u/Local-Pattern795

I am an excellent emailer.

When I send off letters to businesses, they always answer with "thank you for your interest". That's right, I'm interesting!

When I send an email to the president, he personally answers it, we're practically letter mates!

And yes, I do know the difference between using "yours sincerely" and "yours cordially", because you should only use the second one while drinking.

Anyway, do you people think i have what it takes to branch out into non-professional writing?

Yours very cordially,

BestEmailerEver69

I'm worried that if I say the character is enjoying the sexual intercourse, it might come across as unprofessional writing.

The scene takes place in a pitch black room, and the main character is a tsundere (a writing innovation from the japan, which means she cannot tell how she truly feels). The other character is a minotaur misogynist.

Any advice is welcome, although I do not intend to take it in

The route from Riga five to Proxima colony is 58 light years, but the distance between the two is only 14 light years. The route is long and winding, sticking close to the stars whenever possible. Sailors fear the great empty voids, the starless, cloudless wastes between space; they say the void between the two systems is full of monsters. For the most part, it's nonsense, folk-tales. For the most part.

I can see it in your eyes, you want to take the straight road. It's shorter, emptier, without any risk of meeting raiders and privateers. You don't believe in the tall tales your crew shares in your absence. You pay little heed to the crew's complaints when you leave port.

At first, you feel proud of yourself; it truly is as empty as you thought. There's no devil haunting you, no monster pursuing you, no bandit robbing you. The men under you still worry, but even they admit that the trip is uneventful.

Without any real danger, the mind makes up new ones. Maybe it's the cry of the Shakala, The eternal Dirge of Lost Limox, the grinding metal of the Great Wreck. Whatever it is, someone claims to have heard something, and by the time you hear about it, everyone else has too.

You're a sensible man, otherwise you wouldn't brave this great emptiness. You tell the men there's no danger. For a time they believe you, but then the story devolves into a phenomenon. The men expect the unexpected now, and their minds fill in the rest.

In time, it all proves too much. One of them steps forward to speak for the rest, a second in command usually. He begs you to turn the ship around; sometimes they cry, sometimes they scream, a few will even throw a punch, but they always beg for you to turn back.

Maybe you still think yourself too sensible to turn back. Maybe you refuse the man, you leave his request unanswered. Maybe something else hears the begging.

You might know your ship well, but not as well as the crew. You can be sure they'll find it first. By now, they won't be interested in telling you, they'll go to your second first.

It's a strange thing. In a rarely used corridor of your ship, there will be a new door. The appearance of the door changes with the ship, but two things are always constant:

-a red light, a warning, hangs over the door.

-the word “bounty” is written on the door.

That name is a fitting one, as you'll soon learn if you aren't careful. Inside the room that's on no blueprint, there will be crates upon crates. The contents vary depending on the era and the ship, but each and every one will be full of weapons. Maybe you stocked your own armoury with the best of the best, it won't matter, the door always matches what you bring.

And as the men who used to be yours go through the crates, they'll find the one exception. On one of the crates will be a note. Security codes. Your security code.

It always ends the same. The crew tries to turn the ship around, and you and your loyalists have no choice but to fight back. It doesn't matter who wins this fight, because the victory is always messy. Lost engines, lost life support, a simple leak. Something gets broken, too big for the few left standing. The victor always dies, just slower.

You see, there is one monster that haunts the empty voids, a monster that leaves barely a trace, too merciless for tall tales and stories. It is a spectre, one of betrayal, and shame, and helplessness. It is the spirit of mutiny, and the only way to stop it, is to never invite it in the first place.

You'll stick to the known route, if you know what's good for you. And if you ever find a ship that tore itself apart, and a section of wall that's untouched by the fighting, you'll remember me and my tale. And maybe you'll remember the door called bounty as you head back from the void.

All these parents who refuse to parent, criminals who refuse the abide by the laws, and tax dodgers that refuse to pay their fair share. Why don't we just sit them down and get them to act properly?
How can we shame them into doing the right thing?

Please don't make any sort of policy proposal under this post, as that would be off topic. We shouldn't have to force these people to do the right thing, so abstract solutions only, please

It was on the third night up at that cabin, all alone. An anxiety had crept into me from the first, such that I could find no rest that night, instead finding myself in an upholstered chair near the window. I watched the ants parade along the windowsill at first, listening to the nocturnal bird songs and insect chirps. I then turned upwards to watch the pale rich moonlight dance between the branches, the clouds, and the wispy strand of smoke rising from the horizon.

The tension within me snapped, leaping at the purpose. Soon enough, I was outside my cabin, with nothing but a flash-light and a thick green parka. The smoke came from deep within the forest, the ground there was uneven with no paths to guide you.

By the time I had reached the source, the smoke had faded to a limp whimper. There were no tents, no sleeping bags, simply a crude stick once-fire and an equally archaic fire drill. I almost missed the man. So covered was he in mud and other horrors that he blended in with the cracking bark of the tree he was resting against. A pained moan, a low and weary thing, drew my attention to him. Ragged cloth barely covered him, old holes mingled with fresh tears, laying bare a multitude of scratches and deep claw marks. Chest, arms, legs, all torn at ferociously, wounds crusted shut by the thick discharge, the ground dyed red from the fire to the tree. The man moaned again, alive despite time and abuse.

The wounds had stopped bleeding, so there was little I could do out there. I removed my parka, bundling him in it, and proceeded to carry him like a princess. What a princess he was: his frame was a hollowed out bag of bones and skin, he felt sickeningly light to carry; his face was covered in a wild beard, painted grey by age and white by other things, his thick matted hair matching the beard; scars traced the older tears in his rags, and lean muscles on his arms and legs hinted at a life beyond what his age and horrid state would suggest.

I tried to push my apprehensions aside, focusing only on his apparent need, and my own need to navigate the wilds. The silence reinforced this focus, as his pained mumbles and my footfalls were the only sounds out there.

Soon enough, we reached the cabin. I set him down on an upholstered chair, next to the bare windowsill. I wasn't sure where to start with the man at first. Eventually, the smell pushed me into action. The cabin had a bath, and the old man soon found himself in it. I washed him with a sponge, starting at his feet, coated in what seemed like centuries of dirt and mud, and slowly moving upward. Soon enough I got to his hand, the left to be precise, which seemed even more filth laden than his feet.

I assumed he was trying to cover it up, some gang sign or prison tattoo from the looks of it. It was simple enough, a uniform black shape that looked like a torch caught in an easterly wind.

The vagabond had woken up, his hand grabbing my arm, firm but restrained. He was obviously confused, but as I tried to explain it to him, worry overtook his expression.

“I need to get going,” he mumbled, his voice desiccated. He placed both arms on the side of the tub, lifting himself to a standing position. He tried to reach a hand towards me for support, and collapsed back into the muddy water.

“your legs,” I began. I leaned forwards, helping him steady himself. “we really need to get you to a hospital.”

“No, you can't take me there, I can't,” he rebuked me, pushing my arms away, guarding himself like a fearful animal.

Looking again at the gang tattoo, it wasn't hard for me to imagine why. I pushed that unkind thought aside a second later, ashamed.

“No, don't take me into town, I can't be around people” the fugitive explained, before a cough overtook him.

I'm ashamed to admit I simply stood there for a time, wordlessly watching him. Simply waiting for a sign, an indication, some fuel to justify the apprehension that had crept into me. As he was now, naked and afraid in the water, there was nothing to justify my fear. Eventually pity moved me, and I offered to let him stay the night, and to bandage his injuries. At first he protested even that, but as his weakness made quite clear, he couldn't simply leave.

I got him up, dried him off, and sat him down in the chair. I set about bandaging him, covering his dry wounds with fresh cloth. While I worked, I tried talking to him, to no real avail. He refused to give me a name, or tell me his profession. This was to be expected of a fugitive, but I didn't dwell on it. He refused to tell me where he was from, and winced at my question about his family. At this point, I had dealt with most of his wounds, and had begun to feel a certain frustration at his evasiveness. Thankfully, something more glib pushed those thoughts aside.

“you know, you're looking much better dressed than when I found you”, I joked openly.

He laughed, becoming just an old man again. It was open and bold, unrestrained by the obvious pain it caused his aged throat, coming out with the force of a centuries old cork finally being popped.

“Indeed. I haven't worn such fine fabrics since forever”, he eventually said between wheezes.

I had finished bandaging him, and looking down at his worn-down figure, I offered him something to eat. he at first tried to refuse me, despite openly salivating at the mere mention of food, only relenting once I made it clear that I had too much for just one man. I opened the fridge, picking out some store-bought fruit. It split apart at my touch, as a mass of writhing maggots oozed out from its core. I dropped it, looking at the rest of the food with equal horror. Sealed bags of meat had bulged outwards, stuffed with the corpses of asphyxiated flies; I opened one of the cans I had brought with me, but even that perfectly preserved food had turned into a slurry of mulch and worms.

I tossed the whole of my food outside, finding each and every article as rotted as the first. Eventually, I was left with some wild eggs I had found on my first day. I cracked one open apprehensively, only to find the contents unsullied.

I cooked them in silence, and ate in silence. I knew that something unnatural had happened. How else do you explain such a profound decay? And yet I could not bring myself to send the man away, to blame him for my misfortune, to withdraw my charity in fear. My own human nature, a lifetime of learnt kindness, shackled me to him, while my primordial mind screamed to no avail for escape.

At that point, my fatigue had caught up to me. I wordlessly settled down on the nearby sofa, closing my eyes. As I felt my consciousness slip, it was harshly reeled back into those woods. The winds thrashed against the cabin walls, making such a noise as to wake the dead. I kept my eyes closed, trying to will myself asleep. I had almost become accustomed to it. The cawing and screeching of crows crashed forth like cymbals, surrounding the cabin. I rolled over, trying to bury my head in the cushions. The Howling of wolves came next, punctuating their flute like sound with harsh brass barking. I struggled to bury my terror, refusing to move, to look at him. And then the woods seemed to fall silent, and I let out a sigh of relief, and as I did, I felt as if the woods were mocking me. From outside, a great, deep wail emerged, it rose up from the ground, and I could feel it rise up through my body with the force of an earthquake. This dirge flooded my very being, arose throughout my soul like an ancient echo, until all else had been washed away, all except that primordial fear which had, I somehow knew, first sprouted alongside this terrible requiem.

I opened my eyes, looking towards him. I could see nothing in that darkness, only a hint of his eyes, and yet I recognised him for what he was, a monster. I let my primordial instinct guide me, keeping me still as I surveyed the room. I could reach the knife block before he did, paralysed as he was.

Something else rose up within, seven times more terrifying than the primordial fear that gripped me. It was a difficult thing to explain. If the fear that moved me to strike first was one born of animal instinct, this new fear came only moments after it. It was an ancient memory, from the first moments when man ceased to be animal, from when the first evils became known and before they were named.

I could do nothing but lie there, as the twin fears writhed along my spine like duelling serpents, my heart pounding itself apart. Eventually, the second fear won out, and I knew that slaying this monster would lead to a fate worse than death.

Sleep took me then, and nightmares tormented me. Sometimes it was a stone, sometimes a bone, or even a knife. Again and again the old man killed me, my blood seeping into the earth. So much of myself was spilled upon the ground that soon enough it had become all that remained of me, and I wailed alongside the tainted earth.

I awoke screaming.

I turned to where the criminal had been sat. he was nowhere to be seen. I rushed out of the door, terrified at the thought that he was out there, afraid for him and against him.

Outside, where there had once been grass, now the dirt was bare, dry and cracked open. He had left long tracks in the dirt, from dragging himself along it. I followed them desperately, heading into the tree line. I followed them, without knowing what I would do when I found him. I only stopped when the drag marks did, replaced by regular footprints. I followed those too, until we reached a river and I lost him. I walked up and down that river for hours, finding no trace of him. I only stopped when I found the corpses.

Seven wolves, blood on their claws, claw marks across their bodies. Each and every one of them had died at the hands of the other. Somehow, I knew these had been the wolves who first attacked him,. I knew that I had been saved by my humanity, where these animals had given into that primal fear.

I resolved to leave the woods behind then and there. I have yet to return to them, nor do I intend to. I know, somewhere out in the furthest wilds, that old man, that monster, is still out there, exiled far from civilised man yet hated by nature all the same.

For the truth is, I have been raised my whole life to be kind, and understanding, and to never judge others. Yet in that dark moment alone in the cabin, I had almost been ready to throw my faith aside and kill him. The man is cursed, this much I know, and those who harm him will be cursed as well. I had been tried in that moment, and found myself almost giving in to temptation.

Do not take that risk, do not involve yourself with this antediluvian vengeance, and if you ever meet the old man out in the woods, you'd better leave that fugitive and wanderer to his punishment.

I have been renting a cabin in North Point for 3 years now. I spend a few days each summer fishing at a secluded woodland lake, under the watch of a bare hill. This year, a single tree defies that emptiness.

It was a large specimen, standing as tall as three men, despite the bends and knots in its trunk; it was a white-grey trunk, that had begun to crack apart, showing equally white wood beneath. Only halfway up did branches start to jut out of the structure; they were long, evenly spread yet close together, and all reached upwards in a fine curve, meeting at the top to form one giant rosebud. So tightly were these branches woven, that it was impossible to tell if more branches laid within the bulb. Wickedly barbed protrusions lined each inch of each branch, deterring any thought of closer inspection.

I found it hard to believe such a great growth could appear in only a year, yet a tree is hardly worth worrying about, and so I kept my plans to fish that morning. I spent a good 2 hours fishing off a crude pier, and caught a good variety of fish (it was a truly rich lake, wide and deep). The small ones, I returned to the water unharmed, so as to ensure a better catch next year. The large ones, however, were pressed against the wooden planks, and I delivered a single mallet blow to their heads. By now, my blows had become precise, and I never needed more than one.

2 hours was a short expedition for me, but I found the heat of the sun insufferable, burning the thin, hazy cloud cover. I emptied the last of my water, and began the walk back to my cabin, walking around the hill like I always had. I found myself looking up at the tree now and again; Not a single leaf sprouted from its brambled bulb-like thicket, and somehow that seemed natural.

The lake was roughly 20 minutes out from my cabin, which was the closest one to it. It was an old oak log cabin, enough for one man, or maybe a married couple if they could tolerate each other in such close contact. The insides had been renovated, with a sink, a modern stove, and a fridge freezer.

Upon entering, I went to the sink first, filling and draining a glass twice. Then I set to work gutting and preparing the fish, not stopping until my entire haul was safely sealed in a plastic pouch within the freezer. I kept one for my lunch, which I enjoyed alongside a glass of wine and some water.

Now, normally I'd potter around my cabin for a bit before heading off, but my curiosity regarding the tree had only sprouted with time. I resolved to ask around in town, and left my cabin. The cabin squatted in a fairly large clearing, with a good twenty paces in each direction before you reach the woods, and a gravel trail led up to the cabin.

My truck was stationed next to the road. I got in, put on the air conditioning, and drove off towards North Point proper. It was a good 40 minute drive, passing through woodland which threatened to straddle the road, and along the edge of a small ravine which nibbled away at the path's edge.

North Point is a small town, what others might call a village or hamlet. A single road formed its spine, with two roads breaking off to form a nucleus of houses on the right. A thick membrane of trees and bushes enclosed the mass, constricting any further expansion. It was small enough to form a tight social web, and a bar on the main road served as the centre of it all. The bartender, a tall stout man named Harold, served as the only public servant the town needed: handyman, problem solver, and confidant all rolled into one tired frame. I parked right outside the bar. Only a few other cars lined the spine, as the local lumber yard, the heart of the town's economy, had a dedicated bus-line.

A bell rang as I stepped into the bar, and Harold gave me a nod from across the darkly varnished wooden bar. Of the ten false velvet booths that lined the room's edge, only half had occupants. The black metal and oak stools at the bar had only two men on them, both looking down into their glasses.

I sat down among them, and waited for Harold to come over. He was the man who rented out the cabin. It had fallen to him after the previous owner, a long-lived old man, had passed away. It only took a moment.

“Good to see you again, how's the cabin treating you?”, he asked

“Well enough, thank you”

“And the fishing is still good up there?”

“Yes, although I saw something odd by the lake.” I began. “A tree's on top of the hill now, quite a big one.”

“And that's odd?”, he chuckled

“It's too big. And it's a gnarled, vicious looking thing.” I began, trying to think of a good

explanation for why it intrigued me. “Have you really not seen it?” I asked.

“I haven't been to the lake” he said, now polishing a glass absent-mindedly. “You want a beer?”.

I nodded, my lips felt like wax. I resolved to leave a water bottle in the car next time. The beer was nothing special, but I drank it slowly, settling into the scene. That wasn't easy, as the indoors had swapped the oppressive rays of the sun for a stifling stagnant air.

Now that I had settled in, I could see familiar ticks from the others. They would shuffle on their seats, occasionally adjust their shirt, one man went to drink from an already empty glass, getting a small laugh without any force from the man across from him.

There was only one thing missing. I turned towards Harold and asked him where his assistant was.

“Peter's taking the day off”.

I sat there in silence for a moment. Peter was Harold's opposite in many ways. He was lanky, rarely standing to his full height. People described him in one word: absent-minded. He wasn't the sort of person you want operating high powered tools, so the lumber yard had turned him away. Harold found he needed an extra pair of hands a few days later. He wasn't practical, but he was a thinker, and I had first met him alongside that lake. There, he often went for walks, so deep in thought that he wouldn't notice me at all unless I called out.

I got up and left the bar, heading back towards the cabin. Maybe Peter was out on a walk right now, or maybe he'd already passed me this morning.

I didn't find him at the lake, and only spotted him as I turned to leave again, my eyes glancing up at the hill. Someone was sat down at the foot of the tree, one hand raised over his eyes. As I climbed the hill for the first time, I saw that it was indeed Peter. If the tree bothered him, he didn't show it, his posture was relaxed, his back pressed up to its trunk.

“It's an odd specimen, isn't it.” he stated upon seeing me.

“You know what it is?” I asked, fidgeting under the sun's oppression. It felt harsher up here.

“No, I've never seen anything like it.” he began, speaking eagerly. “never read of anything like it, either”.

“How long's it been here?”

“It wasn't here yesterday morning, so probably less than a day”.

I stared up at the tree, looming over us both. I stared at its full branches, at its time worn bark. I stared back down at Peter, who seemed unbothered.

“I can't explain it, but yesterday this hill was barren, and today there's a tree on it.” Peter explained, “it's an odd specimen, isn't it?”.

I nodded, draining my water bottle. “We won't learn much more standing around here” I said

“I'm not standing”, he glibly replied.

Now, I'll admit his nonchalance was beginning to annoy me, so I simply turned and said, “Let me know if you learn anything, and be careful not to get sunstroke”. For some reason, this made him laugh. It didn't take me long to realise why, as I turned to see the sun was blocked by a thick layer of cloud, only the dimmest sunlight reaching through.

I headed back to the cabin not long after, doing little of note for the rest of the day. I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed, tossing aside the bedding as the heat caused me to squirm in bed. Despite my difficulties, eventually fatigue won out over the discomfort, and drifted off into sleep.

It was not a reprieve. I dreamt, feverish.

The tree stood atop the hill, its branches writhing like wounded serpents.

I walked atop the mound, the baked earth cracking under my feet.

I washed aged hands in my sink, wiping them clean.

I walked through the clearing, pacing, turning, counting.

I awoke atop sweat drenched sheets, tightly curled onto my side, one hand clutching the fabric. A dull throbbing pain leapt in my head as I sat upright. My tongue had bloated within my mouth, which felt lined by suet. I stumbled out of the bedroom, cupping together both hands under the sink and drinking deeply. Then I went into my shower, and lingered there long enough to wrinkle my fingers. Only afterwards did I get dressed, throwing on yesterday's clothes, which smelt and felt fine .

Between the headache and the dreams, it was clear that the heat was getting to me. I resigned myself to heading straight into town, leaving the lake alone for the time being. As I walked through the clearing towards my car, I felt a strange sense of deja vu nip at my heels, alongside the sort of feeling that makes you check your pockets. I pushed it aside as I got in the car, pulling down the sun shade and rolling down the windows.

Despite the cool air wiping against my face, I found myself drifting into a half consciousness, driving along the winding route by rote. Up until the deer. I barely managed to brake in time.

The deer itself seemed to barely notice me, as it walked across the road, its languid movements mirroring a decrepit show-horse. I sat there, watching it pass me obliviously, heading into the tree's shade, towards the lake by my estimate. Now that I had stopped, I noticed that the sounds around me were wrong too. There was the occasional birdsong, to be sure, but nowhere near what would be normal for this time of year.

Little else happened on the way into town, and soon I found myself sat once again at the bar. Today, it was crowded, less lively, with the booths full of quiet men, some clutching drink while others rested their heads against the counters. Harold was standing behind the bar, almost unchanged from yesterday, marred by a subtle stupor to his movements. Peter was working today, cleaning up a few of the tables, taking a couple empty glasses from each man. His motions retained the airy ease I had come to expect from him, lively in contrast to the stifled patrons.

My hand rubbed against my forehead, my headache creeping back up on me. Harold came over a moment later. “you got a headache too?”, he asked. I nodded. He pulled a packet of pills from his pocket, already half empty, and placed a single tablet on the counter. Then he poured me a glass of water. “for the headache”, he added.

I downed both, grateful for the promise of reprieve. “how many others”, I asked. He responded with a curt “huh” and an empty stare, then followed my gaze to the quickly emptying pill packet. “half a dozen of my customers have a headache, dehydration from the sounds of it”.

Again, a sense of deja vu washed over me, this time like a half forgotten anecdote.

“no”, I muttered.

“no to what, exactly?” he asked

I stood there in thought for a while, trying to remember where the anecdote went. I turned my head towards the door, looking for something. Only a dim light faded through the glass, worn down by the cloud cover. “It doesn't feel like it should be this hot”, was all I could muster.

Peter had come over by now, and he soon interjected. “the weather forecast says it's the same temperature as last year”, he paused for a moment, looking around the room at the weary clients. “and, between you and me, it feels the same as last year too”.

Harold rolled his eyes at that remark. “the weather forecast isn't taken here, and the town sits in a weird place, climate wise. I can't explain the science to you, but sometimes the heat gets trapped here for a day”.

“it's the second day now”, Peter replied.

“it'll pass”. Harold's reply rankled me, and again that sense of misremembered foreboding moved through me, sending my headache spiralling into me. I remembered the baked earth from my dream.

“how did you two sleep last night,” I asked a little weaker than I'd like. “any dreams?”

Peter answered first, quick as a whip. “I don't dream. Ever.”.

Harold took a bit longer. “I didn't sleep right, that's for sure. But I don't remember any details”.

I looked around the room, seeing tired eyes throughout the room. I didn't need to ask again. I spent a good amount of time in that bar, talking and listening to matters of little consequence. The lumberjacks would talk about their work, of how they felled the giants and protected saplings, and I would talk much the same about my fishing, of those I returned and those I kept.

There was a strange pleasure in the rustic wisdom that hung around here. North Point was an organism in one sense, a part of the wider ecosystem that took enough to sustain itself, and left enough to sustain the wider woods. Somehow, I knew the town could persist here forever.

It was on that note that I headed back to the cabin, thoughts of the tree and the heat at the back of my mind. I settled down in my cabin, having a long glass of water alongside some of yesterday's fish. Then I went to bed.

This time, the dreams came more naturally.

Again I saw the tree upon the hill, its branches writhing in agony, and this time I could feel a great weight upon my shoulders, and saw the branches lean towards me as I approached.

I stood upon baked earth, my feet curling in the dust, my arms raising up towards the ceiling, up and up and through it.

I washed dirt from wrinkled hands, looking down into the water, I saw a face worn by age and secrecy, and I knew this face had reached its end.

And at last, I remember facing my door. A turn leftwards, 10 paces. Right, 7 paces. Dirt filtered through his old fingers.

And then I woke up, sweat drenched and with a renewed headache. It worsened as I got out of bed, accompanied by a cramp in my leg. As the pain subsided, I found myself feeling bloated. It took me longer than usual to get myself together and outside the cabin.

Again, the deja vu pressed upon me, but this time I could make sense of it. I turned left, following my dream self, turned right and stopped in an inconspicuous patch of grass, no different than the rest. I got on my knees, praying I wasn't simply going insane, and I began to dig at the dirt with my hands, reliving that feeling of dirt filtering through my fingers. There was a rightness to the act, the reassurance of a repeated ritual, that persisted as my nails cracked and up until my fingers met metal.

I cleared away the remaining dirt, revealing a small metal box, fit for jewellery. It was unlocked, and I found a closed letter inside. It was a plain thing, with no stamp. On its front was well formed letters, with a slight scratchiness to it, which I knew had been made by those old wrinkled hands.

“TO THE CARETAKER”

I opened it there, under the apparent heat, such was my eagerness. The writing inside was the same as on the outside, and a thorny signature which I didn't recognise was rooted at the bottom.

“If you are reading this, I am afraid my burden has now fallen onto you. You have been drawn into a system larger and older than any of us, and no doubt against your will. Nonetheless, I ask you to see this through, as the consequences of doing otherwise would be disastrous, for all parties involved. To understand what is at stake, you need simply head north of the lake, and you will find proof of my predecessor's failing.

You may be confused as to what must be done. Rest assured, you shall find the path forward in time, just as you found this letter. All I have left to teach you is this: your charge is ultimately one of mercy, no matter how alien it might seem.

May your tenure prove lighter than mine

Sincerely:

The Caretaker”

I sat there for a time, trying to tease out the meaning. Whatever knowledge was inside of me shied away from my prying. Then, absent-mindedly, I turned over the letter, finding a short passage on the other side, akin to the front but written in a more relaxed hand.

“PS: drink no more than usual, and find yourself a thermometer. It will help dispel the effect for a moment or two.”

Looking again at the box, I saw an old-fashioned thermometer. As I picked it up, I saw that the red liquid had reached 25 degrees Celsius. As I stared at the measurement, I could feel the heat fall away, alongside the thirst which had loomed ever-present as a foggy haze. Now I felt the exact opposite, the full amount of water I had been drinking made itself known in my bloated body. Free of “the effect”, my body's natural impulses took over, causing me to throw up the excess.

I went back inside the cabin, putting the thermometer in my pocket, and cleaned myself up. I considered heading to the tree, but I felt I should first share what I'd learnt with the others. Peter had been handling the heat well enough, but I knew it had been getting to Harold, despite his stoic performance.

The drive down to the town proved much more pleasant at 25 degrees, and I noted that the heat began to reappear as I arrived in town. A quick glance at the meter turned it back down. As I got out, I saw that the glass on the bar door had been shattered.

Inside, I found Peter and Harold alone, with Peter cleaning more broken glass. Harold spoke without looking. “I'm sorry, but we're closed today”. When I didn't leave, he turned, and seeing that it was me, simply said “sorry, some of the customers got rowdy”.

“because of the heat, right?”, I asked. “I might have something to help with that”. I approached him, pulling out the thermometer and showing it to him.

“25 degrees? No that can't be right.” he looked up at me, and I shook the meter, causing him to look down at it again. About 30 seconds later he spoke again. “god damn, A moment ago It felt hot as hell itself, but now it feels like normal. How's that possible?”.

Peter came over now, a smile on his face. “see, I told you it wasn't that hot”.

“you look at the temperature lately, a thermometer or weather forecast or something?” I asked.

“I did yesterday, but since nobody was listening to me anyway, I skipped it today”.

Now that seemed odd to me, but I had other questions I had to ask first.

“could you tell me about the previous owner of the cabin?”.

Harold stood there in thought for a good while. “I didn't know him very well, he mostly kept to himself. Occasionally I'd provide him with things, mostly medicine since we don't have a local pharmacy, that and the occasional book.”

“what happened to him?”

A sigh. “I don't know. He disappeared, 13 years ago if memory serves. After that the cabin came to me, because he didn't know anyone else. I held off on renting it at first, until a few years ago.”

I nodded, that's when It fell to me.

Now Peter looked intrigued. “you said it happened 13 years ago, right. How close to today was that?”

“Fuck”, was Harold's reply. “2 days ago exactly”

That was all I needed to know. I did my best to explain the letter I had found to the pair of them. Harold was staring at me, confusion clear on his face, while Peter probed me on the exact wording, occasionally nodding or humming . When I pressed him on what it meant, he shrugged sheepishly, but insisted it was “interesting”.

Once I had finished, Peter butted in. “it must be something to do with that tree, and the old “caretaker” did something to make them go away, if I had to guess”.

Harold poured himself a glass of spirits, and downed it in one go. “fucking hell, and you said you found it thanks to a dream?”

“a dream about the old man from the sounds of it.” Peter added.

I nodded, and Harold leaned forward. “Don't suppose you dreamt up a solution to all this?”

I shook my head. “I know I have to do something up on that hill, but the dream was vague”

“since I've closed the bar for the day, we could head up there today, see if that jogs your memory”. He turned towards Peter, who quickly injected. “I'm going with you two. For whatever reason, the heat didn't affect me, and I want to know why. I want to know why for a lot of things going on here”.

As we prepared to head off, Harold went into the storage room, and came out with a chainsaw and an axe. He kept the chainsaw for himself, and handed me the axe. As we drove towards the cabin, I remembered one detail of the letter I had left out.

“what's north of the lake?”

Peter practically sprung forward to answer, leaning his head forward between the two front seats. “that's where the first North Point was built. You can still see a couple chimneys standing out there, alone now that the rest of the building has rotted away.”

“why'd they abandon it?”, Harold asked, concern creeping into the end.

“there's a handful of sink-holes there, swallowed up the houses from what I read”

I let the rest of the drive pass in silence. The walk to the hill passed much the same. I thought about the dreams I had had. I remembered the baked earth, the sensation of reaching upwards. The tree was still there, atop the hill – No, reaching up through the hill – and I wondered just how far its reach was, how many fell under its sun filled shade. I looked forward at my companions. It had pulled something from deep within North Point's web: a caretaker , a protector , and a ward.

As I walked up the hill, I felt again that sensation of seen again, seen again, seen again, thrash against me like a tidal wave of legacies. I collapsed to the floor, my consciousness falling.

The caretaker walks up towards the tree, an unconscious man weighing down on his shoulder, as the branches writhe in agony, some leaning down, seeking relief.

A mad thirst reaches into me, soaking up from the dry baked earth. I reach upwards, desperate, screaming out to all who would listen. The thirst abates as shame floods me, and so I burrow down beneath the earth.

The caretaker walks up towards the tree, an unconscious man weighing down on his shoulder, as the branches writhe in agony, some leaning down, seeking relief.

My thirst drives me upwards again. I drink greedily, sickened by my gluttony. I burrow and hibernate, hoping to never wake.

The caretaker walks away, along the road, he never looks back.

Ravenously, I drink. Deep, deeply do I drink, a hundred times greater is my shame, my sin.

The caretaker walks up towards the tree, alone. As the branches writhe in agony, he offers himself.

As I sate myself, I envy him.

I woke; the heat, the thirst oppressive. I reached into my pocket, pulling out and staring at the thermometer, grounding myself. My companions were crouched down besides me, worry clear on their face. I waved them away and stood up. One last memory had come to me. His attempt at an explanation.

I turned towards Harold, he offered me a reassuring smile. It vanished with my question. “do you remember the last thing the old man ordered from you?”

“a book, Dracula”. He replied, eyes lost in memory. “I remember he asked me a question, I'd almost forgotten it.”

I remembered it as well. “what would you do if you had his terrible thirst?”, I asked.

“I'd resist it”

“you could try, for a time. But eventually you'd lose”

“I'd”, Harold paused, unwilling to finish his sentence. I did it for him “you'd hope someone would put you down before it came to that”.

We let the silence hang for a moment, staring at the tree, that proboscis for a time. 13 years of restrain, and eventually the thirst reached beyond it, into us. A small act of mercy, a single drop in the desert, and it would endure another 13. it didn't want any of this, but restraint could only last so long. The best it could do was take a single fish, fell a single tree, and hope that the rest of the system survives.

“It needs a sacrifice. One human life and it will leave.”

Peter looked up towards it, afraid for the first time. “and if we don't, it will keep making this thirst worse, right?”

“no, well yes but,” I began, struggling to explain its memories that I had just lived. “ It doesn't want to hurt us. The thirst is like an overflow, so intense it reaches out of it and into us, reaches inside through our dreams”

Harold growled. “It doesn't want this, huh? Explain that to the poor bastards it's killed.”

“it's trying to resist this, but resistance can only last so long. Either we feed it one single soul, and then everything goes back to normal,”, I began, shame forcing my eyes down. “or we wait until it goes mad and repeats whatever happened to the old town.”.

We stood there, silently looking up at the tree, trying to think of anything to add. Eventually, Peter sat down and pulled up three strands of grass. “ draw straws on it”, he said, holding our fates in his hand.

Harold gestured for me to go first. Short . Harold went next. Short. Peter held up his long piece, wordlessly. I wasn't sure what you were meant to say in this situation. “You're brave”, or “thank you for your sacrifice” felt wrong; I could bring him up there without saying anything. As I sat there in silence, Peter began to stand up, a grim face worming over his usual carelessness.

Harold broke the unbearable silence.

“fuck this”, he said, his hand gripping Peter's shoulder and forcing him down to earth.

He stood up, holding the chainsaw ready as he approached the tree. I stood up and clutched my axe, following behind him. For a moment, I thought it wouldn't resist.

Something lunged out from the thicket of brambles atop the tree. It was a long red protrusion, wet and fleshy, with a ring of teeth lining it's front like a leech, an arm wide leech. It bit into Harold's shoulder, and began pulling him towards the tree. I brought down the axe just as quick. It released him, rising up like a serpent.

It began thrashing, the sound of cracking wood drowning out everything else. The branches that lined its “mouth” had tightened around its base, the tree's wooden “teeth” clenching to hold back its fleshy tongue. This was all Harold needed. The sound was buried under the rev of the chainsaw, as it struggled through the tree trunk. It struggled and seemed to sputter out, but the tree fell all the same, the leech tongue falling still as it did.

Harold looked down at what remained of the trunk. The inside had a pink lining, no different to a throat. It lead down, down so deep that no light seemed to reach it. It was just wide enough for a man.

“a stake through the heart can kill anything, right?” Harold asked me, short on breath.

Something within said that was right. I nodded, handed him the axe.

“this will have to do”. He began to climb over the outside of the trunk, knees holding him against the throat.

I turned towards Peter, we would need to evacuate the town. We headed towards town, as fast as we could. I turned back once, seeing only Harold's head. He gave me a mock salute and lowered himself fully down the gullet.

It had been thirteen years since that fateful day. Not much point in coming back; the town had been empty after the earthquake. We'd gotten everyone outside before it happened, although it was a close thing. As I walked towards the lake, I let my mind wander to the creature, myself, and my legacy. Had I fulfilled my charge that day? As I reached the now empty lake, I saw all that I needed . The Hill was bare.

With the most recent scandal, do you think police reforms could stand as its own issue, or will this be co-opted into wider culture war topics like migration and "wokeness"?

Would a positive proposal for policing reforms (by your own standard) be enough to get you to change your vote?

"Baby shoes for sale, worn by dead babies"

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You are a citizen of a nation that has been developing AI for quite some time . The researchers are on the brink of creating a true intelligent AI .

The country will soon vote on if the AI should be finalised. If 50% vote against the AI , it will not be built.

The researchers have determined the following things about the AI and its future actions with absolute certainty :

It will kill anyone who opposed its creation by voting against it.

Afterwards , it will never again interact with humanity.

If the no vote wins , the AI will never be a threat

Do you vote against the AI?

as weird as this sounds, I actually enjoyed listening to Happy Appy on the Creepcast. You see, when I was a young virginal boy I enjoyed writing, but all of the other young virginal boys mocked me over it. It made me give up on writing for a time. But listening to Happy Appy reminded me that, no matter what garbage I write going forward, it will never be that bad. It made me pick up the pen again, in more ways than I could possibly have imagined.

After the 4 hours of watching Happy Appy – and yes, I did watch it , my attention fully on it, because that's what hunter wanted – my laughter was swept aside by the exhaustion of a traumatised man. Despite it only being 8:30 pm, prime television time, I crawled atop my bed, and fell into that fitful rest that comforts the disturbed and disturbs the rest. I don't remember much from the mad dreams that followed, except for a sensation, a retching coughing feeling. When I woke, I found my motion still trapped in that dream state, paralysed except for my eyes. Well, that and my ears.

The voice came from my left, near the doorway. I couldn't see the source, my head refusing to turn. It spoke in a nasally high pitched whine, fit only to crow birthday songs to the damned. “I'm sorry those kids used to bully you”, he said applelistically, I mean apologetically. “but Happy Appy has taken care of it. Like the south, you will write again”. The room fell silent after that, a completely pregnant silence. As soon as I could wriggle my toes, I turned my head towards the mysterious speaker, only to find he had disappeared like a phantasm. Who was this mysterious nocturnal visitor ? It seemed indecipherable, a nameless enigma.

The next day, after having my big boy coffee – which I can have because I'm a grown man now ! – I decided to start writing on my laptop. I wanted to write a horror story for my favourite youtuber, Wendigoon. I wanted it to be something that would make him moan in narrative pleasure, as he is oft wont to do, and as he often does publicly on tape. It took me five hours, but eventually I had the beginnings of an idea : A skin-walker demon! It was a good start, although something was still missing. I decided to spend the rest of my day cyberstalking my old bullies.

What I found online was odd. All of my old bullies had been murdered last night. Some of them were run over, some of them were stabbed, and one died from hearing the homework song. There were only a few commonalities between all the deaths. the time for each murder was yesterday, sometime between 8:30 Pm and midnight. At each murder, witnesses claimed to have seen an apple shaped man do the murders. I was shocked and confused, could all of the murders have been done by the same person? Could it have been the apparition from last night? I don't want to sound judgemental, but he sounded apple-ish, and not in a good way.

Then things got really odd, questionably odd. I called all the witnesses, who all happened to be my friends. I tried asking them about the murders, but they had inexplicably forgotten them. At first I suspected some foul force was at play, but the witnesses insisted that they simply forgot.

As an adult police detective, I felt I had a duty to investigate, but as a writer, I also felt exhausted from my labours. I decided to put on my dinosaur pyjamas and go to bed ; I would investigate this mystery tomorrow. As I got into bed, I was careful to sleep on my side, facing the door. I would see my visitor tonight.

I woke to find it hovering in front of me, in front of my open bedroom door. It was suspended in the air by a rusty pipe, topped by a clay apple with two little clay arms, and with baby blue eyes and green lips for a face. And what a face it was! its expression was a harsh mix of coldness and hot hatred, a false smile underscored by the two burning orbs above it. It was a death smile, no other way of putting it. Once it saw I was awake, the metal pipe tilted forward, bringing its ornament mere inches from my face.

“Who are you?”, I managed to say, but he didn't react, his lifeless eyes starring through me.

“what does mister writer need for his big mouth”, he asked, his mouth hanging motionless.

“that's right , a bandage”, he said, as a bandage just appeared in his clay arm. The stick leaned closer forward, jerking back and forth as it tried to align the clay arm with my mouth. Paralysed as I was, I could do nothing as the motionless arm carried the bandage into my mouth, gagging me.

“now listen closely” Happy Appy said. “I need you to become a famous writer”.

I didn't understand ,why would he care ?

“I need you to warn the president”, he specified.

at this point , my paralysis began to fade, and I started to lean upwards out of bed. Happy Appy reacted in an instance, throwing himself out of the door. I struggled to rush after him, still in a sleepy daze. There was no trace of Happy Appy. I wanted to think this was all a hallucination, that none of this was real, that there was no danger, and so I did think all that.

Outside of the dozen apple murder victims who I all knew personally, there hadn't been much crime lately, so I had a lot of free time as a police detective. I decide to spend the day refining my story idea. I opened the word document where I had written down the concept, but what I saw was odd, oddly so. Instead of the words “Concept : Sleepwalker demon!” , I found the following message.

Dear detective

You've been putting your nose where it don't belong, see. The forenzic gang don't like no smart-mouth detective writing stories to warn the president, see. If you don't drop it and go to ground, pal, I might have to record your death screams, ya see.

Sincerely yours ,

Forenzic gang (with a Z , and don't you forget it pal)

I was terrified by the message ; in all my time as a policemen, I'd never received a threat like this before. I didn't know what to do, so I deleted the message and wrote down my idea again. I stared at the screen for hours, until at last the solution came to me. It was perfect : Skin-walker Demon sailor who only speaks in alliterations! I was sure this idea would make Wendigoon goon himself with stylistic ecstasy. Now all I needed was a name for the monster, and the narrative to go with it.

As I sat there in thought, I felt something long and hard press against my right leg. I refused to look towards it, paralysed by fear instead of sleep. Then I heard that singsong voice, who's lullaby lures lightless dreams.

“do you need help with a name?”, Happy Appy asked.

still dazed by the impossibility of it all, I simple typed out ideas into the document, erasing them just as quickly. I felt a tap on my hand, followed by a hit from Happy Appy. I pulled my hands back, and Happy Appy slammed his apple body into the keyboard. I looked back at the document. He had written out a name : “Demon seaman , sailor of the six satanic seas”. It was a pretty good alliteration, I had to admit. Wendigoon would love this, in a deeply sexual way.

I turned to thank Happy Appy, only to see him throw himself out of my window, rusty pipe first like a fruity javelin. I heard the glass break, and then I heard him shout from outside. He said “Hey kids , today were going to learn about grand theft auto”. I heard more sounds of glass breaking , and the roar of tires pushed to their limits by mad fruit. I stood up and ran to my front door, but by the time I had opened it, happy Appy was gone again. Instead, all I found was the corpse of a man left in the middle of the road, with an apple shaped hole in his chest.

As an adult police detective, I wanted to solve whatever had happened outside my house, but the truth was that this mystery was unsolvable. I decided to go for a walk, to clear my head in preparation for more writing. Not ten paces away from the crime scene I was pointedly ignoring, I saw a shadowy figure walking down the pavement ahead of me. He was scary, in a mysterious shadowy way, and I felt my police instincts take over in response to his wrongful blackness. I quickly crossed the street, seeking safety on the opposite pavement.

A few seconds later, I heard him shout “Skinny Forenzic sends his regards” , and then two shots rung out. I turned right, darting through a children's playground, bravely dodging 4 more bullets under the jungle-gym as children fell around me. I could hear the shadow man running behind me, and for a moment I feared being dead, even thought I'm a big boy now! That's when I saw Happy Appy sat in a van, facing towards the playground. I'll remember his expression for the rest of my days, that nameless indescribable look that scholars have spent eternities trying to name and describe. It was a death smile.

“hey kids, look what I found”, Appy said as he revved the engine. I jumped to the side, pushing two children towards where I had just been standing. Happy Appy's vehicle passed mere inches behind me, crushing the Forenzic gang member, alongside anyone else in the way. I stood back up, and for a moment Happy Appy and me were the only two people left in the park. Then his whole form turned towards me, stiff like a ballerina in a music box. He looked at me with that nameless look, that death smile.

“hey kids, have you ever seen a dead body ?” , he asked with all the beauty of a broken music box. A lit lighter appeared in his hand. Underneath the van , a rainbow liquid had begun to spill out and mix with the pool of now stagnant boy blood. “would you like to”, he asked, seconds before the lighter fell from his hands. Fire consumed the van in a great uproar, as Happy Appy stood there like a post, face still bearing a look like none other ever described, a face which seemed to scream death smile eternally. I ran away in a panic, as the fire spread throughout the thankfully empty playground. I didn't stop running until I was safely at home, where I huddled in a corner doing nothing for an hour, in accordance with my police training.

I considered abandoning my story right then and there, perhaps I should have. I considered going to the police, who I happened to be a part of. That's when I saw it, his van was outside my door, and he stood inside of it with that damned smile called death smile. I knew he wouldn't let me leave, not until I finished my story.

I typed out my ideas, staying up all night thanks to the big boy coffee I could now legally drink. At first, I tried to weave a coherent story with a sensible intrigue. That lasted for a paragraph. Then I wrote in a more episodic nature, showing Demon Seaman doing weird and needlessly violent things, mostly for the shock value. I had managed to write 30 pages, with only a page's worth of ideas, at which point I drifted to sleep. I tried to, anyway. From outside, I heard a car horn honk.

“It's not long enough”, Happy Appy screamed, his voice carrying a soulless staccato sibilance, his words drawn out, his pronunciation clear as day.

This pattern would repeat for 3 days, with me writing and him always demanding more. I could feel the text reduce to mush under my incessant typing, the intrigue twisting itself into a knot of dead ends and pointless beginnings, and I wondered how much longer this pointless chore could last. On that third day, I heard him yell from outside “that's good enough. You should rest up because we've got a big day tomorrow”.

“what's this all for?”, I asked. My police training taught me never to ask questions, but I couldn't risk going in blind.

“we need to warn the president. If you do nothing, you'll see an airplane crash into the White house”.

I nodded, not sure what to make of all this. I decided to go to bed, and in my great fatigue, forgot to put on my dinosaur pyjamas. Pyjamas which I can wear because adults can wear whatever they want!

I woke long before morning, my body blissfully mobile, with Happy Appy nowhere in sight. Instead I could hear a banging coming from the front door. This seemed mysterious at first, but I assumed it was 3 of Forenzic's goons.

“hey pal. You've won yourself a knife to the face with all of this writing, see” one said Forenzically.

“M-yes” a second cackled, like a forenzic goon.

“you tell 'em boss”, the third added. “we're 3 goons sent by the Forenzic gang, you see”, he helpfully added.

I got up, and reached under my bed. I own a musket for home defense, since that's what the founding fathers intended. The 3 ruffians break into my house. “i'm a detective”, I say as I grab my adult man hat and Kentucky rifle. Blow the arm off the first man, he's dead on the spot. Draw my pistol on the second man, miss him entirely as he covers himself in ketchup and falls to the ground. I have to resort to the rusty metal pipe I happen to have lying around upstairs, the pipe impales the 3^(rd) man, passing through him and into a car outside, setting off alarms.

Afterwards, I decided to go back to sleep. I didn't see the point in reporting the incident to the police, because I was already aware of it.

I woke up to Happy Appy waving himself about in my room. He seemed unnaturally Happy, especially for an apple. He told me it was finally time for me to save the president, and that I had to follow him into his van. I did this without question. We drove for a good hour, his metal pipe jabbing at the peddles, occasionally jamming himself into the wheel to turn it.

soon enough, we got to the airport. Happy Appy had handled all the travel plans. His cold clay hands held two tickets, heading for DC. As we waited in the queue, I realised that we could freely carry our bag onto the airplane. The classic brown suitcase was firmly closed, with a small blue padlock on it. Happy Appy promised to open it once we were on the plane.

As we got to the security checkpoint, I deposited the suitcase on the conveyor belt, feeding it into a scanner. The security guards muttered to each other, and Happy Appy began to fidget, his baby blue eyes twitching. Eventually one of the guards, a fat bald man who looked slow and retarded, said “I'm sure it's nothing”. He handed me my briefcase with a warm smile, and said “have a blast up there, kid”. I didn't know what to make of all this, but it was probably nothing important, unless it was.

I let the questions slide for a moment, settling into my seat on the plane, idly glancing out the window. I wasn't sure what Happy Appy had planned, but whatever it was, I'd need to save my strength. I let myself fall asleep next to Happy Appy, as the airplane took off towards DC.

The first thing I heard upon waking was a small metallic click. My eyes opened to see the suitcase open, happy appy animated above it. Inside there were two guns, visibly loaded. Happy Appy swung up in clear agitation, holding two glocks. “this is a hijacking” he screamed, “sing the hijacking song”.

What happened next was a bit odd. All of the passengers, from the oldest crone to the youngest crib-swaddled baby, began to calmly clap their hands. A few seconds later, they began to sing, some contentedly, some between tearful cries, but all together. This is what they sang :

some kids like to play with flowers

some kids dream of superpowers

but there's one thing, fun for hours

to go and crash into twin towers

while this song was playing, Happy Appy was waved towards the cabin room, his rusty pipe catching on the door handle and deftly opening it. He turned back towards me before going in, with an indescribable expression on his face, something I could only ever describe as a death smile.

That's when I understood : Happy Appy had predicted the president would die in an airplane crash, and now he was going to make sure that it happened. I had to stop him. I stood up and rushed forward, coughing as smoke bellowed up from the rear. Inside , both pilots were already unconscious, and happy appy was swinging himself around the cabin, occasionally banging his head against buttons in a mad panic. I grabbed his rusty pipe, trying to restrain him, but he just swung himself at me, head-butting me with his clay apple frame.

I couldn't stop him like this, I thought to myself, as I am often wont to do. There was only one option left, one born of a childish desperation, and an adolescent confusion: I would have to eat the apple as fast as humanly possible!

I bit down on the monster, felt hard clay crack in my mouth, my moist gullet reducing it to clay. It screamed, like a breeze pushed up a rusty pipe, and I struggled not to retch. “Why are you eating me! Why are you eating me!”, he cried in that high pitched whine. I smiled, between brittle swallows and replied “you're an apple right ?”. “and eating an apple ?” I laughed, which turned from a somewhat girly giggle to a psychopathic laugh. “That's natural children”. I bit down one last time on the apple prop, as the now uncontrolled plane propelled itself down into the ocean, a few miles from DC.

The last thing I heard before dying was amazing grace.