but what wasn’t expected was a woman’s voice–sharp, icy, and eloquent– that jousted Arthur to open his eyes in surprise. 

“Tasteless to throw the Queen of Mycenae….”.

Before Arthur, was the pale woman from his dream the prior night. A crimson robe endowed with various silver patterns laid upon stiff, unblemished shoulders. A slit in the robes dared to reveal the lithe naked form underneath, and the enigmatic woman’s right breast and thigh protruded in an empathized stance of dominance, as if she was some magnificent creature of Venus for sculptures to be made after. Her grey, watery eyes watched Arthur with a mixture of curiosity and judgement; the piercing stare reached deep enough that it ushered the gawking intruder to whisper a single delicate sentence. 

“U-uh…um w-what”. 

The dream lady narrowed her glare like an anticipating barn owl and gestured to the plethora of shattered marble pieces covering the wooden floor. 

“Clytemnestra…. the executioner of Agamemnon. Exquisite carvings of her are difficult to come by these days…. Mmmm, how about you sit? Yes?”

The woman moved nimbly, her braided strands of white swung freely behind, while also permeating an aroma of earthly desires. Dirt swathed bare feet brought the woman to one of the armchairs to which she lowered into the piece of furniture and wielded an iron blade leer towards the finicky-breathing bartender. 

A creeping sensation caressed Arthur’s petrified muscles and he too found seating placement, taking the opposite chair. Shadows of flickering flames danced wildly upon the beastly woman's hardened face. 

“I presume that you know who I am?” 

Arthur twitched nervously and with difficulty, dryly mouthed the needed syllables. 

“You’re the woman from my dream last night.”

She didn’t respond and uncomfortable silence followed. After two minutes scraped by Arthur squeezed a remaining ounce of bravery from his internal reservoir pool, and like a dam on the brink of destruction, a cascade of tangential questions jumbled out in disorderly fashion. 

“Who are you? Why are you stalking me in my dreams? And for another, how the fuck did you just do that? Changing from a cat into a person? I mean, magic isn’t real, it can’t be real. I know it isn’t real and this is all one hell of a dream, right? Right? For Christ sakes, what is going on? 

He slumped in his seat and begged his mind to wake up. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be. Telepaths and cults were one thing, but seeing a cat grotesquely transform into the woman before him made his stomach lurch with fizzling bile. 

The woman, daintily crossed in her seat, parted her lips and stated in a tone as sultry as the wafting forest wind.

“For someone who possesses recondite abilities in the lonely universe, you are far meeker than I expected”.

Arthur’s body ceased its quarrelsome shakes, and his face strained an expression of minor perturbation. 

‘Excuse me?”, he rebutted, hoping for his new companion to explain. 

“You are new to the becoming powers that surround you,” she smacked her lips in disappointment, “A messenger who walks the hollow but is puzzled about the natural order of the world. I guess it's only fair. You are human after all– a human who asks far too many questions for their own good.”

Arthur's eyes widened temporarily; a word the woman had uttered floated mockingly inside his noggin. 

“You know that I’m a hollow walker?” he asked bluntly. 

The question unearthed a gurgle of closed-mouthed laughter. 

“Well, you are presently here in my domain, are you not? A bit foolish you are…”, she hissed harmlessly. 

Then, she rose from her chair and sauntered among the space, switching her attention from Arthur, then to one of her many tomes, then to Arthur again, and lastly, to a flower bouquet of deeply infused purple with a golden sunlight center. 

“Do you know of me? Who I really am?” She asked with wide, semi-innocent eyes. 

Arthur wanted to admit no–that he did not, but an insistent pulling from his mental library unchained something forbidden, an alcove of memories from his childhood. 

“N-no, I don’t believe I do...”

The woman stopped her gentle hovering among the purple flowers and swept closer. A wild smile, one that displayed her natural beauty to an obscene degree, puckered at Arthur and captivated him to her ethereal grace. It made Arthur flushed with embarrassment as he pondered upon this stranger's beauty, and in a bizarre, predatory way, it was as if the woman sensed the pulsing emotion within him. 

“Please…. go on and say it. Say my name,” she growled. 

He didn’t want to. It was a ridiculous thing to omit, but he was meddled in strange affairs as far as he could tell–how much worse would things be in revealing the truth. 

‘You’re the Witch of Stolen Bones; the one that has been haunting this estate since I was a kid.”

The words were tough to fillet and string into a confident sentence while the feeling of embarrassment only grew in intensity. He worried that he was making fun of the person before him, one that could easily outclass him in any sort of way. 

However, the white-haired woman’s smile never faltered. She giggled and her pale cheeks finally tinged with a residual warmness.

“Such silly names the townspeople have labeled me throughout the century. I welcome it, however…names have power, although you wouldn’t know that with your feeble knowledge.”

Arthur waited for her to finish the delicate explanation–doing his best to ignore the slight insult to his intelligence–and asked the essential question that almost anyone else would interject at that moment. 

“You really are her? The witch I mean. A woman who practices dark magic and worships sat-”.

His question was cut off by the witch’s chuckling. She leered at him with an all-knowing smirk. 

“Ved’ma.”

“Bruja”.

“Wupo.”

“Lybbestre.”

“Wiccanist……”

“Many of my kind have been labeled many ugly, hurtful names…the term, witch…. is but a formality I uphold. To answer your question–yes, I am what you think I am, but also not. I am much more ancient than you could possibly imagine.” 

Arthur gulped dryly and wanted to tender the flame of conversation further–who wouldn’t when talking to a mythological figure. He was about to blurt out his thoughts when the image of the witch before him evaporated into nothing, leaving not even a dripping aftertale of someone tangible. 

Arthur squirmed in his seat and frantically cast an urgent look among the room until two slender arms carefully drooped upon his firm shoulders. He gazed upwards and there she was, giggling at his dismay. 

He jumped up and stumbled, almost tripping headfirst into the blaze of the fire. 

“How did you…h-how did you do that? Please do-”

Again, he was cut off as the witch tiptoed back to her seat–not sitting but gripping the back of the armchair tightly in one hand.

“What you call magic is real, Arthur, but let me reiterate in a way you can understand. I am not from your world, but your home contains plenty of energy that humanity is unaware of– a fuel humans would deem as arcane in nature. Since I am but a stranger to this land, the laws of this universe do not apply to me in the same way they may apply to you, at least not to a debilitating degree. This is what my kind have done for a millennium, symbiotically living within the magical construct your earth provides.”

“Your kind?” Arthur blurted out, “What do you mean you're kind? And where are you from if not from earth?” 

Arthur stood his ground in front of the fireplace, not moving an inch.

The witch watched in amusement; her eyes more comparatively aligned with the feline variety- eyes that absorbed Arthur’s every little movement. 

“I suppose it's only fair to divulge since I brought you here…. My kind is known as the Vorox. Long ago, humankind translated our name to the Latin term for “Devourer”, and then eventually in Greek–anthropophagus– which means “man eater”. We come from a universe vastly different from yours…a forest beyond the long sea and tower of Ouroboros, is my village. We call it Vestige.”

Arthur nodded numbly, ticketing away the information like a chaotic clerk for no known reason. There were plenty of questions toiling around that dangerous cliff of lunacy. Satanism…demons…black magic. It was all cliche subject matter really, but the one inquiry that desperately clattered its teeth in excitement was quickly extinguished when the pale woman cocked her head and toyed her radiant smile again, making Arthur flutter in embarrassment. 

“You want to ask why I am here? Do you not?”

“I feel like I deserve that, yes…,” the curly brown headed man said semi-calmly.

“Like many of my sisters and brothers, I was persecuted out of my land and came here, although to my surprising observations–humans too–are infectious with judgement and fear. I was but a traveler in this lonely landscape before meeting my companion. I should emphasize my meaning that it was a romantically involved situation. You know of him by tale.”

She finally sat down and surveyed Arthur. What she mentioned just now confused him, and it didn’t help that the flames behind him fanned and stirred their smoke upon his back. Concentration was becoming difficult. 

Then, the mental discovery dawned on him. It was the location that gave way to the clue. His mouth unhinged in shock and he belted out, 

“Oh my god, You’re Christa Chesseley…. Fuck, I wish I had an ounce of Whiskey right now……What the hell did I get myself into?” 

The white-haired woman, who Arthur figured now to be Christa Chesseley live and well, nodded that what the man solved was indeed true. 

“Christa…No one has addressed me with that name in more than fifty years. Martin recommended that I should take on a human name as mine doesn’t exist in this world. He thought it would make people like me more, seem more homely. He was certainly a naive man, but I loved him nevertheless.”

Arthur, who couldn’t bear the stoking warmness to his back, shuffled back to his chair and sat down. 

“So, you really were Martin Chesseley’s wife?”, he asked. 

“Hmmmm……well, we were never actually married. I believed it back then, and I still believe it to this day, to not bother over traditional courtship humans worry so much about. Martin truly was a treasure. He never pressured me to mold into society's desires…and it made me desire him ever the more.”

Arthur was about to quick-fire a loaded chamber of questions, but Christa raised a hand which caught his attention. 

“I know you are burning with questions.”

“Uh yeah, not every day you get to sit down with the town’s legend.”

“I assure you there will be ample time down the line to talk more about the trivialities about who I am. I believe in being just with you about the truth, but there are other matters to discuss, such as the reason I signaled you to come here…” 

“Did you really have to pretend to be my dead girlfriend? I don’t see that as being just.”

“I needed to find a way– any way–to lead you here for what I’m about to tell you…I can’t protect your town any longer.”

Arthur frowned. 

“What do you mean by protect?” 

Christa sighed then expounded upon her clarification. 

“Everyone knows the story of my companion's death in the year of 1835. However, the truth of the matter would be locked away with me, the sole hair of this secret. In 1835, a strange man had made his way to the infantile town of Porthcawl, and in a curious light, he brought disciples in tow. This man…I use that term seldomly regarding that beast these days…he was looking for something, a location that only Martin had knowledge of.”

“Along his stay in Porthcawl, he riled the townspeople into rebellion, promising riches, vitality, and promiscuity under his divine leadership to an ancient being. Oh, how Martin was furious. For his gracious and kind leadership to be undermined by a demon in human skin–we slowly recognized this man was more than a pinprick to the town's wellbeing.”

“After three months, the man gathered a mob of townspeople. It was as if they were transfixed under a spell and no sense of logic could undo it. Martin knew what this lowly bastard wanted. It was the gateway.”

“I don't understand what you mean. What gateway?”, Arthur chirped nervously from his seat. 

Shadows danced carelessly upon the two, bristling the atmosphere of the room with a darker tone appropriately situated for the subject matter. Christa rested her head onto one elbow and gazed at him, again wearing a smug smile. 

“Yes, a gateway. I assume you are familiar with the hollow, yes? Those two downstairs really tried their best to explain it to you, but you see, in your world, there are very few physical locations to travel through the hollow layer–unlike you or I who possess the ability that allows us naturally.  These physical locations are called gateways and Porthcawl has two.”

“Humans call individuals like yourself hollow walkers or jumpers…my Martin was a hollow walker himself. He was aware of the two gateways in Porthcawl–one of these gateways is far underground and the other in a cave to the south-western forest outside of town. The local Kayapuyan tribe guarded the forest gateway and worked with Martin to oppose any intruders wishing to forgo near the complex. But this mysterious man at the time wished to open the gateway across the hollow to a place I had suspected for the longest of times.”

“On the night of June 18th, 1835, the stranger led his mob of acolytes out of town to massacre the local tribe. Martin tried to stop them and for his disobedience, he was killed…”

Arthur, who had been staring longingly into the fire, switched his view upon the witch.

“I’m sorry...”, he stated, yet there was a lick of hesitation. His words were most likely meaningless to someone whose partner passed three lifetimes ago.

“I thank you, but it is not necessary. Martin knew that his death would be soon, and for that reason he confided in me to stop the intruder and his mob with all that I possessed. I was too late to intercept the brutality upon the Kalapuyan’s but I ravaged the earth with scorching melodies and collapsed the only way into the cave, barricading the army from entering. Then I let loose hell’s wrath upon them. All of them.”

“And the man…He escaped my judgement. He only knew of the one gateway and not of the hidden. Several small pockets of townspeople soon broke their stupor, not knowing the damage and bloodshed they committed and I did not care to remind them. After that day, I went into hiding, choosing to stay in the depths of this house…unfortunately, I am tied down to this land in sadness and for the purpose of a promise, although I can’t say it’s my worst living situation.”

Christa swiveled an obligatory glance around the den, admiring the array of books, sculptures, and other varying curiosities. 

Arthur on the other hand was deep in the trenches of concentration, aligning all the pieces of information he had received over the last twenty-four hours. There was a parallel present, and the connection was working its way to bequeath a stroke of enlightenment, and enlightenment it was when a man zapped like lightning to the sluggish man's cortex.

“And this man…did he by chance go by the name of Mr. Nancy?” 

The pronunciation of the name seemed to delight Christa, her eyes sparkling in approval. 

“I may have been wrong about your two acquaintances–it seems they know a thing or two. How much do you know of Mr. Nancy?” She politely implored.

Arthur gave a weak shrug. 

“Honestly, I only know of his name and that he leads a weird cult. I was told a few recent things, specifically he was in hiding, but I had no clue it was the same guy who shaped the history of Porthcawl. How can that even be possible?” 

The witch sighed. The vexing aroma of incense seemed to increase in potency, its scent mooning its bitter flavor around Arthur's stubble and finicky nose.

“Mr. Nancy is no man. He is not even from this mortal realm. He goes by other names, specifically harboring a close ancestry with the Akan people of West Africa. He is known as Anansi, the trickster spider god.”

A long awaited quiet filled the room and Arthur rubbed his temples in exhaustion. He was tired and wanted a drink. He could be at home right now, siphoning away the toxicity in his hungover veins, but here he was–doing the lord’s ‘God-know-what ’good work.

Everything that Christa has said so far would have been preposterous notions to ramble on about if it was vomited by the mouth of anybody in town, but she was the Witch of Stolen bones. She was the legend from his childhood, the tall tale that left imaginative hungry kids chained in fear. Arthur couldn’t deny her words as false.

He took a minute to reconvene his thoughts when out of the blue, a rustling behind his right shoulder drew his attention.

It was a large bulbous frame tarped under a thick woven quilt. Again, the shape, which Arthur interpreted as a cage of some kind, clanged and clattered with movement, shifting the shape forward. 

As Arthur stared longingly at it, another noise made itself known.

Click-click-click

It echoed from under the quilt. 

It was then that Christa spoke, her tone more solid with stern conviction. 

“This man I have spoken of, Anansi or as he calls himself, Mr. Nancy–he aims to use his power along with his followers, the Children of the Widow–to open the gateway and bring more of her seed…such as these.”

At that moment the quilt was flung by some invisible hand, revealing a massive old-style birdcage. A black bulky mass thrusted at the dented wire bars.

It was coated in black bristling hairs and had an anatomy closely similar to that of a massive tarantula. The difference relied near the face, if there was to be a face, where black fur left enough pink pigmented skin for something angular and humanoid to stretch the skin and gnash in gasping undulations. It was a trifecta abomination of three oddly conjoined faces, each showcasing their own distinct bony features; they wailed their endless words under a binding flesh blanket.

The caged beast reared onto thick hind legs while other hair-spiked, arachnid arms–as thick in circumference as Arthur's denim covered thigh–bashed against the cage in retaliation. As the beast lifted, Arthur was graced with a devilish view of one slimy purple tongue that tethered against the cage and pulled. The base of the tongue originated from an elongated vertical slit–about eight to ten inches in length–that opened and clasped shut with egg white foam sputtering near the corners. 

Arthur flailed out of his seat and gravitated to his conversation partner. She only volunteered an expression of plain truth, as if she had been expecting this reaction for quite some time. 

“Arthur, meet the spawn.”

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

Darkness.

It was all Arthur could see with his eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the beast to murder him. Would it tear him limb from limb? Maybe, it would go straight for his nerve-throbbed neck?
The hypotheticals were endless, but what wasn’t expected was a woman’s voice–sharp, icy, and eloquent– that jousted Arthur to open his eyes in surprise. 

“Tasteless to throw the Queen of Mycenae….”.

Before Arthur, was the pale woman from his dream the prior night. A crimson robe endowed with various silver patterns laid upon stiff, unblemished shoulders. A slit in the robes dared to reveal the lithe naked form underneath, and the enigmatic woman’s right breast and thigh protruded in an empathized stance of dominance, as if she was some magnificent creature of Venus for sculptures to be made after. Her grey, watery eyes watched Arthur with a mixture of curiosity and judgement; the piercing stare reached deep enough that it ushered the gawking intruder to whisper a single delicate sentence. 

“U-uh…um w-what”. 

The dream lady narrowed her glare like an anticipating barn owl and gestured to the plethora of shattered marble pieces covering the wooden floor. 

“Clytemnestra…. the executioner of Agamemnon. Exquisite carvings of her are difficult to come by these days…. Mmmm, how about you sit? Yes?”

The woman moved nimbly, her braided strands of white swung freely behind, while also permeating an aroma of earthly desires. Dirt swathed bare feet brought the woman to one of the armchairs to which she lowered into the piece of furniture and wielded an iron blade leer towards the finicky-breathing bartender. 

A creeping sensation caressed Arthur’s petrified muscles and he too found seating placement, taking the opposite chair. Shadows of flickering flames danced wildly upon the beastly woman's hardened face. 

“I presume that you know who I am?” 

Arthur twitched nervously and with difficulty, dryly mouthed the needed syllables. 

“You’re the woman from my dream last night.”

She didn’t respond and uncomfortable silence followed. After two minutes scraped by Arthur squeezed a remaining ounce of bravery from his internal reservoir pool, and like a dam on the brink of destruction, a cascade of tangential questions jumbled out in disorderly fashion. 

“Who are you? Why are you stalking me in my dreams? And for another, how the fuck did you just do that? Changing from a cat into a person? I mean, magic isn’t real, it can’t be real. I know it isn’t real and this is all one hell of a dream, right? Right? For Christ sakes, what is going on? 

He slumped in his seat and begged his mind to wake up. It couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be. Telepaths and cults were one thing, but seeing a cat grotesquely transform into the woman before him made his stomach lurch with fizzling bile. 

The woman, daintily crossed in her seat, parted her lips and stated in a tone as sultry as the wafting forest wind.

“For someone who possesses recondite abilities in the lonely universe, you are far meeker than I expected”.

Arthur’s body ceased its quarrelsome shakes, and his face strained an expression of minor perturbation. 

‘Excuse me?”, he rebutted, hoping for his new companion to explain. 

“You are new to the becoming powers that surround you,” she smacked her lips in disappointment, “A messenger who walks the hollow but is puzzled about the natural order of the world. I guess it's only fair. You are human after all– a human who asks far too many questions for their own good.”

Arthur's eyes widened temporarily; a word the woman had uttered floated mockingly inside his noggin. 

“You know that I’m a hollow walker?” he asked bluntly. 

The question unearthed a gurgle of closed-mouthed laughter. 

“Well, you are presently here in my domain, are you not? A bit foolish you are…”, she hissed harmlessly. 

Then, she rose from her chair and sauntered among the space, switching her attention from Arthur, then to one of her many tomes, then to Arthur again, and lastly, to a flower bouquet of deeply infused purple with a golden sunlight center. 

“Do you know of me? Who I really am?” She asked with wide, semi-innocent eyes. 

Arthur wanted to admit no–that he did not, but an insistent pulling from his mental library unchained something forbidden, an alcove of memories from his childhood. 

“N-no, I don’t believe I do...”

The woman stopped her gentle hovering among the purple flowers and swept closer. A wild smile, one that displayed her natural beauty to an obscene degree, puckered at Arthur and captivated him to her ethereal grace. It made Arthur flushed with embarrassment as he pondered upon this stranger's beauty, and in a bizarre, predatory way, it was as if the woman sensed the pulsing emotion within him. 

“Please…. go on and say it. Say my name,” she growled. 

He didn’t want to. It was a ridiculous thing to omit, but he was meddled in strange affairs as far as he could tell–how much worse would things be in revealing the truth. 

‘You’re the Witch of Stolen Bones; the one that has been haunting this estate since I was a kid.”

The words were tough to fillet and string into a confident sentence while the feeling of embarrassment only grew in intensity. He worried that he was making fun of the person before him, one that could easily outclass him in any sort of way. 

However, the white-haired woman’s smile never faltered. She giggled and her pale cheeks finally tinged with a residual warmness.

“Such silly names the townspeople have labeled me throughout the century. I welcome it, however…names have power, although you wouldn’t know that with your feeble knowledge.”

Arthur waited for her to finish the delicate explanation–doing his best to ignore the slight insult to his intelligence–and asked the essential question that almost anyone else would interject at that moment. 

“You really are her? The witch I mean. A woman who practices dark magic and worships sat-”.

His question was cut off by the witch’s chuckling. She leered at him with an all-knowing smirk. 

“Ved’ma.”

“Bruja”.

“Wupo.”

“Lybbestre.”

“Wiccanist……”

“Many of my kind have been labeled many ugly, hurtful names…the term, witch…. is but a formality I uphold. To answer your question–yes, I am what you think I am, but also not. I am much more ancient than you could possibly imagine.” 

Arthur gulped dryly and wanted to tender the flame of conversation further–who wouldn’t when talking to a mythological figure. He was about to blurt out his thoughts when the image of the witch before him evaporated into nothing, leaving not even a dripping aftertale of someone tangible. 

Arthur squirmed in his seat and frantically cast an urgent look among the room until two slender arms carefully drooped upon his firm shoulders. He gazed upwards and there she was, giggling at his dismay. 

He jumped up and stumbled, almost tripping headfirst into the blaze of the fire. 

“How did you…h-how did you do that? Please do-”

Again, he was cut off as the witch tiptoed back to her seat–not sitting but gripping the back of the armchair tightly in one hand.

“What you call magic is real, Arthur, but let me reiterate in a way you can understand. I am not from your world, but your home contains plenty of energy that humanity is unaware of– a fuel humans would deem as arcane in nature. Since I am but a stranger to this land, the laws of this universe do not apply to me in the same way they may apply to you, at least not to a debilitating degree. This is what my kind have done for a millennium, symbiotically living within the magical construct your earth provides.”

“Your kind?” Arthur blurted out, “What do you mean you're kind? And where are you from if not from earth?” 

Arthur stood his ground in front of the fireplace, not moving an inch.

The witch watched in amusement; her eyes more comparatively aligned with the feline variety- eyes that absorbed Arthur’s every little movement. 

“I suppose it's only fair to divulge since I brought you here…. My kind is known as the Vorox. Long ago, humankind translated our name to the Latin term for “Devourer”, and then eventually in Greek–anthropophagus– which means “man eater”. We come from a universe vastly different from yours…a forest beyond the long sea and tower of Ouroboros, is my village. We call it Vestige.”

Arthur nodded numbly, ticketing away the information like a chaotic clerk for no known reason. There were plenty of questions toiling around that dangerous cliff of lunacy. Satanism…demons…black magic. It was all cliche subject matter really, but the one inquiry that desperately clattered its teeth in excitement was quickly extinguished when the pale woman cocked her head and toyed her radiant smile again, making Arthur flutter in embarrassment. 

“You want to ask why I am here? Do you not?”

“I feel like I deserve that, yes…,” the curly brown headed man said semi-calmly.

“Like many of my sisters and brothers, I was persecuted out of my land and came here, although to my surprising observations–humans too–are infectious with judgement and fear. I was but a traveler in this lonely landscape before meeting my companion. I should emphasize my meaning that it was a romantically involved situation. You know of him by tale.”

She finally sat down and surveyed Arthur. What she mentioned just now confused him, and it didn’t help that the flames behind him fanned and stirred their smoke upon his back. Concentration was becoming difficult. 

Then, the mental discovery dawned on him. It was the location that gave way to the clue. His mouth unhinged in shock and he belted out, 

“Oh my god, You’re Christa Chesseley…. Fuck, I wish I had an ounce of Whiskey right now……What the hell did I get myself into?” 

The white-haired woman, who Arthur figured now to be Christa Chesseley live and well, nodded that what the man solved was indeed true. 

“Christa…No one has addressed me with that name in more than fifty years. Martin recommended that I should take on a human name as mine doesn’t exist in this world. He thought it would make people like me more, seem more homely. He was certainly a naive man, but I loved him nevertheless.”

Arthur, who couldn’t bear the stoking warmness to his back, shuffled back to his chair and sat down. 

“So, you really were Martin Chesseley’s wife?”, he asked. 

“Hmmmm……well, we were never actually married. I believed it back then, and I still believe it to this day, to not bother over traditional courtship humans worry so much about. Martin truly was a treasure. He never pressured me to mold into society's desires…and it made me desire him ever the more.”

Arthur was about to quick-fire a loaded chamber of questions, but Christa raised a hand which caught his attention. 

“I know you are burning with questions.”

“Uh yeah, not every day you get to sit down with the town’s legend.”

“I assure you there will be ample time down the line to talk more about the trivialities about who I am. I believe in being just with you about the truth, but there are other matters to discuss, such as the reason I signaled you to come here…” 

“Did you really have to pretend to be my dead girlfriend? I don’t see that as being just.”

“I needed to find a way– any way–to lead you here for what I’m about to tell you…I can’t protect your town any longer.”

Arthur frowned. 

“What do you mean by protect?” 

Christa sighed then expounded upon her clarification. 

“Everyone knows the story of my companion's death in the year of 1835. However, the truth of the matter would be locked away with me, the sole hair of this secret. In 1835, a strange man had made his way to the infantile town of Porthcawl, and in a curious light, he brought disciples in tow. This man…I use that term seldomly regarding that beast these days…he was looking for something, a location that only Martin had knowledge of.”

“Along his stay in Porthcawl, he riled the townspeople into rebellion, promising riches, vitality, and promiscuity under his divine leadership to an ancient being. Oh, how Martin was furious. For his gracious and kind leadership to be undermined by a demon in human skin–we slowly recognized this man was more than a pinprick to the town's wellbeing.”

“After three months, the man gathered a mob of townspeople. It was as if they were transfixed under a spell and no sense of logic could undo it. Martin knew what this lowly bastard wanted. It was the gateway.”

“I don't understand what you mean. What gateway?”, Arthur chirped nervously from his seat. 

Shadows danced carelessly upon the two, bristling the atmosphere of the room with a darker tone appropriately situated for the subject matter. Christa rested her head onto one elbow and gazed at him, again wearing a smug smile. 

“Yes, a gateway. I assume you are familiar with the hollow, yes? Those two downstairs really tried their best to explain it to you, but you see, in your world, there are very few physical locations to travel through the hollow layer–unlike you or I who possess the ability that allows us naturally.  These physical locations are called gateways and Porthcawl has two.”

“Humans call individuals like yourself hollow walkers or jumpers…my Martin was a hollow walker himself. He was aware of the two gateways in Porthcawl–one of these gateways is far underground and the other in a cave to the south-western forest outside of town. The local Kayapuyan tribe guarded the forest gateway and worked with Martin to oppose any intruders wishing to forgo near the complex. But this mysterious man at the time wished to open the gateway across the hollow to a place I had suspected for the longest of times.”

“On the night of June 18th, 1835, the stranger led his mob of acolytes out of town to massacre the local tribe. Martin tried to stop them and for his disobedience, he was killed…”

Arthur, who had been staring longingly into the fire, switched his view upon the witch.

“I’m sorry...”, he stated, yet there was a lick of hesitation. His words were most likely meaningless to someone whose partner passed three lifetimes ago.

“I thank you, but it is not necessary. Martin knew that his death would be soon, and for that reason he confided in me to stop the intruder and his mob with all that I possessed. I was too late to intercept the brutality upon the Kalapuyan’s but I ravaged the earth with scorching melodies and collapsed the only way into the cave, barricading the army from entering. Then I let loose hell’s wrath upon them. All of them.”

“And the man…He escaped my judgement. He only knew of the one gateway and not of the hidden. Several small pockets of townspeople soon broke their stupor, not knowing the damage and bloodshed they committed and I did not care to remind them. After that day, I went into hiding, choosing to stay in the depths of this house…unfortunately, I am tied down to this land in sadness and for the purpose of a promise, although I can’t say it’s my worst living situation.”

Christa swiveled an obligatory glance around the den, admiring the array of books, sculptures, and other varying curiosities. 

Arthur on the other hand was deep in the trenches of concentration, aligning all the pieces of information he had received over the last twenty-four hours. There was a parallel present, and the connection was working its way to bequeath a stroke of enlightenment, and enlightenment it was when a man zapped like lightning to the sluggish man's cortex.

“And this man…did he by chance go by the name of Mr. Nancy?” 

The pronunciation of the name seemed to delight Christa, her eyes sparkling in approval. 

“I may have been wrong about your two acquaintances–it seems they know a thing or two. How much do you know of Mr. Nancy?” She politely implored.

Arthur gave a weak shrug. 

“Honestly, I only know of his name and that he leads a weird cult. I was told a few recent things, specifically he was in hiding, but I had no clue it was the same guy who shaped the history of Porthcawl. How can that even be possible?” 

The witch sighed. The vexing aroma of incense seemed to increase in potency, its scent mooning its bitter flavor around Arthur's stubble and finicky nose.

“Mr. Nancy is no man. He is not even from this mortal realm. He goes by other names, specifically harboring a close ancestry with the Akan people of West Africa. He is known as Anansi, the trickster spider god.”

A long awaited quiet filled the room and Arthur rubbed his temples in exhaustion. He was tired and wanted a drink. He could be at home right now, siphoning away the toxicity in his hungover veins, but here he was–doing the lord’s ‘God-know-what ’good work.

Everything that Christa has said so far would have been preposterous notions to ramble on about if it was vomited by the mouth of anybody in town, but she was the Witch of Stolen bones. She was the legend from his childhood, the tall tale that left imaginative hungry kids chained in fear. Arthur couldn’t deny her words as false.

He took a minute to reconvene his thoughts when out of the blue, a rustling behind his right shoulder drew his attention.

It was a large bulbous frame tarped under a thick woven quilt. Again, the shape, which Arthur interpreted as a cage of some kind, clanged and clattered with movement, shifting the shape forward. 

As Arthur stared longingly at it, another noise made itself known.

Click-click-click

It echoed from under the quilt. 

It was then that Christa spoke, her tone more solid with stern conviction. 

“This man I have spoken of, Anansi or as he calls himself, Mr. Nancy–he aims to use his power along with his followers, the Children of the Widow–to open the gateway and bring more of her seed…such as these.”

At that moment the quilt was flung by some invisible hand, revealing a massive old-style birdcage. A black bulky mass thrusted at the dented wire bars.

It was coated in black bristling hairs and had an anatomy closely similar to that of a massive tarantula. The difference relied near the face, if there was to be a face, where black fur left enough pink pigmented skin for something angular and humanoid to stretch the skin and gnash in gasping undulations. It was a trifecta abomination of three oddly conjoined faces, each showcasing their own distinct bony features; they wailed their endless words under a binding flesh blanket.

The caged beast reared onto thick hind legs while other hair-spiked, arachnid arms–as thick in circumference as Arthur's denim covered thigh–bashed against the cage in retaliation. As the beast lifted, Arthur was graced with a devilish view of one slimy purple tongue that tethered against the cage and pulled. The base of the tongue originated from an elongated vertical slit–about eight to ten inches in length–that opened and clasped shut with egg white foam sputtering near the corners. 

Arthur flailed out of his seat and gravitated to his conversation partner. She only volunteered an expression of plain truth, as if she had been expecting this reaction for quite some time. 

“Arthur, meet the spawn.”

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“Mr. Nancy? Really? Seems a bit tame for someone that’s commanding a pseudo-religious death cult,” Arthur exclaimed with a hint of humor from the back seat. 

Clancy’s glare–as blue as the serene sky–reflected off the rear-view mirror and landed on the hungover third passenger. 

“You may find it funny now, but I wouldn’t want this man as an enemy, Mr. Winfrey. Latch onto some humility, why don’t you.”

Ginger beard’s comment subtracted any additional rebuttal from Arthur, who glumly watched the town blur by.

“Tell me–what do you two know of this guy? Has he been here in Porthcawl long? I feel like I would remember hearing news of someone new.”

Rebecca piped in and swiveled diagonally from her spot in the front passenger seat to offer an expression of caution. 

“It would probably be more beneficial to give you the short story of our travels. Clancy and I have been traveling around the southern edge of Washington for the past year. Beautiful sights, huh Clancy,” she remarked playfully. 

Clancy didn’t comment with words but was nice enough to grumble in agreement. Arthur could have been wrong, but he swore he noticed a rosy blush creep over one side of the detective's cheek. 

“Our source at the time advised us to check in on the town of Roosevelt. Two twin boys along with their babysitter were kidnapped from their home one late evening, leading to a statewide search lasting for five days.”

“Oh my god, that's horrible,” said Arthur. 

The pain of coming home to find your children and someone you closely trusted missing….it had to be devastating.

Clancy navigated the conversation forward. 

“It was bad enough that the feds got involved. Smelled a little fishy to them as the babysitter didn’t seem like the type to kidnap the boys, so they thought maybe a ransom situation would be the case, but nothing of the sort occurred… So, we got involved.”

“What do you mean by that? "Arthur questioned carefully. 

“Remember,” Rebecca hummed the word, “I can make quick work of a person’s mind. Finding the thread to the missing three was actually quite easy. We eventually came across a brute of a man who worked as the local butcher. He wasn’t as inconspicuous as he may have thought.”

Her animated eyes darted to Clancy and he unveiled his niche, sly grin. 

“Fella sang like a canary after a few rounds with my hammer and pliers,” ginger beard spat with disgust. 

“Anyway,” Rebecca continued, “The butcher omitted to kidnapping the twin boys and teenager for his group–the Children of the Widow. He was very adamant that his leader-- who goes by the name of Mr. Nancy–needed energy.”

“What happened then? "Arthur blurted. He was on the edge of his seat. 

“The butcher took his life after we released him. Suppose prison wouldn’t do good for a man like him. We followed the directions he fought so hard to keep quiet and found the leader’s hideout in the sub-basement under a rundown creamery. When we arrived, it appeared as if Mr. Nancy and some of his flock had already got out of dodge–left a trail of shit for others to clean up really,” Clancy said solemnly. 

“Did you find the twins and the sitter?” Arthur gasped. 

Rebecca shook her head disappointingly. 

“No…from what we saw down there, this group had used them for some type of ritual or sacrifice. There were cages and animal carcas-”.

“Bec, maybe we should hold off on the nastier details, huh?” Clancy suggested. 

“Right…as we were picking up the trail on the widow’s movements, Patrick was updating us about his own investigation here, in your town. He suspected the Children of the Widow’s base of operations were working out of Porthcawl, but he never disclosed the pertin–Hey! We’re here!” Rebecca declared loudly. 

It was true. The hulking black SUV the crew were currently riding in swerved off Bradbury Road and onto a grassy clearing occupied by scattered shrubs. Arthur let his eyes wander past the window and fall upon the manor with its gothic familiarity. He cautiously opened the car door and stepped onto damp tufts of greenery, his eyes still scanning the once illustrious estate to reconcile with ill-fated rumors. 

It had been over fifteen years since Arthur had risked footing upon the land of the Chesseley’s and time had not been kind to the three-floored Victorian abode. Unkept, broken, disastrous…. there wasn’t a single word to confine the collapse of empathy for the house’s maintenance. 

“Oh, how adorable! "Rebecca resounded, “ it certainly has a uh.... unique flair about it.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” Clancy sarcastically jabbed.

Both of them had also departed from their respective seats within the vehicle to gawk at the sight. 

“So, someone in there is contacting you?” the detective said while shooting Arthur a dubious glance, “Doesn’t look like anybody has lived in this house for decades…Bec how do you wanna do this?” 

His question would go unanswered as Clancy noticed the telepath was already halfway to the house, stepping over the remains of the iron wrought gate without a care. 

Clancy let loose a frustrated sigh and galloped after her. Arthur followed close behind at a vigorous pace.

In short work, the three piled onto the rickety porch; Arthur thought their combined weight would be enough to splinter through the rotting boards and fall into the abysmal crawl space, but it held sufficiently. With a strong knuckle rap upon the door–which had been left slightly ajar from some recent trespass–the hunk of red-painted splotchy wood swung open, although with an abundance of protest. The creaking hinges echoed into the vast inside, and one-by-one the group entered, Arthur being the anxious last figure to slip into the shadowy void of the front foyer. 

The foyer was grand, at least twenty or more feet in length that raced to a shadowy staircase. Even though time had taken its course and contributed quite a drastic change of quality, the front room was still presentable to a degree and still possessed a modicum of hidden architectural beauty.

An enormous amorphous rug, once blessedly glowing with its white sheepskin bristles, was lost to neglect and abuse. Arthur slowly walked over the tattered, grey surface–his weight pushing down the bending upward creases. 

To the left wall, tacked methodically upon the spider-webbed, crimson-painted wall, were a row of grainy photos– It was near impossible to decipher with the thick film of grime covering each. A behemoth world globe sat to one of the back corners near the stairs, and even from where he stood in the darkness, vulgar strands of graffiti smeared the continents and oceans. Trash dotted the floor and the room reeked of urine; Arthur actually had to mask his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt because it was so bad. 

The room to the right of the foyer was a decently sized dining room. A crystal chandelier, still held sturdy by golden inlay chains, dazzled in the few rays of light the shuttered in. A twelve-foot cherrywood table–a piece of furniture worth the extra necessities of finer dining–laid in jaggedly pointed, asymmetrical segments as if the solid body of a wrecking ball had plopped directly onto the table. 

Shallow stains serrated the wall, where the paint melted, bulged, and popped to reveal the undercarriage of the structure's cartilage. It was evident a lot of smoking had been committed within the room's vicinity, so much as without a care to the effect it would have on the decor.

Arthur didn’t venture into the room but spun a look at the varying knick-knacks and hand-me-down trinkets. Spotty visioned orbs floated towards an oak wooden pillar case, where shattered glass sat around quadrupedal feet. Several compact pyramidal frames sat empty, except for one that nested a faded, chipped faberge egg ornament.

Clancy risked a view into the room and precariously eyed the vacancy of goods in the isolated case. 

“Pfft, figures. An abandoned house like this is basically a Vegas convention for thieves.”

Ginger beard then gravitated to the opposite room of the foyer. Arthur followed. 

The two peered into the damp-ridden, dust-swirling living room. Rebecca had already found perch upon the sleek surface of a grand piano, smirked and observant of the two investigating men.

“A bit stuffy in here, but this ol’girls still bears a breadth of memories. Charming,”the fair-skinned woman stated. 

Arthur scanned the room, which openly shared a sliding wooden door with what seemed like a den of sorts. Various rusted weaponry starred from their positions on the high walls, attracting the curious bartender’s swaying irises which homed in on the two bronze swords strapped to the vertical surface. A dilapidated fireplace stole cover under the blades, the gauche style and frame pillowing into itself and completely blocking any way for fire to be sparked to life. 

Besides the piano, a mismatched collection of chairs and two oblong sofa pieces barraged the space, each of their fabric or leather scarred and ugly. The room's choice of paint color–a prominently deep forest green–sucked the eminence of light from dancing about the room, and instead, belched a haze of miasma, as though death was not a stranger to this room. Arthur didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling and retracted a few feet. 

Clancy clopped his shoes back into the foyer and barked rudely.

 “So, who are we supposedly meeting?” 

Arthur froze but offered a rigid shrug. 

“I actually have no clue.”

“I think you do have at least one…”

Rebecca strode back into the foyer, her shoes clacking with an echo. She looked more comfortable in her sleek black work suit and skirt versus the night before– a lot more professional, yet even more deadly. 

“You want me to do it, don’t you? Use my power or whatever?”

Rebecca nodded.

“Why not sit right here and take a few deep breaths. We could at least give it a try.”

Arthur did as he was told, positioning his bum onto the scabby grey rug. He closed his eyes and waited in silence, time blinking in a tirade of sixty-second tangos. However, after about three minutes, he started to feel a pulsation, like somewhere deep in the house, an invisible organ harmonized with the nervous man’s tangle of breath work. 

Up and down. 

In and out. 

Together and separate. 

A lightness inflated inside and the colors inside his mind manifested, swirled, and converged in a lattice work of webbing. The weightlessness increased and the sounds diminished. 

Arthur opened his eyes. 

He was standing in the foyer but far–much farther from the three individuals nestling the doorway. 

Clancy, Rebecca …...and himself. 

Arthur, in his astral form, wanted to sprint back across the incredible distance that was now an unrealistic feat to the doorway. Instead of twenty feet, it appeared as if it were twenty yards. 

Going back was out of the question, but he could go forward–forward being the staircase, watching from its stance of godly judgement. The stairs were accompanied by a surrounding blackness, and serenaded with miniscule specks of nova crumbs. A stairway into the universe.

The pulsing quickened and he climbed each step in haste. He flew past the first landing, followed by the second. Eventually, the star-filled space trained his trajectory to a single door, flimsy and brittle in age, yet glowered intensely in the dimensional hallway. Arthur grabbed the wobbly rusted knob and pushed the door gently. 

It led to a tiny, yet cozy den space warmed brightly by a bustling flame of orange and yellow. Bookcases lined every inch of wall space, and two cushioned chairs hugged the middle, just an arm's reach from the fire. There were no windows, no skylights, no sign of an actual human harboring the room. 

Arthur lumbered willingly inside but was stifled by movement. Sitting calmly upon the rotund curve of one plush armchair was a snow white, whiskered-guarded feline watching with glinting eyes. 

Arthur gave the creature a nod, seeing as he may have disturbed the animal's peace. He continued looking about, noting the chiseled marble busts of several women lining each of the four room corners. 

It was only when Arthur’s preoccupied mind was entranced on interpreting the room's mysterious mess did, he hear the squelching and crunching of bones being ripped apart and glued back together again. It was alarming enough for the man to turn, but he had been sorely mistaken to do so. 

Behind him was the form of a white-haired, hunched bi-pedal feline, resembling a human masquerading in a svelte, muscle-veined suit with dagger claws and saliva dripping incisors. 

The sight alone prompted Arthur to grab the closest marble bust and chuck it with all his might, knowing he was going to die in the next few minutes.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“Mr. Nancy? Really? Seems a bit tame for someone that’s commanding a pseudo-religious death cult,” Arthur exclaimed with a hint of humor from the back seat. 

Clancy’s glare–as blue as the serene sky–reflected off the rear-view mirror and landed on the hungover third passenger. 

“You may find it funny now, but I wouldn’t want this man as an enemy, Mr. Winfrey. Latch onto some humility, why don’t you.”

Ginger beard’s comment subtracted any additional rebuttal from Arthur, who glumly watched the town blur by.

“Tell me–what do you two know of this guy? Has he been here in Porthcawl long? I feel like I would remember hearing news of someone new.”

Rebecca piped in and swiveled diagonally from her spot in the front passenger seat to offer an expression of caution. 

“It would probably be more beneficial to give you the short story of our travels. Clancy and I have been traveling around the southern edge of Washington for the past year. Beautiful sights, huh Clancy,” she remarked playfully. 

Clancy didn’t comment with words but was nice enough to grumble in agreement. Arthur could have been wrong, but he swore he noticed a rosy blush creep over one side of the detective's cheek. 

“Our source at the time advised us to check in on the town of Roosevelt. Two twin boys along with their babysitter were kidnapped from their home one late evening, leading to a statewide search lasting for five days.”

“Oh my god, that's horrible,” said Arthur. 

The pain of coming home to find your children and someone you closely trusted missing….it had to be devastating.

Clancy navigated the conversation forward. 

“It was bad enough that the feds got involved. Smelled a little fishy to them as the babysitter didn’t seem like the type to kidnap the boys, so they thought maybe a ransom situation would be the case, but nothing of the sort occurred… So, we got involved.”

“What do you mean by that? "Arthur questioned carefully. 

“Remember,” Rebecca hummed the word, “I can make quick work of a person’s mind. Finding the thread to the missing three was actually quite easy. We eventually came across a brute of a man who worked as the local butcher. He wasn’t as inconspicuous as he may have thought.”

Her animated eyes darted to Clancy and he unveiled his niche, sly grin. 

“Fella sang like a canary after a few rounds with my hammer and pliers,” ginger beard spat with disgust. 

“Anyway,” Rebecca continued, “The butcher omitted to kidnapping the twin boys and teenager for his group–the Children of the Widow. He was very adamant that his leader-- who goes by the name of Mr. Nancy–needed energy.”

“What happened then? "Arthur blurted. He was on the edge of his seat. 

“The butcher took his life after we released him. Suppose prison wouldn’t do good for a man like him. We followed the directions he fought so hard to keep quiet and found the leader’s hideout in the sub-basement under a rundown creamery. When we arrived, it appeared as if Mr. Nancy and some of his flock had already got out of dodge–left a trail of shit for others to clean up really,” Clancy said solemnly. 

“Did you find the twins and the sitter?” Arthur gasped. 

Rebecca shook her head disappointingly. 

“No…from what we saw down there, this group had used them for some type of ritual or sacrifice. There were cages and animal carcas-”.

“Bec, maybe we should hold off on the nastier details, huh?” Clancy suggested. 

“Right…as we were picking up the trail on the widow’s movements, Patrick was updating us about his own investigation here, in your town. He suspected the Children of the Widow’s base of operations were working out of Porthcawl, but he never disclosed the pertin–Hey! We’re here!” Rebecca declared loudly. 

It was true. The hulking black SUV the crew were currently riding in swerved off Bradbury Road and onto a grassy clearing occupied by scattered shrubs. Arthur let his eyes wander past the window and fall upon the manor with its gothic familiarity. He cautiously opened the car door and stepped onto damp tufts of greenery, his eyes still scanning the once illustrious estate to reconcile with ill-fated rumors. 

It had been over fifteen years since Arthur had risked footing upon the land of the Chesseley’s and time had not been kind to the three-floored Victorian abode. Unkept, broken, disastrous…. there wasn’t a single word to confine the collapse of empathy for the house’s maintenance. 

“Oh, how adorable! "Rebecca resounded, “ it certainly has a uh.... unique flair about it.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” Clancy sarcastically jabbed.

Both of them had also departed from their respective seats within the vehicle to gawk at the sight. 

“So, someone in there is contacting you?” the detective said while shooting Arthur a dubious glance, “Doesn’t look like anybody has lived in this house for decades…Bec how do you wanna do this?” 

His question would go unanswered as Clancy noticed the telepath was already halfway to the house, stepping over the remains of the iron wrought gate without a care. 

Clancy let loose a frustrated sigh and galloped after her. Arthur followed close behind at a vigorous pace.

In short work, the three piled onto the rickety porch; Arthur thought their combined weight would be enough to splinter through the rotting boards and fall into the abysmal crawl space, but it held sufficiently. With a strong knuckle rap upon the door–which had been left slightly ajar from some recent trespass–the hunk of red-painted splotchy wood swung open, although with an abundance of protest. The creaking hinges echoed into the vast inside, and one-by-one the group entered, Arthur being the anxious last figure to slip into the shadowy void of the front foyer. 

The foyer was grand, at least twenty or more feet in length that raced to a shadowy staircase. Even though time had taken its course and contributed quite a drastic change of quality, the front room was still presentable to a degree and still possessed a modicum of hidden architectural beauty.

An enormous amorphous rug, once blessedly glowing with its white sheepskin bristles, was lost to neglect and abuse. Arthur slowly walked over the tattered, grey surface–his weight pushing down the bending upward creases. 

To the left wall, tacked methodically upon the spider-webbed, crimson-painted wall, were a row of grainy photos– It was near impossible to decipher with the thick film of grime covering each. A behemoth world globe sat to one of the back corners near the stairs, and even from where he stood in the darkness, vulgar strands of graffiti smeared the continents and oceans. Trash dotted the floor and the room reeked of urine; Arthur actually had to mask his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt because it was so bad. 

The room to the right of the foyer was a decently sized dining room. A crystal chandelier, still held sturdy by golden inlay chains, dazzled in the few rays of light the shuttered in. A twelve-foot cherrywood table–a piece of furniture worth the extra necessities of finer dining–laid in jaggedly pointed, asymmetrical segments as if the solid body of a wrecking ball had plopped directly onto the table. 

Shallow stains serrated the wall, where the paint melted, bulged, and popped to reveal the undercarriage of the structure's cartilage. It was evident a lot of smoking had been committed within the room's vicinity, so much as without a care to the effect it would have on the decor.

Arthur didn’t venture into the room but spun a look at the varying knick-knacks and hand-me-down trinkets. Spotty visioned orbs floated towards an oak wooden pillar case, where shattered glass sat around quadrupedal feet. Several compact pyramidal frames sat empty, except for one that nested a faded, chipped faberge egg ornament.

Clancy risked a view into the room and precariously eyed the vacancy of goods in the isolated case. 

“Pfft, figures. An abandoned house like this is basically a Vegas convention for thieves.”

Ginger beard then gravitated to the opposite room of the foyer. Arthur followed. 

The two peered into the damp-ridden, dust-swirling living room. Rebecca had already found perch upon the sleek surface of a grand piano, smirked and observant of the two investigating men.

“A bit stuffy in here, but this ol’girls still bears a breadth of memories. Charming," the fair-skinned woman stated. 

Arthur scanned the room, which openly shared a sliding wooden door with what seemed like a den of sorts. Various rusted weaponry starred from their positions on the high walls, attracting the curious bartender’s swaying irises which homed in on the two bronze swords strapped to the vertical surface. A dilapidated fireplace stole cover under the blades, the gauche style and frame pillowing into itself and completely blocking any way for fire to be sparked to life. 

Besides the piano, a mismatched collection of chairs and two oblong sofa pieces barraged the space, each of their fabric or leather scarred and ugly. The room's choice of paint color–a prominently deep forest green–sucked the eminence of light from dancing about the room, and instead, belched a haze of miasma, as though death was not a stranger to this room. Arthur didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling and retracted a few feet. 

Clancy clopped his shoes back into the foyer and barked rudely.

 “So, who are we supposedly meeting?” 

Arthur froze but offered a rigid shrug. 

“I actually have no clue.”

“I think you do have at least one…”

Rebecca strode back into the foyer, her shoes clacking with an echo. She looked more comfortable in her sleek black work suit and skirt versus the night before– a lot more professional, yet even more deadly. 

“You want me to do it, don’t you? Use my power or whatever?”

Rebecca nodded.

“Why not sit right here and take a few deep breaths. We could at least give it a try.”

Arthur did as he was told, positioning his bum onto the scabby grey rug. He closed his eyes and waited in silence, time blinking in a tirade of sixty-second tangos. However, after about three minutes, he started to feel a pulsation, like somewhere deep in the house, an invisible organ harmonized with the nervous man’s tangle of breath work. 

Up and down. 

In and out. 

Together and separate. 

A lightness inflated inside and the colors inside his mind manifested, swirled, and converged in a lattice work of webbing. The weightlessness increased and the sounds diminished. 

Arthur opened his eyes. 

He was standing in the foyer but far–much farther from the three individuals nestling the doorway. 

Clancy, Rebecca …...and himself. 

Arthur, in his astral form, wanted to sprint back across the incredible distance that was now an unrealistic feat to the doorway. Instead of twenty feet, it appeared as if it were twenty yards. 

Going back was out of the question, but he could go forward–forward being the staircase, watching from its stance of godly judgement. The stairs were accompanied by a surrounding blackness and serenaded with miniscule specks of nova crumbs. A stairway into the universe.

The pulsing quickened and he climbed each step in haste. He flew past the first landing, followed by the second. Eventually, the star-filled space trained his trajectory to a single door, flimsy and brittle in age, yet glowered intensely in the dimensional hallway. Arthur grabbed the wobbly rusted knob and pushed the door gently. 

It led to a tiny, yet cozy den space warmed brightly by a bustling flame of orange and yellow. Bookcases lined every inch of wall space, and two cushioned chairs hugged the middle, just an arm's reach from the fire. There were no windows, no skylights, no sign of an actual human harboring the room. 

Arthur lumbered willingly inside but was stifled by movement. Sitting calmly upon the rotund curve of one plush armchair was a snow white, whiskered-guarded feline watching with glinting eyes. 

Arthur gave the creature a nod, seeing as he may have disturbed the animal's peace. He continued looking about, noting the chiseled marble busts of several women lining each of the four room corners. 

It was only when Arthur’s preoccupied mind was entranced on interpreting the room's mysterious mess did, he hear the squelching and crunching of bones being ripped apart and glued back together again. It was alarming enough for the man to turn, but he had been sorely mistaken to do so. 

Behind him was the form of a white-haired, hunched bi-pedal feline, resembling a human masquerading in a svelte, muscle-veined suit with dagger claws and saliva dripping incisors. 

The sight alone prompted Arthur to grab the closest marble bust and chuck it with all his might, knowing he was going to die in the next few minutes.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“Mr. Nancy? Really? Seems a bit tame for someone that’s commanding a pseudo-religious death cult,” Arthur exclaimed with a hint of humor from the back seat. 

Clancy’s glare–as blue as the serene sky–reflected off the rear-view mirror and landed on the hungover third passenger. 

“You may find it funny now, but I wouldn’t want this man as an enemy, Mr. Winfrey. Latch onto some humility, why don’t you.”

Ginger beard’s comment subtracted any additional rebuttal from Arthur, who glumly watched the town blur by.

“Tell me–what do you two know of this guy? Has he been here in Porthcawl long? I feel like I would remember hearing news of someone new.”

Rebecca piped in and swiveled diagonally from her spot in the front passenger seat to offer an expression of caution. 

“It would probably be more beneficial to give you the short story of our travels. Clancy and I have been traveling around the southern edge of Washington for the past year. Beautiful sights, huh Clancy,” she remarked playfully. 

Clancy didn’t comment with words but was nice enough to grumble in agreement. Arthur could have been wrong, but he swore he noticed a rosy blush creep over one side of the detective's cheek. 

“Our source at the time advised us to check in on the town of Roosevelt. Two twin boys along with their babysitter were kidnapped from their home one late evening, leading to a statewide search lasting for five days.”

“Oh my god, that's horrible,” said Arthur. 

The pain of coming home to find your children and someone you closely trusted missing….it had to be devastating.

Clancy navigated the conversation forward. 

“It was bad enough that the feds got involved. Smelled a little fishy to them as the babysitter didn’t seem like the type to kidnap the boys, so they thought maybe a ransom situation would be the case, but nothing of the sort occurred… So, we got involved.”

“What do you mean by that? "Arthur questioned carefully. 

“Remember,” Rebecca hummed the word, “I can make quick work of a person’s mind. Finding the thread to the missing three was actually quite easy. We eventually came across a brute of a man who worked as the local butcher. He wasn’t as inconspicuous as he may have thought.”

Her animated eyes darted to Clancy and he unveiled his niche, sly grin. 

“Fella sang like a canary after a few rounds with my hammer and pliers,” ginger beard spat with disgust. 

“Anyway,” Rebecca continued, “The butcher omitted to kidnapping the twin boys and teenager for his group–the Children of the Widow. He was very adamant that his leader-- who goes by the name of Mr. Nancy–needed energy.”

“What happened then? "Arthur blurted. He was on the edge of his seat. 

“The butcher took his life after we released him. Suppose prison wouldn’t do good for a man like him. We followed the directions he fought so hard to keep quiet and found the leader’s hideout in the sub-basement under a rundown creamery. When we arrived, it appeared as if Mr. Nancy and some of his flock had already got out of dodge–left a trail of shit for others to clean up really,” Clancy said solemnly. 

“Did you find the twins and the sitter?” Arthur gasped. 

Rebecca shook her head disappointingly. 

“No…from what we saw down there, this group had used them for some type of ritual or sacrifice. There were cages and animal carcas-”.

“Bec, maybe we should hold off on the nastier details, huh?” Clancy suggested. 

“Right…as we were picking up the trail on the widow’s movements, Patrick was updating us about his own investigation here, in your town. He suspected the Children of the Widow’s base of operations were working out of Porthcawl, but he never disclosed the pertin–Hey! We’re here!” Rebecca declared loudly. 

It was true. The hulking black SUV the crew were currently riding in swerved off Bradbury Road and onto a grassy clearing occupied by scattered shrubs. Arthur let his eyes wander past the window and fall upon the manor with its gothic familiarity. He cautiously opened the car door and stepped onto damp tufts of greenery, his eyes still scanning the once illustrious estate to reconcile with ill-fated rumors. 

It had been over fifteen years since Arthur had risked footing upon the land of the Chesseley’s and time had not been kind to the three-floored Victorian abode. Unkept, broken, disastrous…. there wasn’t a single word to confine the collapse of empathy for the house’s maintenance. 

“Oh, how adorable! "Rebecca resounded, “ it certainly has a uh.... unique flair about it.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that,” Clancy sarcastically jabbed.

Both of them had also departed from their respective seats within the vehicle to gawk at the sight. 

“So, someone in there is contacting you?” the detective said while shooting Arthur a dubious glance, “Doesn’t look like anybody has lived in this house for decades…Bec how do you wanna do this?” 

His question would go unanswered as Clancy noticed the telepath was already halfway to the house, stepping over the remains of the iron wrought gate without a care. 

Clancy let loose a frustrated sigh and galloped after her. Arthur followed close behind at a vigorous pace.

In short work, the three piled onto the rickety porch; Arthur thought their combined weight would be enough to splinter through the rotting boards and fall into the abysmal crawl space, but it held sufficiently. With a strong knuckle rap upon the door–which had been left slightly ajar from some recent trespass–the hunk of red-painted splotchy wood swung open, although with an abundance of protest. The creaking hinges echoed into the vast inside, and one-by-one the group entered, Arthur being the anxious last figure to slip into the shadowy void of the front foyer. 

The foyer was grand, at least twenty or more feet in length that raced to a shadowy staircase. Even though time had taken its course and contributed quite a drastic change of quality, the front room was still presentable to a degree and still possessed a modicum of hidden architectural beauty.

An enormous amorphous rug, once blessedly glowing with its white sheepskin bristles, was lost to neglect and abuse. Arthur slowly walked over the tattered, grey surface–his weight pushing down the bending upward creases. 

To the left wall, tacked methodically upon the spider-webbed, crimson-painted wall, were a row of grainy photos– It was near impossible to decipher with the thick film of grime covering each. A behemoth world globe sat to one of the back corners near the stairs, and even from where he stood in the darkness, vulgar strands of graffiti smeared the continents and oceans. Trash dotted the floor and the room reeked of urine; Arthur actually had to mask his nose and mouth with the collar of his shirt because it was so bad. 

The room to the right of the foyer was a decently sized dining room. A crystal chandelier, still held sturdy by golden inlay chains, dazzled in the few rays of light the shuttered in. A twelve-foot cherrywood table–a piece of furniture worth the extra necessities of finer dining–laid in jaggedly pointed, asymmetrical segments as if the solid body of a wrecking ball had plopped directly onto the table. 

Shallow stains serrated the wall, where the paint melted, bulged, and popped to reveal the undercarriage of the structure's cartilage. It was evident a lot of smoking had been committed within the room's vicinity, so much as without a care to the effect it would have on the decor.

Arthur didn’t venture into the room but spun a look at the varying knick-knacks and hand-me-down trinkets. Spotty visioned orbs floated towards an oak wooden pillar case, where shattered glass sat around quadrupedal feet. Several compact pyramidal frames sat empty, except for one that nested a faded, chipped faberge egg ornament.

Clancy risked a view into the room and precariously eyed the vacancy of goods in the isolated case. 

“Pfft, figures. An abandoned house like this is basically a Vegas convention for thieves.”

Ginger beard then gravitated to the opposite room of the foyer. Arthur followed. 

The two peered into the damp-ridden, dust-swirling living room. Rebecca had already found perch upon the sleek surface of a grand piano, smirked and observant of the two investigating men.

“A bit stuffy in here, but this ol’girls still bears a breadth of memories. Charming,”the fair-skinned woman stated. 

Arthur scanned the room, which openly shared a sliding wooden door with what seemed like a den of sorts. Various rusted weaponry starred from their positions on the high walls, attracting the curious bartender’s swaying irises which homed in on the two bronze swords strapped to the vertical surface. A dilapidated fireplace stole cover under the blades, the gauche style and frame pillowing into itself and completely blocking any way for fire to be sparked to life. 

Besides the piano, a mismatched collection of chairs and two oblong sofa pieces barraged the space, each of their fabric or leather scarred and ugly. The room's choice of paint color–a prominently deep forest green–sucked the eminence of light from dancing about the room, and instead, belched a haze of miasma, as though death was not a stranger to this room. Arthur didn’t particularly enjoy the feeling and retracted a few feet. 

Clancy clopped his shoes back into the foyer and barked rudely.

 “So, who are we supposedly meeting?” 

Arthur froze but offered a rigid shrug. 

“I actually have no clue.”

“I think you do have at least one…”

Rebecca strode back into the foyer, her shoes clacking with an echo. She looked more comfortable in her sleek black work suit and skirt versus the night before– a lot more professional, yet even more deadly. 

“You want me to do it, don’t you? Use my power or whatever?”

Rebecca nodded.

“Why not sit right here and take a few deep breaths. We could at least give it a try.”

Arthur did as he was told, positioning his bum onto the scabby grey rug. He closed his eyes and waited in silence, time blinking in a tirade of sixty-second tangos. However, after about three minutes, he started to feel a pulsation, like somewhere deep in the house, an invisible organ harmonized with the nervous man’s tangle of breath work. 

Up and down. 

In and out. 

Together and separate. 

A lightness inflated inside and the colors inside his mind manifested, swirled, and converged in a lattice work of webbing. The weightlessness increased and the sounds diminished. 

Arthur opened his eyes. 

He was standing in the foyer but far–much farther from the three individuals nestling the doorway. 

Clancy, Rebecca …...and himself. 

Arthur, in his astral form, wanted to sprint back across the incredible distance that was now an unrealistic feat to the doorway. Instead of twenty feet, it appeared as if it were twenty yards. 

Going back was out of the question, but he could go forward–forward being the staircase, watching from its stance of godly judgement. The stairs were accompanied by a surrounding blackness, and serenaded with miniscule specks of nova crumbs. A stairway into the universe.

The pulsing quickened and he climbed each step in haste. He flew past the first landing, followed by the second. Eventually, the star-filled space trained his trajectory to a single door, flimsy and brittle in age, yet glowered intensely in the dimensional hallway. Arthur grabbed the wobbly rusted knob and pushed the door gently. 

It led to a tiny, yet cozy den space warmed brightly by a bustling flame of orange and yellow. Bookcases lined every inch of wall space, and two cushioned chairs hugged the middle, just an arm's reach from the fire. There were no windows, no skylights, no sign of an actual human harboring the room. 

Arthur lumbered willingly inside but was stifled by movement. Sitting calmly upon the rotund curve of one plush armchair was a snow white, whiskered-guarded feline watching with glinting eyes. 

Arthur gave the creature a nod, seeing as he may have disturbed the animal's peace. He continued looking about, noting the chiseled marble busts of several women lining each of the four room corners. 

It was only when Arthur’s preoccupied mind was entranced on interpreting the room's mysterious mess did, he hear the squelching and crunching of bones being ripped apart and glued back together again. It was alarming enough for the man to turn, but he had been sorely mistaken to do so. 

Behind him was the form of a white-haired, hunched bi-pedal feline, resembling a human masquerading in a svelte, muscle-veined suit with dagger claws and saliva dripping incisors. 

The sight alone prompted Arthur to grab the closest marble bust and chuck it with all his might, knowing he was going to die in the next few minutes.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“If you don’t got no warrant, then git off my goddamn property!”

Those were the words expelled in burning hostility as Steven sauntered closer to the unfathomably disgusting RV that sat dead in a vast gravel clearing under shifting clouds. Pellog’s encampment was really a sight to see– a hidden oasis of land off of the Donahue farm where the squirrely felon could take pleasure in all various sins. Steven marched over tiny hills of leftover trash– empty vegetable cans and shredded potato chip bags that really added the homely feeling of a parasite leaching off the land. 

A destroyed welcome mat showcasing an array of curved claw marks– a lovely gift from a local mammal– sat before a grand rusted rectangle on wheels. Spindly fingers from the crowding branches of a crab apple tree hugged the sleek metallic roof, some even stretching their way to the boarded-up panels of plywood barricading each of the small slate windows. A behemoth circular oak table was located under one of the front windows with two clear gallons of water as well as an ashy pile of cigarette buds. Every inch of the ground, RV, and various tables and chairs were damp from the passing rain twenty minutes earlier.

Towards the front end of the RV, where the guttural dialect twang of shortened vocabulary asserted with a fool's confidence, was the lanky form of Max Pellog sitting in a lawn chair. He was bare chested but luckily garbed in a dirty pair of pajama pants. Tattoos of meager scripture were inscribed upon various places of the man’s torso and biceps. With a ratty patchwork baseball cap tipped downward that concealed most of his face, Pellog's prominent cleft chin puffed out in an attempt of sizing up the cop. 

Steven watched as the nomadic felon grabbed a bushel of thin sticks and threw them lazily into a portable charcoal grill, where infant flames lapped up the added pieces of energy. With his left hand, Pellog raised a fire poker and stoked the flames. The deviant’s dirt-encrusted eyes glared at Steven. 

“I ain’t done anything so git of the land and stop bothering me,” he growled harshly. 

“I’m actually only here to ask you a couple questions…. Mind if I sit?”, Arthur asked kindly.

 Although the officer was being as generous as one could be to the drug fiend on the outside, Steven was ready to spring into action the moment things went south. Maybe, it was the sight of the elongated fire poker, sturdy enough to stab a man, that put Steven in unease.

“I actually do mind, and what the hell is this nonsense about questions. Again, I haven’t done anything. If you want something from me then I’d be open to a reward…. Maybe a pack of crushers, yeah? 

Steven rolled his eyes and snorted. 

“Are you really trying to ask for a bribe from an officer?”

The inflection from the officer's words gutted Pellog as he looked speechless for a moment but quickly regained composure.

“Couldn’t hurt askin. So, why are you bothering me?”

“I hear you keep updated on all the news and such that comes through Porthcawl. Is that correct?”

Pellog flashed a smile absent of a few molars. 

“Eh? Someone’s gotta keep their ear to the ground. Know what's up and down in this sinkhole of a community.

“Then, you already know about Patrick Langley being murdered, right? How he was found off of Clemmons Ridge, near the old Chesseley estate.”

Pellog’s eyes minimized to a disdainful stare and his grip upon the fire poker tightened

“Are you trying to assume wrongly of me? 

Steven remained as still as stone and wore an expression hardened to Pellog’s 

“No. I only want information on Patrick, and I heard you're the guy to talk to,” the officer said with a lick of pleasantness.

Pellog spat a glob of tobacco shit onto the ground and puffed his chin out again in defiance. 

“What could I possibly know, heh?” Pellog remarked facetiously.

Steven fished out his phone, opened to the photo app, and flashed the photo of the prayer slip. 

“This piece of paper was found in Patrick’s body when he died–it’s a prayer slip from Saint Olaf’s. I heard you were attending the church not too long ago and thought maybe you could tell me more about this slip.”

Once Steven finished elaborating his reasons, he noticed right away a rabid wildness circulate in Pellog's irises. Pellog jumped out of his seat and shuffled backwards like a frightened cornered animal. The fire poker swung outwardly, ready for protection. 

“Where the fuck did you hear that?! Don’t tell me you're one of them?!”

Steven hopped to his feet and similarly edged backwards while his hand carefully pulled the resting taser from its holster.

“Max, let's be calm. What do you mean by “one of them”?”  

Pellog didn’t even attempt to answer the question.

“Who the fuck told you to find me, eh? WHO?!”, he screamed.

“The pastor over at Saint Olaf’s, Pastor Mulaney.”

Pellog squealed in displeasure. A rupture of visible trembling cascaded over his bare skin and appendages. The arm grasping the fire poker vibrated in unsteady motions. 

“Jesus Christ. You done talked to that monster?!”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Steven expressed calmly. With each rushing sentence, he felt a possible brawl rearing on the horizon.

“That damn priest ain’t a priest! He’s a monster I tell you, I saw it myself one night in that hell of a chapel,” Pellog hollered.

“A monster? Are you messing with me? Mulaney said you stopped by late at night and it scared the old man enough to tell me to look into it.”

“I knew it! He’s trying to trick you. I wasn’t acting up at all. I stopped by late on a Thursday night and I saw that man–that creature showing its true form. He ain’t a man. He’s some type of demon. I walked in when he was transformin a-and..and I ran scared straight back to my land to ready in case he came after me.  You gotta believe me man.”

Steven frowned but didn't say a peep about the delinquent's story. Of course, he didn’t buy a word of Pellog’s story–it was too disorganized and unbelievable. Pellog seemed to notice the officers wavering as he continued regurgitating talking points. 

“Why did you talk to that abomination? For what purpose?”, he hissed.

“Like I said, I needed to know if Patrick Langley was an attending patron to the church, but Mulaney dismissed my claim,” Steven explained. 

A long, cunning grin stretched from cheek to cheek upon Pellog’s jittering face, and contagious laughter plumed out from waxy lips as if a lewd joke had been expressed between the two men. 

“HE LIED TO YOU!”, the tight-fisted felon suddenly shrieked, “I saw Langley hanging around alright, but he wasn’t inside of the damn church.”

Steven scarcely reacted to the other man’s meltdown, but with eyebrows arched for more information, the officer jabbed with another question. 

“Please explain? What do you mean he wasn’t inside?” Steven pressed.

“For weeks, I’d seen that Langley character roaming the outside of the church or cemetery, or even just sitting in his car waiting for the congregation to be let out. Mulaney saw him, had to.”

Steven nodded along, trying to absorb and make sense of Pellog’s terrified ramblings. Did Mulaney really lie?

“So, why do you think Mulaney is a monster, Pellog?”, Steven expressed firmly. 

Pellog took another step back and spat a glob of churned tobacco in disgust. His eyes contracted, itching to see belligerent violence. Habitually anxious like a caged animal, Pellog thrusted the fire poker in front as a shield.

“I see him for who he truly is. Two mouths for eating, six eyes for seein every bit of the prey, and the eggs. I can’t forget them eggs hanging there for the world to see. He needs to be exterminated….needs to be gouged of his blood and flesh boiled.”

“Max, we ca-” 

“AND YOUR ONE OF THEM! You gotta be…He sent you here to ask these questions didn’t he... You're one of them,” Pellog screamed earsplittingly loud.

Then, the bare-chested man stampeded forward, clumsily tripping over a dirty ice cooler. It was enough time for Steven to back up, unholster his taser, and aim for a patch of uncleansed skin. 

Pellog continued forward and with an uncoordinated balance, swung the metal rod like a woodsman may chop a block of wood sitting on a trunk. It was nowhere close to hitting the armed officer. 

A rage driven, yet disoriented Pellog realized his foolish error as the fire poker end slapped against the consuming muck. 

Steven took his shot. It was an open shot. Steven fired the taser with the prongs shooting out at lighting speed and hooking their claws under shallow skin, resulting in Pellog immediately going limp and convulsing onto the ground. As the jolts petered out, so did Pellog’s anger-fueled vitality, leading to the felon to go unconscious. 

Steven carefully stalked closer to the unconscious man and went through protocols of checking for heart rate and breathing, then he unhooked his handcuffs, and clenched both of Pellog's hands in metal restraints. 

Steven released a straggling sigh of annoyance. It was going to be an even longer day than usual.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“If you don’t got no warrant, then git off my goddamn property!”

Those were the words expelled in burning hostility as Steven sauntered closer to the unfathomably disgusting RV that sat dead in a vast gravel clearing under shifting clouds. Pellog’s encampment was really a sight to see– a hidden oasis of land off of the Donahue farm where the squirrely felon could take pleasure in all various sins. Steven marched over tiny hills of leftover trash– empty vegetable cans and shredded potato chip bags that really added the homely feeling of a parasite leaching off the land. 

A destroyed welcome mat showcasing an array of curved claw marks– a lovely gift from a local mammal– sat before a grand rusted rectangle on wheels. Spindly fingers from the crowding branches of a crab apple tree hugged the sleek metallic roof, some even stretching their way to the boarded-up panels of plywood barricading each of the small slate windows. A behemoth circular oak table was located under one of the front windows with two clear gallons of water as well as an ashy pile of cigarette buds. Every inch of the ground, RV, and various tables and chairs were damp from the passing rain twenty minutes earlier.

Towards the front end of the RV, where the guttural dialect twang of shortened vocabulary asserted with a fool's confidence, was the lanky form of Max Pellog sitting in a lawn chair. He was bare chested but luckily garbed in a dirty pair of pajama pants. Tattoos of meager scripture were inscribed upon various places of the man’s torso and biceps. With a ratty patchwork baseball cap tipped downward that concealed most of his face, Pellog's prominent cleft chin puffed out in an attempt of sizing up the cop. 

Steven watched as the nomadic felon grabbed a bushel of thin sticks and threw them lazily into a portable charcoal grill, where infant flames lapped up the added pieces of energy. With his left hand, Pellog raised a fire poker and stoked the flames. The deviant’s dirt-encrusted eyes glared at Steven. 

“I ain’t done anything so git of the land and stop bothering me,” he growled harshly. 

“I’m actually only here to ask you a couple questions…. Mind if I sit?”, Arthur asked kindly.

 Although the officer was being as generous as one could be to the drug fiend on the outside, Steven was ready to spring into action the moment things went south. Maybe, it was the sight of the elongated fire poker, sturdy enough to stab a man, that put Steven in unease.

“I actually do mind, and what the hell is this nonsense about questions. Again, I haven’t done anything. If you want something from me then I’d be open to a reward…. Maybe a pack of crushers, yeah? 

Steven rolled his eyes and snorted. 

“Are you really trying to ask for a bribe from an officer?”

The inflection from the officer's words gutted Pellog as he looked speechless for a moment but quickly regained composure.

“Couldn’t hurt askin. So, why are you bothering me?”

“I hear you keep updated on all the news and such that comes through Porthcawl. Is that correct?”

Pellog flashed a smile absent of a few molars. 

“Eh? Someone’s gotta keep their ear to the ground. Know what's up and down in this sinkhole of a community.

“Then, you already know about Patrick Langley being murdered, right? How he was found off of Clemmons Ridge, near the old Chesseley estate.”

Pellog’s eyes minimized to a disdainful stare and his grip upon the fire poker tightened

“Are you trying to assume wrongly of me? 

Steven remained as still as stone and wore an expression hardened to Pellog’s 

“No. I only want information on Patrick, and I heard you're the guy to talk to,” the officer said with a lick of pleasantness.

Pellog spat a glob of tobacco shit onto the ground and puffed his chin out again in defiance. 

“What could I possibly know, heh?” Pellog remarked facetiously.

Steven fished out his phone, opened to the photo app, and flashed the photo of the prayer slip. 

“This piece of paper was found in Patrick’s body when he died–it’s a prayer slip from Saint Olaf’s. I heard you were attending the church not too long ago and thought maybe you could tell me more about this slip.”

Once Steven finished elaborating his reasons, he noticed right away a rabid wildness circulate in Pellog's irises. Pellog jumped out of his seat and shuffled backwards like a frightened cornered animal. The fire poker swung outwardly, ready for protection. 

“Where the fuck did you hear that?! Don’t tell me you're one of them?!”

Steven hopped to his feet and similarly edged backwards while his hand carefully pulled the resting taser from its holster.

“Max, let's be calm. What do you mean by “one of them”?”  

Pellog didn’t even attempt to answer the question.

“Who the fuck told you to find me, eh? WHO?!”, he screamed.

“The pastor over at Saint Olaf’s, Pastor Mulaney.”

Pellog squealed in displeasure. A rupture of visible trembling cascaded over his bare skin and appendages. The arm grasping the fire poker vibrated in unsteady motions. 

“Jesus Christ. You done talked to that monster?!”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Steven expressed calmly. With each rushing sentence, he felt a possible brawl rearing on the horizon.

“That damn priest ain’t a priest! He’s a monster I tell you, I saw it myself one night in that hell of a chapel,” Pellog hollered.

“A monster? Are you messing with me? Mulaney said you stopped by late at night and it scared the old man enough to tell me to look into it.”

“I knew it! He’s trying to trick you. I wasn’t acting up at all. I stopped by late on a Thursday night and I saw that man–that creature showing its true form. He ain’t a man. He’s some type of demon. I walked in when he was transformin a-and..and I ran scared straight back to my land to ready in case he came after me.  You gotta believe me man.”

Steven frowned but didn't say a peep about the delinquent's story. Of course, he didn’t buy a word of Pellog’s story–it was too disorganized and unbelievable. Pellog seemed to notice the officers wavering as he continued regurgitating talking points. 

“Why did you talk to that abomination? For what purpose?”, he hissed.

“Like I said, I needed to know if Patrick Langley was an attending patron to the church, but Mulaney dismissed my claim,” Steven explained. 

A long, cunning grin stretched from cheek to cheek upon Pellog’s jittering face, and contagious laughter plumed out from waxy lips as if a lewd joke had been expressed between the two men. 

“HE LIED TO YOU!”, the tight-fisted felon suddenly shrieked, “I saw Langley hanging around alright, but he wasn’t inside of the damn church.”

Steven scarcely reacted to the other man’s meltdown, but with eyebrows arched for more information, the officer jabbed with another question. 

“Please explain? What do you mean he wasn’t inside?” Steven pressed.

“For weeks, I’d seen that Langley character roaming the outside of the church or cemetery, or even just sitting in his car waiting for the congregation to be let out. Mulaney saw him, had to.”

Steven nodded along, trying to absorb and make sense of Pellog’s terrified ramblings. Did Mulaney really lie?

“So, why do you think Mulaney is a monster, Pellog?”, Steven expressed firmly. 

Pellog took another step back and spat a glob of churned tobacco in disgust. His eyes contracted, itching to see belligerent violence. Habitually anxious like a caged animal, Pellog thrusted the fire poker in front as a shield.

“I see him for who he truly is. Two mouths for eating, six eyes for seein every bit of the prey, and the eggs. I can’t forget them eggs hanging there for the world to see. He needs to be exterminated….needs to be gouged of his blood and flesh boiled.”

“Max, we ca-” 

“AND YOUR ONE OF THEM! You gotta be…He sent you here to ask these questions didn’t he... You're one of them,” Pellog screamed earsplittingly loud.

Then, the bare-chested man stampeded forward, clumsily tripping over a dirty ice cooler. It was enough time for Steven to back up, unholster his taser, and aim for a patch of uncleansed skin. 

Pellog continued forward and with an uncoordinated balance, swung the metal rod like a woodsman may chop a block of wood sitting on a trunk. It was nowhere close to hitting the armed officer. 

A rage driven, yet disoriented Pellog realized his foolish error as the fire poker end slapped against the consuming muck. 

Steven took his shot. It was an open shot. Steven fired the taser with the prongs shooting out at lighting speed and hooking their claws under shallow skin, resulting in Pellog immediately going limp and convulsing onto the ground. As the jolts petered out, so did Pellog’s anger-fueled vitality, leading to the felon to go unconscious. 

Steven carefully stalked closer to the unconscious man and went through protocols of checking for heart rate and breathing, then he unhooked his handcuffs, and clenched both of Pellog's hands in metal restraints. 

Steven released a straggling sigh of annoyance. It was going to be an even longer day than usual.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)

“If you don’t got no warrant, then git off my goddamn property!”

Those were the words expelled in burning hostility as Steven sauntered closer to the unfathomably disgusting RV that sat dead in a vast gravel clearing under shifting clouds. Pellog’s encampment was really a sight to see– a hidden oasis of land off of the Donahue farm where the squirrely felon could take pleasure in all various sins. Steven marched over tiny hills of leftover trash– empty vegetable cans and shredded potato chip bags that really added the homely feeling of a parasite leaching off the land. 

A destroyed welcome mat showcasing an array of curved claw marks– a lovely gift from a local mammal– sat before a grand rusted rectangle on wheels. Spindly fingers from the crowding branches of a crab apple tree hugged the sleek metallic roof, some even stretching their way to the boarded-up panels of plywood barricading each of the small slate windows. A behemoth circular oak table was located under one of the front windows with two clear gallons of water as well as an ashy pile of cigarette buds. Every inch of the ground, RV, and various tables and chairs were damp from the passing rain twenty minutes earlier.

Towards the front end of the RV, where the guttural dialect twang of shortened vocabulary asserted with a fool's confidence, was the lanky form of Max Pellog sitting in a lawn chair. He was bare chested but luckily garbed in a dirty pair of pajama pants. Tattoos of meager scripture were inscribed upon various places of the man’s torso and biceps. With a ratty patchwork baseball cap tipped downward that concealed most of his face, Pellog's prominent cleft chin puffed out in an attempt of sizing up the cop. 

Steven watched as the nomadic felon grabbed a bushel of thin sticks and threw them lazily into a portable charcoal grill, where infant flames lapped up the added pieces of energy. With his left hand, Pellog raised a fire poker and stoked the flames. The deviant’s dirt-encrusted eyes glared at Steven. 

“I ain’t done anything so git of the land and stop bothering me,” he growled harshly. 

“I’m actually only here to ask you a couple questions…. Mind if I sit?”, Arthur asked kindly.

 Although the officer was being as generous as one could be to the drug fiend on the outside, Steven was ready to spring into action the moment things went south. Maybe, it was the sight of the elongated fire poker, sturdy enough to stab a man, that put Steven in unease.

“I actually do mind, and what the hell is this nonsense about questions. Again, I haven’t done anything. If you want something from me then I’d be open to a reward…. Maybe a pack of crushers, yeah? 

Steven rolled his eyes and snorted. 

“Are you really trying to ask for a bribe from an officer?”

The inflection from the officer's words gutted Pellog as he looked speechless for a moment but quickly regained composure.

“Couldn’t hurt askin. So, why are you bothering me?”

“I hear you keep updated on all the news and such that comes through Porthcawl. Is that correct?”

Pellog flashed a smile absent of a few molars. 

“Eh? Someone’s gotta keep their ear to the ground. Know what's up and down in this sinkhole of a community.

“Then, you already know about Patrick Langley being murdered, right? How he was found off of Clemmons Ridge, near the old Chesseley estate.”

Pellog’s eyes minimized to a disdainful stare and his grip upon the fire poker tightened

“Are you trying to assume wrongly of me? 

Steven remained as still as stone and wore an expression hardened to Pellog’s 

“No. I only want information on Patrick, and I heard you're the guy to talk to,” the officer said with a lick of pleasantness.

Pellog spat a glob of tobacco shit onto the ground and puffed his chin out again in defiance. 

“What could I possibly know, heh?” Pellog remarked facetiously.

Steven fished out his phone, opened to the photo app, and flashed the photo of the prayer slip. 

“This piece of paper was found in Patrick’s body when he died–it’s a prayer slip from Saint Olaf’s. I heard you were attending the church not too long ago and thought maybe you could tell me more about this slip.”

Once Steven finished elaborating his reasons, he noticed right away a rabid wildness circulate in Pellog's irises. Pellog jumped out of his seat and shuffled backwards like a frightened cornered animal. The fire poker swung outwardly, ready for protection. 

“Where the fuck did you hear that?! Don’t tell me you're one of them?!”

Steven hopped to his feet and similarly edged backwards while his hand carefully pulled the resting taser from its holster.

“Max, let's be calm. What do you mean by “one of them”?”  

Pellog didn’t even attempt to answer the question.

“Who the fuck told you to find me, eh? WHO?!”, he screamed.

“The pastor over at Saint Olaf’s, Pastor Mulaney.”

Pellog squealed in displeasure. A rupture of visible trembling cascaded over his bare skin and appendages. The arm grasping the fire poker vibrated in unsteady motions. 

“Jesus Christ. You done talked to that monster?!”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Steven expressed calmly. With each rushing sentence, he felt a possible brawl rearing on the horizon.

“That damn priest ain’t a priest! He’s a monster I tell you, I saw it myself one night in that hell of a chapel,” Pellog hollered.

“A monster? Are you messing with me? Mulaney said you stopped by late at night and it scared the old man enough to tell me to look into it.”

“I knew it! He’s trying to trick you. I wasn’t acting up at all. I stopped by late on a Thursday night and I saw that man–that creature showing its true form. He ain’t a man. He’s some type of demon. I walked in when he was transformin a-and..and I ran scared straight back to my land to ready in case he came after me.  You gotta believe me man.”

Steven frowned but didn't say a peep about the delinquent's story. Of course, he didn’t buy a word of Pellog’s story–it was too disorganized and unbelievable. Pellog seemed to notice the officers wavering as he continued regurgitating talking points. 

“Why did you talk to that abomination? For what purpose?”, he hissed.

“Like I said, I needed to know if Patrick Langley was an attending patron to the church, but Mulaney dismissed my claim,” Steven explained. 

A long, cunning grin stretched from cheek to cheek upon Pellog’s jittering face, and contagious laughter plumed out from waxy lips as if a lewd joke had been expressed between the two men. 

“HE LIED TO YOU!”, the tight-fisted felon suddenly shrieked, “I saw Langley hanging around alright, but he wasn’t inside of the damn church.”

Steven scarcely reacted to the other man’s meltdown, but with eyebrows arched for more information, the officer jabbed with another question. 

“Please explain? What do you mean he wasn’t inside?” Steven pressed.

“For weeks, I’d seen that Langley character roaming the outside of the church or cemetery, or even just sitting in his car waiting for the congregation to be let out. Mulaney saw him, had to.”

Steven nodded along, trying to absorb and make sense of Pellog’s terrified ramblings. Did Mulaney really lie?

“So, why do you think Mulaney is a monster, Pellog?”, Steven expressed firmly. 

Pellog took another step back and spat a glob of churned tobacco in disgust. His eyes contracted, itching to see belligerent violence. Habitually anxious like a caged animal, Pellog thrusted the fire poker in front as a shield.

“I see him for who he truly is. Two mouths for eating, six eyes for seein every bit of the prey, and the eggs. I can’t forget them eggs hanging there for the world to see. He needs to be exterminated….needs to be gouged of his blood and flesh boiled.”

“Max, we ca-” 

“AND YOUR ONE OF THEM! You gotta be…He sent you here to ask these questions didn’t he... You're one of them,” Pellog screamed earsplittingly loud.

Then, the bare-chested man stampeded forward, clumsily tripping over a dirty ice cooler. It was enough time for Steven to back up, unholster his taser, and aim for a patch of uncleansed skin. 

Pellog continued forward and with an uncoordinated balance, swung the metal rod like a woodsman may chop a block of wood sitting on a trunk. It was nowhere close to hitting the armed officer. 

A rage driven, yet disoriented Pellog realized his foolish error as the fire poker end slapped against the consuming muck. 

Steven took his shot. It was an open shot. Steven fired the taser with the prongs shooting out at lighting speed and hooking their claws under shallow skin, resulting in Pellog immediately going limp and convulsing onto the ground. As the jolts petered out, so did Pellog’s anger-fueled vitality, leading to the felon to go unconscious. 

Steven carefully stalked closer to the unconscious man and went through protocols of checking for heart rate and breathing, then he unhooked his handcuffs, and clenched both of Pellog's hands in metal restraints. 

Steven released a straggling sigh of annoyance. It was going to be an even longer day than usual.

Written by me, Feeling_Sail (ACMichael)