u/JICMike

The restaurant was called Bev's Place, a fine dining place that prides itself on cuisine, service, and decor that make you feel welcomed. It's an hour outside of Knoxville in a very tucked-away corner of the woods. If I were to describe it, I'd say the picture has a double-decker log cabin next to a river with a water mill, and a giant wrap-around porch. The wood is American chestnut, don't ask me how the owners got their hands on so much of it, because even I don't know. It's a bit Hoity-toity, but aren't all fancy restaurants? I've been working at Bev's for the better part of a decade, and for the longest time, I was really in a bad spot. I had an extreme depressive episode and was experiencing extreme self-hatred. It wormed into my head and convinced me that I wasn't worth anything. I didn't deserve love, friendship, family, or even a job. I was down on my luck. Jobless for eight months, and rent bills kept piling up. Soon, I would've had to face eviction and the harsh reality of homelessness. Then, as I was sitting there in my shit-hole apartment, I saw an ad for Bev's in the local newspaper. I figured 'What the Hell' and just gave them a call.

So, here I am. I started out as a dishwasher and worked my way all the way up to a waiter. I still help in the kitchen every now and then, but I'm primarily the problem solver. Whenever people complain, have questions, need directions, or want a second helping, I'm your guy. Most of the time, we've got good days. Every once in a while, we'll have an order that goes wrong, or a guy will have way too much wine. Had one guy so drunk that he started heckling the staff and demanded out loud to everyone in attendance,

"Who shit my pants?!"

He was promptly thrown out, and I had the pleasure of banning him from Bev's myself.

At the center of Bev's was Beverly Stevenson, and I wish I could tell you more about her, but she's a genuine enigma. She built the place herself, trained the cooks, and was always a big motherly figure for everyone. Her accent was thick, but she spoke with utter finesse and grace. My co-workers are a big family, but I hate to say that I don't remember every single one of their names; I mostly remember faces. However, I developed a friendship with a woman named Sarah. She was a redhead and freakishly tall. I'm talking 6'6, and I don't know why the others were intimidated by her tall stature, because she's been nothing but kind. Well, kind to me at least. Sarah and I would take breaks together and just chat the entire time. I'd tell her my woes with customers while she told me about kitchen drama.

Of the decade I'd worked there, I've known her for about six years, and I've counted them as a blessing. It's funny how love works because I've never really considered myself a romantic. I just assumed that after 27 years and no solid relationships, I was done. That I'd just be one of those guys who'd just wind up without anybody. Yet, here I was working with a woman whom I considered to be one of my best friends. Last year, I built up enough courage to ask her out, and it didn't go super well. Well, at least on my end. I was shaking, sweating, and stuttering over my words. I was utterly terrified that, in expressing my feelings, I'd end a friendship that I'd cherished so deeply. There was a brief pause where she just sort of stared at me, and in that moment, I felt complete and utter despair. 'Way to go, genius. You've fucked it all up, like you always do'. I was about to apologize profusely and beg her to forget about anything I'd ever said. Then she told me,

"Jesus Christ, took you long enough."

She took my hand, and she just sighed, almost like a heavy load was taken off her shoulders.

"Want to go bowling with my friends and me on Saturday?"

Of course, I said yes. For the next year, it was bliss. It was like my missing piece finally revealed itself to me, and I couldn't have been happier. It's like I had finally allowed myself to be happy. We moved in together into an apartment, which was nicer than my old one, and we even bought a cat. His name is Carl, and he's an asshole to me, but he seems to like Sarah well enough, so I guess it balances out. The plan was to keep working together at Bev's and save up enough to buy a house far away from the noise of the city. Nothing but the sounds of wind blowing through the trees.

The plans changed when Gustaf Fjord arrived.

It was a Friday, the crowd was busy, and I was bouncing from table to table getting orders, collecting checks, and trying my best to keep track of who was low on drinks. I went back to the kitchen, gassed, and Sarah was halfway through putting a coating of sauce on freshly fried chicken when she saw me burst into the room. I put up the new orders for the kitchen staff, and Sarah yelled out,

"Busy?"

"Fuckin-A, it's busy. Is there a holiday or something today?"

"Not that I know of."

"Maybe there's something in the water."

Another guy chimed in, I think his name was Greg or something. He was washing dishes and called out,

"It's just one of those days!"

I got three pitchers of drinks and went back out into the bustling restaurant. Lemonade, water, and tea. I was watching the other waiters and waitresses dashing around with exhaustion. I took care of refills, and then I was just about to take a small break when someone entered through the door. The man wore a pressed light tan suit with a light blue undershirt. His skin was pink, his body was pudgy, and he sported hair so yellow that it could be mistaken for white. His shockingly blue eyes darted around, looking for someone to take him to a table. I was hoping for someone, anyone, to take him, but every other waiter and waitress was busy. I begrudgingly walked over to him and regurgitated the same phrase that we're supposed to say to everyone else,

"Welcome to Bev's. Are you dining with us today?"

"I am," he said, there was a slight accent, possibly Swedish, but I'm no aficionado on that kind of stuff.

"Alright, we'll get you a table as soon as possible."

"Perkele...how soon?"

"I'd say..." I looked around, the tables were all full, and I couldn't lie. I don't think I'm capable of lying. "I don't know. Maybe an hour, but probably less."

He grunted as he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a card. It was laminated, stark black with a scant amount of information written on it. It read:

GUSTAF FJORD, FOOD CRITIC.

I was taken aback by this because after working here for so long, I'd never seen this guy before in my life. We get our fair share of critics, but they're pretty much regulars here with few complaints. I thought that this guy must've thought he was hot shit. I took the card and nodded. I told him,

"Just have a seat, and I'll be with you in a little bit, okay?"

"Hm," he grunted,

I held the card in my hand as I strolled all the way back to Bev's office. I gave her door three knocks, and she answered,

"Come in."

I opened the door to find her mulling over bills and punching in calculations into her phone calculator. She glanced up at me with tired eyes and said,

"Hey, Paul."

"There's a guy out front who gave me this."

I showed her the card, and she stared at it for a second. Her expression dropped, and she looked at me with a look that terrified me. It wasn't anger or hate; she was scared. Her eyes were wide as she snatched the card from my hand, and she got up from her desk. She spoke to me in a hushed manner,

"I need you to tell the other staff to cancel any orders that they're cooking, and we need everyone out of the restaurant as soon as possible."

"What? You just want us to all clear out the restaurant?"

"Yes! Do it!"

"Bev, who is this fucking guy?!"

"He's a critic. One of the world's best. Do you know how much power he has? He can kill a business with the click of a goddamned pen! So I suggest that if you like your job, get going!"

She burst from her office and ran out front to greet Gustaf, who was sitting idly as he scribbled down in a small, leatherbound notebook. As she made introductions and small talk, I gathered up all of the waiters and told them what Bev told me. They didn't believe me at first. A waitress by the name of Emily ran over to ask Bev, only to be accosted publicly in front of the whole restaurant. She'd never done anything like that to any of us. So, when she returned to the group, wiping away tears, she vouched for me.

The next thirty minutes could only be described as chaos. We sent home people who didn't even get a chance to touch their food, and we fully refunded them. They kept asking for a reason why they were being ushered out, and some wondered if they had done anything to offend the management. I just told them that something unexpected came up. Some took it and just solemenly left, others blew up saying that they loved this place and that they didn't want to leave. I had to stop them from getting into a fistfight by forking over hundreds of dollars of my own money. They spat in my face but still took the money anyway. In the kitchen, a different kind of chaos was unfolding. They were scrambling to take the meals that they'd finished making into to-go boxes, but a lot of meals weren't finished at all. So, everything had to be dumped into the garbage. Steaks, lobster, biscuits, chicken, and so much more were promptly tossed out. A monumental waste of food.

The place was completely cleared out, and yet Bev was still panicking and giving harsh orders for us all to clean the tables at once. All the while, this smug Swedish prick was sitting there with a smirk on his face as he jotted down notes into his little notebook. Everyone was scrambling to make sure the whole restaurant, both floors, were absolutely spotless. When everyone was finished, Gustaf stood to his feet, congratulating the crew on their hard work.

"Remarkable! Simply remarkable! Fan i helvete! Now, I don't know about any of you, but I am famished."

Bev stepped in before any of us could step in to help him,

"Right this way! We're so sorry for the delay, but trust me, it'll be more than worth your while!"

She was desperate. I'd never seen her act this way before. We'd had critics before, and she treated them the same as everyone else. No red carpets or special treatment. Whoever Gustaf was, he must've meant something to her. We were about to quietly depart, but then Gustaf snapped his fingers at us,

"No one leaves. I want you all here, to see your faces."

So we just stood there, watching him take his seat and seeing Bev do the job that all of the other waiting staff and I were supposed to do. She asked him,

"What would you like to drink?"

"Red wine, the oldest you have."

"Would you like a menu or-"

"Actually, could you make me something, from scratch?"

Bev deflated a bit and nervously glanced back to the kitchen staff. Sarah looked to me and silently mouthed 'What the fuck' and yeah, my thoughts exactly. He pushed the menu back to Bev and stared at us all with curious eyes. He clasped his hands together and looked like he was in very deep thought. Then he clapped his hands with a thunderous snap, and he announced,

"I got it! I would like a homosapien steak."

He lifted his hand and surveyed the cooks until he landed on Sarah,

"...Her...I want her to cook my meals tonight."

Bev nervously spoke up,

"I'm sorry, but we don't have...what did you say you wanted?"

"Homosapien. Don't you know your basics? That's a primate."

Bev stuttered,

"We don't....we don't have primate. That's not on the menu."

Gustaf looked to the staff and smiled,

"Looks like you have plenty to me."

We all nervously looked at each other as he examined us silently, but when he saw one of our chefs, a brawny man named Daryl, he smiled and said,

"He looks nice. Muscular with just the right amount of fat."

Daryl looked around to see if anyone else was going to step in and say something, but everyone was too stunned to say anything.

"This...uh...this some sort of joke?" he said, "Seriously, what is this? A prank? Bev, if this is a prank, it ain't fucking funny."

Bev pinched her brow and sighed,

"Daryl...could you-"

"No! Fuck no! Are you joking?"

The others mumbled at what we were all witnessing. This couldn't be serious, could it? That's when Gustaf made it serious. He withdrew a phone from his pocket and texted someone. Within seconds, a tall man wearing a black suit emerged. Gustaf pointed to Daryl, and the man unbuttoned his jacket and revealed a shoulder-holstered pistol. Daryl just stood there and looked at Bev, who kept her eyes down on the floor. He scoffed and reached for his cellphone,

"Fuck this, I'm calling the c-"

BANG. Something punched a hole into his face, his cheek dropped, and blood began to ooze from the wound. He stood for a few more seconds, looking back at us all, and to this day, I don't know how to describe the look. Shock was the most prominent emotion on his face, but he also looked hurt, emotionally hurt. Like we betrayed him by not saying a word. Maybe we did; we were all complicit in that way. He gave a short two-step walk, and then he tumbled onto the hardwood floor. There was no exit wound; the bullet was lodged in his skull, and the blood just began to run out of his face. It didn't take long for it to pool into a puddle of viscous dark red.

"Thank you, Olaf."

The guard walked to the back of the room, re-holstered the weapon, and just watched us with cold eyes. Gustaf clapped his hands together and gestured to the body.

"There! Now you have meat!"

Bev didn't look at us as she said the words,

"We'll have it out shortly."

I thought about saying something, about taking a fork and jamming it into this asshole's eye. But as I moved towards him, I saw the man in black reaching for the pistol. His hand firmly on the handle, all he had to do was pull it out and shoot. I just trembled as I saw Sarah return to the kitchen, tears in her eyes as she did so. She called out to the other kitchen aides,

"I'm gonna need some help with this."

Four of them went into the kitchen while two dragged the body back there. Yet, before Sarah could start, Gustaf called out to her,

"Flank."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"That's my preferred choice of steak."

"...Understood."

Bev turned to me and said,

"Go get some wine from the cellar downstairs."

I leaned in to the whisper,

"Bev, why are you doing this? Who is he to you?"

"He's everything. Daryl isn't going to die in vain."

"Listen to yourself! What are-"

Before I could complete my sentence, she slapped me across the face. So hard that it made my teeth click together, I cut my lower lip. She stepped back, looking at me with fanatical eyes,

"Do your goddamned job!"

All the while this happened, Gustaf just watched and laughed to himself.

"Vilken javla rora!"

I was stunned, and against all of the red alarms going off in my head, I did my job. I thought about the house, I thought about me and Sarah's life. Where else was I supposed to work? All I knew was that after today, I would ask for a raise, immediately.

The wine glasses were all stacked neatly in a row, and the oldest bottle there was coated in dust, untouched. I withdrew it, rubbed the dust from the label, and saw that it was bottled in 1899. I didn't expect Bev to have anything of this caliber on hand. I returned upstairs and grabbed a corkscrew from the kitchen. When I entered, I saw the kitchen aides looking pale as ghosts, and then there was my Sarah, he expressionless face seasoning a slab of meat. I looked at her and asked,

"Sarah?"

She didn't look at me, she just kept seasoning the meat and rubbing it in. She got a frying pan and put oil in it. She made cooking seem so easy. I called her name again, but she didn't look at me as she said,

"Let's just get this over with."

I didn't know what to say, so I just told her that I loved her. I think that this sent her over the edge; tears filled her eyes as she plopped the meat into the pan. I heard the crackling sizzle and the smell of meat. As I was about to leave, I looked to the freezer and saw Daryl's legs poking out from the dark, pale with small flecks of blood staining them. When I returned to the table, Gustaf was sitting there, and he was smiling with glee as I laid the bottle down. He examined the label, and he chuckled,

"Perkele! Very good year! Had no idea this place could afford it."

"Would you like me to pour it or would you prefer I leave the bottle?"

He squinted and smirked at me,

"Do you hate me?"

"I didn't say that."

"You realize that I could have Olaf over there shoot you for disrespecting me. I have more money than you could even imagine owning. I don't think you know how influential I am. I've ended careers with a stroke of a pen."

I didn't say a word, I just nodded and left the bottle. I uncorked it, and for one moment, I thought about jamming the corkscrew into his throat and watching him bleed onto the white tablecloth. I gripped it, and with all my might, I just kept my hands to my side. Every fiber of my body wanted to end him, but then Sarah would be all alone, and what if there were more guards outside just waiting for something to go tits up? What if this whole thing turned into a giant slaughter, all because of my actions? My mind swam with all the horrifying possibilities that I didn't even realize that I wasn't moving. Gustaf spoke to me gently,

"You okay?"

I wanted to slap him. How can he just do what he did and then act like a compassionate human being? I looked down at him with contempt,

"I'm fine."

He sips the wine and sets down the glass as he shifts his body to face me,

"You seem like a good man. Back home, we have a saying that the strongest people have sisu. In this part of the states, I've heard southerners use a similar expression, that they have grit. I can see that you have that. Any other time I do this, I have some Rovhal try to be brave and kill me. It always ended the same, with him getting shot, and then it just turned into a whole mess. Perkele! There was this one time I went to Quebec, and I wanted the same meal I had tonight. They, of course, didn't have any homosapien meat for me, and, like tonight, I had another one of my guards shoot an older employee. I prefer youthfulness, but every now and then, the old flesh tastes exquisite. Tenderized by life, worn down to a point where the meat falls right off the bone."

"Where are you going with this?"

"Well, the owner had a change of heart and decided to attack me. She goes down, and then the rest charge at me, a crew of nearly thirty people. I had to duck so that the others wouldn't shoot me in the crossfire. Lit them up like the....uhhh...oh! Like the fourth of July! So, we have to cover our tracks. My men dug the bullets from the bodies and dragged them all the way back into the kitchen. We dumped some fryer oil onto the floor. Then we let the oven fill up the restaurant with its gas, and when all was said and done, I lit a match."

He produced from his pocket a matchbox, within it lay an array of matches wth vibrant red ends, all except for four at the bottom. They were all charred black.

"I only resorted to this four times. For a moment, I thought I'd have to brace myself for a fifth."

I felt a chill roll down my spine, my stomach knotted, and all I could get out was,

"Is there anything else you might need?"

He scratched his stubble, and his eyes lit up as if he'd forgotten something,

"Yes, actually. Would you mind getting me a toothpick?"

"Sure."

I was about to return to the kitchen when I saw Sarah emerge from the kitchen, holding a platter in her hand. She looked hollow, her eyes void of all life, and her body just walked past me, like I wasn't even there. Sarah laid down the plate and gave him a bow.

The plate was decorated with a baked potato, cooked brussels sprouts, and, of course, the meat. It looked like steak, the charred crust, the rich brown color, and all of it sat in a pool of greasy blood. Gustaf stared at the plate with a kind smile and took hold of Sarah's hands, patting them like a proud parent,

"You did so marvelously! Look at that! It might be the best prepared steak I've ever seen! Tack så mycket!"

She returned to the rest of us, and I embraced her. She was still tensed up, and she was slightly shaking. I didn't say anything to her, and she didn't say anything to me; we just held each other as Gustaf dug into his food.

For someone who prided himself on his bougie looks, he ate like a fucking pig. He grunted, he moaned, and he kept gnashing on the meat with loud smacks. Whenever he drank the wine, he didn't sip anymore; he took loud, breathless slurps. He would belch whenever he took a pause in eating. I think that maybe he wound himself up, gobbling up the meal like some feral hog. When there was no meat left, he held the plate up and tilted it into his mouth as he drank the greasy runoff that sat at the bottom. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. He moaned in pleasure and applauded the staff, standing to his feet as he did so.

"Utterly superb! I prefer my steak medium rare, but that was phenomenal!"

Bev's eyes lit up, and I wanted to deck that old bitch across the face. She got everything that she wanted, and all of the heartbreak of the dead employee in the freezer suddenly vanished. It's like she made her mind up in that moment that Daryl's death was worth it in the long run, as long as it appeased the great Gustaf. Bev was about to write him up a ticket when he raised his hand,

"Unfortunately, I'm still hungry."

The room grew so quiet that you could hear the wooden floor creaking as we all nervously stood around waiting for what this man had in store for us. Gustaf looked at us all and raised his hand in a calming gesture,

"Please, there's no need to be scared, you're fine. You're all safe. I brought something for you to cook yourself; no more blood will be shed tonight."

He looked back and motioned to Olaf to get something. He nodded, and he made his way outside. I heard the sound of a car door, or maybe a trunk, opening and then closing. Another man walked in, a tall man with yellow hair tied up into a bun, and in his white knuckle grip was a styrofoam container. He held it by a handle as he walked past us and into the kitchen. A minute later, he walks out, adjusting his tie, and in passing, Gustaf says,

"Thank you, Gustav."

There was an uncomfortable eeriness in the room, and Gustaf cut through the silence by asking,

"Miss? I would like you to get started, if possible."

Sarah began to tremble as he called out again,

"It's just one more meal, not that much to cook."

She let go of me, and I tried to hold on to her, but she swatted my grasp away,

"No. I have to do this."

"Sarah, just get someone else to-"

She spoke up to the rest of the kitchen crew,

"No one goes in the kitchen but me!"

In that moment, I didn't know what she meant by this at first, but now that I think back on it, she was taking the burden that the others could've carried. Everyone that night still had to deal with the shock of death, and then we had to feed a cannibal. Enough trauma to last someone a lifetime, but my Sarah, my beautiful Sarah, she decided that she could take more trauma for the rest of us, that she could bear that cross.

From the kitchen, I heard a sudden and sharp gasp and a brief scream. I ran towards the kitchen, but she heard me coming. Through the door, I heard her scream out, fighting against tears,

"Stay there! Don't come in here!"

So, I stayed put. An hour passed as I heard her in there making something. Gustaf sat in his chair, looking at his phone to check the time intermittently, and then he began to write down some more notes. Bev nervously toyed with her bracelet, and I was happy she was stressed. She deserves nothing but the worst at this point. Eventually, out she came, holding a plate of meat, garnished with sage and sea salt. Gustaf clapped in excitement as the plate was laid down before him, and as soon as the plate touched the table, he began to dig into his meal. He forewent the utensils and just feasted with his hands. Sarah walked up to me and just collapsed into my arms. I caught her and followed her onto the floor. I just cradled her there; her eyes were red, and tears wet her face. I'd never seen her so...weak...

He licked his plate and sucked every single one of his fingers. He wiped his mouth, his chin, and his fingers before throwing the napkin onto his plate. He threw his hands up and called out to Bev,

"I'm stuffed! Your restaurant took a little longer, but the meals were spectacular. You have my full endorsement, and my review will be glowing."

Bev rushed to shake his hand and said with hysterics,

"Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Fjord! You are welcome here any time!"

"Of course, and I shall return!"

He stood to his feet and bowed to the staff,

"That was a wonderful meal, and you are all wonderful people."

He raised his glass of wine to us and said,

"Skal!"

With that, he drank the wine, and he left us. He ran to the kitchen, wearing gloves and brandishing long black bags. However, when they left, it soon became clear to us that they were body bags. They left, dragging Daryl behind them. Then, they were gone.

We departed in silence; Sarah and I didn't say a word to each other the entire drive back. I never pressed what was in the container, what she was made to cook. Sarah fell asleep as soon as we got back to the apartment, and for the first time since adopting him, he approached me, like he could tell I was upset. He let me pet him for only a moment, and then he ran to be with Sarah. I got a text from Bev saying that our pay was being increased and that we'd be getting around 120,000$ a week from here on out. I was disgusted with her, but I was more disgusted with myself because I went back to work for two more weeks. Sarah didn't return to work, and I didn't blame her. Gustaf never returned. When I got my last paycheck, I quit. With this, I told Sarah that I was ready to move, to build our dream house. She grabbed my hand and smiled; her eyes were tired, but I could find a glimmer of happiness deep down within her.

The house was plain but beautiful. Nothing fancy, nothing showy, but it was the house we both dreamt up together. After a few weeks of building, we moved in, and for a while it was great. Yet, despite the bright colors we adorned it with, it still felt cold to us. I noticed that Sarah was really down; she ate less, and she slept more. One day, I came home, and I found her lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling as tears rolled down the side of her face. I scooped her into my arms and told her to talk to me, that I knew she was suffering, and I just wanted her to tell me what was wrong. After that, the headstrong woman I knew became a blubbering mess, and the floodgates were released as she wailed into my shirt.

"Oh God..." she whimpered, "I....I....He....he made me cook..."

"It's okay, it's okay, that's over now."

She steadied herself, snifling and wiping away tears. She looked me in the eye and told me,

"It was a baby."

That night, I snuck out, drove to Bev's with two cans of gasoline, and waited for everyone to leave. Well, almost everyone. I knew for a fact that Bev liked to stay behind and do some reorganizing and managing bills. It didn't matter to me; she was complicit. I dumped the gas all over the porch, around the sides, and I made sure that every single exit was doused in gas. I lit the match and saw it go up in flames. I heard the faint voice of someone crying out from inside, but I just drove off. I figured if she got out, fine, as long as that restaurant burned, I'd be happy. Days later, I got a newspaper saying that 'fire claims beloved restaurant owner.' I thought I'd feel something, satisfaction or justice, but I felt nothing. As for Gustaf, I tried looking him up and got nothing. Evidently, he doesn't exist.

Sarah and I got married, but she refused to have children. She told me that a woman like her, to do what she did, how could she be a mother? I told her that she was the strongest woman I knew, and that one day, if she wanted to, she'd be a wonderful mother. Yesterday, I awoke and found that Sarah was gone, but I had a hunch about where she might be. I drove until I arrived at the charred ground where Bev's used to stand. She was there, kneeling in the dirt and ash. I approached her, and as I did, I heard that she was praying, asking for forgiveness for what she'd done. I didn't say a word, and I just sat next to her and held her hand.

We were two souls sharing pain.

The restaurant is called Bev's Place, a fine dining place that prides itself on cuisine, service, and decor that make you feel welcomed. It's an hour outside of Knoxville in a very tucked-away corner of the woods. If I were to describe it, I'd say the picture has a double-decker log cabin next to a river with a water mill, and a giant wrap-around porch. The wood is American chestnut, don't ask me how the owners got their hands on so much of it, because even I don't know. It's a bit Hoity-toity, but aren't all fancy restaurants? I've been working at Bev's for the better part of a decade, and for the longest time, I was really in a bad spot. I had an extreme depressive episode and was experiencing extreme self-hatred. It wormed into my head and convinced me that I wasn't worth anything. I didn't deserve love, friendship, family, or even a job. I was down on my luck. Jobless for eight months, and rent bills kept piling up. Soon, I would've had to face eviction and the harsh reality of homelessness. Then, as I was sitting there in my shit-hole apartment, I saw an ad for Bev's in the local newspaper. I figured 'What the Hell' and just gave them a call.

So, here I am. I started out as a dishwasher and worked my way all the way up to a waiter. I still help in the kitchen every now and then, but I'm primarily the problem solver. Whenever people complain, have questions, need directions, or want a second helping, I'm your guy. Most of the time, we've got good days. Every once in a while, we'll have an order that goes wrong, or a guy will have way too much wine. Had one guy so drunk that he started heckling the staff and demanded out loud to everyone in attendance,

"Who shit my pants?!"

He was promptly thrown out, and I had the pleasure of banning him from Bev's myself.

At the center of Bev's was Beverly Stevenson, and I wish I could tell you more about her, but she's a genuine enigma. She built the place herself, trained the cooks, and was always a big motherly figure for everyone. Her accent was thick, but she spoke with utter finesse and grace. My co-workers are a big family, but I hate to say that I don't remember every single one of their names; I mostly remember faces. However, I developed a friendship with a woman named Sarah. She was a redhead and freakishly tall. I'm talking 6'6, and I don't know why the others were intimidated by her tall stature, because she's been nothing but kind. Well, kind to me at least. Sarah and I would take breaks together and just chat the entire time. I'd tell her my woes with customers while she told me about kitchen drama.

Of the decade I'd worked there, I've known her for about six years, and I've counted them as a blessing. It's funny how love works because I've never really considered myself a romantic. I just assumed that after 27 years and no solid relationships, I was done. That I'd just be one of those guys who'd just wind up without anybody. Yet, here I was working with a woman whom I considered to be one of my best friends. Last year, I built up enough courage to ask her out, and it didn't go super well. Well, at least on my end. I was shaking, sweating, and stuttering over my words. I was utterly terrified that, in expressing my feelings, I'd end a friendship that I'd cherished so deeply. There was a brief pause where she just sort of stared at me, and in that moment, I felt complete and utter despair. 'Way to go, genius. You've fucked it all up, like you always do'. I was about to apologize profusely and beg her to forget about anything I'd ever said. Then she told me,

"Jesus Christ, took you long enough."

She took my hand, and she just sighed, almost like a heavy load was taken off her shoulders.

"Want to go bowling with my friends and me on Saturday?"

Of course, I said yes. For the next year, it was bliss. It was like my missing piece finally revealed itself to me, and I couldn't have been happier. It's like I had finally allowed myself to be happy. We moved in together into an apartment, which was nicer than my old one, and we even bought a cat. His name is Carl, and he's an asshole to me, but he seems to like Sarah well enough, so I guess it balances out. The plan was to keep working together at Bev's and save up enough to buy a house far away from the noise of the city. Nothing but the sounds of wind blowing through the trees.

The plans changed when Gustaf Fjord arrived.

It was a Friday, the crowd was busy, and I was bouncing from table to table getting orders, collecting checks, and trying my best to keep track of who was low on drinks. I went back to the kitchen, gassed, and Sarah was halfway through putting a coating of sauce on freshly fried chicken when she saw me burst into the room. I put up the new orders for the kitchen staff, and Sarah yelled out,

"Busy?"

"Fuckin-A, it's busy. Is there a holiday or something today?"

"Not that I know of."

"Maybe there's something in the water."

Another guy chimed in, I think his name was Greg or something. He was washing dishes and called out,

"It's just one of those days!"

I got three pitchers of drinks and went back out into the bustling restaurant. Lemonade, water, and tea. I was watching the other waiters and waitresses dashing around with exhaustion. I took care of refills, and then I was just about to take a small break when someone entered through the door. The man wore a pressed light tan suit with a light blue undershirt. His skin was pink, his body was pudgy, and he sported hair so yellow that it could be mistaken for white. His shockingly blue eyes darted around, looking for someone to take him to a table. I was hoping for someone, anyone, to take him, but every other waiter and waitress was busy. I begrudgingly walked over to him and regurgitated the same phrase that we're supposed to say to everyone else,

"Welcome to Bev's. Are you dining with us today?"

"I am," he said, there was a slight accent, possibly Swedish, but I'm no aficionado on that kind of stuff.

"Alright, we'll get you a table as soon as possible."

"Perkele...how soon?"

"I'd say..." I looked around, the tables were all full, and I couldn't lie. I don't think I'm capable of lying. "I don't know. Maybe an hour, but probably less."

He grunted as he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a card. It was laminated, stark black with a scant amount of information written on it. It read:

GUSTAF FJORD, FOOD CRITIC.

I was taken aback by this because after working here for so long, I'd never seen this guy before in my life. We get our fair share of critics, but they're pretty much regulars here with few complaints. I thought that this guy must've thought he was hot shit. I took the card and nodded. I told him,

"Just have a seat, and I'll be with you in a little bit, okay?"

"Hm," he grunted,

I held the card in my hand as I strolled all the way back to Bev's office. I gave her door three knocks, and she answered,

"Come in."

I opened the door to find her mulling over bills and punching in calculations into her phone calculator. She glanced up at me with tired eyes and said,

"Hey, Paul."

"There's a guy out front who gave me this."

I showed her the card, and she stared at it for a second. Her expression dropped, and she looked at me with a look that terrified me. It wasn't anger or hate; she was scared. Her eyes were wide as she snatched the card from my hand, and she got up from her desk. She spoke to me in a hushed manner,

"I need you to tell the other staff to cancel any orders that they're cooking, and we need everyone out of the restaurant as soon as possible."

"What? You just want us to all clear out the restaurant?"

"Yes! Do it!"

"Bev, who is this fucking guy?!"

"He's a critic. One of the world's best. Do you know how much power he has? He can kill a business with the click of a goddamned pen! So I suggest that if you like your job, get going!"

She burst from her office and ran out front to greet Gustaf, who was sitting idly as he scribbled down in a small, leatherbound notebook. As she made introductions and small talk, I gathered up all of the waiters and told them what Bev told me. They didn't believe me at first. A waitress by the name of Emily ran over to ask Bev, only to be accosted publicly in front of the whole restaurant. She'd never done anything like that to any of us. So, when she returned to the group, wiping away tears, she vouched for me.

The next thirty minutes could only be described as chaos. We sent home people who didn't even get a chance to touch their food, and we fully refunded them. They kept asking for a reason why they were being ushered out, and some wondered if they had done anything to offend the management. I just told them that something unexpected came up. Some took it and just solemenly left, others blew up saying that they loved this place and that they didn't want to leave. I had to stop them from getting into a fistfight by forking over hundreds of dollars of my own money. They spat in my face but still took the money anyway. In the kitchen, a different kind of chaos was unfolding. They were scrambling to take the meals that they'd finished making into to-go boxes, but a lot of meals weren't finished at all. So, everything had to be dumped into the garbage. Steaks, lobster, biscuits, chicken, and so much more were promptly tossed out. A monumental waste of food.

The place was completely cleared out, and yet Bev was still panicking and giving harsh orders for us all to clean the tables at once. All the while, this smug Swedish prick was sitting there with a smirk on his face as he jotted down notes into his little notebook. Everyone was scrambling to make sure the whole restaurant, both floors, were absolutely spotless. When everyone was finished, Gustaf stood to his feet, congratulating the crew on their hard work.

"Remarkable! Simply remarkable! Fan i helvete! Now, I don't know about any of you, but I am famished."

Bev stepped in before any of us could step in to help him,

"Right this way! We're so sorry for the delay, but trust me, it'll be more than worth your while!"

She was desperate. I'd never seen her act this way before. We'd had critics before, and she treated them the same as everyone else. No red carpets or special treatment. Whoever Gustaf was, he must've meant something to her. We were about to quietly depart, but then Gustaf snapped his fingers at us,

"No one leaves. I want you all here, to see your faces."

So we just stood there, watching him take his seat and seeing Bev do the job that all of the other waiting staff and I were supposed to do. She asked him,

"What would you like to drink?"

"Red wine, the oldest you have."

"Would you like a menu or-"

"Actually, could you make me something, from scratch?"

Bev deflated a bit and nervously glanced back to the kitchen staff. Sarah looked to me and silently mouthed 'What the fuck' and yeah, my thoughts exactly. He pushed the menu back to Bev and stared at us all with curious eyes. He clasped his hands together and looked like he was in very deep thought. Then he clapped his hands with a thunderous snap, and he announced,

"I got it! I would like a homosapien steak."

He lifted his hand and surveyed the cooks until he landed on Sarah,

"...Her...I want her to cook my meals tonight."

Bev nervously spoke up,

"I'm sorry, but we don't have...what did you say you wanted?"

"Homosapien. Don't you know your basics? That's a primate."

Bev stuttered,

"We don't....we don't have primate. That's not on the menu."

Gustaf looked to the staff and smiled,

"Looks like you have plenty to me."

We all nervously looked at each other as he examined us silently, but when he saw one of our chefs, a brawny man named Daryl, he smiled and said,

"He looks nice. Muscular with just the right amount of fat."

Daryl looked around to see if anyone else was going to step in and say something, but everyone was too stunned to say anything.

"This...uh...this some sort of joke?" he said, "Seriously, what is this? A prank? Bev, if this is a prank, it ain't fucking funny."

Bev pinched her brow and sighed,

"Daryl...could you-"

"No! Fuck no! Are you joking?"

The others mumbled at what we were all witnessing. This couldn't be serious, could it? That's when Gustaf made it serious. He withdrew a phone from his pocket and texted someone. Within seconds, a tall man wearing a black suit emerged. Gustaf pointed to Daryl, and the man unbuttoned his jacket and revealed a shoulder-holstered pistol. Daryl just stood there and looked at Bev, who kept her eyes down on the floor. He scoffed and reached for his cellphone,

"Fuck this, I'm calling the c-"

BANG. Something punched a hole into his face, his cheek dropped, and blood began to ooze from the wound. He stood for a few more seconds, looking back at us all, and to this day, I don't know how to describe the look. Shock was the most prominent emotion on his face, but he also looked hurt, emotionally hurt. Like we betrayed him by not saying a word. Maybe we did; we were all complicit in that way. He gave a short two-step walk, and then he tumbled onto the hardwood floor. There was no exit wound; the bullet was lodged in his skull, and the blood just began to run out of his face. It didn't take long for it to pool into a puddle of viscous dark red.

"Thank you, Olaf."

The guard walked to the back of the room, re-holstered the weapon, and just watched us with cold eyes. Gustaf clapped his hands together and gestured to the body.

"There! Now you have meat!"

Bev didn't look at us as she said the words,

"We'll have it out shortly."

I thought about saying something, about taking a fork and jamming it into this asshole's eye. But as I moved towards him, I saw the man in black reaching for the pistol. His hand firmly on the handle, all he had to do was pull it out and shoot. I just trembled as I saw Sarah return to the kitchen, tears in her eyes as she did so. She called out to the other kitchen aides,

"I'm gonna need some help with this."

Four of them went into the kitchen while two dragged the body back there. Yet, before Sarah could start, Gustaf called out to her,

"Flank."

"I-I'm sorry?"

"That's my preferred choice of steak."

"...Understood."

Bev turned to me and said,

"Go get some wine from the cellar downstairs."

I leaned in to the whisper,

"Bev, why are you doing this? Who is he to you?"

"He's everything. Daryl isn't going to die in vain."

"Listen to yourself! What are-"

Before I could complete my sentence, she slapped me across the face. So hard that it made my teeth click together, I cut my lower lip. She stepped back, looking at me with fanatical eyes,

"Do your goddamned job!"

All the while this happened, Gustaf just watched and laughed to himself.

"Vilken javla rora!"

I was stunned, and against all of the red alarms going off in my head, I did my job. I thought about the house, I thought about me and Sarah's life. Where else was I supposed to work? All I knew was that after today, I would ask for a raise, immediately.

The wine glasses were all stacked neatly in a row, and the oldest bottle there was coated in dust, untouched. I withdrew it, rubbed the dust from the label, and saw that it was bottled in 1899. I didn't expect Bev to have anything of this caliber on hand. I returned upstairs and grabbed a corkscrew from the kitchen. When I entered, I saw the kitchen aides looking pale as ghosts, and then there was my Sarah, he expressionless face seasoning a slab of meat. I looked at her and asked,

"Sarah?"

She didn't look at me, she just kept seasoning the meat and rubbing it in. She got a frying pan and put oil in it. She made cooking seem so easy. I called her name again, but she didn't look at me as she said,

"Let's just get this over with."

I didn't know what to say, so I just told her that I loved her. I think that this sent her over the edge; tears filled her eyes as she plopped the meat into the pan. I heard the crackling sizzle and the smell of meat. As I was about to leave, I looked to the freezer and saw Daryl's legs poking out from the dark, pale with small flecks of blood staining them. When I returned to the table, Gustaf was sitting there, and he was smiling with glee as I laid the bottle down. He examined the label, and he chuckled,

"Perkele! Very good year! Had no idea this place could afford it."

"Would you like me to pour it or would you prefer I leave the bottle?"

He squinted and smirked at me,

"Do you hate me?"

"I didn't say that."

"You realize that I could have Olaf over there shoot you for disrespecting me. I have more money than you could even imagine owning. I don't think you know how influential I am. I've ended careers with a stroke of a pen."

I didn't say a word, I just nodded and left the bottle. I uncorked it, and for one moment, I thought about jamming the corkscrew into his throat and watching him bleed onto the white tablecloth. I gripped it, and with all my might, I just kept my hands to my side. Every fiber of my body wanted to end him, but then Sarah would be all alone, and what if there were more guards outside just waiting for something to go tits up? What if this whole thing turned into a giant slaughter, all because of my actions? My mind swam with all the horrifying possibilities that I didn't even realize that I wasn't moving. Gustaf spoke to me gently,

"You okay?"

I wanted to slap him. How can he just do what he did and then act like a compassionate human being? I looked down at him with contempt,

"I'm fine."

He sips the wine and sets down the glass as he shifts his body to face me,

"You seem like a good man. Back home, we have a saying that the strongest people have sisu. In this part of the states, I've heard southerners use a similar expression, that they have grit. I can see that you have that. Any other time I do this, I have some Rovhal try to be brave and kill me. It always ended the same, with him getting shot, and then it just turned into a whole mess. Perkele! There was this one time I went to Quebec, and I wanted the same meal I had tonight. They, of course, didn't have any homosapien meat for me, and, like tonight, I had another one of my guards shoot an older employee. I prefer youthfulness, but every now and then, the old flesh tastes exquisite. Tenderized by life, worn down to a point where the meat falls right off the bone."

"Where are you going with this?"

"Well, the owner had a change of heart and decided to attack me. She goes down, and then the rest charge at me, a crew of nearly thirty people. I had to duck so that the others wouldn't shoot me in the crossfire. Lit them up like the....uhhh...oh! Like the fourth of July! So, we have to cover our tracks. My men dug the bullets from the bodies and dragged them all the way back into the kitchen. We dumped some fryer oil onto the floor. Then we let the oven fill up the restaurant with its gas, and when all was said and done, I lit a match."

He produced from his pocket a matchbox, within it lay an array of matches wth vibrant red ends, all except for four at the bottom. They were all charred black.

"I only resorted to this four times. For a moment, I thought I'd have to brace myself for a fifth."

I felt a chill roll down my spine, my stomach knotted, and all I could get out was,

"Is there anything else you might need?"

He scratched his stubble, and his eyes lit up as if he'd forgotten something,

"Yes, actually. Would you mind getting me a toothpick?"

"Sure."

I was about to return to the kitchen when I saw Sarah emerge from the kitchen, holding a platter in her hand. She looked hollow, her eyes void of all life, and her body just walked past me, like I wasn't even there. Sarah laid down the plate and gave him a bow.

The plate was decorated with a baked potato, cooked brussels sprouts, and, of course, the meat. It looked like steak, the charred crust, the rich brown color, and all of it sat in a pool of greasy blood. Gustaf stared at the plate with a kind smile and took hold of Sarah's hands, patting them like a proud parent,

"You did so marvelously! Look at that! It might be the best prepared steak I've ever seen! Tack så mycket!"

She returned to the rest of us, and I embraced her. She was still tensed up, and she was slightly shaking. I didn't say anything to her, and she didn't say anything to me; we just held each other as Gustaf dug into his food.

For someone who prided himself on his bougie looks, he ate like a fucking pig. He grunted, he moaned, and he kept gnashing on the meat with loud smacks. Whenever he drank the wine, he didn't sip anymore; he took loud, breathless slurps. He would belch whenever he took a pause in eating. I think that maybe he wound himself up, gobbling up the meal like some feral hog. When there was no meat left, he held the plate up and tilted it into his mouth as he drank the greasy runoff that sat at the bottom. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. He moaned in pleasure and applauded the staff, standing to his feet as he did so.

"Utterly superb! I prefer my steak medium rare, but that was phenomenal!"

Bev's eyes lit up, and I wanted to deck that old bitch across the face. She got everything that she wanted, and all of the heartbreak of the dead employee in the freezer suddenly vanished. It's like she made her mind up in that moment that Daryl's death was worth it in the long run, as long as it appeased the great Gustaf. Bev was about to write him up a ticket when he raised his hand,

"Unfortunately, I'm still hungry."

The room grew so quiet that you could hear the wooden floor creaking as we all nervously stood around waiting for what this man had in store for us. Gustaf looked at us all and raised his hand in a calming gesture,

"Please, there's no need to be scared, you're fine. You're all safe. I brought something for you to cook yourself; no more blood will be shed tonight."

He looked back and motioned to Olaf to get something. He nodded, and he made his way outside. I heard the sound of a car door, or maybe a trunk, opening and then closing. Another man walked in, a tall man with yellow hair tied up into a bun, and in his white knuckle grip was a styrofoam container. He held it by a handle as he walked past us and into the kitchen. A minute later, he walks out, adjusting his tie, and in passing, Gustaf says,

"Thank you, Gustav."

There was an uncomfortable eeriness in the room, and Gustaf cut through the silence by asking,

"Miss? I would like you to get started, if possible."

Sarah began to tremble as he called out again,

"It's just one more meal, not that much to cook."

She let go of me, and I tried to hold on to her, but she swatted my grasp away,

"No. I have to do this."

"Sarah, just get someone else to-"

She spoke up to the rest of the kitchen crew,

"No one goes in the kitchen but me!"

In that moment, I didn't know what she meant by this at first, but now that I think back on it, she was taking the burden that the others could've carried. Everyone that night still had to deal with the shock of death, and then we had to feed a cannibal. Enough trauma to last someone a lifetime, but my Sarah, my beautiful Sarah, she decided that she could take more trauma for the rest of us, that she could bear that cross.

From the kitchen, I heard a sudden and sharp gasp and a brief scream. I ran towards the kitchen, but she heard me coming. Through the door, I heard her scream out, fighting against tears,

"Stay there! Don't come in here!"

So, I stayed put. An hour passed as I heard her in there making something. Gustaf sat in his chair, looking at his phone to check the time intermittently, and then he began to write down some more notes. Bev nervously toyed with her bracelet, and I was happy she was stressed. She deserves nothing but the worst at this point. Eventually, out she came, holding a plate of meat, garnished with sage and sea salt. Gustaf clapped in excitement as the plate was laid down before him, and as soon as the plate touched the table, he began to dig into his meal. He forewent the utensils and just feasted with his hands. Sarah walked up to me and just collapsed into my arms. I caught her and followed her onto the floor. I just cradled her there; her eyes were red, and tears wet her face. I'd never seen her so...weak...

He licked his plate and sucked every single one of his fingers. He wiped his mouth, his chin, and his fingers before throwing the napkin onto his plate. He threw his hands up and called out to Bev,

"I'm stuffed! Your restaurant took a little longer, but the meals were spectacular. You have my full endorsement, and my review will be glowing."

Bev rushed to shake his hand and said with hysterics,

"Thank you! Thank you, Mr. Fjord! You are welcome here any time!"

"Of course, and I shall return!"

He stood to his feet and bowed to the staff,

"That was a wonderful meal, and you are all wonderful people."

He raised his glass of wine to us and said,

"Skal!"

With that, he drank the wine, and he left us. He ran to the kitchen, wearing gloves and brandishing long black bags. However, when they left, it soon became clear to us that they were body bags. They left, dragging Daryl behind them. Then, they were gone.

We departed in silence; Sarah and I didn't say a word to each other the entire drive back. I never pressed what was in the container, what she was made to cook. Sarah fell asleep as soon as we got back to the apartment, and for the first time since adopting him, he approached me, like he could tell I was upset. He let me pet him for only a moment, and then he ran to be with Sarah. I got a text from Bev saying that our pay was being increased and that we'd be getting around 120,000$ a week from here on out. I was disgusted with her, but I was more disgusted with myself because I went back to work for two more weeks. Sarah didn't return to work, and I didn't blame her. Gustaf never returned. When I got my last paycheck, I quit. With this, I told Sarah that I was ready to move, to build our dream house. She grabbed my hand and smiled; her eyes were tired, but I could find a glimmer of happiness deep down within her.

The house was plain but beautiful. Nothing fancy, nothing showy, but it was the house we both dreamt up together. After a few weeks of building, we moved in, and for a while it was great. Yet, despite the bright colors we adorned it with, it still felt cold to us. I noticed that Sarah was really down; she ate less, and she slept more. One day, I came home, and I found her lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling as tears rolled down the side of her face. I scooped her into my arms and told her to talk to me, that I knew she was suffering, and I just wanted her to tell me what was wrong. After that, the headstrong woman I knew became a blubbering mess, and the floodgates were released as she wailed into my shirt.

"Oh God..." she whimpered, "I....I....He....he made me cook..."

"It's okay, it's okay, that's over now."

She steadied herself, snifling and wiping away tears. She looked me in the eye and told me,

"It was a baby."

That night, I snuck out, drove to Bev's with two cans of gasoline, and waited for everyone to leave. Well, almost everyone. I knew for a fact that Bev liked to stay behind and do some reorganizing and managing bills. It didn't matter to me; she was complicit. I dumped the gas all over the porch, around the sides, and I made sure that every single exit was doused in gas. I lit the match and saw it go up in flames. I heard the faint voice of someone crying out from inside, but I just drove off. I figured if she got out, fine, as long as that restaurant burned, I'd be happy. Days later, I got a newspaper saying that 'fire claims beloved restaurant owner.' I thought I'd feel something, satisfaction or justice, but I felt nothing. As for Gustaf, I tried looking him up and got nothing. Evidently, he doesn't exist.

Sarah and I got married, but she refused to have children. She told me that a woman like her, to do what she did, how could she be a mother? I told her that she was the strongest woman I knew, and that one day, if she wanted to, she'd be a wonderful mother. Yesterday, I awoke and found that Sarah was gone, but I had a hunch about where she might be. I drove until I arrived at the charred ground where Bev's used to stand. She was there, kneeling in the dirt and ash. I approached her, and as I did, I heard that she was praying, asking for forgiveness for what she'd done. I didn't say a word, and I just sat next to her and held her hand.

We were two souls sharing pain.

May of 1979, Los Angeles…

Fog sat on the ground of the old cemetery. As he dug, he could even see the Hollywood sign illuminated by a spotlight. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he plunged the shovel deeper and deeper into the dirt. How far had he dug into the ground now? There was no telling. All he knew was that the loose dirt had started to become clay, and it hurt like hell to whittle away at the old grave. He heard a thunderclap above, and he felt the raindrops above. Thick and heavy droplets are assaulting his back. He began to panic as his digging became labored, frantic, and fierce. Water began to run into the grave, the runoff of mud, clay, & rainwater pooled around his ankles. Thunder roared above as he felt his arms giving out, he began to let out some pathetic whimpering and swore under his breath with each mass of clay he chucked over his shoulder.

Then the shovel struck something hard.

He pitched forward by the sudden resistance of the object before him. He plunged his hands into the freezing waters and felt the lid of the coffin. It was so smooth. He reached into his tool bag and withdrew the crowbar. His wet fingers had trouble grasping the old tool as he plunged it into the side of the coffin. With all the remaining strength he had left, he pried open the coffin lid. As it popped open, the sealed smells of the recently dead corpse filled the air; it made his eyes water, but he didn't care. He saw Madeline Shaw's exquisite corpse and smiled with glee.

"Hello, gorgeous." He said with a trembling excitement.

Cole Cunningham read all of her interviews and fell in love with her instantly. The others who watched his obsession with her felt so sorry for him. They saw his attachment to Madeline Shaw as pitifully sad, but he didn't care what they thought about him. He swore that one day, he'd meet her, and that he'd try to woo her. He wouldn't be like these other pathetic fans who show up to a premiere or a play with a bouquet of flowers or send her a strongly written card. Cole would simply ask if she would like to get dinner sometime, no over-the-top theatrics, just a kind invitation.

High school came and went; he graduated with nothing but A's. He had flocked to medical science, and he found the body interesting, like a complex machine. However, even in his more academic settings, his mind still drifted to her. On the weekends, away from the cadavers and the scents of formaldehyde, he goes to the movies. Cole felt as if he and Madeline had grown up together. She'd debuted when she was only 17, and he was 16 when he watched her first film. It was a comedic horror musical about The Bride of Frankenstein called 'Stitched!'. Cole saw her, adorned in her makeup, black lipstick, and skunk-striped hair, and was enchanted with her. He almost thought of his movie viewings on the weekends as 'visiting' her. Not literally, but almost spiritually.

He was in the middle of deconstructing a heart when he overheard someone talking about 'that poor little actress' who was killed in a car accident. The news of Madeline's death sent shockwaves through the entertainment industry. Dead at 28 and a plethora of memorable roles. All of the directors, actors, and musicians who knew her wrote on and on about how much of a talent she was. She could sing, she could dance, and she could act her heart out. The full package. Cole, who was just starting to come out of his shell at the university, had become a shut-in. He'd only come out for classes, he never spoke to anyone else, and when it came time to eat, he'd just take his food back to his room.

He was amongst the cadavers listening to her sing; he brought a record player with him to the morgue as he continued dissecting bodies, weeping as he did so. It was a famous song she sang for 'Stitched!' called 'Miracle' about how she discovered how Doctor Frankenstein willed her into existence with his mad science.

"Willed to live! Made from pieces of death! Willed to live! I curse every breath! Willed to-“

An empty beaker fell from the shelf above the record player and crashed onto the needle. The shattered glass coated the surface of the disc as it began to skip over the same phrase over and over again:

"To live…To Live…To Live…To Live…To Li-"

Cole stopped the record and brushed all the loose glass off. Yet, he was utterly struck by the words; it was almost like something was trying to reach out to him. He felt his heart swell. This couldn't be an accident, could it? No! This was fate! The genuine article! Madeline was reaching out to him! Man of science or not, Cole knew a sign from the beyond when he heard it! She was speaking to him, coaxing him into bringing her back. Well, she didn't have to twist his arm; he was in awe of the whole series of events. Most would chalk this up to a coincidence, but he knew better. Over the next few days, he locked himself in the morgue with the cadavers to test out ways to bring life back to the dead.

He must've gone through about a dozen corpses, all in different states of disarray, and he was starting to worry whether or not the university would start to notice. However, with a mixture of electricity and a chemical concoction he'd spun together of various adrenaline-based chemicals, the final cadaver opened its eyes and looked to him. It tried to speak, but this poor chap's vocal cords were crushed; he had committed suicide via hanging, and as a result, only his head had movement. He blinked, looked around, and his mouth opened and closed rapidly like a fish gasping for air. Cole then realized that the man had been brought back only to suffocate again. It was a tragic success.

He received his Master's with a blank expression. He could hear his family cheering, but his mind was elsewhere. He was thinking of her, the state of her, how damaged was she after the accident? What would he have to fix about her? The handshake from the Dean broke his concentration, and he suddenly remembered where he was. He put on an incredibly fake smile and waited for his picture. Cole's family took him out to dinner at a nice restaurant, an Italian place called Rocco's. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, Frank Sinatra, and the ever-present scent of garlic. He got spaghetti and meatballs. His parents tried speaking to him about all of the effort he'd put into these last four years, and to graduate Cum Laude wasn't easy either. Cole just played with the spaghetti strands on his plate and nodded. It wasn't until they were having dessert that he told them,

"I think I'm gonna go to LA."

They all looked at him with confusion, and then his father spoke up with genuine curiosity.

"Why's that, champ?"

"I just thought it'd be a great place to take a break for a while before job searching. Who knows, maybe I'll find a job while I'm there."

He smiled, patting his son on the back,

"Just don't smoke any dope while you're there. Summer of love might be over, but the leftover hippies don't know that."

Cole smiled and hugged his Dad. He was a gentle giant of a man who worked construction most of his life. His hands were dirty so that his family could stay clean. But Cole would have to dirty his hands soon enough.

The flight was nauseous to him. Cole hated heights, the sensation of his ears popping made him sick, and just when he thought the smoking in Rocco's was bad, his cheap seats in economy class actively choked him. He thought that if he fell asleep, he'd sure die in his sleep due to asphyxiation. Thankfully, he awoke to the sound of the flight attendant telling everyone that they'd be landing shortly. He looked out the window to see Los Angeles, and clinging to the hills was the sign that he'd never imagined seeing. It read: HOLLYWOOD.

Cole brought the body back to 'Murnau's Luxurious Hotel'. It was a derelict, Art Deco shithole. At one time, it must've been beautiful, but now it was drenched in shabbiness, regret, and the scent of mildew. The upside was that his room was spacious and cheap. He needed to save costs for the equipment he'd have to buy in town; it was far too costly to rent a nice apartment or house for his little resurrection experiment. Besides, in a bum hotel like this one, no one would turn a blind eye to strange noises or noxious odors. He smuggled the body in with a massive briefcase; in fact, the lobby attendant even asked Cole,

"Need help with that? Looks awful heavy."

He solemnly said yes, worrying that he'd surely be caught, but the blank expression of the attendant told him otherwise. The poor man was just there for the money; they hiked up flights of stairs until they came to his room. They dropped the suitcase, Cole panted, but the employee did not. He was a brawny type with broad shoulders, curly black hair, and a five o'clock shadow. He held his hand out as he waited for compensation for his help. Cole didn't want to spend any more of his money, but he figured a strong tip would make the man turn a blind eye.

He unzipped the suitcase as he lay her on the floor, he gazed at her in the light blue dress she was buried in, and just marveled at the state of her. Her legs were mangled beyond comprehension, her jaw was broken, and with it, her nose was smashed inward. Other than that, she was shockingly well preserved. Her skin was white and waxy, but other than that, she was terrific. He stripped her of her clothes, and he blushed at her undressed nature; he'd never seen a woman naked before, let alone the great Madeline Shaw. He opened her up and examined her insides. The organs were pumped with embalming fluid; they would be of no use to her if she suddenly reawakened, her body would betray her. She would've died again as quickly as she'd be reborn.

Cole sat there in his room, opposite the corpse, as he made notes of what she needed. New legs, a new jaw, and a new nose. The organs he could get from any schmuck on the street, but he needed the very best parts for her, Madeline, after all, deserved the world. He thought about how he'd go about it; doubt crept into his mind at every corner, but in the end, he could see no other way of going about this. He needed to harvest organs. He leaned down to Madeline and gently kissed her forehead,

"Don't worry. You'll be back on your feet in no time."

He started with a prostitute, her voluptuous legs caught his eye on the street corner of the old Chinese Theater, she was standing in an alleyway under a street lamp. The orange hue gave the crown of her black hair an aura of a halo. 'Maybe that's what she was,' Cole thought, 'An Angel giving life back to someone who truly needed it.' He picked her up in his busted-up Lincoln that he'd bought dirt cheap somewhere in San Diego. She wasn't impressed by the car, but the wad of cash in his hand caught her eye.

"Where you wanna go, cutie?"

"Wanna come back to my place?"

She smiled as she climbed into the passenger seat. She withdrew a cigarette and lit the end. He guessed he could forget about collecting her lungs; Madeline needed the best to suit her voice. She couldn't have a pair of blackened, tar-soaked lungs. He began asking her questions,

"Say, do you do any drugs?"

"Like what? Dope? Coke?"

"Well, uh, yeah."

"I just smoke, honey, I never cared for the smell of dope and coke fucked up a fair amount of girls I knew."

She stared at him; she had a coy smile on her face, and it made Cole nervous.

"What? Was it?"

"Nothing. You're just kind of cute, is all."

"I bet you tell all the guys that."

"Hey now, no need to be like that, I mean it. You've got pretty eyes behind your glasses. You got a girl?"

"….I used to."

His tone changed,

"Oh….forget I said anything. My name is Candi, but my full name is Candice."

"Why are you being so personal with me?"

"I'm an open book. Besides, you seem nice enough."

They listened to the latest rock and roll music on the radio until they came to the motel. There was no one at the front desk; he considered that to be incredibly lucky, but he may not be so next time. She marveled at the old dusty building.

"Huh, Art Deco."

"I'm sorry?"

"The architecture, it's Art Deco."

"How do you know that?"

"I was...I was gonna be an architect when I was in college."

Cole didn't respond; if he felt any more sympathy, he feared that he'd never go through with it. He took her by the hand and led her upstairs. She wiped away her tears and smiled at him. When they reached the room, he opened the door to the darkness. Cole said,

"Make yourself comfortable."

"Okay, you know, you're sweeter than some of the other guys I've been with and...God, what's that smell?!"

He flicked the lights on, and before she could scream at the splayed open corpse, the rag was over her mouth, the overwhelmingly sweet smell of the ether was working its magic on her. Once she was down, he simply put a pillow over her face, and after one minute, with little to no struggle from Candi, she was dead. He felt the pulse once more and breathed a sigh of relief. He stripped her of her clothes and closely examined her legs; they were mostly muscle, and they were nice and strong. He measured the size of the thighs and then the size of Madeline's. They were an inch off, but nothing drastically mismatched. They would have to do it; it's not like he could snatch the legs off a dancer; someone would notice. No one would miss Candice. He combed through her organs and found that her lungs were damaged as well as her liver, but her other parts showed promise. He removed them and put them in his cooler for later.

The jaw would be tricky. Madeline had somewhat of a squarish jaw, but nothing protrudingly large. It was pretty, it made her look unique. He could look for another prostitute, but then the police would suspect someone was kidnapping them; he had to keep everything random. The next day, he put a do not disturb sign over his doorknob and went for a long drive. Los Angeles was vibrant at night, sure, but there was something mystical during the daytime as well. It's as if all of the late-night grime was washed away in favor of a family-friendly tourist attraction where people walked the Walk of Fame, drove by celebrity houses, and took studio lot tours of big Hollywood pictures. He just drove with his windows down and explored the city, trying to find a spot to abduct some poor girl. He felt awful about it, but it was for the greater good, wasn't it? The world was robbed of Madeline Shaw's talents, and it was up to him to remedy it.

It'd been about an hour, and he was out in the desert, on the outskirts of the city. He was thinking that he'd turn back and maybe hit that bar called Talorico's, surely it'd be busy at night. But just ahead, he spotted something. A woman holding a bright white sign with different colored words that read: 'HOLLYWOOD OR BUST'. He pulled to the side to take a look at her, and she was an utter beauty. She was no Madeline, but she was something alright. Squarish jaw, and on top of that, a beautiful, slender nose that was virtually spotless. In fact, her skin was spotless, and she spoke to him, fluttering her eyes,

"Can I hitch a ride?"

Cole was dumbfounded that the answer to his prayers landed in his lap. He smiled and said,

"Sure? Where to?"

"Couldn't you read the sign?"

"Oh, well, I figured you had something more specific in mind, to be honest."

"Anywhere but the dessert! If I stayed out here any longer, I'd shrivel like a raisin."

"I bet....say, I've got a place in Los Angeles if you want to hang out for a little bit, it's nothing special, but it'll be good enough for you unt-"

She opened the passenger door and leaped to his side, squeezing him with a hug,

"Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! You won't regret this! My name is Mandy."

"Cole."

They drove off listening to the Stones while the windows were rolled down, the hot wind blowing through the beat-up Lincoln. She sang along to every song, she carried every note, and this made him ask,

"You do any drugs?"

"No, never touch the stuff."

"Drink?"

"Nope."

"What about-"

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."

"No, you've got me wrong, it's just that..." He thought of a lie quickly, "The owner of the apartment I'm in...he's not fond of anything like that. Staunch catholic."

"Ohhhhh, I see. Well, you've got nothing to worry about."

"I'm glad."

They drove past all of the big landmarks, the Walk of Fame, the Hollywood Sign, the Chinese Theater, the studio lots, and so much more. She looked at everything with utter wonder and joy. When they drove to Murnau's, her smile disappeared, and she looked to Cole with uncertainty,

"Is this it?"

"Told you it wasn't special."

They went inside, and this time there was someone in the lobby this time. It was someone different, a scrawny man with a ratty-looking beard and a comb over. He was deep into a book as he casually glanced up at the two of them and then back down at his book. They ascended the stairs, and just as he was unlocking his door, he heard her say,

"Maybe I'll stay someplace else."

He turned with a wide-eyed expression of shock,

"What?"

"It's just, uh, I, uh....Listen, you seem nice, and I'm sure you mean well, but I just...I'm sorry."

"Now just wait a second, we had an agreement."

"Agreement?"

"You said that you'd stay here with me!"

"You're scaring me, Cole!"

"Just come in the room, just for a second, you'll change your mind, I swear!"

She just looked at him coldly, and Cole felt his victory was starting to slowly turn into defeat. They stared at each other; the silence was deafening, and Mandy pinched her brow. With a deep sigh, she said,

"Fine. Show me around."

Cole exhaled with a shaky breath, and he began to giggle nervously as he unlocked the door. The room was dark as he fetched the ether and the rag from the kitchen sink. He soaked it and waited for her to enter the room. He struck up a casual conversation.

"You ever watch the musical 'Stitched!' It's great, one of-"

From the hallway, he could hear someone running down the stairs. He bolted outside of his room and looked over the railing to see Mandy rushing down the stairs, her face white with fear and panic. He took off after her. He called out,

"Mandy! Wait! Please, we got off on the wrong foot!"

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"You don't understand, I need you!"

She tripped over one step as she tumbled onto the marble floor of the second level of the building. She rubbed her head and then heard the footsteps of Cole closing in. Before she could get up, she felt the weight of his body on her back. He had a rag in her hand, but she quickly took her thumbnail and jammed it backward into his eye. She could feel the briefest of fleshy resistance, and then heard a sudden pop! Then warm, jelly-like residue flowed down her thumb and into the palm of her hand. Cole screamed, no, he wailed, just like a banshee. He let go of her as she scrambled down the rest of the stairs, screaming,

"Someone help me! Someone call the police!"

It was over; the whole thing was squandered by bad luck. Cole clutched at the empty, burning socket of pain where his right eye used to be and ascended the stairs. He wept that he'd tripped at the finish line, that he'd come so close to bringing his sweet Madeline back. He looked in the mirror at himself; it was the first time in a few days since he'd done so, and he never realized how much of Madeline he'd seen in himself. With his one good eye, he examined his square jaw that wasn't too masculine, and the slender nose he had on his face. He even remembered people telling him, 'You look just like your mother!'

He took the scalpel in hand, and he was afraid. He was afraid that if he went through with this, he'd never hear her sing, see her dance, or witness her act again. But wasn't that what love was? To make sacrifices for those you truly and deeply love? It would be his gift to the world, his sacrifice. He numbed the face and quickly removed the nose; it was agony, but he fought back with painkillers. He downed them like candy. He went to assemble the body, using the organs of Candi, and had to use her lackluster lungs and liver because he was desperate. The police would be here soon, and he even barricaded the door just in case anyone from the hotel came knocking. The new organs replaced the embalmed old ones, the eye caps were removed, the stitched mouth was cut open, and his beautiful nose, his mother's nose, now belonged to her.

Now came the hard part, the jaw. Once it was gone, he needed to work fast. He needed to attach it to the skull, sew it up, and then begin the resuscitation. He had bought a car battery and hotwired it to the hotel's electricity. He drove the electrical spikes into her ear sockets in order to get quick access to the brain. He made several injections across the body, filling it with his special cocktail of adrenaline-based chemicals. The door pounded behind him. He could hear a voice call out,

"Cole? What are you doing in there, man?" the voice said, "There's a girl downstairs who said she gouged your eye out."

"Fuck off!" he screamed, "Leave me alone!"

"Cole, let me in, or I'm calling the cops, you've been a good attendant man, but y-"

"JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, GO AWAY, PLEASE!"

He could hear the voice yell to someone else,

"Nah, fuck this. Gene! Call the police!"

He was running out of time. Cole looked in the mirror and wet his face with hot water. He used his razor to shave any random hairs that sat on his face, and when he was done, he downed the rest of the bottle of painkillers. He held the razor with a tight, white-knuckled grip. His breathing was erratic, his hand was trembling, but his resolve was strong. He took a deep breath and began to cut.

Officer Hunter and Officer Accosta arrived at the old hotel as the clouds opened up. Fat raindrops splattered against the windshield as they pulled in out front. Hunter was scarfing down a burrito while Accosta was driving. As he chewed, he asked,

"We got any follow-ups on the grave robbing incident?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Damn."

"I know, but they'll turn up eventually."

They exited the car, rain battering their uniforms as they entered the musty lobby of Murnau's. The officers saw two employees comforting a young woman with what looked to be something like jam staining her thumb. They approached them. Hunter finished the burrito and briskly slapped any remaining crumbs from his hands as Accosta withdrew a pen and paper.

"We received a call about a disturbance." Hunter began,

"Yeah, his name is Cole Cunningham. He seemed to be a nice guy, but now he's an asshole," said the scrawny man,

"Your name?"

"Gene."

"What about you, miss?"

"Mandy." She said, sniffling, "He tried to drug me or something. He wanted me to go into his apartment, and when I didn't, he chased after me and tried to put this over my face."

She held up a wet rag. Accosta grabbed it and gave it a brief sniff,

"Ether," he said, passing it to Hunter.

"Jesus," Hunter said in return,

"You're telling me." the brawny sman spoke up, "I try to go up there and sort this thing out and now he's locked himself in his room."

The officers gave each other a glance and called for paramedics to check on the woman. They told everyone to sit tight in the lobby and told Gene to call the other rooms and tell them to stay inside. They ascended the stairs as they heard rain assault the roof of the old building, and thunder roared so loudly that the flood beneath their feet rumbled. Yet, when they were almost to the room, the lights in the old hotel began to pulsate, flicker, and then suddenly go out entirely. They were stuck in the dark, and something had zapped the building of all of its power. For Accosta and Hunter, one minute seemed like an eternity, but then the lights returned to the old building. As they finally reached Cole's room, they heard something peculiar from inside. It was something so loud yet so delicate, and the two of them exchanged a glance because they already knew the sound. They heard the voice on the radio before, but this wasn't any recording; this was real.

From within the room, they heard the sound of Madeline Shaw singing.

'Do you remember how old you were when the Sun went out?' This is a question I'm often asked by the children in our little colony. I have to answer sincerely because I was only a child when it happened. Twelve years, if I'm correct. The scientists were screaming into the void while our brilliant, fearless leaders were busy conducting wars for profit and stroking their egos. This went on for months until sometime during the middle of the day, things just went unexpectedly dark, like turning off a great light switch. I was thankfully inside my home when this happened, but those who were out and about enjoying their summer afternoons were quickly killed. The extreme change in temperatures delivered a cruel shock to the body. Billions dead, out in this new, frozen frontier, which was now our reality. The sky above was starless save for a red circle, the black hole in which our Sun used to sit. Most scientists believed that the Sun would extinguish itself quietly by expanding and then burning out into a dwarf star. Others believed that maybe a supernova would wipe us all out in one fell swoop, a big bang, just like how it was in the beginning. Instead, we were given the scientifically impossible third option, and now we're stuck here in the dark waiting for the black hole to swallow us.

No names were given to the black hole's creation, but some have dubbed it 'The Darkening' or 'The Great Blackout'. Governments tried and failed to contain the public outrage over the events. When people learned that the scientists weren't faking it or part of a hoax, they turned on the very people who fed them lies. Podcasters, celebrities, congressmen, and presidents were all treated alike. Rather than waste materials on them, they stripped them of their clothes and sent them to walk into the freezing dark until they couldn't anymore. Humanity tried for a brief moment to try and combat the black hole, but it was an almost scientific impossibility. In the wake of the events, tribes were established. Another thing that scientists weren't counting on was all of the leftovers here on Earth. When they hypothesized about the Sun's extinction, many believed that all of humanity would be wiped out instantly. Yet, defying all odds, we still stand here alone at the edge of the universe. I wish I could tell you that we all came together in one big humanitarian force, but we had far too many differences to live amongst each other.

Our group lived by a great river, surrounded by trees. I wish I could tell you where exactly, but maps are useless in the dark. We're Americans, or we're people who live in what used to be the United States. Now, we're Promethians, named after the defiant God who gifted fire to mortals. The name fits since we trade in firewood and other tools that keep people warm. We're surrounded by many different tribes, but we stay vigilant. We've built a large fortress of wood; you never know how large it truly is until you leave the settlement for yourself and look back at it. When the torchlight illuminates it, it's like a castle. Prometheus is a grand fortress, and many of the guards pull their weight in order to ensure everyone's safety. The woodworkers wear their layers and head out to hack away at the woods surrounding us. Meanwhile, the scavengers branch out and travel light to try to find whatever might be left behind in the dark. However, there are those of us who stay behind to feed the fires, treat the sick, feed the hungry, and educate the young.

I'm a chronicler, trying to write down what was and what is. I work under a candle, writing in my books for hours, and then putting them into the great library for those to read. I write fiction and nonfiction, both, a combination of world history that I've gathered from old books, films, and memories. They're nothing more than imitations, but they're written thoroughly enough. I'm old now, I've not kept track, but my hair has gone grey, and wrinkles have appeared on my face. The average day involves me waking up, going to the communal kitchen, grabbing breakfast, going to my study, and writing in my journals until my hand begins to seize and cramp. Yet, these past few weeks have been marked by the strangest and most terrifying moments I've experienced since the Sun winked out of our lives.

It began with a raid. There were three loud bangs from across the river, and out into the sky we saw three massive flares burning bright. The younger ones were in awe of it; they'd never seen anything burn so brightly in their lives. Below the glow, the guards spotted dozens of armed men and women storming the fort. Some had guns, most had arrows. The alarm bell was rung; it was the first time in years it'd been rung, and this time it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. I was fortified along with the elderly and the children, deemed too weak to fight. I scoffed at it. I still had fight in me, but I didn't speak against the word of the council. From within the locked doors, we heard shouts, screams, and for many of the young children, their virgin ears heard the sudden, foreign loudness of gunfire. It went on for four hours, but we finally heard the sound of a knock from the outside. Five sharp knocks were the signal that all was clear. I opened the door to see Henry, a scar cut from his top lip all the way up to his temple. He slurred his speech due to the injury, but he was lucid.

"Battlth over. We won. Theventeen of uth are dead."

We emerged and saw that some managed to get in. One of them somehow managed to ram the front gate down. The torchlight, as well as the great fire in the center of Prometheus, showed us the flickers of the aftermath. Bodies bloodied, mangled, and our ordinary little community was thrown into disarray. The council members, the ones that were left, were judging the prisoners of war. One by one, they were stripped of their layers and sent out into the dark. Their teeth chattering, their bodies seizing up from the cold, and all of them were weary, slender, and tired. In another life, we would've taken them in and broken bread. Yet, they spilled blood, and we responded in kind. Cruelty begets cruelty. This is the way of the Great Blackout.

As they marched out into the dead, frozen Earth, I caught a glimpse of the black hole illuminating the blackened sky. I wondered how long it'd be before it swallowed us up? What would it feel like? Would we notice? Would we even care? Their naked bodies disappeared into the void of the dark as they left Prometheus. Certain, painful, and sudden.

Or so we thought.

I was taking a break from my studies in the courtyard, next to the fire, and drinking hot coffee, a delicacy in these times, but as the sole Chronicler, I had privileges. Besides, my home was the smallest of Prometheus after all. I was there sipping away as I thought about what my next book should be. Momentarily, I gave thought to retell mankind's foray into space travel with NASA's trip to the moon. Yet, how would this be received by a generation that's never even seen the moon in the sky? To them, it's as made-up as the fairy tales I've written down. So, I pivoted and instead changed the subject to fiction. In my years as a scribe, I've written down the works of Tolkien, Howard, Sanderson, and Lewis, but there was something that always recurred to my mind. A story called 'The Buried Giant'. It was a melancholic Arthurian legend, but when I read it as a boy, most of Ishiguro's work flew past my mind. However, long after reading it, it kept returning to my mind. I sipped at the coffee and grunted in agreement to myself. I decided then that it would be my next story to retell. I just hoped I could remember it all.

As I was returning to my study, my arm was caught by Reginald, a guard of great height and a member of the council. I greeted him, but when he didn't greet me back, I knew something terrible had happened. I questioned him,

"What is this about, Reginald?"

"Reggie, please, but I need your help."

"With what?"

"We need you to write down something that our men and women have seen beyond the gates over the past few days."

I did not disagree or fight back; it was my job to take down history and such. I followed Reginald to the barracks, which were lit with torches, their orange glow illuminating the room with dancing flames. Before me, I saw the troop. Their expressions were hollow and haunted. Guards, woodsmen, and scavengers alike were all distinctly void of humanity. Reginald patted my back and cleared his throat to get the attention of the men and women. He gestured to me and said,

"The Chronicler will see you now."

Reginald set up a table and two chairs opposite each other. He even fetched me fresh pages and pencils to write with. The first guard to speak was a woman named Hannah, who was in her thirties or so, with long blonde hair tied into a bun so tight that it stretched her forehead. Her knee bounced rapidly as I was sharpening the pencil, and when I reassured her that there was nothing to worry about, she gave me a look that still haunts me to this day. I told her to begin,

"I'm Hannah, I'm one of the woodsmen, and..."

She stopped wafting away tears in her eyes and continued,

"I've seen things I can't explain."

"It's okay," I reassured her, "You're amongst friends and allies now."

"Okay...okay....I was holding the lamplight to make sure that we were striking true against this tree we'd found, a large oak. It was easy to cut into it. I knocked my fist against it, and it was hollow. Easy cut, and perfect for burning. I told Alec to start cutting by hacking away at it with an axe; the two-handed saw would come later.

That's when I heard something behind me, something was running in the woods, in the dark. I turned with my lantern in hand, and I saw something ducking behind one of the trees far, far away. I could barely see it because the lamplight can only stretch so far, but...."

She paused and looked to Reginald,

"Could I have some water?"

He obliged and returned with a glass. She downed it in one go and returned to the story,

"At first, I saw two eyes, reflective, like an animal. But when I got closer, I saw that it wasn't an animal at all. I saw a man, crouched like a wounded animal, he was shaking, and he was...he was naked."

"Naked?"

"Yes. No clothes on him, bare as the day he was born, and he was moving and breathing. It's like the cold didn't even bother him!"

"What did you do next?"

"I shouted at him, asked if he was alright, I thought maybe raiders stripped him, and he was wandering the woods, but the more I looked at him, the more I knew he wasn't right. I inched closer with the lantern, I told Alec to join me, and he did. He had an axe in hand in case anything happened. So we kept going and going until the man was clearer in view. When we were finally on him, he looked wrong, so wrong.

His skin was white, we expected that, look at us, aren't we pale too?! But the rest of him, his fingers were black, so were his toes, and his genitals. We thought of frostbite, but not so! He glared at us, and then we caught a true glimpse of his face. The eyes were black save for a reddish-yellow circle at the center of both, the lips were gone, and the teeth that were on display were bent, cracked, and yellowed. There was no nose, only two vacant holes where the nostrils were.

I tried to talk to him, but he withdrew, like a scolded child, and then he galloped away. As he did, I could've sworn it was laughing."

I thanked Hannah for her time and sent her on her way. She told me that she just needed to be with family for a few days. I said that I didn't blame her.

The next person up was a man named Zachary, one of our scavengers. He was short, scrawny, and nimble, a perfect thief. His short, black hair was greasy and stuck to his brow. He couldn't look at me when I was ready to begin. I lightly knocked on the table, and he jolted awake. He trembled but a moment and then gave a nervous laugh.

"Sorry, just jumpy."

"My apologies."

"No, no, it's okay."

He began his tale.

"I'm Zach, and I'm a scavenger. As you know, we don't necessarily travel in groups, which is fine by me; I like to keep to myself. I was out there for days until I came across the remnants of what used to be some sort of market."

"Did it have a name out front?"

"I held my flashlight up to it, but it seemed like gibberish, something called a 'Wal-Mart'?"

I chuckled at this, and everyone looked at me with confusion. Sometimes, I forget my age. I told them it was a famous chain of stores that people traded filthy paper and coins for. They were so used to bartering here in Prometheus that my explanations seemed so strange. Zachary continued.

"When I arrived, I had my crossbow out, ready for anything. I had my flashlight strapped to it, and I wasn't afraid to fight; in fact, I sometimes itch for it. Is that a bad thing? Anyway, so here I was in this massive market, and most of the hallways had been pillaged, but it doesn't mean that there wasn't anything in there.

I got a lot of canned food, big cans, and there was also a bunch of candy too. There were spare clothes that were tattered up and on the ground, but I figured that they'd be good enough for kindling. When I was in there, I actually thought of you, Chronicler."

"You did?" I said with amusement,

He smiled. He had his backpack beside him as he zipped it open and retrieved a handful of old books. They were weathered, and the pages yellowed, but all were intact. I looked through them and saw that he'd collected 'The Stand', 'The Holy Bible', 'Books of Blood', and 'The Odyssey'. I marveled at them and thanked him profusely. Zachary smiled but then soured as he continued his tale.

"It doesn't take a lot to scare me. I was jumped one run, and I didn't even flinch. I know what to expect out there. People's desperation makes them dangerous, I should know. I've seen cannibals feasting on a fresh kill, and I've seen dead families on the sides of the roads. But nothing like this, nothing ever like this.

I heard someone whispering; it was far away from where I was, but I knew the sound. It was like someone whispering too loudly. I put a bolt in the crossbow and tried to hone in on it, try to get the jump on it before it got the jump on me. You understand, right? Of course you do! I turned off my flashlight and kept my hand against one of the shelves to figure out where I was headed. It followed it until the whispering got so loud that I could actually make out what it was saying."

He stopped and rubbed his eyes, maybe wiping any tears that were about to form. He exhaled with a shaky breath, and when Reginald asked if he wanted anything to drink or to calm him down, he refused. He just sat there, lost in thought, thinking that maybe our little interview was over, but I pestered him,

"What did they say, Zachary?"

He sniffled and cleared his throat,

"They said, 'Do they know that they'll be dead?', over and over again. When I put my flashlight on it…it was a woman, or what I thought was a woman, holding a child. She was naked, and…her lips were gone and…hell, you heard Hannah talk about it. Even the baby she held looked like it, all white and shriveled with black extremities."

"And what did you do then?"

"I ran. I didn't even shoot the thing; I was so scared. Does that make me a coward, Chronicler? I mean, is that how you're going to write me down as?"

I calmly reassured him that this little instinctive action of his simply made him human. He was no coward; he was scared and wanted to be as far away from this creature as possible.

I told Reginald that I wanted a short break so I could thoroughly write down everything I've learned so far. I gathered down the accounts to the last detail and fleshed them out as best as I could into something that resembles a historical account. But I had no idea how to properly describe these ghouls, these almost zombie-like beings that were described by both Hannah and Zachary. When I talked to them, they were terrified, and one hundred percent certain of what they were telling me. I had no reason, no reason at all to doubt them. What use is there in lying in a world like this one? What would they gain? Perhaps, they should stay nameless, these things, whatever they are.

I returned to the room and took my place at the table. A guard was next to give his tale, a stout man by the name of Nikloas. His beard was wild, his hair unkempt, and unlike the others, he stared at me with confidence. He scratched his beard and asked me,

"Will this take long? I've got to be getting to my post soon."

Reginald told him,

"The others have you covered, Nik. You can talk as long as you like."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Huh, how about that?"

His posture relaxed as he slouched in his chair and then propped his elbows up over the table. Without giving me a moment to sharpen my pencil again, he began,

"You remember that raid a few days ago? The people with the flares and all that? Well, this happened two days after that. We stripped them for materials, you know how we do, right, Chronicler? Well, the other guards were taking a brief break to eat, and I decided to just stay out there. I wasn't hungry. I stood on the wall and stood next to one of the torches; it felt good out in the cold. I looked up at the black hole, its little reddish ring glowing against the black sky...hard to imagine a sky that was blue. Anyway, I just kept looking out at the threshold of where the light would end and the darkness began.

I was out there, my eyes glazing over and yawning beneath my layered ski masks. The corpses of the raid were too many to move in just one weekend, so there were plenty still scattered across the ground down there. I was in the middle of rubbing my eyes when I saw something odd. All of the bodies were gone, and standing at the threshold of light, as you might expect..."

He gestured towards Hannah and Zachary behind him,

"...was one of those things. White, naked, blackened fingers, feet, dick, and balls. It came closer, and its face came into the light. This one didn't have hair, just a crackly bald scalp. The eyes, man, they freaked me out. I shouted down at it, aimed my bow instead of my rifle, but it didn't make sense shooting at someone who didn't have any armor on it. I gave him a warning and shouted it real loud too, I was hoping some of the folks inside would've heard me so that they'd rush out to their post."

He stirred in his seat, irritable. His mask of confidence was slipping as I saw something deeply troubling him. He began to bite his fingernails. I saw his other hand and saw that they were nibbled down to nothing. He nervously chuckled and sighed with a trembling voice. He continued.

"So I fired the arrow, and I don't want to boast, but I'm the best marksman in Prometheus. So when I tell you that when I saw him still standing there after I fired, I thought that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe a cold chill made me lose focus, or something like that. So I drew the arrow back again and fired. This time, I fired at something wider, his chest. Nothing, it kept walking, and I knew that I had shot it square in the chest. As it got closer, I noticed that my arrows were sticking out of the ground, right behind where he had been walking. I hit my mark. The quivers were sticking out of his right eye and in one of his nipples. The rest of the arrows were sticking out of his back, slick with blood, you know?

He kept on until I was staring directly up at me. I shot him one more time, point-blank. It just went through him. The black eye with the little red circle within it stared up at me with indifference, and it spoke to me one on one."

"What did it say?" I asked him,

"It said to me, in the calmest voice, 'Will you be ready?' and then it took off back to the darkness, and it could hear it snickering as it went."

Nik stood up and gave me a firm handshake. I thanked him for his account, but he didn't say a word back to me. He turned to Reginald and asked,

"Can I go home now? I want to be with my wife."

Reginald let him go. I was sitting there grappling with what I'd just heard. Their appearances, their cryptic speak, and now they seemed to be impervious to pain. What were they? Phantom? Zombies? Demons? I put such strangeness out of my mind, and I chalked it up to hallucination on Nik's part. He was tired and lingered behind on the gate while the others took their breaks. Yet, if he was hallucinating, how could he have come up with the same exact description as Hannah and Zachary? The day was long as I kept listening to multiple testimonies from multiple positions. All of them encountered similar, strange accounts of these creatures walking amongst them. Evidently, they all said something to them, all calm and hushed. These were the phrases that were spoken or overheard,

'They don't know yet.'

'Not ready, no, not ready.'

'They seem scared.'

We concluded the interviews, and when the troop of troubled individuals left, Reginald pulled me aside and asked me,

"What do you think of it, old timer?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean? Has nothing ever happened like this when....when the Sun was still around?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but I've never encountered anything like this. I don't think anyone in human history has encountered anything like this."

"What?"

"I need time to process this."

"Listen here, we're facing something we don't understand, and you're telling me that you don't know?"

"You think I'm the first to encounter something like this? Go to the library sometime, learn about Chornobyl, the Atomic Bomb, or Black Plague. You think we're unique for encountering something for the first time? Think again!"

I grabbed my things and returned to my study to compile them all together into a coherent turn of events. The chronology was all over the place, but their stories were all so vivid and rich in detail. I wrote for hours until my hand seized up on me. I turned in for the night. I was tired, and my hand was in pain. My bed embraced me like the sweetest lover, and when I dreamed, I saw these creatures. I could see their eyes, solid black with a red circle within, but as I looked closer, the eyes began to take a familiar shape. It was something we'd seen every day since the Great Blackout. In their eyes was the image of the black hole.

A knock jostled me from sleep. I put on some more suitable clothing and went to answer it. At the door was Henry, his scar had healed, but his speech was still struggling. He grunted,

"Reggie wanth you, we found thomething."

"I'll be right down."

I headed down to the courtyard and wondered what time of day it would've been if the Sun had still been around. Was it dawn? Dusk? Night? There's no telling anymore. There's simply being awake and being asleep. I was rubbing the crust from my eyes as I was descending into the courtyard. There were people going out and about doing their business, but there weren't many. I came to a building that housed most of the equipment, tools, and weapons for the folks of Prometheus. However, there were two guards stationed outside of it, and in front of them were Reginald and another member of the council named Emma.

"Glad you're here, Chronicler," said Reginald,

"We need you for this." Emma added, "But keep what you hear and see to yourself. This only concerns the guard and the council. Understand?"

I gave the two a glance and saw that there was something wrong. I told them,

"I understand."

The guards opened the door, and all three of us entered. I heard the sound of meat getting struck with deep, heavy thuds. I saw the scene before me, a large guard was shirtless and wailing into someone who was tied up in a chair. He was glistening with sweat and panting heavily; he'd been doing this for a while.

"Take five, George," Reginald said. He turned to me and said, "We found this one outside the gate. He was trying to pry it open with his bare hands."

George took a rag and wiped his face, and then draped his clothes back over his body. He moved to reveal the thing in the chair. I looked at his hands and his feet, both black as coal. The bag was draped over his face. Reginald motioned for one of the guards in the room to remove the bag. His face was a horror, not even the stories I'd heard could have prepared me for what I saw. The lipless maw gnashed silently at the air, the teeth clicked together. Reginald turned to me and said,

"Write down everything."

He approached the tied-up ghoul with a large knife. He pressed the tip against his forehead; it dug into the white flesh, and a small trickle of blood flowed down his nose. The ghoul did not flinch, he did not cry, he didn't even wince. Reginald spoke to him in a stern voice,

"Are you ready to talk yet? What are you? How many others are there?"

Its eyes looked around the room with fascination, and then it spotted me writing in my notebook. Its eyes grew bigger, and it turned to face me. Reginald slapped him and said,

"This ain't about him, this is about you and me."

This thing turned to face him, complying with his rules, but his gaze never left me.

"What are you?"

"I was human once."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at my body, my throat."

Sure enough, there was a scar there, impossibly deep, but somehow completely healed.

"You mean you're reanimated? That you're some sort of undead thing?"

"Death does not take your kind anymore; your bodies belong to him."

"Him who?"

He pointed up to the sky,

"You call him a Black Hole, but he's so much more."

"Oh? Please, elaborate."

"He is everywhere. When a sun dies, it spreads us to planets like yours."

"Sure."

Reginald takes the knife and plunges it into his thigh, blackened blood spurted from the wound, and splattered onto the wooden floor. No reaction from the man, he kept speaking,

"Before devouring a galaxy, you must first conquer it."

"Shut up! Tell me how many of you are there!"

"How many have died on this planet in the days of the dead Sun? For they shall inherit the living world before he decides to take it for himself. Are you getting every word, scribe?"

My pencil stopped, and my blood froze. I glanced up from my paper and looked the thing in the eyes. My dreams were correct; it had the image of the black hole within each of its pupils. The lipless mouth spoke to me,

"Make sure to prepare them for the new world. Prepare the way for the void."

Reginald had had enough and slashed the thing's throat; black slime oozed over the chest. It finally made eye contact with him and spoke with blood choking its speech. It gargled,

"The others will come for me. You cannot win."

He took the knife and dug into the neck, hacking at it with repetitive slashes until the head was severed. The eyes were still glowing, the flaming red circle of the black hole still there within each eye. It irritated him, so he dug them out and stomped them into a slimy paste. Emma was mortified with what had transpired and told Reginald,

"What are we going to say to them?"

"We're not saying a goddamned thing."

"You want to leave them in the dark?!"

"And do you want them to sit and wait in fear? If they hear this, they will be waiting for the end for the rest of their lives. Would you like to live the rest of your life knowing what's out there to get you?"

"I don't like this, Reggie."

"It's the right call."

"Like hell it is."

"We'll vote on it tonight, and the rest of the council will hear both of our arguments."

"What about him?"

She pointed at me. Reginald answered,

"He is to burn everything he's written here. Nothing leaves; we know everything we need to know."

I personally objected. I told him that keeping secrets like this was the exact reason the old world fell; this insistence on keeping everyone in the dark was dangerous. He simply cleaned the knife, holstered it, and took the pages I'd written. He held them in his hand with a tight fist and growled at me,

"You think that because you've seen the Sun that you're special? That your age and your role in Prometheus give you dominion over the council?"

"Reggie, don't!" Emma called,

It was too late; he shredded it in my face and threw the remnants into the creature's blood. The black liquid soaked into the pages. The guards were dismissed, and Emma and Reginald stormed out, shouting at each other. I sat there transfixed by what had just happened. I felt sick, like I'd seen history repeat itself once again.

I went to the mess hall and asked for an extravagant meal. I had canned rice and chicken, and I asked the chef specifically for one of the signature brownies he had made for special occasions. He asked me what the occasion was, I didn't have the heart to share what I knew, and simply shrugged. I told him,

"I just really needed something sweet."

I enjoyed the meal, the savoriness of the canned rice and chicken, and the sweetness of the brownie. I topped off with some coffee and decided that I'd turn in for the night. I was emotionally exhausted, and I went to bed that night praying that the council would let everyone know about the threat that was at our door.

The alarm awoke me; the bells were ringing, and the sound of gunfire was cracking in the freezing air. I exited my room and saw the citizens of Prometheus in a frantic race to get to shelter. I looked to the gate, seeing the soldiers in a frantic fight for survival as they fired flares into the air to illuminate the battlefield, and it was the only time I'd ever seen Prometheus resort to using explosives. This was only ever used in case of emergencies, and it seems that today is one of those days. The booms echoed in the silent world, and the gunshots kept on.

I ran to my study and scrounged up all of the remaining works that were unfinished and tried desperately to make my way to the shelter. Through the deafening noise of battle and the rumble of explosions beneath my feet, I finally reached the door, only to find that it had been locked. I gave the signal of the five sharp knocks only to be met with nothing. I tried again, and I even announced who I was, but I was met with the voice of one of the children inside yelling at me,

"Go away, Chronicler!"

"Please! This is an emergency!"

"I'm sorry, but we're already full enough!"

I wanted to pound on the door and scream at them, but I knew it would be all in vain. I just slid my work underneath the door.

"Please, save my work, that's all I ask!"

The battle continued behind me as I heard screams and gunfire. When faced with certain death, you're faced with two different ways to take it. You either panic or you come to the reality of your situation with peace. I chose the ladder. I went to a place where I'd face the end with dignity, our library. I entered and saw that the fireplace was still burning bright. I scanned the shelves for something to enjoy before the end comes. I ended up taking with me something simple, 'The Hobbit'. It was read to me by my mother, the first book I had ever been introduced to in my life; it made sense that it should be there for the end. I inched closer to the fire, hoping the crackling of the wood and the roar of the flame could drown out the sounds of battle, but it did not.

I finished the short novel, content with it being the last story I read, but I decided that I had a little bit more left in me to write. This is my last journal, the last semblance of any humanity left in this part of the world. At the end of my life, I'd finally found a name for them, these devourers of cultures and society. These undead ghouls that are born of a great celestial hunger. They are the Black Hole Sons. They are here waiting in the dark, and they will devour civilization, and then their God will devour the stars.

-David, The Chronicler

'Do you remember how old you were when the Sun went out?' This is a question I'm often asked by the children in our little colony. I have to answer sincerely because I was only a child when it happened. Twelve years, if I'm correct. The scientists were screaming into the void while our brilliant, fearless leaders were busy conducting wars for profit and stroking their egos. This went on for months until sometime during the middle of the day, things just went unexpectedly dark, like turning off a great light switch. I was thankfully inside my home when this happened, but those who were out and about enjoying their summer afternoons were quickly killed. The extreme change in temperatures delivered a cruel shock to the body. Billions dead, out in this new, frozen frontier, which was now our reality. The sky above was starless save for a red circle, the black hole in which our Sun used to sit. Most scientists believed that the Sun would extinguish itself quietly by expanding and then burning out into a dwarf star. Others believed that maybe a supernova would wipe us all out in one fell swoop, a big bang, just like how it was in the beginning. Instead, we were given the scientifically impossible third option, and now we're stuck here in the dark waiting for the black hole to swallow us.

No names were given to the black hole's creation, but some have dubbed it 'The Darkening' or 'The Great Blackout'. Governments tried and failed to contain the public outrage over the events. When people learned that the scientists weren't faking it or part of a hoax, they turned on the very people who fed them lies. Podcasters, celebrities, congressmen, and presidents were all treated alike. Rather than waste materials on them, they stripped them of their clothes and sent them to walk into the freezing dark until they couldn't anymore. Humanity tried for a brief moment to try and combat the black hole, but it was an almost scientific impossibility. In the wake of the events, tribes were established. Another thing that scientists weren't counting on was all of the leftovers here on Earth. When they hypothesized about the Sun's extinction, many believed that all of humanity would be wiped out instantly. Yet, defying all odds, we still stand here alone at the edge of the universe. I wish I could tell you that we all came together in one big humanitarian force, but we had far too many differences to live amongst each other.

Our group lived by a great river, surrounded by trees. I wish I could tell you where exactly, but maps are useless in the dark. We're Americans, or we're people who live in what used to be the United States. Now, we're Promethians, named after the defiant God who gifted fire to mortals. The name fits since we trade in firewood and other tools that keep people warm. We're surrounded by many different tribes, but we stay vigilant. We've built a large fortress of wood; you never know how large it truly is until you leave the settlement for yourself and look back at it. When the torchlight illuminates it, it's like a castle. Prometheus is a grand fortress, and many of the guards pull their weight in order to ensure everyone's safety. The woodworkers wear their layers and head out to hack away at the woods surrounding us. Meanwhile, the scavengers branch out and travel light to try to find whatever might be left behind in the dark. However, there are those of us who stay behind to feed the fires, treat the sick, feed the hungry, and educate the young.

I'm a chronicler, trying to write down what was and what is. I work under a candle, writing in my books for hours, and then putting them into the great library for those to read. I write fiction and nonfiction, both, a combination of world history that I've gathered from old books, films, and memories. They're nothing more than imitations, but they're written thoroughly enough. I'm old now, I've not kept track, but my hair has gone grey, and wrinkles have appeared on my face. The average day involves me waking up, going to the communal kitchen, grabbing breakfast, going to my study, and writing in my journals until my hand begins to seize and cramp. Yet, these past few weeks have been marked by the strangest and most terrifying moments I've experienced since the Sun winked out of our lives.

It began with a raid. There were three loud bangs from across the river, and out into the sky we saw three massive flares burning bright. The younger ones were in awe of it; they'd never seen anything burn so brightly in their lives. Below the glow, the guards spotted dozens of armed men and women storming the fort. Some had guns, most had arrows. The alarm bell was rung; it was the first time in years it'd been rung, and this time it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. I was fortified along with the elderly and the children, deemed too weak to fight. I scoffed at it. I still had fight in me, but I didn't speak against the word of the council. From within the locked doors, we heard shouts, screams, and for many of the young children, their virgin ears heard the sudden, foreign loudness of gunfire. It went on for four hours, but we finally heard the sound of a knock from the outside. Five sharp knocks were the signal that all was clear. I opened the door to see Henry, a scar cut from his top lip all the way up to his temple. He slurred his speech due to the injury, but he was lucid.

"Battlth over. We won. Theventeen of uth are dead."

We emerged and saw that some managed to get in. One of them somehow managed to ram the front gate down. The torchlight, as well as the great fire in the center of Prometheus, showed us the flickers of the aftermath. Bodies bloodied, mangled, and our ordinary little community was thrown into disarray. The council members, the ones that were left, were judging the prisoners of war. One by one, they were stripped of their layers and sent out into the dark. Their teeth chattering, their bodies seizing up from the cold, and all of them were weary, slender, and tired. In another life, we would've taken them in and broken bread. Yet, they spilled blood, and we responded in kind. Cruelty begets cruelty. This is the way of the Great Blackout.

As they marched out into the dead, frozen Earth, I caught a glimpse of the black hole illuminating the blackened sky. I wondered how long it'd be before it swallowed us up? What would it feel like? Would we notice? Would we even care? Their naked bodies disappeared into the void of the dark as they left Prometheus. Certain, painful, and sudden.

Or so we thought.

I was taking a break from my studies in the courtyard, next to the fire, and drinking hot coffee, a delicacy in these times, but as the sole Chronicler, I had privileges. Besides, my home was the smallest of Prometheus after all. I was there sipping away as I thought about what my next book should be. Momentarily, I gave thought to retell mankind's foray into space travel with NASA's trip to the moon. Yet, how would this be received by a generation that's never even seen the moon in the sky? To them, it's as made-up as the fairy tales I've written down. So, I pivoted and instead changed the subject to fiction. In my years as a scribe, I've written down the works of Tolkien, Howard, Sanderson, and Lewis, but there was something that always recurred to my mind. A story called 'The Buried Giant'. It was a melancholic Arthurian legend, but when I read it as a boy, most of Ishiguro's work flew past my mind. However, long after reading it, it kept returning to my mind. I sipped at the coffee and grunted in agreement to myself. I decided then that it would be my next story to retell. I just hoped I could remember it all.

As I was returning to my study, my arm was caught by Reginald, a guard of great height and a member of the council. I greeted him, but when he didn't greet me back, I knew something terrible had happened. I questioned him,

"What is this about, Reginald?"

"Reggie, please, but I need your help."

"With what?"

"We need you to write down something that our men and women have seen beyond the gates over the past few days."

I did not disagree or fight back; it was my job to take down history and such. I followed Reginald to the barracks, which were lit with torches, their orange glow illuminating the room with dancing flames. Before me, I saw the troop. Their expressions were hollow and haunted. Guards, woodsmen, and scavengers alike were all distinctly void of humanity. Reginald patted my back and cleared his throat to get the attention of the men and women. He gestured to me and said,

"The Chronicler will see you now."

Reginald set up a table and two chairs opposite each other. He even fetched me fresh pages and pencils to write with. The first guard to speak was a woman named Hannah, who was in her thirties or so, with long blonde hair tied into a bun so tight that it stretched her forehead. Her knee bounced rapidly as I was sharpening the pencil, and when I reassured her that there was nothing to worry about, she gave me a look that still haunts me to this day. I told her to begin,

"I'm Hannah, I'm one of the woodsmen, and..."

She stopped wafting away tears in her eyes and continued,

"I've seen things I can't explain."

"It's okay," I reassured her, "You're amongst friends and allies now."

"Okay...okay....I was holding the lamplight to make sure that we were striking true against this tree we'd found, a large oak. It was easy to cut into it. I knocked my fist against it, and it was hollow. Easy cut, and perfect for burning. I told Alec to start cutting by hacking away at it with an axe; the two-handed saw would come later.

That's when I heard something behind me, something was running in the woods, in the dark. I turned with my lantern in hand, and I saw something ducking behind one of the trees far, far away. I could barely see it because the lamplight can only stretch so far, but...."

She paused and looked to Reginald,

"Could I have some water?"

He obliged and returned with a glass. She downed it in one go and returned to the story,

"At first, I saw two eyes, reflective, like an animal. But when I got closer, I saw that it wasn't an animal at all. I saw a man, crouched like a wounded animal, he was shaking, and he was...he was naked."

"Naked?"

"Yes. No clothes on him, bare as the day he was born, and he was moving and breathing. It's like the cold didn't even bother him!"

"What did you do next?"

"I shouted at him, asked if he was alright, I thought maybe raiders stripped him, and he was wandering the woods, but the more I looked at him, the more I knew he wasn't right. I inched closer with the lantern, I told Alec to join me, and he did. He had an axe in hand in case anything happened. So we kept going and going until the man was clearer in view. When we were finally on him, he looked wrong, so wrong.

His skin was white, we expected that, look at us, aren't we pale too?! But the rest of him, his fingers were black, so were his toes, and his genitals. We thought of frostbite, but not so! He glared at us, and then we caught a true glimpse of his face. The eyes were black save for a reddish-yellow circle at the center of both, the lips were gone, and the teeth that were on display were bent, cracked, and yellowed. There was no nose, only two vacant holes where the nostrils were.

I tried to talk to him, but he withdrew, like a scolded child, and then he galloped away. As he did, I could've sworn it was laughing."

I thanked Hannah for her time and sent her on her way. She told me that she just needed to be with family for a few days. I said that I didn't blame her.

The next person up was a man named Zachary, one of our scavengers. He was short, scrawny, and nimble, a perfect thief. His short, black hair was greasy and stuck to his brow. He couldn't look at me when I was ready to begin. I lightly knocked on the table, and he jolted awake. He trembled but a moment and then gave a nervous laugh.

"Sorry, just jumpy."

"My apologies."

"No, no, it's okay."

He began his tale.

"I'm Zach, and I'm a scavenger. As you know, we don't necessarily travel in groups, which is fine by me; I like to keep to myself. I was out there for days until I came across the remnants of what used to be some sort of market."

"Did it have a name out front?"

"I held my flashlight up to it, but it seemed like gibberish, something called a 'Wal-Mart'?"

I chuckled at this, and everyone looked at me with confusion. Sometimes, I forget my age. I told them it was a famous chain of stores that people traded filthy paper and coins for. They were so used to bartering here in Prometheus that my explanations seemed so strange. Zachary continued.

"When I arrived, I had my crossbow out, ready for anything. I had my flashlight strapped to it, and I wasn't afraid to fight; in fact, I sometimes itch for it. Is that a bad thing? Anyway, so here I was in this massive market, and most of the hallways had been pillaged, but it doesn't mean that there wasn't anything in there.

I got a lot of canned food, big cans, and there was also a bunch of candy too. There were spare clothes that were tattered up and on the ground, but I figured that they'd be good enough for kindling. When I was in there, I actually thought of you, Chronicler."

"You did?" I said with amusement,

He smiled. He had his backpack beside him as he zipped it open and retrieved a handful of old books. They were weathered, and the pages yellowed, but all were intact. I looked through them and saw that he'd collected 'The Stand', 'The Holy Bible', 'Books of Blood', and 'The Odyssey'. I marveled at them and thanked him profusely. Zachary smiled but then soured as he continued his tale.

"It doesn't take a lot to scare me. I was jumped one run, and I didn't even flinch. I know what to expect out there. People's desperation makes them dangerous, I should know. I've seen cannibals feasting on a fresh kill, and I've seen dead families on the sides of the roads. But nothing like this, nothing ever like this.

I heard someone whispering; it was far away from where I was, but I knew the sound. It was like someone whispering too loudly. I put a bolt in the crossbow and tried to hone in on it, try to get the jump on it before it got the jump on me. You understand, right? Of course you do! I turned off my flashlight and kept my hand against one of the shelves to figure out where I was headed. It followed it until the whispering got so loud that I could actually make out what it was saying."

He stopped and rubbed his eyes, maybe wiping any tears that were about to form. He exhaled with a shaky breath, and when Reginald asked if he wanted anything to drink or to calm him down, he refused. He just sat there, lost in thought, thinking that maybe our little interview was over, but I pestered him,

"What did they say, Zachary?"

He sniffled and cleared his throat,

"They said, 'Do they know that they'll be dead?', over and over again. When I put my flashlight on it…it was a woman, or what I thought was a woman, holding a child. She was naked, and…her lips were gone and…hell, you heard Hannah talk about it. Even the baby she held looked like it, all white and shriveled with black extremities."

"And what did you do then?"

"I ran. I didn't even shoot the thing; I was so scared. Does that make me a coward, Chronicler? I mean, is that how you're going to write me down as?"

I calmly reassured him that this little instinctive action of his simply made him human. He was no coward; he was scared and wanted to be as far away from this creature as possible.

I told Reginald that I wanted a short break so I could thoroughly write down everything I've learned so far. I gathered down the accounts to the last detail and fleshed them out as best as I could into something that resembles a historical account. But I had no idea how to properly describe these ghouls, these almost zombie-like beings that were described by both Hannah and Zachary. When I talked to them, they were terrified, and one hundred percent certain of what they were telling me. I had no reason, no reason at all to doubt them. What use is there in lying in a world like this one? What would they gain? Perhaps, they should stay nameless, these things, whatever they are.

I returned to the room and took my place at the table. A guard was next to give his tale, a stout man by the name of Nikloas. His beard was wild, his hair unkempt, and unlike the others, he stared at me with confidence. He scratched his beard and asked me,

"Will this take long? I've got to be getting to my post soon."

Reginald told him,

"The others have you covered, Nik. You can talk as long as you like."

"Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Huh, how about that?"

His posture relaxed as he slouched in his chair and then propped his elbows up over the table. Without giving me a moment to sharpen my pencil again, he began,

"You remember that raid a few days ago? The people with the flares and all that? Well, this happened two days after that. We stripped them for materials, you know how we do, right, Chronicler? Well, the other guards were taking a brief break to eat, and I decided to just stay out there. I wasn't hungry. I stood on the wall and stood next to one of the torches; it felt good out in the cold. I looked up at the black hole, its little reddish ring glowing against the black sky...hard to imagine a sky that was blue. Anyway, I just kept looking out at the threshold of where the light would end and the darkness began.

I was out there, my eyes glazing over and yawning beneath my layered ski masks. The corpses of the raid were too many to move in just one weekend, so there were plenty still scattered across the ground down there. I was in the middle of rubbing my eyes when I saw something odd. All of the bodies were gone, and standing at the threshold of light, as you might expect..."

He gestured towards Hannah and Zachary behind him,

"...was one of those things. White, naked, blackened fingers, feet, dick, and balls. It came closer, and its face came into the light. This one didn't have hair, just a crackly bald scalp. The eyes, man, they freaked me out. I shouted down at it, aimed my bow instead of my rifle, but it didn't make sense shooting at someone who didn't have any armor on it. I gave him a warning and shouted it real loud too, I was hoping some of the folks inside would've heard me so that they'd rush out to their post."

He stirred in his seat, irritable. His mask of confidence was slipping as I saw something deeply troubling him. He began to bite his fingernails. I saw his other hand and saw that they were nibbled down to nothing. He nervously chuckled and sighed with a trembling voice. He continued.

"So I fired the arrow, and I don't want to boast, but I'm the best marksman in Prometheus. So when I tell you that when I saw him still standing there after I fired, I thought that maybe something was wrong with me. Maybe a cold chill made me lose focus, or something like that. So I drew the arrow back again and fired. This time, I fired at something wider, his chest. Nothing, it kept walking, and I knew that I had shot it square in the chest. As it got closer, I noticed that my arrows were sticking out of the ground, right behind where he had been walking. I hit my mark. The quivers were sticking out of his right eye and in one of his nipples. The rest of the arrows were sticking out of his back, slick with blood, you know?

He kept on until I was staring directly up at me. I shot him one more time, point-blank. It just went through him. The black eye with the little red circle within it stared up at me with indifference, and it spoke to me one on one."

"What did it say?" I asked him,

"It said to me, in the calmest voice, 'Will you be ready?' and then it took off back to the darkness, and it could hear it snickering as it went."

Nik stood up and gave me a firm handshake. I thanked him for his account, but he didn't say a word back to me. He turned to Reginald and asked,

"Can I go home now? I want to be with my wife."

Reginald let him go. I was sitting there grappling with what I'd just heard. Their appearances, their cryptic speak, and now they seemed to be impervious to pain. What were they? Phantom? Zombies? Demons? I put such strangeness out of my mind, and I chalked it up to hallucination on Nik's part. He was tired and lingered behind on the gate while the others took their breaks. Yet, if he was hallucinating, how could he have come up with the same exact description as Hannah and Zachary? The day was long as I kept listening to multiple testimonies from multiple positions. All of them encountered similar, strange accounts of these creatures walking amongst them. Evidently, they all said something to them, all calm and hushed. These were the phrases that were spoken or overheard,

'They don't know yet.'

'Not ready, no, not ready.'

'They seem scared.'

We concluded the interviews, and when the troop of troubled individuals left, Reginald pulled me aside and asked me,

"What do you think of it, old timer?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean? Has nothing ever happened like this when....when the Sun was still around?"

"I hate to disappoint you, but I've never encountered anything like this. I don't think anyone in human history has encountered anything like this."

"What?"

"I need time to process this."

"Listen here, we're facing something we don't understand, and you're telling me that you don't know?"

"You think I'm the first to encounter something like this? Go to the library sometime, learn about Chornobyl, the Atomic Bomb, or Black Plague. You think we're unique for encountering something for the first time? Think again!"

I grabbed my things and returned to my study to compile them all together into a coherent turn of events. The chronology was all over the place, but their stories were all so vivid and rich in detail. I wrote for hours until my hand seized up on me. I turned in for the night. I was tired, and my hand was in pain. My bed embraced me like the sweetest lover, and when I dreamed, I saw these creatures. I could see their eyes, solid black with a red circle within, but as I looked closer, the eyes began to take a familiar shape. It was something we'd seen every day since the Great Blackout. In their eyes was the image of the black hole.

A knock jostled me from sleep. I put on some more suitable clothing and went to answer it. At the door was Henry, his scar had healed, but his speech was still struggling. He grunted,

"Reggie wanth you, we found thomething."

"I'll be right down."

I headed down to the courtyard and wondered what time of day it would've been if the Sun had still been around. Was it dawn? Dusk? Night? There's no telling anymore. There's simply being awake and being asleep. I was rubbing the crust from my eyes as I was descending into the courtyard. There were people going out and about doing their business, but there weren't many. I came to a building that housed most of the equipment, tools, and weapons for the folks of Prometheus. However, there were two guards stationed outside of it, and in front of them were Reginald and another member of the council named Emma.

"Glad you're here, Chronicler," said Reginald,

"We need you for this." Emma added, "But keep what you hear and see to yourself. This only concerns the guard and the council. Understand?"

I gave the two a glance and saw that there was something wrong. I told them,

"I understand."

The guards opened the door, and all three of us entered. I heard the sound of meat getting struck with deep, heavy thuds. I saw the scene before me, a large guard was shirtless and wailing into someone who was tied up in a chair. He was glistening with sweat and panting heavily; he'd been doing this for a while.

"Take five, George," Reginald said. He turned to me and said, "We found this one outside the gate. He was trying to pry it open with his bare hands."

George took a rag and wiped his face, and then draped his clothes back over his body. He moved to reveal the thing in the chair. I looked at his hands and his feet, both black as coal. The bag was draped over his face. Reginald motioned for one of the guards in the room to remove the bag. His face was a horror, not even the stories I'd heard could have prepared me for what I saw. The lipless maw gnashed silently at the air, the teeth clicked together. Reginald turned to me and said,

"Write down everything."

He approached the tied-up ghoul with a large knife. He pressed the tip against his forehead; it dug into the white flesh, and a small trickle of blood flowed down his nose. The ghoul did not flinch, he did not cry, he didn't even wince. Reginald spoke to him in a stern voice,

"Are you ready to talk yet? What are you? How many others are there?"

Its eyes looked around the room with fascination, and then it spotted me writing in my notebook. Its eyes grew bigger, and it turned to face me. Reginald slapped him and said,

"This ain't about him, this is about you and me."

This thing turned to face him, complying with his rules, but his gaze never left me.

"What are you?"

"I was human once."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at my body, my throat."

Sure enough, there was a scar there, impossibly deep, but somehow completely healed.

"You mean you're reanimated? That you're some sort of undead thing?"

"Death does not take your kind anymore; your bodies belong to him."

"Him who?"

He pointed up to the sky,

"You call him a Black Hole, but he's so much more."

"Oh? Please, elaborate."

"He is everywhere. When a sun dies, it spreads us to planets like yours."

"Sure."

Reginald takes the knife and plunges it into his thigh, blackened blood spurted from the wound, and splattered onto the wooden floor. No reaction from the man, he kept speaking,

"Before devouring a galaxy, you must first conquer it."

"Shut up! Tell me how many of you are there!"

"How many have died on this planet in the days of the dead Sun? For they shall inherit the living world before he decides to take it for himself. Are you getting every word, scribe?"

My pencil stopped, and my blood froze. I glanced up from my paper and looked the thing in the eyes. My dreams were correct; it had the image of the black hole within each of its pupils. The lipless mouth spoke to me,

"Make sure to prepare them for the new world. Prepare the way for the void."

Reginald had had enough and slashed the thing's throat; black slime oozed over the chest. It finally made eye contact with him and spoke with blood choking its speech. It gargled,

"The others will come for me. You cannot win."

He took the knife and dug into the neck, hacking at it with repetitive slashes until the head was severed. The eyes were still glowing, the flaming red circle of the black hole still there within each eye. It irritated him, so he dug them out and stomped them into a slimy paste. Emma was mortified with what had transpired and told Reginald,

"What are we going to say to them?"

"We're not saying a goddamned thing."

"You want to leave them in the dark?!"

"And do you want them to sit and wait in fear? If they hear this, they will be waiting for the end for the rest of their lives. Would you like to live the rest of your life knowing what's out there to get you?"

"I don't like this, Reggie."

"It's the right call."

"Like hell it is."

"We'll vote on it tonight, and the rest of the council will hear both of our arguments."

"What about him?"

She pointed at me. Reginald answered,

"He is to burn everything he's written here. Nothing leaves; we know everything we need to know."

I personally objected. I told him that keeping secrets like this was the exact reason the old world fell; this insistence on keeping everyone in the dark was dangerous. He simply cleaned the knife, holstered it, and took the pages I'd written. He held them in his hand with a tight fist and growled at me,

"You think that because you've seen the Sun that you're special? That your age and your role in Prometheus give you dominion over the council?"

"Reggie, don't!" Emma called,

It was too late; he shredded it in my face and threw the remnants into the creature's blood. The black liquid soaked into the pages. The guards were dismissed, and Emma and Reginald stormed out, shouting at each other. I sat there transfixed by what had just happened. I felt sick, like I'd seen history repeat itself once again.

I went to the mess hall and asked for an extravagant meal. I had canned rice and chicken, and I asked the chef specifically for one of the signature brownies he had made for special occasions. He asked me what the occasion was, I didn't have the heart to share what I knew, and simply shrugged. I told him,

"I just really needed something sweet."

I enjoyed the meal, the savoriness of the canned rice and chicken, and the sweetness of the brownie. I topped off with some coffee and decided that I'd turn in for the night. I was emotionally exhausted, and I went to bed that night praying that the council would let everyone know about the threat that was at our door.

The alarm awoke me; the bells were ringing, and the sound of gunfire was cracking in the freezing air. I exited my room and saw the citizens of Prometheus in a frantic race to get to shelter. I looked to the gate, seeing the soldiers in a frantic fight for survival as they fired flares into the air to illuminate the battlefield, and it was the only time I'd ever seen Prometheus resort to using explosives. This was only ever used in case of emergencies, and it seems that today is one of those days. The booms echoed in the silent world, and the gunshots kept on.

I ran to my study and scrounged up all of the remaining works that were unfinished and tried desperately to make my way to the shelter. Through the deafening noise of battle and the rumble of explosions beneath my feet, I finally reached the door, only to find that it had been locked. I gave the signal of the five sharp knocks only to be met with nothing. I tried again, and I even announced who I was, but I was met with the voice of one of the children inside yelling at me,

"Go away, Chronicler!"

"Please! This is an emergency!"

"I'm sorry, but we're already full enough!"

I wanted to pound on the door and scream at them, but I knew it would be all in vain. I just slid my work underneath the door.

"Please, save my work, that's all I ask!"

The battle continued behind me as I heard screams and gunfire. When faced with certain death, you're faced with two different ways to take it. You either panic or you come to the reality of your situation with peace. I chose the ladder. I went to a place where I'd face the end with dignity, our library. I entered and saw that the fireplace was still burning bright. I scanned the shelves for something to enjoy before the end comes. I ended up taking with me something simple, 'The Hobbit'. It was read to me by my mother, the first book I had ever been introduced to in my life; it made sense that it should be there for the end. I inched closer to the fire, hoping the crackling of the wood and the roar of the flame could drown out the sounds of battle, but it did not.

I finished the short novel, content with it being the last story I read, but I decided that I had a little bit more left in me to write. This is my last journal, the last semblance of any humanity left in this part of the world. At the end of my life, I'd finally found a name for them, these devourers of cultures and society. These undead ghouls that are born of a great celestial hunger. They are the Black Hole Sons. They are here waiting in the dark, and they will devour civilization, and then their God will devour the stars.

-David, The Chronicler

Sam Graham waited for the phone call that every parent never wanted to hear. 'Sir, something has happened to your daughter,' or something else like that. He was a paranoid mess; his wife, Erin, restated this fact to him time and time again to no avail. Together over their thirty years of marriage, they've raised three beautiful daughters. Deidra, who's a doctor near Louisville, Sandra, who helps run a farm in Lexington, & then there was Laura. Laura became a sort of biblical scholar, delving into the Bible to find unanswered questions and possible omissions in its explanations. She studied texts, went to archaeological excavations, and even hosted the occasional keynote.

This changed when Sam got the call he'd been waiting for; the other shoe had finally dropped. At around two in the morning, I got a call from a man who had a thick Italian accent. He said,

"Are you Mr. Graham?"

"Yes?"

"We've got some bad news."

He shot up in bed, fully alert. Fear is the quickest way to awaken someone. Erin could tell that something was wrong immediately. She tugged on his shirt, but he just honed in on the call. The man explained that Laura was the reason for the call. They told him that she was found wandering the streets of Rome, panting and naked. Some say that she was crawling like an animal and growling at unsuspecting folks who were taking their nightly stroll. The man cleared his throat and stated,

"She is in stable condition, but we believe that she's had a mental break of sorts. We could house her temporarily, but we thought that contacting her next of kin would be wise."

"Yeah," he said, "I...uh...Where is she now?"

"She's in Rome still; she's being watched at St. Paul's Emergency Center at the moment."

Something in Sam broke. He had been expecting her to have been mugged, murdered, or worse. Yet, the man on the phone told him that she's fine, sitting in a hospital bed. He made a declaration to the man over the phone with a voice that was eerily calm,

"We'll be there in a day or two."

"Sir?" he said with a baffled tone,

"We're going to pick her up and bring her home. Thank you... What's your name?"

"Damian, I'm with the police, sir."

"Well, Officer Damian, thank you for your time!"

"But there's another thin-"

He hung up before he could finish. He swung his legs out of bed and walked to his desk. He flipped open the laptop and began to purchase tickets. Erin watched her husband go through all of this in a strangely hypnotic trance. She breathlessly kept asking him,

"Sam? What's wrong, honey? What happened?"

"Nothing, honey, Laura is just a little sick. Said she had some sort of breakdown, that's all."

"What?!"

"She's fine, said she's in the hospital."

"Jesus Christ, how are you so calm?"

"Baby, I expected the worst, and the call terrified me, but now that I know Laura is okay, I feel so much better."

"Still, a mental episode is no laughing matter."

"I know, but when we get her home, all she needs is some tender love and care from her parents. Then she'll be back on her feet!"

Erin looked at him with concern, but she trusted her husband. They called Diedra and Sandra and told them the whole scenario. They were understandably distraught, but due to their work, they couldn't leave. Both of them sent their youngest sister their love.

They went to the airport in Knoxville and went through the motions of a typical flight. Scanners, pat-downs, luggage checks, and all sorts of mundane necessities. They flew in economy class seats; they were seated with a sketchy man who smelled of mildew and liquor. He spent the flight eyeing his surroundings with rapidly blinking eyes. He sat fighting sleep for the whole flight and would occasionally ask,

"Think we're landing soon? Because I do, man, Jesus Christ, I can't stand this shit."

He'd just nod, play dumb, and politely say,

"I don't know, maybe in a few hours."

When we finally landed, the airport was bustling with what they presumed to be thousands of Catholics making their holy pilgrimages to Rome. That, or history buffs who want to walk around looking at all of the old Roman ruins and statues. The airport itself was nice, but they had no time to look around. They had taken a taxi to the hospital that was holding Laura, which, as it turned out, wasn't too far from the Vatican.

St. Paul's Emergency Center looked ancient on the outside. If Erin were a betting woman, she would've said this used to be a monastery of sorts. They paid the driver and approached the building as its old gothic architecture loomed over them like a haunted castle, hell, there were even gargoyles perched outside with grimacing faces and hunched over bat wings. With trembling steps, they entered the old hospital.

To say the inside of St. Paul's didn't match the outside is a bit of an understatement. It would be like saying Liberace looked a tad bit gay. The walls sported the old stone, but everything else was stark white, pristine, and sterile. At the front vestibule was a younger woman with olive skin. She looked up from her laptop, brushing aside her long, black hair, and spoke with a delicate whisp of a voice,

"Posso aiutarti?"

Erin cleared her throat and apologetically said,

"Sorry, we're, uh, we're American."

She nodded and then spoke with perfect clarity,

"You must be here for the American girl."

"We're here, parents."

Her face overtook a solemn expression.

"Poor, poor girl. She's been through a lot."

Sam felt a slight chill ripple down his spine. He was in denial about the whole scenario, but when he heard the news in person, it suddenly felt real.

The woman picked up a phone, called someone, and shouted into the receiver in slow, deliberate Italian words. She hung it up, and with a slight smile, she reiterated to the Americans,

"Sorry about that, Dr. Nerrim keeps an older phone, you have to shout in it. He will be here shortly."

They waited for about ten minutes, and then down the corridor came a disheveled man who walked on a wooden cane with a silver handle, and he wore two well-polished moccasins. His beard was wiry, well-kempt; the hair, on the other hand, looked like he'd just walked out of a tornado. He coughed, clearing some phlegm from his throat, and then put on a face of sympathy as soon as he caught sight of the parents. His accent was thick, but his English came through enough not to be considered 'broken'.

"Ah! There you are! You poor, poor people. I'm sorry if this trip has inconvenienced any of you."

Sam spoke up,

"It's fine, we're empty nesters anyway, how is she?"

"She's in good shape, but we believe that she's still in the middle of an episode. She's effectively in crisis. I had some psychologists come in and-"

"SHE'S POSSESSED!" A booming voice screamed, "SHE HAS A DEMON RESIDING WITHIN HER!"

Down the hall came a priest, he was decked out in his black suit, collar, and he had a large beard resembling a bald Rasputin. He was thin and tall, almost to the point of malnourishment. He was panting,

"That young woman has something residing in her. I smelled it the moment she entered the hospital."

The Doctor pinched his brow, sighing and explained,

"This is Father Sarrak, he's...our eccentric leader for our hospital chapel."

"And a demonologist!"

"You are not! You're obsessed with The Exorcist, and you're delusional!"

"Demons are reality, Doctor Nerrim! Just this once, you have to believe me!"

"We are talking mental illness, which you might have! Now, if you please, I have to talk with this woman's parents!"

Father Sarrak eyed the two and pointed at them both before leaving,

"If you need me! I'll be waiting! My chapel is always open!"

Then he darted into the hallway and took a sharp right. The couple looked at each other with worried eyes, but before they could speak, Doctor Nerrim continued,

"Follow me, I'll update you on your daughter and explain her needs from here on out."

They went past the old arched hallways, walking on pristine marble flooring. Each room they had was spacious, high-tech, and comfortable. They kept going until they reached the intensive care unit, which made Erin worry, but Nerrim reassured her that it was nothing to worry about. Laura's room was large and sterile. She was bound to the bed, and her appearance was a horror to look at. She looked malnourished, had sunken eyes, her hair looked like a tangle of spider webs sitting atop a scalp, and on top of this, she was pale with a greasy sheen to her skin. Erin gasped at the sight of her, while Sam just kept his eyes on the Doctor,

"So, she's cleared for release?"

"I wouldn't recommend it, but you two are the next of kin in this situation, and she's clearly in no state to make her own decisions."

"So, about that medication-"

"Sam? Are you fucking serious?" Erin chimed in, "Look at her, she needs to stay here!"

Sam sighed and told Nerrim, "Just one second."

The two of them went out into the hallway, and Erin looked Sam in the eyes, but he couldn't meet her gaze. She whispered,

"She is in no state to travel."

"Honey, I'm talking with the Doctor, we'll get the medication sorted when we're on our way."

"Sam, she's not in her right mind, and you want to travel?"

"She just needs some love and care."

Erin scoffed at this, giggling hysterically in disbelief,

"Are you joking, Sam?"

"Listen, she's in a bad spot."

"No fucking shit!"

"Hey! Cursing!"

"I can't believe you. What is going on with you, huh? How are you- fuck it, I'm arguing with a brick wall."

"Hey, now, don't be that way, baby!"

She returned to the room, silent, arms crossed, and her lips thin with anger. Sam followed her, and the Doctor brought a clipboard and began listing the medication that she'd need and even signed off on it. He gave them a local pharmacy and patted him on the back. Nerrim pulled Sam aside before they released Laura's restraints.

"Mr. Graham...I know I'm not her father, but I highly recommend that she be tested properly. Her vitals are normal, but in the mind, it's... It's like how Shakespeare described Hamlet, 'O Full of Scorpions is my mind,' I believe. If you do take her home, take her to a mental hospital, a good one."

"Listen, Doc, I really appreciate your honesty, but I've been through mental crises before when I was her age, and I didn't go to a psychiatric hospital or see a therapist. I talked to my Doctor, and he prescribed me some anxiety medication."

Nerrim sighed, his tired eyes looking at Sam as if trying to plead with him with a simple look,

"You weren't here to see what we saw. Did you know that she ate a dog?"

"Excuse me?"

"A street dog that lingered in the streets of Via della Concilliazione. She wandered alone, the locals kept their distance, but the one creature that came in contact with her just so happened to be this little chihuahua. She...she bit its head off, and kept going until the police intervened."

Sam felt his stomach turn, but he shook his head,

"People do strange things when they have meltdowns, they get naked, they hurt themselves, and other stuff like that. Laura is not an insane person."

Nirrem lifted his forearm up to Sam and rolled up his sleeve to reveal gauze wrapped around the top of his forearm. The bandage was lightly red from where blood dyed the cloth, he stated,

"Your daughter did this to me last night. I want you to heed my warning, understood."

Sam wanted to get the last word in, but Nerrim was already signaling for some nurses to come to the room. When he turned to see Erin, she saw her sitting beside Laura, whose eyes were staring at the ceiling. A fly landed on her eye, and walked around its surface with no problems until Erin swatted it away. The eyes snapped to Erin as soon as her hand was in front of her face, and she quickly snapped at her, almost biting off her pinky.

Erin withdrew her hand, bringing it to her chest, and Laura just couldn't help but laugh. It was a nasty laugh, one that sounded like it belonged to a woman doubled her age and had lungs full of nicotine. The nurses came in as Dr. Nerrim was flicking the top of a large needle full of clear liquid, Laura began to shake her restraints and writh in her bed. The nurses held her down, trying to stop her from wriggling around. Nirrem approached the girl, arms outstretched, needle in hand, and spoke softly,

"Calmati ora, Laura, stai bene."

The needle went into the vein as the arm jostled around, blood spurted from the hole as he withdrew the needle, and then his movements began to slow until she stopped. The nurses, like clockwork, put her into a wheelchair and restrained her arms and legs in the chair. One of the nurses, a large man who loomed large over Sam, began to wheel Laura to the exit. As Sam and Erin followed, Nerrim handed Sam the prescription. And told him,

"Fulci's pharmaceuticals. North of here, about ten minutes. I suggest you get her out of Rome as soon as you can."

"Understood."

Nirrem walked away, going back to what Sam assumed was his office in the old refurbished building. As they continued down the halls, he felt a sense of being watched and turned to find Sarrak peering from behind his chapel doors. His eyes looked at him with intensity, and Sam felt uneasy enough to speak up,

"May I help you?"

"No, but I may help you. I am begging you, the girl is demon-infested!"

"Oh Jesus, we're fine! I got a prescription in hand, okay?!"

"The ailments of the mind are no effect on the ailments of the soul!"

He ducked into his chapel and closed the door.

Erin was outside, waiting for the rest of the ghastly procession to emerge into the light of dawn. She was on her phone desperately booking three tickets back to the States, but she was also looking at mental hospitals near their home. She found one that was just an hour's drive; it wasn't ideal, but it was the best that she could do. The doors clattered open behind her, and she quickly stuffed the phone into her pocket. A firm hand clasped on her shoulder,

"What'cha looking at?"

"Oh, nothing, just booking tickets home. We've got some for three this afternoon, which should give us plenty of time to get her medication and head out."

"I contacted the officer who called me and asked if she'd been staying anywhere."

"And?"

"It's about forty minutes from here."

"Don't you think that's cutting our time close?"

Sam paced around as he watched his limp daughter being loaded into the backseat of a taxi as the driver looked on with a befuddled and worrisome expression. He looked over to Erin,

"She dead?"

"No, just out cold."

"She look dead."

He rolled up the window, crossed himself, and put the radio on. Sam came to his conclusion and returned to Erin,

"I'll just go in, get her wallet, a pair of clothes, and then we can get her medication."

Erin put her face in her palm, sighing at the absurdity of everything that had just transpired in the past 24 hours, wondering if any of this was part of some elaborate dream. She was waiting for the moment when something bad would happen, and she'd awake in her bed with a sudden jolt. The jolt never came.

"Fine, just don't dilly dally."

He tried to lean in and kiss her, but she turned away from him. Walking to the taxi and getting in the passenger seat. Sam followed and sat beside Laura in her sedated state. They drove off, and he told the driver they needed to hit three spots before they headed to the airport. Laura's apartment, and then to Fulci's pharmaceuticals.

The drive to Laura's apartment was marked with the aromas of Italy, the sound of church bells, chanting, and songs performed on the street. The driver, who was a chatterbox on the way to St. Paul's, was now suddenly all too quiet. He kept his eyes forward and occasionally glanced at Laura in the backseat. He was sweating profusely as he kept on driving, and Erin asked,

"Are you okay?"

"Ha! Am I okay? What about her?"

He gestured to the backseat. Sam grimaced and spoke with an unusual authority,

"My daughter is fine!"

The driver scoffed,

"Like hell! She look like corpse! Only she breathing somehow!"

Before Sam could puff up his chest, Erin turned around and gave him a deathly glare that stopped him in his tracks. He rested back into his seat when he heard a light, whining hum of a vehicle behind them. He looked through the back window and saw Sarrak, adorned in priestly garb, and riding atop an ancient Vespa. It puffed out whisps of black smoke as he rode on. He pointed to Sam and shouted at him. Though it was muffled by the glass and the radio, he could still vaguely hear him,

"I AM THAT GIRL'S SALVATION!"

Sam snapped forward, and before he could say anything, the driver spoke up as the car came to a sudden halt.

"Hear we ar-"

The Vespa collided with the back end of the car, and the driver, Sarrak, flew over the roof and landed on the hood of the taxi. His bulbous helmet smacked off the glass, miraculously not cracking it. The driver exited the vehicle and started hissing and cussing in Italian so fast that it couldn't have been translated by anyone. Sarrak dusted himself off, signing the cross to the driver and was, what Erin presumed, to be profusely apologizing. Sam slipped out during the argument and went into the apartment building.

It was old, musty, but he could see why Laura liked it; she loved old things. It looked like it hadn't changed from the 1940s. At the front desk was a short, balding man with a body that resembled that of an avocado, reading an Italian version of The Lord of the Rings. The tired, bespectacled face looked up with indifference as he yawned,

"American?"

"Yes. My daughter lived here. Laura, Laura Graham is her name."

"Laura? Oh! Laura! She missed payment last Tuesday, and I thought she skipped town."

"Not quite, she's sick, and I'm taking her back home to the States."

"I see."

"I'm just coming to collect her essentials."

"Here." The man produced a key from his desk drawer, "Rummage around in there all you want, but I expect pay."

"I don't have any Italian money on me."

"I don't care, I'm not picky."

"....How much does she owe you?"

"Twelve hundred."

With a groan, Sam withdrew his checkbook, but the man held his hand up and completed his demand,

"Cash."

Sam wanted nothing more than to beat his pug-faced in with that dusty old book, but he just forked over the cash and took the key. As he ascended the stairs, he heard him flipping through the bills, the audacity of him! When he was upstairs, he heard all manner of muffled sounds from behind the doors of the fellow denizens of the apartment. Dogs barking, babies crying, music blasting, and a television that was cranked all the way up to maximum volume. He kept on until he came upon a door that had the temporary written name of 'Laursa G.'

The old key unlocked the door, and when he opened it, he was met with a mess of history and garbage. Statues of derelict emperors and Gods, ancient scrolls and books, and so much more, were scattered across the floor. All Sam could think of was how much of a mess his daughter had left, and he ignored all of the crucifixes that were hung overhead and the pentagram that was carved into the wooden floor. He rummaged through her drawers, finding notes, more relics, but then we finally found her wallet. He went to her closet to try to find some clothes. He swatted away the locusts that were sitting on the clothes, and as they flew out of the closet, he dug out a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and yellow shorts.

He didn't care if he left a mess; the owner could pay someone to clean it, but as he left the room, he could've sworn that he felt different, like a tension was lifted off of him. He slammed the thought from his mind as he left the building and walked outside to see that the argument between the priest and the taxi driver had escalated into a shouting match. He slipped into the car unnoticed with the wallet and clothes in hand. He was met with Laura's eyes, slightly opened, and brandishing a smile full of yellowed teeth.

"Did you find what you were looking for, dear father?" she said with a gravely voice,

"Yep, sure did, baby!" he said with the fullest sincerity, "Don't worry, you can come back for your materials later when you're feeling better."

"Did you see it? My reentrance into this world?"

"Say what?"

"...My room..."

"Oh yeah! Awful, dirty honey, but you must've been stressed. Lord knows I was when I was your age."

Erin turned around to the sound of the voices behind her and was shocked to see Laura awake. She cleared her voice and asked,

"Laura?"

"Hello, Mother. Nice to see you once more."

Before the conversation could continue, the taxi driver returned to the driver's seat, rubbing his hand for a brief moment and then driving off. Sam looked to the side and saw Sarrak staggering to his feet, holding his right eye as he winced in pain. The driver yelled,

"That guy was an asshole!"

Sam spoke up from the back seat,

"Did you hit him?"

"He left me no choice!"

Sam doubted that, as Erin looked at him and softly shook her head.

Fulci's was pristine and modern, even compared to the most refurbished parts of Italy. Erin went inside this time; she couldn't stand to be in the car with Laura anymore, it made her skin crawl. So, as she went in, Sam was left in the car with his semi-conscious daughter. Laura spoke with a wheeze,

"It's stuffy in here. I would like to go outside."

"Baby, as much as I'd want to do that, I think that's a bad idea."

"Why?"

"Just a hunch."

"Hunch? Hunch? Hunch? Hunch? Hunch?"

"Yes, a hunch. You need rest."

"I need a good fuck and a smoke."

"Laura!"

"Father!"

Sam bit his tongue, calmed himself down, and then calmly asked the driver,

"May you roll the windows down in the back?"

He solemnly nodded and did as he was requested. A group of men was walking and talking amongst each other when one of them spotted Laura, her head hanging out of the window, feeling the afternoon breeze. One of them catcalled her, and she responded by licking her lips; then others started to catcall, making obscene gestures and sexually charged Italian expletives. She smiled, revealing her yellowed teeth, and began to pant; a long black tongue hung so low that it was touching the door handle. In fact, the wet muscle looped around the door and opened it up. Her cuffed body tumbled from the vehicle like a bag of bones. She fell forehead-first as her skull struck pavement with a sickening thud. The men were hesitant to help for various reasons. Sam jumped from his seat and tried to run around the taxi to help his daughter up, but when he reached the other side, she was already standing on two weak legs. Then she began to bark fruiously like a coyote, no, a jackal, and then she pounced on them, sprinting towards them with her cuffed arms sagging like pendulums.

The men shrieked like prepubescent little boys while their bodies showed different responses. Some stood their ground, some shrank in fear, and some ran away in terror. However, Sam caught his daughter by the waist and hoisted her back to the car and plopped her into the backseat. He shouted to the driver,

"Lock the doors and roll the windows up!"

"But-"

"Do it!"

He did not argue.

When Erin came back with a bag of prescription medication, she noticed that Sam was sweaty and dejected-looking. Then there was Laura, her forehead bloodied by some mysterious wound.

"What the hell did I miss?"

Sam didn't answer, and Laura just had a coy, girlish smile on her face.

After a brief drive, the airport was finally in reach. The drive was silent, Laura just looked out at her window at the bustling life of the city, and mumbled to herself so quietly that neither Sam nor Erin could hear her. There was something terribly wrong with her, Erin knew it, and Sam, whether he wanted to admit it or not, knew it too. When they pulled in, they paid the taxi driver, who breathed a gentle sigh of relief and silently prayed to God to never give him American passengers again. Sam was strapping Laura into her wheelchair while dabbing the blood from her forehead, and Sam was retrieving her digital tickets when they heard a familiar sound of a puttering engine.

Sarrak returned with a black eye; his one good eye was still wide and wild as ever. He parked the Vespa and removed his helmet. He retrieved his leather satchel and withdrew an aspergillum full of holy water. Laura's eyes grew wide in fear as she shrank in her wheelchair, clasping at her father's shirt, and speaking normally for the first time since they had picked her up.

"Father, I don't like that man! He's gonna hurt me."

"No, he's not, he thinks you're possessed, which you're not."

"Please, I'm scared, Dad, please!"

'Dad,' she said, it was the first time since being here she's said that, not 'Father' but 'Dad'. Erin was in the middle of looking up the asylum that Laura would be sent to when Sam strode by her and confronted Sarrak.

"What are you doing here, Father Sarrak?"

"To vanquish evil, what else?"

"She's not possessed."

"Do you not see the demon surrounding her body? Only the faithful have the eye for this, and as far as I can tell, you are not as faithful as you put on."

"We're a religious family, but we just don't believe in demons and devils and all that crap."

"Yes, but demons believe in you; they certainly believe in her."

He looked past Sam and saw the young woman smiling, her greasy black hair hung over her face like cobwebs, and her eyes, God, her eyes! In that moment, Sarrak threw up a hand sign with his pinky and index fingers out while his ring fingers and thumb rested in his palm. He shouted,

"Malocchio!"

Laura hissed at him, and that was the straw that broke the camel's back. He brushed aside Sam and clenched the sprinkler in his hand with a white-knuckled grip. Yet, before he could throw the holy water upon her, Sam pulled him aside and decked him in the face. The other eye this time. He tumbled back, the aspergillum fell with a clatter, and all of the onlookers were glaring at Sam with shocked expressions. Laura laughed so hard that her eyes began to emit wet clicks. Erin was mortified and went to help Sarrak. Sam hounded her for it,

"The man tries to attack our daughter, and you're here helping him?!"

"For fucks sake, Sam, what's a little water gonna hurt her anyway? She stinks!"

Laura began to whimper like a child and grabbed at her father's arm. Sam's lips thinned as he hoarsely whispered to her,

"I am taking her to the airport, and we're going home. Quit this bitchy attitude of yours and pull yourself together!"

Erin felt as if she had been slapped. She saw her husband roll their daughter into the airport as the priest got to his feet. Both of his eyes were swollen now, and he spoke with a wheezy breath as he told her,

"She has weaponized his fatherhood against you."

"I know, I'm sorry about the punch."

"I've been through worse."

"I was once stabbed for giving a loaf of bread to someone."

"My God!"

"Yes, he wanted sourdough, but I gave him white bread. But that's besides the point, you and your family are in grave danger! The devil wants to corrupt this girl inside and out!"

Erin felt tears pool in her eyes,

"What should I do?"

"Let me work on her! It is the only way!"

Meanwhile, as they entered the vestibules, the customs officer waved his wand over Laura and got some hits around her throat. She had no necklaces or other forms of jewelry. Then she began to gag, a deep gurgle rose in her throat as she coughed and hacked up something dark and rusty. It was a nail, an ancient nail, one that might've been used to nail Christ himself to the cross. She upchucked three more nails and smiled at the officer politely, telling him,

"Sorry about that, but no worries, everything will crash and burn."

Before the guard got any backup, Sam stepped in and explained that she was recently discharged from a hospital and that she was 'not all there.' The guard looked to the restrained woman and pinched his brow. He ended up letting them go because there were no other weapons or contraband on them. Erin wasn't far behind as she went through customs and then showed their boarding passes to airline gate agents along with her passport. However, what Sam didn't know was that there were four tickets bought, the fourth was bought just before Erin entered the building. Sarrak, with a passport in hand, began his way to the jet.

The flight began, and as they took off, Laura began to scream and writh in her seat. She was shouting,

"Someone is here! Someone is on this plane! That shouldn't be!

A man with a thick Boston accent spoke up,

"Yeah! You! Shut the fuck up!"

Sam yelled back,

"Don't talk to my daughter that way; she's sick!"

An elderly woman chimed in, "Loud is what she is, sick has nothing to do with it!"

Sarrak unbuckled his seatbelt and, despite the warnings of the flight attendant, he shoved her out of the way and had his satchel at the ready. Within seconds, he was already upon her. Sam was in shock, and before he could call for a flight attendant, Erin seized his arm with a death grip,

"Let him do this!"

Sarrak popped his neck, his smile was giddy, and if you could see his eyes behind the bruised and swollen brows, they would've been wide and full of excitement. He had always wanted to perform an Exorcism ever since he watched The Exorcist as a teen, and now he was finally able to fulfill this wish. With a splash of holy water, Laura's skin bubbled and smoked as she emitted a guttural scream. The other passengers looked on with terror, but Sam, being the spiteful man that he was, unbuckled his seat and rushed him. Erin tried to follow, but he belt was kinked up and wound so tight that her waist was being constricted. Sam choked the priest and hissed,

"What are you doing here, Sarrak?! There is nothing wrong with her!"

The other passengers called out,

"She's possessed!"

"She ain't right!"

"Lil' bitch got a demon in her!"

And more called out. Sarrak pushed him away into the floor, and that's when the air marshal revealed himself. A burly man, squished into an ill-fitting Hawaiian shirt, withdrew a taser and aimed it at the men.

"Gentlemen! Sit down or be tased!"

"The girl needs an exorcism!" shouted Sarrak,

"No, she doesn't!" Sam screamed as he stumbled to his feet,

Sarrak flicked more holy water on Laura, and she wailed in pain. The stun gun fired, and then the barbs went right into Sarrak's back. He gasped and cried out,

"Oh, dear Christ!"

The crowd was a mix of boos and cheers. Laura had had enough of the exorcism and ripped off her restraints and crawled into the luggage compartment. As Sarrak was being handcuffed, Erin cut herself free from her belt and went into the aisle, only to be caught by Sam.

"What the hell is wrong with you bringing a-"

Erin didn't let him finish as she punched him in the mouth, and both rows of his teeth clicked together as he was knocked back into the lap of another passenger. Sarrak weakly called out to her,

"Finish my work!"

"Shut up!" the marshal said as he elbowed the back of his head,

She grabbed his satchel and followed the sounds of the bags falling into the aisles as Laura crawled along the luggage compartment. There were curses and screams as she made her way down the plane. Erin was running through the aisles with Sam following her, his lip busted open and drooling blood. When she reached the end of the plan, Laura burst from the luggage compartment and began to crawl on the ceiling, hissing and vomiting bile on the passengers below. Sam was distraught over the sight but kept denying reality; he rationalized it with the irrational logic that maybe the plane was flying so high that maybe gravity was lighter.

Erin sprinkled the holy water against the ceiling as droplets struck both Laura and the passengers below. Her flesh bubbled and fell off his body like hot wax. The clumps of boiled skin dropped onto unsuspecting passengers as they screamed and gagged. Sam cupped his hands and talked to Laura like a child,

"Laura, honey, you're scaring us!"

"YOU SOD! I AM NOT YOUR DAUGHTER!"

"Now, Laura, don't say that!"

Erin screamed at him,

"Are you fucking dense, Sam?! Our daughter is possessed by a demon!"

"But....but..."

It all washed over him like cold water; he stumbled and fell to his knees, weeping. All the signs were there, but his denial was that nothing like this could happen to his family. He looked up to see her neck spinning completely around, her limbs contorted into broken angles, and she scampered away into the next section of the plane. The air marshal, who'd just finished wrapping up Sarrak in duct tape in his seat, was rushing to the commotion.

"Alright, what the fucks the problem?"

Laura pounced on him and beat his face until his nose was concaved, she then reached into his pants and tore off his testicles in one swiftly brutal motion. The passengers were in a panic and scrambled to free Sarrak from his restraints. Erin entered the section of the plane to see the horror before her, and before she could think, Laura chucked the bloodied testicles at her Mother and ran away laughing with glee. But she was quickly gripped by the throat with a firm hand; it was Sarrak, who was wielding a cross in his hand, reciting the rites of exorcism to the girl as he clamped his hand on her throat.

Sam witnessed the scene before him and was overtaken by emotion, seeing his daughter in this state, bloodied, dirty, weak, but also vicious, contemptuous, and evil. Sarrak was about to cast the demon out with one final, triumphant declaration, but he was then suddenly thrust into the roof of the plane along with the other unbuckled passengers. Yet, when he fell back down, Sarrak's neck was broken; it hung flush against his back with loose skin holding it together. The intercom came on as the captain spoke softly,

"Sorry, folks, we had a little bit of turbulence."

Laura got to her feet and cackled; the other passengers screamed in terror. Erin. who thought she'd had this whole thing figured out, looked on with shock and dread. Yet, it was Sam who shouted out at Laura.

"Hey!"

Laura turned around to face her father. He shouted,

"Leave her alone, damn you! Take me!"

Laura, or the demon inside of her, looked at him, puzzled and amused. With a grin, she leaped to him, straddling him and transferring herself into him with a mere, malicious look. Laura snapped awake, her eyes wide with terror, and she ran impulsively to her Mother,

"Oh, God! Mom! I was awake! I WAS AWAKE THE ENTIRE TIME, OH GOD!"

As she caressed her daughter, the demon that possessed Sam rose to its feet and used its body to walk over to the emergency exit. And with one press of the latch, the door burst open, and the intense vacuum of the sky sucked out the passengers. Their bodies flying out into the night sky, some unscathed, while others struck the wings and wound up inside the propellers. Erin held on to her daughter as she gripped a seatbelt and managed to buckle her seatbelt. The force of the wind was so great that her shoulder popped out of place, but pure, motherly instinct kept her daughter in an iron grip.

"Brace for impact!" the pilot said, and within minutes afterward, there was an intense crash, and then water began to rush into the cabin. Erin unbuckled her belt and swam with her one good arm. Laura followed, and as they reached outside, they realized that they were somewhere outside the East Coast, judging from the climate and the warmth of the water, maybe somewhere south. They could see boats moving in and helicopters flying towards them with great spotlights to look for survivors. I guess that's what they were now. Survivors.

Meanwhile, on a remote island not charted on any map, was the demon stuck in the body of a man so bafflingly dumb that he had wished that he'd simply been excised. Now, he was stuck here until this body shriveled up and starved. There were no fruits, no animals, just palms and the water. The demon hung its head in shame and wept.