u/NoCardiologist1353

Don’t ever buy a used house.

You can never be sure what else is living there.

Everything started when I moved my family across the country. A new job opened up for me in the Midwest, and with our second child on the way, my wife encouraged me to pursue it. It was a few months ago when our moving truck pulled into our new hometown.

“This is a change of pace.” My wife said, with a smile, her voice was a mix of excitement and stress.

With a nod, I returned her smile.

We'd spent our whole lives in Boston, so moving to a small rural town was going to be a hard reset. But we welcomed it. This was the type of place we wanted to raise our kids.

Turning the truck onto a quiet suburban street, I gleefully announced

“Here’s our new street.”

Our 6-year-old son Travis perked up in the backseat, straining his neck for the first view of our new house. Near the end of the street, the truck came to a stop in front of a large Victorian-style house. It was old, though well-maintained, exactly the way it looked in the pictures online. Travis’ eyes widened as he saw the house and the large yard around it.

“Is this our house, Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

My wife and I looked back at him with wide smiles.

“Sure is, buddy,” I replied

“Do you want to go see your room?” my wife asked.

Travis’ eyes remained locked on the house as he nodded in agreement. With a stretch, the three of us got out of the tight cab of the moving truck and made our way to the front door. I unlocked the door with the key that had been sent to me weeks ago, and the door swung out with a low squeak. The house was bare, but beautiful. Its updated interior instantly welcomed us home. Before long, Travis was running laps around the main floor as he laughed to himself. My wife and I stood together in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Erin said with a tired sigh.

The cross-country journey was tiring, but for my 8-month-pregnant wife, it was completely draining. Wrapping her in a tight hug, I said

“Tell you what? Travis and I will handle the boxes for the next few days, and you rest for a while.”

She looked at me, ready to protest, but I placed a hand on her belly and smiled.

“I insist.”

“Daddy?”

Travis stood by the staircase.

“Can I go find my room?”

I nodded,

“I’ll come with; let’s find it together.”

With a smile, he dashed up the stairs. I followed. The stairway led to a wide, long hallway with several doors and a small perpendicular hallway going off to the right. Travis stood at the top of the stairs when I got there; he stared down the hall.

“Which one is mine?” he asked

“I think the one at the end.”

He nodded and ran down the hall; right before reaching his door, he passed the off-shooting smaller hall. He stopped and looked down it; he pointed and asked

“What’s up there?”

I made my way to him and looked where he pointed. The hallway led to a smaller set of stairs, and at the top was an old wooden door. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn't been painted or renovated. The brass knob was dark with age.

“That’s the attic.”

“Can we go look?”

I shook my head.

“No, we’ve had a long day. I don’t think you’d like it anyway; probably a lot of spiders and weird smells.”

“Okay,” he said in a disappointed voice before his attention shifted to his new room.

It was already late afternoon, so Travis and I unloaded the bare essentials: a few mattresses, a few duffel bags of clothes, and the basic kitchen utensils. That night we ate ramen at a table made from cardboard boxes. We turned in early that night.

“Daddy?”

Travis’ low voice woke me up late that night.

“Travis? Are you ok?” I said, half awake.

“My new friend wanted you to know that he didn’t like what you said about the attic.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Goodnight, Daddy.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Morning came. And I made my way downstairs, where I was met by Erin, who was preparing breakfast, and Travis, who was playing with some toys on the floor. Erin smiled, and I kissed her good morning. Turning to Travis, I said

“Hey Buddy, how’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

He seemed tired

“Hey, what were you talking about last night?”

I was hoping I had just been dreaming, but he said

“Just something my friend said last night.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

He shrugged

“Timmy.”

Realizing he was talking about an imaginary friend, I asked

“He sounds nice. Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”

“In your room?”

“No, above my room. In the attic.”

I nodded slowly and said

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I then walked back to my wife. We had a full day ahead of us. I was hoping to get the truck emptied that day so I could return it the next day. Travis and I hauled boxes into the house while Erin told us where in the house she wanted each box. Around lunch, Travis and I carried boxes labeled ‘memories’ into the house. Erin glanced in the boxes before saying

“Let’s put those in the attic.” She said

I signaled Travis to follow me as I headed to the stairs. On the second floor, we moved towards the second staircase; it creaked under my weight as I ascended. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob; it was slightly warm. Before I opened it, Travis said

“Dad, we should ask Timmy if it’s ok to put boxes in his room.”

I smiled to myself, quietly admiring my son’s imagination

“You’re right, son; how could I forget?”

With a grin, I loudly asked

“Timmy, is it ok with we store some boxes up here?”

We waited in silence for a moment before Travis said quietly

“He said its ok.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I replied in a subtly sarcastic tone that my son didn’t pick up on.

The door was heavy and opened slowly; the space behind it was large and bare. It was a large single room with two wings reaching out in opposite directions, and three small round windows allowed natural light to flood the dusty space. A homemade shelf stood against the far wall. I directed Travis to set his box on it, and I did the same. I sent my box down and realized Travis had moved to one of the wings of the attic. He was down at the end of the space, and I walked towards him. I could see him standing over something.

“Hey, did you find something?”

Coming up right behind him, I saw that he stood before an old wooden child-sized rocking chair. Sitting upon its seat was an old, withered doll. Its dress, which had once been white, was an aged yellow, and its face was faded. Its wide blue eyes seemed to stare right at us. A drawstring on its back made it clear that this doll had a voice box. We stared at it in silence for a moment before Travis reached out and slowly pulled the doll's string.

A crackling, weak voice filled the attic

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Travis stared at the doll intently before whispering

“That’s Timmy’s doll.”

I swallowed before saying

“Well, we got more boxes to move, I bet mom’s wondering where we went.”

Travis didn’t move; his eyes were glued to the doll.

“Come on, Trav, we got to keep going.”

After a long minute, he said

“Okay.”

He was quiet the rest of the day.

At dinner, we ate box mac and cheese. Travis stared blankly at his bowl and absentmindedly moved the noodles around with his spoon.

Erin looked at me, concerned, before turning to our son.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?”

He scrunched up his nose and said

“Yeah.”

My wife pushed further

“Did something happen?”

“My friend is saying mean things.”

My wife was confused

“Friend? What friend, darling?”

“My friend upstairs.”

Erin glanced at me, realizing what he was talking about.

“Well.” She said warmly, “Sometimes friends say things they don’t mean.”

“He wants us to leave.”

“But we just got here,” she chuckled, “and I'm afraid Timmy doesn't get to make that decision.”

Travis looked at her.

“He says he does.”

“Just try to be nice, Sweetie; I’m sure he’ll come around.”

He shrugged

“Ok, I’ll try.”

Before long, we got Travis ready for bed, and it didn’t take long for Erin and me to do the same. Once again, I was awakened in the middle of the night, only this time it wasn’t by my son. It was by a loud thump coming from downstairs. I lay frozen in bed for a moment, quietly holding my breath. Another thump came; I hadn’t imagined it. My heart beat faster as I crept to the door; slowly, I went down the stairs one step at a time. Reaching the main level, I stood close to the wall, trying to be as quiet and still as possible. It was pitch dark, and the darkness felt electric, as if I could sense something standing hidden from sight by its shadows. The light switch was just around the corner.

Swallowing hard, my hand slid blindly along and around the wall. My fingers fumbled around to find the light switch; finally, they did. The light illuminated the empty kitchen and living room. Nothing was there. Feeling braver in the light, I checked the entire floor and found nothing. I didn’t even find the source of the thump. Confused, I made sure the doors were locked and made my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I went.

I reached the top of the stairs and froze as my eyes rested on the tiny shape of the strange doll from the attic. It sat a few feet in front of me, right in the middle of the hall. It sat limply, and its unnatural eyes stared right at me. Shaking my head, I made my way over to Travis’ room, expecting to find him awake. He must be playing a joke on me, but I found him deep asleep. I turned back around to the hall, but there was no doll. I blinked and looked around, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking my head, I muttered aloud.

“I need some sleep.”

Over the next couple of weeks, life began to settle. Slowly, more boxes were unpacked. Most of the time, I worked from home, so we converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into my office. Travis seemed to grow quieter with each passing day. I worried about him, but Erin said it was just a phase, the side effects of moving to a new area at his young age. That made sense; I just hoped it wouldn’t last long.

Travis began spending more and more time up in the attic. He moved several of his toys up there, turning it into his own playroom. Erin thought it was great; it kept his toys out of the living room and kitchen, but I couldn't stop thinking of the strange doll.

A few days ago, I passed by the attic door and heard low whispers coming from behind it. Curious, I slowly made my way up to the door and inched it open, just enough to hear my son whispering in the far corner of the attic. It was a one-sided conversation; I heard him say

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please stop.”

At that last one, I gently pushed through the door and announced myself

“Travis? Are you up here? Who are you talking to?”

I found my son sitting on the floor in front of the small chair; he stared at the doll

“Hi, Dad,” he said as I walked over.

“I was just playing with Timmy.”

I nodded slowly

“Alright, Buddy, it's almost lunchtime, so come down soon.”

“Can I eat up here, with Timmy?”

I frowned and shook my head

“No, I’d like to have lunch with you, so come down.”

He stared at the doll for a moment.

“Ok.”

I went downstairs and started to make some sandwiches. Right as I finished, Travis walked into the kitchen. As we enjoyed a family lunch, I figured I should ask Travis some questions.

“So Travis, what does your friend Timmy look like?”

Travis stopped chewing and stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up.

“He’s really tall.”

“Oh, very nice,” I replied. “What else?”

“his eyes are big.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was sitting in the corner of my room the night we moved in. He said he wanted to play with me.”

His answer caught me off guard; I didn’t really know what to say. I took a bite of my sandwich, and as I did, Travis asked his own question

“Dad, what does it mean to kill someone?”

I nearly choked on the bite in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed quickly and asked

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Timmy was talking about killing someone.”

“Who?” I shouted

My son shrank at the table; fear and sadness caked his face. Seeing my son like that I sighed and changed my tone.

“Trav, there are some things that you’ll find out about when you get older, but for now just know your mom and I love you very much and won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

He squirmed in his seat before answering

“I know, Daddy.”

The next day was sunny and warm, and I insisted that Travis play outside. Erin had her final checkup before the due date, and so I used the time to catch up on some work projects. A few hours into my work, I heard footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps were coming from the attic above me. I figured Travis had snuck by my office and gone upstairs to play. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, stood up, and moved to the attic door.

“Hey Trav, did you have fun outside?” I said as I pushed out the door.

But there was no response; the attic was eerily quiet. It was empty. I scanned the place intently, wondering if Travis was hiding. After looking over the space, I moved to one of the round windows and glanced out. To my surprise, I saw Travis playing in the sandbox in the backyard. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I slowly turned from the window, and my eyes rested on the child’s chair at the end of the attic. The little doll's eyes were locked on me.

I slowly walked towards it, staring into its unblinking eyes. A few feet in front of it, I stood for a moment. It felt like an eternity, and every moment I looked at it, my courage weakened. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. I froze after a few steps when a crackling, broken voice rose behind me

“Hello, what’s your name?”

I didn’t move; it felt like I couldn’t move. I stood there for an unbearable amount of time; I didn’t dare look behind me. After a few minutes, I swore I could hear heavy, low, deep breathing coming from the back corner. Then a creaking floorboard, then another, and another, then the one directly behind me creaked and groaned under pressure. A warm, damp breath collided with my neck. The sensation ignited my body with adrenaline, and I dashed towards the door, covering the 20 feet in mere seconds. I slammed the door behind me and fled to the main level.

My phone rang in my pocket; it was Erin.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Her voice was kind, but strained.

“Erin, look, I think there’s a problem with the house.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” She interrupted me

“The baby is coming.”

Less than an hour later, Travis and I sat in a hospital waiting room. And about six hours later, we met his new little sister, Sarah. There had been a few minor complications, and the hospital staff wanted to observe Erin and Sarah for 72 hours. The four of us stayed the weekend. Away from home, Travis seemed happier, more like himself; he was thrilled to be a big brother.

Soon we returned home; I must admit that the rush of a new child and three days in the hospital made me doubt what happened in the attic; it didn’t seem important compared to caring for a healing wife, an infant, and a six-year-old. We were exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in our own bed sounded like a dream. Only it didn’t last long. Around 12:30 last night, Travis’ screams reached my ears. I jumped out of bed, avoided Sarah’s bassinet, and quickly entered Travis’ room. He sat on his bed weeping.

“What’s wrong, son?” I said

“Timmy is saying bad things to me.”

I sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“He wants me to do something bad.” He whimpered

I hugged him tight until his tears slowed

“Can I sleep with you?” he whispered

“Of course, son.”

I locked the bedroom door, and Travis snuggled in between Erin and me. Around 3, I was awakened by Erin’s frantic cries

“Where’s Sarah? She’s gone!”

I sat up quickly and saw that the bassinet was empty, the door was open, and Travis was gone. Panic filled my veins as I jumped from the bed and ran to the attic. I burst through the door, and there was Travis, his baby sister in his arms. Tears ran down his face as he stared down the attic towards the doll; in the dark, it seemed as though a hulking shadow crouched behind the chair.

“Travis, what are you doing?”

His eyes were fixed on the doll; through tears, he said

“He wants the baby.”

I took a step closer

“Son, look at me”

He tried, but his eyes didn’t move

“Give me Sarah.”

Very slowly, almost mechanically, he moved closer to the doll; I followed.

“Give me your sister!” I yelled

He kept walking; I pulled my daughter from his hands. As soon as Sarah changed hands, a loud screech filled the attic; the foundations of the house shook violently, and the monstrous shadow stood up, its shape filling the back of the corner, and then disappeared from view. The room creaked and shook. I could feel some force trying to pull my daughter from my hands. I backed up; it pulled harder. I was getting closer to the door; several long cuts began to appear on my forearms. My daughter screamed, and Travis cried. Turning my back to the doll, I drew my daughter in close to my chest and wrapped one arm around Travis and dragged him with us through the door.

The house continued to shake and creak; we made our way down the hall, and Erin met us by the stairs.

“What is happening?” she screamed.

“Get outside.”

Even from out in the front yard, we could still hear the screeching and creaking.

Right now we’re in a hotel room; tomorrow we’re leaving. We’ll have a moving company grab our stuff; we’re never going back there.

The kids are finally sleeping, but Erin and I locked eyes as a crackling, broken voice came from the bathroom.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Don’t ever buy a used house.

You can never be sure what else is living there.

Everything started when I moved my family across the country. A new job opened up for me in the Midwest, and with our second child on the way, my wife encouraged me to pursue it. It was a few months ago when our moving truck pulled into our new hometown.

“This is a change of pace.” My wife said, sending a smile my way; her voice was a mix of excitement and stress.

With a nod, I returned her smile.

We'd spent our whole lives in Boston, so moving to a small rural town was going to be a hard reset. But we welcomed it. This was the type of place we wanted to raise our kids.

Turning the truck onto a quiet suburban street, I gleefully announced

“Here’s our new street.”

Our 6-year-old son Travis perked up in the backseat, straining his neck for the first view of our new house. Near the end of the street, the truck came to a stop in front of a large Victorian-style house. It was old, though well-maintained, exactly the way it looked in the pictures online. Travis’ eyes widened as he saw the house and the large yard around it.

“Is this our house, Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

My wife and I looked back at him with wide smiles.

“Sure is, buddy,” I replied

“Do you want to go see your room?” my wife asked.

Travis’ eyes remained locked on the house as he nodded in agreement. With a stretch, the three of us got out of the tight cab of the moving truck and made our way to the front door. I unlocked the door with the key that had been sent to me weeks ago, and the door swung out with a low squeak. The house was bare, but beautiful. Its updated interior instantly welcomed us home. Before long, Travis was running laps around the main floor as he laughed to himself. My wife and I stood together in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Erin said with a tired sigh.

The cross-country journey was tiring, but for my 8-month-pregnant wife, it was completely draining. Wrapping her in a tight hug, I said

“Tell you what? Travis and I will handle the boxes for the next few days, and you rest for a while.”

She looked at me, ready to protest, but I placed a hand on her belly and smiled.

“I insist.”

“Daddy?”

Travis stood by the staircase.

“Can I go find my room?”

I nodded,

“I’ll come with; let’s find it together.”

With a smile, he dashed up the stairs. I followed. The stairway led to a wide, long hallway with several doors and a small perpendicular hallway going off to the right. Travis stood at the top of the stairs when I got there; he stared down the hall.

“Which one is mine?” he asked

“I think the one at the end.”

He nodded and ran down the hall; right before reaching his door, he passed the off-shooting smaller hall. He stopped and looked down it; he pointed and asked

“What’s up there?”

I made my way to him and looked where he pointed. The hallway led to a smaller set of stairs, and at the top was an old wooden door. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn't been painted or renovated. The brass knob was dark with age.

“That’s the attic.”

“Can we go look?”

I shook my head.

“No, we’ve had a long day. I don’t think you’d like it anyway; probably a lot of spiders and weird smells.”

“Okay,” he said in a disappointed voice before his attention shifted to his new room.

It was already late afternoon, so Travis and I unloaded the bare essentials: a few mattresses, a few duffel bags of clothes, and the basic kitchen utensils. That night we ate ramen at a table made from cardboard boxes. We turned in early that night.

“Daddy?”

Travis’ low voice woke me up late that night.

“Travis? Are you ok?” I said, half awake.

“My new friend wanted you to know that he didn’t like what you said about the attic.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Goodnight, Daddy.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Morning came. And I made my way downstairs, where I was met by Erin, who was preparing breakfast, and Travis, who was playing with some toys on the floor. Erin smiled, and I kissed her good morning. Turning to Travis, I said

“Hey Buddy, how’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

He seemed tired

“Hey, what were you talking about last night?”

I was hoping I had just been dreaming, but he said

“Just something my friend said last night.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

He shrugged

“Timmy.”

Realizing he was talking about an imaginary friend, I asked

“He sounds nice. Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”

“In your room?”

“No, above my room. In the attic.”

I nodded slowly and said

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I then walked back to my wife. We had a full day ahead of us. I was hoping to get the truck emptied that day so I could return it the next day. Travis and I hauled boxes into the house while Erin told us where in the house she wanted each box. Around lunch, Travis and I carried boxes labeled ‘memories’ into the house. Erin glanced in the boxes before saying

“Let’s put those in the attic.” She said

I signaled Travis to follow me as I headed to the stairs. On the second floor, we moved towards the second staircase; it creaked under my weight as I ascended. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob; it was slightly warm. Before I opened it, Travis said

“Dad, we should ask Timmy if it’s ok to put boxes in his room.”

I smiled to myself, quietly admiring my son’s imagination

“You’re right, son; how could I forget?”

With a grin, I loudly asked

“Timmy, is it ok with we store some boxes up here?”

We waited in silence for a moment before Travis said quietly

“He said its ok.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I replied in a subtly sarcastic tone that my son didn’t pick up on.

The door was heavy and opened slowly; the space behind it was large and bare. It was a large single room with two wings reaching out in opposite directions, and three small round windows allowed natural light to flood the dusty space. A homemade shelf stood against the far wall. I directed Travis to set his box on it, and I did the same. I sent my box down and realized Travis had moved to one of the wings of the attic. He was down at the end of the space, and I walked towards him. I could see him standing over something.

“Hey, did you find something?”

Coming up right behind him, I saw that he stood before an old wooden child-sized rocking chair. Sitting upon its seat was an old, withered doll. Its dress, which had once been white, was an aged yellow, and its face was faded. Its wide blue eyes seemed to stare right at us. A drawstring on its back made it clear that this doll had a voice box. We stared at it in silence for a moment before Travis reached out and slowly pulled the doll's string.

A crackling, weak voice filled the attic

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Travis stared at the doll intently before whispering

“That’s Timmy’s doll.”

I swallowed before saying

“Well, we got more boxes to move, I bet mom’s wondering where we went.”

Travis didn’t move; his eyes were glued to the doll.

“Come on, Trav, we got to keep going.”

After a long minute, he said

“Okay.”

He was quiet the rest of the day.

At dinner, we ate box mac and cheese. Travis stared blankly at his bowl and absentmindedly moved the noodles around with his spoon.

Erin looked at me, concerned, before turning to our son.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?”

He scrunched up his nose and said

“Yeah.”

My wife pushed further

“Did something happen?”

“My friend is saying mean things.”

My wife was confused

“Friend? What friend, darling?”

“My friend upstairs.”

Erin glanced at me, realizing what he was talking about.

“Well.” She said warmly, “Sometimes friends say things they don’t mean.”

“He wants us to leave.”

“But we just got here,” she chuckled, “and I'm afraid Timmy doesn't get to make that decision.”

Travis looked at her.

“He says he does.”

“Just try to be nice, Sweetie; I’m sure he’ll come around.”

He shrugged

“Ok, I’ll try.”

Before long, we got Travis ready for bed, and it didn’t take long for Erin and me to do the same. Once again, I was awakened in the middle of the night, only this time it wasn’t by my son. It was by a loud thump coming from downstairs. I lay frozen in bed for a moment, quietly holding my breath. Another thump came; I hadn’t imagined it. My heart beat faster as I crept to the door; slowly, I went down the stairs one step at a time. Reaching the main level, I stood close to the wall, trying to be as quiet and still as possible. It was pitch dark, and the darkness felt electric, as if I could sense something standing hidden from sight by its shadows. The light switch was just around the corner.

Swallowing hard, my hand slid blindly along and around the wall. My fingers fumbled around to find the light switch; finally, they did. The light illuminated the empty kitchen and living room. Nothing was there. Feeling braver in the light, I checked the entire floor and found nothing. I didn’t even find the source of the thump. Confused, I made sure the doors were locked and made my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I went.

I reached the top of the stairs and froze as my eyes rested on the tiny shape of the strange doll from the attic. It sat a few feet in front of me, right in the middle of the hall. It sat limply, and its unnatural eyes stared right at me. Shaking my head, I made my way over to Travis’ room, expecting to find him awake. He must be playing a joke on me, but I found him deep asleep. I turned back around to the hall, but there was no doll. I blinked and looked around, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking my head, I muttered aloud.

“I need some sleep.”

Over the next couple of weeks, life began to settle. Slowly, more boxes were unpacked. Most of the time, I worked from home, so we converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into my office. Travis seemed to grow quieter with each passing day. I worried about him, but Erin said it was just a phase, the side effects of moving to a new area at his young age. That made sense; I just hoped it wouldn’t last long.

Travis began spending more and more time up in the attic. He moved several of his toys up there, turning it into his own playroom. Erin thought it was great; it kept his toys out of the living room and kitchen, but I couldn't stop thinking of the strange doll.

A few days ago, I passed by the attic door and heard low whispers coming from behind it. Curious, I slowly made my way up to the door and inched it open, just enough to hear my son whispering in the far corner of the attic. It was a one-sided conversation; I heard him say

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please stop.”

At that last one, I gently pushed through the door and announced myself

“Travis? Are you up here? Who are you talking to?”

I found my son sitting on the floor in front of the small chair; he stared at the doll

“Hi, Dad,” he said as I walked over.

“I was just playing with Timmy.”

I nodded slowly

“Alright, Buddy, it's almost lunchtime, so come down soon.”

“Can I eat up here, with Timmy?”

I frowned and shook my head

“No, I’d like to have lunch with you, so come down.”

He stared at the doll for a moment.

“Ok.”

I went downstairs and started to make some sandwiches. Right as I finished, Travis walked into the kitchen. As we enjoyed a family lunch, I figured I should ask Travis some questions.

“So Travis, what does your friend Timmy look like?”

Travis stopped chewing and stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up.

“He’s really tall.”

“Oh, very nice,” I replied. “What else?”

“his eyes are big.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was sitting in the corner of my room the night we moved in. He said he wanted to play with me.”

His answer caught me off guard; I didn’t really know what to say. I took a bite of my sandwich, and as I did, Travis asked his own question

“Dad, what does it mean to kill someone?”

I nearly choked on the bite in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed quickly and asked

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Timmy was talking about killing someone.”

“Who?” I shouted

My son shrank at the table; fear and sadness caked his face. Seeing my son like that I sighed and changed my tone.

“Trav, there are some things that you’ll find out about when you get older, but for now just know your mom and I love you very much and won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

He squirmed in his seat before answering

“I know, Daddy.”

The next day was sunny and warm, and I insisted that Travis play outside. Erin had her final checkup before the due date, and so I used the time to catch up on some work projects. A few hours into my work, I heard footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps were coming from the attic above me. I figured Travis had snuck by my office and gone upstairs to play. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, stood up, and moved to the attic door.

“Hey Trav, did you have fun outside?” I said as I pushed out the door.

But there was no response; the attic was eerily quiet. It was empty. I scanned the place intently, wondering if Travis was hiding. After looking over the space, I moved to one of the round windows and glanced out. To my surprise, I saw Travis playing in the sandbox in the backyard. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I slowly turned from the window, and my eyes rested on the child’s chair at the end of the attic. The little doll's eyes were locked on me.

I slowly walked towards it, staring into its unblinking eyes. A few feet in front of it, I stood for a moment. It felt like an eternity, and every moment I looked at it, my courage weakened. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. I froze after a few steps when a crackling, broken voice rose behind me

“Hello, what’s your name?”

I didn’t move; it felt like I couldn’t move. I stood there for an unbearable amount of time; I didn’t dare look behind me. After a few minutes, I swore I could hear heavy, low, deep breathing coming from the back corner. Then a creaking floorboard, then another, and another, then the one directly behind me creaked and groaned under pressure. A warm, damp breath collided with my neck. The sensation ignited my body with adrenaline, and I dashed towards the door, covering the 20 feet in mere seconds. I slammed the door behind me and fled to the main level.

My phone rang in my pocket; it was Erin.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Her voice was kind, but strained.

“Erin, look, I think there’s a problem with the house.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” She interrupted me

“The baby is coming.”

Less than an hour later, Travis and I sat in a hospital waiting room. And about six hours later, we met his new little sister, Sarah. There had been a few minor complications, and the hospital staff wanted to observe Erin and Sarah for 72 hours. The four of us stayed the weekend. Away from home, Travis seemed happier, more like himself; he was thrilled to be a big brother.

Soon we returned home; I must admit that the rush of a new child and three days in the hospital made me doubt what happened in the attic; it didn’t seem important compared to caring for a healing wife, an infant, and a six-year-old. We were exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in our own bed sounded like a dream. Only it didn’t last long. Around 12:30 last night, Travis’ screams reached my ears. I jumped out of bed, avoided Sarah’s bassinet, and quickly entered Travis’ room. He sat on his bed weeping.

“What’s wrong, son?” I said

“Timmy is saying bad things to me.”

I sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“He wants me to do something bad.” He whimpered

I hugged him tight until his tears slowed

“Can I sleep with you?” he whispered

“Of course, son.”

I locked the bedroom door, and Travis snuggled in between Erin and me. Around 3, I was awakened by Erin’s frantic cries

“Where’s Sarah? She’s gone!”

I sat up quickly and saw that the bassinet was empty, the door was open, and Travis was gone. Panic filled my veins as I jumped from the bed and ran to the attic. I burst through the door, and there was Travis, his baby sister in his arms. Tears ran down his face as he stared down the attic towards the doll; in the dark, it seemed as though a hulking shadow crouched behind the chair.

“Travis, what are you doing?”

His eyes were fixed on the doll; through tears, he said

“He wants the baby.”

I took a step closer

“Son, look at me”

He tried, but his eyes didn’t move

“Give me Sarah.”

Very slowly, almost mechanically, he moved closer to the doll; I followed.

“Give me your sister!” I yelled

He kept walking; I pulled my daughter from his hands. As soon as Sarah changed hands, a loud screech filled the attic; the foundations of the house shook violently, and the monstrous shadow stood up, its shape filling the back of the corner, and then disappeared from view. The room creaked and shook. I could feel some force trying to pull my daughter from my hands. I backed up; it pulled harder. I was getting closer to the door; several long cuts began to appear on my forearms. My daughter screamed, and Travis cried. Turning my back to the doll, I drew my daughter in close to my chest and wrapped one arm around Travis and dragged him with us through the door.

The house continued to shake and creak; we made our way down the hall, and Erin met us by the stairs.

“What is happening?” she screamed.

“Get outside.”

Even from out in the front yard, we could still hear the screeching and creaking.

Right now we’re in a hotel room; tomorrow we’re leaving. We’ll have a moving company grab our stuff; we’re never going back there.

The kids are finally sleeping, but Erin and I locked eyes as a crackling, broken voice came from the bathroom.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

 

Don’t ever buy a used house.

You can never be sure what else is living there.

Everything started when I moved my family across the country. A new job opened up for me in the Midwest, and with our second child on the way, my wife encouraged me to pursue it. It was a few months ago when our moving truck pulled into our new hometown.

“This is a change of pace.” My wife said, with a smile, her voice was a mix of excitement and stress.

With a nod, I returned her smile.

We'd spent our whole lives in Boston, so moving to a small rural town was going to be a hard reset. But we welcomed it. This was the type of place we wanted to raise our kids.

Turning the truck onto a quiet suburban street, I gleefully announced

“Here’s our new street.”

Our 6-year-old son Travis perked up in the backseat, straining his neck for the first view of our new house. Near the end of the street, the truck came to a stop in front of a large Victorian-style house. It was old, though well-maintained, exactly the way it looked in the pictures online. Travis’ eyes widened as he saw the house and the large yard around it.

“Is this our house, Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

My wife and I looked back at him with wide smiles.

“Sure is, buddy,” I replied

“Do you want to go see your room?” my wife asked.

Travis’ eyes remained locked on the house as he nodded in agreement. With a stretch, the three of us got out of the tight cab of the moving truck and made our way to the front door. I unlocked the door with the key that had been sent to me weeks ago, and the door swung out with a low squeak. The house was bare, but beautiful. Its updated interior instantly welcomed us home. Before long, Travis was running laps around the main floor as he laughed to himself. My wife and I stood together in the kitchen.

“I can’t believe we’re finally here,” Erin said with a tired sigh.

The cross-country journey was tiring, but for my 8-month-pregnant wife, it was completely draining. Wrapping her in a tight hug, I said

“Tell you what? Travis and I will handle the boxes for the next few days, and you rest for a while.”

She looked at me, ready to protest, but I placed a hand on her belly and smiled.

“I insist.”

“Daddy?”

Travis stood by the staircase.

“Can I go find my room?”

I nodded,

“I’ll come with; let’s find it together.”

With a smile, he dashed up the stairs. I followed. The stairway led to a wide, long hallway with several doors and a small perpendicular hallway going off to the right. Travis stood at the top of the stairs when I got there; he stared down the hall.

“Which one is mine?” he asked

“I think the one at the end.”

He nodded and ran down the hall; right before reaching his door, he passed the off-shooting smaller hall. He stopped and looked down it; he pointed and asked

“What’s up there?”

I made my way to him and looked where he pointed. The hallway led to a smaller set of stairs, and at the top was an old wooden door. Unlike the rest of the house, it hadn't been painted or renovated. The brass knob was dark with age.

“That’s the attic.”

“Can we go look?”

I shook my head.

“No, we’ve had a long day. I don’t think you’d like it anyway; probably a lot of spiders and weird smells.”

“Okay,” he said in a disappointed voice before his attention shifted to his new room.

It was already late afternoon, so Travis and I unloaded the bare essentials: a few mattresses, a few duffel bags of clothes, and the basic kitchen utensils. That night we ate ramen at a table made from cardboard boxes. We turned in early that night.

“Daddy?”

Travis’ low voice woke me up late that night.

“Travis? Are you ok?” I said, half awake.

“My new friend wanted you to know that he didn’t like what you said about the attic.”

“Huh? What are you talking about?” I tried to rub the sleep from my eyes.

“Goodnight, Daddy.” With that, he turned and left the room.

Morning came. And I made my way downstairs, where I was met by Erin, who was preparing breakfast, and Travis, who was playing with some toys on the floor. Erin smiled, and I kissed her good morning. Turning to Travis, I said

“Hey Buddy, how’d you sleep?”

“Good.”

He seemed tired

“Hey, what were you talking about last night?”

I was hoping I had just been dreaming, but he said

“Just something my friend said last night.”

“Your friend? Who’s that?”

He shrugged

“Timmy.”

Realizing he was talking about an imaginary friend, I asked

“He sounds nice. Where does he live?”

“Upstairs.”

“In your room?”

“No, above my room. In the attic.”

I nodded slowly and said

“Well, I can’t wait to meet him.”

I then walked back to my wife. We had a full day ahead of us. I was hoping to get the truck emptied that day so I could return it the next day. Travis and I hauled boxes into the house while Erin told us where in the house she wanted each box. Around lunch, Travis and I carried boxes labeled ‘memories’ into the house. Erin glanced in the boxes before saying

“Let’s put those in the attic.” She said

I signaled Travis to follow me as I headed to the stairs. On the second floor, we moved towards the second staircase; it creaked under my weight as I ascended. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob; it was slightly warm. Before I opened it, Travis said

“Dad, we should ask Timmy if it’s ok to put boxes in his room.”

I smiled to myself, quietly admiring my son’s imagination

“You’re right, son; how could I forget?”

With a grin, I loudly asked

“Timmy, is it ok with we store some boxes up here?”

We waited in silence for a moment before Travis said quietly

“He said its ok.”

“Thank you, Timmy,” I replied in a subtly sarcastic tone that my son didn’t pick up on.

The door was heavy and opened slowly; the space behind it was large and bare. It was a large single room with two wings reaching out in opposite directions, and three small round windows allowed natural light to flood the dusty space. A homemade shelf stood against the far wall. I directed Travis to set his box on it, and I did the same. I sent my box down and realized Travis had moved to one of the wings of the attic. He was down at the end of the space, and I walked towards him. I could see him standing over something.

“Hey, did you find something?”

Coming up right behind him, I saw that he stood before an old wooden child-sized rocking chair. Sitting upon its seat was an old, withered doll. Its dress, which had once been white, was an aged yellow, and its face was faded. Its wide blue eyes seemed to stare right at us. A drawstring on its back made it clear that this doll had a voice box. We stared at it in silence for a moment before Travis reached out and slowly pulled the doll's string.

A crackling, weak voice filled the attic

“Hello, what’s your name?”

Travis stared at the doll intently before whispering

“That’s Timmy’s doll.”

I swallowed before saying

“Well, we got more boxes to move, I bet mom’s wondering where we went.”

Travis didn’t move; his eyes were glued to the doll.

“Come on, Trav, we got to keep going.”

After a long minute, he said

“Okay.”

He was quiet the rest of the day.

At dinner, we ate box mac and cheese. Travis stared blankly at his bowl and absentmindedly moved the noodles around with his spoon.

Erin looked at me, concerned, before turning to our son.

“Sweetie? Are you ok?”

He scrunched up his nose and said

“Yeah.”

My wife pushed further

“Did something happen?”

“My friend is saying mean things.”

My wife was confused

“Friend? What friend, darling?”

“My friend upstairs.”

Erin glanced at me, realizing what he was talking about.

“Well.” She said warmly, “Sometimes friends say things they don’t mean.”

“He wants us to leave.”

“But we just got here,” she chuckled, “and I'm afraid Timmy doesn't get to make that decision.”

Travis looked at her.

“He says he does.”

“Just try to be nice, Sweetie; I’m sure he’ll come around.”

He shrugged

“Ok, I’ll try.”

Before long, we got Travis ready for bed, and it didn’t take long for Erin and me to do the same. Once again, I was awakened in the middle of the night, only this time it wasn’t by my son. It was by a loud thump coming from downstairs. I lay frozen in bed for a moment, quietly holding my breath. Another thump came; I hadn’t imagined it. My heart beat faster as I crept to the door; slowly, I went down the stairs one step at a time. Reaching the main level, I stood close to the wall, trying to be as quiet and still as possible. It was pitch dark, and the darkness felt electric, as if I could sense something standing hidden from sight by its shadows. The light switch was just around the corner.

Swallowing hard, my hand slid blindly along and around the wall. My fingers fumbled around to find the light switch; finally, they did. The light illuminated the empty kitchen and living room. Nothing was there. Feeling braver in the light, I checked the entire floor and found nothing. I didn’t even find the source of the thump. Confused, I made sure the doors were locked and made my way to the stairs, turning off lights as I went.

I reached the top of the stairs and froze as my eyes rested on the tiny shape of the strange doll from the attic. It sat a few feet in front of me, right in the middle of the hall. It sat limply, and its unnatural eyes stared right at me. Shaking my head, I made my way over to Travis’ room, expecting to find him awake. He must be playing a joke on me, but I found him deep asleep. I turned back around to the hall, but there was no doll. I blinked and looked around, but it was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking my head, I muttered aloud.

“I need some sleep.”

Over the next couple of weeks, life began to settle. Slowly, more boxes were unpacked. Most of the time, I worked from home, so we converted one of the spare rooms upstairs into my office. Travis seemed to grow quieter with each passing day. I worried about him, but Erin said it was just a phase, the side effects of moving to a new area at his young age. That made sense; I just hoped it wouldn’t last long.

Travis began spending more and more time up in the attic. He moved several of his toys up there, turning it into his own playroom. Erin thought it was great; it kept his toys out of the living room and kitchen, but I couldn't stop thinking of the strange doll.

A few days ago, I passed by the attic door and heard low whispers coming from behind it. Curious, I slowly made my way up to the door and inched it open, just enough to hear my son whispering in the far corner of the attic. It was a one-sided conversation; I heard him say

“What do you mean?”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Please stop.”

At that last one, I gently pushed through the door and announced myself

“Travis? Are you up here? Who are you talking to?”

I found my son sitting on the floor in front of the small chair; he stared at the doll

“Hi, Dad,” he said as I walked over.

“I was just playing with Timmy.”

I nodded slowly

“Alright, Buddy, it's almost lunchtime, so come down soon.”

“Can I eat up here, with Timmy?”

I frowned and shook my head

“No, I’d like to have lunch with you, so come down.”

He stared at the doll for a moment.

“Ok.”

I went downstairs and started to make some sandwiches. Right as I finished, Travis walked into the kitchen. As we enjoyed a family lunch, I figured I should ask Travis some questions.

“So Travis, what does your friend Timmy look like?”

Travis stopped chewing and stared at the plate for a moment before glancing up.

“He’s really tall.”

“Oh, very nice,” I replied. “What else?”

“his eyes are big.”

“How did you meet him?”

“He was sitting in the corner of my room the night we moved in. He said he wanted to play with me.”

His answer caught me off guard; I didn’t really know what to say. I took a bite of my sandwich, and as I did, Travis asked his own question

“Dad, what does it mean to kill someone?”

I nearly choked on the bite in my mouth. I chewed and swallowed quickly and asked

“Where did you hear that word?”

“Timmy was talking about killing someone.”

“Who?” I shouted

My son shrank at the table; fear and sadness caked his face. Seeing my son like that I sighed and changed my tone.

“Trav, there are some things that you’ll find out about when you get older, but for now just know your mom and I love you very much and won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

He squirmed in his seat before answering

“I know, Daddy.”

The next day was sunny and warm, and I insisted that Travis play outside. Erin had her final checkup before the due date, and so I used the time to catch up on some work projects. A few hours into my work, I heard footsteps. Loud, heavy footsteps were coming from the attic above me. I figured Travis had snuck by my office and gone upstairs to play. Leaning back in my chair, I stretched, stood up, and moved to the attic door.

“Hey Trav, did you have fun outside?” I said as I pushed out the door.

But there was no response; the attic was eerily quiet. It was empty. I scanned the place intently, wondering if Travis was hiding. After looking over the space, I moved to one of the round windows and glanced out. To my surprise, I saw Travis playing in the sandbox in the backyard. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I slowly turned from the window, and my eyes rested on the child’s chair at the end of the attic. The little doll's eyes were locked on me.

I slowly walked towards it, staring into its unblinking eyes. A few feet in front of it, I stood for a moment. It felt like an eternity, and every moment I looked at it, my courage weakened. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore and turned to leave. I froze after a few steps when a crackling, broken voice rose behind me

“Hello, what’s your name?”

I didn’t move; it felt like I couldn’t move. I stood there for an unbearable amount of time; I didn’t dare look behind me. After a few minutes, I swore I could hear heavy, low, deep breathing coming from the back corner. Then a creaking floorboard, then another, and another, then the one directly behind me creaked and groaned under pressure. A warm, damp breath collided with my neck. The sensation ignited my body with adrenaline, and I dashed towards the door, covering the 20 feet in mere seconds. I slammed the door behind me and fled to the main level.

My phone rang in my pocket; it was Erin.

“Hi, Sweetie.” Her voice was kind, but strained.

“Erin, look, I think there’s a problem with the house.”

“Whatever it is, it can wait.” She interrupted me

“The baby is coming.”

Less than an hour later, Travis and I sat in a hospital waiting room. And about six hours later, we met his new little sister, Sarah. There had been a few minor complications, and the hospital staff wanted to observe Erin and Sarah for 72 hours. The four of us stayed the weekend. Away from home, Travis seemed happier, more like himself; he was thrilled to be a big brother.

Soon we returned home; I must admit that the rush of a new child and three days in the hospital made me doubt what happened in the attic; it didn’t seem important compared to caring for a healing wife, an infant, and a six-year-old. We were exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in our own bed sounded like a dream. Only it didn’t last long. Around 12:30 last night, Travis’ screams reached my ears. I jumped out of bed, avoided Sarah’s bassinet, and quickly entered Travis’ room. He sat on his bed weeping.

“What’s wrong, son?” I said

“Timmy is saying bad things to me.”

I sat next to him, wrapping an arm around him.

“He wants me to do something bad.” He whimpered

I hugged him tight until his tears slowed

“Can I sleep with you?” he whispered

“Of course, son.”

I locked the bedroom door, and Travis snuggled in between Erin and me. Around 3, I was awakened by Erin’s frantic cries

“Where’s Sarah? She’s gone!”

I sat up quickly and saw that the bassinet was empty, the door was open, and Travis was gone. Panic filled my veins as I jumped from the bed and ran to the attic. I burst through the door, and there was Travis, his baby sister in his arms. Tears ran down his face as he stared down the attic towards the doll; in the dark, it seemed as though a hulking shadow crouched behind the chair.

“Travis, what are you doing?”

His eyes were fixed on the doll; through tears, he said

“He wants the baby.”

I took a step closer

“Son, look at me”

He tried, but his eyes didn’t move

“Give me Sarah.”

Very slowly, almost mechanically, he moved closer to the doll; I followed.

“Give me your sister!” I yelled

He kept walking; I pulled my daughter from his hands. As soon as Sarah changed hands, a loud screech filled the attic; the foundations of the house shook violently, and the monstrous shadow stood up, its shape filling the back of the corner, and then disappeared from view. The room creaked and shook. I could feel some force trying to pull my daughter from my hands. I backed up; it pulled harder. I was getting closer to the door; several long cuts began to appear on my forearms. My daughter screamed, and Travis cried. Turning my back to the doll, I drew my daughter in close to my chest and wrapped one arm around Travis and dragged him with us through the door.

The house continued to shake and creak; we made our way down the hall, and Erin met us by the stairs.

“What is happening?” she screamed.

“Get outside.”

Even from out in the front yard, we could still hear the screeching and creaking.

Right now we’re in a hotel room; tomorrow we’re leaving. We’ll have a moving company grab our stuff; we’re never going back there.

The kids are finally sleeping, but Erin and I locked eyes as a crackling, broken voice came from the bathroom.

“Hello, what’s your name?”

 

Don’t ever go near national parks.

Especially if you have kids.

Four months ago, I moved my family to a small mountain town in the Rocky Mountain region. The town sits right on the border of a famous national park; in fact, our backyard opens directly into the park. For a while, it was a dream come true; my wife and I loved the views and enjoyed hiking nearly every day, and our two young boys loved exploring and playing in the woods on the park borders.

Something is wrong with this place. I didn't understand that when we moved here. I do now. About two months after the move, I started seeing them: the signs. It started slow; the first one I saw was plastered on the automatic glass door of the local grocery store. But now they are everywhere.

They all say the same thing: “September 7-14^(th) annual week of remembrance. National Park closed, no one will be permitted inside.”

I didn’t think about it much as I entered the grocery store, though I mentioned it to my wife when we returned to the car.

“Did you see that flyer? I wonder what that week of remembrance is.”

“Hmm,” she said, “Probably some local celebration.”

I shrugged. “I guess so, just seems weird that they would close the park for a week. That’s a big hit to business, isn’t that Labor Day weekend?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

If only I knew then what I know now.

From then on, it seemed like every time we went into town, there were new signs. On random businesses, on every church and government building. Before long, the signs were everywhere.

My wife and I were driving through town on our way to pick up the boys from their first day at school. The strange sign I saw in every window and every street corner filled my mind.

“Have you noticed how few kids there are?” my wife asked

“What?” Her question caught me off guard.

“Well, think about it: the town is nearly 5,000 people, and we have the only elementary school in the area, and I've barely seen any kids.”

I stared down the road, pondering her observation

“I asked the boys' teacher this morning.” Her voice was a little lower

“She said there’s only 10 kids in the boys' grade, and only 95 in the whole school. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

I shrugged

“It’s a tourist town; maybe people aren’t here to have a family.”

“I guess.” She said as she chewed on her lip.

We pulled up to the school; our boys and their teacher stood by the curb. My wife and I parked and hopped out.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson. Is everything alright?” my wife asked with concern

The teacher smiled. “Yes, everything is wonderful, you’re boys were just little angels today.”

She handed my wife a yellow paper.

“I’m just here to give you this; the school wanted every parent to get one.”

And with a practiced smile she said

“Have a lovely day.” And briskly walked back towards the school building.

My wife stared at the paper and frowned before handing it to me. All it said was

“Remembrance Week Sep. 7-14^(th): PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN”

We looked at each other, confused. My wife whispered

“What is this?”

I tightened my jaw and looked around for the boys’ teacher; by now she was long gone. But my eyes came to rest on another parent and her daughter, who looked to be the same age as the boys. I briskly walked towards her

“Excuse me, ma’am?” She looked startled as I approached

“Yes?”

“Hi, my sons attend here, and their teacher gave us this.” I showed her the poster.

“Do you know what it’s all about?”

She stiffened slightly as her eyes quickly glanced at the paper in my hand and back to me.

“The park is no place for a child; protect your children.” She whispered before tightening the grip on her daughter's hand and walking away.

“What did she say?” my wife asked

I shrugged. “Nothing helpful”

We got home, and as my wife and sons settled on the couch for a family movie, I found myself in the bedroom. Typing the phrase ‘Remembrance Day’ along with the name of the town into my laptop's search engine, I stared at the unhelpful results. There seemed to be nothing, no articles, no backstory, not so much as a Facebook post that tied the phrase to the town in any meaningful way.

I switched tactics and typed in the national park and the dates September 7^(th)-14^(th). The National Park website confirmed that the park was indeed closed during that week, but the website claimed that it was for ‘planned maintenance’.

I stared frustrated at the computer screen.

“Dad?”

The voice of my son Aaron rescued me from the unfruitful search

“Are you going to watch the movie with us?”

With a nod, I closed the computer and said

“Sure thing, buddy.”

The start of the movie pushed the strange poster out of my mind. The next afternoon, my wife picked up the boys while I stayed home to catch up on work. I always enjoyed working on the backyard porch. The view of the untouched wilderness of the park paired with the sounds of nature helped me concentrate; it was one of the main reasons I wanted to move out here.

After about 15 minutes of answering emails and updating spreadsheets, the woods fell silent. The change caused me to glance up from the laptop to the world around me. The sound of the wind had disappeared, though I still could feel it. The birds were silent. The wild land before me was as quiet as could be. It was like watching a muted video of the woods. I looked around; a strange feeling filled me. I held my breath and didn’t move; it felt as though making the slightest noise would break some unspoken rule.

I sat there frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then, from the hills just beyond my property, a loud snap of a breaking twig echoed in the silence. Then another, and another. Something was walking, and all of nature quietly beheld its journey. It moved along the land that passed in front of my home. I looked, trying to find the source of the steps, maybe a hiker, or a rarely seen large animal. But I couldn’t tell what it was; it moved in deep underbrush, and even as I watched intently, I only caught glances of something dark and large. As the steps moved past the area of my land, it was like the world came alive again; the wind and chirping of birds returned. The silence was gone, and so were the steps.

Standing up, I stared where I last heard the steps.

“Must have been a moose,” I muttered to myself.

Soon my family got home; I greeted them at the door, asking my boys how their day was and what they learned at school. Before long, we all sat down for dinner.

“I saw a moose from the porch today,” I said

“Whoa!” said Aaron.

“That’s so cool!” My youngest son Peter replied.

My wife looked at me, amused.

“Yeah, it walked right by the backyard.” I continued

“Will you take us hiking tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Maybe we can find it!”

I smiled

“As long as you two get your homework done.”

The boys and I tossed the football around in the backyard, then we all settled down for a movie to close the night out.

It was late. Well after 2 am when a single word pulled me out of sleep.

“Dad?”

I popped awake, quickly blinking the sleep from my eyes. In the open door of my bedroom stood Peter. He quietly sniffled to himself.

“Peter, what’s wrong?”

He stumbled through his words

“Someone is watching me from the window.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“What?”

“He’s watching me from the hill.”

I quickly rose from the bed and followed my son to his room. Peter's room faces the national park, with a large pane window that overlooks the untouched hills hulking over our home. We hadn’t yet bought a blind for the large window, and the moonlight illuminated the tall pines and exposed boulders that dotted the hillside.

“He’s gone,” Peter whispered.

“Where did you last see him?” My eyes didn’t leave the hillside

He pointed to a little clearing between the trees.

“Right there”

“He was looking at me.”

I looked down at my young son; genuine fear was caked on his face. I wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“Have you ever seen him before?”

He shook his head.

“No, his face was funny.”

I nodded slowly as I began to realize this must have been some sort of waking nightmare.

“Tell you what, how about you go sleep with Mom, and I’ll take your bed for the night?”

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and replied

“Ok. Thank you, Dad.”

“Love you, son,” I said as I sat down on his bed.

“Love you too.” He walked down the hall.

I lay down on the bed. I was awake for a while as I thought through what had just happened. A change in light caught my eye, and I sat up looking out the window.

Near the top of the hill, a warm orb of light moved quickly through the forest, bobbing and weaving around the trees as if it followed some unseen path. Before long, it reached the top of the hill and disappeared beyond the horizon.

The next day was the last day of August; summer was truly over. It didn’t take long to forget the previous night's events, and I found myself working hard to wrap up before the boys came home so we’d be ready for our hike. The day flew by, and before I knew it, I was leading two very excited boys down a new trail.

I specifically picked a trail that ran near our backyard, so we simply passed through the park markers and walked, and soon landed on the trail. We followed the snakelike path through the woods and up and over many hills. As we began to enter steeper terrain, I began to slow down; it didn’t seem to slow down the boys; they quickly passed me and continued down the path.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” I shouted

“Ok,” one shouted back, and they rounded a bend in the trail. For a while I hiked alone, accompanied only by the sound of my heavy breathing. Reaching the top of the ridge, I was discouraged to find out that it had been a false summit. Continuing up the route, I could hear two excited boys just beyond the near corner. The boys came into view, and with enthusiastic shouts they said

“Dad! Dad! You got to see this!” With that, they ran further down the way.

“Hey, wait up, fellas!” I chuckled to myself

When I finally caught up with them, I saw what they were excitedly pointing to; a little further up the path, nestled organically on the ridgeline was a fire tower. I stared in awe at the structure as we moved closer to it. Our lust for adventure and exploration made me forget any sense of safety, though I noticed the worn chain-link fence and weathered ‘keep out’ signs we blew past them making our way to the base of the tower.

It was old; it looked like it was made in the 60s or 70s. Its worn timber legs seemed to barely bear its weight. It was charred and blackened with the scars of wildfire. The metal grated stairs still stood intact. Aaron ran up the first couple of steps and looked back at us with a smile.

“Come on!” he beckoned

“Careful, it doesn’t look safe,” I responded

He jumped a few times; the stairway shook a little but held.  

He grinned. “It’s fine, come on, race you to the top!”

“No fair!” whined Peter as he tried to catch his brother.

I smiled to myself as I took a slower approach. The stairs creaked under my weight but held. Before long, I met my sons at the top. The little cabin was heavily damaged; like the base, it too was black from fire, every window was shattered, and the door was off the hinges. Yet to my surprise, the inside was not empty. A desk with a chair and old manuals and books sat in one corner. A small kitchen still held cans, and in the corner opposite the desk was a cot. To my surprise, this small bed was kept. It looked new, like a perfect replica of a military cot from the 1960s. The rest of the cabin showed signs of age; layers of dust sat on everything. But not the bed.

The boys were taking turns looking through an old pair of binoculars, and I made my way to the desk. I rustled my way through old notebooks and novels; an old calendar caught my eye. It was from the year 1962, opened to September; a large red circle marked out the 7^(th) through the 14^(th).

“I guess Remembrance Week has been going on for a while,” I muttered

I poked through a few more things and turned back to the boys; they were now using Aaron's pocket knife to carve their names into one of the crossbeams.

“Hey Guys, maybe we shouldn’t do that; let’s be respectful.”

Peter just finished his name, and Aaron turned to me and said

“There’s a lot of names here; I think it's ok.”

I looked closely at the beam and saw he was right; dozens of names were carved into the wood. But every name I saw other than Aaron and Peter’s had a line crossed through them. As I was looking at the names, Peter, who had been looking out the window, came and pulled on my sleeve.

“Dad, I think someone is here.” He said in a low voice.

I moved to the window, looking down.

“Where? I don’t see anyone?” I whispered

Loud metallic steps rose from beneath us.

Clang.

Peter grabbed my shirt.

Clang.

The stairs creaked under something's weight.

“On the stairs,” Peter murmured.

Both boys huddled behind me. I backed away from the door.

Clang.

The footsteps grew louder. And soon reached the top of the stairs. I swallowed hard as the figure appeared in the doorframe. It was a man, a little taller than me; his face was cleanly shaven and wore a forced smile; his eyes were small and bead-like. He was clothed in an old-fashioned park ranger's uniform. His eyes locked onto the three of us as he stood in the entry.

Behind me, Peter gasped quietly and whispered

“That’s the guy who was watching me.”

The ranger stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry, folks, but you can’t be up here; this is property of the Forest Service, didn’t you see the signs?”

His stare was oppressive; my jaw clenched as I replied

“Sorry, we didn’t think it was still in use; it looked abandoned.”

He smirked

“You thought my tower was abandoned?” his tone was light, but his face was hard.

“Sorry, we were just leaving”

He moved to the side to let me past. I held Aaron's hand, and he held his brothers. I had just passed the ranger when he wrapped his hand around my wrist that led Aaron.

“The boys stay here.”

My eyes met his smiling face; he tightened his grip on my wrist.

“They have put their names on my tower; they cannot leave. They have given themselves to me.” His voice was deep and raspy. As the sun grew low in the sky, long shadows hid his face from view.

“Dad?” Aaron said. I could hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s ok, son.” I glanced down at him.

My gaze returned to the ranger's figure.

“Get the hell off of me; we’re leaving,” I said with as much strength as I could muster.

At that, the ranger squeezed my wrist so hard that a loud crunch filled the small cabin. I fell to the floor; my mangled wrist hung limply from my arm as I screamed in pain. Through the fog of my own pain, I could hear my sons screaming; it sounded as if they were getting further away. Soon everything was quiet. Tears formed in my eyes as I held my lifeless wrist.

“Look at me.” A deep voice broke the silence

I looked up; it was the ranger, his face was hidden in shadow. I could feel myself growing tired as I looked at him.

“In a week you won’t even remember them.”

My vision grew fuzzy as I passed out. When I came to, it was long after sunset. I winced in pain as I looked at my wrist; it was numb and swollen, clearly broken. I quickly looked around the cabin; it was empty. I was alone. I stumbled to my feet.

“Aaron!”

“Peter!”

I screamed my son's name into the night, but no response came; they were gone. The only evidence that they had ever been there was Aaron’s pocket knife stuck in the wooden beam next to their freshly carved names, only now new lines crossed out their names.

I rushed down the staircase and frantically searched the surrounding woods. I screamed the boy’s names until my voice grew hoarse. My hands shook, and sweat rolled down my forehead. The boys weren’t there, and there was no sign of where they had been taken.

It was well after midnight when by the time I made it home. My wife rushed to the door as I walked in; clearly, she had been crying.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” She froze when she saw it was just me

“Where are the boys?” she whispered

“They're gone,” I muttered

“What?”

“Someone took them.” I was beginning to cry.

“I couldn’t find them.”

She looked down at my broken hand, and with a whimper, tears began to fall, and she ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. In a daze, I called the police.

An hour later, the sheriff arrived at the house. The two of us sat down at the dining room table as he took my story.

“Did you get a good look at the man who took your sons?”

I nodded

“He was a park ranger”

He looked up from his notepad.

“A ranger?”

I sniffled

“Yeah, he was wearing a ranger uniform, not like the newer ones, but an older version.”

The Sheriff lowered his voice and asked

“Were you at the tower?”

I was confused

“Yeah, you know about it?”

He stroked his beard for a moment before answering

“They've tried destroying that tower for years. Burning it, tearing it apart, bulldozing the site. Doesn't matter. Sooner or later, it shows up somewhere else.”

I stared in disbelief

“Sheriff, what happened to my boys?”

Sad eyes stared back at me.

“Truth is I don’t really know. We aren’t sure who or what that man is, but he’s tied to the tower, and he only takes kids.”

“Where do they go? What does he do with them?”

He shook his head.

“We don’t know, but if they aren’t found by September 6^(th) they’ll never be found.”

I could feel tears forming again.

“What?”

“September 7^(th) through 14^(th) is when he’s most active; it’s when he finishes the job. Everyone who goes missing in park is completely forgotten by September 15^(th).”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but he continued

“We’ve had hundreds of kids go missing in the park, but when September 7^(th) comes, faces grow blurry in our minds, and by the end of the week we don’t remember their names or who they were. The thing is we know we can’t remember; it’s like we know someone is missing but have no memory of who or when.”

I wiped tears from my face.

“Pictures change, birth certificates vanish. Parents know what they’ve lost, just not who they’ve lost. We call it remembrance week to remember that something is missing that we can’t remember ever being taken.”

I rose from the table.

“You need to find my boys.”

He swallowed

“We’ll try, that’s all I can promise, but my men will search only till September 6^(th;) after that it’s far too dangerous.”

They searched night and day for 5 days; all they found was one of the hiking boots Peter had worn. The morning of September 6^(th,) the sheriff came to my wife and me and said

“I’m sorry, we’ve done all we can.”

My wife is a wreck; she locked herself in our room and refused to eat.

I’m writing this the night of September 6^(th); I’ve packed my gear: food, water, a flashlight, sleeping bag, a tent, first-aid supplies, maps, and pictures of my boys. I’m heading into the park alone very soon. I have to find my boys; it's my fault they're in there. I'm writing their names down one last time before I go.

Aaron. Peter.

I don't know why, but I'm afraid I won't remember them when I come back.

Don’t ever go near national parks.

Especially if you have kids.

Four months ago, I moved my family to a small mountain town in the Rocky Mountain region. The town sits right on the border of a famous national park; in fact, our backyard opens directly into the park. For a while, it was a dream come true; my wife and I loved the views and enjoyed hiking nearly every day, and our two young boys loved exploring and playing in the woods on the park borders.

Something is wrong with this place. I didn't understand that when we moved here. I do now. About two months after the move, I started seeing them: the signs. It started slow; the first one I saw was plastered on the automatic glass door of the local grocery store. But now they are everywhere.

They all say the same thing: “September 7-14^(th) annual week of remembrance. National Park closed, no one will be permitted inside.”

I didn’t think about it much as I entered the grocery store, though I mentioned it to my wife when we returned to the car.

“Did you see that flyer? I wonder what that week of remembrance is.”

“Hmm,” she said, “Probably some local celebration.”

I shrugged. “I guess so, just seems weird that they would close the park for a week. That’s a big hit to business, isn’t that Labor Day weekend?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

If only I knew then what I know now.

From then on, it seemed like every time we went into town, there were new signs. On random businesses, on every church and government building. Before long, the signs were everywhere.

My wife and I were driving through town on our way to pick up the boys from their first day at school. The strange sign I saw in every window and every street corner filled my mind.

“Have you noticed how few kids there are?” my wife asked

“What?” Her question caught me off guard.

“Well, think about it: the town is nearly 5,000 people, and we have the only elementary school in the area, and I've barely seen any kids.”

I stared down the road, pondering her observation

“I asked the boys' teacher this morning.” Her voice was a little lower

“She said there’s only 10 kids in the boys' grade, and only 95 in the whole school. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

I shrugged

“It’s a tourist town; maybe people aren’t here to have a family.”

“I guess.” She said as she chewed on her lip.

We pulled up to the school; our boys and their teacher stood by the curb. My wife and I parked and hopped out.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson. Is everything alright?” my wife asked with concern

The teacher smiled. “Yes, everything is wonderful, you’re boys were just little angels today.”

She handed my wife a yellow paper.

“I’m just here to give you this; the school wanted every parent to get one.”

And with a practiced smile she said

“Have a lovely day.” And briskly walked back towards the school building.

My wife stared at the paper and frowned before handing it to me. All it said was

“Remembrance Week Sep. 7-14^(th): PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN”

We looked at each other, confused. My wife whispered

“What is this?”

I tightened my jaw and looked around for the boys’ teacher; by now she was long gone. But my eyes came to rest on another parent and her daughter, who looked to be the same age as the boys. I briskly walked towards her

“Excuse me, ma’am?” She looked startled as I approached

“Yes?”

“Hi, my sons attend here, and their teacher gave us this.” I showed her the poster.

“Do you know what it’s all about?”

She stiffened slightly as her eyes quickly glanced at the paper in my hand and back to me.

“The park is no place for a child; protect your children.” She whispered before tightening the grip on her daughter's hand and walking away.

“What did she say?” my wife asked

I shrugged. “Nothing helpful”

We got home, and as my wife and sons settled on the couch for a family movie, I found myself in the bedroom. Typing the phrase ‘Remembrance Day’ along with the name of the town into my laptop's search engine, I stared at the unhelpful results. There seemed to be nothing, no articles, no backstory, not so much as a Facebook post that tied the phrase to the town in any meaningful way.

I switched tactics and typed in the national park and the dates September 7^(th)-14^(th). The National Park website confirmed that the park was indeed closed during that week, but the website claimed that it was for ‘planned maintenance’.

I stared frustrated at the computer screen.

“Dad?”

The voice of my son Aaron rescued me from the unfruitful search

“Are you going to watch the movie with us?”

With a nod, I closed the computer and said

“Sure thing, buddy.”

The start of the movie pushed the strange poster out of my mind. The next afternoon, my wife picked up the boys while I stayed home to catch up on work. I always enjoyed working on the backyard porch. The view of the untouched wilderness of the park paired with the sounds of nature helped me concentrate; it was one of the main reasons I wanted to move out here.

After about 15 minutes of answering emails and updating spreadsheets, the woods fell silent. The change caused me to glance up from the laptop to the world around me. The sound of the wind had disappeared, though I still could feel it. The birds were silent. The wild land before me was as quiet as could be. It was like watching a muted video of the woods. I looked around; a strange feeling filled me. I held my breath and didn’t move; it felt as though making the slightest noise would break some unspoken rule.

I sat there frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then, from the hills just beyond my property, a loud snap of a breaking twig echoed in the silence. Then another, and another. Something was walking, and all of nature quietly beheld its journey. It moved along the land that passed in front of my home. I looked, trying to find the source of the steps, maybe a hiker, or a rarely seen large animal. But I couldn’t tell what it was; it moved in deep underbrush, and even as I watched intently, I only caught glances of something dark and large. As the steps moved past the area of my land, it was like the world came alive again; the wind and chirping of birds returned. The silence was gone, and so were the steps.

Standing up, I stared where I last heard the steps.

“Must have been a moose,” I muttered to myself.

Soon my family got home; I greeted them at the door, asking my boys how their day was and what they learned at school. Before long, we all sat down for dinner.

“I saw a moose from the porch today,” I said

“Whoa!” said Aaron.

“That’s so cool!” My youngest son Peter replied.

My wife looked at me, amused.

“Yeah, it walked right by the backyard.” I continued

“Will you take us hiking tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Maybe we can find it!”

I smiled

“As long as you two get your homework done.”

The boys and I tossed the football around in the backyard, then we all settled down for a movie to close the night out.

It was late. Well after 2 am when a single word pulled me out of sleep.

“Dad?”

I popped awake, quickly blinking the sleep from my eyes. In the open door of my bedroom stood Peter. He quietly sniffled to himself.

“Peter, what’s wrong?”

He stumbled through his words

“Someone is watching me from the window.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“What?”

“He’s watching me from the hill.”

I quickly rose from the bed and followed my son to his room. Peter's room faces the national park, with a large pane window that overlooks the untouched hills hulking over our home. We hadn’t yet bought a blind for the large window, and the moonlight illuminated the tall pines and exposed boulders that dotted the hillside.

“He’s gone,” Peter whispered.

“Where did you last see him?” My eyes didn’t leave the hillside

He pointed to a little clearing between the trees.

“Right there”

“He was looking at me.”

I looked down at my young son; genuine fear was caked on his face. I wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“Have you ever seen him before?”

He shook his head.

“No, his face was funny.”

I nodded slowly as I began to realize this must have been some sort of waking nightmare.

“Tell you what, how about you go sleep with Mom, and I’ll take your bed for the night?”

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and replied

“Ok. Thank you, Dad.”

“Love you, son,” I said as I sat down on his bed.

“Love you too.” He walked down the hall.

I lay down on the bed. I was awake for a while as I thought through what had just happened. A change in light caught my eye, and I sat up looking out the window.

Near the top of the hill, a warm orb of light moved quickly through the forest, bobbing and weaving around the trees as if it followed some unseen path. Before long, it reached the top of the hill and disappeared beyond the horizon.

The next day was the last day of August; summer was truly over. It didn’t take long to forget the previous night's events, and I found myself working hard to wrap up before the boys came home so we’d be ready for our hike. The day flew by, and before I knew it, I was leading two very excited boys down a new trail.

I specifically picked a trail that ran near our backyard, so we simply passed through the park markers and walked, and soon landed on the trail. We followed the snakelike path through the woods and up and over many hills. As we began to enter steeper terrain, I began to slow down; it didn’t seem to slow down the boys; they quickly passed me and continued down the path.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” I shouted

“Ok,” one shouted back, and they rounded a bend in the trail. For a while I hiked alone, accompanied only by the sound of my heavy breathing. Reaching the top of the ridge, I was discouraged to find out that it had been a false summit. Continuing up the route, I could hear two excited boys just beyond the near corner. The boys came into view, and with enthusiastic shouts they said

“Dad! Dad! You got to see this!” With that, they ran further down the way.

“Hey, wait up, fellas!” I chuckled to myself

When I finally caught up with them, I saw what they were excitedly pointing to; a little further up the path, nestled organically on the ridgeline was a fire tower. I stared in awe at the structure as we moved closer to it. Our lust for adventure and exploration made me forget any sense of safety, though I noticed the worn chain-link fence and weathered ‘keep out’ signs we blew past them making our way to the base of the tower.

It was old; it looked like it was made in the 60s or 70s. Its worn timber legs seemed to barely bear its weight. It was charred and blackened with the scars of wildfire. The metal grated stairs still stood intact. Aaron ran up the first couple of steps and looked back at us with a smile.

“Come on!” he beckoned

“Careful, it doesn’t look safe,” I responded

He jumped a few times; the stairway shook a little but held.  

He grinned. “It’s fine, come on, race you to the top!”

“No fair!” whined Peter as he tried to catch his brother.

I smiled to myself as I took a slower approach. The stairs creaked under my weight but held. Before long, I met my sons at the top. The little cabin was heavily damaged; like the base, it too was black from fire, every window was shattered, and the door was off the hinges. Yet to my surprise, the inside was not empty. A desk with a chair and old manuals and books sat in one corner. A small kitchen still held cans, and in the corner opposite the desk was a cot. To my surprise, this small bed was kept. It looked new, like a perfect replica of a military cot from the 1960s. The rest of the cabin showed signs of age; layers of dust sat on everything. But not the bed.

The boys were taking turns looking through an old pair of binoculars, and I made my way to the desk. I rustled my way through old notebooks and novels; an old calendar caught my eye. It was from the year 1962, opened to September; a large red circle marked out the 7^(th) through the 14^(th).

“I guess Remembrance Week has been going on for a while,” I muttered

I poked through a few more things and turned back to the boys; they were now using Aaron's pocket knife to carve their names into one of the crossbeams.

“Hey Guys, maybe we shouldn’t do that; let’s be respectful.”

Peter just finished his name, and Aaron turned to me and said

“There’s a lot of names here; I think it's ok.”

I looked closely at the beam and saw he was right; dozens of names were carved into the wood. But every name I saw other than Aaron and Peter’s had a line crossed through them. As I was looking at the names, Peter, who had been looking out the window, came and pulled on my sleeve.

“Dad, I think someone is here.” He said in a low voice.

I moved to the window, looking down.

“Where? I don’t see anyone?” I whispered

Loud metallic steps rose from beneath us.

Clang.

Peter grabbed my shirt.

Clang.

The stairs creaked under something's weight.

“On the stairs,” Peter murmured.

Both boys huddled behind me. I backed away from the door.

Clang.

The footsteps grew louder. And soon reached the top of the stairs. I swallowed hard as the figure appeared in the doorframe. It was a man, a little taller than me; his face was cleanly shaven and wore a forced smile; his eyes were small and bead-like. He was clothed in an old-fashioned park ranger's uniform. His eyes locked onto the three of us as he stood in the entry.

Behind me, Peter gasped quietly and whispered

“That’s the guy who was watching me.”

The ranger stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry, folks, but you can’t be up here; this is property of the Forest Service, didn’t you see the signs?”

His stare was oppressive; my jaw clenched as I replied

“Sorry, we didn’t think it was still in use; it looked abandoned.”

He smirked

“You thought my tower was abandoned?” his tone was light, but his face was hard.

“Sorry, we were just leaving”

He moved to the side to let me past. I held Aaron's hand, and he held his brothers. I had just passed the ranger when he wrapped his hand around my wrist that led Aaron.

“The boys stay here.”

My eyes met his smiling face; he tightened his grip on my wrist.

“They have put their names on my tower; they cannot leave. They have given themselves to me.” His voice was deep and raspy. As the sun grew low in the sky, long shadows hid his face from view.

“Dad?” Aaron said. I could hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s ok, son.” I glanced down at him.

My gaze returned to the ranger's figure.

“Get the hell off of me; we’re leaving,” I said with as much strength as I could muster.

At that, the ranger squeezed my wrist so hard that a loud crunch filled the small cabin. I fell to the floor; my mangled wrist hung limply from my arm as I screamed in pain. Through the fog of my own pain, I could hear my sons screaming; it sounded as if they were getting further away. Soon everything was quiet. Tears formed in my eyes as I held my lifeless wrist.

“Look at me.” A deep voice broke the silence

I looked up; it was the ranger, his face was hidden in shadow. I could feel myself growing tired as I looked at him.

“In a week you won’t even remember them.”

My vision grew fuzzy as I passed out. When I came to, it was long after sunset. I winced in pain as I looked at my wrist; it was numb and swollen, clearly broken. I quickly looked around the cabin; it was empty. I was alone. I stumbled to my feet.

“Aaron!”

“Peter!”

I screamed my son's name into the night, but no response came; they were gone. The only evidence that they had ever been there was Aaron’s pocket knife stuck in the wooden beam next to their freshly carved names, only now new lines crossed out their names.

I rushed down the staircase and frantically searched the surrounding woods. I screamed the boy’s names until my voice grew hoarse. My hands shook, and sweat rolled down my forehead. The boys weren’t there, and there was no sign of where they had been taken.

It was well after midnight when by the time I made it home. My wife rushed to the door as I walked in; clearly, she had been crying.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” She froze when she saw it was just me

“Where are the boys?” she whispered

“They're gone,” I muttered

“What?”

“Someone took them.” I was beginning to cry.

“I couldn’t find them.”

She looked down at my broken hand, and with a whimper, tears began to fall, and she ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. In a daze, I called the police.

An hour later, the sheriff arrived at the house. The two of us sat down at the dining room table as he took my story.

“Did you get a good look at the man who took your sons?”

I nodded

“He was a park ranger”

He looked up from his notepad.

“A ranger?”

I sniffled

“Yeah, he was wearing a ranger uniform, not like the newer ones, but an older version.”

The Sheriff lowered his voice and asked

“Were you at the tower?”

I was confused

“Yeah, you know about it?”

He stroked his beard for a moment before answering

“They've tried destroying that tower for years. Burning it, tearing it apart, bulldozing the site. Doesn't matter. Sooner or later, it shows up somewhere else.”

I stared in disbelief

“Sheriff, what happened to my boys?”

Sad eyes stared back at me.

“Truth is I don’t really know. We aren’t sure who or what that man is, but he’s tied to the tower, and he only takes kids.”

“Where do they go? What does he do with them?”

He shook his head.

“We don’t know, but if they aren’t found by September 6^(th) they’ll never be found.”

I could feel tears forming again.

“What?”

“September 7^(th) through 14^(th) is when he’s most active; it’s when he finishes the job. Everyone who goes missing in park is completely forgotten by September 15^(th).”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but he continued

“We’ve had hundreds of kids go missing in the park, but when September 7^(th) comes, faces grow blurry in our minds, and by the end of the week we don’t remember their names or who they were. The thing is we know we can’t remember; it’s like we know someone is missing but have no memory of who or when.”

I wiped tears from my face.

“Pictures change, birth certificates vanish. Parents know what they’ve lost, just not who they’ve lost. We call it remembrance week to remember that something is missing that we can’t remember ever being taken.”

I rose from the table.

“You need to find my boys.”

He swallowed

“We’ll try, that’s all I can promise, but my men will search only till September 6^(th;) after that it’s far too dangerous.”

They searched night and day for 5 days; all they found was one of the hiking boots Peter had worn. The morning of September 6^(th,) the sheriff came to my wife and me and said

“I’m sorry, we’ve done all we can.”

My wife is a wreck; she locked herself in our room and refused to eat.

I’m writing this the night of September 6^(th); I’ve packed my gear: food, water, a flashlight, sleeping bag, a tent, first-aid supplies, maps, and pictures of my boys. I’m heading into the park alone very soon. I have to find my boys; it's my fault they're in there. I'm writing their names down one last time before I go.

Aaron. Peter.

I don't know why, but I'm afraid I won't remember them when I come back.

Don’t ever go near national parks.

Especially if you have kids.

Four months ago, I moved my family to a small mountain town in the Rocky Mountain region. The town sits right on the border of a famous national park; in fact, our backyard opens directly into the park. For a while, it was a dream come true; my wife and I loved the views and enjoyed hiking nearly every day, and our two young boys loved exploring and playing in the woods on the park borders.

Something is wrong with this place. I didn't understand that when we moved here. I do now. About two months after the move, I started seeing them: the signs. It started slow; the first one I saw was plastered on the automatic glass door of the local grocery store. But now they are everywhere.

They all say the same thing: “September 7-14^(th) annual week of remembrance. National Park closed, no one will be permitted inside.”

I didn’t think about it much as I entered the grocery store, though I mentioned it to my wife when we returned to the car.

“Did you see that flyer? I wonder what that week of remembrance is.”

“Hmm,” she said, “Probably some local celebration.”

I shrugged. “I guess so, just seems weird that they would close the park for a week. That’s a big hit to business, isn’t that Labor Day weekend?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

If only I knew then what I know now.

From then on, it seemed like every time we went into town, there were new signs. On random businesses, on every church and government building. Before long, the signs were everywhere.

My wife and I were driving through town on our way to pick up the boys from their first day at school. The strange sign I saw in every window and every street corner filled my mind.

“Have you noticed how few kids there are?” my wife asked

“What?” Her question caught me off guard.

“Well, think about it: the town is nearly 5,000 people, and we have the only elementary school in the area, and I've barely seen any kids.”

I stared down the road, pondering her observation

“I asked the boys' teacher this morning.” Her voice was a little lower

“She said there’s only 10 kids in the boys' grade, and only 95 in the whole school. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

I shrugged

“It’s a tourist town; maybe people aren’t here to have a family.”

“I guess.” She said as she chewed on her lip.

We pulled up to the school; our boys and their teacher stood by the curb. My wife and I parked and hopped out.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson. Is everything alright?” my wife asked with concern

The teacher smiled. “Yes, everything is wonderful, you’re boys were just little angels today.”

She handed my wife a yellow paper.

“I’m just here to give you this; the school wanted every parent to get one.”

And with a practiced smile she said

“Have a lovely day.” And briskly walked back towards the school building.

My wife stared at the paper and frowned before handing it to me. All it said was

“Remembrance Week Sep. 7-14^(th): PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN”

We looked at each other, confused. My wife whispered

“What is this?”

I tightened my jaw and looked around for the boys’ teacher; by now she was long gone. But my eyes came to rest on another parent and her daughter, who looked to be the same age as the boys. I briskly walked towards her

“Excuse me, ma’am?” She looked startled as I approached

“Yes?”

“Hi, my sons attend here, and their teacher gave us this.” I showed her the poster.

“Do you know what it’s all about?”

She stiffened slightly as her eyes quickly glanced at the paper in my hand and back to me.

“The park is no place for a child; protect your children.” She whispered before tightening the grip on her daughter's hand and walking away.

“What did she say?” my wife asked

I shrugged. “Nothing helpful”

We got home, and as my wife and sons settled on the couch for a family movie, I found myself in the bedroom. Typing the phrase ‘Remembrance Day’ along with the name of the town into my laptop's search engine, I stared at the unhelpful results. There seemed to be nothing, no articles, no backstory, not so much as a Facebook post that tied the phrase to the town in any meaningful way.

I switched tactics and typed in the national park and the dates September 7^(th)-14^(th). The National Park website confirmed that the park was indeed closed during that week, but the website claimed that it was for ‘planned maintenance’.

I stared frustrated at the computer screen.

“Dad?”

The voice of my son Aaron rescued me from the unfruitful search

“Are you going to watch the movie with us?”

With a nod, I closed the computer and said

“Sure thing, buddy.”

The start of the movie pushed the strange poster out of my mind. The next afternoon, my wife picked up the boys while I stayed home to catch up on work. I always enjoyed working on the backyard porch. The view of the untouched wilderness of the park paired with the sounds of nature helped me concentrate; it was one of the main reasons I wanted to move out here.

After about 15 minutes of answering emails and updating spreadsheets, the woods fell silent. The change caused me to glance up from the laptop to the world around me. The sound of the wind had disappeared, though I still could feel it. The birds were silent. The wild land before me was as quiet as could be. It was like watching a muted video of the woods. I looked around; a strange feeling filled me. I held my breath and didn’t move; it felt as though making the slightest noise would break some unspoken rule.

I sat there frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then, from the hills just beyond my property, a loud snap of a breaking twig echoed in the silence. Then another, and another. Something was walking, and all of nature quietly beheld its journey. It moved along the land that passed in front of my home. I looked, trying to find the source of the steps, maybe a hiker, or a rarely seen large animal. But I couldn’t tell what it was; it moved in deep underbrush, and even as I watched intently, I only caught glances of something dark and large. As the steps moved past the area of my land, it was like the world came alive again; the wind and chirping of birds returned. The silence was gone, and so were the steps.

Standing up, I stared where I last heard the steps.

“Must have been a moose,” I muttered to myself.

Soon my family got home; I greeted them at the door, asking my boys how their day was and what they learned at school. Before long, we all sat down for dinner.

“I saw a moose from the porch today,” I said

“Whoa!” said Aaron.

“That’s so cool!” My youngest son Peter replied.

My wife looked at me, amused.

“Yeah, it walked right by the backyard.” I continued

“Will you take us hiking tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Maybe we can find it!”

I smiled

“As long as you two get your homework done.”

The boys and I tossed the football around in the backyard, then we all settled down for a movie to close the night out.

It was late. Well after 2 am when a single word pulled me out of sleep.

“Dad?”

I popped awake, quickly blinking the sleep from my eyes. In the open door of my bedroom stood Peter. He quietly sniffled to himself.

“Peter, what’s wrong?”

He stumbled through his words

“Someone is watching me from the window.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“What?”

“He’s watching me from the hill.”

I quickly rose from the bed and followed my son to his room. Peter's room faces the national park, with a large pane window that overlooks the untouched hills hulking over our home. We hadn’t yet bought a blind for the large window, and the moonlight illuminated the tall pines and exposed boulders that dotted the hillside.

“He’s gone,” Peter whispered.

“Where did you last see him?” My eyes didn’t leave the hillside

He pointed to a little clearing between the trees.

“Right there”

“He was looking at me.”

I looked down at my young son; genuine fear was caked on his face. I wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“Have you ever seen him before?”

He shook his head.

“No, his face was funny.”

I nodded slowly as I began to realize this must have been some sort of waking nightmare.

“Tell you what, how about you go sleep with Mom, and I’ll take your bed for the night?”

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and replied

“Ok. Thank you, Dad.”

“Love you, son,” I said as I sat down on his bed.

“Love you too.” He walked down the hall.

I lay down on the bed. I was awake for a while as I thought through what had just happened. A change in light caught my eye, and I sat up looking out the window.

Near the top of the hill, a warm orb of light moved quickly through the forest, bobbing and weaving around the trees as if it followed some unseen path. Before long, it reached the top of the hill and disappeared beyond the horizon.

The next day was the last day of August; summer was truly over. It didn’t take long to forget the previous night's events, and I found myself working hard to wrap up before the boys came home so we’d be ready for our hike. The day flew by, and before I knew it, I was leading two very excited boys down a new trail.

I specifically picked a trail that ran near our backyard, so we simply passed through the park markers and walked, and soon landed on the trail. We followed the snakelike path through the woods and up and over many hills. As we began to enter steeper terrain, I began to slow down; it didn’t seem to slow down the boys; they quickly passed me and continued down the path.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” I shouted

“Ok,” one shouted back, and they rounded a bend in the trail. For a while I hiked alone, accompanied only by the sound of my heavy breathing. Reaching the top of the ridge, I was discouraged to find out that it had been a false summit. Continuing up the route, I could hear two excited boys just beyond the near corner. The boys came into view, and with enthusiastic shouts they said

“Dad! Dad! You got to see this!” With that, they ran further down the way.

“Hey, wait up, fellas!” I chuckled to myself

When I finally caught up with them, I saw what they were excitedly pointing to; a little further up the path, nestled organically on the ridgeline was a fire tower. I stared in awe at the structure as we moved closer to it. Our lust for adventure and exploration made me forget any sense of safety, though I noticed the worn chain-link fence and weathered ‘keep out’ signs we blew past them making our way to the base of the tower.

It was old; it looked like it was made in the 60s or 70s. Its worn timber legs seemed to barely bear its weight. It was charred and blackened with the scars of wildfire. The metal grated stairs still stood intact. Aaron ran up the first couple of steps and looked back at us with a smile.

“Come on!” he beckoned

“Careful, it doesn’t look safe,” I responded

He jumped a few times; the stairway shook a little but held.  

He grinned. “It’s fine, come on, race you to the top!”

“No fair!” whined Peter as he tried to catch his brother.

I smiled to myself as I took a slower approach. The stairs creaked under my weight but held. Before long, I met my sons at the top. The little cabin was heavily damaged; like the base, it too was black from fire, every window was shattered, and the door was off the hinges. Yet to my surprise, the inside was not empty. A desk with a chair and old manuals and books sat in one corner. A small kitchen still held cans, and in the corner opposite the desk was a cot. To my surprise, this small bed was kept. It looked new, like a perfect replica of a military cot from the 1960s. The rest of the cabin showed signs of age; layers of dust sat on everything. But not the bed.

The boys were taking turns looking through an old pair of binoculars, and I made my way to the desk. I rustled my way through old notebooks and novels; an old calendar caught my eye. It was from the year 1962, opened to September; a large red circle marked out the 7^(th) through the 14^(th).

“I guess Remembrance Week has been going on for a while,” I muttered

I poked through a few more things and turned back to the boys; they were now using Aaron's pocket knife to carve their names into one of the crossbeams.

“Hey Guys, maybe we shouldn’t do that; let’s be respectful.”

Peter just finished his name, and Aaron turned to me and said

“There’s a lot of names here; I think it's ok.”

I looked closely at the beam and saw he was right; dozens of names were carved into the wood. But every name I saw other than Aaron and Peter’s had a line crossed through them. As I was looking at the names, Peter, who had been looking out the window, came and pulled on my sleeve.

“Dad, I think someone is here.” He said in a low voice.

I moved to the window, looking down.

“Where? I don’t see anyone?” I whispered

Loud metallic steps rose from beneath us.

Clang.

Peter grabbed my shirt.

Clang.

The stairs creaked under something's weight.

“On the stairs,” Peter murmured.

Both boys huddled behind me. I backed away from the door.

Clang.

The footsteps grew louder. And soon reached the top of the stairs. I swallowed hard as the figure appeared in the doorframe. It was a man, a little taller than me; his face was cleanly shaven and wore a forced smile; his eyes were small and bead-like. He was clothed in an old-fashioned park ranger's uniform. His eyes locked onto the three of us as he stood in the entry.

Behind me, Peter gasped quietly and whispered

“That’s the guy who was watching me.”

The ranger stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry, folks, but you can’t be up here; this is property of the Forest Service, didn’t you see the signs?”

His stare was oppressive; my jaw clenched as I replied

“Sorry, we didn’t think it was still in use; it looked abandoned.”

He smirked

“You thought my tower was abandoned?” his tone was light, but his face was hard.

“Sorry, we were just leaving”

He moved to the side to let me past. I held Aaron's hand, and he held his brothers. I had just passed the ranger when he wrapped his hand around my wrist that led Aaron.

“The boys stay here.”

My eyes met his smiling face; he tightened his grip on my wrist.

“They have put their names on my tower; they cannot leave. They have given themselves to me.” His voice was deep and raspy. As the sun grew low in the sky, long shadows hid his face from view.

“Dad?” Aaron said. I could hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s ok, son.” I glanced down at him.

My gaze returned to the ranger's figure.

“Get the hell off of me; we’re leaving,” I said with as much strength as I could muster.

At that, the ranger squeezed my wrist so hard that a loud crunch filled the small cabin. I fell to the floor; my mangled wrist hung limply from my arm as I screamed in pain. Through the fog of my own pain, I could hear my sons screaming; it sounded as if they were getting further away. Soon everything was quiet. Tears formed in my eyes as I held my lifeless wrist.

“Look at me.” A deep voice broke the silence

I looked up; it was the ranger, his face was hidden in shadow. I could feel myself growing tired as I looked at him.

“In a week you won’t even remember them.”

My vision grew fuzzy as I passed out. When I came to, it was long after sunset. I winced in pain as I looked at my wrist; it was numb and swollen, clearly broken. I quickly looked around the cabin; it was empty. I was alone. I stumbled to my feet.

“Aaron!”

“Peter!”

I screamed my son's name into the night, but no response came; they were gone. The only evidence that they had ever been there was Aaron’s pocket knife stuck in the wooden beam next to their freshly carved names, only now new lines crossed out their names.

I rushed down the staircase and frantically searched the surrounding woods. I screamed the boy’s names until my voice grew hoarse. My hands shook, and sweat rolled down my forehead. The boys weren’t there, and there was no sign of where they had been taken.

It was well after midnight when by the time I made it home. My wife rushed to the door as I walked in; clearly, she had been crying.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” She froze when she saw it was just me

“Where are the boys?” she whispered

“They're gone,” I muttered

“What?”

“Someone took them.” I was beginning to cry.

“I couldn’t find them.”

She looked down at my broken hand, and with a whimper, tears began to fall, and she ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. In a daze, I called the police.

An hour later, the sheriff arrived at the house. The two of us sat down at the dining room table as he took my story.

“Did you get a good look at the man who took your sons?”

I nodded

“He was a park ranger”

He looked up from his notepad.

“A ranger?”

I sniffled

“Yeah, he was wearing a ranger uniform, not like the newer ones, but an older version.”

The Sheriff lowered his voice and asked

“Were you at the tower?”

I was confused

“Yeah, you know about it?”

He stroked his beard for a moment before answering

“They've tried destroying that tower for years. Burning it, tearing it apart, bulldozing the site. Doesn't matter. Sooner or later, it shows up somewhere else.”

I stared in disbelief

“Sheriff, what happened to my boys?”

Sad eyes stared back at me.

“Truth is I don’t really know. We aren’t sure who or what that man is, but he’s tied to the tower, and he only takes kids.”

“Where do they go? What does he do with them?”

He shook his head.

“We don’t know, but if they aren’t found by September 6^(th) they’ll never be found.”

I could feel tears forming again.

“What?”

“September 7^(th) through 14^(th) is when he’s most active; it’s when he finishes the job. Everyone who goes missing in park is completely forgotten by September 15^(th).”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but he continued

“We’ve had hundreds of kids go missing in the park, but when September 7^(th) comes, faces grow blurry in our minds, and by the end of the week we don’t remember their names or who they were. The thing is we know we can’t remember; it’s like we know someone is missing but have no memory of who or when.”

I wiped tears from my face.

“Pictures change, birth certificates vanish. Parents know what they’ve lost, just not who they’ve lost. We call it remembrance week to remember that something is missing that we can’t remember ever being taken.”

I rose from the table.

“You need to find my boys.”

He swallowed

“We’ll try, that’s all I can promise, but my men will search only till September 6^(th;) after that it’s far too dangerous.”

They searched night and day for 5 days; all they found was one of the hiking boots Peter had worn. The morning of September 6^(th,) the sheriff came to my wife and me and said

“I’m sorry, we’ve done all we can.”

My wife is a wreck; she locked herself in our room and refused to eat.

I’m writing this the night of September 6^(th); I’ve packed my gear: food, water, a flashlight, sleeping bag, a tent, first-aid supplies, maps, and pictures of my boys. I’m heading into the park alone very soon. I have to find my boys; it's my fault they're in there. I'm writing their names down one last time before I go.

Aaron. Peter.

I don't know why, but I'm afraid I won't remember them when I come back.

Don’t ever go near national parks.

Especially if you have kids.

Four months ago, I moved my family to a small mountain town in the Rocky Mountain region. The town sits right on the border of a famous national park; in fact, our backyard opens directly into the park. For a while, it was a dream come true; my wife and I loved the views and enjoyed hiking nearly every day, and our two young boys loved exploring and playing in the woods on the park borders.

Something is wrong with this place. I didn't understand that when we moved here. I do now. About two months after the move, I started seeing them: the signs. It started slow; the first one I saw was plastered on the automatic glass door of the local grocery store. But now they are everywhere.

They all say the same thing: “September 7-14^(th) annual week of remembrance. National Park closed, no one will be permitted inside.”

I didn’t think about it much as I entered the grocery store, though I mentioned it to my wife when we returned to the car.

“Did you see that flyer? I wonder what that week of remembrance is.”

“Hmm,” she said, “Probably some local celebration.”

I shrugged. “I guess so, just seems weird that they would close the park for a week. That’s a big hit to business, isn’t that Labor Day weekend?”

“I’m sure they have their reasons.”

If only I knew then what I know now.

From then on, it seemed like every time we went into town, there were new signs. On random businesses, on every church and government building. Before long, the signs were everywhere.

My wife and I were driving through town on our way to pick up the boys from their first day at school. The strange sign I saw in every window and every street corner filled my mind.

“Have you noticed how few kids there are?” my wife asked

“What?” Her question caught me off guard.

“Well, think about it: the town is nearly 5,000 people, and we have the only elementary school in the area, and I've barely seen any kids.”

I stared down the road, pondering her observation

“I asked the boys' teacher this morning.” Her voice was a little lower

“She said there’s only 10 kids in the boys' grade, and only 95 in the whole school. Doesn’t that seem odd?”

I shrugged

“It’s a tourist town; maybe people aren’t here to have a family.”

“I guess.” She said as she chewed on her lip.

We pulled up to the school; our boys and their teacher stood by the curb. My wife and I parked and hopped out.

“Hi, Ms. Johnson. Is everything alright?” my wife asked with concern

The teacher smiled. “Yes, everything is wonderful, you’re boys were just little angels today.”

She handed my wife a yellow paper.

“I’m just here to give you this; the school wanted every parent to get one.”

And with a practiced smile she said

“Have a lovely day.” And briskly walked back towards the school building.

My wife stared at the paper and frowned before handing it to me. All it said was

“Remembrance Week Sep. 7-14^(th): PROTECT YOUR CHILDREN”

We looked at each other, confused. My wife whispered

“What is this?”

I tightened my jaw and looked around for the boys’ teacher; by now she was long gone. But my eyes came to rest on another parent and her daughter, who looked to be the same age as the boys. I briskly walked towards her

“Excuse me, ma’am?” She looked startled as I approached

“Yes?”

“Hi, my sons attend here, and their teacher gave us this.” I showed her the poster.

“Do you know what it’s all about?”

She stiffened slightly as her eyes quickly glanced at the paper in my hand and back to me.

“The park is no place for a child; protect your children.” She whispered before tightening the grip on her daughter's hand and walking away.

“What did she say?” my wife asked

I shrugged. “Nothing helpful”

We got home, and as my wife and sons settled on the couch for a family movie, I found myself in the bedroom. Typing the phrase ‘Remembrance Day’ along with the name of the town into my laptop's search engine, I stared at the unhelpful results. There seemed to be nothing, no articles, no backstory, not so much as a Facebook post that tied the phrase to the town in any meaningful way.

I switched tactics and typed in the national park and the dates September 7^(th)-14^(th). The National Park website confirmed that the park was indeed closed during that week, but the website claimed that it was for ‘planned maintenance’.

I stared frustrated at the computer screen.

“Dad?”

The voice of my son Aaron rescued me from the unfruitful search

“Are you going to watch the movie with us?”

With a nod, I closed the computer and said

“Sure thing, buddy.”

The start of the movie pushed the strange poster out of my mind. The next afternoon, my wife picked up the boys while I stayed home to catch up on work. I always enjoyed working on the backyard porch. The view of the untouched wilderness of the park paired with the sounds of nature helped me concentrate; it was one of the main reasons I wanted to move out here.

After about 15 minutes of answering emails and updating spreadsheets, the woods fell silent. The change caused me to glance up from the laptop to the world around me. The sound of the wind had disappeared, though I still could feel it. The birds were silent. The wild land before me was as quiet as could be. It was like watching a muted video of the woods. I looked around; a strange feeling filled me. I held my breath and didn’t move; it felt as though making the slightest noise would break some unspoken rule.

I sat there frozen for what felt like an eternity. Then, from the hills just beyond my property, a loud snap of a breaking twig echoed in the silence. Then another, and another. Something was walking, and all of nature quietly beheld its journey. It moved along the land that passed in front of my home. I looked, trying to find the source of the steps, maybe a hiker, or a rarely seen large animal. But I couldn’t tell what it was; it moved in deep underbrush, and even as I watched intently, I only caught glances of something dark and large. As the steps moved past the area of my land, it was like the world came alive again; the wind and chirping of birds returned. The silence was gone, and so were the steps.

Standing up, I stared where I last heard the steps.

“Must have been a moose,” I muttered to myself.

Soon my family got home; I greeted them at the door, asking my boys how their day was and what they learned at school. Before long, we all sat down for dinner.

“I saw a moose from the porch today,” I said

“Whoa!” said Aaron.

“That’s so cool!” My youngest son Peter replied.

My wife looked at me, amused.

“Yeah, it walked right by the backyard.” I continued

“Will you take us hiking tomorrow?”

“Yeah! Maybe we can find it!”

I smiled

“As long as you two get your homework done.”

The boys and I tossed the football around in the backyard, then we all settled down for a movie to close the night out.

It was late. Well after 2 am when a single word pulled me out of sleep.

“Dad?”

I popped awake, quickly blinking the sleep from my eyes. In the open door of my bedroom stood Peter. He quietly sniffled to himself.

“Peter, what’s wrong?”

He stumbled through his words

“Someone is watching me from the window.”

The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

“What?”

“He’s watching me from the hill.”

I quickly rose from the bed and followed my son to his room. Peter's room faces the national park, with a large pane window that overlooks the untouched hills hulking over our home. We hadn’t yet bought a blind for the large window, and the moonlight illuminated the tall pines and exposed boulders that dotted the hillside.

“He’s gone,” Peter whispered.

“Where did you last see him?” My eyes didn’t leave the hillside

He pointed to a little clearing between the trees.

“Right there”

“He was looking at me.”

I looked down at my young son; genuine fear was caked on his face. I wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close.

“Have you ever seen him before?”

He shook his head.

“No, his face was funny.”

I nodded slowly as I began to realize this must have been some sort of waking nightmare.

“Tell you what, how about you go sleep with Mom, and I’ll take your bed for the night?”

He wiped his nose on his sleeve and replied

“Ok. Thank you, Dad.”

“Love you, son,” I said as I sat down on his bed.

“Love you too.” He walked down the hall.

I lay down on the bed. I was awake for a while as I thought through what had just happened. A change in light caught my eye, and I sat up looking out the window.

Near the top of the hill, a warm orb of light moved quickly through the forest, bobbing and weaving around the trees as if it followed some unseen path. Before long, it reached the top of the hill and disappeared beyond the horizon.

The next day was the last day of August; summer was truly over. It didn’t take long to forget the previous night's events, and I found myself working hard to wrap up before the boys came home so we’d be ready for our hike. The day flew by, and before I knew it, I was leading two very excited boys down a new trail.

I specifically picked a trail that ran near our backyard, so we simply passed through the park markers and walked, and soon landed on the trail. We followed the snakelike path through the woods and up and over many hills. As we began to enter steeper terrain, I began to slow down; it didn’t seem to slow down the boys; they quickly passed me and continued down the path.

“Don’t go too far ahead,” I shouted

“Ok,” one shouted back, and they rounded a bend in the trail. For a while I hiked alone, accompanied only by the sound of my heavy breathing. Reaching the top of the ridge, I was discouraged to find out that it had been a false summit. Continuing up the route, I could hear two excited boys just beyond the near corner. The boys came into view, and with enthusiastic shouts they said

“Dad! Dad! You got to see this!” With that, they ran further down the way.

“Hey, wait up, fellas!” I chuckled to myself

When I finally caught up with them, I saw what they were excitedly pointing to; a little further up the path, nestled organically on the ridgeline was a fire tower. I stared in awe at the structure as we moved closer to it. Our lust for adventure and exploration made me forget any sense of safety, though I noticed the worn chain-link fence and weathered ‘keep out’ signs we blew past them making our way to the base of the tower.

It was old; it looked like it was made in the 60s or 70s. Its worn timber legs seemed to barely bear its weight. It was charred and blackened with the scars of wildfire. The metal grated stairs still stood intact. Aaron ran up the first couple of steps and looked back at us with a smile.

“Come on!” he beckoned

“Careful, it doesn’t look safe,” I responded

He jumped a few times; the stairway shook a little but held.  

He grinned. “It’s fine, come on, race you to the top!”

“No fair!” whined Peter as he tried to catch his brother.

I smiled to myself as I took a slower approach. The stairs creaked under my weight but held. Before long, I met my sons at the top. The little cabin was heavily damaged; like the base, it too was black from fire, every window was shattered, and the door was off the hinges. Yet to my surprise, the inside was not empty. A desk with a chair and old manuals and books sat in one corner. A small kitchen still held cans, and in the corner opposite the desk was a cot. To my surprise, this small bed was kept. It looked new, like a perfect replica of a military cot from the 1960s. The rest of the cabin showed signs of age; layers of dust sat on everything. But not the bed.

The boys were taking turns looking through an old pair of binoculars, and I made my way to the desk. I rustled my way through old notebooks and novels; an old calendar caught my eye. It was from the year 1962, opened to September; a large red circle marked out the 7^(th) through the 14^(th).

“I guess Remembrance Week has been going on for a while,” I muttered

I poked through a few more things and turned back to the boys; they were now using Aaron's pocket knife to carve their names into one of the crossbeams.

“Hey Guys, maybe we shouldn’t do that; let’s be respectful.”

Peter just finished his name, and Aaron turned to me and said

“There’s a lot of names here; I think it's ok.”

I looked closely at the beam and saw he was right; dozens of names were carved into the wood. But every name I saw other than Aaron and Peter’s had a line crossed through them. As I was looking at the names, Peter, who had been looking out the window, came and pulled on my sleeve.

“Dad, I think someone is here.” He said in a low voice.

I moved to the window, looking down.

“Where? I don’t see anyone?” I whispered

Loud metallic steps rose from beneath us.

Clang.

Peter grabbed my shirt.

Clang.

The stairs creaked under something's weight.

“On the stairs,” Peter murmured.

Both boys huddled behind me. I backed away from the door.

Clang.

The footsteps grew louder. And soon reached the top of the stairs. I swallowed hard as the figure appeared in the doorframe. It was a man, a little taller than me; his face was cleanly shaven and wore a forced smile; his eyes were small and bead-like. He was clothed in an old-fashioned park ranger's uniform. His eyes locked onto the three of us as he stood in the entry.

Behind me, Peter gasped quietly and whispered

“That’s the guy who was watching me.”

The ranger stepped into the cabin.

“Sorry, folks, but you can’t be up here; this is property of the Forest Service, didn’t you see the signs?”

His stare was oppressive; my jaw clenched as I replied

“Sorry, we didn’t think it was still in use; it looked abandoned.”

He smirked

“You thought my tower was abandoned?” his tone was light, but his face was hard.

“Sorry, we were just leaving”

He moved to the side to let me past. I held Aaron's hand, and he held his brothers. I had just passed the ranger when he wrapped his hand around my wrist that led Aaron.

“The boys stay here.”

My eyes met his smiling face; he tightened his grip on my wrist.

“They have put their names on my tower; they cannot leave. They have given themselves to me.” His voice was deep and raspy. As the sun grew low in the sky, long shadows hid his face from view.

“Dad?” Aaron said. I could hear the fear in his voice.

“It’s ok, son.” I glanced down at him.

My gaze returned to the ranger's figure.

“Get the hell off of me; we’re leaving,” I said with as much strength as I could muster.

At that, the ranger squeezed my wrist so hard that a loud crunch filled the small cabin. I fell to the floor; my mangled wrist hung limply from my arm as I screamed in pain. Through the fog of my own pain, I could hear my sons screaming; it sounded as if they were getting further away. Soon everything was quiet. Tears formed in my eyes as I held my lifeless wrist.

“Look at me.” A deep voice broke the silence

I looked up; it was the ranger, his face was hidden in shadow. I could feel myself growing tired as I looked at him.

“In a week you won’t even remember them.”

My vision grew fuzzy as I passed out. When I came to, it was long after sunset. I winced in pain as I looked at my wrist; it was numb and swollen, clearly broken. I quickly looked around the cabin; it was empty. I was alone. I stumbled to my feet.

“Aaron!”

“Peter!”

I screamed my son's name into the night, but no response came; they were gone. The only evidence that they had ever been there was Aaron’s pocket knife stuck in the wooden beam next to their freshly carved names, only now new lines crossed out their names.

I rushed down the staircase and frantically searched the surrounding woods. I screamed the boy’s names until my voice grew hoarse. My hands shook, and sweat rolled down my forehead. The boys weren’t there, and there was no sign of where they had been taken.

It was well after midnight when by the time I made it home. My wife rushed to the door as I walked in; clearly, she had been crying.

“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.” She froze when she saw it was just me

“Where are the boys?” she whispered

“They're gone,” I muttered

“What?”

“Someone took them.” I was beginning to cry.

“I couldn’t find them.”

She looked down at my broken hand, and with a whimper, tears began to fall, and she ran upstairs, slamming the bedroom door behind her. In a daze, I called the police.

An hour later, the sheriff arrived at the house. The two of us sat down at the dining room table as he took my story.

“Did you get a good look at the man who took your sons?”

I nodded

“He was a park ranger”

He looked up from his notepad.

“A ranger?”

I sniffled

“Yeah, he was wearing a ranger uniform, not like the newer ones, but an older version.”

The Sheriff lowered his voice and asked

“Were you at the tower?”

I was confused

“Yeah, you know about it?”

He stroked his beard for a moment before answering

“They've tried destroying that tower for years. Burning it, tearing it apart, bulldozing the site. Doesn't matter. Sooner or later, it shows up somewhere else.”

I stared in disbelief

“Sheriff, what happened to my boys?”

Sad eyes stared back at me.

“Truth is I don’t really know. We aren’t sure who or what that man is, but he’s tied to the tower, and he only takes kids.”

“Where do they go? What does he do with them?”

He shook his head.

“We don’t know, but if they aren’t found by September 6^(th) they’ll never be found.”

I could feel tears forming again.

“What?”

“September 7^(th) through 14^(th) is when he’s most active; it’s when he finishes the job. Everyone who goes missing in park is completely forgotten by September 15^(th).”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but he continued

“We’ve had hundreds of kids go missing in the park, but when September 7^(th) comes, faces grow blurry in our minds, and by the end of the week we don’t remember their names or who they were. The thing is we know we can’t remember; it’s like we know someone is missing but have no memory of who or when.”

I wiped tears from my face.

“Pictures change, birth certificates vanish. Parents know what they’ve lost, just not who they’ve lost. We call it remembrance week to remember that something is missing that we can’t remember ever being taken.”

I rose from the table.

“You need to find my boys.”

He swallowed

“We’ll try, that’s all I can promise, but my men will search only till September 6^(th;) after that it’s far too dangerous.”

They searched night and day for 5 days; all they found was one of the hiking boots Peter had worn. The morning of September 6^(th,) the sheriff came to my wife and me and said

“I’m sorry, we’ve done all we can.”

My wife is a wreck; she locked herself in our room and refused to eat.

I’m writing this the night of September 6^(th); I’ve packed my gear: food, water, a flashlight, sleeping bag, a tent, first-aid supplies, maps, and pictures of my boys. I’m heading into the park alone very soon. I have to find my boys; it's my fault they're in there. I'm writing their names down one last time before I go.

Aaron. Peter.

I don't know why, but I'm afraid I won't remember them when I come back.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

I want to make this very clear: I live alone, and I have no children.

I know that sounds like a strange thing to say, but I need you to understand this before I explain anything else.

Everything started a few weeks ago, when my job began taking over my life. I haven’t been home long enough to do much more than eat and sleep. Much to the dismay of my dog, Marcus, who misses our nightly games of fetch.

It was already dark when I pulled into the driveway of my humble two-story. I sighed deeply as I opened the front door and shut it behind me.

“Marcus! Where are you, boy?”

I heard him bark somewhere deeper in the house. Opening the coat closet, I hung up my jacket, ready for a few moments of relaxation before bed.

"Dad?"

I froze.

"Dad... is that you?"

I spun around to see a young woman, looking at me with a smile on her face. she was maybe eighteen and stood beside my couch as if she'd been waiting for me. She smiled like I was exactly who she'd expected to see.

“Did you have a good day, Dad?”

I backed up against the door

“What are you doing in my house?” I whispered

The girl tilted her head to the side.

“What?”

“Who are you?”

She chuckled awkwardly

“Come on, Dad. It's me, your daughter.”

I stared at her. She frowned

“Hey, what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

She began to walk to me. I quickly turned and left the house, slamming the door behind me. I pulled out my phone and called 911.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Yes, someone broke into my house; they were waiting for me when I got home.”

The dispatcher took my name and home address before promising officers were on the way. I stood by my car until a squad car pulled up. Two officers got out.

“How are you doing, sir? Is everything alright?” the first officer called out

“No, everything’s not ‘alright.’ I came home and found a stranger inside my home!”

“Ok stay calm, sir,” the other officer said

“Have you ever seen this person before?”

“No, I have no clue who she is, but she kept calling me dad. I don’t have any kids.”

They nodded

“We’ll handle this, then you can get back to your evening.”

They walked to the front door, and I followed. Knocking firmly, the first officer loudly said

“Ma’am, open the door; it’s the police.”

There was movement inside, and before long a shadow was seen in the front door window. The door opened slowly, revealing the same girl from before, who was clearly nervous.

“Officers what’s wrong? Is everything ok?”

Her eyes found me standing behind the pair.

“Dad? What’s going on? Why are they here?”

One of the officers took a deep breath before speaking

“Ma’am, this gentleman says you broke into his home, we’re going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

Her voice grew panicked

“What the hell? I live here! Dad, tell them!”

The cops looked back at me

“I’ve never seen you before in my life!” I shouted

Her face looked like my words wounded her.

“Dad.. I..”

An officer interrupted her.

“Ma’am do you have anything proving you’re his daughter?”

“Yes! Just look at my home screen”

She handed her phone to him; he looked at it and passed it to me. It was a picture of the two of us, smiling. My arm wrapped around her as we both posed in front of the Statue of Liberty. I took that trip to New York City last year. Alone.

“Wha.. What is this?” I felt like I was in a dream.

I could feel the officer's eyes shift to me; the girl chimed in

“I can do even better; we have the same last name.”

She disappeared inside before returning half a minute later with her driver's license. The officer stared at it.

“Is this you’re last name, sir?”

It was.

“What the hell is this?” I muttered

The officers both turned to me, a sympathetic smile on their faces.

“Have you been feeling alright lately, sir?” one asked

“If you need to talk to someone, it's ok, there's no shame in it.” Said the other.

I was in a daze; the words sounded distant and jumbled like I was underwater. The girl spoke up.

“He’s ok, officers, just some really long days at work lately; he needs his rest, I’ll take care of him.”

She stepped out of the house and took my hand; hers was cold. She led me inside. My house didn’t feel like mine. As she led me deeper within, I began to notice things: the women’s shoes by the door, the pictures in the hallway highlighting happy moments we shared, Marcus coming up to greet her as if he always did. Once in the living room, she let go of my hand, turned, and hugged me; she was strangely cold and stiff; it felt like hugging a mannequin. She looked at me.

“I’m sorry you’re so tired; why don’t you go upstairs and head to bed? I can take Marcus out tonight.” Her voice was far too chipper.

I clenched my teeth and slowly nodded, making my way to the stairs. The staircase documented her whole life, from me holding her at her birth, to a high school graduation just a few weeks ago. Had I really been working so far that I forgot my own daughter? How could that be, and why couldn’t I remember her name?

It was true, I was tired, completely exhausted; I practically collapsed on the bed and was out. My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning; a yawn and a stretch brought back the memories of the night before. A twinge of fear ran down my spine. I still didn’t remember my daughter. Cautiously, I opened the door. The house was quiet. I made my way to the staircase; the pictures were gone, the wall was bare. The stairs brought me to the living room; it was just the way I always remembered. Marcus raised his head to greet me as he lay on his bed. No women's shoes, no happy pictures of a father and his daughter. It was my house.

I ran my fingers through my hair and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Weird dream,” I muttered as I started some coffee.

That day I presented my project to management; they loved it. I was relieved it meant the weeks of long hours were over, for the time being. On the way home, I stopped by the store to pick up some junk food to celebrate. I pulled into the driveway, carrying my grocery bag in one hand. I unlocked the door and entered. Shutting the door behind me, I was greeted by a happy bark from Marcus. But right after his greeting came the high-pitched greeting of a young girl.

“Daddy! You’re home!!”

My body stiffened; I didn’t want to turn around, but I did.

She was a young blonde-haired little girl, no older than six. She giggled and laughed as she skipped her way to me, wrapping my legs in a strong hug. Her hug felt wrong.

“I missed you so much!”

“Did you have a good day? My day was great!”

I was dumbfounded; her eyes noticed the bag in my hand.

“What’s that?” She dug into it.

To my shock, all that was in the bag was a bright pink soccer ball. She gasped in delight as she grabbed it.

“Oh thank you, Daddy! Thank you! Thank you! Thank youuu! Now Marcus and I can play soccer!”

She ran off to the backyard with a bark; Marcus followed. The house looked like a child lived there. Toys dotted the floor, crude drawings covered the fridge. I blankly stared out the sliding glass door. Watching my dog happily play with my ‘daughter’. The little girl laughed and jumped around; for a moment, her eyes noticed my stare. Her face went blank, and her eyes narrowed as she stared back at me. This lasted only a few seconds, until the spell was broken by Marcus jumping on her and licking her face; she laughed and returned to playing.

That night I found myself making boxed mac and cheese and dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets. I felt like I was in a trance. Everything about my home, everything in my fridge, tried to convince me that I had a six-year-old daughter, but I didn’t; I knew that; why was I going along with it? Why didn’t I run away? Why didn’t I leave the house and never come back? I don’t know; I wanted to, but there I was scooping mac and cheese into the bowl in front of the stranger with a toothy grin.

“Thank you, Daddy.” The girl said

I wanted to scream; I wanted to kick this ‘daughter’ of mine out and lock the door. But instead I said

“You’re welcome.”

Soon came bedtime; the girl insisted that I read her a bedtime story, and read ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’ with clammy hands. She was asleep before I finished the book. I stood at the door of my home office, which was now a child’s bedroom, and flipped the light off.

It was after midnight when I awoke to the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. I looked to the half-open door and the silhouette of a little girl that stood there. The shadowed figure stood there frozen for a moment before saying

“Daddy, I’m scared. Can I sleep with you?”

My mind screamed no, but my mouth said

“Sure, darling.”

The shape crawled into my bed and fell asleep; I remained awake. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because when the alarm went off, I woke up. The girl was gone, and the house showed no sign of her ever being there. No toys, no drawings, and no mac and cheese.

This continued for weeks; every morning, my life was the same it had always been: a working man and his dog. And at night, someone was pretending to be my daughter. It was always different; sometimes it was a teenager, sometimes a child, a few times it was a middle-aged woman, a few days ago it was an elderly woman who croaked out

“Dad? Is that you?” when I returned for the day.

I still don’t know why I stay; every morning it was so easy to convince myself that the night before was just a bizarre dream and wouldn’t happen again. But the moment I stepped inside, I was drawn back into the lie. Sometimes I could see through it; I’d be horrified to find myself finishing a Disney movie with a strange little girl snuggling against me or come to my senses in the middle of giving my elderly daughter a sponge bath. These moments of cognition always terrify me, but what scares me the most are the moments I don’t remember, the nights when I had no mental resistance but just hugged and laughed with my ‘daughter’.

Two days ago I tried to leave; after work, I drove to a hotel. I sat in my car staring at the lobby door. I wanted to go in; I really did. But a thought in the back of my mind overcame my desires; it told me my daughter missed me, that she needed me, and I had to go home. I tried to resist but soon realized I was already back in my driveway. Like a stringed puppet, I made my way to the door. My daughter stood in the entryway as I entered. She looked to be about five. Her eyes pierced me.

“You’re late, Daddy.”

“Yes, I know.” Something in me urged me to tell her where I had been; it took everything I had to lie.

“Traffic was bad.”

Her head tilted slightly; she continued to stare at me, and my eyes fell to the floor. After a long while, she said.

“Okay!” she forced a smile

“I’m hungry!”

I don’t remember anything else from that night. Morning came, and the house was again the memory of a life nearly forgotten. I fed Marcus, pulling him in close for a hug. I whispered to him.

“At least we’re in it together.”

 I then headed to work.

The workday flew by, and before long I was driving back to my cell. I opened the front door. And called out

“I’m home.”

The house was quiet. Normally I got a happy bark from Marcus and a hello from my daughter. The house seemed empty; a strange smell filled the air. I made my way to the living room and my stomach dropped. There on the living room floor was the lifeless body of Marcus, deep red blood soaked into the surrounding carpet, his chest cavity was ripped wide open, and piles of intestines dotted the floor. I stared in disbelief before fear filled my gut. I had to get out of there. I turned back to the door, but froze. My ten-year-old daughter was standing between me and the door.

She held her hands behind her back; her clothes were stained with blood and guts, and her face was dripping blood. A wide smile filled her face; her teeth were stained red.

“I got hungry, Daddy.” A happy little voice said.

I held up my hands and backed up. My mind screamed, ‘What the hell did you do?’ my lips said

“Baby girl, are you okay? Did Marcus hurt you?”

She giggled and stepped closer.

I didn’t see the knife or maybe I did and didn’t care. She pulled it from behind her back, and the moment it made contact with my skin it was as if the trance was broken. Pain and clarity simultaneously filled my mind; I screamed as I looked at the long cut gushing blood from my forearm. The thing in front of me no longer looked like a little girl; I saw it for what it was. It was thin and grotesque, its arms far too long; it had no mouth, but as its empty eye sockets stared at me, the high-pitched scream of a little girl filled my mind.

I ran. The living room's sliding glass door was behind me, and before the thing could grab me, I had it open and ran off into the evening.

I’m writing this at work. I don’t know why I came here; I remember driving here last night and waiting in the parking lot until the sun rose and my coworkers showed up. my boss asked about the cut on my arm, something inside me forced a lie

“My dog scratched me.”

As I write this, I feel myself slipping; it’s almost quitting time.

Please help me.

 My daughter needs me; she’s been so sad since Marcus passed away, but today I’m going to surprise her and take her to the pet shop to pick out a new puppy. We’ll have so much fun.

My university is performing strange overnight studies.

I first learned about them during my second semester, when I was down to less than forty dollars in my checking account.

The flyer was pinned to a bulletin board outside the psychology building.

OVERNIGHT SILENCE STUDY

Compensation: $2,000

Duration: One night

Requirements:

• Must remain awake
• Must remain silent
• Must follow all instructions provided by research staff

If interested, please go to PSY213 ‘Studies and tests’ on the second floor of the Psych. Building.

I must have read it ten times.

Two thousand dollars for one night was ridiculous. It was more money than I made in a month working part-time at the campus bookstore. At the bottom of the flyer was a handwritten note: Participants who leave early will not be compensated. For some reason, that line bothered me more than anything else. Not because I would leave earlier, but because whoever wrote that in felt like people would want to leave.

My empty wallet is what finally made up my mind. Taking the flyer in my hand, I entered the building and headed to the second floor. On the other side of the door marked PSY213 was a small waiting room with a handful of chairs, and at the far side of the room was a hallway guarded by a small desk. Sitting behind the desk was a young woman, not much older than me. As I entered, she looked up and smiled

“Hello,” she said pleasantly, “Can I help you?”

“Um, yes,” I said as I walked up to the desk. “I was actually wondering if there is still time to sign up for this?” I slid the flyer across the desk to her. As she saw it, her smile lowered slightly, and she quickly glanced up at me before her eyes returned to the paper and her smile again widened.

“The Silence study? Yes, there are still slots available; would you like to sign up?”

A burst of excitement ran throughout my body

“Yes, I’d love to! $2,000 is too good to pass up.”

She forced a laugh before asking for my information. She took down my name, phone number, emergency contact, and medical history. After she had everything she needed, she said

“Alright, I think I have everything. You will need to be at the Garner building by 9 PM this coming Tuesday. The study will take place in vacant dorms at the top level. You are welcome to bring with you any books or homework you want, but please don’t bring anything that can play songs or movies. Since this is a silence study, those aren’t allowed.”

I nodded quickly

“Garner Building at 9 PM on Tuesday, got it.”

As I turned to leave, she said

“Oh, one more thing, I nearly forgot.”

I turned back around

She slid a packet across the desk.

"Please read the consent forms."

The packet was nearly an inch thick. I didn’t bother to read it all, just signed the last one. As I left, the secretary called after me

“Good luck.”

Tuesday came quickly. I spent the day sleeping and putting together a backpack full of snacks and books for the night ahead of me. By 8:50 PM, I was standing in front of the Garner Building. A few moments later, a balding man in his 40s came out and asked

“Are you here for the study?”

I swallowed hard before nodding

“Yes, sir.”

“Great! Please follow me.”

He led me inside and into the building's elevator. Hitting the button for floor 5, we headed to the top. The elevator opened to a hallway dimly illuminated by fluorescent yellow lights. The hallway was nearly identical to the other dorm halls on campus, only this one was strangely lifeless. It felt as though no one had used this floor in years. The man led me further down the hall before stopping in front of room 504

“Here’s where you’ll be staying tonight, just so you know we have installed security cameras everywhere except in the bathroom, just so we can confirm that you remain silent all night. We have also installed an intercom system.”

I looked at him, confused

“What’s that for?”

He responded, “At the beginning of every hour, we will announce the time for you. If everything goes well, this will be the only voice you hear all night.”

The answer wasn't particularly reassuring, but two thousand dollars had a way of making concerns feel smaller. I turned the doorknob, and I walked in. The man said

“Remember you are free to leave at any time, but just know that those who leave early will not be compensated.”

 With that, he reached in and closed the door. I heard the quiet click of the door locking, and realized that the study started now.

I turned to face the room, finding it to be not much different from my own dorm room. It was quietly lit by a single overhead light and a small lamp that stood on the desk in the corner. The floor was carpeted, and a lofted bed took up one full wall; beneath it was a small reading chair and a mini fridge. Across from the bed was a full-size wardrobe and a poster of a cat hanging on a branch with the phrase ‘hang in there’. The outside wall was home to a large window that granted a view of the courtyard. Unlike my dorm, this one had a short hallway shooting off to the right of the door. Here was a tiny kitchenette with a few cabinets and a sink. There was a miniature coat closet. At the end of the hall was a door to a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, and tight shower.

Instinctively, I opened my mouth to comment on the room before remembering I wasn't supposed to speak again until morning. Taking the backpack off my back, I pulled out one of the books and took a seat in the chair.

The first hour was boring; I didn’t leave the chair, nor did I put down the book. I jumped an hour later when a loud monotone voice broke through the silence

“It is now 10 PM.”

I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Rebuked myself in my head for so quickly forgetting about the intercom before returning to my book.

At 10:30, I needed a break from reading; the words on the page were starting to hurt my eyes. Standing up, I stretched and began to absent-mindedly examine the dorm. I opened all the cabinets in the kitchenette, but only found a few cups and bowls. I stared out the window, watching my fellow students come and go. Then I went to the bathroom and opened the closet, which was empty except for a single winter jacket. Finally, I opened the wardrobe, and as I did, a crumbled piece of paper fell to the ground. Seeing that something was written on it, I picked it up, and here’s what it said:

IF YOU FOUND THIS, READ IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT

The researchers won't tell you everything.

1. Stay silent. Not "don't talk." Stay silent. The researchers are studying what happens when nobody speaks. Do not interfere with the observation.
2. If another participant enters your room, do not acknowledge them. Participants are assigned one room each
3. If the intercom asks you a question, the study has ended. Leave immediately.
4. The hourly announcements should only happen on the hour. If the intercom speaks at any other time, cover your ears and do not listen to what it says.
5. Do not look into the hallway between 1:13 AM and 1:20 AM.
6. If someone knocks three times, ignore it. But if someone knocks four times, move away from the door immediately.
7. If you hear crying from the bathroom, do not investigate.
8. If the lights go out, close your eyes and count to one hundred.
9. If you see someone standing in the courtyard staring at your window, close the blinds and do not open them for 2 and a half hours.
10. At some point during the night, you will hear your own voice. It will ask you a question. Do not answer.
11. If the intercom announces "It is now 3:07 AM," hide in the coat closet until another announcement is made.
12. Whatever happens, do not open the wardrobe a second time.

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes after reading it; clearly, someone who did the study before me had gotten bored and wanted to prank the next participant. I crumbled the paper and tossed it into the trash can. After filling a glass of water and grabbing a snack, I returned to the chair and my book.

I glanced up from my book at 11 when the intercom announced

“It is now 11 PM.”

I scanned the room slowly. After two hours of silence, I felt like the room itself had grown louder. Every squeak and groan of the building felt far louder than it should be. After glancing around the room a few times, I returned to my book.

Around 11:40, I started feeling drowsy, so I stood up and did some jumping jacks and ran in place for a while to get the blood flowing. I was on the toilet when the clock struck midnight. The intercom declared

“It is now 12 AM.”

I finished in the bathroom and returned to my book. I nearly jumped out of my skin when 20 minutes later, at 12:20 AM, the intercom said

“Participant three is now reading a book.”

I lowered my book and looked around quickly. That was weird; I thought it was only for telling the time, and am I participant three? I sat frozen for a few minutes, waiting to hear anything else. I noticed a low hum that hadn’t been there before, but after waiting for 10 minutes, I stood up and grabbed a snack from my bag. As I did, the intercom said

“Participant three is eating.”

I froze mid-chew and looked up at the little camera in the corner staring down at me. Why would they announce my actions like this? The hum grew louder as I returned to my chair. At 12:39, the intercom spoke again.

“Participant three is breaking the rules.”

I looked around in confusion. What rule had I broken? I hadn’t said anything. The hum was now so loud that it was hurting my ears. Five minutes later, at 12:44, the intercom announced.

“Participant three is going to die.”

Panic filled my mind as the hum grew painfully loud; it felt like my brain was going to explode. But in that moment I remembered the note I had thrown away, and rule #4. I squeezed my hands over my ears; even with them covered, I could feel vibrations radiating through my hands. But after a few moments it stopped. Cautiously, I removed my hands from my ears, and everything was perfectly quiet again. The hum was gone, as if it had never been there.

Sweat formed on my forehead as I moved to the trash can and unwrinkled the balled-up paper. I stared at the rules for several minutes. But then I heard the jiggle of keys and the sound of someone fumbling with a lock, before I turned and saw the front door swing wide open.

At the door stood a man who looked roughly my age; he had shaggy blonde hair, wore shorts and sandals, and a sweatshirt bearing the school’s logo. There was a bag at his feet. He looked at me and smiled

“Hey, man,” he said, “guess we’re going to be roommates. What’s your name? I’m Chris.”

I was too confused to answer. But he kept going

“what’s you’re major? Mine's business. Are you as pumped as I am to be here?”

I was about to answer, but the rules in my hand caught my eye. Rule #2: ‘If another participant enters your room, do not acknowledge them. Participants are assigned one room each’. I felt cold as I read it.

“Whatcha got there?” the man asked as he noticed the sheet in my hand.

I lowered my eyes to the floor and didn’t respond. He went quiet as he walked closer to me. He stood mere inches from me.

“Is that orientation information?” he said as he pointed at the paper

“Why don’t you give that to me?” he asked smoothly

I instinctively pulled my hand away, but as I did, he screamed

“Give it to me!” my hands shook as I folded the paper and put it in my pocket.

He grunted and said, “Look at me.”

His voice had changed, growing deeper and cracked.

“Look.”

“At.”

“Me.”

I swallowed as I closed my eyes. I could feel his hot breath on my face. It smelled rotten. I stood there with my eyes closed for what felt like hours, but when I opened them again, he was gone. The door was shut and locked; it was 12:57 AM.

I was a wreck; the rules in my pocket must be real. I wanted to leave; I wanted to get out of there and never come back. But after what I had experienced, I seriously doubted that I truly could leave. It felt safer to listen to the rules and make it through the night. After taking a few minutes to calm my nerves, I pulled out the rules and reviewed them.

Rule #5: Do not look into the hallway between 1:13 AM and 1:20 AM.

It was 1:05 AM. I looked at the little hallway leading to the bathroom, wondering what could possibly happen there in 8 minutes. Whatever it was, I wouldn’t be looking. The chair faced toward the door, and I could see the hallway from where it sat. So I turned the chair to face the window. As I did, I glanced out the window. There in the courtyard was a tall figure, holding a single lit candle in its hand as it stared directly into the window. I couldn't tell how far away it was. I only knew it hadn't been there a moment ago

Without hesitation, I shut the curtains and set a timer for 2 and a half hours. As I did, I felt the room become noticeably colder. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I heard the sound of dishes moving coming from the hallway. I didn’t dare to even turn around; I couldn’t risk seeing what was in the hallway. It sounded like someone was trying to cook a meal.

I heard the sound of vegetables being chopped and a pot of water being boiled, even though the kitchenette I saw didn’t have a stove. Every now and then I heard someone trying to whistle a tune, but it was monotone and lacked any sense of music. At around the 6-minute mark, I heard a quiet, dry voice say to itself.

“Hmm, need to get some rosemary.”

Then I heard heavy footsteps leave the hallway. They crossed the carpet slowly. One step. Then another. Then silence. Complete silence. I could no longer tell where it was. I was about to turn around when, directly in my right ear, I heard a mocking whisper.

“You’re still here, huh?”

After that, I heard footsteps walk away and the sound of the door slamming.

Slowly I turned around. It was 1:21 AM.

Everything was pretty quiet for a while. At 2:30, loud wailing came from the bathroom and lasted about 20 minutes. After it stopped, I cracked the bathroom door open. It was empty.

Sometime after 3:20, I was getting pretty tired. The silence was making my eyes heavy, and right as I started nodding off. The lights went out. The darkness pumped adrenaline through my veins, waking me up. From the bathroom, I could hear a clicking sound. It sounded like a dog with long nails walking across a hardwood floor. It was getting closer. Remembering the rule, I squeezed my eyes shut and began counting to myself.

“1,2,3,4,5…”

The sound was now right in front of me.

“10,11,12,13…”

The sound stopped, and directly in front of me I heard creaking bones.

“20,21,22,23…”

A cold bony hand gently caressed the side of my face

I squeezed my eyes tighter

“30,31,32,33…”

A raspy voice vibrated off of long dead vocal cords

“Just open your eyes.”

My throat went dry as I continued counting in my head

“45,46,47,48…”

A damp, rough tongue licked the side of my face.

“67,68,69,70…”

Right as I hit 100, the lights flipped back on; even through my closed eyes, the sudden brightness was a shock. I opened to see the empty room just the way I left it, though my cheek was still slightly wet.

For the next 2 hours, I hid in the bathroom. I figured that since the only rule involving the bathroom had already happened, it was probably the safest place. I sat on the toilet lid waiting. Hoping time would move faster. Near 5:15 AM, I heard a quiet voice behind me.

“You sure have been quiet for a long time.”

It was my voice, not in my head, but in my ears. It was my exact voice, like I was listening to it on a recording. I tried to ignore it.

“Why did you stop talking to Mom before she died?”

I clenched my teeth. How did it know about Mom?

It asked again

“Why did you stop talking to Mom before she died?”

And again and again. From 5:15 till the sun rose, it asked the same question over and over again. I couldn’t take it; I was near my breaking point when the sun peeked over the horizon. As it did, the voice stopped. Everything was quiet once more.

Between sunrise at 7:30 and 8:30, nothing happened. I braced myself for the worst, for something terrible to jump out of the wardrobe but nothing did. At exactly 9 AM, the intercom announced

“It is now 9 AM, the Study is complete, do you have any questions?”

I immediately rose from the chair, grabbed my bag, and headed out the now unlocked door. By the elevator stood the same man from last night; he smiled and said

“Congratulations on remaining silent the whole night. Your time has been very beneficial to our study.”

He handed me a check for $2,000 and what looked like a business card

“Here is your pay, and if you’d like to participate in any of our future studies, please call the number.”

I stared at him in silence

“Please follow me,” he said, ushering me into the elevator

I decided to go home to my dads for a while. I’m even thinking of transferring schools; I just can’t be there right now. I’m writing this late at night while I’m lying in bed. I haven’t spoken much since this all happened; I’m scared something will hear me.

My clock just hit 3:07, and as it did, a cold mechanical voice just filled the room

“It is now 3:07 AM”

It’s been several months since my original post regarding my strange job.

A lot has happened.

I am no longer a trainee at Last Contact; it’s been a month or so since I finished the training. Nate, my trainer, has remained on the night shift ever since management determined that the night shift needed more staff due to a higher call volume.

Thanks to this job, I have saved enough money to move out of my parents' home and into my own apartment across town. It’s nice being on my own; having my space and privacy has been my dream for a while, and thanks to Last Contact, it's now a reality. I had hoped that the noises coming from the closet in my parents' house would stop after I moved out. But it hasn’t, the scratching followed me to the closet in my new apartment. I remember the first night I heard the scratching in the closet. I cautiously opened the door, hoping it was just a trapped mouse. But when I opened the door, the scratching stopped, and the closet was empty. Seeing nothing unusual, I shut the closet and climbed back into bed. But the scratching returned, only this time it was coming from the top of the door.

Every morning since then, loud scratching came from the closet; it would start at the floor and move its way up to the top of the doorframe. I was disappointed to discover the scratching had moved with me. One night, I mentioned all this to Nate, and he simply shrugged and said

“Sounds like you got an attachment”

I looked at him, confused

“An attachment?”

“Yeah, it happens every now and then.”

“Well, how do I get rid of it?”

He sipped his coffee and replied

“Not sure, sorry.”

The only solution I have found is noise-cancelling headphones.

Another big change is that we now have official uniforms! One night at the start of the shift, Nate and I entered the building and were greeted by a large, worn cardboard box sitting on the floor. On top of it was a short note that read:

“These uniforms are now mandatory; do not allow anyone in the building who isn’t wearing the uniform, even if you think you know them. Signed Management”

We opened the box and pulled out dark blue polos with light purple sleeves. On the left breast pocket was an embroidered telephone receiver and the words ‘Last Contact’. Nate rolled his eyes and sarcastically said

“Great, now we have to dress like a bowling team.”

The last big change since my last post is that we have a new coworker, or rather, we’ve had a few new coworkers. The first was a tall, thin man named James. One night, James answered a call that changed him. He went pale and stared unblinkingly. Nate asked him what happened, and all he would say was

“I know her.”

I was sitting in the break room, reading, while James sat across the room, staring out the wall of windows at the deep darkness beyond the train tracks. I just happened to glance up from my book and noticed James wasn’t at the table anymore, but was now standing mere inches from the window, staring unblinkingly. A moment later, he loudly said

“Okay, I’m coming”

Then he turned, and before I knew it he exited by the side door, and wildly ran across the trains and disappeared into the darkness. He was never seen again.  

The next trainee we got was a short man named Charles. Now, Charles had the bright idea to take the banking information he gathered on calls and use them. According to the police report, he had gone to several banks with the account information of several recently deceased people. The police still don’t know exactly what happened to him; all that can really be said is someone, or something, didn’t appreciate what he was doing. He disappeared from a bank vault after trying to access a safety deposit box that wasn’t his. All that remained in the vault was his severed arm. The skin of the arm had been completely removed, leaving a bloody mess.

After Charles, management became much more careful about who they hired. And after some time, they brought on Marie, she’s still here, next week she’ll finish training. She’s college age, pretty, and a bit shy. She takes this job seriously and follows the rules. She’s become a good friend and, like Nate, is a bright spot during my nightly shifts.

I must admit that since my last post, I had settled into the routine of the job, and in some ways, I had become pretty desensitized to the macabre nature of my work. But things are changing, and after the week I’ve had, I worry about what the future holds.

Monday night began like any other. I pulled into the parking lot, the train had just passed, and the echo of its whistle lingered in the empty night. Both Nate and Marie were already there. Marie sat in her car while Nate leaned against the building smoking a cigarette. We all entered together as we always did. It had rained a lot over the weekend, and two buckets full of dirty rainwater cluttered the floor.

“Did you have a good weekend?” I asked Marie as we walked the long hallway to our stations

She gave a quick shrug

“It was ok, finals are coming, and I’m a bit behind,” she said with a tired voice

Unlike me, Marie was doing something with her life. She was going to be a doctor one day, while I would be stuck here or at some other dead-end job forever.

I smiled and said

“Well, I know you’re busy, but maybe if you get a free moment later this week, we could grab a coffee?”

She stared at me for what felt like forever. My stomach dropped. Then she smiled.

“I’d love to,” she declared, “would Wednesday afternoon work for you?”

I grinned like a madman,

“Yeah! That would be perfect!”

Her eyes sparkled, and I could tell she was blushing

“Let me give you my phone number so you can call me.”

Now I was blushing

“That sounds good” was all I could say

She wrote her number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. Our eyes met as she did, and I could feel my heart beating faster

“Hey, guys?” Nate’s voice broke my trance. I hadn’t realized he had been watching us from the doorway of his station.

“let’s get to work,” his monotone voice declared, “we've got a long night ahead of us.”

I nodded awkwardly, and Marie quickly pushed some hair out of her face before hurrying by me down the hall to Nate’s station. Before she entered, she looked back and smiled at me. I opened the door to the closet-sized workstation and collapsed into the creaky office chair before releasing the breath I had been holding. My hands shook, and my heart beat fast. I had wanted to ask Marie out for weeks now, and I had told myself to let the moment arise naturally, but I never thought I wouldn’t recognize the moment when it came, and now that it was gone, it felt like a massive weight had been removed from my shoulders. And like a child waiting for Christmas, I finally had something to look forward to, and Wednesday couldn’t come soon enough.

About twenty minutes later, I received my first call of the night.

“Hello, my name is Chris, what’s yours?” I made the decision a while back that it was best to keep using a fake name.

Static poured out of the phone for a moment before a weak voice answered

“I’m Anna. What’s going on? It’s so dark.”

“Hello Anna, this is your last contact. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you have died.”

The phone went silent

“No. No, that can’t be right, I was just on a date, and we had gone back to his place.”

I shuddered as my mind filled in the gaps of what happened.

“I’m sorry, Anna, but I’m afraid it’s true, we don’t have much time, but do you have any banking information or passwords that need to be passed onto you’re family?”

She shared her bank information and a final ‘I love you’ to her family, though they would never hear it. At exactly 60 seconds, the phone clicked, and the line went dead. I entered the information Anna had given me into the computer and tried my best to forget what I had just heard. Over the next couple of hours, I got only two more calls, one from a suicidal teen and the other from a biker hit by a drunk driver. It had been pretty quiet for a while, and I was about to head to the break room to stretch my legs, when the phone rang again.

“Hello my name is Chris, what’s yours?”

I heard a low chuckle before the phone said

“Hey Chris, it’s John, when are you going to tell me your real name?”

I rolled my eyes and said

“John, I don’t know how you’re doing this, but you've got to stop.”

A loud laugh broke out

“I don’t have to do anything, ‘Chris’ I’ll keep calling until I find out who you are and where you are.”

“Goodbye, John.” I hung up the phone.

From everything I could find, John had died 102 years ago, hit by the train that still goes by. For whatever reason he keeps calling. He shouldn’t be able to keep calling us; management is quite confused about how it's even happening. But no one wants to think about what will happen if he learns where and who we are.

I sighed as I stood and walked to the break room. Both Nate and Marie were already there. Marie sat at a table, working on a cup of coffee. And Nate was across the room, reading the newspaper. I plopped down next to Marie, who greeted me with a warm smile. Her eyes still sparkled when she looked at me.

“How’s the shift been?” she asked

“Not bad, only four calls, and the last was John.”

She rolled her eyes

“Yeah, he was my first call, doesn’t quit, huh?”

“I guess not, but at least we can just hang up.”

She nodded.

After several minutes of small talk, Nate walked over and joined us at the table.

“Good shift so far?” he said as he looked at me

“Yeah,” I replied, “same old same old.”

He nodded in approval.

The three of us sat there chatting for over an hour. Typically, the time between midnight and two is pretty quiet; around three, things pick up. We talked about the weather, and movies we liked, Marie told us some of what she was learning in school, while Nate told us an embarrassing story from ten years ago. As we stood to return to our stations, I looked at my two coworkers and realized I finally had something I hadn’t had since middle school: friends.

Returning to my closet, I sat down again in my chair and worked on that week’s book. Since working this job, I have been averaging a book a week. About 30 minutes later, the phone rang. I picked it up and began my normal spiel

“Hello, my name is..”

The caller cut me off and only said

“Thank you Will.” The line went dead as the caller hung up

A chill went up my spine, this was a new one for me, but I remembered the rule:

If the caller thanks you before you have helped them, end your shift immediately and go home by a different route than usual.

I quickly rose to my feet, and briskly walked down the hall to Nate’s room, both Nate and Marie looked up at me as I entered

“They only said ‘thank you’ and hung up” I declared

Nate’s gaze grew darker, and his jaw clenched before he said

“Ok, we follow the rule, pack it up and head home, take a different route, and if I were you two, I would drive around for awhile just to be safe.”

Marie stood from the desk and gathered her things, as we switched off the light and headed for the door, Nate said

“don’t worry the company will pay you for a full shift.”

We exited the building, and as we reached the parking lot from all around us we heard a dull monotone whistle. It almost sounded like the Disney ‘It’s a Small World’ but the tone and pitch were way off. We couldn’t see where it was coming from. Nate went pale when he heard it and through gritted teeth he whispered

“Leave. Now.”

We didn’t linger.

I spent the next hour making random turns until I wasn't even sure where I was anymore, when I felt comfortable, I returned to my apartment. That morning after my shift was the first and only time in months that there was no scratching on my closet door.

I didn’t sleep well that day. The lack of scratching on the closet unnerved me, and when I saw Marie, I could tell she didn’t sleep much either.

“Rough night?” I asked, though I already knew the answer

She nodded, “Yeah,” she whispered, almost as if she didn’t mean for the words to escape her lips

“Every time I was about to drift off, I jolted awake; it felt like someone was watching me from the corner of the room.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said

“Yeah, me too.”

“What happened last night, Will? What was whistling in the parking lot?”

“I don’t know,” I replied, “But I have a feeling that it's worse than anything else we watch out for.”

She swallowed hard as she stared at the ground before nodding to herself

“Where’s Nate?”

Nate was late. Since I’ve worked here, Nate’s never been late; in fact, I’ve never arrived earlier than Nate. But that night he was late. For ten minutes, Marie and I stood outside the worn door. We could go in; I had a key, but we never did without Nate.

In the distance, we saw headlights moving down the road towards the parking lot. As the vehicle grew closer, it was clear that the driver wasn’t sober; they swerved all over the road, slowed down, and sped up erratically. The car pulled into the parking lot and took up two parking spaces. It was Nate’s car.

Nate stepped out of the car, barely able to keep on his feet, and stumbled his way over to us. He was drunk, and it was clear he had been crying. When he reached us, he stared at us for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh and mumbling

“Let’s go to work.”

With that, he grabbed the door handle and awkwardly pulled it open. Marie and I quickly exchanged glances. We had never seen Nate like this. We followed him as he stumbled his way down the hallway. He made it to his office, and even before we entered the room, we could hear him sobbing.

Nate was a miserable mess of tears. I stood just inside the doorway, while the kindhearted Marie knelt by the crying man's side. We watched in silence as he shed his tears after his eyes ran dry. Marie meekly asked

“Are you ok, Nate?”

He clenched his jaw, and slowly answered

“Not really, kiddo.”

“Please tell us what’s wrong. We want to help.”

Nate stared at the floor. He seemed embarrassed. He was silent for a long while before cautiously speaking.

“5 years ago, my wife and three-year-old daughter were in an accident. The driver was drunk and t-boned my family.” His lips quivered as if he was going to cry again, but he continued

“I was just about to finish up my second contract here, and I didn’t plan to do any more. I was working second shift then and had just gotten off when I got the word that my daughter had been killed, and my wife was in critical condition in the hospital.”

I ran my hand through my hair, and Marie put a hand to her mouth. Nate continued

“The doctors said there was nothing they could do; they wanted to pull the plug. I knew in my heart it was the right thing to do.”

He swallowed back tears.

“In the hospital I was visited by one of the upper management. I don’t know his name, he told me how sorry he was for my loss. And he told me that I was a valued employee. In a whispered tone he told me that the company was now offering life extensions for family of employees who are on their third contract.”

He paused to regain composure

“He offered me a fresh contract with the added promise of one year of extended life for my wife for every year I worked. I had just lost my daughter, and I couldn’t bear the idea of losing my wife, so I signed it.”

“And to the doctor's amazement, my wife seemed to recover. Before long they were sending her home, but something was wrong. It was like she was a corpse trapped in a living body. Though her heart beats and her lungs fill with air, she reeks of death, and it didn’t take long for her body to decay. Now she’s nothing more than a hollow husk, long expired but unable to die. Her eyes beg me to let her go, but I can’t lose her.”

I stared at the floor in shock. Marie looked like she was going to start crying herself. Despite summoning all my courage, all I could manage was a low question

“Nate, what was that thing humming in the parking lot last night?”

A moment of soberness could be seen in Nate’s eyes as he answered

“I don’t know, but the last time I heard that song, it was being sung by my daughter.” With that, he started crying again.

Marie stood up and whispered to me that she was going to find some tissues before passing me into the hallway.

A moment later, the phone on the desk in front of Nate rang. He stared at it before reaching his hand towards it

“Nate, I don’t think..” but it was too late, he picked up the phone and, through tears, said

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was loud enough for me to hear it.

“Hello, I’m John. What’s your name?”

To this day, I don’t know if it was because Nate was drunk or simply because he wanted to be done, but he replied blankly

“My name’s Nate.”

It was as if time had stopped; every single light in the building instantly turned off, and the place was completely quiet. All background noise was gone, the a/c, the hum of the lights and computers, even the crickets outside. We were in perfect darkness and perfect silence.

“I’m sorry,” Nate said

Suddenly, outside roared with the sound of the train. Though looking out the window revealed no sign that the train was passing. After the sound of the train passed, it was replaced by a quiet tapping on the window.

I whispered as softly as I could

“Nate, we need to get out of here”

The tapping grew louder, and a voice followed. It was low, yet energetic. It sounded like it’s source didn’t understand tone and inflection

“Nate? I found you! Nate? Can you come out? Please? Come out.”

Nate stood to his feet, but stared at the silhouette hiding behind the blinds.

“Nate? Are you in there? Please come out? I’ll come in if you don’t.”

Nate looked at me and said

“I’m sorry, Will.”

The voice replied

“Who’s Will?”

Nate pushed me into the hallway and slammed the door. I heard the lock click, locking Nate in the tiny room. The next noise I heard was the sound of the window opening

“Thank you, Nate.”

The sounds I heard made vomit rise in my throat. It sounded like someone trying to sip chili through a straw, with the sharp snapping of bones mixed in. The door handle rattled a bit as if a toddler was trying to figure out how it worked. I wasted no time making my escape. My first thought was to make a run for my car, but then a wave of dread overcame me. Marie. She was still here; I had to find her. I ran to the break room, which was just as dark as the hallway. I whispered as loudly as I could

“Marie? Are you here?”

A moment later, a gentle voice answered

“Will? I’m over here.”

I followed the voice and found Marie hiding under a table.

“Are you ok?” I knelt down beside her

She wasn’t looking at me, but rather past me to the wall of windows

“There’s someone out there.”

Slowly, I turned my head to see the dark outline of a figure, it looked to be the shape of a man, roughly six feet tall, only its arms were far too long. They nearly reached the ground. The figure tilted its head to the side and slowly raised one arm and with a single finger tapped on the glass

“Will? Is there a Will in there? Will please out, please?” It was the same voice that spoke to Nate.

I tried to get Marie to follow me by pulling on her arm, but she wouldn’t budge from beneath the table, in a barely audible whisper, I said to her

“Marie, I need you to move.”

Instantly, the figure responded

“Marie? Who’s Marie?”

She gasped and I pulled her to her feet

“Come on!” I said as I dragged her by the hand into the hallway. I ushered her into the janitor's closet as we heard the loud smash of the window shattering.

We huddled together and held our breath as we heard loud, unhurried footsteps work their way down the hall. A low, gentle tap resounded off the door.

“Hello Will?”

“Hello Marie?”

“Are you in there?”

The tapping grew faster and louder, before long, it was pounding, but the voice never changed.

“May I come in?”

“Will? Please come out”

“Marie? Please come out”

For hours, it repeated the same lines, all while tapping nonstop. As dawn drew near the thing grew more desperate and began to repeat

“I know your name.”

“I know your name”

“I know your name”

In the last hour of the night, it became angry, and we heard it leave the door and begin smashing and destroying things throughout the building. At 6:59, it went silent. It was silent for half an hour. Then at 7:30, we heard the main door open and heard human voices react in surprise to the damage around them, and at 7:35, I cautiously opened the closet while Marie gripped my arm, and we met the day shift in the midst of a completely ransacked building.

I don’t know if or when I’ll write again. Marie and I have been transferred. A man from upper management came to take our story. He told us the company valued us as employees, but we couldn’t keep working at this branch. John knew our names and knew where to find us. He told us that a Last Contact branch in a big city across the country needed some experienced night shift workers, and he had prepared them for our arrival. I was to be a supervisor there, and Marie would receive a bonus after completing her training. He informed us everything was in order and movers would be sent to our homes within a day. Marie looked at him and asked

“Do we have a choice?”

He smiled and replied

“Not really.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”

When I got hired, I thought the strangest thing about the ranch was the pay.

Then I met the priest.

They were offering $8,000 for a two-week cattle drive. I'd been roping and riding my entire life, and even the biggest outfits I'd worked for had never come close to paying that much.

I figured they were desperate.

Turns out they were.

I still remember walking up to the foreman for the first time. As I approached, he leaned against a weathered fence watching riders break in some fresh horses. He turned to face me; he was a large man with a thick beard and weathered features

“You lost, son?” his deep, dry voice said

I shook my head

“No, sir, heard you need some riders.”

He stared at me and clenched his jaw.

“That depends, can you ride?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you rope?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who’ve you worked for?”

I told him the last three ranches I had worked for.

He nodded

“Good outfits, all of them. They don't keep dead weight.”

He slowly stroked his beard

“Well, alright, we do need one more rider. Go on and drop your stuff off in the bunkhouse; we leave tomorrow.”

The next day, everyone in the bunkhouse was up and ready to go an hour before the sun rose. There were six of us: four ranch hands, another hired cowboy, and me. The foreman, Mike, entered the bunkhouse and brought us together.

“Alright, listen up. We’re going up the pass; should be there tomorrow night. Some of you know what that means; those who don’t just know it ain’t your business; we’re paying you to work, not ask questions.”

Our eyes locked for a moment as he said this.

“Go saddle up.” He said with authority

We did just that.

An hour later, the sun was beginning to peek over the distant mountains, and we stood waiting with our horses. Mike walked by and I took the moment to ask a question.

“Hey Mike,” I said as I matched his walk

“I thought we were pushing cattle; where’s the herd?”

He stopped and pointed with a nod to the far corral

I looked and saw two lone cows standing in the pen. Looking back to Mike, I said

“That’s it? two cows, you need six cowboys to push two cows?”

He got real close to my face and stared me in the eyes for a moment before saying

“Ain’t your place to ask questions, got it?” his voice was vicious

I swallowed, lowered my eyes to the ground, and nodded

“Yeah, I got it.”

The seven of us stood around as the sun rose; we were waiting for someone, but I didn’t know who. Moments later, a lone figure approached us from behind the bunkhouse. It was a young man. Probably no older than me. He was cleanly shaven and manicured, dressed in a dark, all-black suit with the white square of a clerical collar standing out against his neck.

When I saw him, I snickered to myself and elbowed the older man next to me, whose name was Bill

“Looks like we got ourselves a preacher,” I whispered with a chuckle.

“Show some damn respect.” He snarled back

Bill was a ranch employee and was clearly unimpressed with my humor.

The priest walked over to Mike and met his handshake with both hands.

“I’m very sorry, I didn’t intend to be late.” He said

“It’s alright, Father Martin; we couldn’t start without you anyhow,” Mike said in a tone of reverence he hadn’t had before.

Father Martin nodded

“I trust my horse is ready.”

“Yes, Father, right inside the barn. Follow me.”

He looked past Father Martin to us

“The rest of you, get the cows on the trail; we’ll catch up.”

As we moved down the trail, I pulled my horse alongside the only younger member of our group besides the priest. Will smiled at me as I did

“Always good to be out on the range, ain't it?” he chuckled

“Yeah, sure is,” I replied before following up with

“Hey, who’s the Priest?”

“Oh, Father Martin?” Will said, “He’s the town’s new vicar, came from Virginia if I remember right, just started here a few months ago after old Father Jenkins passed, God rest his soul.”

“Okay…” I was puzzled. “But why’s he out here with us?”

At that, Will’s cheery disposition soured. He was silent for a while before saying

“That ain’t exactly for me to say.”

Before I could reply, he coldly said

“'Excuse me”

And with that, he sped his horse up and moved further down the trail. We rode in silence for the next few hours. The trail grew more rugged as the day went on. As we grew closer to the base of the mountains, it felt as if we had gone back 100 years. The land felt young and unspoiled. At midmorning, we stopped by a small creek to water the horses. Before long, Mike and Father Martin could be seen approaching in the distance.

As they grew closer, it became clear that Father Martin didn’t know what he was doing. He appeared uncomfortable with both the horse and the scenery. He rode as if the only experience he had was old cowboy movies. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes and mutter

“Great, now he’ll slow us down”

When I looked at the other riders, I was surprised to see that they didn’t share my disdain. Instead, they were grateful, even reverent of the inexperienced rider. Rejoining the group, Mike took command.

“Okay,” he declared, “We’re about to pass the line; from here on out, no more talking, not until we make camp and get a fire going. Got it?”

The riders murmured in agreement, Mike's eyes met mine, and I slowly nodded in acknowledgment. We continued in single file; Mike led, the priest followed, and I brought up the rear. Moments later, we passed through a worn gate that stood across the path; it was just a gate; no fence could be found on either side. Once through the gate, the world seemed different; it seemed quiet; the howling sound of the wind was gone, and there was no chirping of birds. The only sound was the clicking steps of the horses.

We continued for hours; I could feel myself zoning out. Normally, there’s small talk and wisecracks on these sorts of rides. The quietness made me drowsy.

“Can you help me?”

The strangely happy voice broke the silence and shook me from the daze I had sunk into. I quickly looked from side to side, seeing nothing but thick pines uphill and barren plains downhill. I turned my horse and circled back around; someone had called for help, my concern for a lost hiker or wayward child pushed common sense from my mind.

The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

“Hello? Are you Ok?”

My words seemed to echo in the quietness, but were soon drowned out by the deafening crack of a nearby gunshot. Instantly, I turned to the source of the sound; it was Mike. His rifle was raised above his head, and a thin trail of smoke escaped the barrel. His eyes were wide with rage, and he raised a lone finger to his lips. Father Martin looked from Mike to me, and back, his face caked in fear, though I couldn’t tell if it was from my actions or Mike’s gunshot. Mike violently ushered me to move up in the line; he positioned me between the priest and himself before kicking his horse into a jogging pace.

We continued at a fast pace for a few hours until we reached a flat area on the mountainside; it was there that Mike dismounted and signaled for us to set up camp. After we had each pitched a canvas tent and laid out our bedrolls, Mike formed a fire pit and, gathering some wood, he soon had a fire going. Once the fire was roaring, Mike stood up and quickly knocked me to the ground with a swift right hook. Pulling my face from the dirt, I turned to him as he rolled up his sleeves.

“What the Hell?”  I screamed

He stood over me

“You’re going to get us all killed if you don’t listen to what I say.”

He reached a helping hand to me.

“You’re lucky it was just a punch; it could have been worse. I need you to pay attention out here.”

Though I was still a bit angry, I grasped his hand, and he pulled me up. He patted my shoulder and turned to the rest of the group.

“Alright, the sun will be setting soon, and the good Father already knows that he’ll be on watch through the night, but we’ll be taking shifts to watch with him. Got it?”

The men nodded in agreement, and Mike turned to me.

“You’re on first watch.” he tossed a lever-action rifle to me.

“Best stay alert.”

As the sky grew darker, the mood grew lighter; soon we were talking and laughing as we sat around the fire, eating our supper. As the hours passed, so did the men; each one moved in his own time to his tent, and soon all that remained was Father Martin and me. The priest and I sat on opposite sides of the fire; a rifle lay across my lap, and a book rested on his. The only noise in the dark of the night was the crackle of the fire. Father Martin stared intently at the book on his lap; I watched as he turned each page before finally breaking the silence.

“Is that the Bible?”

He looked up and shook his head

“No, it’s a history of sorts.”

“Of what?”

“This place.”

My eyes shifted to the fire for a moment before returning to the priest.

“What does it say?”

He closed the book and looked me in the eye

“Well, it was written by my predecessor, Father Jenkins. He tried to record the happenings of this place and the importance of the ride we’re currently on.”

I thought for a moment

“Is it helpful?”

He slowly shook his head

“No, most of it is the ramblings and superstitions of a tired old man.”

I nodded, pretending to understand. The two of us stared at the fire in silence for several minutes before I said

“Father, what’s really going on here?”

He continued to stare into the flames

“I wish I knew. Up until this afternoon, I thought this ride was just some strange local tradition, and maybe if I humored the ranchers I’d gain some respect in the community and maybe some more church members.”

His eyes shifted to me

“But now I don’t know what to think, and the truth is Father Jenkins didn’t know much, and even the Vatican doesn’t fully understand what is happening here.”

I chuckled a little

“Well then why do they need you?”

“I’m here for protection, from what I do not know. Mike told me that usually just the presence of a priest is enough, but if not, he told me Father Jenkins had some prayers written down.”

“Did you find the prayers?”

He slowly nodded

“I think so.”

“Father, this is all so...”

“Hello?”

A loud, sweet, yet sorrowful voice interrupted me.

The priest and I both looked to the source of the voice. In the darkness just beyond the boundaries of the fire’s light was a dark, small figure. It stood unmoving as we watched.

“Can you help me?”

The figure then began to snuffle and cry. Almost automatically, Father Martin stood up and walked a few feet closer. I cautiously stood and followed behind. Now, closer, we could see that the shape was a child, a young girl, looking no older than eight. Her feet were bare, and dirt covered her hands and face; she wore an old-fashioned dress, like what you would see in old pictures of the pioneers. A thin trail of tears flowed down her face.

Father Martin seemed to forget where he was, and instinctively he wanted to help.

“Don’t cry, my child.” He said sympathetically

“Are you alright? How can we help?”

The girl choked back tears and weakly said

“My Pa is hurt real bad; he’s just over the ridge. Please come with me and help.”

 The priest smiled warmly

“Of course, my child, just allow me to grab a flashlight.”

He turned towards the tent, and as he did, I placed a firm hand on his shoulder

“Father, don’t.”

The look on my face was enough to remind Father Martin where we were; at first he looked ashamed, and then his face hardened with resolve. He turned back towards the figure

“Child... if you are truly in need, may God send someone to help you. But I cannot leave this fire.” He said in a shaking voice.

Growing shadows hid the child's face from our view; it stood there staring at us before finally blankly saying.

“You won’t help me?”

Father Martin slowly put his hand into his pocket and removed a small wooden cross that he now held by his side.

He shook his head

“I will not.”

“What kind of priest won’t help a child in need?”

 The figure said

Father Martin swallowed hard and replied

“What kind of monster hides itself as a child?”

A deep, twisted laugh echoed from the figure, which was now completely obscured by shadow. The priest raised the cross towards the shape. And with a shaking voice, he said

“You are not welcome here; leave now.”

The child's voice was gone; in its place was a deep, creaking voice

“I have walked these valleys since before your churches had names. Before your roads. Before your fathers' fathers knew these mountains existed. The land knows me. The mountains know my presence. They know my scent. They do not know you.”

Father Martin swallowed hard. His eyes never left the thing in front of us.

"That may be true," he whispered. "But we are here now."

His hand tightened around the crucifix.

"So be gone."

The shape came closer, stopping just short of the reach of firelight.

There it stood, seeming so much taller, and though it was closer to the light, it was darker than night.

“The flame will not protect you forever; when it fails, I will find you.”

Father Martin began frantically muttering Hail Marys under his breath.

The moments that followed felt like an eternity, but soon the figure said

“See you soon, priest.”

Then it stepped back into the shadows and was gone. The woods fell silent. Then, somewhere beyond the trees, a child laughed.

The rest of the night we had no more visitors, though in the distance we could see shadowy shapes passing in the dark. In the morning we shared everything with Mike; he nodded soberly and told us.

“We just need to get these cows to the summit.”

As the fire went out, we returned to silence and packed camp, and soon we were back on the trail upward. The terrain grew more difficult, and the going was slow as the horses struggled over loose rock and steep grades. It wasn’t even midday when it happened.

Father Martin’s horse went into a panic when its feet slipped slightly. The inexperienced priest tried his best to hold on, but the startled horse threw its rider. Father Martin flew from the mount and landed hard on the rocky ground; his head landed first, then the rest of him. A loud snap was heard. Mike and I were the first to reach him. His head was bent back far enough to touch his back. He was dead.

Fear and sadness filled Mike’s face. A low

“Damn it.”

escaped his lips before he covered his mouth, realizing what he had done.

Breaking his own rule, he said

“Screw it, we got no choice, we have to finish the ride.”

The rest of us were silent.

Bill and I lifted the priest's lifeless body onto the back of my horse, laying him on his stomach with his legs on one side and head and arms on the other. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Father Martin's horse snorting as it paced in circles. Mike finally removed the crucifix from the priest's pocket and slipped it into his own pocket.

We continued.

The sun was beginning to set as we reached the summit. We pitched our tents and set a fire. Near our camp was an old hitching post, covered in strange carvings. Mike directed Will and me to hitch the two cows to it; he followed us over, holding the priest's book. He flipped through it, stopping at a page in the back.

“I hope this is the right one.” He muttered, then with one hand on the hitching post, he stumbled his way through the old Latin prayer.

Gathering the group together, Mike said

“Fellas, without the priest, we need to remain as quiet as possible tonight. Every one of us needs to remain in our tents. And pray to God that they accept the offering.”

Night fell, and every man cowered alone in his tent. From the entrance of mine, I saw the fire shrink as a steady rain began to fall. I couldn’t sleep. At around midnight, I heard a childlike hum make its way through the forest. It stopped just before entering the clearing, as if it was unsure if it could continue. The fire grew weaker. The hum grew closer. Peeking out of the flaps of my tent, I saw the same little girl that I did the night before. She walked through the camp, humming to herself

“Where did the priest go?” she said mockingly to herself

“Oh.” She stopped by the horse carrying Father Martin’s corpse

“There he is.” She laughed to herself

She snapped one of his fingers from his hand as if it were nothing and began chewing on it like a carrot.

“Is anyone home?” she joked to herself as she grew closer to the tents. She walked in front of every tent, making her way around the circle. I gasped loudly as she stopped right in front of mine.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?” came a far too cheerful voice

“May I come in?”

I held my breath

“Ok, I’m coming in”

With that, a small but powerful hand split apart the tent flaps and grabbed me by the collar, throwing me out of the tent and across the camp until my arm and side collided with a large pine. Falling to the ground, I screamed out in pain as the snap of bones came from my left arm.

 The little girl was walking towards me.

“Are you ok? Do you need help?”

A wide smile split her face as she drew closer. Just before she reached me, a loud crack echoed in the night, followed instantly by a loud inhuman scream coming from the girl. She whirled around to see Mike, standing at the entrance of his tent, his smoking lever-action pointed right at her.

“That’s far enough,” Mike's strong voice said

“You ain’t welcome here, now leave.”

The child chuckled and walked towards him. Mike fired; it had no effect. He fired again; still nothing. The girl grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanking it from his hands. She then used it like a bat, swinging the stock of the rifle violently at Mike's head. After three hits, his body fell to the ground. She grabbed a leg and quickly dragged him off into the night. As she disappeared, dozens of other dark, vaguely human shapes sprang from the woods and tore the tents and men to shreds. I heard my friends scream and beg for their lives, but the creatures didn’t care. It was a feeding frenzy; the dark shapes grabbed what flesh they could, fighting amongst themselves for the scraps.

As they were distracted by the remains of my crew, I slowly crawled my way to the nearest horse, the one carrying Father Martin. The Horse neighed slightly as I mounted it, and I winced in pain; they noticed that. I sped down the trail, but they followed.

I raced down the trail, the horse and I moving in tandem, both driven by fear and a desire to live. The things followed us; dozens of inhuman screams mixed with human pleas for us to stop and help them filled the air. As we left the mountains and entered the plains, the horse began to tire. Father Martin was weighing us down. I twisted around in the saddle and cut the ropes that secured the holy man; he rolled unceremoniously off and plopped onto the ground. The herd behind us devoured the body like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The sun was rising when the ranch came into view; I kept going. Riding into the nearest town, I ditched the horse for a rental car. I’m writing this from a hotel room just outside of Bozeman. My flight leaves in three hours. I don't know if I can make it to the airport. I’m scared to leave the room. For the last hour, there has been knocking at the door, and the voice of Father Martin keeps repeating

“Hello? Are you ok? Please let me in.”