u/JICMike

PART VII

As they ascended the steps and thunder rolled outside, Myrtle pulled Jonathan aside.

"Listen. While I've been here, I've seen some things that I don't understand."

He turned to her, bemused,

"The house getting to you?"

"No, I mean tangible things. I saw a figure the first night we were here, standing at the fence outside, and when we went down to the pool area, I saw a pair of wet footprints on the carpet, pointing towards the stairs as we were leaving."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because I can't explain them, I only explain what I understand, and this was something..."

"Supernatural."

"Oh come now, Jonathan, don't be that way!"

"It seems to me that you've encountered something. There's no shame in it, Myrtle."

She looked back to see Hamish and Hank trailing them, but not Rosita, Harry, or Carla,

"Where are the others?"

"They told me that only a certain type of table can be used to perform this sort of ceremony. Aligns the currents of the afterlife or some jargon like that."

When they reached the top floor, they turned on the flashlights to find out where they were going. There was a sign pointing left that read 'BALLROOM' and one pointing right that read 'LIBRARY'. At this sight, Hamish clapped his hands together,

"Wonderful! I love myself a good library, do you mind if I..." he trailed off,

Jonathan gestured towards it,

"By all means, use it any time you like, but now let's focus on the seance."

"Of course."

They walked a few feet into the cobweb and dust-coated halls, and found a sliver of light coming from beneath two grandiose doors, covered with ornate patterns and more of the runes that kept puzzling Hamish. Hank looked to the light beneath the door and asked,

"Are the lights on in there?"

Jonathan responded,

"I doubt it."

They opened the door to reveal a gigantic room; the source of light came from four massive windows that stretched all the way to the ceiling. The glass with the third window. The floor was mostly intact after all these years, with only a few cracks and one visible hole in the third window. Beneath it, a pool of rainwater gathered, staining it. The floor was checkered white and black, the colors muted due to the excess dust; it looked like a massive, derelict chessboard. The walls were covered in a deep red paint that had begun to flake off and fall to the ground in chunks. Above, in an arched ceiling, the artwork depicted angels and demons, hand in hand, dancing amid thunderous clouds as lightning wove through their bodies. Myrtle spoke up, saying,

"I'm sensing a thematic pattern here."

"They seem to have an obsession with the heavens," Jonathan said,

"And Hell too." Hamsih added, "The statues in the halls, not just angels but demons as well, same with that art up there. Has anyone ever asked them why they chose this sort of imagery?"

"Yes, actually, but nothing came of it. Evidently, many reporters and guests tried to press them on it, but they shut them down at every turn. Me? I think that they were obsessed with blasphemy and got a kick out of shocking people."

"Hmmm," Hamish grumbled, "Odd folk, odd indeed."

Hank wandered around, camera and camera stand in hand, looking for the place to get the best shot of the seance. There was an elevated stage where the band would play. He climbed the small set of steps and cleared the stage of the metallic stands and damp sheet music. He set up the camera on an old wooden tripod. As he threaded the film through the camera, Myrtle approached him, asking,

"Have you caught anything yet? Film or Audio-wise?"

He chuckled,

"Miss, I don't know about the film until I develop it. Lucky for you, I've been developing it in my room, and I think the results will be interesting for everyone to see."

"And the audio?"

His smile faded somewhat,

"Now, that one... It's odd. Most of it is nothing, but..."

"But what?"

"Every now and then, I hear a conversation, barely audible, but it's there. I want to say that it's just an audio glitch, some feedback, but...I don't know. Just doesn't sit well with me."

She got closer to him as he was continuing his setup,

"Hank, are you genuine?"

"How do you mean?"

"Are you being genuine in your work here? Do you genuinely believe that you're helping people, or are you simply trying to make a quick buck?"

He stopped and turned to her,

"You listen here, Missy, I know you're a skeptic here, but you don't have to jump down my throat about it."

"I'm just asking an honest question."

He laughed nervously and combed his fingers through his hair,

"You gotta lot of nerve, going around being all accusatory-"

"I'm not accusing you of anything."

He waved her off with a dismissive hand,

"Yeah, whatever."

From behind, there was the sound of a slow, thumping coming from the steps. Something deep and heavy rumbling through the darkened halls. It was light, a faint sound...

Thump-thump-thump-thump

It came again, this time, it grew much louder and louder,

Thump-Thump-Thump-Thump

Closer and closer,

THUMP-THUMP-THUMP

Then it stopped.

Everyone was staring at the entrance to the ballroom, the two grand doors hanging wide open, a gateway to the dark, damp halls of Blood Oak Manor. Then a figure appeared, from the dark, shouting out to everyone,

"Sorry, we're late!" Harry yelled out, "Man, would you look at this place!"

He stormed into the room, hands filled with old chairs that he'd stacked on top of each other and held in each hand. He had four chairs in one hand and three in the other. A tremendous feat of strength, considering that these were old, ornate chairs made of old, hardened wood.

Hank clutched at his chest,

"Jesus Christ! You scared the hell out of us, you know that?!"

"Hm? Oh, sorry, I would've carried them overhead if I had the strength left. I sort of dragged them along the way." He turned to Jonathan, "Sorry if I left any scuff marks."

"It's fine, really."

Hamish marveled at the young man, saying,

"Good lord, boyo, if you needed help, you should've just asked me."

"It's no problem." He set the chairs down and flexed his arms, "Soy Fuerte!"

"Yeah, and you can also throw out your back by trying to be all macho for that girlie down there."

His cheeks got rosy,

"Rosita and I are just friends."

"I never said Rosita's name."

He mummured to himself, "Puta madre...."

Hamish patted him on the back,

"It's alright, lad. If you like it that much, just be sincere....Well, maybe not too sincere. That kind of thing can scare women off, too, you know."

Myrtle walked over, asking,

"What's the matter?"

"The lad is lovesick."

"Oh, for Rosita?"

He looked at her with large, puppy dog eyes full of betrayal,

"You know too?"

"I just assumed you two were together."

"Well, yes and no..."

Hamish took one of the chairs and sat in it; the leather cushion wheezed as he did so. He motioned to the others to sit as well. There they sat in the center of the grand ballroom, like a trio of ants on a filthy, dusty floor. Harry kept his head down, saying,

"Listen, I love her, I really do, but we're still just co-workers, and…she abstains from any intimacy. Says it keeps her pure of heart."

Hamish cackled at that, saying,

"You're a fool if you think touch is the end-all, be-all in a relationship. When I was your age…"

He withdrew the pipe. Myrtle remembered his tale about it. As he exhaled blue smoke, he spoke,

"…I fell in love, and she was an angel incarnate. A glorious woman in every sense of the word. Now, did we ever….do that? No, but we had each other, we truly loved each other. Being there for them is a form of love, just to be present for all of their worries and needs, like a warm, benevolent shadow."

Myrtle was shocked by how deeply moved she was by the man's sudden tenderness. Harry nodded and looked up to the priest with hands clasped,

"Should I just tell her? I mean, what if she hates me?"

Myrtle stepped in this time to answer,

"She won't. Even if she rejects you, she's still your friend."

Harry sharply inhaled,

"I just don't want to ruin anything, you know?"

"You won't."

There was a loud thud coming from the halls, and then another, and another, and then a voice calling out,

"HARRY! YOU COME AND GET THIS FUCKING TABLE!!!"

Harry turned pale,

"Oh shit, I forgot to help Carla!"

He sprang from his chair and dashed into the hallway. Myrtle and Hamish had a decent laugh about it. Myrtle was glad to be laughing at all, everything considered.

As she watched Harry and Carla roll in a wooden round table from the first floor, and Rosita walked in with the remaining wooden chairs, she thought back to what she'd experienced thus far. Not the cleansing or the seance that was supposed to take place shortly, but rather the truly unexplainable. The strange runes that were scribbled all throughout the house like an unsolved puzzle, the figure at the gate clutching at the iron bars, but most of all, the incident at the pool. The fresh, wet footprints that stood on the carpet mocked every rational thought in her mind. She decided to wait, to hold this information to herself until the time was right, because if she let anyone else know of what she saw or experienced, they'd all use it for fuel. All of them, except maybe Hamish or Jonathan.

Hank was busy looking into the camera's lens, wiping any bits of dust out with a velvet piece of cloth, and looking at the ballroom with contemplative eyes. He called out to Jonathan, who was watching Rosita's crew assembling the scene, prepping for their grand seance.

"Hey, boss?"

"Yes?"

"Any way we could cover up them windows?"

He looked at the massive, derelict windows displaying the darkening clouds outside, pregnant with storms and ready to deliver. The black curtains, however, looked to be in absolute tatters. He sighed, saying,

"I could try, but they're all eaten away. Besides, don't you see that storm brewing out there?"

"Yeah, I see it, but I just want to make sure that it's not too over exposed."

Thundercracked, and the storms birthed rain, it slapped the windows and leaked through the cracked glass. The remainders of afternoon daylight waned into a dark night. Jonathan gestured to the windows with a smile,

"Dark enough for you now, old boy?"

Hank wanted to say something smart, to him, really lay it in, but the effects of that first dinner were still lingering in the backs of everyone's minds; he was already on thin ice. He just swallowed his pride and cleared his throat. He nodded and said,

"Yeah, it's all good."

As he set the camera in place and looked at the staging of everything, Hank smiled to himself with glee. It was a perfect shot, this round table full of people in a sea of checkered tile.

A sharp clap of Rosita's hands drew everyone's attention toward her. The round table had been transformed into something ornate and mystical. Old red candles were lit with wax dripping down the shafts like blood running down men's arms, and an old tapestry depicting the life of Christ lay atop the table. Rosita silently beckoned everyone towards the table with hypnotic waves, but it was Jonathan who stepped in front of her. He stared down at her, asking,

"What have you done with the table, Rosita?"

"Nothing, Harry & Carla simply prepared the way for me."

"Then you'll have no problem having Ms. Mulgrave take a look before we begin, do you?"

Rosita smiled, confidence practically pouring out of her,

"By all means."

Myrtle knew that at some point, she'd be called to debunk a thing or two, but she expected it to happen at the end of all of the other investigations. As much as she trusted Hamish, she thought about testing the chemical contents of the holy water just to make sure that he wasn't throwing anything onto the ground that might hiss and smoke. The same could be said for Hank and his so-called 'specialty cameras'; she couldn't wait to eviscerate him and his phony video-and-audio trickery. She preferred to work on her own time, and having her summoned like some sort of lapdog made her feel so very small. Jonathan stepped aside, and when she approached the round table, she began to search it. She looked under the chairs, underneath the table, in the candle holders, in the tapestry, feeling at the old cushions, but everything was untouched. No wires, no speakers, no buzzers, or noisemakers...nothing.

Myrtle's face was wet with sweat as she stepped away from the table, exhausted.

"All clear."

Jonathan nodded and motioned for Rosita and the rest of her trio to begin the ceremony.

Rosita took her place; she was adorned in white, almost like a bride. She outstretched her hands onto the table and spoke to everyone,

"Please, gather at the table."

Jonathan, Hamish, Harry, Carla, and Myrtle began to walk towards the table, but then she called out,

"You too, Hank Donahue."

Hank looked up from the camera with confusion,

"I'm sorry?"

"In order to create a window from our world into the next, we need everyone that we can muster. That includes you."

He stepped off the small stage, looking back to the camera, still listening to its hum, and took a seat at the table. Rosita lifted her hands to the table and took both Carla's and Harry's hands (who was beginning to sweat nervously). She called out,

"Everyone, lock hands."

Myrtle took Hamish and Jonathan's hands. Jonathan's was soft and warm, Hamish's was rough, like sandpaper. Rosita smiled and spoke to them all, saying,

"This is the circle; it is sacred and must remain unbroken the entire time."

"What's with the Jesus blanket?" Hank asked,

Carla spoke up this time, saying,

"This tapestry has been in our family for decades, and has been a source of protection for God knows how long. It's protected us from famine, war, disaster... It's Holy. Think of it as an anchor; it keeps us all grounded to the world of the living while shielding us from what might be out there."

Rosita closed her eyes; they shifted beneath her eyelids, like someone in a deeply troubling dream, and then she began to breathe heavily,

"Are there any spirits in this room with us?"

No response,

"Are there any spirits in the house with us?"

Minutes passed, and the room changed with the passing of monotonous time. The winds howled outside, rain slapping against the windows, and flashes of lightning illuminated the great ballroom in all of its magnitude. In these brief, brilliant bursts of light, Myrtle had a sense of just how small they were in this great space. Then, they were plunged back into the dark; the glow of the sun beneath the clouds was dimming as the afternoon was quickly changing into the night. They waited and waited, and when Myrtle looked to Hank, she saw how he was figeting in place, visibly irritated that he had to hold still for so long. Just when a collective frustration was beginning to take hold, Rosita gasped.

Rosita took a breath like a diver who breached the water's surface and was trying to inhale the world's supply of air. A desperate and unnerving action that made everyone at the table jump. There was a gurgle bellowing from deep in her chest, bubbling its way to her mouth, and when it came forth, she began to gag. Spittle and semblances of a mucus-like material dribbled from her mouth. Her eyes shot open to reveal two pale orbs resting in her skull, no color left behind. She began to speak,

"Spirit, please let us know who you are..."

Then her body spasmed and writhed, like she was blasted with a bolt of electricity. Carla and Harry did their best not to let whatever this thing was break their grip on Rosita. Whatever it was, it was strong. The body stopped moving. It lay there, limp against the table like a corpse, until another sharp gasp was taken. When she looked up at them once more, her characteristic hazel eyes were replaced by ones that were stark blue.

"Where..." the voice was hoarse, labored, and unmistakably masculine, "Where am I?"

The eyes in Rosita's head wandered around the table, looking at those seated, and then at the room that they were in. The face relaxed for a brief moment before getting taken over by an expression of pure terror,

"I don't know who you all are, but you all need to get out of here! Now!"

Jonathan spoke up,

"Come now, Rosita, this is a bit much."

"My name is Wilbur Reynolds! I live in Rawchester just down the road from here! My mother is Mary Anne, and my sister...oh, Bridget...I'm so sorry"

As Wilbur wept in Rosita's body, a chill overtook the room; a collective sobering reality had washed over all of them like freezing cold water. Myrtle stared unbelievingly at the sight before her, a total transformation of personality. Either Rosita was the greatest unknown actress this century, or she was having some sort of serious mental episode, or...what was happening before her truly was a real possession. She didn't know what to believe anymore. Wilbur continued,

"I...I think I'm dead."

"You what?"

"I've died here, I've been stuck." Wilbur said, trembling, tears filling his eyes and spilling onto the tapestry, "It's all their fault, those fucking Northbrookes! Those bastards!

Jonathan cleared his throat, trying to remain calm in the presence of the spirit,

"Wilbur. The Northbrookes are dead. You can rest now."

The spirit looked up with disdain,

"And who are you to say so? You've not seen what I've seen!"

"I'm the owner of this place now, Wilbur, and I've been told that they've been gone for quite some time."

"Oh, you stupid fucking bastard," the voice coming from Rosita said, "They're not human. They may look it, but they don't die like us. They just linger."

Hamish leaned up in his chair, asking,

"Everything dies, lad, it's the natural order of things. What makes you so sure?"

"Because I shot the bastards myself..."

In the forest, a dark and contemptuous being lives. Something wrathful and ever hungry. Most hunters call it the God Boar, mainly due to its large size, its thick coat, two massive ivory tusks, and eyes as red as flame. It is an omen, a warning to all hunters who go out in search of food or sport. When the God Boar is seen, it is a sign for hunters to hang up their bows and let their muskets rest. For many, they heed the warning, lay down their arms, and return home with a melancholy that'll linger with them for the rest of their lives—an unquenchable itch to return to the woods and hunt once more.

This story is not about those men.

Gregori Haarlander was a proud man; he hunted less for food and more for sport. He'd venture off into the woods, musket in hand, and black powder in the other, and bravely decree that he'd come back with the biggest animals the village had ever seen. He was content with the deer, the bears, and the boars of the land, but he knew something else was out there for him. He demanded something more, all vain men do.

In the Tavern, he sat alone, sharpening his knife and carving his name into the butt of his musket. The place was sparse; not many villagers drank on Sundays. The Tavern was handcrafted with the finest wood and stone. It was lit with many a candle and decorated with various tapestries and the hides of many animals.

'One day,' Gregori thought, 'One day, they'll have one of my hides hanging up, or even a set of antlers resting above the bar.'

An old hunter wandered in, face gaunt, eyes sunken in, more skeletal than the average man. He had a bow and arrow with him as he approached the bar. He lay them down to his side. The barkeep asked,

"No catch today, Thomas?"

"Nay."

"That's a shame."

He polished the stein and filled it with drink; the foam rested on the top, spilling over the sides. He handed it towards Thomas, with a twinkle in his eye,

"On me. You look like fresh hell."

Thomas' eyes raised to look at him, eyes reddened with tears. He spoke plainly,

"Saw the God Boar."

The barkeep gasped slightly. Who knew a face as old and wrinkled as his could still bear the expression of shock? He spoke back in awe,

"Where?"

"Saw it in a clearing as I was trailing a buck, biggest I've ever seen too, but…then I saw them eyes. Big ole saucers of red poking through the twigs and vines."

"Oh, Thomas, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be…a hunter's hunt has to end at some point."

He took the mead and took a large drink. Bits of foam clung to his grayish-red beard. Gregori, overhead the name, 'God Boar,' and laughed. He rose from his seat in the corner, wandered over to the bar, and sat next to the old hunter.

"You saw the God Boar, old man?"

"Bold of you to be calling me, 'old man', Gregori. But yes, I did. Now my hunt is over."

"What will you do now?"

"I don't know." He said ponderously, "My father was a carpenter; perhaps I'll try my hand at it."

Gregori laughed,

"My God, you actually believe in this thing? It's a myth that's been told by a bunch of old windbags like you…no offense, honest."

The old man growled,

"Wait until you get grey hairs in your beard, wait until your joints ache, and your back is wracked in pain! You'll keep telling yourself that you're young, and that you're full of vigor, but deep down you know you're not that young pup no more….the Boar….the Boar is the last sign for you to reel in the years. To slow down, lest ye burn out in trying to chase that old glory."

The three had a brief moment of silence until Gregori spoke up, asking,

"What if I hunted the God Boar, brought its head to the tavern here?"

The barkeep laughed,

"Oh, to be younger and stupid again."

"Piss off, barkeep! I don't pay for insult! I pay for drink!"

"No offense, lad, but it's certain death!"

"Have any tried?"

“Well…no…”

He gestured to the two men like a school teacher would to a classroom of slow children,

"Then it's not certain, is it?"

Old Thomas seized his wrist,

"To fight the God Boar is to fight fate."

"It's just a wild pig." He chortled,

"You think that now, but when you see it, you'll be wanting to run home to mommy."

Gregori slapped the stein from Thomas' hand, and hissed at the two of them, pointing an accusatory finger, screaming,

"I WILL kill it! I'll gut it in the forest, and bring back its filthy pelt! Tusks and all!"

He stormed out of the Tavern and into the heavy snow-laden ground of the village.

He returned to his home. He'd inherited this old stone home from his father, and his father before him. They passed when he was a boy; his mother and his Uncle were the only ones to raise him. He had no siblings, no other kinship, just two figures who tried (and failed) to tell him right from wrong. When his mother passed, his Uncle tried to steer him in the right direction, taught him law, but whenever he told him about his father's work as a hunter, he was drawn to it like a moth to the flame. He became an apprentice to an old hunter in the village until he, too, saw the Boar.

Gregori took up his father's musket, engraving it with his name and other little markings that held no significance. What was once a clean, honorable rifle had become a ruin that could only belong to one man: Gregori. Now, he sat in the house, looking into the smudge-ridden mirror as he observed himself. His wiry brown hair jutted outward atop his head, and the same went from his beard, which had no style or direction. He was just a shaggy bear of a man. He pulled the hair back from his brow to gaze into his face, and saw more wrinkles than he cared to admit. He was older than he thought, he hadn't kept track of much nowadays, and he didn't even remember how old he truly was. To him, a birthday was just a time to eat and drink. How old was he, really? How many years on this Earth did he have left? He looked into his own eyes and spoke with conviction,

"That boar dies."

Dawn broke over a pale blue sky, scant clouds above, with the red sun peering over the forest like a burning eye. Ribbons of flame weaved through the woods, illuminating the abyss that surrounds the village. Gregori left his home armed to the teeth. His father's musket, a sack of black powder, and a bag of musket balls. He also brought along his knife, a water canteen, and a satchel full of food that'd hold him over for several days. Hard tacks, jerky, and sunflower seeds. He turned around to look at the village before he set out to hunt the Boar. He hoped someone would try to stop him or call him a fool, but no one paid him mind. The villagers just went about their day, even old Thomas, who'd warned him about the Boar the other night, was whittling away at a block of wood.

'When I return, they'll talk again... they'll remember me,' he thought,

Then he went into the woods.

At the end of the first day, he'd come to regret a great many things. He came across bucks and bears of massive size, but he let them pass in favor of the Boar. As he sat by his fire, he kept going over it again and again in his mind. He put a skillet into the fire and poured some of his water into it. Once it boiled, he put two hardtacks into the water to let them soften. As he watched the hardened bread moisten, a twig snapped behind him. He didn't react too suddenly; he just kept facing the fire, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. The crunch of leaves approached closer and closer; he felt this thing's presence at his back, surely waiting for an attack. He gripped his knife and, in one swift motion, he turned to thrust the knife into whatever beast was at his back. The knife found its mark, but when he looked to see the beast that he was expecting to see, he found a raccoon instead.

Gregori sighed at the disappointment. He thought that surely this Boar had tried to get the jump on him, tried to gore him when his defenses were down. The little creature at the end of his knife was most likely just a curious and hungry little thing. He slid the body off his knife and hollowed out the beast, taking the meat to cook with, while taking the hide as a souvenir. He withdrew the hardtacks from the boiling water and found that they were sufficiently softened. He bit into the nasty bread and chased it with water. He stretched the raccoon pelt on some sticks and placed it next to the fire to dry it out. He lay next to the fire, feeling the warmth on his belly, and drifted off into sleep.

He carried the pelt on his back, the stretched, dried-out hide dangling on a thread tied around his waist. He poured the water left in the skillet onto the fire as he gathered his things and began to hunt another day. The woods had grown thicker since the start of his trek into the forest, the animals still weaving in and out of trees, none of them being the one he'd aimed to kill. Hours passed, and disappointment grew. He feared that he'd return to the village empty-handed and be laughed at as a fool. For a brief moment, a large animal ran out in front of him, grunting as it went along. It was a boar, he was sure of it. He poured the black powder into the musket, packed it down, and then loaded a ball into the barrel. He lay low, almost crawling, musket in his side as he went forth following the hoof marks. Then, before him, he saw a massive boar. Large tusks, black fur, and it was certainly big enough to match the description of the Boar. However, he didn't see any red eyes, but he chalked it up to old Thomas being a fool at the Tavern.

He raised the musket, drew back the hammer, and then....POW

The Boar squealed, running away in terror and confusion, leaving a thick trail of blood along the brown and yellow leaves at the bottom of the forest floor. Gregori smiled, stood to his feet, and ran after the Boar. He leaped over stumps, roots, and rocks on his way to find his stuck pig. He kept on until he found himself in a clearing, a large circular patch of waist-high grass, but there was something in the center of the field that was flattening it. He walked on through the grass and observed that the clearing revealed to him a beautiful sky where the moon was glowing brilliantly, surrounded by a multitude of stars and otherworldly colors. The heavens, however, were not his concern. He saw the Boar lying there, panting heavily, and blood pooling around its body and staining the stalks of grass.

"Hello, little God Boar." He said mockingly,

He took his knife, knelt down next to the Boar, and slit its throat. It stopped grunting and moving as the rest of its life was emptied from its neck and onto the grass. He stood up, put his hands on his hips, and sighed with satisfaction. He got the job done, and he didn't even have to stay in the forest for days. He guessed that the other hunters were just too scared to kill it; they turned tail and ran, like the old cowards they were. Not him, Gregori would be remembered as a-

From deep into the woods, a blood-curdling screech was heard, a squeal that had an unusual and immense bass to it. Like a distorted, organic horn wailing into the night. Then came the sound of a noise that made Gregori freeze in place, a massive snap. Not a twig, but a tree that was snapping. The sickening crunch of trees beneath something large was coming his way. The stars above began to burn through the dark blue sky, and the moon became red with blood. The deafening sounds of crunching trees began thundering into the sky. Birds flew away screeching into the air, and everything that had paws and hooves ran forth from the treeline, into the clearing, and past him. They were all fleeing in terror. Something was coming, something big.

Crunch...

Crunch...

Crunch...

The trees kept snapping, falling to the ground, and shaking the Earth.

Crunch...

Crunch...

Crunch...

It was getting closer. The ground shook beneath his feet, and the blood surrounding the Boar began to ripple and shake.

Crunch...

Crunch...

Crunch...

Gregori felt his joints ache, his heart beat against his ribs, and panic surging through his veins like ice-cold water. Tears rolled down his face as he scrambled to load his musket.

Crunch...

Crunch...

Crunch...

He poured in the black powder with trembling fingers.

CRUNCH!

He packs it down, losing the ramrod as he withdraws it from the barrel.

CRUNCH!

He opened the bag of musketballs and dropped them into the puddle of crimson that stained the ground below. He reached down to grab one, spitting on it and wiping all of the Boar's blood off of it until its metallic shine glowed.

CRUNCH!

The musketball was rammed into the barrel, and he fixed his sights on the treeline that was rapidly disappearing. A massive, shadowy figure emerged as the trees toppled out of the way. It stood five men tall, two red eyes glowed from the mass of blackened fur that coated its body, and the crimson moon illuminated the gigantic tusks that were the size of farm plows. It snorted and grunted as it came into the clearing. It was like a shadow itself, swallowing light from whatever surrounded it.

Gregori aimed the musket and fired into the void-like creature. The flash was snuffed out, the sound of the crack was smothered, and the musketball was devoured by unforgiving flesh. He stood there, trembling and weeping. He fell to his knees and cried out,

"Please, spare a young man! I've my whole life ahead!"

The Boar approached him, the snout sniffing his body, and snorted. Blackened mucus slathered his clothes, but he was too petrified to feel any sort of disgust. The Boar bellowed, its loud, gravely voice deafening the air,

"You have chosen malice against me."

"I'm sorry! I truly am! I just-I- I just wanted to be accepted! Respected!"

"You aimed to kill me, to make me a trophy. You cannot kill a shadow, you cannot kill the wind, you cannot kill the moon or the stars or the very sky."

He folded his hands together, and he began to pray to God, but the Boar continued,

"Pray with your eyes open! See the face of the God you tried to kill, old man! Your hunt is nearly over!"

"I'm just a young man! I feel it! I still yearn for the hunt! I...I..."

It took one of its great hooves and smashed it into the ground, like a judge striking a gavel.

"You deny your body rest! You yearn for what is not meant to be!"

Gregori whimpered, looking up at the Boar's unforgiving gaze,

"I can't. I'm meant to be young. I've always been young. I still feel young..."

The Boar opened its mouth wide and licked Gregori with its tongue. The saliva was slimy and hot, but the tongue itself was coarse, like a brush for a horse. For a fleeting moment, he thought it was going to eat him, but when it backed away, he wept hysterically. The Boar spoke once more, saying,

"This is no forest for old men. Do not return."

The God Boar knelt down, scooped up the dead Boar in its jaws, and swallowed it whole. He gave a deep belch and turned to walk away into the forest. As it disappeared into the woods, the trees that had been toppled snapped themselves back into their upright positions, the stars' burning glow dulled, and the crimson moon was drained of all color. It looked as if nothing had happened there at all.

Gregori trekked back with nothing more than a raccoon pelt and his musket. He ran back home in just one day. When he arrived back in the village, his joints ached, and his muscles burned in pain. He only made it a few steps before he collapsed. When he came to, he was lying in a bed in a doctor's office. A nurse was washing him with a damp cloth, removing the grime and mud caked on his skin. His weary eyes traveled around the room and wept at the sight of civilaztion. Ronald Abernatheny was the village doctor, a well-educated man who was the leading expert in his field. He stormed into the room and spoke to Gregori,

"Well, old man, besides the lack of food and water your body needs, you seem to be in fine health."

"I'm...how old am I?"

Ronald looked at him quizzically,

"I don't know, sir, what is your name?"

"Gregori Haarlander... I'm a hunter..."

"That's... that's not... You can't be..."

He leaned in closer to get a good look at him, and his eyes widened when he recognized the face of the hunter. He ran back to the corner of the room and retrieved a small mirror. He held it in front of his face and what he saw horrified him.

Color was drained from his hair; he was covered in white. His skin was leathery, wrinkled beyond comprehension, and a far cry from the scant creases he observed days ago. His large, youthful eyes were shrunken into beady little orbs that rested in his skull. When the Boar licked him, it was not a mercy, but rather a curse. With a lick of the God Boar's tongue, he snatched the remaining years of youth from his body, a penance for raising a weapon against him. Gregori looked at the doctor, weeping and pleading for him to change him back to the way that things used to be. But there is no changing time, no fighting age; once time is spent, it cannot be unspent.

After being bled for any bad blood, Gregori was released, and now he was alone in the world. Weakened by time and far too old for any woman, he resorted to the Tavern. The barkeep saw the old man wander in with a raccoon pelt and almost laughed at the pitiful prize that he brought in. But the more he stared at the old fool, the more he recognized who it was, and felt his heart ache for him. Old Thomas wanted to tell him that he should've heeded his warning, but he only pitied him and took him as a drinking buddy. They would swap stories, laugh, and drink, but deep down, Gregori was longing for the woods.

A year later, Thomas waited for his friend at the Tavern and feared he had forgotten about it. When he went to his house, he found his musket and the ruined raccoon pelt wrapped around it. Within the pelt was a note, and it explained that no matter how he tried to adjust to the bitterness of old age, he longed for the hunt. He said that he armed himself with his knife and enough food to last him for as long as he needed. Lastly, he apologized to Thomas for the grief he'd caused him, both as a young man and as an old one. The ruined raccoon pelt and his engraving-ridden musket would be hung up behind the bar, not just as a gesture of pity and a token of respect, but also a warning to those who dare think that they could take on a God.

PART V

They all walked through the house, following Hamish as he sprinkled the holy water liberally across the halls in every nook and cranny. Myrtle watched him with an ease on her mind, knowing that he was a genuinely good-hearted soul, a bit eccentric, sure, but by no means a charlatan. A finger tapped her back. She turned to see that Jonathan was there; he motioned her to join him for a moment. The two fell to the back of the group as they trailed far behind the rest of them, watching Hamish conduct himself. He spoke to her in a hushed, quiet tone,

"Well?"

Myrtle responded in a whisper,

"He seems to be earnest; he treats this as simply a job. If he's trying to swindle you, he's doing an honest job at it."

"Good. Have you checked his equipment? To see if there's any sort of parler tricks he's got up his sleeves?"

"He doesn't seem like the type to do that sort of thing, but if you want me to confront him later about it, I don't mind."

"No, no, I trust your judgment. What of the others?"

"I can't say just yet, but I have my ideas about them."

Hamish finished the first floor of the dining hall. He turned towards Jonathan and asked,

"Where to now? The sub-level or the next two stories, your pick, sir."

The group turned to him, and Jonathan felt the eyes bear down on him. He didn't want to explore any more of this accursed house, but if he wanted it truly cleansed, he'd have to face these unpleasantries head-on. Silence grew, and there was a pressure he hadn't felt before, and it unnerved him. He fidgeted with his hands and spoke with a fake confidence,

"How about the basement? That way, we get the scary part out of the way."

"Very well."

The grand staircase worked both ways; it went both upwards into the second and third floors, but it also descended downward into the depths of the basement. When they came to the stairs leading down into the basement, it was like a black abyss. The others were unmoved by this sight, but Jonathan began to tremble at the sight of it. He remembered that first night here, he remembered the woman he'd seen in that terrible flash of lightning, and the sounds of her footsteps sprinting in the darkness. Hamish looked to Jonathan and asked,

"Have you any lights down there?"

They turned to him, eyes fixed, and he felt their weight. Jonathan put on a facade of calmness as he told them a half-truth.

"I've not gotten around to fully converting the house to electricity just yet. I've only covered the first floor, and I figured why waste money on the rest if it's haunted."

They bought the lie, but in truth, he was too afraid to admit that he was terrified. What if that thing, that horrific woman, what if she was still here in the house? Hamish went to his room and returned with a flashlight, and he implored the others to get themselves some for the journey into the depths. Everyone went to their rooms, fishing through their bags until they all returned with flashlights of varying sizes and shapes.

The descent began, the beams of light illuminating more ghastly portraits of various family members. Hamish kept sprinkling his holy water, mumbling his verses, and as he did so, the others followed along. Hank held his mic out, pointing it in every which direction. Rosita was led down the steps by Harry as Carla trailed behind the pair of them. However, the once talkative Jonathan was now eerily silent. Myrtle noticed this and walked next to him. She asked,

"Besides what you've briefed us on, is there anything else we should know about the Northbrookes? Or this house, for that matter?"

He was taken aback for a moment. He had found himself stuck reliving that memory of the first night, expecting the rotten creature to spring forth from the shadows. He kept reassuring himself that he was not alone. He was surrounded by people who were there to help him. He cleared his throat and spoke with a slight tremble,

"From what I gather, this was a debaucerous place. A house of carnal desire and sins of widely different varieties. God, some of the things I've read..."

Hank snickered,

"Shit, maybe it's more like Belasco house than I thought."

They reached the bottom, and their flashlights looked for signs as to what this basement held. Hank had read some of the blueprints, but he didn't have enough time to try to look for what lay beneath the first floor.

A light flashed towards a sign that read: 'POOL AREA'

They followed it until they came to a black room, void of any and all lights. Their beams pointed towards a ceiling that had a painted mural of a pristine sky with lofty, colorful clouds and a blue sky. At the center of it was a massive light bulb that had since burned out. As the beams danced in the dark, they suddenly realized that the bottom floor was entirely comprised of this enormous pool. It was the length of a football field, 12 feet deep, and decorated with extravagant blue tiles. The water was still here, but miraculously not stagnant. It could've even been classified as 'clear' if not for its slight murkiness. Hamish knelt next to the water and sniffed at it,

"This pool must draw in water from that pond out front."

"That explains the smell," Harry said,

The group split up, walking the perimeter of the pool, marveling at it. Myrtle gave thought to even sneaking out at night and taking a dip. In this cold October weather, she longed to swim again. Yet, as her eyes drifted, looking around at the group gazing at this body of water that lay beneath the house, she noticed that Hank was completely still. He was pointing his flashlight at the ground, looking distraught at something. He spoke up with a worrisome tone,

"You get any squatters out here, Jon?" he yelled across the room

Jon turned his attention towards the American.

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you have any squatters?"

"No. Of course not."

"Then whose footprints are these?"

Hamish continued his blessings completely unbothered as the others walked towards Hank. There, illuminated by the light, was a series of large, wet, bare footprints that trailed towards a dressing room. Jonathan began to tremble,

"That's... that's not possible. There's only one way in and out of this house, and it has remained locked for as long as I've been here."

"Well, these look like footprints, chief. Recent too."

Hank turned off his mic, rested his headphones on his neck, and dashed towards the dressing room. He kicked open the door, shining his light into the dark, hoping he'd find something, anything, but he found nothing. The wet footprints trailed off and seemed to disappear into a wall. It just didn't make sense to him. A voice called out,

"What is it, Hank? What do you see?" Myrtle asked,

He turned around to tell them,

"Nothin', ain't nobody here...strangest thing..."

Rosita had a worrisome look. Carla asked her,

"What is it, sister?"

"I'm starting to feel a presence here."

"One of the Northbrookes?"

"I don't know... It's...I can't grasp it just yet."

Carla rubbed her back,

"We'll know soon enough when we conduct the seance."

Hamish finished his blessings in the pool room and tapped Jonathan's shoulder. He jumped and turned to face the tall Scottish priest. He clutched at his chest and told him,

"Don't sneak up on me like that, least of all here."

Hamish withdrew his pipe and struck a match that let off an orange glow within the dark room. He took four puffs of the pipe before saying,

"I believe this house isn't necessarily under any sort of poltergeist."

Jonathan breathed a sigh of relief, but Hamish put a hand on his shoulder,

"But this doesn't mean that it isn't haunted, per se. At least, not in a traditional sense."

"What makes you say that?"

Hamish closed his eyes and pinched his brow in frustration because he knew what he was about to say would sound absurd.

"I just have the worst feeling about this place."

Jonathan's lips thinned, anger arrested him,

"A feeling? I pay you more than your worth, and the best you can do is a fucking feeling?"

"I know it sounds absurd, but the symbols all over the house, on the statues, the mausoleum...they mean something. I just want some more time. I think they might be related to what you're dealing with. I just...I just need to study these runes, figure out what they are, and maybe I'll get somewhere."

Jonathan combed his fingers through his hair nervously, looking back at the rest of the group. He saw how they looked at how he treated Hamish just now. If he gives even an inkling of disrespect towards one of them, what's to stop them from phoning it in? To completely give up on him and pass him off as another rich arsehole who bit off more than he could chew? He steadied himself and extended his hand,

"There's a library on the third floor, feel free to use it."

"Of course, sir."

"And I apologize for my rudeness just now. This place uneases me greatly, I feel...wrong down here."

Myrtle watched the exchange curiously and felt pity for Jonathan; he struck her as a man at his wits' end. Hank was still poring over the dressing room, looking through stalls, lockers, and baskets that would've held towels. He left the room dejected and befuddled,

"Makes no fuckin' sense."

Rosita, who was still holding Harry's hand, told him,

"In life, nothing ever really does."

"Thanks, Jung, really insightful."

As they left the pool area and began to ascend the steps once more, and as they were leaving, Jonathan and Hamish talked more about whether they needed to cover the third floor, which contained the ballroom, the smoking room, and the library. Hamish told him,

"Unnecessary, I've put out enough holy water to expel a houseful of demons; if something malevolent was here, waiting in the dark, it would've revealed itself by now."

Myrtle trailed behind, chuckling at their small talk, when she heard something from behind her. She heard the faint sounds of splashing water. She lingered behind, letting the group continue on. She went back down a few steps to look at the doors leading to the pool. She turned her flashlight towards the doors and saw that they were somehow left wide open, but when she pointed the flashlight at the carpet in front of the door, she saw two freshly ladden wet footprints there.

Something was watching them leave.

Rosita called out to her,

"Myrtle, are you coming?"

"Yeah...just... I'll be right there in a second."

She made a mental note of this encounter. Whether or not this place was haunted remained to be seen, but something strange was happening here.

This is an explanation for why I am not here. Keep going and read later. Do not turn back.

It began in the bar. The Salty Otter was bustling with people; the New England summer breeze blew in with each patron. In the corner of the place, in a booth underneath the lamplight of a dull bulb, the old man scoured over the map with withered hands. Gnarled, twisted, and calloused by thousands of expeditions. Dr. Morris was well known, but he was also well past his prime when it came to seeking out adventure. He called my team and me to this dive bar to discuss a proposition. After a few drinks, he withdrew a map of the Himalayas, one that was yellowed and rife with holes. When he came to the spot his finger was looking for, he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye and said,

"There."

"And what is there exactly?"

He smiled, the wrinkles in his face rippling up his bony cheeks.

"Guess."

I chuckled and threw an answer out of my ass,

"Pfft, I dunno, Yeti?"

When he didn't chuckle, I knew that he was quite serious. One of my teammates shot me a look, the kind that spoke words. Was he actually for real? Dr. Morris grabbed the satchel at his side and withdrew old Polaroids; they were all dated with a Sharpie, and they all read 'SNOWMAN, 1989'. I examined them and looked at the blurred, but not too blurred, snapshots of a haggard, ape-like creature trudging in the snow from various angles. Morris held up the last one and displayed it to the rest of the crew. It was a close-up of its face, clear as a bell. This snowman had pink skin, like a Japanese Macaque, black eyes that held no whites, like two wet marbles, and then there were the teeth, which were large and sharp, like a mandril's.

"This was long ago, and I was only there to look for sightings of a Tasmanian tiger. I knew better than to chase a lead like that, but in searching for gold, I found a diamond."

I laid the picture down and clasped my hands together, telling him,

"Listen, old timer, I want to believe you, but how can we?"

He scoffed as he drank the rest of his beer, the foam clinging to his mustache,

"I'm at the end of my line, son, I tell you I have cancer?"

There was a hush amongst us all as this revelation chilled us. He continued,

"It's in my brain. Aggressive, and apparently, it's well past treatment. So, why would I go out lying and permanently stain my reputation? I called you up so that you can finally do the one thing I wish I did."

"And what's that?"

"Get proof of course. Doesn't matter how; it could be a patch of hair, or you could get a sample of blood. Hell, you could even kill the fucking thing and bring it back. People need to know the truth about it. It's a remarkable creature, and..."

He trailed off and began to clutch at his head; a trickle of blood dribbled from his nostrils. I offered him a napkin, and he wiped it from his lips. He grunted,

"Jesus...Sorry about that."

"You're all good, Doc."

He stuffed his things back into his bag and then handed it off to me with a smile,

"It's all in there. Every last piece of research I'd conducted over the years. I've got more at the house that you can get if you choose to come by and follow through with this little expedition. I thought about it, and I just told him,

"We'll think about it."

"Well, don't think too long," he said with a hearty laugh, "Just stop by any time, don't be a stranger."

We went out into the Summer sun, waved goodbye to the Doc, and we conversed around our vehicles. Tanner quickly said that he didn't believe a thing the old man said, but still wanted to go out on this little adventure because he thought it'd make for good press. He said he could see the headlines now: 'TEAM OF EXPERTS FULFILL DOCTOR NATHAN MORRIS' LAST EXPEDITION'. I agreed, but Kenny rolled his eyes and said that we were exploiting the old man. However, I reassured him that we wouldn't be taking a dime; if anything, we should turn over our findings as his. Lastly, Gabe cornered me before we all left and asked,

"You're not doing this because of Tabitha, are you?"

Tabby was my wife, and we grew distant with every venture out to find God knows what. One day, I came back to an empty house, and a letter for a divorce. Evidently, she took the kids to her mother's house, and that was that. Yet, for some reason, it never really bothered me. Ever since then, reporters have tried to use this fact as a sort of gotcha question, but it has never really stuck. I liked being alone, that was all. Gabe, for whatever reason, thought that these little ependitions were a way for me to keep my mind off of it, but there's nothing to get bent out of shape about. I told him,

"No, Gabe, how many times do I have to tell you that I'm fine?"

"No man who says 'I'm fine' is never really fine."

"Well, I do."

We departed, and it seemed like we were all in agreement. I waited a day and asked the crew once more if they were sure they wanted to go through with this, and they all agreed. So, about two days after our meeting at the Salty Otter, I arrived at Doctor Morris' house. It was along the coast; the paint was peeling from the sea salt winds, and the grass was overgrown. The house was rustic, but I wouldn't call it haggard or ruined by any means. It was one clean from being pleasant.

I went to knock on the door, and it gave way. It swung inside the house, which was dark, but still lit from the windows, letting in the early morning sun. The smell hit only seconds later. Pungent, strong, and you didn't have to be a rocket scientist to figure out what it was.

It was a body.

I ventured forth into the house, cupping my shirt over my nose, calling his name, but never hearing an answer. The smell was coming from upstairs, and when I went up to the second floor, the stench was unbearable. Even covering my nose, the smell seeped in through my fingers and made my eyes water. I found him in the bathtub. The water was murky, yellowed by filth; the body within the tub was waterlogged and bloated. Nathan Morris did not kill himself, but instead, it seemed he had another one of his 'headaches'. There was a stream of dried blood that stained his nose and all the way down to his lips, neck, and finally pooling on his chest. On the tiled wall, he wrote something in the blood that came from his skull, which read: 'DON'T LET IT CHANGE YOU'.

Before the police came, I grabbed all of the things that Morris told me to grab; surprisingly enough, they were within a cardboard box that was sealed with duct tape, and my name was written on it in Sharpie. I carried it to the truck, and as soon as I did, I saw the flashing lights of a police car and an ambulance coming to the house on the distant horizon. The sun finally rose from the sea, a flaming red eye peering over at a world that was more cruel than I would realize.

The plane ride was rough; we didn't fly coach because we knew that our materials would immediately get seized by customs. You can't exactly leave the country with hunting rifles, nets, and all sorts of other dangerous-looking equipment. So, we went to a friend of mine who would fly us out to the snow-capped mountains of Tibet. As we flew in the ever-jostling craft, I pored over the old notes and saw that the years of research by Morris came across as a madman's ramblings. He poured into every eye witness testimony, every scrap of evidence, and every plausible location of the Yeti, or Yetis. He thought that there was more than one of them; in fact, he seemed pretty damned sure of it.

The last bit of research I opened up was a journal; it was thick, old, and leather-bound. Gabe asked,

"Is that what I think it is?"

"Yeah. It's a journal. His journal."

The first hundred pages were nothing special; they were of previous expeditions, and they detailed both successes and failures over his illustrious career. His handwriting was impeccable, and he was thorough, down to the most minute of details. Then, it came to the page labeled as 'TIBET 89'. The pages described him and his colleagues' search for the Tasmanian Tiger, and he vented his ever-growing frustration. He said that he was chasing shadows of the past, but then, on July 8th, his writing switched subjects. He wrote down that something was howling in the night, something large and human-sounding. The next few days, he switched from looking for the Tasmanian Tiger and shifted focus to finding the source of the sound.

The pages discussed finding massive footprints, whitish gray strands of rough-feeling hair, and eventually, Morris said that he saw the glint of their fire in the eyes of something far away in the darkness. The next few pages, however, are where things take a turn. Evidently, Harold, a supposed colleague of Morris, had a fight with the creature and killed it. I sat up in my chair at this revelation because I thought that the Yeti was supposed to be this grandiose, elusive creature of folklore, but he'd apparently killed it?! Tanner must've seen my face because he asked me if I was okay. I just nodded,

"Yeah, just some crazy stuff in this thing."

"He gives any hints as to how to catch it or kill it?"

"Uh, yeah." I lied, "He said he simply shot at it and it bled, but it ran away."

"Hm. If he had better aim, he'd be world famous."

My eyes darted along the page, and evidently, they were in the process of dragging this thing down the mountain when Harold began to act strangely. He was the only one wounded by the creature, but was in stable enough condition to walk. As they continued down from the mountain, he said that his skin was changing from its regular light-skinned tone to something more garishly pink, he lost teeth as larger ones pushed on through his gums, his fingernails dropped to the snow, and claws sprang forth from the soft flesh. The others told Nathan that taking him back would be suicide, but he begged them to save him, to have him stay, that there could be a way to save him from this strange affliction. On the third day, white sprouts of fur slowly overtook his body, his bones elongated with sickening pops, and lastly, once his eyes changed from his natural grey color to the solid black balls seen in the picture. Once humanity left his eyes, he lunged at the group. He tore them asunder, blood staining the snow, and by the time Morris withdrew his pistol and fired, his whole crew was killed. He was too weak to drag the bodies down from the mountain, and when he returned to the States, he gave a press conference stating that an avalanche swallowed his team whole.

"We're arriving in Tibet, fellas," said the pilot,

The landing was as bumpy as the flight itself. When we arrived, the sudden chill of the place shocked me to the core. It sure as hell was New England during the Summer, and the sight of snow in the Summer was a shock. Tanner, Gabe, and Kenny were offloading the gear while I put away the journal into my coat pocket. When Kenny passed me by on the way to the rental car, he shot me a pensive look and asked,

"Are you okay, Jeff?"

"Yeah, yeah...why?"

"You look pale as a sheet."

I deflected the question by spitting out,

"Oh yeah? I am? Look around, numbnuts! It's fuckin' snowing!"

He was taken aback and threw his hands up at me,

"Alright, alright, Jeezus."

He piled into the car, and as the guys looked around at the locale and made jokes, I was in the backseat grappling with the information I'd just learned. You may think I'm a fool for not telling them, but I didn't fully believe it either. I was reading the journal of a man whose brain was quite literally destroyed by cancer. How was I supposed to take anything he said for granted? I just hid the journal, kept it to myself because I didn't want the crew to start believing in supertitious bullshit. We were experts, and we would treat this expedition as nothing more than a regular search for the unknown.

We stayed for one night in a shabby hotel; the rooms were damp, but the beds were cozy, which goes a long way. We readied up, bundled ourselves up in layers, and put all of our gear in the car. I folded out the map that Morris gave us and compared it to a modern one. They lined up at a specific location that was off the beaten path of any regular roadways. We took icy dirt roads deep into the snowy landscape until we couldn't drive anymore. We all had a hunting rifle, nothing too fancy, something that was strong enough to stop a deer in its tracks. Along with that, we had canteens, food, tents, rope, nets, sleeping bags, and we even carried a pistol just in case we ran out of ammo in our rifles.

We all admired snowshoes; we had the best boots money could buy, but there were certain things that you had to buy locally. Tanner and I went to a market in town shortly before we left, and the seller had this look. He wasn't all there, if you catch my drift. He just went through the motions of buying and selling. I whispered to Tanner if these wide-ass shoes could make us outrun a Yeti, and when I said 'Yeti', the old seller stopped. His eyes fixed on me, they began to fill with tears, and he spoke in a tired, broken voice, full of pain,

“ཁྱོད་རི་དེ་དང་ཐག་རིང་དུ་བསྡད། གཅན་གཟན་དེས་སྒུག་ཡོད། དེས་ཁྱེད་ལ་འགྱུར་བ་གཏོང་གི་རེད། ཁྱེད་ལ་དམོད་པ།”

Which was translated to me by Tanner, he said,

"You stay away from that mountain. The beast waits. It will change you. Curse you!"

It will change you. The words echoed in my mind the deeper we trudged through the thickened snow. The first few hours were a lot of nothing, no signs of life whatsoever, and it was starting to wear on us a bit. I made the decision to call it there for the day, the sun was fading in the overcast sky, and I built a fire. I pulled out the newer map and marked it up, showing our path thus far; we weren't even an inch into Morris' original path. Kenny spoke to us while he was unfurling his sleeping bag,

"Well, baby steps, I guess. It's not like we're in a rush, we've got at least a week's worth of food, and we're probably only gonna stay here, what? Four days tops?"

"If we're lucky." Gabe said, "Could be five."

Tanner was stoking the fire with old newspapers he'd grabbed from the hotel, and he just looked at me and said,

"Can you believe these guys? Just got here and they're ready to leave."

"I don't blame them." I said, "It's not exactly Florida."

He laughed at that. If I recall correctly, that's the last time any of us laughed.

When we awoke, we went on for hours before the sun was fully in the sky. He kept on, our eyes peeled for any signs of life, and that's when I saw the shrine. Tanner shouted out,

"Is that a fuckin' building?"

Gabe chimed in, "No way, how was this here the whole time?! The old man didn't mention any of this shit!"

Kenny turned to me, asking,

"He mentioned any of this in his journal?"

I spoke truthfully,

"No, man, I...I don't know...Maybe the weather unearthed it? I mean, this planet isn't exactly getting any cooler."

Gabe trudged forward and looked at it closer, the shrine clinging to the side of the mountain, the ancient paint still clinging to the wood and stone. He smiled and spoke up to the rest of us, saying,

"Hey! Let's set up shop there!"

So, we did. It may have been a shrine, but it was large enough to be a temple. The building itself was a ruin, but the ice must've maintained it, preserved it. Kenny took pictures of it and spoke to us, saying,

"Even if we don't find that pale monkey, we can at least say we found something, I mean, look at all of this! It's astounding! This has to be, what, centuries old?"

Gabe found a fire pit, which had a small dip into the floor; it was metallic and heavily rusted. Yet, it carried the load of wood with no problem. He stuffed it full of the old newspaper and lit the ends on fire. The fire caught, and thank God it did, because one hell of a storm came to us. The snow fell fast and hard, the winds roared in the white landscape, and when I looked out of the entrance of the shrine, all of our footprints were swallowed in fresh snow. The walls of falling snow created a void. When I looked out into it, I saw something standing there watching me. I fished for my binoculars, but when I looked through them, the figure was gone. Gabe asked me what I was looking for, and I didn't know how to respond. I just told him that I thought I saw something.

I couldn't sleep. I woke up and donned my boots to take a look around the shrine. I saw statues of figures that were surely important to the Tibetan people. I may have been a so-called' explorer,' but my knowledge was most extensive in European history. This was more of Tanner's thing anyhow, but that's when I was the old mural on the wall. A circular drawing showing a cycle of sorts. A man changing into a hairy beast, his face bearing massive teeth. It looked so eerily close to the Polaroid that Dr. Morris had shown them. From the darkness beyond the fire, a great whooping call bellowed from the snow. It sounded like a great ape calling out into the forest, but in this landscape, where trees were scarce, and snow zapped the air of all sound, it thundered in the night.

The others woke up at once and seized their rifles. They went to the small windows, looking frantically out into the dark, their eyes adjusting to the blackness of night. Gabe stammered, saying,

"Did you hear that?!"

"Yeah, man! It was fucking loud, and it sounds huge!" Kenny said with a tinge of fear in his throat,

Tanner rushed to me with a rifle in hand when he spotted the mural behind me. His eyes widened as he looked at the cycle of the Yeti. He looked to me and said,

"Holy shit... that's....what is this place?"

The whooping call came again, this time it came from a different direction, then another, and another, and another. There were others.

I gripped the rifle with white knuckles and aimed at the door with trembling hands. The flickering of the flame danced in the shrine, the shadows twitching back and forth in the room. The wind screamed as it rocked against the shrine, the wooden joints of the building popped and creaked, and it felt as if we were one bad gust of wind away from being destroyed. Then came the rumbling sound, a pulsating, pounding that reverberated in the ground. Something large was coming.

It happened in seconds. The thing burst into the room, letting in the strong, freezing winds along with it. The fire in the room was quickly snuffed out. There was gunfire, and in the flashes, I saw brief glimpses of it. It was the uncanny made canny, a figure of mythology made flesh, and the snapshot taken by Morris was nothing compared to actually seeing it there in the flesh. It whooped and screeched like a primate, but there was a bass to it that made me tremble. My hair stood up, and I joined the others, firing indiscriminately into the dark. There was a wet crunch and a moan of pain. Kenny screamed,

"Get a light! Get a goddamn light!"

I withdrew my phone and turned the flashlight on, and the pale light revealed that the Yeti was digging into Gabe's skull, tearing out his eyes, his tongue, and his ears. It turned to the light, fur smeared with red, and bared its massive, yellowed teeth. It screeched again and galloped towards me on all fours, pounding its chest. It lunged at me, God, it was heavy, and for a moment, I closed my eyes and awaited death. Another crack of the rifle came, and when I looked up at the beast, I saw that it was missing an eye. The hole smoked, and with a small grunt, it slumped forward onto my body.

Kenny and Tanner pulled the massive creature from my body and allowed me to get up. I was hyperventilating, my nerves were absolutely shot. Kenny looked at the beast that he just shot and marveled,

"Holy fuck, holy fuck it's real." The curiosity turned to anger when he thought back to Gabe. He withdrew his knife and stabbed into the lifeless corpse's back. He screamed, "You fucking animal! You stupid piece of fucking shit! That ought to teach you to fuck with us."

Tanner lifted me up to my feet and pointed to my sleeve, "

"Hey, you're bleeding, man"

When I pointed my phone's light at my sleeve, I saw a large slash that tore into the coat, stripping away all of the layers, and for a second, I thought it only clawed at the fabric. But when I peeled the sleeve back, I saw the wound. Steam arose from it as hot blood oozed from the slash. I felt sick to my stomach, but I was too paralyzed by fear to say or do anything. Tanner went to his pack to get some bandages. He stripped the sleeve down, poured rubbing alcohol into the wound, and finally wrapped it up tight. Kenny was still stabbing at the beast as his screams of anger turned into anguish, and he began to sob. His hand was stained red when he took the last stab. He collapsed to his knees and wailed,

"Jesus Christ, what are we gonna do, man? He's dead, he's dead, Oh God!"

Kenny rushed over to him and told him to slow his breathing,

"You're freaking out, I get it, but we have to stay calm, right? Just stay calm, it's over, it's dead, and we've got our proof."

He looked back at the creature's corpse and said with contempt in his voice,

"We're gonna drag this motherfucker all the way back down the mountain."

They prepared the net, wrapping the Yeti in it, and unfortunately, Gabe as well. It felt wrong for them to be in the same netting, but it was the only way that we'd be able to bring them back down into society. When day broke, Kenny and Tanner dragged the bodies along while I stood watch, rifle in hand. Only I knew that there was a huge problem: Me.

We were hours in, and I already felt something stirring within me. I removed my gloves and saw that my skin's pigmentation was transforming into something brighter, pinker, more inhuman. I covered my face with my scarf, I didn't want the others to slow, not now, not when we knew that there were so many others out there in the snow. I just trudged on, trying to keep my secret hidden, and I kept my distance.

Something changed, and I could feel my heart start to slow. Despite the icy wind cutting into my skin, a warmth passed over my burning blue hands like a soothing balm. The snow no longer felt like a thousand needles pricking my flesh but a cloud-like cushion. My thoughts, as well as my vision, became muddled. Yet, there was still a noticeable voice in the back of my mind. Slightly muffled by the sirens in my head lulling me to a final slumber, but it was still there--still screaming at me to get help. It would come for them next. I knew that, yet... all I wanted to do was sleep.

A voice snapped me out of my fugue state,

"Let's take a break!" Kenny cried out breathlessly, "Tanner, get a fire going."

When we set up camp, I waited until they were sleeping before I took a look at my hands and saw what I was dreading. The fingernails were thrust out of their sockets by fresh claws, and I began to tremble in fear. My teeth chittered, and when they clicked together, I felt them fall from my gums and onto my tongue. The bitter metallic taste of blood filled my mouth as new teeth sprang forth into my gums. I spat out the old teeth into the snow, along with a mouthful of blood. My tongue ran along the new, impossibly large canines that grew in place of my teeth. In that moment, I made the decision, and I hope that everyone can forgive me.

This is my last word. I took Morris' journal and began to write, trying to explain everything as best I could. I've been reflecting on this whole journey, and maybe Gabe was right, maybe I was running away from everything. From a home that's empty, from a family I'll never see again, and from myself. God, I hated myself. There was so much wrong with me, and I thought that burying it in field work and traveling all over was a substitute for my problems, but now, I don't know anymore. I thought that death would come and I'd be unafraid, but as my humanity slips away, I am so scared. Maybe, just maybe, this thing I'm becoming is who I was meant to be. I always wanted to be alone, to try and keep a distance. I was too cold to people when I was around.

Tabitha, Josh, Tina, I wish I were a better Dad and Husband.

Kenny, Tanner, Gabe, I wish I were a better boss and a better friend.

I am going to walk as far away from here as possible, to make sure that when I fully turn, none of you ever gets hurt again. I'll walk until my mind gives way and I become one of those things.

I am becoming something abominable.

God help me.

PART II

The first person to make their entrance was a loud man, who didn't bring an umbrella, swearing under his breath with every single step he took. These Gaelic curses assaulted the air as the man in the trenchcoat sprinted towards the porch. When he reached the top, he stripped the coat from his body and tossed it to one of the chairs on the porch. He was panting as he turned to Myrtle and Jonathan, who stared at him. His thick, Scottish voice boomed at them,

"That's what I get for not taking a fucking umbrella, or a fucking hat for that matter!"

He brought his sweater over his head, wiping the remains of the cold water from his scalp. He approached the two and extended a hand to Myrtle,

"Apologies for my course language. My name's Hamish Craig."

"Mytle Mulgrave."

The hand was firm and callous, like sandpaper, but there was a warmth to it. He asked her,

"So, what do you do?"

"I debunk the paranormal."

"Small world! Me too!"

He tucked his sweater into his pants, revealing a priest's collar. Myrtle stared at it with a puzzling expression. Hamish looked at her and asked,

"Wasn't expecting a man of the cloth, were you?"

"I expected a believer, but I thought you'd be looking for proof of the supernatural."

"Listen. I know a thing or two because I've seen a thing or two. I know a real haunting and a fake one. More often than not, it's a fake."

"So you're some sort of psychic?" Myrtle asked politely,

"No, Myrtle, I simply use my eyes, ears, and intuition. The supernatural reveals itself naturally; if you have to poke or prod for a truth, it's most likely not there."

Jonathan stood to his feet, grinning widely, and offered a handshake,

"Jonathan Bothsworth."

"Ah! Knew you looked familiar. Look a little worse for wear, don't you?"

He was taken aback, wondering about what to say, until Hmaish thumped his chest,

"I'm just messing with you. Is that tea?"

"It is."

"What kind?"

"Earl Grey."

"Hm. Maybe later."

He took the coat and draped it over one of the other chairs on that porch. As it lay there, droplets of water spattered on the dried porch. He leaned back and produced an old pipe that was creamy white from his suitcase. Myrtle looked closely at it, asking,

"What's that pipe made of?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Go on, don't be coy."

He pulled a sack of tobacco from his pants pocket and filled it to the brim. He struck a match from his roughened palms and began to light the pipe. He gave it a short puff and spoke to her once more, bellowing forth bluish smoke,

"Bone."

"I thought it looked to be ivory. I've only ever seen anything like that in museums. Usually made of whale bone or elephant tusks. Were you a hunter by chance?"

"No. And while it is ivory, this doesn't belong to a whale or an elephant. This is made from a rib bone."

Myrtle examined it closely with awe as Jonathan asked,

"Did you say it was made from a rib? Like a human rib?"

"Aye."

"Then you're some kind of murderer?"

Hamish choked on his smoke at this accusation. He sat upright, pointing the end of the pipe at him. His voice growled,

"You listen here! I've served the lord with all my heart! Am I perfect l, no, I'm a sinner just as you two. But I am most certainly not a murderer!"

He eased back into his chair. Puffing away at the cigar and speaking with a melancholic tone, saying,

"It was a gift. A morbid one, but a gift nonetheless. Someone close to me…she…"

He trailed off, and he returned to smoking the pipe, and told them with a shaken voice,

"Another time. We've got company headed this way, do we not? It'd be rude to be all weepy at their arrival."

They sat there on the porch, rain cascading from the blackened abyss of the clouds, but the moon had finally managed to punch through the thick, cloudy sky. The pale light illuminated the sickened, wet ground like some glorious spotlight. Thunder rolled as the three sat there in silence, the time droning on, and the scent of the cigar smoke becoming a bit too potent. Myrtle wanted nothing more than to ask the man to stop smoking, but just as she was building up the courage, he stopped. He took his thumb and mushed down the top with his thumb, snuffing the embers.

Another pair of headlights came, the cab arrived, and dropped off the latest of this crew of 'investigators'. The person who exited the vehicle wasn't just one person, but a trio. One woman was dressed in black from top to bottom with what appeared to be a funeral shawl draping over her face. The other two were seemingly assistants. A man and a woman who were dressed plainly, gripping two massive pieces of luggage in each hand and brandishing umbrellas over the woman in black. When they reached the porch, the woman in black lifted her shawl to reveal a serene face. Her lips pursed out, eye shadow heavy, and her caramel colored skin was void of blemishes.

She courtseyed to them and spoke,

"Rosita Cielos."

Jonathan clasped his hands in adoration and rushed to shake her hand,

"Ah! The psychic! Thank you so much for coming all this way from Mexico. I know your people are very devout, and I think that your expertise is needed for this place."

Myrtle and Hamish looked at each other with a glare of contempt and annoyance. The two of them may have different views on the afterlife and the nature of the beyond, but a psychic? This Bothsworth fellow had to have been desperate.

"The flight was a little rough, but I find this country enchanting."

"I'm glad you like it, but unfortunately, instead of looking around at the more scenic views of our country, you're stuck here at old Blood Oak."

"Mr. Bothsworth, my assistants and I will do everything in our power to find out the cause of your problems. I'll even cleanse the house if need be."

Hamish chortled at that notion, Rosita turned to him, and snipped,

"What's so funny?"

"Cleansing. The only cleansing a house can be given is an exorcism...by a priest."

"Oh? And you think you're the expert at exorcisms, mister..."

"Hamish and I do."

He pulled his white collar to her line of sight,

"I've seen my fair share of evil, Rosita, but please, fill me in."

Rosita said nothing; she pulled the veil back over her face and just stepped to the side to make way for the assistants who were still struggling with the luggage.

The assistants collapsed their umbrellas as they set down the suitcases with a heavy thud. The man was stout, wearing a trilby hat, and the woman was thin, wearing baggy pants and a coat that was two sizes too large. They looked around at the others with curious eyes. Rosita gestured to them, telling Jonathan,

"Mr. Bothsworth, these are my assistants, Harry and my sister, Carla."

Jonathan looked at them with apprehension because when he looked at her books and articles, there were no mentions of assistants. He tried to hide his mixed feelings behind a false smile and simply shook their hands with a firm grip. Harry spoke up,

"Can we take these inside?"

"No. Not yet."

"Why not? We're just setting our things inside."

"I said no."

The response was cold, despite Jonathan's jovial demeanor; it was like a verbal slap. The group was all looking at him now, and he felt their eyes all on him. He cleared his throat and addressed them all,

"Listen, I want to be sure that everyone walks in together, because I do not want anyone to sneak off inside and try to fabricate some ghost. I know my truth, and I aim for everyone to see that, free from the parlor tricks of charlatans."

They all looked at him as his happy appearance crumbled before them, his smile fading, his eyes tired, and his posture beginning to slouch. Before anyone else could say a word, the last cab arrived in the rain, and forth sprang a short, thin man with two large briefcases in hand. He waved to the others on the porch,

"Evening!" he cried,

He made his way up the stairs and spoke to Jonathan,

"Duck drowner, huh?"

His voice was unmistakably American, he continued,

"I'd shake your hand, but I've got my hands full."

Jonathan simply nodded and approached the doors leading inside,

"Alright, now that we're all here, let's all head inside. The weather is simply dreadful."

They all filed in, but Myrtle was last to go in. She took one last look at the manor before heading in. The sense of being watched, even with all of these people here, never went away. It just sat there with her, festering. She had a terrible feeling deep down in her gut that something was very, very wrong. A firm hand gripped her shoulder. She turned to see Hamish,

"You see something?"

"It...it's nothing."

"Let's get inside."

Hamish patted her back, and the two of them wandered into the mansion together.

PART I

The view of what looked to be a castle lay ahead, even at this far distance, and dazzled Myrtle. It was a monolith illuminated by the strikes of lightning. The wind was howling, the trees bending back and forth in some wild dance. Lightning flashes reveal the monumental structure jutting from the wild forest. From her research from the weeks prior, the locals she'd spoken to either called it a mansion or a castle. She sat in the back of the taxi, staring through the blurry windshield as rain slapped the glass, trying to get a clear view of the building she'd be staying in for the next week or so. The driver, puffing a cigar, leaned back and said,

"So, uh, what brings you to Blood Oak?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I said what brings you here? That old castle is supposed to be haunted, you know."

"That's what they say."

The car jostles for a moment on the rough terrain, and when the road settles, the driver speaks again, apologizing profusely,

"I'm so sorry, miss, I don't mean to shake you like that. The old cab isn't built for these old first roads."

"It's quite all right. Say, what do you know about Blood Oak Manor?"

He took a drag from his cigar and exhaled pungent-smelling smoke.

"Can't say I know much, I just know it's a very troubled place. Lots of death and whatnot."

She leaned forward and asked,

"Know any stories?"

"Of Blood Oak? Dozens, but I don't think we've got time to tell that many."

"Then tell me one."

He sat there ruminating in his mind on the various tales of horror that were told by townsfolk who were stupid or curious enough to delve deep into the woods surrounding Blood Oak. For a moment, he had a story spawn in his head from his late father. When he was a young man, he took his then-girlfriend on an early morning joy ride and wanted to fool around with her in the woods. When he drove deeper into the forest, he heard her start screaming, and when he looked, he saw that from the treeline, all swallowed up in early morning fog, were tall, tall people. They just stood there, watching them drive by. However, he decided that, maybe, to an outsider, it seems very far-fetched, and maybe it was. His father was a drunkard after all and tended to stretch a story out as long as humanly possible. Perhaps he'd tell the story of how the old family mausoleum was found open one night, and how it could only be opened from the inside. Yet, the tale he landed on was something he knew from heart, something incredibly tangible. He knew it because he lived it. He began,

"I've got one for you. It was long ago, I was a lad, and I was a little shit. My father, bless him, always tried to steer me clear of trouble. I don't know what brought it up, but one breakfast, my mother was talking about how I shouldn't be going with my mates to dangerous places. We had a knack for being a silly bunch of bastards. We were caught smoking behind the Church, play-fighting in the bleachers of a football game, and there was also the time one of us was caught fucking a girl behind the high school. I guess my folks didn't want to be grandparents so soon and were scolding me. Out of nowhere, my father shouts,

'And none of you, be going in those Blood Oak woods!'

You know how it works with kids: tell them not to do something, and they want to do it more than anything on earth. I tell my mates about it, and they all turn white and swear on themselves. Signing the cross and all that. We were a rough bunch, and when I saw them all like that, it shook me a bit. They told me to stay away from there, that it was haunted beyond comprehension. They were all scared, all except one. Gordy.

My mate Gordy is special, tough as nails, but he's also a bit of a dim bulb. Love him, don't get me wrong, but there were days when you'd just say 'Christ, mate, what're you doing?' He and I decided to go out there and fish in their bog. We'd bring it back and wiggle it in front of everyone's faces, saying we had a ghost fish! We thought it'd be funny. Fuckin' hell, kids have the strangest humor, don't they?

So, anyway, we packed up our fishing rods and rode our bikes out there. You think it's a bit of a long drive by car, you try biking on these godforsaken roads. Took us about an hour and a half, but we passed the time by swapping stories, singing, talking about girls we liked, and so on. We started heading down there to that old manor around dusk, and by the time we made it, the moon was out, a big, full one too. The gate was rusted to hell and swamped in vines. We tore it away with our bare hands, and the two of us pried the gate open as wide as we possibly could, but we only managed to open the gate just a tiny bit. squeeze our way through, and when we walked over to that pond or bog or whatever the hell it was...we heard splashing."

"Splashing?"

"That's right. We started walking that way, really slow, and when we looked out into the waters. Dancing in the pale moonlight was a woman, a big woman, the biggest I've seen in my life. When she breached from the water, gasping for air, she'd sometimes stand up, and her silhouette was huge. Had to have been seven or eight feet in height, but I was never really good at assessing those sorts of things. In short, a big woman. She was naked and swimming in that nasty bog water, caressing herself and singing some old hymns, or maybe they weren't hymns, I don't know for sure. It sounded pretty, though. We were both, y'know, young and stupid, and we thought we were getting a nice eyeful of something. We moved in closer to get a better look, and when we did, there was something wrong about her...the more we looked at her, the more wrong she looked. Her hair was thinning, her skin looked..."

"Pale?" Myrtle chimed in, in these stories, ghosts were always pale white, a common thread in which the phantoms took on unusually white appearances. She'd heard it hundreds of times before, but to her surprise, the man quickly cut down that idea.

"No! Her skin was terrible! Rotten, decaying...wrong. When she turned around, covered her ruined flesh with her soggy, malformed arms, and screamed at us. The scream was all warbled and gargling, like she was a throat full of water...."

The driver was quiet, and with a shaky voice, he lifted his forearm towards her.

"How about that? I still get goosebumps talking about it all these years later."

The cab was silent for a moment while it jostled over the cobbled roadway towards Blood Oak, and the driver asked again,

"So, why are you here?"

"I'm here to debunk the existence of the supernatural, so that Mr. Bothsworth can sleep at night."

"Ha! He bought off more than he could chew with buying that old place."

"So I've been told."

"It's had a history, but of course, he ignored it because he thought it looked nice and pretty on the outside. Old houses are like Books, you never know their character until you open them up. Isn't that right, Miss…er, what is your name again, Miss, I'm good with faces, but I can never truly remember names."

"Mulgrave, Myrtle Mulgrave, and what about you?"

"Thomas Ellerby, friends just call me Tom though, easier that way."

Another flash of lightning revealed the silhouette of the large castle looming ahead, like the dark blue sky was getting swallowed by an unseen abyss. The car came to a gradual stop as they approached the rusted wrought iron fence. Tom looked back at Myrtle, telling her,

"This is as far as I go."

"You're not driving all the way in?"

"Ms. Mulgrave, you seem like a nice girl, a fair one if I'd ever seen any, but I ain't setting foot on old Blood Oak."

"It's only superstition out there, I assure you."

"Maybe. But I'm not going anywhere, better safe than sorry."

He reached into his passenger seat and gave her an umbrella. It was a very nice one with a black top and a curved wooden handle. He cleared his throat,

"I bought this on the off chance it rained, and my hunch was right. It always rains here; it's like God himself hates this place."

He gifted it to her, and she held it in her hands in disbelief. She was utterly disappointed and frustrated that this local legend would cause her to have to trudge through the cold October rain to get to that old mansion. Yet, at the same time, she was remarkably touched by the gesture of the driver. She'd traveled all over England, and not once did she feel the sincere warmth this man had given her. She simply nodded to the man and told him,

"Why, thank you, Tom, that was very sweet of you." She was about to get out of the car when she turned to face him one last time, "I assure you, there's nothing to fear in there."

Tom dropped his cheerful demeanor and told her his truth,

"There's everything to fear in there, you just don't know it yet."

He squirmed in his seat and pinched his brow. He sighed, and with a remorseful tone, he added,

"I'm… I'm sorry, Ms. Mulgrave, it's just that I really want to be someplace else. This is a wicked place. Went in there once, and once was enough."

She wanted nothing more than to disprove his mythos surrounding this place, but she simply bit her tongue. She gave a slight bow, thanked him for the drive, and exited the luxurious cab and into the cold.

The rain doused her before she could even fully open the umbrella. When it opened, she could hear the droplets smacking the top. She pushed open the gate and walked the cobblestone driveway. She gandered at the huge swaths of land that were encircled by the iron fence and was taken aback by the size and scale of Blood Oak. There was a massive, domelike greenhouse on the west side of the mansion, and then there was the mausoleum, which was larger than any she'd seen for a family. It was a large, smooth, and decadently decorated building with gargoyles that looked to be a mixture of both angels and demons alike.

'Quite an odd family if this is how they celebrate their dead,' she thought to herself.

There was the pond, which Tom was right about; it looked more like a bog than anything else. It stank too, as stumpwater dredged from a rotten tree. Then, there was, of course, the mansion.

The mansion, from a distance, looked to be a castle, and now that she was closer to it, the feeling did not change. In London, she'd seen her fair share of mansions, extravagant houses that were decadent from top to bottom. This though? This was a castle in every sense of the word. Mansion may have been the title given to it, but the truth was plain to see. The rain continued its downpour as it slapped the cobbles beneath her feet, and it sounded like it had increased in both speed and force. If she had known better, she could've sworn that the rain was turning into hail, but the icy pellets never materialized. She looked at the mansion and saw that the first floor was the only one that had its lights on; everything else above was a towering shadow. The only time she could get a clear sight of what she was looking at was when the lightning struck. Flashes that briefly showed the detail of the castle before her, every crack and crevice illuminated by the snapshots of God.

She approached the castle and stepped up to the massive wrap-around porch that stretched on further than any she'd ever seen. The main double door entrance was illuminated with two lanterns that rested on either side of the doors. They looked like, at one point, candles rested within them, but had been given a 20th-century makeover in the form of electric bulbs. The only wrap-around porch she was familiar with was her father's farmhouse; it was a cozy, rustic place where rocking chairs sat, and tea was drunk. In the morning, you'd hear roosters crow and the sounds of chimes, and at night, you'd sit by the porch light listening to frogs croak and crickets sing. Here, in Blood Oak, there was only the sounds of thunder, rain, and the dark of the woods. When she knocked on the door, she heard the cab at the gates' engine start. She turned to see that Tom was finally turning around to leave. She collapsed the umbrella, and all of the rainwater fell onto her in a quick splash,

"Damn it!" she hissed,

Thunder struck again, the sky rumbled overhead, and the brilliance of the lightning shone down over the manor. In the treeline, Myrtle saw something standing there in the far distance. It was so brief and so fleeting, but it was crystal clear, like something in a vivid dream.

There, behind the fence, was something looking at her. It stood there barely silhouetted, but clearly massive in stature. Tall, very tall. It stood almost level with the wrought-iron fence, and before the light fled the skies, she saw two massive hands grip the spokes of the fence, and she began to shake it violently. Then darkness.

The grand door opened to reveal a dishelved man, who was scrawny, blonde, and had a scant amount of facial hair on one side of his face, while the other side was clean-shaven.

"Yes?"

Myrtle gasped in a brief moment of fright as she turned to see a figure at the door. The warm glow of what might've been a fireplace lit the back of the dishelved man. The porch lanterns flicked on. He stepped out from the house and onto the porch. The electric lanterns out front finally illuminated his face. He was scrawny, blonde, and had a scant amount of facial hair on one side of his face, while the other side was clean-shaven with bits of white foam clinging to the sides of his face. Mytle steadied herself, asking,

"I'm so sorry, I'm here for Mr. Bothsworth's request?"

"I am he."

She had seen Mr. Bothsworth in magazines and newspapers, and the husk of a man before her didn't match that description whatsoever. Myrtle stammered and tried to find the right words. Mr. Bothsworth smiled; his tired eyes had a glimmer of humanity in them. He spoke to her,

"Not my best appearance, I know."

"I'm sorry, am I too early?"

"You are, but that's no problem. Come in."

She entered through the threshold of the old mansion and felt something change in the air. Myrtle knew that rationality is the only explanation for the supernatural; there are many different ways that the natural world could affect the mind and make it believe in the supernatural. Sleep deprivation, mental illness, psychedelics, and so much more. But there was something so off about this place. The entrance had an area where everyone could drop off their shoes, hang up their coats, and there was even a mirror where guests could make last-minute changes to their appearance before heading into the rest of the house. Mr. Bothsworth walked out of this drop-off area and told Myrtle,

"Stay here for a moment, I'm going to even out this shave or I'll be driven mad."

"Of course."

"Can I grab you anything to drink when I return?"

"Tea, if you could be so kind."

"Do you take sugar?"

"Why yes."

As he walked away, she looked in the mirror to take a look at herself. Her complexion was pale aside from one red spot over her right eyebrow where she'd squeezed a pimple out of existence. Her lips were trembling from the cold, and her hair, which used to be a solid black bob, was somehow flattened by the rain. She wore a black coat, olive green slacks, and an orange-tan cardigan. She'd never been happier to wear her layers in all of her life. Myrtle removed her thin, round glasses and wiped the droplets from them. In doing so, she chuckled to herself,

"That's what you saw. You heard a ghost story, saw a creepy castle, and a droplet of rain can transform into a ghost. God help you, Myrtle, be a professional."

She looked at her face and saw that her blue eye shadow was somehow left untouched by the rainwater. She chalked it up to luck. She never wore lipstick because she always thought her lips looked fine enough. She smiled in the mirror and rehearsed her professional greeting, the one she told every client,

"Why, hello, Mr. Bothsworth! I'm Myrtle Mulgrave. I believe we met on the phone? So, what can I disprove for you..."

She trailed off as she kept staring at her teeth; they were large, particularly her front teeth, which seemingly poked from her top lip. Kids called her 'Myrtle the Rabbit' in school, and by the time she was in High School, the nickname of 'Rabbit' stuck. She sighed and repeated the greeting once more, with her mouth more relaxed, a casual smile. Yet, she could still see her teeth poking through again. She reached into her coat pocket, withdrew her cigarette case, and turned to walk towards the gateway to the rest of the house, and saw that Mr. Bothsworth was there, standing with a tray of tea.

"I must say, you did a good job with the rehearsals, but I like the one of you smiling a tad more."

Her face turned flushed,

"Oh, good Lord. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be, Ms. Mulgrave. Let's talk on the porch and wait for everyone's arrival."

"Everyone else?"

"Yes. I thought I'd told you about it over the phone."

The phone call was such a long time ago, and Myrtle felt ashamed that she only remembered the case details and the cash payment. Before she could interject, Bothsworth added,

"I know it was a while ago. I just want all doubts removed. I called in experts in every field of the supernatural."

"So you called in charlatans?"

He looked at her as if he was struck, he spoke to her sternly,

"I wanted every option explored, so forgive me for wanting a definitive answer. You can make your own mind up about them when they arrive. Until then, keep your opinions to yourself until I ask for them!"

The entrance to the house was silent after the outburst, save for the rain. Bothswroth grunted and opened the front door,

"Well, shall we? It's a gorgeous night, don't you think?" he said with a sarcastic dryness.

Then went back out into the cool night, the rain still beating down on the earth, and thunder rumbled above. The two went to two chairs that sat by the stairs leading up to the porch. The view before them showed the front of the manor and the entrance, which was still left open from when Myrtle walked in. She lit her cigarette and took a long drag off of it.

"I think I got off on the wrong foot, Mr. Bothsworth."

"No, no, it was all my fault." He sipped his tea briefly and continued, "I have been...tired, for a long time. I bought this place, and I was like you, a skeptic, and the only thing I believed in was myself. I went to Church when I was a child, but it didn't stop tragedies from befalling my family. So, I'm a non-believer. But....this? This house has changed me."

He reached into his shirt and withdrew a silver crucifix necklace. Myrtle nodded at him, and before she could start asking some of the more probing questions that she usually does, he stopped her with an outstretched palm,

"Not now. I'll explain everything to everyone when they all get here. I think it's best that everything is laid out in full for everyone to know."

Myrtle grunted and gave an understanding nod. She sipped her tea, which was brewed to perfection and with the right amount of sweetness. She sat it back down and took a drag off her cigarette once more. She asked,

"You know who made this tea? I really need to thank them, Mr. Bothsworth."

"I made it and call me Jonathan, please."

"Wait, you mean that you have no aides or helpers here?"

"It's a paranormal investigation, isn't it? Best to be alone in these sorts of things, you don't want to hear a knock and then discover it was a mere maid."

"Makes sense."

"Aye."

Thunder clapped again, and when Jonathan looked at Myrtle, he noticed that she was looking towards the fence- no, the treeline behind the fence. Her gaze was looking for something there. He smiled because he knew that she'd seen something out there. However, he kept this hunch to himself as headlights appeared from the dark. Another car was coming down the road, pushing through the storm on the way to Blood Oak.

"Here they come." He said, pointing towards the beams of light shining through the darkened forest.

Myrtle took a drag off her cigarette, looking towards the trees with a nervousness that was unbecoming of her. She kept her rational mind at the forefront, but deep down, she felt something was wrong, like some quiet alarm was yelling for her to leave this place.

Myrtle felt like she was being watched. She was right.

"Eternity, where time does not exist, so the future and the past are both the present."

- William Peter Blatty

From the sky, the Manor looked like a black hole in a forest of emerald greenery. It was an odd, unsightly manor that was built within a wood so terribly wild that many thought that the old place would surely be swallowed whole, and yet, here it stood after all these years. One monolith that jutted forth from the green in man-made defiance.

It was made by the Northbrooke family, a clan of unreasonably tall and handsome men and women who had an affinity for excess, wealth, and debauchery of all kinds. They were a strange lot of folk, evidently derived from a noble family that had lingered in England for centuries. Lineages that could be traced back to Kings and forgotten empires. The Northbrookes were just there, like the shadow at your back. They had many residents all over England, but there was only one place that they could truly call home.

Blood Oak Manor was its name, and it was given to it by the men who harvested the trees within the forest. The very same ones that were used to build that old mansion. It was built in the late 1700s, and the sky above had no sun to shine. Legend says that when they began construction, the first oak tree that was slain began to bleed. The axe bore into the bark, and blood spurted forth from the wound. The workers gawked in terror, saying it was an omen, but the grand patriarch of the Northbrooke family strolled in, huge in stature, towering over them all. Archibald Northbrooke was a dapper man with a glorious muttonchop beard on his face that was always well-groomed, and he had two eyes that were sunken in, almost skull-like. The top hat he wore made him appear somehow taller than he already was. His seven-foot frame grew to eight feet, and his voice had a gravitas that made men and women alike shudder.

"What is all this?" he boomed as he wandered amongst them, "Are you or are you not beginning construction?"

A lowly worker whose name was forgotten to history took off his hat and stared into the grass below,

"I'm sorry, sir, but we believe this is some omen. The tree is bleeding, don't you see it?!"

He knelt down to where the axe struck, looking at it with contempt. Archibald examined the tree, removed one of his satin gloves, and felt at the crimson liquid oozing from the bark. He rubbed it between his fingers. That's when something caught his eye, something glimmered within the tree's wound, and with a vicious speed, he seized it. He gripped the writhing body and yanked the creature forth into the light.

"It doesn't look like a curse to me."doesn't

He held the split-open snake above him for all of the workers to see. The blood ran down the sleeve of his suit and coated his hand with sticky warmth. He threw it to the ground, and it writhed still. He took the heel of his boot and crushed the skull beneath it.

"I don't care if every oak tree bleeds; you will cut exactly what I tell you to cut. Am I clear, gentlemen?" Don't

Construction took decades, and Archibald would not see it finished, but he was buried on the manor. Yet, it would be finished, and it was glorious in a horrible sort of way. The large, gothic mansion stood high, piercing through the forest line, reaching to a sky that always seemed unforgiving. The trees surrounding the mansion were stripped bare, and all that surrounded the mansion (or castle to some) was flat land with nothing more than grass and cobblestone. Blood Oak Manor consisted of a large pond, which became a bog, a mausoleum that stored the lineages of the Northbrookes dating back centuries. Family buried elsewhere were to be exhumed and brought to Blood Oak as their final resting place. There was a wrought iron fence wrapped around the manor that would be coated in ivy and vines.

Yes, Blood Oak was built to last for centuries, but alas, the Northbrookes were not. One Summer day in the 1930s, a courier was driving through the woods leading to Blood Oak with a sack full of mail for the brood of extravagant giants that were the Northbrookes, but when he approached the gate to enter the manor, there wasn't a soul there. He tried calling out to whoever might be nearby, but there wasn't anyone there. When he exited his car to try for the gate, it was unlocked. He let himself in, and when he rapped at the door, no one answered. They say the carrier knocked, and when he tried for the door, it was open. When he searched the premises, he did not find a soul or servant on the premises. As soon as he left, he called the authorities. They searched the woods, the mausoleum, every nook and cranny they could search in the mansion, but in the end, it looked like they had vanished into thin air.

After that, people who'd lived near that thick and old patch of woods would dare each other to go in and stay the night. The manor wasn't welcoming to anyone when the Northbrookes were around, and that went doubly so when they were gone. It was no longer a home; it was merely a place, and no one was welcome there. As the years rolled on and more wandered into those accursed woods or, God forbid, the manor itself, they began to see things. Tall shadows walking through the trees, the sounds of crying, the sensation of being watched, voices calling out from the dark, and so many more. Time and experience had given Blood Oak Manor the reputation that it had been worthy of: Haunted.

Decades passed, and the Manor still stood defiantly as it was succumbing to the world around it, but it remained untouched. Not even the blitz by the Nazis touched it, and for many decades, many of the people who lived near that old patch of woods assumed that it would rot, and when it did, so many would be celebrating. Because even the sight of the spires reaching out from the tops of the trees felt wicked. The whole ground on which Blood Oak Manor stood felt damned, and when the mansion would collapse, a relief would be felt by all of those nearby.

The relief would not come.

In 1953, a wealthy man by the name of Jonathan Bothsworth purchased the house in hopes of renovating it. The price that Blood Oak was worth was never given publicly, but Duke made a statement saying that he planned on returning the old estate to its former glory. All those who had the displeasure of knowing the Northbrookes already knew he was lying because there was no 'former glory' to the mansion or the manor as a whole. When pressed about purchasing the manor, Jonathan gave a more genuine response by saying,

"I always drove by that old mansion during my trips to Ireland in the fall. I always took the same route, and every time I would see that old mansion sitting there like a great castle that was falling apart. It always hurt my heart to see it like that, a beautiful building like it just rotting. That's when I thought to myself, 'Hey! I have money, don't I?' And I decided that in that moment, I'd wanted to buy and give that old place a fresh face. Turn it into a place where my family from England and my family from Ireland could meet in the middle, be a sort of vacation house."

From nearby houses and villages, the citizens surrounding Blood Oak saw the dozens of vehicles driving towards the old forest in single file, a luxurious light blue Jaguar leading the way. When Jonathan arrived, his eyes lit up as he looked at the manor. It may have been a ruin, but he could see what it could be once he was done with it. This drab, crumbling monument to a debaucherous family could be given a new glory. When the workers arrived shortly behind him, they emerged from their vehicles and stared with disbelief.

"Good Lord." One of them said, "Where do we even start?"

Jonathan looked to them and said,

"We'll start with the fence and work our way inside. We work until there's no more sun left or until we get property electricity in this old house."

"You call that a house?"

"No! At least not yet! But it can be - no, it will be a home again."

They slaved for hours on that cool Autumn day, working miracles in Blood Oak, stripping vines from the fence, clearing out the bog to make it more of a pond, scrubbing down the mausoleum, and they had even gotten to the house, replacing smashed windows. Yet, the sun dipped below the trees, and the dark began to set in. The men were leaving when they noticed Jonathan was still looking around in astonishment. When one of the workers called to him, he called back out to them,

"Go on, home! You've all earned a good rest! I'm just going to take a look around."

So he did, he walked around Blood Oak Manor, admiring the work he and his men had done thus far. Yet, above him, the darkened clouds began to swallow the remains of the sky. Rain assaulted the ground, and Jonathan went for cover in the only place he knew.

As thunder rumbled and the earth shook, he entered the mansion with his clothes soaked through. He was chilly and wanted nothing more than to remove his wet clothes, but then what? Walk around this old mansion stark naked? So he just toughed it out as he waited out the storm, looking through the new windows he'd installed at the hard rain slapping against the cobblestone driveway. When he turned to look around, he saw the size and immensity of the space in which he was standing. Doorways that stretched on as church entrances, old brick walls mixed together with luxurious wood, the oak floors, the ornate fireplace, and many other items that were seemingly untouched. The inside of this house, despite the decades of closure, was clean.

"What in God's name is-"

A loud thundercrack cut him off, and with the flash of lightning, brilliant light beamed in through the windows. The flash of lightning shone into the dark hallways, displaying a clean and flawlessly decorated home like an uncanny snapshot from some otherworldly camera, but there was something else...Jonathan was not alone. In the main hallway, the one that led to the grand staircase, a figure was standing there, looking over the railing of the stairs. He only had mere seconds to get a look at it, but it was more than enough. It was a horror to look at, bloated, rotting, and tall, my God, it was tall. When the thunder rolled and the flash disappeared, he was plunged into the darkness again. There were loud and fast footsteps that thudded against the floor. Sprinting towards him in the dark was that thing, whatever it was, and if he didn't run now, he'd surely be killed.

He ran from the mansion and into the rain that no longer bothered him; the freezing cold of the droplets didn't even affect him. He only had one goal: to return to his Jaguar and drive as fast and as far away from Blood Oak Manor as possible. He drove recklessly out of that old forest, rain smacking the windshield and his gas pedal flush against the floor of his car. The engine roared through the night as he sped out of that place, and when he was out into the rolling hills and pastures of the English countryside, he wept. He called up the authorities, and they gave the mansion a thorough inspection (or so they say) and found nothing there. After that night, they still continued remodeling the old house, but Jonathan never entered the house alone. As the months rolled on, the rumors started up again that the Northbrookes never left Blood Oak.

Hello everyone,

I usually just write my stories, comment under other stories, and sometimes give advice, but this time I’m asking everyone for their opinions on an upcoming series I’m making.

I’ve mostly stuck to short, one-off series and the only series I’ve made was about three parts long. This upcoming series is going to be my first attempt at making something huge, and it’s going to be my love letter to classic universal/gothic horror. There’s no title just yet but it’ll be revealed once the prologue is finished. It’s just gonna be me playing around with a setting and characters until I find a proper ending. Who knows? Maybe after it’s finished, I could spruce it up more and release it as a book.

However, here’s my biggest problem right now, I’m currently writing my next book and it’s been a passion project of my since 2016. I pre-wrote it several times and just last year, I’d begun to finally write it. I’ve been typing away at this thing since August of last year. Since then, I’ve started writing short stories on here and nosleep. I cannot stress how much I’ve loved creating stories on here because I can take a break from my novel and try some new and interesting horror concepts. It’s like a creative reset, and when I write one short story, I can return to my novel with a fresh perspective.

So, I’m asking everyone if I should put the story on hold in order to finish my book or should I alternate between the two? Either way, I’m grateful to be apart of this community and I’ve loved reading everyone’s stories.

Amie lay awake in the afternoon glow of a fading sun, doomscrolling like she always did, and deep down, she wanted to see her face one more time before he drifted off to sleep. They were friends, sure, but deep down, she wanted more than that. Sam was her name, and she was struck by her appearance the moment she laid eyes on her. It's like God himself made a woman tailored to all of Amie's needs and wants. She was kind, clean, and dripping with sarcasm. They met at a job interview where they were both applying for the same position at O'Connell's supermarket, and in a twist of irony, they both got the job. They remained friends, and their chemistry was really something, but she always had a seed of despair planted deep within her. The constant itching feeling of doubt was eating away at her. She loved her, but is it mutual? And what happens if it isn't? She was worried that the moment she opened her mouth, she'd be killing a friendship. She'd seen it before with Ted and Ryleigh, two colleagues at the supermarket who were friends, but the moment Ted confessed his feelings, she quickly put it down. After that, she saw them interacting less, and then eventually, they were avoiding each other outright. If that were to happen between her and Sam, she couldn't live with herself.

She put away the thought and pulled up Sam's Instagram. Her picture was so stunning to her. Long flowing black hair, amber eyes, and her olive colored skin were utterly flawless. However, the pictures weren't honest, they didn't paint the full picture of her. Her distinctive cackle made her sound like an old-fashioned witch. There was the fact that she picked her nose when no one was looking, and of course, the thing she hid from people the most was that one of her front teeth was chipped. She was ashamed of it, always telling me that she needed to get it fixed, but I always thought it added character. Amie wanted very much to kiss her, to hold her tight, but the best she could do for now was stare at the still photos of her on social media and daydream of a day when she could build up enough courage to finally ask her out.

Then something took hold of her, and she was plunged into pain. 'Another migraine?' she thought, 'Not now!' The pain came in waves as the throbbing continued. Sharp, stabbing sensations that dug into her skull, and she wanted nothing more than for it to stop. Amie prayed for it to stop as she pressed her temple. She felt something wet and warm on her lips. With one of her hands, she wiped her mouth to discover the blood. Even in the dark, she could still faintly see the red on her fingers. She buried her head into her pillow and began to sob. She pleaded to any force that was willing to listen,

"Please, make the pain stop...please..."

Then she was out.

When Amie awoke, she saw that the late afternoon dusk had turned into a dark night. The only thing that peered through the blinds. Her head rose up, and she looked down to see that her pillow was stained with a scant amount of blood. She ran to the bathroom and began to wash away the crusted blood around her nose. She grabbed the hand towel in the drawer and wetted it with warm (or what this apartment counted as warm) water. As she wiped the stains from her nose and lips, she mumbled to her dissheleved reflection,

"You're gonna see a doctor tomorrow, that's the third time this month, you are going to see a doctor tomorrow..."

She turned the faucet off and was fully ready to return to bed, blood-stained pillow or not, and resume doomscrolling. Yet in the corner of her eye, she spotted something. Underneath her door, there was a shadow. Someone was standing there, and as soon as her eyes registered the shadow, three sharp knocks struck the door.

One.

Two.

Three.

Amie looked at her phone again and saw that it was 5:42 AM.

"The hell?" she mumbled to herself.

She swung out of bed and put on her slippers. She ran towards the door and got mace from her bedside table. She could never be too careful. The three sharp knocks came again.

"I'm coming!" She yelled,

She looked through the peephole and saw...her. Samantha was standing there, dressed in a white sundress with white flip-flops, and it complemented her olive-colored skin. She spoke up softly, almost with fear,

"Uh...hello? Is this Amie's place?"

"Sam? Is that you?"

"Yeah. My car broke down when I was going home and...I knew where you lived and..."

She figdeted nervously, she mumbled,

"I know it's late, but I was wondering if I could crash for the night?"

Amie opened the door; her dirty blonde hair was a mess, but she was too excited to say anything. Sam began to blush as she turned away,

"You've got no pants on."

"Oh shit! I'm so sorry!"

She slammed the door and ran to her dresser to slide on some sweatpants. Amie returned to the door and gestured for her to come inside,

"I'm so sorry, come on in!"

"It's okay, I know plenty of people who sleep in their underwear. So this is your place?"

"Yep. I'd be staying at my folks' place, but they...they don't really reach out anymore."

"How come?" she said with an almost fascination, "They love you, don't they?"

Amie rubbed her eyes. She thought that years after the incident, maybe time would've healed this particularly nasty wound, but even now, it still struck a nerve.

"Maybe I'll explain it another time."

"Oh, uh, okay?"

"I've got a couch, a bed, a bathroom, and a kitchen. It's not much, but it'll do for now."

Sam walked through the small space, marveling at her apartment. It was cluttered, somewhat messy, but it was so distinctly Amie's. She smiled at her,

"This is a nice place."

"You really think so?"

"Yeah! My room is messy, but yours is so...nice!"

Amie laughed at this. Her room was a lot of things, but the last thing she imagined was 'nice.' Sam made her way to the couch and sat down. The cushion wheezed as she did so.

"Ohhhh, this is nice."

"I got it from the side of the road."

"Don't care, still cozy."

Amie yawned and gave thought to returning to her bed, but there was a golden opportunity ahead of her. A chance to confess, a chance to know whether or not the feelings were mutual. The thought of it terrified her and made her blood turn chilly. What if, in confessing her feelings, she kills the friendship? She'd known plenty of people who were close friends, but the one time they caught feelings, that shit was broken off forever. With a trembling voice, Amie stated,

"Well, if you want to do anything, I'll be in bed."

'You fucking coward,' she thought to herself, 'you had the one chance and the perfect place to confess your feelings, and you chicken out? You deserve to be alone, no wonder your parents cut you off, you-'

"Hey, wait!" Sam had said with an almost frightened tone, "Could you....I don't know, could you just sit with me for a while?"

Amie was stunned, and in that silence, Sam grew nervous and followed it up by saying,

"I'm sorry, that was silly of me, just-"

"No! No! That's okay!"

Amie walked over to the couch and sat next to her. Sam turned on the TV, and Jimmy Fallon was on. Before she could groan, Sam groaned for her,

"This fucking guy."

Amie jumped in on the conversation,

"I know, right? The fakest asshole in late night!"

"Listen, I may not be the biggest Kimmel guy, but he'd at least got a personality and a backbone."

"Exactly! Fallon is like this weirdly family-friendly late-night show, that's as inoffensive as possible. It's fucking late at night! Are you expecting kids to watch this shit?!"

"Jesus, you hit the nail on the head. It reminds me of how YouTube wants to have content creators use filthier language for serious topics. What's the point of YouTube Kids, then?!"

"Uh-huh, and if I hear someone say 'unalive' again, I'll legitimately kill myself."

Sam cracked up at this, and her laugh was off. Amie had heard her laugh before, and it was a light, almost pretty sound. This was a cackle full of gasps and snorts. When Sam saw Amie's amused expression, she gasped and covered her mouth,

"I'm so sorry, was my laugh weird?"

"Weird? That was great! I'd never heard you laugh that hard."

"Just struck me funny, I guess."

"That was bordering on being a witch's laugh."

"Oh, fuck off, it's not that bad!"

"I never said it was bad. I liked it. It suits you."

Sam's cheeks got rosy, and her expression was anxious. She handed Amie the remote,

"Here, pick something other than this."

Amie reached for it, and for a split second, their hands touched.

"Oh, sorry."

"It's... It's okay."

She flipped through the channels until she came upon a nature documentary. It was something safe and neutral for the two of them to watch. She was too worried that if she put on anything that she liked, it'd scare Sam off.

"You like Planet Earth?"

"Yeah, it's soothing."

Sam looked at Amie and smiled. She leaned over to her and rested her head on her shoulders. She sighed, saying,

"This is nice."

Amie couldn't help it, but her heart was beating a thousand beats per minute, and her nerves were absolutely shot because she didn't know how to handle this whatsoever. Amie didn't know how to handle this situation, so she just sat there, awkwardly stiff. Sam spoke up, saying,

"You okay? You seem tense?"

"Me? N-no, I'm fine."

She put her head on her chest and listened to her thumping heart. She looked up at her with shocked eyes,

"Oh my God, your heart is going crazy!"

"It's nothing!

"Amie, c'mon now."

Amie began to tremble slightly; the whole night was beginning to fall apart just because she was too afraid to say anything. The TV was muted, and when Amie looked for the remote, she saw that Sam was the one who turned off the sound. She'd set down the remote and slipped her hand into Sam's and gripped it tightly. It was soft and yet firm. Sam looked into her eyes and said,

"If something's bothering you, you can let me know."

Amie felt lightheaded, but she decided to go through with it, now as good a time as any. She cleared her throat and began,

"I've got something to tell you, and I'm worried that you'll hate me."

"Hate you? Never."

"Please let me finish..."

There was a brief pause; the sound of silence was deafening in the apartment, but then Amie began,

"When I was little, I always knew I was different. I just gravitated towards the people I liked. I just liked hanging around girls; that didn't mean I had guy friends. I did, but I just loved being around girls. In middle school, I tried to start a relationship with a boy, and it just never really worked out. I felt like I was dating a friend who wasn't really a friend and more of an acquaintance. But I kept it up because our parents liked the idea of us being together. We dated all the way up until freshman year of high school. But something happened...I...I fell in love with his sister.

One night, we were having a party at his house, it was a homecoming game, and everyone was there celebrating. There was weed and booze, but I was raised better than that to participate in that sort of stuff. Everyone was strung out of their minds. Everyone except for Emma. She and I sat there while we watched her brother and his friends act like frat bros. We talked the entire night, and one thing led to another, and... fuck, that night ended so bad. I was caught by their Dad, and he...he called me things. He told me that if I came near his little girl again, he'd cut my tits off.

Now, you'd think that's where my parents would step in, right? Yeah, you'd think...I came home, and my parents were sitting down at the table waiting for me. I told them that I didn't do anything wrong, I did exactly as they said, and I stayed away from any and all drugs and alcohol. Yet, they were there chastizing me for what I'd done, and my mother told me that I had a lapse in judgment, that this strange phase in my life would be over at some point. When I told her that I liked girls, she slapped the shit out of me, and not just once... I told my father about what Billy and Emma's father said to me, but he just stared out the window, mummuring to himself, 'Where'd I go wrong?' Can you fucking believe that shit?! I was threatened, and he was more worried about himself than me!

We stopped talking about it, and I returned to school, and everyone just stared at me. There were even people who wrote on my locker, calling me a lesbian whore and all that other shit. I tried to talk to Billy, but he just kept walking. When I tried to catch him outside of class one day, he even shoved me down to the ground, split my lip open, and yelled at me, saying, 'You're the one who fucked my sister! I don't need your apology, you fuckig cunt!' The teachers pulled him aside, but not without giving me a few contemptuous glares.

Months passed, and I had decided that enough time had passed to talk with Emma again, when I did, she was different. Her eyes were a little too wide, and her smile seemed fake. I talked to her, and she was all giggly and girly. She was never that, and when I brought up what happened, she said that it was just the devil tempting her to her ways, and come to find out, she went to a conversion camp over the summer. When I tried to talk to her in earnest, she pushed me away, telling me that I should pray about it.

Maybe that's what hurt the most. I never lost my faith in God above, but everyone around told me that he hated me, wanted me dead and buried. That I was going to burn. When I graduated high school, I returned home to my things packed up and sat on the side of the road. On top of it all was an envelope with a thick wad of cash and a letter stating that my mother said it was a good idea if I'd just go, that a little time by myself would do me some good. She even quoted scripture, talking about how Jesus was pruified in the desert, but that bitch failed to remember that even Jesus' father loved him!"

She broke down, tears flowing over her cheeks,

"And what's eaten away at me ever since was that there's been no one out there for me! No one loves me, and I'm starting to wonder if coming out was even fucking worth it! I lost everything for stating who I am, but no one fucking wants me! Oh God! God...."

Sam hugged her, rubbing her back, whispering,

"Oh, Amie, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

"I guess...what I'm trying to say is... you're the first person I know that I've fallen in love with for a long, long time. But...I don't want to ruin what we have! It's been hard to find friends since, and even if it doesn't work out, could we still be friends?"

Sam smiled at her and held her hands,

"Of course, and Amie...I...I like you too."

Amie's heart leaped in her chest; the blackness within her, the self-hatred that had wallowed around deep inside of her, was suddenly washed away. She began to sob, and Sam held her tight. The relief of finding love is something akin to flying, and Amie found herself soaring as high as she could imagine. Amie instinctively kissed her, and Sam was shocked by the sudden move. For a split second, Amie thought she'd ruined the whole thing, and that's when Sam kissed her back. They two relaxed as they lay on top of each other, cuddling and watching Planet Earth. Sam was ruffling her fingers through Amie's hair when she asked,

"Wanna watch something else?"

"Like what?"

"Hmmm...maybe Always Sunny?"

"Oh my God, I love that show!"

Before she could turn on her Hulu app, she heard her phone vibrating on the bedside table behind her,

"Oh, sorry, I'll get that-"

Sam's hand siezed her, the grip was sudden, powerful, and painful,

"Amie, just stay."

"Ow, Sam, you're hurting me!"

"Please, baby, just stay with me!"

"Sam, this fucking hurts! Quit!"

She broke off her grip, and Sam began to wail in terror,

"Amie! Please! Don't look at it!"

"Look at wh-"

When she looked at the bed, she saw a still body lying there, void of any movement. Her first thought was, 'Who the fuck is sleeping in my bed?' but then she saw the dark red hair poking over the covers, which looked just like her own. She approached the bed and leaned over to look at the body. She felt her skin, and it was ice cold. She pulled the sheet and found her own face buried deep into a pillow smeared in a dried, dark red stain. Panic set in as she looked at the uncanny display of mortality before her, and her first instinct was to call 911. She couldn't face the reality of what was unfolding before her. When she went to look at the phone, she saw a notification from Sam. It read,

'U UP?'

She carefully turned around to see the other Sam standing there, her face wet with tears, and her arms outstretched.

"I'm so sorry."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Listen, I...I didn't want..."

"Answer me!"

Sam trembled, and she ran over to Amie. She tried to hug her, but she was quickly pushed away,

"Don't touch me! Who are you? Fuck that, what are you?!"

Sam wiped her tears,

"I thought that a form of someone you loved would make it easier."

"Make what easier?"

"Amie, you had a severe aneurysm. You've... you've died."

Amie felt sick; she fell to her knees and began to weep.

"No! No! No! No way! I can't be! I just! I was healthy! All I had was-"

"Migraines? They weren't migraines, Amie, your gut was right, you should've seen a doctor. But look at the bright side, you've still got me!"

"You?"

"I... I've watched you for a very long time."

"What are you?"

"I guess you could say I'm a reaper, of sorts. When people die, they always have someone to usher them into the great unknown."

"Heaven?"

"Yes."

Amie began to nervously giggle. She'd always been told that she was hellbound, and yet here she was being told that she was going to heaven. The Other Sam continued,

"But...you don't have to go yet. When I came across you, in your final years, when you didn't know that you had so little time left, I knew that I'd found someone special. The way you laughed, your silly jokes, and I always thought you were so beautiful."

"So, when you were talking to me on the couch..."

"I was telling the truth. Amie, I love you. If you want to move onward into the afterlife, I'm not going to stop you, because tonight was special for me. We reapers... we're lonely, and to know that I am loved is enough for me."

Amie rose to her feet. She saw that this other Sam, who may have put on a fake face, but her emotions were real, and she needed to know.

"Let me see what you really look like."

"A-are you sure?"

"Yes."

Sam backed away from her, walking backward into a shadowy corner of the apartment, a place where no light entered or escaped, and was swallowed by the dark. For a moment, there was nothing, and then, emerging from the dark, was a cloaked figure gripping a scythe. She looked like she'd belonged to an old Tarot card that was marked 'Death'. Despite her ominous presence, she still maintained her nervous mannerisms and her charm.

"Well, here I am."

Amie took it in, looking at the figure of death standing before her, black robes flowing as if they were clothing submerged in water. She was ethereal, uncanny, but...she was still somehow beautiful. Sam nervously gripped the sythe, and with a trembling voice, she asked,

"Do you still love me?"

Amie approached the figure and was dwarfed by her size. She uncovered her hood and saw a skull with a flowing head of black hair that was waving in all directions, as if it were pulled back and forth by invisible waves. The sockets of the skulls were blacked save for two pinholes of light. Amie rubbed her hand against the smooth bone covered by the thin layer of flesh, and asked,

"Can I still call you Sam?"

The skeletal figure cackled; she may not have had tears, but she was still fighting them back. Sam told Amie,

"Of course. I never had a name before."

Sam took her hand and kissed it,

"How long do we have?"

"It's only forever, not long at all."

Amie and Sam embraced. She whispered to Sam,

"I love you."

"I love you too."

Amie took one last look at her apartment and thought back on her life. It was wrought with troubles, she was punished for being who she was, but in the end, it all worked out. She turned to the doorway and saw Sam there, hand beckoning her towards the light of a new day. She took it, and they walked together into the Sun.

Hi, I'm Howie, and I've been working for the better part of four years, but if we're being technical, it's most likely three and a half years. I have the unfortunate job of working on the 13th floor, where all sorts of weird shit happens. Ghosts, or what others call 'lost employees' or whatever. I never saw them, though, but the others swear up and down that they keep seeing old employees that they remembered working here. Me? I never see nothing. I'm not paid enough to give a shit about factory problems, supernatural or otherwise. To describe the 13th floor is to describe the most boring and unremarkable part of the warehouse. Other floors have cool gadgets, conveyor belts, and wide open spaces. Here, though, it's just boxes, man, hundreds of thousands of shelves full of fucking boxes.

We take them down from the shelves, load them onto the hydraulic lift, and send them down to the other floors to be somebody else's problem. From there, it was processed further and eventually shipped out. I worked the forklift, I was one of the few that actually knew how to work the damn thing, but as a result, I got paid more. Five whole cents more, to be exact. Everything was going fine for me until the suits showed up. During my time here, the floor manager didn't really interact with us all that much. I was returning to the lift with a palette full of boxes when I saw everyone huddled together. Speaking to them was Todd Abernathy, our floor manager, who was more employee handbook than man. He stood at a surprisingly short 4ft 9in tall, he was balding, and his beard was always trimmed so clearly that it looked downright fake. I parked the forklift and walked over.

"Howard! So, glad you could join us!" He shouted at me with that sarcastic corporate glee.

"What's up?" I said,

"I was going to bring everyone into my office real quick before we continued our work for the rest of the day. I've got a really important announcement for all of you."

He ascended the stairs to his office, most of which were built to sit above the work floor. Managers had their own little eagle's nests to watch over us with vigilance. I don't know how the other managers were, but I would bet money that Todd was one of the nitpicky. If you were out of line, even for the smallest, most inconsequential task, he'd call you up to the office and threaten to report you.

I didn't like him, and neither did the rest of the crew. One who was on the verge of cracking was Agatha Neeson, a brunette who was losing the color in her hair due to stress, and her eyes had lost all life. They were two dull black dots in pools of white. When she first joined, she wore make-up, her hair was immaculate, and she had a bubbly personality that was just infectious. Well, the warehouse takes the best of us, chews us up, and then shits us out, zapped of everything that made them who they were. I tapped her shoulder,

"What'd I miss?"

"Fuck if I know, Howie, Todd tried radioing us all to gather at his office. Didn't you hear him?"

"I was listening to music, sorry."

She sighed,

"You know, for someone who's worked longer than I have, you are pretty shit at following the handbook."

"They're just suggestive rules."

"Are you trying to get us all fired?!"

"And hire who? The company can't afford to lose people like us. "can't

"You underestimate how desperate people can be for a job like this one. You don't know how fucking lucky I am to have this job, Howie. I value my job, and I don't need a slacker fuck up like you to ruin this for me!"

Todd's office, despite his ongoing ramblings about cleanliness and order, was a mess. You couldn't see the top of his desk due to all of the paper, and on the bulletin board behind him was an eclectic collection of papers pertaining to the warehouse. Reminders for trivia night in the break room for Tuesday, a series of names and phone numbers, a missing poster for an eye patch-wearing guy named 'Dave Allen Forrester', and a calendar that was eviscerated by marker. He took a seat behind his desk as he plopped himself into his chair. The leather stretched and crinkled as he adjusted himself. He stared at us like a teacher looking down at a particularly unruly classroom.

"I called you in here today to let you know that we're expecting company here on the thirteenth floor."

The hand of a particularly pale man, he looked like he'd seen a ghost when Todd spoke up,

"What kind of company?" He asked breathlessly,

"You listen here, Mister… what's your name?"

"It's Gary."

"You do not cut me off, Gary! Ever! You speak unless you've been spoken to, got it?!"

"Y-yes, sir."

Todd clasped his hands together, cleared his throat, and continued,

"Some of our generous benefactors are visiting the warehouse today. Mister Flagg, Miss Yamamura, Miss Markos & Mister Cotton will be here shortly to examine the progress of the warehouse. This visit is very important, and I want everyone and everything on this floor to be in top shape. I want it so clean that I'd be able to eat off the fucking floor, understood?"

We didn't speak back; most of us nodded.

"Good. You're all dismissed."

We filed out of the office, mumbling to each other that it was such bullshit that we suddenly had to keep up appearances. Since when did anyone in this warehouse care about appearances? You know how fucked up this warehouse can get? A guy exploded on the fourth floor three weeks ago, and they didn't start cleaning up the blood until last Tuesday. They didn't even clean it up well! They just hosed it off with a power washer! Mind you, that's just one of the many weird-ass things that happen here.

I didn't do much to clean, I just picked up a few stray bottles and wrappers. I just drove around on the forklift trying to spot any places where I'd left any garbage. Todd knew my routes, and he'd definitely know for sure. I was on my usual path, same sights, the thousands of boxes stacked all the way to the roof, and the shelves that seemed endless. I picked up the last bit of garbage I could find when a thought occurred to me: I'd never traveled this far before. I looked behind me to see if anyone was looking, and I found nothing but a bare pathway back to the others. I was bored, and in that moment, I felt curious. I radioed to Todd,

"Hey, boss?"

"Yes, Howard?"

"Mind if I take a look around? I wanted to double-check something towards the back."

"….okay, but don't go too far."

"Why?"

"This is a big warehouse, Howard, one of the biggest in the country, maybe even the world."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful."

"You better be, you signed that contract just like the rest of us, you know that it states-"

"I know what it means."

I decided to just floor it. I put the pedal to the metal and hauled ass down the corridor. I wanted to see where the shelves ended. I drove and drove, and I expected to see a wall approach me at frightening speed. Yet, it just kept going on forever. I ended up driving for another thirty minutes. I even stopped for a moment to set a timer, and after driving for what seemed like an eternity, I heard the timer go off in my shirt pocket. I drove for a solid thirty minutes, and I was no closer to reaching the other side of the store. At this point, I decided that it wasn't worth it; the batteries would run dry on the forklift, and the last thing I needed was to get chastised by Todd for abandoning company equipment.

So, I turned around in the forklift, and when I did, I saw something that made my stomach churn.

There was a shelf only a few feet behind me.

My gaze was fixed on large cardboard boxes that were stacked neatly in a row. I was driving for nearly an hour, and somehow I was almost flush against a shelf. It was impossible. I backed up and faced forward once more. I had no other choice but to go forward. That's when the next anomaly presented itself to me.

Before me, there were three distinct pathways, endless rows of boxes and shelves that all led to three dark corridors.

I grabbed my radio with a shaking hand and asked,

"I'm going through something here in the back."

A voice answered, it was Agatha, her voice was exhausted and seemingly annoyed,

"What is it, Howie? Get lost slacking off?"

"Yes...well, no! I was driving to the other side of the warehouse and...I...I don't know."

"Jesus, Howie, be more specific! We're expecting the suits in about an hour!"

"The shelves, they changed! They all rearranged or something, and I don't know how to get out!"

She tried to speak back, but the static grew louder, and her voice began to fade into it,

"...shelves.....what do.....just.....be sure to.....the back.....lost....out...."

"Hello?! Hello?! Agtha?!"

Then the signal was gone, nothing but static.

I was left with only three choices ahead of me: Left, Center, and Right. You may think this is childish, but I lifted up my hand and began to say,

"Eeenie...meenie....minie....moe....."

Listen, they all looked exactly the same, and there was no other real way to gauge where to go. So, I just decided to pick it by chance. By the time I got to the last bit of the song, I ended up on the center path. I put the forklift in gear and went forward.

For the longest time, there was nothing. Just the boxes and shelves, but then, I had a smell overtake my senses. It was bad, really bad, and it made my eyes water. It was something that I could only describe as metallic, rotten, and mixed with the scent of a sewer. I kept going until I saw that there was a turn up ahead. Of all the years I'd spent here, the shelves were always the same, going in straight rows that went on for miles. I'd never seen it curved, turned, or rearranged like this ever. I gripped the wheel and made a left turn.

Before me, I saw an older, rustic forklift. It was a very old model, but it still had the company logo on the side. In the driver's seat was a rotted corpse, still in uniform and gripping the steering wheel. I drove past him slowly as I eyed him closer, taking a look at his nametag. It read, 'WILLIAM,' and I noticed something was in his shirt pocket. I put the forklift in park and went to the body. I cupped my shirt over my nostrils to block the smell, but it didn't work. I snatched the object from the shirt and backed away from the skeleton that had only a scant amount of flesh clinging to the bone.

It was a journal, small and leather-bound. I opened it and saw that it was full of writing. The first dated entry was February of 1990, and it was just full of seemingly inconsequential shit. Relationship stuff, management problems (sorry, brother, but nothing's changed, and family drama pertaining to a strained relationship with his mother. I'll spare you the details, but the last few pages were scribbled down hastily. They went as follows,

JULY 1991

I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S HAPPENING, BUT I'VE BEEN LOST FOR DAYS, OR WHAT I THINK ARE DAYS. THERES NO SUNLIGHT IN THE WAREHOUSE SO ITS HARD TO TELL. I WISH I KNEW THE DATE WHEN I TRAVELED INTO THE LABYRINTH. JERRY TOLD ME EVERYTHING ABOUT IT, ABOUT HOW IT ALMOST GOT HIM, BUT OF COURSE I DIDN'T LISTEN. ME AND MY FUCKING EGO. I'M GOING TO KEEP GOING, AND HOPE FOR THE BEST.

JULY 1991

I'VE SLEPT FIVE TIMES, SO THAT MIGHT BE FIVE DAYS? I DON'T KNOW FOR SURE, ALL I KNOW IS THAT THERE'S SOMETHING IN HERE. I HEAR LOUD FOOTSTEPS, AND I'M SCARED

1991

I THINK IT'S BEEN A MONTH, BUT I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE. I'VE LOST TRACK, AND I'M PRETTY SURE WHATEVER IS OUT THERE IS GETTING CLOSER. I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH JUICE IS LEFT IN THE FORKLIFT, BUT I'M TOO SCARED TO WALK ON FOOT. I DON'T KNOW WHY, BUT THE CAGE OF GLASS MAKES ME FEEL SAFE, LIKE THAT THING CAN'T GET ME. I'M STARTING TO RUN OUT OF SNACKS.

1992?

I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH LONGER I'VE GOT. I'M STARVING, I'M THIRSTY, AND I' M TIRED.

????

I HAVE TO KEEP DRIVING, IT'S RUNNING NOW, I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CAN'T STOP! I CANT STOP! I CANT STOP! I CANT STOP! I CANT STOP I CANT STOP I CANT STOP I CANT STOPICANTSTOPICANTSTOPICANTSTOP-

I tossed the journal back into his lap and began to think of my situation. I looked in my forklift and saw that I had a canteen full of water, a monster energy drink, and a giant sack of trail mix that I always snacked on throughout the day. I'd have to make it last for so much longer. I climbed back into my driver's seat and drove off, feeling completely unnerved. I sipped the monster, trying to stay awake, but it was failing. I kept driving for what felt like forever, and sleep was feeling inevitable. Every blink of my eyes felt like a battle against sleep. I eventually just put the forklift in park, shut it off, and leaned back in my seat. I don't pray often, but I did that night. I prayed that someone would notice I was gone and that they'd send somebody for me. But deep down, I knew they wouldn't care. People are expendable in the warehouse; I was just a number in a sea of numbers.

I woke up to footsteps in the corridor. The sound was like weighty, impactful slaps. Like someone was sprinting barefoot across the floor. I woke up and looked behind me with frantic eyes, waiting to see what was there waiting around the corner. From the threshold of the darkened corner, I saw something inch into the stark whiteness of the fluorescent lights. It looked human at first, like a deformed man. His face was twisted, he had a flattened pug-nose, a cleft lip, eyes that were too far apart, and his hair (both on his face and his scalp) was long, wild, and unkempt. He inched closer, and I saw he was wearing a company uniform; his nametag read 'JOHNNY'. I called out to him because he looked like he was worse for wear.

"Hey!" I shouted, "You okay?! You know how I can-"

He moved closer, the lights above shone down like a great spotlight, and with horrific lucidity, I saw the rest of him. Jutting from the scalp were two horns that looked like they belonged to a ram. The eyes were yellow with slanted goat pupils, and then there were the feet. It looked like hooves at first glance, but in reality, they were only shaped that way. Monstrously misshapen and clubbed feet that were controrted into the shape of hooves. It had a tail, but it looked to be a protruding vertebrate wrapped in skin and hair. It began to paw at the hardened floor, the flesh lump scuffing the ground, and through its warped nose, it began to bray.

I turned the key and floored it. As I sped through the corridors that were ever changing, I made turns in every direction, left, right, and center, and during the entire time, I heard nothing but the sounds of loud, thudding steps charging behind me. I kept on driving and praying with every turn I took. I prayed that this thing would let up and leave me alone. I took another right turn and found another body. He was absent from a forklift, and his body was torn asunder by something, but I had a good idea what it might've been. I kept on and on until I came to a clearing, and found the thing's den, or what I think might've been Johnny's den. There was a massive house constructed by boxes from surrounding shelves; the floor was stained with dried blood, old uniforms, and bones. I don't know exactly how many corpses filled that den, but it had to have been at least thirty-no, fifty!

The footsteps came again, and my time to gawk at the horror of what I was witnessing had come to a close. It was time to get a move on once more, and I drove only a foot when I heard the sound of something loud popping, followed by a steady hiss. I looked out of my window and saw that a broken femur or whatever kind of bone it was, had stabbed my front tire. I put the pedal all the way down to the floor, but I ended up swerving off course and into a shelf. I got out to survey the damage and saw that the tire was completely flat. I heard the footsteps grow louder; it was coming, and I was a sitting duck. I had only two options that popped into my head: I could stay in the driver's seat, protected by the plexiglass for a while, or I could run on foot and try my best to outrun this thing. I went to pray, hands clasped and eyes to the sky, and that's when I saw my third and best option.

Why not just climb the shelves and walk on top?

I grabbed my canteen, downed the last drips of the monster, and stuffed the half-empty bag of trail mix into my pocket. I gripped the first shelf and began to climb. After driving for so long and taking no breaks to limber up and stretch, my muscles felt like they were on fire. I was out of shape, and my body was practically screaming this fact to me with every shelf I climbed. I huffed and groaned, but I stayed on the path upward. After what seemed to be an eternal agony of climbing and aching muscles, I reached upward and felt the top of the shelves. I hoisted myself up and lay flat on my back, gasping for air. When I reached the top, I just broke. The tears just sort of sprang loose, and I was in hysterics. I'd always made a fuss about how everyone experienced something here on the thirteenth floor while I was stuck with nothing, but now I wished more than anything to return to the nothing I had. I wished that I was just stacking boxes like old times, conversing with co-workers, and shit, I'd even listen to Todd cuss me out at this point.

I passed out from exhaustion and awoke to the shelf shaking. I sat up straight, muscles sore, and throat dry, and felt the rumble beneath me. I looked over the side and found that Johnny had learned to climb the shelves just as I did. He was grunting with each shelf he'd climbed, and my blood ran cold when I saw that he was more than halfway up the shelf. I shot to my feet and looked out over the tops of the shelves. They were endless and ever twisting into lavish patterns and corridors beyond comprehension. It hurt my eyes to look at it, but I had to plot my path away from Johnny before he got to the top. I sprinted down the shelf and across the ever-changing pathways that turned into squares, triangles, spirals, and more. I lost track of where I was and where I was going. I heard a bray in the distance and looked back to see that Johnny had made it to the top.

He galloped towards me with a fierce speed, and I had come to the edge of a shelf, with no other directions to walk or leap towards. Nothing below but a blackened abyss. I gripped the handle of my water canteen and gripped it tight. If I'm going down, I was going to at least put up a fight. He sprinted towards me, teeth bared, and grunting heavily. I reeled back the canteen and brought it down over its head. It was caught by one of its horns, but the water in my canteen was freezing cold, and caused it to yelp in shock. I pulled the canteen loose from the horn and was ready to bring it down again when the damn thing rammed its head into my chest. The air was knocked from my lungs, and then I was falling...

I landed on something, and it broke beneath me. I heard gasps and shrieks. I looked around with weak eyes and saw my co-workers all looking down at me with utter shock. Todd approached me with three strangers, and I began to lose consciousness when I heard Agatha cry out,

"Where the fuck did he come from?!"

For a moment, I thought I'd died somehow, but if I were dead, why was I in so much pain? I was in a stark white room, void of any and all color, that is, until I saw the tacky motivational posters on the wall. I was in the infirmary on the first floor. I'd only been here once before, but you don't forget a place like this. Before me, at the edge of the bed, were the three strangers I'd seen when I fell from the top of that shelf. One was a tall, thin Asian man with slicked-back hair, a short, fat woman with her hair in a bun so tight that her eyes were drawn upward ever so slightly, and then there was a handsome-looking man with a beard groomed with almost surgical precision. The asian man spoke first,

"Greetings, Mister Price, or should I call you Howard?"

I tried to sit up, but the pain was excruciating. I mumbled to him,

"Just, Howie, if that's okay."

"Well, Howie, I am Mister Yamamura, this is Miss Markos, and this is Mister Cotton. We seemed to have found you at a very interesting moment during your workday."

"No...I was gone....three days, I think."

And that was my truth, to me, it had been that long, but according to Mister Yamamura,

"You'd only been gone for an hour. All the other employees attest to this."

"That's not.... that's...."

"Easy." Markos said, her breath stinking of cigarettes, "I know you're in pain, and your injury was an eye-opening experience for us."

Mister Cotton spoke up,

"I'll say. Anyone who lets their employees drift that far into the thirteenth floor is a fool and an endangerment to their co-workers. Everyone should know about the labyrinth, and yet he kept it from all of you...what an amateur."

Mister Yamamura cleared his throat,

"What my colleagues are trying to say is that what happened today shouldn't have happened at all, and the man responsible for this mismanagement has been fired and promptly replaced."

I said the first thing that came to my mind,

"What about....what about me?"

"You will be given two weeks to rest up and find the proper medical attention for your injuries, and you'll be back on the forklift in no time."

"No.... it's out there...in the shelves..."

"You mean Johnny?"

I didn't say a word; I simply nodded with tears filling my eyes. I was too overwhelmed to speak, Mister Yamamura continued,

"Listen, we're aware of his existence, and we would want nothing more than to terminate him, but unfortunately, he was an employee at one point, and due to his contract agreement, our hands are tied. So, all we ask of you is to stick to your usual routes, and we implore you not to explore the thirteenth floor any further. The labyrinth is a very dangerous place that has taken the lives of many employees."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Howie." Mister Cotton chimed in,

Miss Markos laid a check on the side table, and due to my contract, I'm not allowed to discuss pay, but all I can tell you is that the check had a lot of zeroes on it. My pay in general is adequate, but the check covered my bills and then some. Was it a bribe? Most likely, but I didn't care anymore. Judge me all you want for staying with the company, but money talks. Besides, Todd was gone, and Agatha was now in charge. She may be strict, but she is head and shoulders above Todd.

Tomorrow, I return to work. I'm still in pain, my arm isn't fully healed, but I now know my limits. I'm lucky to have gotten out at all, and next time I won't make the same mistakes. Just remember, if you're on the 13th floor, don't go too far into the shelves or you just might wander into the labyrinth.

My name's Dave, and I've been working at the warehouse for...shit, I don't know, man. All I know is that they don't pay me enough, and I'm sick of all the weird shit that happens in here, man. The warehouse is practically the size of a state and seems to stretch on forever. It's surrounded by the most boring scenery imaginable, just pines for miles, and not a single mountain surrounding us. You don't even hear the birds (or the wind, for that matter) due to the constant electronic humming from the warehouse. Also, it's always raining here, every fucking day. Now, I know that in the job application, they stated that there'd be some 'unusual happenings' due to the location of the warehouse (whatever the fuck that means), but I thought it'd be at least something scary or cool like all the other employees. I've heard people encountering cults inside the warehouse who worship the box crushing machine, the ghosts on the seventh, thirteenth, and fourth floors who may or may not be former employees, and my friend Samantha said she saw some sort of centipede made entirely of cardboard and tape. What am I plagued with? Hunting down a fucking mannequin named Gary.

Gary appeared about three months ago, seemingly out of nowhere. A plain white mannequin, devoid of clothes, was posed as if it were shrugging, trying to be cool. I know that we box things up and send them out for delivery, but Gary had no tags on him whatsoever. I searched all over because I didn't want to get busted for not doing my job (they don't pay me enough as is). After hours of searching and balancing other packages, I called my manager, Terry, and she didn't see any orders listed for a male mannequin. So, he just stood there with us all, and we started to dress him, talk to him like he was a real person, and after a week, everyone decided on the name 'Gary'. After that, it was the start of my problems.

On a random Tuesday, it was thundering outside, and my pal Ted walked up to me and asked,

"Where's the packing peanuts?"

I thought he was busting my balls, but I didn't feel like it today, and I just gave him a straight answer.

"They're in the back, man, same place they've always been."

"I just checked, man, they ain't nowhere."

I stopped the conveyor belt and told everyone to take five. You couldn't package anything if we didn't have something in the box. Would you want all of your breakable shit rolling around and getting crushed? Yeah, I didn't think so. I took off my gloves and followed him into the back, where we kept all of the packing peanuts. They were in these massive boxes, and they were usually five feet high. What can I say? We pack a lot of shit here, but I digress. So, he turned on the light and gestured to the nothingness before me. All of the boxes were gutted, flattened down, and there wasn't a packing peanut to be found. The only available materials present were tape, box cutters (one of which was missing from the rack), and safety goggles. There were six boxes, plenty to last for the next several weeks, and now there were zero of them. To say I was dumbfounded was an understatement.

"If this is one of your pranks, Ted, I swear to Christ-"

"Listen! I get it! I know I bust your chops every now and then, but this one ain't me, man. Honest!"

I sighed and scratched my scalp,

"So, what is it then? Reckon someone just swapped it from us while we had lunch?"

"I mean...It's possible."

"I'll talk to Terry, see if he can't pull up the surveillance."

I don't like talking to Terry, not because he's mean or anything like that, but I just don't like coming across as someone who needs help all the time. I've heard many cases where employees just kept asking for pointers or for help, and they were quickly labeled as a liability and promptly fired. Would I miss this job? Yes and no. I don't like the weird shit that happens here, but I also like the people I work with. I guess it balanced out. Terry's office oversaw the floor where everyone was stationed for our sector of the warehouse. She was an intimidating woman, attractive, but intimidating. She was blonde, on the older side, and I don't know how tall she really is, but she dwarfed me and everyone else who worked under her. Maybe that's why they hired her for this sector. Which made me think, were all of the other managers tall like her, or was it just us? I put the thought aside as I knocked on the door.

"Come in," she said,

She was typing something up on her computer, and her desk was littered with papers that were most likely thrown at her by the company. Complaints by customers, budgets, payments, complaints by employees, and so forth. Above her was a series of monitors that displayed all of the different angles of the floor below. She finished up whatever she was writing and then turned her attention to me.

"I saw that you stopped the conveyor belt. Why's that, Dave?"

"We're out of packing peanuts."

"Hm. I'll put in a call to the east side of the warehouse, and they'll deliver some whenever they're free."

"Listen, we didn't use it up, Terry. We're pretty sure that it was taken or stolen, and I was hoping you could pull up the footage from earlier if that's possible."

She looked at me, her gaze was cold, but she just nodded and began to pull up the camera feed on her computer.

"When do you think that it was taken?"

"Let's say....while we were at lunch."

"Okay."

The footage wasn't that great; the company prides itself on being the most up-to-date technology in the warehouse, but it's just the bare minimum. The footage's top resolution was about 480p on the best of days, and on its worst, it was just a jumble of pixels that'd occasionally look like something. Thankfully, today was one of the good days. The footage of the back room was static and lifeless, and for a moment, I thought that I'd just made myself an ass and fell for one huge prank. Then both the doors swung open to reveal...the mannequin. I sighed and pinched my brow. I'd been punked again.

"Goddamn it, I knew this was-"

Then Gary began to walk in. The static position of his perpetual shrug shifted, and now he was moving with an uncanny elegance. He shuffled his feet to the equipment rack, withdrew a box cutter, and cut open one of the boxes. He pried open the top and, surely enough, the packing peanuts were all there. That's when I saw that his blank face began to vibrate up and down, almost like a seizure-like nodding, and when it stopped. The jaw jostled around, almost like a tweaker in desperate need of his next fix. Gary took the box cutter and slit open the blank spot where a mouth should've been. The jaw moved again, and this time a mouth spawned from the cut.

It looked so wrong, man. I thought it'd just be styrofoam or stuffing beneath Gary, but it was an actual human mouth. Pink gums, yellowish teeth, and a tongue that was a little too long for my liking. Before I could say any remarks on what we were looking at, I saw Gary take styrofoam peanuts by the fistful and cram them into his mouth. His teeth gnashed at the peanuts until they were a viscous paste that dribbled down to the uniform that we donned on him as a joke. He kept eating and eating and eating until one box was completely empty. To my shock, Terry was completely silent about the whole thing, and just fast-forwarded through the rest of the footage. He repeated his actions for the remaining five boxes. When he was done, he smashed the boxes flat, stuffed the boxcutter in his pocket, and walked out of the room.

"Well, that's not good." Terry said, "Looks like he'll be a problem, Dave."

"How...how is that possible?"

"I don't know, Dave, all I know is that weird shit happens all the time here in the warehouse, and as far as the stuff I've heard from other managers, this is pretty tame."

She went to a locker behind her desk, spun a combination on a lock, and opened it to reveal an array of weapons. Her hand went over the rifles, a shotgun, but ultimately landed on a small snub-nosed revolver. She picked it up and handed it to me.

"This should do it."

"Excuse me?"

"The mannequin is your responsibility, Dave. He's probably out there looking for more packing peanuts to eat, and that's company property. I want you to get one of the electric personnel carriers and drive around the warehouse until you find and kill it. Understood?"

"Who's gonna be in charge while I'm gone?"

"Ted will."

"Ted?! He can't find his ass with both hands, give it to Laura or Ingrid or fuckin' Sawyer!"

"Ted is the next in command, and I assure you, if he steps out of line, he will be replaced as quickly as possible."

I just gritted my teeth, took the pistol, and agreed to take the job. I got an electronic carrier, and with a turn of a key, I was off on my warehouse-wide hunt for Gary. I have seen more of this warehouse than I wanted to, multiple floors and sub-levels that I didn't even know existed, but I kept following the same lead, missing packing peanuts. Whenever they were suddenly missing, I knew it had to be Gary, and I gave chase. I am not joking when I say that I have grown to hate this fucking mannequin with a fiery passion. I've not been back to my standard boxing job in months, hell, a year might've passed now that I think about it. I clock in, I go mannequin hunting, and I clock out. I know I'm getting paid, but I'm so sick of this shit. I miss my co-workers, I miss my regular, boring job. I feel like Van Helsing or Doctor Loomis hunting their monster, and I just wish that Gary would just show himself already.

Last month, though, I came real close. I got a tip from level 8, and one of the employees described seeing a pale employee that they didn't remember working there, and said that he was lingering around storage the entire time they were working. I drove the carrier onto the elevator, rode up to level 8, and began my search. I interviewed an employee, asking if they got a look at his face. It was a trick question; I knew his face was blank, but to my surprise, they gave me an answer.

"He was kinda plain looking, you know? Unremarkable face, he was just a bland-looking guy."

"Bland how?"

"I don't know, man, he just ain't got nothin' that makes him stand out."

I followed it up by asking,

"You get his name?"

"Yeah. Gary."

I asked him to point me in his direction, and he pointed to the storage in the back. When I reached it, I saw the doors open, and I withdrew my pistol. I took off my shoes so he wouldn't hear my boots on the hard floor. I inched closer and closer until I saw him. He was under the fluorescent lights of the storage room, digging into the box, scarfing down the packing peanuts like candy. From a distance, he almost looked human; in fact, he had sweat marks on his back, around his neck, and under his armpits. There were even beads of sweat on his white bald head. I shouted,

"Gary!"

He turned around, and when I saw him, he looked so wrong. The skin had no pigmentation to it, no natural, fleshy color, just the same white color, but his skin didn't appear to be plastic anymore. He had sweat glistening off of him, but he didn't have any hair on his body, nor did her have any fingernails or wrinkles. What he did have now were eyes. Two brownish-yellow irises resting in creamy whites. He also had a nose, a small, almost perfectly shaped nose void of any blemishes or strange abnormalities. The slit mouth that he began with was now replaced with extraordinarily thin lips and a more defined chin. He spoke to me,

"I don't get why you hunt me, your kind dressed me. Gave me a name. Is it wrong to not want a life like yours?"

"You can't eat packing peanuts!"

"I can eat nothing else; you are made of organic material, I am not."

"It's company property."

"From the way I see it, everything is here. Including you."

He raised his hands up and gave me a sorrowful look,

"Just let me go."

Listen, I still hate Gary, I really do, but I almost felt sorry for him in a way. He wanted to be an employee of the warehouse just like us. However, I was over the chase, I wanted nothing more than to just go back to the conveyor belt, and get orders ready to be shipped. I missed my co-workers, and I was gone so long at this point that I was starting to worry whether I'd forget their names. Call me an asshole, call me a monster, but in that moment, I was just tired. I raised the gun and fired. He was quick, he ducked before the shot when off, and he leaped onto me and dragged the boxcutter blade from my temple down to my right eye. As I clutched at my face in agony, the little shit stuffed some packing peanuts into his pockets and ran out into the warehouse.

Now, I'm back to the hunt for Gary, the warehouses' one and only mannequin pest control, and I wish more than anything that I had just pulled the trigger without any hesitation. I've lost an eye, I drive a shitty ass carrier all day, and more importantly, management is still holding me to the fact that I've still not caught Gary. Packing peanuts are still going missing, but Gary is smart enough now to cleverly cover his tracks; I know better. I know how that piece of shit works. I'll find him someday, and when I do, I'm blowing his brains or stuffing or whatever the fuck his strange, half-human, half-mannequin head has in it.

If you work at the warehouse, and you see an insanely pale guy named Gary start working with you, or all of your packing peanuts start disappearing, don't hesitate to call management. I'll be there as quickly as possible.

And if you're reading this, Gary, fuck you.