u/NoCardiologist1353

Take it from an expert.

Stay out of the woods.

I’m a wildlife biologist, and for the last several years I’ve been posted to a conservation outpost deep in the Rocky Mountains.

My coworkers and I are overseeing the reintroduction of timber wolves in this region. Most of my work involves tracking the wolves. We monitor their populations and study their movements using tracking collars we've placed on several members of the pack.

For months, everything was going better than anticipated, but about two weeks ago we noticed something strange. According to our trackers, the pack had started avoiding one particular valley.

It started slowly; we noticed the pack spending less and less time in a pristine valley. Up until this point, the wolves had been roaming the valley quite regularly, but we just figured they were settling into a different part of the region. Soon we realized that wasn’t at all the case; the pack was still in the area. They just avoided the valley. The trackers painted a clear picture: the wolves were going everywhere, but not the valley.

We had a staff meeting to discuss what could be causing this.

The ten of us shuffled into the small, rarely used conference room.

Mike, our lead researcher, stood up and passed around some diagrams. Making his way to the front, he said

“Take a look at the printout.” He paused for a moment as the room filled with the sound of rustling paper

 “We've mapped every collar ping we've received over the last two weeks. As you can see, the pack is still moving throughout the region.”

He pointed toward the map.

“But they aren't entering the valley.”

He paused.

“Not once in the last two weeks.”

“The boundary is almost perfect. They approach it, turn around, and go somewhere else. So, what are we looking at?”

The room fell silent for a moment as eyes stared thoughtfully into the distance or blankly at the handout.

“Maybe another predator has settled in the valley,” Frank spoke up

A mocking laugh rose from the other side of the room

“Like what?” Amanda said

“Bigfoot? Come on, Frank, you should know better; even a mountain lion wouldn’t be enough to scare an entire pack from its territory.”

“Well, what’s your bright idea?” Frank sarcastically said

Amanda shrugged

“Probably bad water.”

At that, the room erupted with both critique and defense of Amanda’s explanation. The argument lasted a few minutes before Mike spoke up

“Alright, that’s enough!” he loudly commanded

“Does anyone here have an explanation that has evidence?”

The room was silent.

“I didn’t think so.”

 Mike looked down at the map again.

“Whatever is happening, we're not going to figure it out sitting in this room. We need someone on the ground. So I’m asking for two volunteers to go into the valley and find some evidence.”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand

“Great, thank you, Chris. Who else?” Mike said

“I’ll go,” Will said from across the room.

“Great, get your packs ready. Tomorrow morning I’ll drive you two to the trailhead.”

The sun was barely up, but Will and I had already been bouncing around in the back of Mike’s Jeep for over an hour. A ten-mile, all-wheel-drive-only road separated the research facility from the only trail into the research region. It was slow going; the road was barely that, and more like a rocky, dry riverbed winding its way through the wilderness.

As we neared the trailhead, Mike shouted back to us

“It’s going to be just you two for a while; I’ll be back in three days to pick you up, sound good?”

Will and I nodded, and I glanced in Will’s direction; his face showed a strange mix of excitement and fear. He was the youngest member of the team, fresh out of college and barely 23.

“Hey,” I shouted to get his attention.

His blue eyes turned towards me.

“Don’t worry about this; just think of it as a camping trip.”

He nodded and forced a grin.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun.”

“Keep the radio on.” Mike interrupted

 “If you get into trouble, call me.”

“Got it.” I gave him a big thumbs up.

“And don't get separated.”

“We won't.”

The Jeep came to a stop in a tiny clearing; a narrow trail disappeared into the pines. I reached for my pack and jumped to the dirt; Will followed me. Mike called to us as we moved towards the trail

“Stay safe, keep the radio on!” With that, he backed up and headed back down the road. The noise of the jeep resounded in the forest for a while, but soon all was quiet. Almost too quiet: no birds, no wind moving through the trees, just silence.

I turned towards the trail, and then towards Will. With a hand, he beckoned me to go ahead.

“After you.” He said.

According to our maps, the valley was roughly 5 miles from the trailhead. The going was slow; the trail was rugged and steep in places. But what slowed us down the most was the research we were gathering.

Every mile, we stopped and examined the area for signs of wolves. In the first three miles, we found very little evidence of wolves, but in miles four and five, we found quite a lot of tracks and scat. This confirmed what the trackers had shown; the wolves were still in the area of the valley.

At the top of a small ridge, we stopped. Below was the valley. It was roughly 6 miles in length and 2 miles in width. Various groves of aspen trees dotted its open prairie, as well as the occasional pine tree. A healthy creek flowed from one end to the other; a beaver dam formed a small pond near the center of the valley.

“Well, there it is.” I declared

Will nodded

“Sure looks different than that map we’ve been staring at for weeks.”

“Sure does,” I said as I pulled out the map with the tracker data points.

“Looks like the boundary Mike was talking about is about 100 feet ahead.”

“Let’s check for signs there,” Will replied

We made our way to the perimeter of the valley; there we found a high volume of wolf tracks. The tracks formed a path along the border of the valley. It was strange to look at; it was like the tracks simply refused to go any further into the valley. On the valley side, the land didn’t bear a single track.

The two of us marveled at this unusual behavior. I turned to Will and said

“Let’s follow the tracks for a bit; you go to the left, and I’ll go right, meet back here at the trail in an hour.”

With a nod, he replied

“Sounds good.”

I followed the tracks to the right for about a mile and a half, but could see that they continued much further; the tracks curved around the perimeter of the valley, without one wayward pawprint crossing into the valley. I also began to notice marks on the trees along the perimeter. They were everywhere. Not on every tree, but close enough that I could almost follow them from one to the next. And every one of them was on the side of the tree facing the valley.

Making marks on trees is not an uncommon practice in the natural world. Bears do it; deer and elk do it. But these were different; I’ve never seen marks like this. The bark had been ripped away in long, uneven strips. Some of the gouges were more than an inch deep, exposing pale wood underneath. I couldn't think of a single animal in the area capable of doing that.

When I got back to the trail, Will was already there. His eyes were wide with concern, but he gave a smile as he saw me.

“Did the tracks go around the valley?” I asked

“Yeah.”

“Did you see marks on the trees?”

He swallowed and nodded

“Yeah.”

I tried to play it off

“Not a big deal; a lot of animals do that. Could just be one marking its territory; maybe Frank was right, and there’s a new predator in the area.”

He thought about it before replying

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

He stared down at the valley

“Now what?” he asked

I pointed toward a grove of aspens near the pond. The ground there looked flat, and we'd have easy access to water.

“Let’s set up camp near those trees, and then we’ll record these findings.”

It was mid-afternoon by the time we had finished setting up camp. I lazily rested in the hammock I had packed, while Will tried some fishing in the pond. The valley was quiet and peaceful. And the combination of exhaustion from the hike and the soothing rocking of the hammock sent me into a deep sleep.

When I woke, Will was tending a fire and setting up the small camp stove we had brought. I stepped out of the hammock and walked over to the fireside.

“Hey,” Will said with a smile

“Hey,” I yawned. “What time is it?”

“A little after six. Are you hungry? I was going to get dinner going.”

I nodded

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Moments later, we enjoyed rehydrated beef stroganoff around a warm fire. The setting was beautiful; in that moment, I was glad I had volunteered for this outing.

“Did you catch anything?” I asked Will

He shook his head

“Nah, I gave up pretty quick.”

He stared off into the valley

“You good?”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know.”

I stared at him, waiting for him to continue

“It’s just that, I’ve looked around while you were asleep, and I can’t find evidence of any animals living here.”

He took a drink from his water bottle

“I haven’t seen any tracks of any kind; I haven’t heard any birds since we’ve been in the valley; even the beaver dam is abandoned. Haven’t seen any fish in the pond either.”

I shrugged and replied

“Could just be the ecosystem adjusting to the reintroduction of a predator into the food chain.”

He smirked

“Come on, man, you know it’s never this drastic; there’s something else happening here.”

I looked at him; his eyes told me he was serious. I nodded in agreement

“Ok, you’re right. This is unusual, but we need more evidence before including this in our report.”

His jaw clenched

“Morning. Our priority will be trying to find evidence of any animal; if we can’t, we’ll add that to our findings, then our focus will shift to finding a cause for this.”

“Sounds good.” Is all he said.

An hour or so later, we both prepared to go to bed; dousing the fire, we entered our individual tents. Several hours later, I was awakened by loud howling and yipping. Peeking my head out of the tent, I saw that Will was already up, so, slipping on my boots, I quietly made my way to him. He held our night vision camera in his hand.

“What is it?” I whispered

“It’s the wolves,” he whispered back

“They’re at the edge of the valley.”

He handed me the camera, and I pointed it to the perimeter. There were so many wolves about fifty; they stood there on the edge of the valley; some ran up and down their path of tracks, others stood still, looking into the valley, howling and barking loudly. It was like they were behind glass.

We watched for a while, and at some point a fight broke out within the pack; several larger wolves surrounded a smaller one who tried to defend itself as best as it could, but the bigger wolves began to push it towards the perimeter of the valley, the night air filled with the sounds of angry dogs and the whimpering of their target. Eventually, the weaker animal lost as the attackers pushed it into the valley. The pack went silent, and only the whimpering of the frightened animal was heard. The Wolf looked wildly around and then, in a panic, it ran down into the valley; it passed our camp running deeper into the valley, whining all the way, and vanished into the darkness of the night.

The pack on the outside of the valley stood and quietly watched; then the alpha turned and walked away the others followed.

“What the hell?” I muttered

Will and I stared in the direction the wolf had run; it was further north. We hadn’t been in that part of the valley yet. As we looked in that direction in the distance, we heard a scared yip of a wolf, then the rest of the night was quiet.

We made a small fire and sat around it. Will finally spoke

“What was that?”

I stared into the fire

“I’m not sure,” I replied

The fire grew cold, and we finally returned to our tents.

Morning came, and Will and I silently prepared for the day. It wasn’t till after breakfast that we spoke to each other.

“I think we should try to find where that wolf went.” I broke the silence

Will stared at the pond and tried to skip a stone across the water

“Okay,” he slowly nodded

We gathered our gear, located the wolf’s tracks, and followed them. The tracks continued across the valley’s open prairie, making their way to the thick clusters of pines on the opposite end. The tracks disappeared behind a large clump of bushes. Behind them, we found the wolf, or what was left of it. Lying in the dirt was the body of the wolf. Its skin had been carefully removed and was missing. Its exposed muscles, bones, and sinew were wet with blood. It smelled awful, but not a single fly or maggot could be seen. All four of its paws had been cleanly cut off just about the ankle joint.

I looked to Will; his face was as white as I’m sure mine was.

“Get back to camp,” I muttered

Will didn’t need to be told twice. The body of the wolf was about two miles from our camp, and we ran the whole way. We were nearly back to camp when I stepped in a gopher hole. I heard my ankle pop, and I fell to the ground.

“Damn it,” I muttered in pain. Will pulled me to my feet and helped me hobble back to the camp. I twisted my ankle, and it was very swollen. I winced as I removed the boot; it was painful to move.

Will was near panic

“We need to get out of here.” He declared

“I know, but I can’t with my ankle like this.”

I winced in pain

“Call Mike on the radio”

He handed it to me. I turned it on

“Mike, do you read? We need help; I’ve injured my leg.”

Only static replied

“Mike, are you there?”

Again, only static.

“The mountains must be blocking the signal,” I said to Will

 “We’re going to have to wait till the swelling goes down.”

He clenched his jaw but finally agreed. For the rest of the day, we remained in camp. Will rarely looked away from the direction we found the wolf. Every thirty minutes he tried the radio; no one ever responded. At sunset, we heard a scream from where we found the wolf. It sounded like a woman screaming for her life. Will looked at me

“It’s a mountain lion. That’s what’s been causing this.”

I nodded; the roar of a Mountain lion sounds like a woman screaming.

“I agree, but it’s unlike a mountain lion to do something like that to a wolf.”

He shrugged

“Doesn’t matter if we can find a track or scat; that’s enough proof, and we can be done with this.”

“Ok, tomorrow let’s find the proof, then get back to the trailhead.”

“What about your leg?” Will asked

“Don’t worry about it; it’ll be better tomorrow.”

That satisfied him, and he headed to his tent. I went to mine shortly after.

The next morning I found a note on my tent; it said

“You rest, I’ll find the cat. Will”

“Damn it, Will,” I muttered as I looked around the area.

He was gone, probably had been for a while. My foot was still swollen, but not nearly as painful as last night. I hobbled my way over to the camp stove and prepared some breakfast. Deciding that if he wasn’t back in an hour, I’d go after him.

An hour came and went, and there was no sign of Will. Rising to my feet, I called out to him

“Will!” his name echoed across the valley with no reply

“Will, where are you?” I cried again; still nothing.

Choosing a stick for support, I slowly made my way down the valley. It was afternoon by the time I reached the wooded section of the valley. I passed by the skinned wolf; it didn’t seem to be decaying in any way. I stopped and called for Will

“Will! It’s Chris, are you ok?”

The quiet forest gave no response; it was there that I saw Will’s footsteps going deeper in. I followed them as best as I could. The footsteps went around a large boulder. I’ll never forget what I saw there. The limp, skinned body of Will lay in a blood-soaked clearing. It looked like his skin had been perfectly peeled from his form. His feet and ankles were gone. His blue eyes had been pulled from his head and placed gently on a flat rock.

I could feel vomit rising in my throat. I turned away; the sight and smell were too much for me. My eyes flooded with tears. I wanted to leave, but the nearby snap of a twig froze me in place. Another twig snapped, followed by loud rustling in the bushes. It was close, no further than fifty yards. The rustling and snapping twigs moved with purpose, then stopped. All was quiet for a moment, then a dry, haunting voice echoed off the trees.

“Will! It’s Chris. Are you ok?”

It was my voice, a poor, inhuman mimic of my voice; it lacked all cadence and emotion.

“Will, where are you?”

It copied me again, then the rustling continued. Adrenaline filled my veins, and I moved as fast as my foot would allow. I didn’t stop to pack my tent or grab my pack. The sun was setting as I returned to the trail. As I left the valley, the voice spoke again from behind me. Only this time it wasn’t my voice; it was Will’s

“Chris, are you ok?”

“Chris, where are you going?”

In the dark, I stumbled my way along the trail. There was no moon that night, and I didn’t have a light with me. But I kept going. I couldn’t stop; every time I did, I heard strange noises behind me in the distance. It sounded like bone grinding on bone. It was a little before sunrise when I stumbled off the trail into the small clearing where Mike had left us. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait too long to hear the distant rumble of Mike’s jeep moving up the mountain. Relief flooded me when the vehicle came into view. A smiling Mike excited the jeep

“Good to see you, Chris,” he explained, but looking around, a frown filled his face

“Where’s Will?”

“Will’s gone,” was all I could say

“What?”

“He’s gone.” Tears began to form in my eyes

But a noise came from the trail, loud footsteps then Will came into view.

“Sorry,” this Will said with a grin. “Had to take a piss; fell a bit behind.”

He looked at me

“Hey Chris, you left your pack back there.” he headed my pack to me

“Didn’t want you to forget it,” he said, and a sly smirk stretched across his face.

I stared in disbelief and fear

“Great,” Mike said. “Let’s get you boys out of here.”

I turned to him, wide-eyed

“Why didn’t you answer the radio?” I whispered

A puzzled look crossed his face

“What do you mean? Will was in contact with me the whole time.”

“Yeah,” the thing acting as Will spoke up

“Don’t you remember Chris? You asked me to deal with the radio,” it said with a wide smile

I stared at the ground in confusion

“Sounds like you could use some rest, Chris,” Mike said

“Hop in; we’ll debrief back at the station.”

Absentmindedly, I climbed into the back of the jeep. ‘Will’ followed. In the back of the jeep, we sat opposite each other. I stared at it, and it stared back; a wide, lazy smile never left the face of my dead friend. Dull yellowish-green eyes sat behind his skin. With each bump in the road, the stolen skin grew loose on a face it didn’t belong to. At one point, the skin surrounding the left eye socket was knocked loose, and gravity pulled it down the cheek, revealing blackened bones and decaying muscle that hid beneath. The thing calmly used one finger to pull the skin back up and stick it in place. All while smiling and staring at me.

The moment we arrived at the station, I hopped out of the jeep and hurried to my living quarters. I’m still there as I write this; I don’t know what to do. The thing is at my door; I see its shadow under the door and hear its heavy breathing. I’m writing this because I doubt anyone here would believe me, and at the moment I’m not sure any of us are leaving alive. Please listen to my warning; there are things out there that we were never meant to find.

Stay out of the woods.

You never know what will follow you home.

Let me give you a bit of advice.

Never buy a used mattress.

No matter how cheap, it's just not worth it.

And it's not bedbugs or bodily fluids that are the problem.

About a month ago, I sat on the couch in my mom’s basement. I was looking for work; the last job I had told me I needed to take a ‘permanent vacation ’, a humbling thing to hear from McDonald's. I scrolled lazily through online listings; everything I saw either didn’t pay enough or required some experience that I didn’t have. That is all but one; what caught my eye was the pay. $45 an hour. What’s more, no experience required. A security guard position at Uncle Dan’s Mattress Emporium.

I applied, and the next morning an email informed me I had been hired, and my first day was Monday at 10 AM. No call, no interview, but I wasn’t complaining. And on the following Monday, I found myself sitting in my worn-down car in Uncle Dan’s empty parking lot at 9:50.

The parking lot was large, but run-down. Wild weeds sprouted in cracks in the weathered asphalt. Uncle Dan’s Mattress Emporium was a massive, bland warehouse. Dirty, greyish-white walls bore no windows and were only broken up by a row of glass automatic doors in the center. Above them, a huge sign shouted ‘Uncle Dan’s Mattress Emporium’ in a dull lemon yellow. Next to the words, a winking man with an over-saturated moustache grinned wildly into the parking lot.

I walked up to the store; the first thing I noticed was two bright red posters on the sliding door that read:

NO REFUNDS. ALL SALES FINAL.

Reaching the doors, they didn’t open for me. Looking inside, the lights were off, but movement caught my eye, so I banged on the glass till a figure moved towards the door. The man inside flipped a switch near the doors, and they opened for me.

“We’re not open for another 40 minutes,” he stated drily

He was a slender man, except for a large, rounded belly. A comb-over failed to hide his balding head, and a large mustache covered his upper lip; he wore a red polo tucked into tan, stained slacks. A thick gold chain hung around his neck.

“Um, no, I’m not here to shop; I’m Matt. Today’s supposed to be my first day?” I took a step inside.

“Oh right, our new day shift guard”

He sighed

“Follow me”

He turned and began to walk away, and I hurried to catch up. We awkwardly walked in silence for a while before I asked

 “Are you Dan?”

“Who?”

“Um, Uncle Dan?”

“No”

“Oh, sorry.”

“I’m Paul, the owner.”

“So who’s Dan?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

He grunted and pointed to a hallway across the show floor.

“The Break room is down that hall. I’ll meet you there; I've got to grab some papers from my office.”

I nodded and headed towards the break room. The showroom was cavernous, and every inch seemed to be used; hundreds of display mattresses were set up, leaving a maze of narrow walkways. The break room was just as dingy as the rest of the place; a peeling fake leather couch sat against the far wall, and a small table and three chairs sat in the center of the room. An old fridge and kitchen sink were all that filled the rest of the space.

I sat at the table and waited a moment. Later, Paul entered and sat across from me. He handed me the standard paperwork for me to sign, and as I signed, he lifted a paper for me to see and said

“I’m going to read this; it's part of our onboarding process.”

He gave a very dry reading

“Welcome to your new career at Uncle Dan’s Mattress. We’re happy to have you as part of the family. Here at Dan’s, we are proud to be the region’s largest seller of used mattresses”

“What?” I interrupted

“Huh?”

“Used Mattresses?”

“Yeah, we buy used mattresses from hotels, estate sales, and police auctions. We then sell them at a discount.”

“I didn’t know people bought used mattresses”

He shrugged and kept on reading

“We strive to be a good working environment, and we are proud to offer our employees a generous 10% off any mattresses. Each employee will get two unpaid ten-minute breaks and a 30-minute lunch break per eight-hour shift. We are thankful for our workers and if you have any questions don’t hesitate to ask you’re shift manager.”

His face was blank when he looked up from the paper.

“Any questions?”

I shook my head

“Good.” He said

“You are our new daytime security guard”

He paused to release a sigh

“Part of your job will be to be on the lookout for people casing the place; we’ve had break-ins before.”

He scratched his balding head.

“But the biggest part of your job will be handling people attempting to return a mattress. We don’t accept returns or offer refunds.”

I nodded

“I saw the sign,” I said

“Good,” Paul replied. “Some people get pretty aggressive when trying to return an item, so we need you to be the hard ‘no’ and enforce our policy.”

I nodded

“Can do.”

“Good, your uniform is in the office; go put it on.”

I got up and headed towards the door, as I reached it Paul spoke up

“Oh, another thing.”

 I turned back towards him. He tossed me a handheld timer

“Don't let customers test the mattresses too long. Nobody lies on anything for more than ten minutes.”

“Why?”

“Because that's the policy.”

“What happens after ten minutes?”

He looked at me like I'd asked something stupid.

“You don't let them get to ten minutes. Got it? If someone gets close to ten minutes, don't argue with them. Just get them off.”

“Yeah, I got it,” I said with a nod

‘Must be worried about bedbugs,’ I thought to myself as I went to try on my uniform. By the time I returned from putting my cheap security uniform on, the majority of the sales staff had arrived; they all seemed nice enough, and before long the store was open for business.

That first day was nothing strange; I did my best to not be conspicuous as I kept an eye on the customers. By the afternoon, I decided to start informing customers that they could only test the mattresses for a short period. Most people just nodded, but when they realized I was watching, they never lay down for long. Only a young couple gave me trouble; they laughed when I told them, and as I watched, they mocked me. But when I threatened to kick them out after they had been testing the bed for nine minutes, they made a scene and threatened to give us bad reviews online as they stormed out.

Paul stopped by after they left; all he said was

“Good job, keep it up.”

The next few days were ordinary, if not dull. I found myself settling into a job that was proving to be more boring than McDonald's. It was Friday when things began to change. It was late in the day, about 45 minutes before closing time; I had already mentally checked out for the day. But then our last customer of the day walked in.

She was young; my guess was she was a college freshman. She was dirty, her hair was unkempt, and she looked like she hadn’t washed in days. Her face was full of fear, and her eyes were red and swollen, like she had been crying nonstop. As she walked into the store, she dragged a filthy, yellowed twin-sized mattress behind her. As she walked in, her eyes locked onto me. Her pace quickened towards me, and tears began to fall down her cheeks.

“I need to return this mattress, please.” Her voice was desperate

Instinctively, I took a step back as she reached me. Raising both hands towards her, I calmly said

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we don’t offer refunds.”

“No, you don’t understand. It's ruining my life, please.” She begged

I didn’t know what to say, so I just repeated myself

“Ma’am, we don’t offer refunds. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“I don’t want a refund; I just need to get rid of this damn mattress, please.”

I raised my voice slightly

“Ma’am, we don’t accept returns. Please take your mattress and leave the store.”

“No!” she screamed wildly before dropping the mattress and running out of the store.

I took a deep breath and tried to calm down; the woman’s yellow mattress lay on the floor. I stared at it, noticing a dark red stain on the far corner that seemed to continue onto the underside. It looked old; the reddish-brown color was so ingrained in the fabric that it seemed like no stain remover could remove it. The mattress made me uncomfortable, so I left it where it lay and used my earpiece to call for Paul.

Paul walked up slowly; his eyes glanced from the mattress to me

“What happened?” he asked

“A customer wanted to return this. When I said no, she left it and ran off before I could stop her.”

A flash of concern appeared and disappeared on Paul's face; he stared at the mattress and quietly swore under his breath. Finally, he looked at me and asked

“Did you touch it?”

I shook my head no

“Good. Wait here.”

 He jogged off to his office and returned a moment later with two pairs of black gloves. He tossed a pair to me while he put his on.

“Put these on.” He said blankly

I didn’t argue.

Once our gloves were on, we carried the mattress to Paul’s truck; the sun was beginning to set.

“Get in,” Paul demanded

In silence, we drove down a dark dirt road. Paul seemed to know where we were going, but I certainly didn’t. Paul slowed the truck as we neared a dead end deep in the woods.

“Did she touch you?” Paul broke the silence

“What?”

“The girl who brought the mattress, did she touch you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

He nodded his head slowly

“That’s good; can’t be too careful.”

The truck stopped, and we unloaded the mattress onto what looked like a burn pile. Paul dosed the thing with lighter fluid and tossed a match onto it; instantly it ignited. The two of us stood there watching the orange flames consume the old mattress. I turned to look at Paul and couldn’t help but ask

“Why did we do this?"

He stared into the flames and shrugged

“You never know what’s on these old things.”

He turned to me and put a hand on my shoulder

“You did good today. How about you take the day off tomorrow? We’ll pay you for the day, to make up for your trouble tonight.”

I nodded, and we returned to the truck.

 I returned to work on Monday; it was even more boring than last week. A few angry customers tried to return their mattress; an older woman screamed in my face when I refused her return, but took her mattress with her when I threatened to call the cops. The week dragged on. It was Thursday night, an hour before closing. Paul walked up to me; a frown filled his face

“Everything ok Boss?” I cautiously asked

“Well, not really.” He replied

I swallowed, preparing for the worst.

“Our night guard called in sick.” He said with a sigh.

He looked me in the eye

“I really need someone here tonight. I know you’re probably wanting to head home, but if you could cover this shift, I can offer you $75 an hour.”

I thought for a moment; the extra money would be a big boost, and honestly, I didn’t have plans for the night.

“Can I have tomorrow off if I do?”

A half-grin appeared on his face.

“Sure thing. Thanks, kid.”

He pointed to his office

“Let’s talk in the office.”

We retreated to the shabby, cramped office. Paul opened a large cabinet, revealing several monitors showing multiple angles of the perimeter of the building.

“You’ll be in here most of the time; keep an eye on the cameras. Every hour, do a check of the building, both the warehouse and showroom.”

He pulled a flashlight from a drawer and handed it to me

“Only the lights here in the office will be on, so you’ll need this.”

I nodded

“Oh, also, and this is important”

He stared intently at me

“Don’t sit or lie on any of the mattresses for more than ten minutes.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I replied

I walked with him up to the front doors; he flipped a master switch, and with a groan, the industrial lights of the showroom went dark. I watched Paul lock the doors from outside and head to his truck, then I turned around to the dark, vast space, flipped on the narrow beam of my flashlight, and worked my way through the maze of mattresses back to the office.

After a few hours and rounds around the building, I began to settle in for the night. I set an hour-long timer on my phone and did my rounds when I had to, but other than that, I lounged in the office watching YouTube videos. I even ordered some DoorDash around midnight.

Thirty minutes after midnight, I saw my DoorDash driver appear on the front door camera. I hurried my way through the dark showroom and soon saw the man holding my food, nervously looking around. I began to unlock the door when I heard a distant chuckle. I paused and looked behind me with the flashlight, but I didn’t see anything. The delivery man pounded on the door, which brought my focus back to the door.

“Hey, sorry,” I said as the door opened

“No worries, here.” He handed me my food.

“Thanks, hey, were you laughing out here when I was opening the door?”

He looked at me funny then shook his head

“Nah.” He turned and walked away.

I relocked the door. As I scanned the showroom with my flashlight, I did my best to convince myself that it had just been my imagination. I ate my greasy burger and fries at Paul’s desk while watching some mindless video. The security monitors were in my peripheral vision. Movement and a dull thump on one screen made me freeze mid-chew. My eyes moved to the security monitors.

The monitor showed the only camera that looked into the warehouse; in the center of the screen, a mattress wrapped in clear plastic lay on the floor. It hadn’t been there before. It looked like it had fallen off the nearby storage rack.

I stared at the screen intently. Swallowing hard, I stood up, and though I didn’t want to, I knew I had to go into the warehouse. Looking around the office, I saw an old baseball bat in the corner. I grabbed it and stepped into the darkness.

The heavy door to the warehouse squeaked loudly as I pushed it open. I cautiously stepped inside; every step gave a muted echo in the large open space.

“Hello?” I said

My voice seemed so small in the vast area.

“You can’t be back here.” I gripped the bat tighter.

The lone mattress finally came into view. I stood next to it and scanned the space with the light. There was no sign of an intruder, since the storage racks were vaulted; there weren’t a lot of places for a person to hide. I felt a little better and easily convinced myself that the mattress hadn’t been placed properly and had fallen on its own. I pushed it off to the side; it wasn’t my job to store this junk. I did a slightly more thorough walk-through before returning to the office.

It was nearly 2 am when I started getting sleepy. I could barely keep my eyes open, so I decided to do another walk around the building. I yawned and stumbled around slowly; after a while, I slowed to a stop. Before me was a king-sized mattress; it looked so inviting, so cozy. After a moment, I gave in and lay down on it.

“I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment,” I mumbled aloud.

It must have been after 3 am when a sharp pain in my right leg woke me up. Dazed, I sat up in bed and shone the light on my calf. To my shock, two long, deep gashes leaked my dark blood onto the mattress. It wasn’t the same mattress I had fallen asleep on. Before, it had been perfectly white and new-looking, the best-looking mattress in the whole place. But now it was worn and yellow; several black, moldy spots dotted its surface. It smelled terrible.

“What the hell?” I muttered

A distinct shuffling answered me. I froze, instantly aware that I wasn’t alone. I lifted the flashlight towards the darkness, but it flickered and quickly died. I smacked it a few times, but it didn’t help; more movement echoed through the store.

“Who’s there?” I whispered as I scooted to the far side of the bed.

“I’m here.” A dull, almost angry-sounding voice replied

My heart skipped a beat as a tall, dark shape rose from behind the mattress across the aisle. It seemed to be made of nothing but shadow. I panicked and fell off the bed as the shape slowly moved closer. Back on my feet, I dashed down the aisle; the sound of bed frames scraping across the floor told me it was following me. I glanced back at the shadow with every step it seemed to change. It slowly became more human, eventually taking the form of a middle-aged man. He wore pajamas stained with blood that somehow looked to be still wet; his eyes were completely black. His pajamas were stained with blood, and when he stepped into the light, I saw two long gashes running down his right leg.

At the end of the aisle, I tripped on the corner of a bed frame and tumbled to the floor. Instinctively, I crawled under the frame, passed into the next aisle, and hid under another. I held my breath as I saw the figure's feet walk by a few aisles over. It made no noise as it moved. At the end of the aisle, it froze for a moment before walking away from my hiding spot. Releasing my breath, I looked around and saw the door to the office just a few hundred feet to my left. My hands shook as I left my hiding spot and crept my way to the office.

Once inside, I locked the door, pulled out my phone, and called Paul. It rang a few times before a groggy Paul picked up

“Hello?” he yawned

“Paul,” I whispered loudly

“Someone is in the store.”

“What?” he sounded more alert

“They cut my leg; I got away, but they’re looking for me.”

“Did you sleep on a mattress?”

“What?”

“Don’t lie, did you?”

“Well, yeah.”

He was silent for a moment before muttering

“Damn it.”

“Paul, what is going on?”

He gave a loud sigh

“Some of the mattresses we buy, usually the ones from police auctions, have some kind of attachment.”

 “What?” I nearly yelled into the phone

“What’d you expect from used mattresses?” Paul blankly responded

“So we sell haunted mattresses?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘haunted.’”

“Well, what damn word would you use?”

“Cheap.”

I stared at the wall. Why did I ever take this job?

“Listen,” Paul continued

“There’s a container of salt in the desk drawer; line the door with salt and stay put. I’ll be there at first light.”

With that, he hung up. And I quickly laid a thick line of salt across the doorway. Moments later, the door shook with desperate pounding.

“I found you.” The voice was playful, but aggressive

“Please come out”

Loud knocks rocked the door.

“You can’t get away; I’ll follow.”

I hid under the desk.

An angry scream filled the room

“Let me in!”

The door groaned and rattled in its hinges, but it held. The screaming and knocking continued for hours, only growing quiet when the light of the sunrise peeked through the window. The banging stopped, and the voice said

“See you later.”

Then everything was quiet. Half an hour later, I heard the sound of the door unlocking. Peeking out from under the desk, I saw Paul walk in.

“You ok?” he asked

“Yeah. Now I am.”

He grunted and nodded.

“Which mattress did you sleep on?”

I led him to it. He stared at it and then took a pair of black gloves from his pocket.

“I’ll help you load it up.”

Confused, I looked at him

“What?”

“You slept on it; it’s yours now.”

Panic ran through me.

“I don’t want it!”

“Sorry,” he said

“We don’t offer refunds.”

I learned a lot working at the Main Street Pharmacy.

Mostly useless stuff, like how much ibuprofen a small town needs, what flavor of Mt Dew sells best during summers, and that the town’s mayor uses a lot of Viagra.

But most importantly, I learned how dangerous a pill called ‘Doc Harden’s Fresh Start’ really is.

I started at the Pharmacy shortly after moving to town at the start of the year. My grandma was kind enough to give me a room after the halfway house released me. Her only stipulation was that I kept a job. She was friends with the owner of the pharmacy and convinced him to give me a job at the register.

Karl was the only pharmacist within a forty-mile radius; the store was all he knew, and his balding head and baggy eyes showed his commitment. On my first day, he gave me a short tour around the small, dusty shop. He showed me the worn medication counter in the back, the cobweb-covered shelves, the flickering fridges, and finally the small register station.

“Here’s where you’ll be working,” Karl said in a low monotone voice.

 I nodded and forced a smile

“Great!” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“I’ll handle the medication and prescriptions in the back; you’re here to deal with the over-the-counter items.”

His voice couldn’t have been more boring.

With a nod, I said

“Sounds simple enough.”

He eyed me

“Where’d you work before this?”

It was the question I always dreaded.

“Nowhere, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow; my smile faded

“I was in recovery; I had some drug issues after high school.”

His face was hard as stone. He muttered to himself as if I wasn’t there

“Sure wish Joline had mentioned that.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw.

“Just know, there are cameras in here, and I handle all the drugs. So don’t even think about it.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into his office in the back

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” I sighed; some people struggle to believe people can change.

Now alone, I took some time to familiarize myself with the numerous shelves and their contents. It was fairly typical, even if it was outdated. A small snack section, a mix of generic and name-brand allergy relief, and various flu and cold treatments. I was about to return to the register when an item on the bottom shelf in the back corner caught my eye.

It was different than the other products; there was no listed price on the shelf. Reaching down, I picked one up to examine it. It was a large single pill, greenish-brown in color, resting in a plastic cocoon, fastened to a colorful cardboard backboard no bigger than my phone. I stared at the pill; small flecks of glitter reflected the dying fluorescent light from above as I turned the package in my hands. Above the pill's housing, large vibrant words were sprawled across the cardboard backing. It read:

“Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.”

In smaller words beneath said

“Another chance in a pill!”

I frowned as I turned the container over in my hand and read the back. There was nothing, no FDA statements, no instructions, no list of ingredients, just plain brown cardboard. Confused, I slowly walked to the door in the back and knocked gently

“Karl?” The door creaked as I slowly opened it. He sat at the desk, his eyes glued to the computer in front of him.

“What?”

I held up the packet of ‘Fresh Start’

“What’s this?”

He looked at the item and turned back to the screen.

“It’s a pill; it's not unusual for a pharmacy to have pills.” He replied sarcastically  

My jaw clenched at his response, but I continued

“Yeah, but what is it? It doesn’t even have a price; what do I charge for it?”

“Don’t worry about it; the people who use that know what it costs.”

“But what do I ring it up as?”

“Just accept whatever they give, not up to us.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask for an explanation. Karl continued

“Look, I’m pretty busy; I just need you to man the register. Think you can do that?” his voice was degrading.

“Sure, whatever.” I let the door slam as I walked up front.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started to get into a routine of boredom. The job was simple, and customers were sparse and pretty regular: the same elderly people who’d shuffle straight to the back to pick up their prescriptions, or the same group of middle schoolers grabbing Doritos and Monsters after school. Now and then, an unfamiliar face would stop in to grab some allergy relief or treat their cold.

The strangest clientele were those shopping for “Doc Harden’s Fresh Start”. It was always the same five or six people; each one would stop in every three or four days, hands shaking, pupils dilated, and a cold sweat glistening on their foreheads. Symptoms I knew all too well, withdraw. They would rush to the back corner, grab the pill, and hurry back to the register. The strangest part was their payments.

No two payments were alike. The first buyer I encountered was a jittery thirty-year-old woman; her black hoodie was drenched with sweat, and tremors shook her body. A strange, hungry look filled her eyes. With a slam, she laid the pill package on the counter. I looked at it and then at her. Her eyes fluttered around before resting on the pill and staring at it intently.

After she stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment, she swallowed hard and slowly nodded before quickly pulling down her hood, revealing her unkempt hair. She then grabbed a big fistful of her hair and yanked it out of her head. She winced as the quiet popping sound of thousands of hairs being ripped from her head filled the shop. She handed me the ball of hair and, with a weak smile, said

“Here you go, thank you.”

She grabbed the pill and hurried out. I stood there, confused over what just happened. I used a pencil to push the hairball into the trash and tried to forget about the experience. Later that week, I encountered another strange customer. A mid-twenties man, tall and thin. He wore a soiled grey T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He looked like a methed out ghoul. In mere seconds, he had the pill and was at the counter. Slamming it on the counter, he stared at it before releasing a heavy sigh and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket. In an instant, he clamped the tool onto his right thumbnail and started to pull.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, horrified

“Paying for it,” the man said through gritted teeth.

The nail stretched and began to rip away from the surrounding skin; drops of blood began to fall on the counter, and a wet, fleshy sound indicated that the separation was now complete. With a shaking hand, the man set the nail onto the counter. I looked at him; his face was a mix of pain and relief. He gave a half-smile, took his pill, and said

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked out.

I felt like I was going to throw up; the man’s nail and blood lay splattered on the counter. About twenty minutes later, Karl returned from his lunch break. He looked at me as he walked in

“Everything ok?”  he asked

He looked at the nail and blood on the counter

“Clean that up,” he said blankly before returning to his office in the back.

The next week, I saw the same thirty-year-old woman again, just as desperate as last time. Again, she placed the pill on the counter and locked her gaze on it. After a moment, she started to cry and shake her head.

“No, no,” she said between tears.

A few minutes later, she seemed to muster some courage as the tears began to slow

“I hope this one works.” She whimpered

With that, she rolled her hand into a fist and, with full strength, flung it into her jaw; a dull thud resounded through the store. She did it again and again. Her gums leaked blood, and her mouth swelled, yet still she bombarded her face with her fist. Finally, a hollow crack was heard, and with pain-filled sobs she fished out a single bloody tooth, which she gently set on the counter. Taking the pill, she stumbled out.

The next day the man returned; he looked weak and hopeless. At the counter, he stared at the pill as if it was speaking to him. A moment later, he muttered to himself

“Fine”

Before leaving the store, only to return a few seconds later with a large kitchen knife. In an instant, he slammed his hand onto the counter and, in one swift motion, the knife fell, removing two fingers, which lay limply on the blood-covered counter. I screamed

The man threw the pill into his mouth; it crunched loudly as he chewed, and a trail of blood followed him out of the store.

Two weeks later, I hardly recognized that same man when he walked back into the store. He wore expensive clothes, was cleanly shaved, and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hey! Remember me?” I looked at him, but it was only when I saw his two missing fingers that I realized this was the same guy. The last time I saw him, he was frail, dirty, and reeked of cigarettes and sweat. But now he was relaxed, healthy-looking; he smelled vaguely of vanilla and lavender.

“What happened to you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

He shrugged

“I finally got my fresh start.”

He told me how, mere hours after I last saw him, he got a call from the estate of a long-lost wealthy great-uncle who named him as his heir. A trip to the casino only doubled his newfound wealth. His high school sweetheart called him and asked to get back together. His life had been changed. He had gotten his second chance.

“I just wanted to stop in and give you some real payment. I’m sure I’ve caused you some trauma.” He chuckled

After writing me a check for a thousand dollars, he headed towards the door. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out

“Was it worth it?”

He glanced back with a wide smile; it seemed like there was real joy in his eyes.

“It’s a high cost, but yeah, it was worth it.”

With that, he was gone. I should have been happy to have the extra cash, but it wasn’t enough.  All I could think about was the greenish-brown pill in the back of the store. I had screwed up my life before it even really started, and the rest of my life would reflect my poor mistakes. I don’t remember walking back there, but I found myself in front of Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.

I picked up the packet and held it in my hand as I stared at it. Karl walked by on his way to the back; he stopped, and his eyes met mine. After a long pause, all he said was

“First one’s free.”

With that, he entered his office and shut the door. Later that night, I walked back to my grandma’s because I didn’t have money to fix my car. She greeted me with a big smile when I entered her run-down little cottage. I smiled back; I was thankful for her, but all I could think of was the garbage house we were stuck in, the empty fridge in the kitchen, and the overdue bills hanging over her. I told her I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I went to the tiny bedroom I had been staying in, sat down on the bed, and slowly pulled the pill from my pocket.

“I just want a better life,” I muttered, and I put the pill into my mouth. It tasted like worn tires.

The high from this pill was better than any drug I’ve ever used, but it didn’t last more than 15 minutes. And an hour later, I began to feel my throat grow dry, and my fingers twitch. I only made it four days before I needed the pill.

With sweaty palms, I pulled the pill from the shelf, taking it to the counter. As I stared at it, the pill told me the cost: three drops of blood, which I was willing to pay. The high was even better but even shorter than the last. Three days later, I needed it again. This time it wanted a notch out of my ear; that was fine. But it didn’t give me my fresh start.

“Maybe next time,” I muttered

The high was amazing but wore off less than a minute later. Somehow I knew I didn’t get my fresh start.

Next time was a price too high. As I stared at the pill on the dirty counter, it demanded my right leg. Cold sweat rolled down my forehead. I resisted; I didn’t pay. I took the pill, ignoring its demands, and chewed it before I walked home for the night. No high followed, no ecstasy, just an instant desire to have another.

A heavy fever kept me from sleeping that night. It was 3 am, I lay on my bed, writhing in pain, when a loud tapping came from my window. Slowly, I turned to the window; a tall silhouette was plastered against the thin curtains that covered the window. My right leg throbbed in pain as I stared at the figure. Slowly, it raised a hand and tapped again. With every tap, it felt like a vise grip tightened just below my right knee.

I screamed in pain as the pressure around my leg grew. The bone cracked; I could feel shock setting in. Right before my leg was ripped off, I heard the figure declare in a deep, raspy voice

“There is no Fresh Start for you.”

With a squelch and pop, my leg separated from my body; I screamed and passed out.

I woke up as they lifted me into the ambulance; my screaming must have woken up my grandma, and she called 911. I’m writing this a day later as I lie in a hospital bed. It's starting again: the tremors, the sweats. I told them I was going through withdrawal, but when they tested me, they found no signs of drugs. I know I’ll need Doc Harden’s pill soon, but now I know it won’t give me what it promises. I’ve been denied a Fresh Start, but I still have to pay the price.

I learned a lot working at the Main Street Pharmacy.

Mostly useless stuff, like how much ibuprofen a small town needs, what flavor of Mt Dew sells best during summers, and that the town’s mayor uses a lot of Viagra.

But most importantly, I learned how dangerous a pill called ‘Doc Harden’s Fresh Start’ really is.

I started at the Pharmacy shortly after moving to town at the start of the year. My grandma was kind enough to give me a room after the halfway house released me. Her only stipulation was that I kept a job. She was friends with the owner of the pharmacy and convinced him to give me a job at the register.

Karl was the only pharmacist within a forty-mile radius; the store was all he knew, and his balding head and baggy eyes showed his commitment. On my first day, he gave me a short tour around the small, dusty shop. He showed me the worn medication counter in the back, the cobweb-covered shelves, the flickering fridges, and finally the small register station.

“Here’s where you’ll be working,” Karl said in a low monotone voice.

 I nodded and forced a smile

“Great!” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“I’ll handle the medication and prescriptions in the back; you’re here to deal with the over-the-counter items.”

His voice couldn’t have been more boring.

With a nod, I said

“Sounds simple enough.”

He eyed me

“Where’d you work before this?”

It was the question I always dreaded.

“Nowhere, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow; my smile faded

“I was in recovery; I had some drug issues after high school.”

His face was hard as stone. He muttered to himself as if I wasn’t there

“Sure wish Joline had mentioned that.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw.

“Just know, there are cameras in here, and I handle all the drugs. So don’t even think about it.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into his office in the back

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” I sighed; some people struggle to believe people can change.

Now alone, I took some time to familiarize myself with the numerous shelves and their contents. It was fairly typical, even if it was outdated. A small snack section, a mix of generic and name-brand allergy relief, and various flu and cold treatments. I was about to return to the register when an item on the bottom shelf in the back corner caught my eye.

It was different than the other products; there was no listed price on the shelf. Reaching down, I picked one up to examine it. It was a large single pill, greenish-brown in color, resting in a plastic cocoon, fastened to a colorful cardboard backboard no bigger than my phone. I stared at the pill; small flecks of glitter reflected the dying fluorescent light from above as I turned the package in my hands. Above the pill's housing, large vibrant words were sprawled across the cardboard backing. It read:

“Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.”

In smaller words beneath said

“Another chance in a pill!”

I frowned as I turned the container over in my hand and read the back. There was nothing, no FDA statements, no instructions, no list of ingredients, just plain brown cardboard. Confused, I slowly walked to the door in the back and knocked gently

“Karl?” The door creaked as I slowly opened it. He sat at the desk, his eyes glued to the computer in front of him.

“What?”

I held up the packet of ‘Fresh Start’

“What’s this?”

He looked at the item and turned back to the screen.

“It’s a pill; it's not unusual for a pharmacy to have pills.” He replied sarcastically  

My jaw clenched at his response, but I continued

“Yeah, but what is it? It doesn’t even have a price; what do I charge for it?”

“Don’t worry about it; the people who use that know what it costs.”

“But what do I ring it up as?”

“Just accept whatever they give, not up to us.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask for an explanation. Karl continued

“Look, I’m pretty busy; I just need you to man the register. Think you can do that?” his voice was degrading.

“Sure, whatever.” I let the door slam as I walked up front.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started to get into a routine of boredom. The job was simple, and customers were sparse and pretty regular: the same elderly people who’d shuffle straight to the back to pick up their prescriptions, or the same group of middle schoolers grabbing Doritos and Monsters after school. Now and then, an unfamiliar face would stop in to grab some allergy relief or treat their cold.

The strangest clientele were those shopping for “Doc Harden’s Fresh Start”. It was always the same five or six people; each one would stop in every three or four days, hands shaking, pupils dilated, and a cold sweat glistening on their foreheads. Symptoms I knew all too well, withdraw. They would rush to the back corner, grab the pill, and hurry back to the register. The strangest part was their payments.

No two payments were alike. The first buyer I encountered was a jittery thirty-year-old woman; her black hoodie was drenched with sweat, and tremors shook her body. A strange, hungry look filled her eyes. With a slam, she laid the pill package on the counter. I looked at it and then at her. Her eyes fluttered around before resting on the pill and staring at it intently.

After she stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment, she swallowed hard and slowly nodded before quickly pulling down her hood, revealing her unkempt hair. She then grabbed a big fistful of her hair and yanked it out of her head. She winced as the quiet popping sound of thousands of hairs being ripped from her head filled the shop. She handed me the ball of hair and, with a weak smile, said

“Here you go, thank you.”

She grabbed the pill and hurried out. I stood there, confused over what just happened. I used a pencil to push the hairball into the trash and tried to forget about the experience. Later that week, I encountered another strange customer. A mid-twenties man, tall and thin. He wore a soiled grey T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He looked like a methed out ghoul. In mere seconds, he had the pill and was at the counter. Slamming it on the counter, he stared at it before releasing a heavy sigh and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket. In an instant, he clamped the tool onto his right thumbnail and started to pull.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, horrified

“Paying for it,” the man said through gritted teeth.

The nail stretched and began to rip away from the surrounding skin; drops of blood began to fall on the counter, and a wet, fleshy sound indicated that the separation was now complete. With a shaking hand, the man set the nail onto the counter. I looked at him; his face was a mix of pain and relief. He gave a half-smile, took his pill, and said

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked out.

I felt like I was going to throw up; the man’s nail and blood lay splattered on the counter. About twenty minutes later, Karl returned from his lunch break. He looked at me as he walked in

“Everything ok?”  he asked

He looked at the nail and blood on the counter

“Clean that up,” he said blankly before returning to his office in the back.

The next week, I saw the same thirty-year-old woman again, just as desperate as last time. Again, she placed the pill on the counter and locked her gaze on it. After a moment, she started to cry and shake her head.

“No, no,” she said between tears.

A few minutes later, she seemed to muster some courage as the tears began to slow

“I hope this one works.” She whimpered

With that, she rolled her hand into a fist and, with full strength, flung it into her jaw; a dull thud resounded through the store. She did it again and again. Her gums leaked blood, and her mouth swelled, yet still she bombarded her face with her fist. Finally, a hollow crack was heard, and with pain-filled sobs she fished out a single bloody tooth, which she gently set on the counter. Taking the pill, she stumbled out.

The next day the man returned; he looked weak and hopeless. At the counter, he stared at the pill as if it was speaking to him. A moment later, he muttered to himself

“Fine”

Before leaving the store, only to return a few seconds later with a large kitchen knife. In an instant, he slammed his hand onto the counter and, in one swift motion, the knife fell, removing two fingers, which lay limply on the blood-covered counter. I screamed

The man threw the pill into his mouth; it crunched loudly as he chewed, and a trail of blood followed him out of the store.

Two weeks later, I hardly recognized that same man when he walked back into the store. He wore expensive clothes, was cleanly shaved, and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hey! Remember me?” I looked at him, but it was only when I saw his two missing fingers that I realized this was the same guy. The last time I saw him, he was frail, dirty, and reeked of cigarettes and sweat. But now he was relaxed, healthy-looking; he smelled vaguely of vanilla and lavender.

“What happened to you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

He shrugged

“I finally got my fresh start.”

He told me how, mere hours after I last saw him, he got a call from the estate of a long-lost wealthy great-uncle who named him as his heir. A trip to the casino only doubled his newfound wealth. His high school sweetheart called him and asked to get back together. His life had been changed. He had gotten his second chance.

“I just wanted to stop in and give you some real payment. I’m sure I’ve caused you some trauma.” He chuckled

After writing me a check for a thousand dollars, he headed towards the door. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out

“Was it worth it?”

He glanced back with a wide smile; it seemed like there was real joy in his eyes.

“It’s a high cost, but yeah, it was worth it.”

With that, he was gone. I should have been happy to have the extra cash, but it wasn’t enough.  All I could think about was the greenish-brown pill in the back of the store. I had screwed up my life before it even really started, and the rest of my life would reflect my poor mistakes. I don’t remember walking back there, but I found myself in front of Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.

I picked up the packet and held it in my hand as I stared at it. Karl walked by on his way to the back; he stopped, and his eyes met mine. After a long pause, all he said was

“First one’s free.”

With that, he entered his office and shut the door. Later that night, I walked back to my grandma’s because I didn’t have money to fix my car. She greeted me with a big smile when I entered her run-down little cottage. I smiled back; I was thankful for her, but all I could think of was the garbage house we were stuck in, the empty fridge in the kitchen, and the overdue bills hanging over her. I told her I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I went to the tiny bedroom I had been staying in, sat down on the bed, and slowly pulled the pill from my pocket.

“I just want a better life,” I muttered, and I put the pill into my mouth. It tasted like worn tires.

The high from this pill was better than any drug I’ve ever used, but it didn’t last more than 15 minutes. And an hour later, I began to feel my throat grow dry, and my fingers twitch. I only made it four days before I needed the pill.

With sweaty palms, I pulled the pill from the shelf, taking it to the counter. As I stared at it, the pill told me the cost: three drops of blood, which I was willing to pay. The high was even better but even shorter than the last. Three days later, I needed it again. This time it wanted a notch out of my ear; that was fine. But it didn’t give me my fresh start.

“Maybe next time,” I muttered

The high was amazing but wore off less than a minute later. Somehow I knew I didn’t get my fresh start.

Next time was a price too high. As I stared at the pill on the dirty counter, it demanded my right leg. Cold sweat rolled down my forehead. I resisted; I didn’t pay. I took the pill, ignoring its demands, and chewed it before I walked home for the night. No high followed, no ecstasy, just an instant desire to have another.

A heavy fever kept me from sleeping that night. It was 3 am, I lay on my bed, writhing in pain, when a loud tapping came from my window. Slowly, I turned to the window; a tall silhouette was plastered against the thin curtains that covered the window. My right leg throbbed in pain as I stared at the figure. Slowly, it raised a hand and tapped again. With every tap, it felt like a vise grip tightened just below my right knee.

I screamed in pain as the pressure around my leg grew. The bone cracked; I could feel shock setting in. Right before my leg was ripped off, I heard the figure declare in a deep, raspy voice

“There is no Fresh Start for you.”

With a squelch and pop, my leg separated from my body; I screamed and passed out.

I woke up as they lifted me into the ambulance; my screaming must have woken up my grandma, and she called 911. I’m writing this a day later as I lie in a hospital bed. It's starting again: the tremors, the sweats. I told them I was going through withdrawal, but when they tested me, they found no signs of drugs. I know I’ll need Doc Harden’s pill soon, but now I know it won’t give me what it promises. I’ve been denied a Fresh Start, but I still have to pay the price.

I learned a lot working at the Main Street Pharmacy.

Mostly useless stuff, like how much ibuprofen a small town needs, what flavor of Mt Dew sells best during summers, and that the town’s mayor uses a lot of Viagra.

But most importantly, I learned how dangerous a pill called ‘Doc Harden’s Fresh Start’ really is.

I started at the Pharmacy shortly after moving to town at the start of the year. My grandma was kind enough to give me a room after the halfway house released me. Her only stipulation was that I kept a job. She was friends with the owner of the pharmacy and convinced him to give me a job at the register.

Karl was the only pharmacist within a forty-mile radius; the store was all he knew, and his balding head and baggy eyes showed his commitment. On my first day, he gave me a short tour around the small, dusty shop. He showed me the worn medication counter in the back, the cobweb-covered shelves, the flickering fridges, and finally the small register station.

“Here’s where you’ll be working,” Karl said in a low monotone voice.

 I nodded and forced a smile

“Great!” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“I’ll handle the medication and prescriptions in the back; you’re here to deal with the over-the-counter items.”

His voice couldn’t have been more boring.

With a nod, I said

“Sounds simple enough.”

He eyed me

“Where’d you work before this?”

It was the question I always dreaded.

“Nowhere, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow; my smile faded

“I was in recovery; I had some drug issues after high school.”

His face was hard as stone. He muttered to myself as if I wasn’t there

“Sure wish Joline had mentioned that.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw.

“Just know, there are cameras in here, and I handle all the drugs. So don’t even think about it.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into his office in the back

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” I sighed; some people struggle to believe people can change.

Now alone, I took some time to familiarize myself with the numerous shelves and their contents. It was fairly typical, even if it was outdated. A small snack section, a mix of generic and name-brand allergy relief,  and various flu and cold treatments. I was about to return to the register when an item on the bottom shelf in the back corner caught my eye.

It was different than the other products; there was no listed price on the shelf. Reaching down, I picked one up to examine it. It was a large single pill, greenish-brown in color, resting in a plastic cocoon, fastened to a colorful cardboard backboard no bigger than my phone. I stared at the pill; small flecks of glitter reflected the dying fluorescent light from above as I turned the package in my hands. Above the pill's housing, large vibrant words were sprawled across the cardboard backing. It read:

“Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.”

In smaller words beneath said

“Another chance in a pill!”

I frowned as I turned the container over in my hand and read the back. There was nothing, no FDA statements, no instructions, no list of ingredients, just plain brown cardboard. Confused, I slowly walked to the door in the back and knocked gently

“Karl?” The door creaked as I slowly opened it. He sat at the desk, his eyes glued to the computer in front of him.

“What?”

I held up the packet of ‘Fresh Start’

“What’s this?”

He looked at the item and turned back to the screen.

“It’s a pill; it's not unusual for a pharmacy to have pills.” He replied sarcastically  

My jaw clenched at his response, but I continued

“Yeah, but what is it? It doesn’t even have a price; what do I charge for it?”

“Don’t worry about it; the people who use that know what it costs.”

“But what do I ring it up as?”

“Just accept whatever they give, not up to us.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask for an explanation. Karl continued

“Look, I’m pretty busy; I just need you to man the register. Think you can do that?” his voice was degrading.

“Sure, whatever.” I let the door slam as I walked up front.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started to get into a routine of boredom. The job was simple, and customers were sparse and pretty regular: the same elderly people who’d shuffle straight to the back to pick up their prescriptions, or the same group of middle schoolers grabbing Doritos and Monsters after school. Now and then, an unfamiliar face would stop in to grab some allergy relief or treat their cold.

The strangest clientele were those shopping for “Doc Harden’s Fresh Start”. It was always the same five or six people; each one would stop in every three or four days, hands shaking, pupils dilated, and a cold sweat glistening on their foreheads. Symptoms I knew all too well, withdraw. They would rush to the back corner, grab the pill, and hurry back to the register. The strangest part was their payments.

No two payments were alike. The first buyer I encountered was a jittery thirty-year-old woman; her black hoodie was drenched with sweat, and tremors shook her body. A strange, hungry look filled her eyes. With a slam, she laid the pill package on the counter. I looked at it and then at her. Her eyes fluttered around before resting on the pill and staring at it intently.

After she stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment, she swallowed hard and slowly nodded before quickly pulling down her hood, revealing her unkempt hair. She then grabbed a big fistful of her hair and yanked it out of her head. She winced as the quiet popping sound of thousands of hairs being ripped from her head filled the shop. She handed me the ball of hair and, with a weak smile, said

“Here you go, thank you.”

She grabbed the pill and hurried out. I stood there, confused about what just happened. I used a pencil to push the hairball into the trash and tried to forget about the experience. Later that week, I encountered another strange customer. A mid-twenties man, tall and thin. He wore a soiled grey T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He looked like a methed out ghoul. In mere seconds, he had the pill and was at the counter. Slamming it on the counter, he stared at it before releasing a heavy sigh and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket. In an instant, he clamped the tool onto his right thumbnail and started to pull.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, horrified

“Paying for it,” the man said through gritted teeth.

The nail stretched and began to rip away from the surrounding skin; drops of blood began to fall on the counter, and a wet, fleshy sound indicated that the separation was now complete. With a shaking hand, the man set the nail onto the counter. I looked at him; his face was a mix of pain and relief. He gave a half-smile, took his pill, and said

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked out.

I felt like I was going to throw up; the man’s nail and blood lay splattered on the counter. About twenty minutes later, Karl returned from his lunch break. He looked at me as he walked in

“Everything ok?”  he asked

He looked at the nail and blood on the counter

“Clean that up,” he said blankly before returning to his office in the back.

The next week, I saw the same thirty-year-old woman again, just as desperate as last time. Again, she placed the pill on the counter and locked her gaze on it. After a moment, she started to cry and shake her head.

“No, no,” she said between tears.

A few minutes later, she seemed to muster some courage as the tears began to slow

“I hope this one works.” She whimpered

With that, she rolled her hand into a fist and, with full strength, flung it into her jaw; a dull thud resounded through the store. She did it again and again. Her gums leaked blood, and her mouth swelled, yet still she bombarded her face with her fist. Finally, a hollow crack was heard, and with pain-filled sobs she fished out a single bloody tooth, which she gently set on the counter. Taking the pill, she stumbled out.

The next day the man returned; he looked weak and hopeless. At the counter, he stared at the pill as if it was speaking to him. A moment later, he muttered to himself

“Fine”

Before leaving the store, only to return a few seconds later with a large kitchen knife. In an instant, he slammed his hand onto the counter and, in one swift motion, the knife fell, removing two fingers, which lay limply on the blood-covered counter. I screamed

The man threw the pill into his mouth; it crunched loudly as he chewed, and a trail of blood followed him out of the store.

Two weeks later, I hardly recognized that same man when he walked back into the store. He wore expensive clothes, was cleanly shaved, and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hey! Remember me?” I looked at him, but it was only when I saw his two missing fingers that I realized this was the same guy.

“What happened to you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

He shrugged

“I finally got my fresh start.”

He told me how, mere hours after I last saw him, he got a call from the estate of a long-lost wealthy great-uncle who named him as his heir. A trip to the casino only doubled his newfound wealth. His high school sweetheart called him and asked to get back together. His life had been changed. He had gotten his second chance.

“I just wanted to stop in and give you some real payment. I’m sure I’ve caused you some trauma.” He chuckled

After writing me a check for a thousand dollars, he headed towards the door. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out

“Was it worth it?”

He glanced back with a smirk

“It’s a high cost, but yeah, it was worth it.”

With that, he was gone. I should have been happy to have the extra cash, but all I could think about was the greenish-brown pill in the back of the store. I had screwed up my life before it even really started, and the rest of my life would reflect my poor mistakes. I don’t remember walking back there, but I found myself in front of Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.

I picked up the packet and held it in my hand as I stared at it. Karl walked by on his way to the back; he stopped, and his eyes met mine. After a long pause, all he said was

“First one’s free.”

With that, he entered his office and shut the door. Later that night, I walked back to my grandma’s because I didn’t have money to fix my car. She greeted me with a big smile when I entered her run-down little cottage. I smiled back; I was thankful for her, but all I could think of was the garbage house we were stuck in, the empty fridge in the kitchen, and the overdue bills hanging over her. I told her I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I went to the tiny bedroom I had been staying in, sat down on the bed, and slowly pulled the pill from my pocket.

“I just want a better life,” I muttered, and I put the pill into my mouth. It tasted like worn tires.

The high from this pill was better than any drug I’ve ever used, but it didn’t last more than 15 minutes. And an hour later, I began to feel my throat grow dry, and my fingers twitch. I only made it a day and a half before I needed the pill.

With sweaty palms, I pulled the pill from the shelf, taking it to the counter. As I stared at it, the pill told me the cost: three drops of blood, which I was willing to pay. The high was even better but even shorter than the last. Three days later, I needed it again. This time it wanted a notch out of my ear; that was fine. But it didn’t give me my fresh start.

“Maybe next time,” I muttered

Next time was a price too high. As I stared at the pill on the dirty counter, it demanded my right leg. Cold sweat rolled down my forehead. I resisted; I didn’t pay. I took the pill, ignoring its demands, and chewed it before I walked home for the night.

A heavy fever kept me from sleeping that night. It was 3 am, I lay on my bed, writhing in pain, when a loud tapping came from my window. Slowly, I turned to the window; a tall silhouette was plastered against the thin curtains that covered the window. My right leg throbbed in pain as I stared at the figure. Slowly, it raised a hand and tapped again. With every tap, it felt like a vise grip tightened just below my right knee.

I screamed in pain as the pressure around my leg grew. The bone cracked; I could feel shock setting in. Right before my leg was ripped off, I heard the figure declare in a deep, raspy voice

“There is no Fresh Start for you.”

With a squelch and pop, my leg separated from my body; I screamed and passed out.

I woke up as they lifted me into the ambulance; my screaming must have woken up my grandma, and she called 911. I’m writing this a day later as I lie in a hospital bed. It's starting again: the tremors, the sweats. I told them I was going through withdrawal, but when they tested me, they found no signs of drugs. I know I’ll need Doc Harden’s pill soon, but now I know it won’t give me what it promises. I’ve been denied a Fresh Start, but I must still pay the price.

I learned a lot working at the Main Street Pharmacy.

Mostly useless stuff, like how much ibuprofen a small town needs, what flavor of Mt Dew sells best during summers, and that the town’s mayor uses a lot of Viagra.

But most importantly, I learned how dangerous a pill called ‘Doc Harden’s Fresh Start’ really is.

I started at the Pharmacy shortly after moving to town at the start of the year. My grandma was kind enough to give me a room after the halfway house released me. Her only stipulation was that I kept a job. She was friends with the owner of the pharmacy and convinced him to give me a job at the register.

Karl was the only pharmacist within a forty-mile radius; the store was all he knew, and his balding head and baggy eyes showed his commitment. On my first day, he gave me a short tour around the small, dusty shop. He showed me the worn medication counter in the back, the cobweb-covered shelves, the flickering fridges, and finally the small register station.

“Here’s where you’ll be working,” Karl said in a low monotone voice.

 I nodded and forced a smile

“Great!” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“I’ll handle the medication and prescriptions in the back; you’re here to deal with the over-the-counter items.”

His voice couldn’t have been more boring.

With a nod, I said

“Sounds simple enough.”

He eyed me

“Where’d you work before this?”

It was the question I always dreaded.

“Nowhere, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow; my smile faded

“I was in recovery; I had some drug issues after high school.”

His face was hard as stone. He muttered to myself as if I wasn’t there

“Sure wish Joline had mentioned that.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw.

“Just know, there are cameras in here, and I handle all the drugs. So don’t even think about it.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into his office in the back

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” I sighed; some people struggle to believe people can change.

Now alone, I took some time to familiarize myself with the numerous shelves and their contents. It was fairly typical, even if it was outdated. A small snack section, a mix of generic and name-brand allergy relief,  and various flu and cold treatments. I was about to return to the register when an item on the bottom shelf in the back corner caught my eye.

It was different than the other products; there was no listed price on the shelf. Reaching down, I picked one up to examine it. It was a large single pill, greenish-brown in color, resting in a plastic cocoon, fastened to a colorful cardboard backboard no bigger than my phone. I stared at the pill; small flecks of glitter reflected the dying fluorescent light from above as I turned the package in my hands. Above the pill's housing, large vibrant words were sprawled across the cardboard backing. It read:

“Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.”

In smaller words beneath said

“Another chance in a pill!”

I frowned as I turned the container over in my hand and read the back. There was nothing, no FDA statements, no instructions, no list of ingredients, just plain brown cardboard. Confused, I slowly walked to the door in the back and knocked gently

“Karl?” The door creaked as I slowly opened it. He sat at the desk, his eyes glued to the computer in front of him.

“What?”

I held up the packet of ‘Fresh Start’

“What’s this?”

He looked at the item and turned back to the screen.

“It’s a pill; it's not unusual for a pharmacy to have pills.” He replied sarcastically  

My jaw clenched at his response, but I continued

“Yeah, but what is it? It doesn’t even have a price; what do I charge for it?”

“Don’t worry about it; the people who use that know what it costs.”

“But what do I ring it up as?”

“Just accept whatever they give, not up to us.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask for an explanation. Karl continued

“Look, I’m pretty busy; I just need you to man the register. Think you can do that?” his voice was degrading.

“Sure, whatever.” I let the door slam as I walked up front.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started to get into a routine of boredom. The job was simple, and customers were sparse and pretty regular: the same elderly people who’d shuffle straight to the back to pick up their prescriptions, or the same group of middle schoolers grabbing Doritos and Monsters after school. Now and then, an unfamiliar face would stop in to grab some allergy relief or treat their cold.

The strangest clientele were those shopping for “Doc Harden’s Fresh Start”. It was always the same five or six people; each one would stop in every three or four days, hands shaking, pupils dilated, and a cold sweat glistening on their foreheads. Symptoms I knew all too well, withdraw. They would rush to the back corner, grab the pill, and hurry back to the register. The strangest part was their payments.

No two payments were alike. The first buyer I encountered was a jittery thirty-year-old woman; her black hoodie was drenched with sweat, and tremors shook her body. A strange, hungry look filled her eyes. With a slam, she laid the pill package on the counter. I looked at it and then at her. Her eyes fluttered around before resting on the pill and staring at it intently.

After she stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment, she swallowed hard and slowly nodded before quickly pulling down her hood, revealing her unkempt hair. She then grabbed a big fistful of her hair and yanked it out of her head. She winced as the quiet popping sound of thousands of hairs being ripped from her head filled the shop. She handed me the ball of hair and, with a weak smile, said

“Here you go, thank you.”

She grabbed the pill and hurried out. I stood there, confused about what just happened. I used a pencil to push the hairball into the trash and tried to forget about the experience. Later that week, I encountered another strange customer. A mid-twenties man, tall and thin. He wore a soiled grey T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He looked like a methed out ghoul. In mere seconds, he had the pill and was at the counter. Slamming it on the counter, he stared at it before releasing a heavy sigh and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket. In an instant, he clamped the tool onto his right thumbnail and started to pull.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, horrified

“Paying for it,” the man said through gritted teeth.

The nail stretched and began to rip away from the surrounding skin; drops of blood began to fall on the counter, and a wet, fleshy sound indicated that the separation was now complete. With a shaking hand, the man set the nail onto the counter. I looked at him; his face was a mix of pain and relief. He gave a half-smile, took his pill, and said

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked out.

I felt like I was going to throw up; the man’s nail and blood lay splattered on the counter. About twenty minutes later, Karl returned from his lunch break. He looked at me as he walked in

“Everything ok?”  he asked

He looked at the nail and blood on the counter

“Clean that up,” he said blankly before returning to his office in the back.

The next week, I saw the same thirty-year-old woman again, just as desperate as last time. Again, she placed the pill on the counter and locked her gaze on it. After a moment, she started to cry and shake her head.

“No, no,” she said between tears.

A few minutes later, she seemed to muster some courage as the tears began to slow

“I hope this one works.” She whimpered

With that, she rolled her hand into a fist and, with full strength, flung it into her jaw; a dull thud resounded through the store. She did it again and again. Her gums leaked blood, and her mouth swelled, yet still she bombarded her face with her fist. Finally, a hollow crack was heard, and with pain-filled sobs she fished out a single bloody tooth, which she gently set on the counter. Taking the pill, she stumbled out.

The next day the man returned; he looked weak and hopeless. At the counter, he stared at the pill as if it was speaking to him. A moment later, he muttered to himself

“Fine”

Before leaving the store, only to return a few seconds later with a large kitchen knife. In an instant, he slammed his hand onto the counter and, in one swift motion, the knife fell, removing two fingers, which lay limply on the blood-covered counter. I screamed

The man threw the pill into his mouth; it crunched loudly as he chewed, and a trail of blood followed him out of the store.

Two weeks later, I hardly recognized that same man when he walked back into the store. He wore expensive clothes, was cleanly shaved, and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hey! Remember me?” I looked at him, but it was only when I saw his two missing fingers that I realized this was the same guy.

“What happened to you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

He shrugged

“I finally got my fresh start.”

He told me how, mere hours after I last saw him, he got a call from the estate of a long-lost wealthy great-uncle who named him as his heir. A trip to the casino only doubled his newfound wealth. His high school sweetheart called him and asked to get back together. His life had been changed. He had gotten his second chance.

“I just wanted to stop in and give you some real payment. I’m sure I’ve caused you some trauma.” He chuckled

After writing me a check for a thousand dollars, he headed towards the door. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out

“Was it worth it?”

He glanced back with a smirk

“It’s a high cost, but yeah, it was worth it.”

With that, he was gone. I should have been happy to have the extra cash, but all I could think about was the greenish-brown pill in the back of the store. I had screwed up my life before it even really started, and the rest of my life would reflect my poor mistakes. I don’t remember walking back there, but I found myself in front of Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.

I picked up the packet and held it in my hand as I stared at it. Karl walked by on his way to the back; he stopped, and his eyes met mine. After a long pause, all he said was

“First one’s free.”

With that, he entered his office and shut the door. Later that night, I walked back to my grandma’s because I didn’t have money to fix my car. She greeted me with a big smile when I entered her run-down little cottage. I smiled back; I was thankful for her, but all I could think of was the garbage house we were stuck in, the empty fridge in the kitchen, and the overdue bills hanging over her. I told her I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I went to the tiny bedroom I had been staying in, sat down on the bed, and slowly pulled the pill from my pocket.

“I just want a better life,” I muttered, and I put the pill into my mouth. It tasted like worn tires.

The high from this pill was better than any drug I’ve ever used, but it didn’t last more than 15 minutes. And an hour later, I began to feel my throat grow dry, and my fingers twitch. I only made it a day and a half before I needed the pill.

With sweaty palms, I pulled the pill from the shelf, taking it to the counter. As I stared at it, the pill told me the cost: three drops of blood, which I was willing to pay. The high was even better but even shorter than the last. Three days later, I needed it again. This time it wanted a notch out of my ear; that was fine. But it didn’t give me my fresh start.

“Maybe next time,” I muttered

Next time was a price too high. As I stared at the pill on the dirty counter, it demanded my right leg. Cold sweat rolled down my forehead. I resisted; I didn’t pay. I took the pill, ignoring its demands, and chewed it before I walked home for the night.

A heavy fever kept me from sleeping that night. It was 3 am, I lay on my bed, writhing in pain, when a loud tapping came from my window. Slowly, I turned to the window; a tall silhouette was plastered against the thin curtains that covered the window. My right leg throbbed in pain as I stared at the figure. Slowly, it raised a hand and tapped again. With every tap, it felt like a vise grip tightened just below my right knee.

I screamed in pain as the pressure around my leg grew. The bone cracked; I could feel shock setting in. Right before my leg was ripped off, I heard the figure declare in a deep, raspy voice

“There is no Fresh Start for you.”

With a squelch and pop, my leg separated from my body; I screamed and passed out.

I woke up as they lifted me into the ambulance; my screaming must have woken up my grandma, and she called 911. I’m writing this a day later as I lie in a hospital bed. It's starting again: the tremors, the sweats. I told them I was going through withdrawal, but when they tested me, they found no signs of drugs. I know I’ll need Doc Harden’s pill soon, but now I know it won’t give me what it promises. I’ve been denied a Fresh Start, but I must still pay the price.

I learned a lot working at the Main Street Pharmacy.

Mostly useless stuff, like how much ibuprofen a small town needs, what flavor of Mt Dew sells best during summers, and that the town’s mayor uses a lot of Viagra.

But most importantly, I learned how dangerous a pill called ‘Doc Harden’s Fresh Start’ really is.

I started at the Pharmacy shortly after moving to town at the start of the year. My grandma was kind enough to give me a room after the halfway house released me. Her only stipulation was that I kept a job. She was friends with the owner of the pharmacy and convinced him to give me a job at the register.

Karl was the only pharmacist within a forty-mile radius; the store was all he knew, and his balding head and baggy eyes showed his commitment. On my first day, he gave me a short tour around the small, dusty shop. He showed me the worn medication counter in the back, the cobweb-covered shelves, the flickering fridges, and finally the small register station.

“Here’s where you’ll be working,” Karl said in a low monotone voice.

 I nodded and forced a smile

“Great!” I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.

“I’ll handle the medication and prescriptions in the back; you’re here to deal with the over-the-counter items.”

His voice couldn’t have been more boring.

With a nod, I said

“Sounds simple enough.”

He eyed me

“Where’d you work before this?”

It was the question I always dreaded.

“Nowhere, actually.”

He raised an eyebrow; my smile faded

“I was in recovery; I had some drug issues after high school.”

His face was hard as stone. He muttered to myself as if I wasn’t there

“Sure wish Joline had mentioned that.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” He clenched his jaw.

“Just know, there are cameras in here, and I handle all the drugs. So don’t even think about it.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into his office in the back

“Didn’t even cross my mind.” I sighed; some people struggle to believe people can change.

Now alone, I took some time to familiarize myself with the numerous shelves and their contents. It was fairly typical, even if it was outdated. A small snack section, a mix of generic and name-brand allergy relief,  and various flu and cold treatments. I was about to return to the register when an item on the bottom shelf in the back corner caught my eye.

It was different than the other products; there was no listed price on the shelf. Reaching down, I picked one up to examine it. It was a large single pill, greenish-brown in color, resting in a plastic cocoon, fastened to a colorful cardboard backboard no bigger than my phone. I stared at the pill; small flecks of glitter reflected the dying fluorescent light from above as I turned the package in my hands. Above the pill's housing, large vibrant words were sprawled across the cardboard backing. It read:

“Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.”

In smaller words beneath said

“Another chance in a pill!”

I frowned as I turned the container over in my hand and read the back. There was nothing, no FDA statements, no instructions, no list of ingredients, just plain brown cardboard. Confused, I slowly walked to the door in the back and knocked gently

“Karl?” The door creaked as I slowly opened it. He sat at the desk, his eyes glued to the computer in front of him.

“What?”

I held up the packet of ‘Fresh Start’

“What’s this?”

He looked at the item and turned back to the screen.

“It’s a pill; it's not unusual for a pharmacy to have pills.” He replied sarcastically  

My jaw clenched at his response, but I continued

“Yeah, but what is it? It doesn’t even have a price; what do I charge for it?”

“Don’t worry about it; the people who use that know what it costs.”

“But what do I ring it up as?”

“Just accept whatever they give, not up to us.”

I didn’t get a chance to ask for an explanation. Karl continued

“Look, I’m pretty busy; I just need you to man the register. Think you can do that?” his voice was degrading.

“Sure, whatever.” I let the door slam as I walked up front.

Over the next couple of weeks, I started to get into a routine of boredom. The job was simple, and customers were sparse and pretty regular: the same elderly people who’d shuffle straight to the back to pick up their prescriptions, or the same group of middle schoolers grabbing Doritos and Monsters after school. Now and then, an unfamiliar face would stop in to grab some allergy relief or treat their cold.

The strangest clientele were those shopping for “Doc Harden’s Fresh Start”. It was always the same five or six people; each one would stop in every three or four days, hands shaking, pupils dilated, and a cold sweat glistening on their foreheads. Symptoms I knew all too well, withdraw. They would rush to the back corner, grab the pill, and hurry back to the register. The strangest part was their payments.

No two payments were alike. The first buyer I encountered was a jittery thirty-year-old woman; her black hoodie was drenched with sweat, and tremors shook her body. A strange, hungry look filled her eyes. With a slam, she laid the pill package on the counter. I looked at it and then at her. Her eyes fluttered around before resting on the pill and staring at it intently.

After she stared at it for an uncomfortably long moment, she swallowed hard and slowly nodded before quickly pulling down her hood, revealing her unkempt hair. She then grabbed a big fistful of her hair and yanked it out of her head. She winced as the quiet popping sound of thousands of hairs being ripped from her head filled the shop. She handed me the ball of hair and, with a weak smile, said

“Here you go, thank you.”

She grabbed the pill and hurried out. I stood there, confused about what just happened. I used a pencil to push the hairball into the trash and tried to forget about the experience. Later that week, I encountered another strange customer. A mid-twenties man, tall and thin. He wore a soiled grey T-shirt and worn-out jeans. He looked like a methed out ghoul. In mere seconds, he had the pill and was at the counter. Slamming it on the counter, he stared at it before releasing a heavy sigh and pulling a pair of pliers from his pocket. In an instant, he clamped the tool onto his right thumbnail and started to pull.

“What the hell are you doing?” I screamed, horrified

“Paying for it,” the man said through gritted teeth.

The nail stretched and began to rip away from the surrounding skin; drops of blood began to fall on the counter, and a wet, fleshy sound indicated that the separation was now complete. With a shaking hand, the man set the nail onto the counter. I looked at him; his face was a mix of pain and relief. He gave a half-smile, took his pill, and said

“Thanks.”

With that, he walked out.

I felt like I was going to throw up; the man’s nail and blood lay splattered on the counter. About twenty minutes later, Karl returned from his lunch break. He looked at me as he walked in

“Everything ok?”  he asked

He looked at the nail and blood on the counter

“Clean that up,” he said blankly before returning to his office in the back.

The next week, I saw the same thirty-year-old woman again, just as desperate as last time. Again, she placed the pill on the counter and locked her gaze on it. After a moment, she started to cry and shake her head.

“No, no,” she said between tears.

A few minutes later, she seemed to muster some courage as the tears began to slow

“I hope this one works.” She whimpered

With that, she rolled her hand into a fist and, with full strength, flung it into her jaw; a dull thud resounded through the store. She did it again and again. Her gums leaked blood, and her mouth swelled, yet still she bombarded her face with her fist. Finally, a hollow crack was heard, and with pain-filled sobs she fished out a single bloody tooth, which she gently set on the counter. Taking the pill, she stumbled out.

The next day the man returned; he looked weak and hopeless. At the counter, he stared at the pill as if it was speaking to him. A moment later, he muttered to himself

“Fine”

Before leaving the store, only to return a few seconds later with a large kitchen knife. In an instant, he slammed his hand onto the counter and, in one swift motion, the knife fell, removing two fingers, which lay limply on the blood-covered counter. I screamed

The man threw the pill into his mouth; it crunched loudly as he chewed, and a trail of blood followed him out of the store.

Two weeks later, I hardly recognized that same man when he walked back into the store. He wore expensive clothes, was cleanly shaved, and greeted me with a warm smile.

“Hey! Remember me?” I looked at him, but it was only when I saw his two missing fingers that I realized this was the same guy.

“What happened to you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

He shrugged

“I finally got my fresh start.”

He told me how, mere hours after I last saw him, he got a call from the estate of a long-lost wealthy great-uncle who named him as his heir. A trip to the casino only doubled his newfound wealth. His high school sweetheart called him and asked to get back together. His life had been changed. He had gotten his second chance.

“I just wanted to stop in and give you some real payment. I’m sure I’ve caused you some trauma.” He chuckled

After writing me a check for a thousand dollars, he headed towards the door. I couldn’t help myself; I blurted out

“Was it worth it?”

He glanced back with a smirk

“It’s a high cost, but yeah, it was worth it.”

With that, he was gone. I should have been happy to have the extra cash, but all I could think about was the greenish-brown pill in the back of the store. I had screwed up my life before it even really started, and the rest of my life would reflect my poor mistakes. I don’t remember walking back there, but I found myself in front of Doc Harden’s Fresh Start.

I picked up the packet and held it in my hand as I stared at it. Karl walked by on his way to the back; he stopped, and his eyes met mine. After a long pause, all he said was

“First one’s free.”

With that, he entered his office and shut the door. Later that night, I walked back to my grandma’s because I didn’t have money to fix my car. She greeted me with a big smile when I entered her run-down little cottage. I smiled back; I was thankful for her, but all I could think of was the garbage house we were stuck in, the empty fridge in the kitchen, and the overdue bills hanging over her. I told her I was tired and just wanted to go to bed. I went to the tiny bedroom I had been staying in, sat down on the bed, and slowly pulled the pill from my pocket.

“I just want a better life,” I muttered, and I put the pill into my mouth. It tasted like worn tires.

The high from this pill was better than any drug I’ve ever used, but it didn’t last more than 15 minutes. And an hour later, I began to feel my throat grow dry, and my fingers twitch. I only made it a day and a half before I needed the pill.

With sweaty palms, I pulled the pill from the shelf, taking it to the counter. As I stared at it, the pill told me the cost: three drops of blood, which I was willing to pay. The high was even better but even shorter than the last. Three days later, I needed it again. This time it wanted a notch out of my ear; that was fine. But it didn’t give me my fresh start.

“Maybe next time,” I muttered

Next time was a price too high. As I stared at the pill on the dirty counter, it demanded my right leg. Cold sweat rolled down my forehead. I resisted; I didn’t pay. I took the pill, ignoring its demands, and chewed it before I walked home for the night.

A heavy fever kept me from sleeping that night. It was 3 am, I lay on my bed, writhing in pain, when a loud tapping came from my window. Slowly, I turned to the window; a tall silhouette was plastered against the thin curtains that covered the window. My right leg throbbed in pain as I stared at the figure. Slowly, it raised a hand and tapped again. With every tap, it felt like a vise grip tightened just below my right knee.

I screamed in pain as the pressure around my leg grew. The bone cracked; I could feel shock setting in. Right before my leg was ripped off, I heard the figure declare in a deep, raspy voice

“There is no Fresh Start for you.”

With a squelch and pop, my leg separated from my body; I screamed and passed out.

I woke up as they lifted me into the ambulance; my screaming must have woken up my grandma, and she called 911. I’m writing this a day later as I lie in a hospital bed. It's starting again: the tremors, the sweats. I told them I was going through withdrawal, but when they tested me, they found no signs of drugs. I know I’ll need Doc Harden’s pill soon, but now I know it won’t give me what it promises. I’ve been denied a Fresh Start, but I must still pay the price.

I need your help. Please. Just answer this question: Are your hands normal? I just need to know that I’m not alone, that there are other people out there with my problem.

Everything started a little over two months ago. I had just woken up and was going through my morning routine when I noticed a pimple on the back of my right hand. I'd never seen a pimple like this one. It was plump, and instead of the greenish yellow color of your standard pimple, this one was black. It was at least twice the size of any other pimple I’ve had. The surrounding skin was tight as it stretched to accommodate the mass.

I stared at it, more impressed than worried. I tenderly touched it and watched as it moved slightly as the dark liquid within shifted. Taking a little band-aid, I covered it up and moved on with my day. Hours later, halfway through the workday, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. It was the type of pimple that would be very satisfying to pop. Pulling back the bandage, I was shocked to see that it had changed. It had grown both taller and wider, and in its center, a long, thick black hair stood. The hair was at least three times as thick as the hair on my head and just as long.

I grasped the hair and pulled hard. It was rooted deep in the skin. It was like pulling a loose thread from a shirt; it just kept coming. Eventually it came free, and with its exit, thick black pus began to leak out. I pinched the pimple until the pus ran dry. Returning to work, the strange pimple quickly left my mind.

When I woke the next day, I realized something was wrong. Now my hand had three pimples—one on the back, one on the palm, and one on a finger. All three were far more swollen than the one from the day before. I felt my palms go clammy as I saw the start of thick black hairs poking through the three. Taking tweezers, I pulled the hairs out and drained the mounds. It was then that I decided to schedule an appointment with a dermatologist. Since it was the start of the weekend, the earliest I could book was Monday afternoon.

The rest of that day, there was no real change, though my hand ached with the burning feeling of an internal infection. But when I woke the next day, panic set. My hand was completely swollen. It was nearly double in size. My fingers were straining to move, and I couldn’t close my hand. The skin was smooth and tight; it was now darker in color, a sickly grey. I spent the day icing my hand in a futile attempt to reverse the swelling.

The next day was Sunday, and when I woke up, my hand was unrecognizable. It was as if one enormous black pimple had swallowed the entirety of my hand and wrist. I was losing feeling in the hand; early in the day, it tingled as if it were asleep. But by the time evening came, I found myself pinching the stretched skin, trying to feel anything. Right before bedtime, my fingers developed some strange twitches. They moved back and forth, open and closed completely on their own, without my direction. I hoped it was just a side effect of strained muscles in my hand.

In the morning, the twitching was worse; the fingers moved violently too and fro. And when they weren’t moving, they vibrated nonstop. I called in sick that day and iced my hand till it was time to go to my appointment. I walked into the doctor's office and walked over to the desk to check in.

“Hi, I’m here for my appointment,” I said, forcing a smile.

The receptionist looked at me and then at my hand; disgust filled her face, and I subconsciously pulled my sleeve down to hide it.

“Great.” She replied, “Follow me back, and the doctor will be right with you.”

I had barely been in the examination room five minutes before the doctor entered and got to work.

“Alright, what seems to be the problem?’ he said with the cadence of a man who had seen it all.

Only this seemed to stump him. He stared at my hand, examined its skin, and stared intently at the leaking pus. He watched in confusion as my hand violently twitched. At the end of the time, he said with all the confidence in the world:

“It seems that you have some sort of deep-seated infection, and it's straining your muscles, causing tremors. I’m going to prescribe some pretty strong antibiotics, and write you a note to get you some days off work to rest. Sound good?”

I nodded

“Whatever you say, doc.”

The first round of antibiotics made me dizzy and lightheaded. By the time dinner rolled around, I had developed a bad fever, bad enough to send me into a restless sleep. The next few days were filled with a feverish mix of waking dread and fitful sleep. My fever grew worse, and most of the time I wasn’t sure if I was awake or dreaming. The entire time, my hand grew worse. Its fingers were no longer twitching but now simply moving on their own. The dark purple skin was now hidden beneath a dense carpet of thick bristle-like hairs, and vibrated and shook as if they sensed movement.

In my feverish state, I swear late one night I woke to my hairy hand attacking me. It lay flat and heavy directly on my face with the palm covering my nose and mouth. The fingers crawled wildly along my face. It was lack of oxygen that woke me, and in a panic I threw the assailant from me before I realized that my attacker was part of me.

It took days for the fever to break. And when it did, my hand was dead. It was buried beneath rough, shuddering hair. I no longer had any feeling or ability to move any inch of my hand. It was like a dead branch on a live tree. The skin just below the wrist was a bracelet of decaying grey skin. I slowly reached out my other hand to touch this dividing line. It felt like dry, crunchy leaves. The moment I touched it, it shuddered and snapped under my touch. There was no blood. No bone. No exposed muscle. Just a dark, empty cavity where my wrist should have been. With a dry, crunchy plop, my right hand fell from my body and onto the floor. It didn’t hurt; I couldn’t feel it, but the shock of having one of my limbs just peel itself from me was enough to cause my throat to fill with vomit. I fled to the bathroom to release my stomach into the toilet. I vomited until I had nothing left to give. Slowly, I walked back to reclaim my hand, but it was gone. The spot it had been was damp with black pus, but there was no hand, and it was nowhere to be seen.

Over the next couple of weeks, I only saw passing glimpses of my hand. It was roaming my apartment, but it didn’t want me to see it. Now and then, I would see a finger peeking out from around a door frame, or notice it lurching from above the fridge or beneath the sink. It was changing, becoming something else, something that had started to grow when it was still part of my body. It had grown far larger, now becoming larger than a basketball. The fingers had grown fatter and more leg-like as it scampers across the floor. It no longer has five ‘fingers’; now it has eight. Or at least I think there are eight. It’s watching me; I’ve heard it creeping in the bathroom while I take showers. I hear it crawling beneath my bed while it thinks I’m sleeping.

A few days ago it grew bolder. It’s no longer hiding in the shadows or staying in the corner of my vision. Now it’s roaming freely; it’s no longer scared of me. Even now as I write this, it’s over in the corner watching me; its fat, hairy legs that used to be fingers move restlessly as if it’s preparing for action. It’s chattering to itself; it sounds like fingernails being tapped together. The eight eyes that it grew stare intently at me. They are blacker than the eyes of a shark, and filled with a strange mix of wrath and pride, like it's looking at a prize it will soon win, or an insect caught in its web, soon to be devoured.

Again, I need your help. Are your hands normal? And if they aren’t. If your hands are like mine, what did you do when it stopped being your hand? And more importantly, what did you do when pimples and hair started showing up on the rest of your body?

I need to burn down the Amazon rainforest.

I wish I didn't have to say that.

But it’s the only way to stop him.

Three months ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested it.

I’m a full-time environmental activist. I’ve spent my life planting trees and documenting the destruction of the climate, but now I only dream about fire. Not because I hate the forest,

But because I know what's hiding in it.

My name is Jess. Two months ago, my crew and I were hired by a nonprofit called GrowNow to document one of their reforestation projects deep in the Amazon.

Over the last year, we’ve traveled around the globe planting trees and filming. This was supposed to be another routine assignment.

Ben, my cameraman, and Sara, our sound tech, were exhausted and wanted to go home. I convinced them to come with me anyway.

I wish I hadn't.

I was thrilled to go to the Amazon; I hadn’t been there in years, and the last time I was there, we had only been on the outskirts of the forest, but this time we were going deep into the interior. After weeks of planes, jeeps, riverboats, and hiking, we finally made it to a tiny village that sat on the edge of the region where GrowNow was working.

Exhausted, we pulled ourselves into the makeshift bar that sat in the center of the village. Our packs fell to the floor as we sat at a small table in the corner. Local eyes stared at us with an unbroken boredom; they were neither angry nor excited at our presence. Sara opened the cheap beer the bartender handed her.

“Haven’t been this far out in years.” She said as she raised the bottle to her lips.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, “back then people actually watched our stuff.”

He wasn’t wrong; we did better online when we were independent. Since we started contracting, our docs had lost that ‘young radical’ vibe that had gained us popularity early on. Most nonprofits and companies that hire us aren’t reforesting in the dangerous places. Lately, our work has had more of a newscaster feel than the environmental investigative reporter feel we all dreamed of.

“Maybe this one will be like the old days.” Sara said with hope, “Maybe this will be like our work in the Yukon.”

Ben rolled his eyes

“The Yukon was a one-off; face it, we’re washed up.”

“I think this could be better than the Yukon,” I responded quickly

“You say that every time,” Ben smirked

“Well, this time it's true. I think there’s a story here.”

Ben chuckled as he worked on his beer.

“Think about it, whoever is deforesting in this area clearly doesn’t want anyone to know. The last time we were this isolated in the forest was in the Yukon, and what did we learn there? Companies that work that far out have something to hide.”

Ben shrugged

“Maybe.” He muttered.

Finishing her drink, Sara stood up.

“Well, let’s find some locals to interview.”

We followed her as she smiled and waved at every old woman and giggling child. Near the outskirts of the village, she turned to us and whispered

“Let’s try this guy.”

She walked up to an older man and greeted him in Spanish; he replied, and she asked if we could ask him some questions. He agreed. We quickly set up our equipment, and I stood next to the man and asked my first question.

“Hello, sir, what is your name?”

Sara repeated the question to the man in Spanish; he answered.

“He says his name is Carlos.”

“Thank you, Carlos. How long have you lived here?”

A moment later, Sara answered

“He’s lived here his whole life, he’s never left.”

I nodded at Carlos to show I understood.

“What do you do for work?”

“He’s a fisherman.”

“And Carlos, who’s responsible for cutting the trees around here down?”

Sara repeated the question, and Carlos’ answer was short. Sara was silent as she thought for a moment.

“What did he say?” I asked

“He said the village did; I’m not sure he understood.”

“I’ll try again, Carlos. Does it make you sad that the forest is being destroyed?”

Sara asked Carlos, and he violently shook his head and gave a long response. Sara frowned.

“What did he say?”

“he said, ‘Not at all, the trees are evil; openness brings safety.’”

She thought for a moment

“I didn’t understand much more. I think he's saying something about the trees and someone who needs them.”

“This is a bust,” Ben said.

“Wait!” I said, stopping him from putting the camera down.

Looking towards Carlos, I asked

“Who needs these trees?”

He stared at Sara as she repeated the question; his face was void of expression. Then, without any warning, he walked away as if he hadn’t just been speaking to us. I stared, confused, as he vanished behind the walls of his home. Ben put the camera down, grabbed my shoulder, and said

“Come on, let’s move on.”

Word of strangers asking questions spread quickly, and we couldn’t get anyone else to talk with us; instead, they avoided us like the plague. Giving up on interviews, we moved out of the village and headed towards the reforestation camp

.

The camp was roughly five miles from the village. Five miles of desolation; the region was bare. Wide, vast fields of stumps and burn scars were all that remained of ancient trees and habitats. Every step we took, every stump we passed, filled me with anger. How could anyone do this? As we grew closer to the camp, we could see the signs of new life; hand-planted trees of various sizes were scattered among the barren land. It was the start of a new section of forest.

The GrowNow camp sat outside the edge of the deforestation; a healthy, living rainforest sat around the camp just a short walk away from the dead land we were here to heal. It wasn’t the largest camp we’ve seen; in fact, for a well-funded nonprofit, it was quite small. Just a handful of personnel tents, a kitchen tent, an open-air meeting area, and a showering tent. Best we could tell, there were about a dozen people here, a microscopic amount compared to some of our projects.

A tall German man greeted us as we entered the bounds of the camp. With a wide smile, he reached a hand out to me.

“You must be Jessica.”

I shook his hand.

“Call me Jess.” Pointing to my friends, I said

“This is Ben, and Sara, my crew.”

He gave a warm nod to them.

“Welcome, my name is Gregory. I’m the camp manager here; we’re pleased to have you with us.”

He beckoned us to follow as he led us through camp.

“We’ve made some good progress, but as I’m sure you saw on the trail, we still have a long way to go.”

I nodded

“This is impressive, how exactly can we help?”

“You’re here to help us raise funds. We’ve had a few issues with the locals; a few of our efforts have been burned or destroyed by the surrounding villages; they don’t seem to understand that we’re trying to help.”

He stopped to greet some volunteers in the camp

“We’re over budget due to needing to buy new saplings. So we’re hoping that you’ll film a short documentary of the good work we’re doing, something that will encourage people to give.”

He continued through the camp.

I spoke up.

“We talked to some of the locals; they said something about someone needing these trees. Any idea what they’re talking about?”

Gregory looked back; a quick flash of concern crossed his face before he shrugged and said

“Just local superstitions, I would guess.”

Pointing to a large canvas tent standing off by itself he said

“Here’s where you’ll be staying its not much but hopefully it’ll work for you and you’re gear; get settled and relax. After dark we like to gather around the fire, and you’re welcome to join us.”

We spent the next hour unpacking our packs and organizing our equipment; the sun was beginning to set as we finished. Ben picked up his camera and said

“This is good lighting; I’m going to get some b-footage.”

I nodded

“Don’t go too far,” I said as I sat down on a log. The rainforest chattered with life all around us

Sara and I talked about the camp, the size of the deforestation, and what kind of shots we wanted to get the following day. About 10 minutes later, Ben walked back to us; he was frowning and looking around like someone was watching him.

“Everything ok Ben?” I said as I noticed his concern.

He looked at us

“Yeah, I was just filming back in there. When everything got really quiet and still. Then I caught this strange guy in the shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, just some strange old dude, about 20 yards from me, just standing and staring at me.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious!” Ben cried “Look I got it on tape.”

He began to rewind the camera as Sara and I came in close to see.

“Here it is.” He said and pressed play

We watched as Ben slowly moved the camera through the jungle, swinging the camera back and further, then the shot stopped and froze on a clump of trees and underbrush. We could here Ben’s voice on the recording, muttered

“What the hell.”

The camera held still for a few minutes before it dropped to Ben’s side as he tromped back to camp. We didn’t see any old man.

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make sense.” Ben protested, “He was standing right there.”

“Nice try, Ben.” Sara laughed

I smiled at him in sympathy.

“It’s been a long day; we all need some rest. Come on.”

Together we walked towards the meal tent.

We enjoyed the hearty dinner the camp offered; Ben seemed shaken. Darkness came, and with it the warm campfire. One by one, the staff and volunteers gathered by the flickering light. Smiles and laughter filled the night. Soon the liquor came. Then more laughter and dancing. The multicultural group meshed into a vibrant expression of human joy. Dancing and off-key songs rose from the group, and Sara and I watched with smiles on our faces. Ben sat and stared intently into the dancing flames of the fire.

Gregory led the merry night; he clumsily danced around the fire, and his deep, jolly voice tried its best to sing. After a few rounds of dancing, he grew tired and stumbled his way towards us. With a joyful laugh and slurred words, he sat down next to Ben, wrapping an arm around him.

“Why so glum, friend? Have some fun while we save the world.” He laughed deeply

Ben tried to squirm away, but the strong German pulled him in.

“Don’t worry about him.” Sara said as she watched, amused.

“He thought he saw someone in the jungle today.”

“Really?” Gregory looked at Ben, a wide smile on his face, though his eyes and voice sobered up slightly.

“What did this person look like?”

Ben shook his head and stared at the ground.

“Oh come on, we’re all friends here. What did you see?”

Slowly Ben said

“It was an old man.”

“Old man eh?”

“Yeah, but he looked strange.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, his face seemed wrong, almost like it was AI-generated, almost right but not really.”

Gregory went silent; it seemed as though he was once again sober, he stared at the fire before speaking.

“When I was younger.” His voice was clear and calculated “I helped with some humanitarian efforts here in the Amazon, quite close to where we are actually.”

He cleared his throat.

“We were helping a village, and they warned us of an old man who would watch you from the jungle.”

Our eyes were locked on him.

“The story goes that many years ago an elder of the village and his young grandson got lost while out hunting; they stumbled around for days and weeks. It seemed as though the jungle had been emptied of every animal and edible plant, for they found nothing to satisfy their constant hunger. The elder, a coward at heart, cared only for his life. His hunger consumed all familial love in his heart, and he devoured his grandson.”

He paused to clear his throat

“The locals claim the forest spirits found him afterward. Cursing him to be a wandering soul, doomed to roam the jungle forever. Some say he will come to your shelter at night, and if he knocks three times, you must give him an offering, or you risk his wrath.”

We stared at him in silence; Ben was as white as a sheet. Gregory tried to look serious, but soon a wide smile cracked across his face, and he burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I really had you going; those local legends are far out there.”

With that, he stood and grabbed another bottle from the cooler and went back to his awkward dancing. Sara playfully punched Ben’s shoulder

“Man, he got you good.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but managed to chuckle a bit. The rest of the time around the campfire was lighthearted and fun; even Ben danced a little once he had a few beers in him. It was nearing midnight when the three of us stumbled off to our tent and collapsed on our cots.

Around 3 am I woke up. I was thirsty. Glancing around the canvas room of the tent, which was slowly illuminated by the grey light of the moon, I saw my canteen resting beside my backpack across the room. Ben and Sara were sound asleep as I stood up and walked the few steps over to the pack. Walking back to the cot. I took my drink and lay down.

The lively sounds of the jungle at night were very relaxing: the chirping of distant birds and nearby insects mixed with the howling and cries of various animals made a calming ambience. I was on the verge of sleep when it all stopped. The night became perfectly quiet. The only sound that remained was the low breathing of my friends. I sat up; in all the nights I’ve slept in the woods, I’ve never experienced such an abrupt silence.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken as a long human-shaped shadow moved its way across the canvas walls. Slowly, methodically, it made its way to the tent door. A cold breeze made its way through the two-inch gap beneath the canvas door. A figure stood unmoved on the other side of the thin fabric. I held my breath and stared intently at the entrance. Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity. I don’t know why, but I slowly left my bed and silently crept to the door. I tightly held a small pocket knife in one of my trembling hands. A few feet and a piece of cloth separated me from whoever stood there.

“Hello?” A weary, raspy voice broke the silence.

I swallowed and held the knife tighter.

“Is anyone in there? I’m lost; may I come in?” The voice was strange; its owner unfamiliar with speech, almost like it hadn’t opened its mouth in a century.

A breeze lifted the canvas slightly, and for a second I saw bare feet stand at the door, thin and bony.

A long, uncomfortable moment passed; neither I nor the shape moved, then it said

“I know you’re there.”

Almost instinctively, I moved my free hand up to cover my mouth.

“I can hear your heart beating, why won’t you let me in?”

Sweat began to form on my forehead.

“Please let me in.” The voice was firmer now.

Then the figure raised its hand and slowly knocked three times on the canvas covering, pushing it in towards me with every knock.

At that, I rolled my eyes and chuckled softly

“Nice try, Gregory, but you’re not getting us with that story again.” I said with as much courage as I could find.

At my words, Sara sleepily lifted her head and said

“What are you doing? Who are you talking to?” she asked in a daze

“It's Gregory; he’s trying to scare us again.”

“Tell him to quit it; we’re trying to sleep,” she mumbled and rolled over

“It’s not going to work, Gregory. Get lost,” I said confidently to the figure.

I returned to my bed. I don't know how long the shape stood there, but eventually exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

The sun worked as a natural alarm clock. Both Sara and Ben were up and getting ready for the day when I rolled over in my sleeping bag.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said sarcastically.

“What time is it?” I whined

“Almost ten; you were out.” She chuckled.

Ben stood in the corner, preparing his camera equipment.

With a yawn and a stretch, I swung my feet to the ground and began to lace up my boots. Ben finished packing his kit and, with a grin, said

“Maybe there’s some breakfast left; see you out there.”

With that, he pushed aside the canvas door and stepped out of the tent. Mere seconds later, his panicked voice reached our ears.

“Guys! Get out here!”

Sara and I burst out of the tent, where we met a wide-eyed Ben.

“What?” Sara said annoyed

“Where the hell is everyone?” he yelled.

Our eyes left Ben and scanned the surrounding jungle. It was dense and wild; the tent that had been just a stone's throw from ours last night was gone. There was no kitchen tent. No fire pit.
No personnel tents. No showering tent. No footprints. Nothing.

The camp was gone.

Sara and I quickly spun around, confused

“What is this?” I muttered

Sara laughed to herself

“This is a joke, right? They moved the camp and didn’t tell us.”

“Moved the camp? What are you talking about? Look around! This isn’t the same jungle from last night; we’re the ones who moved,” Ben screamed

He was right. We looked around; these weren’t the same trees that surrounded the camp. The land was different.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t be far from the camp. Let’s just try to find it.” My voice was more confident than I felt.

My frightened friends stared back at me, but soon both agreed, and picking a direction, the three of us headed off, shouting for help as we went. An hour passed, and we saw no sign of humans. With a sigh, Ben said

“Face it, we’re lost. Something is really wrong here; let’s head back to the tent.”

We turned and retraced our steps. Two hours passed and then three; we couldn’t find the tent. Sara whimpered softly to herself; Ben swore under his breath. The situation was getting to me and I snapped

“Where the hell is the tent!” I kicked a stump and fell to the ground, crying

Ben stared off blankly into the jungle and shook his head

“We could have been there now; why aren’t we there?” he whispered continuously to himself

Sara sat on the ground, her head buried between her knees; low snuffles and sobs shook her frame. The three of us wallowed in our fears; panic overcame reason. The sound of thunder shook me from my despair. I looked up at the dark sky just as it began to rain.

Slowly, the three of us moved under the shelter of a large tree. When it rains in the rainforest, nothing stays dry. The wind whipped the rain around, drenching us thoroughly. It rained all day and through the night. We huddled together for warmth, but were soaked to the bone.

Sometime after midnight, both Ben and Sara managed to fall into trouble sleep; I wasn’t so lucky. Sleep evaded me as I stared into the dark, wet jungle. In the distance, I could have sworn I could see the shape of a starved old man wandering between the trees.

Morning came, but it didn’t bring hope. Most of the morning the three of us sat against the tree in silence. Around noon, Ben spoke for the first time in hours.

“Have you noticed how quiet it is?”

We all listened; it was eerily silent. No birds, no bugs, no animals, just the wind in the trees. Sara stared at the ground and said

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” I blankly answered

“Somewhere in the jungle.”

The silence continued. In the afternoon, a loud rumble echoed around us. It was my stomach.

“I’m hungry,” Ben said

“We all are,” Sara said

 A long moment of silence followed before Ben asked

“Who are we going to get out of here?”

I thought for a moment before saying.

“We just need to find the river. There are villages along the banks; if we find the river, we can get out of here.”

We agreed to search for the river in the morning. Feeling more confident now that we had a plan, we huddled together for the night and fell asleep.

The next day was a copy of the previous; we wandered aimlessly through thick jungle. Around us, we could hear the rush of a river; it sounded so close, but try as we might, we couldn’t find it. The sun began to set, and we sat down under a tree that looked strangely like the one we slept under the night before.

“There’s no food.” Sara muttered

Ben and I looked towards her as she continued

“I’ve been looking; there are no berries, or fruit or any edible plants that I know.”

“What about animals? We could try to hunt or catch something?” I weakly asked.

Sara shook her head

“I haven’t seen a single ant. There’s nothing.”

Hunger pains set in as we drifted off to sleep. I don’t know how many days continued just like this; it felt like months, but it couldn’t have been more than a week. When it rained, we drank. But our bodies grew weak from starvation. Our clothes grew loose, and our skin clung tight to our shaking bones. All muscle vanished; only skin and bones remained.

Slowly we stumbled around all the more. It felt like a task to keep my eyes open. We barely spoke anymore.

“Look!” Ben slowly raised his arm to point up into the canopy above.

“Berries.”

A small bunch of shiny black orbs hung off a vine about 20 ft off the ground. Ben stared at them as if they were made of gold. Sara stared intently at them, too.

“I can’t tell what kind of berry those are. They might not be food,” she said wearily.

A flash of anger crossed over Ben’s face.

“Who cares?! We need to eat.” He stubbornly pushed her aside and began to climb the tree.

He knocked the clump down and returned to the ground to pick it up. He viciously devoured each berry before stopping and glancing towards us. Breaking off two small bunches, he handed them to us.

“Here,” he said gruffly

Sara licked her lips, but refused them. I stared at them; they were darker than night, and smelled rotten. It took everything I had to resist and shake my head no.

“Suit yourselves,” Ben mumbled as he shoved the berries into his mouth.

We didn’t last much longer before collapsing for the night beneath an all-too-familiar tree. The last thing I saw was a distant figure staring at us from behind the trees.

When I woke, Sara was crying. Confused, I looked around before my eyes settled on the crumpled form she cradled in her lap. It was Ben; his skin was a pale greenish shade, and his frail form was rigid and stiff. A thin line of white foam ran from his mouth down his neck.

“Jess,” Sara whispered through her cries

I swallowed hard, and trying to be brave, I said

“I know, but we have to keep going.”

I pulled her to her feet

“Come on.”

We walked away from Ben together.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day; now and then, Sara snuffled and wiped her eyes before tears fell. The light began to fade as the sun began to set. We stumbled forward; ahead of us, Ben’s dead body rested against the same tree we left this morning. Sara screamed. Though we left the tree and Ben and headed in one direction all day, somehow we were back with Ben. We collapsed to the ground and cried.

Days passed. The silence was deafening, the hunger unbearable. Every morning we left the grove; we left Ben leaning against the tree. And every night somehow we returned to the same grove, where Ben greeted us. His body changed over the days; it was swelling with decay. He leaked thick, dark fluid onto the ground. Though his flesh was rotting, not a single maggot wiggled its way across his corpse.

We stumbled into the grove one night; his skin hung loose on his skull. Sara shuffled over at crouched in front of his body. She lifted his arm to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a daze.

“I’m hungry.”

“Sara, don’t. He was our friend.”

“He’d understand.”

My heart beat faster as I realized she was serious.

“Well, don’t; he’s rotten. Look at him.”

She stopped and stared at the corpse.

“You’re right.” She mumbled.

She turned and stared at me. A strange fire glowed deep in her eyes. She rose to her full height; she seemed stronger than before. She moved towards me slowly, but with purpose.

“Sara?” I took a step back.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes grew darker, her lip began to quiver, and tears ran down her face, but her fists clenched at her sides.

“Please, I’ll make it quick.” She moved closer.

“Don’t do this.” I whispered

A thin smile broke through the tears as she lunged at me. Her tackle knocked me to the ground, and the back of my head bounced off a large rock, knocking me unconscious. I came to a few minutes later; a sharp pain radiated from my right forearm. Slowly, I turned my head to see Sara hunched over my arm; blood covered her clothes and hands, and my flesh was in her mouth. Already, she had chewed a gaping wound in my forearm; my muscle, skin, and tendons stretched and snapped as she pulled it away with her teeth. I screamed.

Instinctively, I wildly kicked my legs to and fro; one kick landed in Sara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her and giving me the chance to scoot away from her. It didn’t take long for her to recover and scrabble towards me. My left hand reached and found a stone; I swung it and connected with her temple. She limply fell face down in the dirt. I swung the stone again at the back of her head.

Ben’s rotting eyes stared at me as I wept over Sara's bleeding skull. I wept bitterly, and to my shame, as I stared at Sara through watery eyes, my stomach growled. Her skin looked so delicious and filling; I could feel myself giving way to the temptation. A weak chuckle caused me to turn around. Behind me stood an old, frail man. His frame was weak, but his eyes were dark and powerful. He stared at me, a wide grin on his face.

“Eat.” His weak voice said

I stared in disbelief before my gaze returned to Sara.

“Eat.” His voice was deeper, stronger.

I looked back at him; fear filled my body. It seemed as though the old, frail shape before me wasn’t a man, but a monster, disguised behind flesh and bones. The jungle darkened where the man had been was replaced by a void of shadow. I backed up slowly.

“Eat.” His voice echoed and shook the ground.

I turned and ran. A loud cackle resounded through the jungle. I ran as fast as my starved body could handle; the man was right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck; his voice laughed and said

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

A cold, strong hand wrapped itself around my wrist, but just as it began to pull me back, the ground below me gave way as my body tumbled down the steep side of a mountain. The man’s grip broke as I rolled and toppled down the wooded hillside. Bouncing off the ground and trees. I didn’t stop till I reached the bottom.

At the bottom, I groaned and slowly rolled myself over to face the sky. Pain and bruises covered me, and it took a moment to realize I wasn’t in the jungle anymore. The tumble down the hill dropped me at the edge of the deforestation area. I struggled to my feet and looked around. The rainforest was a yard or two behind me; just within its bounds stood the old man. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

I backed up slowly; he made no move. I moved further away; he didn’t follow. He stayed in the jungle. I hobbled my way to the same village that Sara, Ben and I stopped in. At first they were frightened by the skinny, bloodied woman who barely looked human. But eventually they fed me and tended to my wounds before a boat came to take me to civilization. He’s still out there, hiding in the jungle; that’s why it has to burn.

I'm writing this from a hospital room thousands of miles from that jungle. But I’ll be going back soon. To the same village, the same area, only this time I have a different goal. I’m not writing this as a justification; it's just an explanation. When you see the news of the activist who burned the rainforest.

Now you’ll know why.

I need to burn down the Amazon rainforest.

I wish I didn't have to say that.

But it’s the only way to stop him.

Three months ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested it.

I’m a full-time environmental activist. I’ve spent my life planting trees and documenting the destruction of the climate, but now I only dream about fire. Not because I hate the forest,

But because I know what's hiding in it.

My name is Jess. Two months ago, my crew and I were hired by a nonprofit called GrowNow to document one of their reforestation projects deep in the Amazon.

Over the last year, we’ve traveled around the globe planting trees and filming. This was supposed to be another routine assignment.

Ben, my cameraman, and Sara, our sound tech, were exhausted and wanted to go home. I convinced them to come with me anyway.

I wish I hadn't.

I was thrilled to go to the Amazon; I hadn’t been there in years, and the last time I was there, we had only been on the outskirts of the forest, but this time we were going deep into the interior. After weeks of planes, jeeps, riverboats, and hiking, we finally made it to a tiny village that sat on the edge of the region where GrowNow was working.

Exhausted, we pulled ourselves into the makeshift bar that sat in the center of the village. Our packs fell to the floor as we sat at a small table in the corner. Local eyes stared at us with an unbroken boredom; they were neither angry nor excited at our presence. Sara opened the cheap beer the bartender handed her.

“Haven’t been this far out in years.” She said as she raised the bottle to her lips.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, “back then people actually watched our stuff.”

He wasn’t wrong; we did better online when we were independent. Since we started contracting, our docs had lost that ‘young radical’ vibe that had gained us popularity early on. Most nonprofits and companies that hire us aren’t reforesting in the dangerous places. Lately, our work has had more of a newscaster feel than the environmental investigative reporter feel we all dreamed of.

“Maybe this one will be like the old days.” Sara said with hope, “Maybe this will be like our work in the Yukon.”

Ben rolled his eyes

“The Yukon was a one-off; face it, we’re washed up.”

“I think this could be better than the Yukon,” I responded quickly

“You say that every time,” Ben smirked

“Well, this time it's true. I think there’s a story here.”

Ben chuckled as he worked on his beer.

“Think about it, whoever is deforesting in this area clearly doesn’t want anyone to know. The last time we were this isolated in the forest was in the Yukon, and what did we learn there? Companies that work that far out have something to hide.”

Ben shrugged

“Maybe.” He muttered.

Finishing her drink, Sara stood up.

“Well, let’s find some locals to interview.”

We followed her as she smiled and waved at every old woman and giggling child. Near the outskirts of the village, she turned to us and whispered

“Let’s try this guy.”

She walked up to an older man and greeted him in Spanish; he replied, and she asked if we could ask him some questions. He agreed. We quickly set up our equipment, and I stood next to the man and asked my first question.

“Hello, sir, what is your name?”

Sara repeated the question to the man in Spanish; he answered.

“He says his name is Carlos.”

“Thank you, Carlos. How long have you lived here?”

A moment later, Sara answered

“He’s lived here his whole life, he’s never left.”

I nodded at Carlos to show I understood.

“What do you do for work?”

“He’s a fisherman.”

“And Carlos, who’s responsible for cutting the trees around here down?”

Sara repeated the question, and Carlos’ answer was short. Sara was silent as she thought for a moment.

“What did he say?” I asked

“He said the village did; I’m not sure he understood.”

“I’ll try again, Carlos. Does it make you sad that the forest is being destroyed?”

Sara asked Carlos, and he violently shook his head and gave a long response. Sara frowned.

“What did he say?”

“he said, ‘Not at all, the trees are evil; openness brings safety.’”

She thought for a moment

“I didn’t understand much more. I think he's saying something about the trees and someone who needs them.”

“This is a bust,” Ben said.

“Wait!” I said, stopping him from putting the camera down.

Looking towards Carlos, I asked

“Who needs these trees?”

He stared at Sara as she repeated the question; his face was void of expression. Then, without any warning, he walked away as if he hadn’t just been speaking to us. I stared, confused, as he vanished behind the walls of his home. Ben put the camera down, grabbed my shoulder, and said

“Come on, let’s move on.”

Word of strangers asking questions spread quickly, and we couldn’t get anyone else to talk with us; instead, they avoided us like the plague. Giving up on interviews, we moved out of the village and headed towards the reforestation camp

.

The camp was roughly five miles from the village. Five miles of desolation; the region was bare. Wide, vast fields of stumps and burn scars were all that remained of ancient trees and habitats. Every step we took, every stump we passed, filled me with anger. How could anyone do this? As we grew closer to the camp, we could see the signs of new life; hand-planted trees of various sizes were scattered among the barren land. It was the start of a new section of forest.

The GrowNow camp sat outside the edge of the deforestation; a healthy, living rainforest sat around the camp just a short walk away from the dead land we were here to heal. It wasn’t the largest camp we’ve seen; in fact, for a well-funded nonprofit, it was quite small. Just a handful of personnel tents, a kitchen tent, an open-air meeting area, and a showering tent. Best we could tell, there were about a dozen people here, a microscopic amount compared to some of our projects.

A tall German man greeted us as we entered the bounds of the camp. With a wide smile, he reached a hand out to me.

“You must be Jessica.”

I shook his hand.

“Call me Jess.” Pointing to my friends, I said

“This is Ben, and Sara, my crew.”

He gave a warm nod to them.

“Welcome, my name is Gregory. I’m the camp manager here; we’re pleased to have you with us.”

He beckoned us to follow as he led us through camp.

“We’ve made some good progress, but as I’m sure you saw on the trail, we still have a long way to go.”

I nodded

“This is impressive, how exactly can we help?”

“You’re here to help us raise funds. We’ve had a few issues with the locals; a few of our efforts have been burned or destroyed by the surrounding villages; they don’t seem to understand that we’re trying to help.”

He stopped to greet some volunteers in the camp

“We’re over budget due to needing to buy new saplings. So we’re hoping that you’ll film a short documentary of the good work we’re doing, something that will encourage people to give.”

He continued through the camp.

I spoke up.

“We talked to some of the locals; they said something about someone needing these trees. Any idea what they’re talking about?”

Gregory looked back; a quick flash of concern crossed his face before he shrugged and said

“Just local superstitions, I would guess.”

Pointing to a large canvas tent standing off by itself he said

“Here’s where you’ll be staying its not much but hopefully it’ll work for you and you’re gear; get settled and relax. After dark we like to gather around the fire, and you’re welcome to join us.”

We spent the next hour unpacking our packs and organizing our equipment; the sun was beginning to set as we finished. Ben picked up his camera and said

“This is good lighting; I’m going to get some b-footage.”

I nodded

“Don’t go too far,” I said as I sat down on a log. The rainforest chattered with life all around us

Sara and I talked about the camp, the size of the deforestation, and what kind of shots we wanted to get the following day. About 10 minutes later, Ben walked back to us; he was frowning and looking around like someone was watching him.

“Everything ok Ben?” I said as I noticed his concern.

He looked at us

“Yeah, I was just filming back in there. When everything got really quiet and still. Then I caught this strange guy in the shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, just some strange old dude, about 20 yards from me, just standing and staring at me.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious!” Ben cried “Look I got it on tape.”

He began to rewind the camera as Sara and I came in close to see.

“Here it is.” He said and pressed play

We watched as Ben slowly moved the camera through the jungle, swinging the camera back and further, then the shot stopped and froze on a clump of trees and underbrush. We could here Ben’s voice on the recording, muttered

“What the hell.”

The camera held still for a few minutes before it dropped to Ben’s side as he tromped back to camp. We didn’t see any old man.

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make sense.” Ben protested, “He was standing right there.”

“Nice try, Ben.” Sara laughed

I smiled at him in sympathy.

“It’s been a long day; we all need some rest. Come on.”

Together we walked towards the meal tent.

We enjoyed the hearty dinner the camp offered; Ben seemed shaken. Darkness came, and with it the warm campfire. One by one, the staff and volunteers gathered by the flickering light. Smiles and laughter filled the night. Soon the liquor came. Then more laughter and dancing. The multicultural group meshed into a vibrant expression of human joy. Dancing and off-key songs rose from the group, and Sara and I watched with smiles on our faces. Ben sat and stared intently into the dancing flames of the fire.

Gregory led the merry night; he clumsily danced around the fire, and his deep, jolly voice tried its best to sing. After a few rounds of dancing, he grew tired and stumbled his way towards us. With a joyful laugh and slurred words, he sat down next to Ben, wrapping an arm around him.

“Why so glum, friend? Have some fun while we save the world.” He laughed deeply

Ben tried to squirm away, but the strong German pulled him in.

“Don’t worry about him.” Sara said as she watched, amused.

“He thought he saw someone in the jungle today.”

“Really?” Gregory looked at Ben, a wide smile on his face, though his eyes and voice sobered up slightly.

“What did this person look like?”

Ben shook his head and stared at the ground.

“Oh come on, we’re all friends here. What did you see?”

Slowly Ben said

“It was an old man.”

“Old man eh?”

“Yeah, but he looked strange.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, his face seemed wrong, almost like it was AI-generated, almost right but not really.”

Gregory went silent; it seemed as though he was once again sober, he stared at the fire before speaking.

“When I was younger.” His voice was clear and calculated “I helped with some humanitarian efforts here in the Amazon, quite close to where we are actually.”

He cleared his throat.

“We were helping a village, and they warned us of an old man who would watch you from the jungle.”

Our eyes were locked on him.

“The story goes that many years ago an elder of the village and his young grandson got lost while out hunting; they stumbled around for days and weeks. It seemed as though the jungle had been emptied of every animal and edible plant, for they found nothing to satisfy their constant hunger. The elder, a coward at heart, cared only for his life. His hunger consumed all familial love in his heart, and he devoured his grandson.”

He paused to clear his throat

“The locals claim the forest spirits found him afterward. Cursing him to be a wandering soul, doomed to roam the jungle forever. Some say he will come to your shelter at night, and if he knocks three times, you must give him an offering, or you risk his wrath.”

We stared at him in silence; Ben was as white as a sheet. Gregory tried to look serious, but soon a wide smile cracked across his face, and he burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I really had you going; those local legends are far out there.”

With that, he stood and grabbed another bottle from the cooler and went back to his awkward dancing. Sara playfully punched Ben’s shoulder

“Man, he got you good.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but managed to chuckle a bit. The rest of the time around the campfire was lighthearted and fun; even Ben danced a little once he had a few beers in him. It was nearing midnight when the three of us stumbled off to our tent and collapsed on our cots.

Around 3 am I woke up. I was thirsty. Glancing around the canvas room of the tent, which was slowly illuminated by the grey light of the moon, I saw my canteen resting beside my backpack across the room. Ben and Sara were sound asleep as I stood up and walked the few steps over to the pack. Walking back to the cot. I took my drink and lay down.

The lively sounds of the jungle at night were very relaxing: the chirping of distant birds and nearby insects mixed with the howling and cries of various animals made a calming ambience. I was on the verge of sleep when it all stopped. The night became perfectly quiet. The only sound that remained was the low breathing of my friends. I sat up; in all the nights I’ve slept in the woods, I’ve never experienced such an abrupt silence.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken as a long human-shaped shadow moved its way across the canvas walls. Slowly, methodically, it made its way to the tent door. A cold breeze made its way through the two-inch gap beneath the canvas door. A figure stood unmoved on the other side of the thin fabric. I held my breath and stared intently at the entrance. Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity. I don’t know why, but I slowly left my bed and silently crept to the door. I tightly held a small pocket knife in one of my trembling hands. A few feet and a piece of cloth separated me from whoever stood there.

“Hello?” A weary, raspy voice broke the silence.

I swallowed and held the knife tighter.

“Is anyone in there? I’m lost; may I come in?” The voice was strange; its owner unfamiliar with speech, almost like it hadn’t opened its mouth in a century.

A breeze lifted the canvas slightly, and for a second I saw bare feet stand at the door, thin and bony.

A long, uncomfortable moment passed; neither I nor the shape moved, then it said

“I know you’re there.”

Almost instinctively, I moved my free hand up to cover my mouth.

“I can hear your heart beating, why won’t you let me in?”

Sweat began to form on my forehead.

“Please let me in.” The voice was firmer now.

Then the figure raised its hand and slowly knocked three times on the canvas covering, pushing it in towards me with every knock.

At that, I rolled my eyes and chuckled softly

“Nice try, Gregory, but you’re not getting us with that story again.” I said with as much courage as I could find.

At my words, Sara sleepily lifted her head and said

“What are you doing? Who are you talking to?” she asked in a daze

“It's Gregory; he’s trying to scare us again.”

“Tell him to quit it; we’re trying to sleep,” she mumbled and rolled over

“It’s not going to work, Gregory. Get lost,” I said confidently to the figure.

I returned to my bed. I don't know how long the shape stood there, but eventually exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

The sun worked as a natural alarm clock. Both Sara and Ben were up and getting ready for the day when I rolled over in my sleeping bag.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said sarcastically.

“What time is it?” I whined

“Almost ten; you were out.” She chuckled.

Ben stood in the corner, preparing his camera equipment.

With a yawn and a stretch, I swung my feet to the ground and began to lace up my boots. Ben finished packing his kit and, with a grin, said

“Maybe there’s some breakfast left; see you out there.”

With that, he pushed aside the canvas door and stepped out of the tent. Mere seconds later, his panicked voice reached our ears.

“Guys! Get out here!”

Sara and I burst out of the tent, where we met a wide-eyed Ben.

“What?” Sara said annoyed

“Where the hell is everyone?” he yelled.

Our eyes left Ben and scanned the surrounding jungle. It was dense and wild; the tent that had been just a stone's throw from ours last night was gone. There was no kitchen tent. No fire pit.
No personnel tents. No showering tent. No footprints. Nothing.

The camp was gone.

Sara and I quickly spun around, confused

“What is this?” I muttered

Sara laughed to herself

“This is a joke, right? They moved the camp and didn’t tell us.”

“Moved the camp? What are you talking about? Look around! This isn’t the same jungle from last night; we’re the ones who moved,” Ben screamed

He was right. We looked around; these weren’t the same trees that surrounded the camp. The land was different.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t be far from the camp. Let’s just try to find it.” My voice was more confident than I felt.

My frightened friends stared back at me, but soon both agreed, and picking a direction, the three of us headed off, shouting for help as we went. An hour passed, and we saw no sign of humans. With a sigh, Ben said

“Face it, we’re lost. Something is really wrong here; let’s head back to the tent.”

We turned and retraced our steps. Two hours passed and then three; we couldn’t find the tent. Sara whimpered softly to herself; Ben swore under his breath. The situation was getting to me and I snapped

“Where the hell is the tent!” I kicked a stump and fell to the ground, crying

Ben stared off blankly into the jungle and shook his head

“We could have been there now; why aren’t we there?” he whispered continuously to himself

Sara sat on the ground, her head buried between her knees; low snuffles and sobs shook her frame. The three of us wallowed in our fears; panic overcame reason. The sound of thunder shook me from my despair. I looked up at the dark sky just as it began to rain.

Slowly, the three of us moved under the shelter of a large tree. When it rains in the rainforest, nothing stays dry. The wind whipped the rain around, drenching us thoroughly. It rained all day and through the night. We huddled together for warmth, but were soaked to the bone.

Sometime after midnight, both Ben and Sara managed to fall into trouble sleep; I wasn’t so lucky. Sleep evaded me as I stared into the dark, wet jungle. In the distance, I could have sworn I could see the shape of a starved old man wandering between the trees.

Morning came, but it didn’t bring hope. Most of the morning the three of us sat against the tree in silence. Around noon, Ben spoke for the first time in hours.

“Have you noticed how quiet it is?”

We all listened; it was eerily silent. No birds, no bugs, no animals, just the wind in the trees. Sara stared at the ground and said

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” I blankly answered

“Somewhere in the jungle.”

The silence continued. In the afternoon, a loud rumble echoed around us. It was my stomach.

“I’m hungry,” Ben said

“We all are,” Sara said

 A long moment of silence followed before Ben asked

“Who are we going to get out of here?”

I thought for a moment before saying.

“We just need to find the river. There are villages along the banks; if we find the river, we can get out of here.”

We agreed to search for the river in the morning. Feeling more confident now that we had a plan, we huddled together for the night and fell asleep.

The next day was a copy of the previous; we wandered aimlessly through thick jungle. Around us, we could hear the rush of a river; it sounded so close, but try as we might, we couldn’t find it. The sun began to set, and we sat down under a tree that looked strangely like the one we slept under the night before.

“There’s no food.” Sara muttered

Ben and I looked towards her as she continued

“I’ve been looking; there are no berries, or fruit or any edible plants that I know.”

“What about animals? We could try to hunt or catch something?” I weakly asked.

Sara shook her head

“I haven’t seen a single ant. There’s nothing.”

Hunger pains set in as we drifted off to sleep. I don’t know how many days continued just like this; it felt like months, but it couldn’t have been more than a week. When it rained, we drank. But our bodies grew weak from starvation. Our clothes grew loose, and our skin clung tight to our shaking bones. All muscle vanished; only skin and bones remained.

Slowly we stumbled around all the more. It felt like a task to keep my eyes open. We barely spoke anymore.

“Look!” Ben slowly raised his arm to point up into the canopy above.

“Berries.”

A small bunch of shiny black orbs hung off a vine about 20 ft off the ground. Ben stared at them as if they were made of gold. Sara stared intently at them, too.

“I can’t tell what kind of berry those are. They might not be food,” she said wearily.

A flash of anger crossed over Ben’s face.

“Who cares?! We need to eat.” He stubbornly pushed her aside and began to climb the tree.

He knocked the clump down and returned to the ground to pick it up. He viciously devoured each berry before stopping and glancing towards us. Breaking off two small bunches, he handed them to us.

“Here,” he said gruffly

Sara licked her lips, but refused them. I stared at them; they were darker than night, and smelled rotten. It took everything I had to resist and shake my head no.

“Suit yourselves,” Ben mumbled as he shoved the berries into his mouth.

We didn’t last much longer before collapsing for the night beneath an all-too-familiar tree. The last thing I saw was a distant figure staring at us from behind the trees.

When I woke, Sara was crying. Confused, I looked around before my eyes settled on the crumpled form she cradled in her lap. It was Ben; his skin was a pale greenish shade, and his frail form was rigid and stiff. A thin line of white foam ran from his mouth down his neck.

“Jess,” Sara whispered through her cries

I swallowed hard, and trying to be brave, I said

“I know, but we have to keep going.”

I pulled her to her feet

“Come on.”

We walked away from Ben together.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day; now and then, Sara snuffled and wiped her eyes before tears fell. The light began to fade as the sun began to set. We stumbled forward; ahead of us, Ben’s dead body rested against the same tree we left this morning. Sara screamed. Though we left the tree and Ben and headed in one direction all day, somehow we were back with Ben. We collapsed to the ground and cried.

Days passed. The silence was deafening, the hunger unbearable. Every morning we left the grove; we left Ben leaning against the tree. And every night somehow we returned to the same grove, where Ben greeted us. His body changed over the days; it was swelling with decay. He leaked thick, dark fluid onto the ground. Though his flesh was rotting, not a single maggot wiggled its way across his corpse.

We stumbled into the grove one night; his skin hung loose on his skull. Sara shuffled over at crouched in front of his body. She lifted his arm to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a daze.

“I’m hungry.”

“Sara, don’t. He was our friend.”

“He’d understand.”

My heart beat faster as I realized she was serious.

“Well, don’t; he’s rotten. Look at him.”

She stopped and stared at the corpse.

“You’re right.” She mumbled.

She turned and stared at me. A strange fire glowed deep in her eyes. She rose to her full height; she seemed stronger than before. She moved towards me slowly, but with purpose.

“Sara?” I took a step back.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes grew darker, her lip began to quiver, and tears ran down her face, but her fists clenched at her sides.

“Please, I’ll make it quick.” She moved closer.

“Don’t do this.” I whispered

A thin smile broke through the tears as she lunged at me. Her tackle knocked me to the ground, and the back of my head bounced off a large rock, knocking me unconscious. I came to a few minutes later; a sharp pain radiated from my right forearm. Slowly, I turned my head to see Sara hunched over my arm; blood covered her clothes and hands, and my flesh was in her mouth. Already, she had chewed a gaping wound in my forearm; my muscle, skin, and tendons stretched and snapped as she pulled it away with her teeth. I screamed.

Instinctively, I wildly kicked my legs to and fro; one kick landed in Sara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her and giving me the chance to scoot away from her. It didn’t take long for her to recover and scrabble towards me. My left hand reached and found a stone; I swung it and connected with her temple. She limply fell face down in the dirt. I swung the stone again at the back of her head.

Ben’s rotting eyes stared at me as I wept over Sara's bleeding skull. I wept bitterly, and to my shame, as I stared at Sara through watery eyes, my stomach growled. Her skin looked so delicious and filling; I could feel myself giving way to the temptation. A weak chuckle caused me to turn around. Behind me stood an old, frail man. His frame was weak, but his eyes were dark and powerful. He stared at me, a wide grin on his face.

“Eat.” His weak voice said

I stared in disbelief before my gaze returned to Sara.

“Eat.” His voice was deeper, stronger.

I looked back at him; fear filled my body. It seemed as though the old, frail shape before me wasn’t a man, but a monster, disguised behind flesh and bones. The jungle darkened where the man had been was replaced by a void of shadow. I backed up slowly.

“Eat.” His voice echoed and shook the ground.

I turned and ran. A loud cackle resounded through the jungle. I ran as fast as my starved body could handle; the man was right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck; his voice laughed and said

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

A cold, strong hand wrapped itself around my wrist, but just as it began to pull me back, the ground below me gave way as my body tumbled down the steep side of a mountain. The man’s grip broke as I rolled and toppled down the wooded hillside. Bouncing off the ground and trees. I didn’t stop till I reached the bottom.

At the bottom, I groaned and slowly rolled myself over to face the sky. Pain and bruises covered me, and it took a moment to realize I wasn’t in the jungle anymore. The tumble down the hill dropped me at the edge of the deforestation area. I struggled to my feet and looked around. The rainforest was a yard or two behind me; just within its bounds stood the old man. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

I backed up slowly; he made no move. I moved further away; he didn’t follow. He stayed in the jungle. I hobbled my way to the same village that Sara, Ben and I stopped in. At first they were frightened by the skinny, bloodied woman who barely looked human. But eventually they fed me and tended to my wounds before a boat came to take me to civilization. He’s still out there, hiding in the jungle; that’s why it has to burn.

I'm writing this from a hospital room thousands of miles from that jungle. But I’ll be going back soon. To the same village, the same area, only this time I have a different goal. I’m not writing this as a justification; it's just an explanation. When you see the news of the activist who burned the rainforest.

Now you’ll know why.

I need to burn down the Amazon rainforest.

I wish I didn't have to say that.

But it’s the only way to stop him.

Three months ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested it.

I’m a full-time environmental activist. I’ve spent my life planting trees and documenting the destruction of the climate, but now I only dream about fire. Not because I hate the forest,

But because I know what's hiding in it.

My name is Jess. Two months ago, my crew and I were hired by a nonprofit called GrowNow to document one of their reforestation projects deep in the Amazon.

Over the last year, we’ve traveled around the globe planting trees and filming. This was supposed to be another routine assignment.

Ben, my cameraman, and Sara, our sound tech, were exhausted and wanted to go home. I convinced them to come with me anyway.

I wish I hadn't.

I was thrilled to go to the Amazon; I hadn’t been there in years, and the last time I was there, we had only been on the outskirts of the forest, but this time we were going deep into the interior. After weeks of planes, jeeps, riverboats, and hiking, we finally made it to a tiny village that sat on the edge of the region where GrowNow was working.

Exhausted, we pulled ourselves into the makeshift bar that sat in the center of the village. Our packs fell to the floor as we sat at a small table in the corner. Local eyes stared at us with an unbroken boredom; they were neither angry nor excited at our presence. Sara opened the cheap beer the bartender handed her.

“Haven’t been this far out in years.” She said as she raised the bottle to her lips.

“Yeah,” Ben replied, “back then people actually watched our stuff.”

He wasn’t wrong; we did better online when we were independent. Since we started contracting, our docs had lost that ‘young radical’ vibe that had gained us popularity early on. Most nonprofits and companies that hire us aren’t reforesting in the dangerous places. Lately, our work has had more of a newscaster feel than the environmental investigative reporter feel we all dreamed of.

“Maybe this one will be like the old days.” Sara said with hope, “Maybe this will be like our work in the Yukon.”

Ben rolled his eyes

“The Yukon was a one-off; face it, we’re washed up.”

“I think this could be better than the Yukon,” I responded quickly

“You say that every time,” Ben smirked

“Well, this time it's true. I think there’s a story here.”

Ben chuckled as he worked on his beer.

“Think about it, whoever is deforesting in this area clearly doesn’t want anyone to know. The last time we were this isolated in the forest was in the Yukon, and what did we learn there? Companies that work that far out have something to hide.”

Ben shrugged

“Maybe.” He muttered.

Finishing her drink, Sara stood up.

“Well, let’s find some locals to interview.”

We followed her as she smiled and waved at every old woman and giggling child. Near the outskirts of the village, she turned to us and whispered

“Let’s try this guy.”

She walked up to an older man and greeted him in Spanish; he replied, and she asked if we could ask him some questions. He agreed. We quickly set up our equipment, and I stood next to the man and asked my first question.

“Hello, sir, what is your name?”

Sara repeated the question to the man in Spanish; he answered.

“He says his name is Carlos.”

“Thank you, Carlos. How long have you lived here?”

A moment later, Sara answered

“He’s lived here his whole life, he’s never left.”

I nodded at Carlos to show I understood.

“What do you do for work?”

“He’s a fisherman.”

“And Carlos, who’s responsible for cutting the trees around here down?”

Sara repeated the question, and Carlos’ answer was short. Sara was silent as she thought for a moment.

“What did he say?” I asked

“He said the village did; I’m not sure he understood.”

“I’ll try again, Carlos. Does it make you sad that the forest is being destroyed?”

Sara asked Carlos, and he violently shook his head and gave a long response. Sara frowned.

“What did he say?”

“he said, ‘Not at all, the trees are evil; openness brings safety.’”

She thought for a moment

“I didn’t understand much more. I think he's saying something about the trees and someone who needs them.”

“This is a bust,” Ben said.

“Wait!” I said, stopping him from putting the camera down.

Looking towards Carlos, I asked

“Who needs these trees?”

He stared at Sara as she repeated the question; his face was void of expression. Then, without any warning, he walked away as if he hadn’t just been speaking to us. I stared, confused, as he vanished behind the walls of his home. Ben put the camera down, grabbed my shoulder, and said

“Come on, let’s move on.”

Word of strangers asking questions spread quickly, and we couldn’t get anyone else to talk with us; instead, they avoided us like the plague. Giving up on interviews, we moved out of the village and headed towards the reforestation camp

.

The camp was roughly five miles from the village. Five miles of desolation; the region was bare. Wide, vast fields of stumps and burn scars were all that remained of ancient trees and habitats. Every step we took, every stump we passed, filled me with anger. How could anyone do this? As we grew closer to the camp, we could see the signs of new life; hand-planted trees of various sizes were scattered among the barren land. It was the start of a new section of forest.

The GrowNow camp sat outside the edge of the deforestation; a healthy, living rainforest sat around the camp just a short walk away from the dead land we were here to heal. It wasn’t the largest camp we’ve seen; in fact, for a well-funded nonprofit, it was quite small. Just a handful of personnel tents, a kitchen tent, an open-air meeting area, and a showering tent. Best we could tell, there were about a dozen people here, a microscopic amount compared to some of our projects.

A tall German man greeted us as we entered the bounds of the camp. With a wide smile, he reached a hand out to me.

“You must be Jessica.”

I shook his hand.

“Call me Jess.” Pointing to my friends, I said

“This is Ben, and Sara, my crew.”

He gave a warm nod to them.

“Welcome, my name is Gregory. I’m the camp manager here; we’re pleased to have you with us.”

He beckoned us to follow as he led us through camp.

“We’ve made some good progress, but as I’m sure you saw on the trail, we still have a long way to go.”

I nodded

“This is impressive, how exactly can we help?”

“You’re here to help us raise funds. We’ve had a few issues with the locals; a few of our efforts have been burned or destroyed by the surrounding villages; they don’t seem to understand that we’re trying to help.”

He stopped to greet some volunteers in the camp

“We’re over budget due to needing to buy new saplings. So we’re hoping that you’ll film a short documentary of the good work we’re doing, something that will encourage people to give.”

He continued through the camp.

I spoke up.

“We talked to some of the locals; they said something about someone needing these trees. Any idea what they’re talking about?”

Gregory looked back; a quick flash of concern crossed his face before he shrugged and said

“Just local superstitions, I would guess.”

Pointing to a large canvas tent standing off by itself he said

“Here’s where you’ll be staying its not much but hopefully it’ll work for you and you’re gear; get settled and relax. After dark we like to gather around the fire, and you’re welcome to join us.”

We spent the next hour unpacking our packs and organizing our equipment; the sun was beginning to set as we finished. Ben picked up his camera and said

“This is good lighting; I’m going to get some b-footage.”

I nodded

“Don’t go too far,” I said as I sat down on a log. The rainforest chattered with life all around us

Sara and I talked about the camp, the size of the deforestation, and what kind of shots we wanted to get the following day. About 10 minutes later, Ben walked back to us; he was frowning and looking around like someone was watching him.

“Everything ok Ben?” I said as I noticed his concern.

He looked at us

“Yeah, I was just filming back in there. When everything got really quiet and still. Then I caught this strange guy in the shot.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, just some strange old dude, about 20 yards from me, just standing and staring at me.”

Sara rolled her eyes.

“I’m serious!” Ben cried “Look I got it on tape.”

He began to rewind the camera as Sara and I came in close to see.

“Here it is.” He said and pressed play

We watched as Ben slowly moved the camera through the jungle, swinging the camera back and further, then the shot stopped and froze on a clump of trees and underbrush. We could here Ben’s voice on the recording, muttered

“What the hell.”

The camera held still for a few minutes before it dropped to Ben’s side as he tromped back to camp. We didn’t see any old man.

“Wait, what? That doesn’t make sense.” Ben protested, “He was standing right there.”

“Nice try, Ben.” Sara laughed

I smiled at him in sympathy.

“It’s been a long day; we all need some rest. Come on.”

Together we walked towards the meal tent.

We enjoyed the hearty dinner the camp offered; Ben seemed shaken. Darkness came, and with it the warm campfire. One by one, the staff and volunteers gathered by the flickering light. Smiles and laughter filled the night. Soon the liquor came. Then more laughter and dancing. The multicultural group meshed into a vibrant expression of human joy. Dancing and off-key songs rose from the group, and Sara and I watched with smiles on our faces. Ben sat and stared intently into the dancing flames of the fire.

Gregory led the merry night; he clumsily danced around the fire, and his deep, jolly voice tried its best to sing. After a few rounds of dancing, he grew tired and stumbled his way towards us. With a joyful laugh and slurred words, he sat down next to Ben, wrapping an arm around him.

“Why so glum, friend? Have some fun while we save the world.” He laughed deeply

Ben tried to squirm away, but the strong German pulled him in.

“Don’t worry about him.” Sara said as she watched, amused.

“He thought he saw someone in the jungle today.”

“Really?” Gregory looked at Ben, a wide smile on his face, though his eyes and voice sobered up slightly.

“What did this person look like?”

Ben shook his head and stared at the ground.

“Oh come on, we’re all friends here. What did you see?”

Slowly Ben said

“It was an old man.”

“Old man eh?”

“Yeah, but he looked strange.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know, his face seemed wrong, almost like it was AI-generated, almost right but not really.”

Gregory went silent; it seemed as though he was once again sober, he stared at the fire before speaking.

“When I was younger.” His voice was clear and calculated “I helped with some humanitarian efforts here in the Amazon, quite close to where we are actually.”

He cleared his throat.

“We were helping a village, and they warned us of an old man who would watch you from the jungle.”

Our eyes were locked on him.

“The story goes that many years ago an elder of the village and his young grandson got lost while out hunting; they stumbled around for days and weeks. It seemed as though the jungle had been emptied of every animal and edible plant, for they found nothing to satisfy their constant hunger. The elder, a coward at heart, cared only for his life. His hunger consumed all familial love in his heart, and he devoured his grandson.”

He paused to clear his throat

“The locals claim the forest spirits found him afterward. Cursing him to be a wandering soul, doomed to roam the jungle forever. Some say he will come to your shelter at night, and if he knocks three times, you must give him an offering, or you risk his wrath.”

We stared at him in silence; Ben was as white as a sheet. Gregory tried to look serious, but soon a wide smile cracked across his face, and he burst out laughing.

“Oh man, I really had you going; those local legends are far out there.”

With that, he stood and grabbed another bottle from the cooler and went back to his awkward dancing. Sara playfully punched Ben’s shoulder

“Man, he got you good.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but managed to chuckle a bit. The rest of the time around the campfire was lighthearted and fun; even Ben danced a little once he had a few beers in him. It was nearing midnight when the three of us stumbled off to our tent and collapsed on our cots.

Around 3 am I woke up. I was thirsty. Glancing around the canvas room of the tent, which was slowly illuminated by the grey light of the moon, I saw my canteen resting beside my backpack across the room. Ben and Sara were sound asleep as I stood up and walked the few steps over to the pack. Walking back to the cot. I took my drink and lay down.

The lively sounds of the jungle at night were very relaxing: the chirping of distant birds and nearby insects mixed with the howling and cries of various animals made a calming ambience. I was on the verge of sleep when it all stopped. The night became perfectly quiet. The only sound that remained was the low breathing of my friends. I sat up; in all the nights I’ve slept in the woods, I’ve never experienced such an abrupt silence.

I could feel my heartbeat quicken as a long human-shaped shadow moved its way across the canvas walls. Slowly, methodically, it made its way to the tent door. A cold breeze made its way through the two-inch gap beneath the canvas door. A figure stood unmoved on the other side of the thin fabric. I held my breath and stared intently at the entrance. Nothing happened for what felt like an eternity. I don’t know why, but I slowly left my bed and silently crept to the door. I tightly held a small pocket knife in one of my trembling hands. A few feet and a piece of cloth separated me from whoever stood there.

“Hello?” A weary, raspy voice broke the silence.

I swallowed and held the knife tighter.

“Is anyone in there? I’m lost; may I come in?” The voice was strange; its owner unfamiliar with speech, almost like it hadn’t opened its mouth in a century.

A breeze lifted the canvas slightly, and for a second I saw bare feet stand at the door, thin and bony.

A long, uncomfortable moment passed; neither I nor the shape moved, then it said

“I know you’re there.”

Almost instinctively, I moved my free hand up to cover my mouth.

“I can hear your heart beating, why won’t you let me in?”

Sweat began to form on my forehead.

“Please let me in.” The voice was firmer now.

Then the figure raised its hand and slowly knocked three times on the canvas covering, pushing it in towards me with every knock.

At that, I rolled my eyes and chuckled softly

“Nice try, Gregory, but you’re not getting us with that story again.” I said with as much courage as I could find.

At my words, Sara sleepily lifted her head and said

“What are you doing? Who are you talking to?” she asked in a daze

“It's Gregory; he’s trying to scare us again.”

“Tell him to quit it; we’re trying to sleep,” she mumbled and rolled over

“It’s not going to work, Gregory. Get lost,” I said confidently to the figure.

I returned to my bed. I don't know how long the shape stood there, but eventually exhaustion won out, and I fell asleep.

The sun worked as a natural alarm clock. Both Sara and Ben were up and getting ready for the day when I rolled over in my sleeping bag.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said sarcastically.

“What time is it?” I whined

“Almost ten; you were out.” She chuckled.

Ben stood in the corner, preparing his camera equipment.

With a yawn and a stretch, I swung my feet to the ground and began to lace up my boots. Ben finished packing his kit and, with a grin, said

“Maybe there’s some breakfast left; see you out there.”

With that, he pushed aside the canvas door and stepped out of the tent. Mere seconds later, his panicked voice reached our ears.

“Guys! Get out here!”

Sara and I burst out of the tent, where we met a wide-eyed Ben.

“What?” Sara said annoyed

“Where the hell is everyone?” he yelled.

Our eyes left Ben and scanned the surrounding jungle. It was dense and wild; the tent that had been just a stone's throw from ours last night was gone. There was no kitchen tent. No fire pit.
No personnel tents. No showering tent. No footprints. Nothing.

The camp was gone.

Sara and I quickly spun around, confused

“What is this?” I muttered

Sara laughed to herself

“This is a joke, right? They moved the camp and didn’t tell us.”

“Moved the camp? What are you talking about? Look around! This isn’t the same jungle from last night; we’re the ones who moved,” Ben screamed

He was right. We looked around; these weren’t the same trees that surrounded the camp. The land was different.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but we can’t be far from the camp. Let’s just try to find it.” My voice was more confident than I felt.

My frightened friends stared back at me, but soon both agreed, and picking a direction, the three of us headed off, shouting for help as we went. An hour passed, and we saw no sign of humans. With a sigh, Ben said

“Face it, we’re lost. Something is really wrong here; let’s head back to the tent.”

We turned and retraced our steps. Two hours passed and then three; we couldn’t find the tent. Sara whimpered softly to herself; Ben swore under his breath. The situation was getting to me and I snapped

“Where the hell is the tent!” I kicked a stump and fell to the ground, crying

Ben stared off blankly into the jungle and shook his head

“We could have been there now; why aren’t we there?” he whispered continuously to himself

Sara sat on the ground, her head buried between her knees; low snuffles and sobs shook her frame. The three of us wallowed in our fears; panic overcame reason. The sound of thunder shook me from my despair. I looked up at the dark sky just as it began to rain.

Slowly, the three of us moved under the shelter of a large tree. When it rains in the rainforest, nothing stays dry. The wind whipped the rain around, drenching us thoroughly. It rained all day and through the night. We huddled together for warmth, but were soaked to the bone.

Sometime after midnight, both Ben and Sara managed to fall into trouble sleep; I wasn’t so lucky. Sleep evaded me as I stared into the dark, wet jungle. In the distance, I could have sworn I could see the shape of a starved old man wandering between the trees.

Morning came, but it didn’t bring hope. Most of the morning the three of us sat against the tree in silence. Around noon, Ben spoke for the first time in hours.

“Have you noticed how quiet it is?”

We all listened; it was eerily silent. No birds, no bugs, no animals, just the wind in the trees. Sara stared at the ground and said

“Where are we?”

“I don’t know.” I blankly answered

“Somewhere in the jungle.”

The silence continued. In the afternoon, a loud rumble echoed around us. It was my stomach.

“I’m hungry,” Ben said

“We all are,” Sara said

 A long moment of silence followed before Ben asked

“Who are we going to get out of here?”

I thought for a moment before saying.

“We just need to find the river. There are villages along the banks; if we find the river, we can get out of here.”

We agreed to search for the river in the morning. Feeling more confident now that we had a plan, we huddled together for the night and fell asleep.

The next day was a copy of the previous; we wandered aimlessly through thick jungle. Around us, we could hear the rush of a river; it sounded so close, but try as we might, we couldn’t find it. The sun began to set, and we sat down under a tree that looked strangely like the one we slept under the night before.

“There’s no food.” Sara muttered

Ben and I looked towards her as she continued

“I’ve been looking; there are no berries, or fruit or any edible plants that I know.”

“What about animals? We could try to hunt or catch something?” I weakly asked.

Sara shook her head

“I haven’t seen a single ant. There’s nothing.”

Hunger pains set in as we drifted off to sleep. I don’t know how many days continued just like this; it felt like months, but it couldn’t have been more than a week. When it rained, we drank. But our bodies grew weak from starvation. Our clothes grew loose, and our skin clung tight to our shaking bones. All muscle vanished; only skin and bones remained.

Slowly we stumbled around all the more. It felt like a task to keep my eyes open. We barely spoke anymore.

“Look!” Ben slowly raised his arm to point up into the canopy above.

“Berries.”

A small bunch of shiny black orbs hung off a vine about 20 ft off the ground. Ben stared at them as if they were made of gold. Sara stared intently at them, too.

“I can’t tell what kind of berry those are. They might not be food,” she said wearily.

A flash of anger crossed over Ben’s face.

“Who cares?! We need to eat.” He stubbornly pushed her aside and began to climb the tree.

He knocked the clump down and returned to the ground to pick it up. He viciously devoured each berry before stopping and glancing towards us. Breaking off two small bunches, he handed them to us.

“Here,” he said gruffly

Sara licked her lips, but refused them. I stared at them; they were darker than night, and smelled rotten. It took everything I had to resist and shake my head no.

“Suit yourselves,” Ben mumbled as he shoved the berries into his mouth.

We didn’t last much longer before collapsing for the night beneath an all-too-familiar tree. The last thing I saw was a distant figure staring at us from behind the trees.

When I woke, Sara was crying. Confused, I looked around before my eyes settled on the crumpled form she cradled in her lap. It was Ben; his skin was a pale greenish shade, and his frail form was rigid and stiff. A thin line of white foam ran from his mouth down his neck.

“Jess,” Sara whispered through her cries

I swallowed hard, and trying to be brave, I said

“I know, but we have to keep going.”

I pulled her to her feet

“Come on.”

We walked away from Ben together.

We didn’t speak the rest of the day; now and then, Sara snuffled and wiped her eyes before tears fell. The light began to fade as the sun began to set. We stumbled forward; ahead of us, Ben’s dead body rested against the same tree we left this morning. Sara screamed. Though we left the tree and Ben and headed in one direction all day, somehow we were back with Ben. We collapsed to the ground and cried.

Days passed. The silence was deafening, the hunger unbearable. Every morning we left the grove; we left Ben leaning against the tree. And every night somehow we returned to the same grove, where Ben greeted us. His body changed over the days; it was swelling with decay. He leaked thick, dark fluid onto the ground. Though his flesh was rotting, not a single maggot wiggled its way across his corpse.

We stumbled into the grove one night; his skin hung loose on his skull. Sara shuffled over at crouched in front of his body. She lifted his arm to her mouth.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a daze.

“I’m hungry.”

“Sara, don’t. He was our friend.”

“He’d understand.”

My heart beat faster as I realized she was serious.

“Well, don’t; he’s rotten. Look at him.”

She stopped and stared at the corpse.

“You’re right.” She mumbled.

She turned and stared at me. A strange fire glowed deep in her eyes. She rose to her full height; she seemed stronger than before. She moved towards me slowly, but with purpose.

“Sara?” I took a step back.

“What’s wrong?”

Her eyes grew darker, her lip began to quiver, and tears ran down her face, but her fists clenched at her sides.

“Please, I’ll make it quick.” She moved closer.

“Don’t do this.” I whispered

A thin smile broke through the tears as she lunged at me. Her tackle knocked me to the ground, and the back of my head bounced off a large rock, knocking me unconscious. I came to a few minutes later; a sharp pain radiated from my right forearm. Slowly, I turned my head to see Sara hunched over my arm; blood covered her clothes and hands, and my flesh was in her mouth. Already, she had chewed a gaping wound in my forearm; my muscle, skin, and tendons stretched and snapped as she pulled it away with her teeth. I screamed.

Instinctively, I wildly kicked my legs to and fro; one kick landed in Sara’s gut, knocking the wind out of her and giving me the chance to scoot away from her. It didn’t take long for her to recover and scrabble towards me. My left hand reached and found a stone; I swung it and connected with her temple. She limply fell face down in the dirt. I swung the stone again at the back of her head.

Ben’s rotting eyes stared at me as I wept over Sara's bleeding skull. I wept bitterly, and to my shame, as I stared at Sara through watery eyes, my stomach growled. Her skin looked so delicious and filling; I could feel myself giving way to the temptation. A weak chuckle caused me to turn around. Behind me stood an old, frail man. His frame was weak, but his eyes were dark and powerful. He stared at me, a wide grin on his face.

“Eat.” His weak voice said

I stared in disbelief before my gaze returned to Sara.

“Eat.” His voice was deeper, stronger.

I looked back at him; fear filled my body. It seemed as though the old, frail shape before me wasn’t a man, but a monster, disguised behind flesh and bones. The jungle darkened where the man had been was replaced by a void of shadow. I backed up slowly.

“Eat.” His voice echoed and shook the ground.

I turned and ran. A loud cackle resounded through the jungle. I ran as fast as my starved body could handle; the man was right behind me. I could feel his breath on my neck; his voice laughed and said

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

“Eat.”

A cold, strong hand wrapped itself around my wrist, but just as it began to pull me back, the ground below me gave way as my body tumbled down the steep side of a mountain. The man’s grip broke as I rolled and toppled down the wooded hillside. Bouncing off the ground and trees. I didn’t stop till I reached the bottom.

At the bottom, I groaned and slowly rolled myself over to face the sky. Pain and bruises covered me, and it took a moment to realize I wasn’t in the jungle anymore. The tumble down the hill dropped me at the edge of the deforestation area. I struggled to my feet and looked around. The rainforest was a yard or two behind me; just within its bounds stood the old man. He stood perfectly still, watching me.

I backed up slowly; he made no move. I moved further away; he didn’t follow. He stayed in the jungle. I hobbled my way to the same village that Sara, Ben and I stopped in. At first they were frightened by the skinny, bloodied woman who barely looked human. But eventually they fed me and tended to my wounds before a boat came to take me to civilization. He’s still out there, hiding in the jungle; that’s why it has to burn.

I'm writing this from a hospital room thousands of miles from that jungle. But I’ll be going back soon. To the same village, the same area, only this time I have a different goal. I’m not writing this as a justification; it's just an explanation. When you see the news of the activist who burned the rainforest.

Now you’ll know why.

There are rules for everything on the ranch.

How to handle a bull that gets loose. What to do during a lightning storm. Where to take an injured horse. And what to do if one of the cows starts talking.

I always thought that last one was a joke.

I don't anymore.

I’ve been riding for the Three Oaks Ranch for nearly five years now. They say it earned that name because only three oaks were found growing on the property when the original owner bought the land. None of them survived. Lightning got one. Drought took another. The third supposedly stood for more than a hundred years before finally dying.

The ranch didn't.

Here on the plains of Texas, a man could feel closer to civilization on the far side of the moon. Nothing but dirt, grass, and sagebrush for as far as the eye can see. All it takes is a few 100,000 acres to forget about most modern problems; the only things to worry about here are riding, roping, and the cows.

Like all new cowpokes, I was given a slip of paper when I started; the foreman Dan told me to memorize it quickly and tear it up. I’ll never forget those rules. The paper read

“Rules for dealing with strange cows:

If a cow crosses the outer river, shoot it right away.

If a cow starts speaking, don’t answer it.

If a cow starts crying like a human, take your hat off.

If a cow laughs, leave the ranch immediately. Don't look back until you reach the gate.

If a cow has no shadow, call Dan.

If a cow is standing on two legs, don't shoot it. Pray.”

I never paid much attention to the cow rules; they seemed to me to be just a joke on the new guys. In my years here, I only saw a few cows get shot when they crossed the outer river; it always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good cow to me. Nobody ever seemed particularly upset about losing one. They'd just leave the carcass where it lay, mark the number in the ledger, and move on.

I never heard a cow speaking.

Until last week.

We were pushing a herd to the far pasture, something I'd only done a handful of times in my five years there. Dan, three others, and I planned to be out for a few weeks. Lately, I had been herding cows and their calves closer to the bunkhouse, so heading out to the farthest reaches of the ranch was a welcome change.

The first two days were uneventful. We rode from sunup to sundown, stopping only to eat, sleep, and check the herd. Dan was always very strict about getting the right count every time we stopped. It never made much sense to me; there’s no place to lose a cow on these barren plains. But I’m not one to question what the boss says. We pushed the herd hard on the third day; it was late afternoon by the time we reached the far pasture. We began circling the herd up for the night, when I noticed one of the cows watching me from the other side of the herd.

I slowed my horse for a moment and stared at it. It was an ordinary looking Hereford, except for the way it was looking at me. Not watching me, not exactly. It was studying me. I moved left. Its head followed. I moved right. Its head followed again.

I laughed nervously to myself and kept riding. But I couldn’t help but look back over my shoulder; it was gone.

“Settle in,” Dan announced from his saddle

“We’re camping here for a few days while the herd grazes, then we’re pushing them south.”

Silent nods and low grunts of agreement rose from the riders, and it didn’t take long for the tents to be sent up and the chuckwagon unloaded. That night we relaxed around the fire. Jokes and old cowpoke stories echoed in the vast darkness of the plains. The night grew long, the stars grew brighter, and the coyotes cried to each other in the distance. The older riders turned in for the night, leaving just Dan and me around the dying fire.

After a few attempts at small talk, I worked up the courage to ask

“Why do we need to count the cows?”

Dan glanced at me before staring intently into the fire.

“I mean, it’s not like we could lose one out here.” I tried to joke

“Ain’t about losing one,” he said quietly

He paused, then said

“It’s about making sure we don’t take home more than we brought out.”

I didn’t answer; his response didn’t make much sense, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to say anymore.

We sat in silence for a while, and I began to think about heading off to my tent when I saw the silhouetted shape of a cow, blocking out the stars where the sky met the earth. I pointed

“Looks like one wandered off,” I said to Dan.

Dan didn't answer. He stared at it for several seconds. Then he stood and grabbed his rifle.

“Come on.”

I followed.  

We walked over to the shape, stopping about ten feet away. The cow's black, beady eyes watched us the whole time. It didn’t move as we approached. Dan raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot the cow in the head. With a thud, it fell limply to the ground. Dan turned and walked back to the fire. I ran to catch up.

“Why did you do that?” I asked

He shrugged

“Wasn’t one of ours.”

As we walked away, I glanced back at the carcass. Something bothered me about it.

"Dan?"

He stopped.

"That cow is facing the wrong way."

He looked back at it.

"What do you mean?"

"When we walked up, it was facing us."

"Yeah."

"But when you shot it, it fell backward."

Dan stared at me.

"And?"

I pointed. The dead cow was now facing the direction we'd come from. Dan looked at it for a long moment.

"Don't worry about it."

He turned back toward camp.

"And don't look at it again."

 

The fire was low, barely more than embers

“Get some sleep,” Dan said. “I’ll watch it till it goes out.”

The next day the camp was awake before the sun. After a hearty breakfast, we saddled our horses and prepared for another long day in the saddle. Dan pulled his horse up alongside mine

“Count the herd.” He said

I nodded as he rode off.

It took about ten minutes to get the right count: 63. The same amount we had yesterday. We rode till noon, then rested for lunch. As we headed back out, Dan looked at me and said

“Count them again, just to be sure.”

I nodded and got to it. I rode around the pasture and counted the cows: 64. I frowned; that can’t be right, I thought, and started a second count. It was the same 64. I looked around, confused. Seeing Dan off in the distance, I kicked my horse to a gallop and headed his way.

“Dan!” I yelled as I neared him

He turned to look at me, but in that moment, a horrific wail resounded across the plain. It's hard to describe what it sounded like. At times it sounded like a woman weeping, then it would shift to the sound of a crowd of kids crying, then grow deeper like a heartbroken man. It was all of these at once.

Every horse stopped dead. The riders stopped with them. Even the herd went completely still. Only one cow was moving; it moved slowly to and fro across the pasture. I could tell that it was the source of the crying; its mouth moved rhythmically as if it were singing, but only the terrible constant crying came out.

I froze; terror filled my heart as I saw the animal move towards me. It didn’t run; it lazily trotted towards me. My heart beat faster, and my hands began to shake; I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The crying grew louder as it got closer; its black eyes were locked on mine. Soon it stood right next to me; its coarse fur slid across my pant leg like a cat wanting attention. Its crying began to change from sad wailing to rage-filled screaming.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Dan off to my right. He stared at me; he was white as a sheet, and he’s eyes held a primal fear. Through gritted teeth, he said

“Your hat.”

The screaming grew louder.

“Take your damn hat off.”

It took effort to move my hand to my head; it was like trying to move my hand through molasses. The cow stared at me the whole time. After some time, I finally pulled my hat from my head. The crying stopped for a moment as the cow just stared at me, then it started again as the beast lumbered by, heading off into the distance, crying as it went.

It wasn’t till it vanished beyond the horizon that I felt able to speak. I turned to Dan and, in a panic, asked

“What the hell was that?”

He stared in the direction the cow had gone, still white as could be.

“That is why we have the rules.”

We were done for the day; the cows huddled together in fear by camp, and we huddled in our own circle around the campfire. We all looked at Dan, waiting for his guidance.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had to deal with this.” He began

“But you all know the rules; I know you do.”

He glanced at me before continuing.

“They’ve worked in the past, and they’ll work now, so just stick to them. We’re only here for a few more nights, so watch each other's back in the meantime.”

Silent nods told him we understood.

“From now on, we’re going to take turns watching through the night.” He looked around the circle

“Any volunteers for tonight?”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand.

The afternoon moved slowly; we all tried to busy ourselves around camp as best we could. Dan counted the herd three or four times. No one was in the mood for conversation. Night fell, and unlike the night before, there was no laughing and stories around the fire. I sat there while everyone else headed to bed. Dan walked by on his way to his tent; all he said was

“Remember the rules.”

I was alone; the cool desert night was quiet, except for crickets and the occasional coyote far in the distance. A rifle lay across my lap; the shaky fire was my only companion. Its flickering light warmly illuminated a ten-foot radius, but plunged everything beyond that into deeper darkness. My eyes scanned the horizon, but despite my alertness, my mind began to wander.

I thought of the strange happenings of the day, trying desperately to find a reasonable explanation. I found none. My mind jumped from theory to theory as I stared deeply into the hypnotic movements of the fire. I don’t know how long I was daydreaming, but when I came back to reality, A cow was standing in front of me.  

The fire separated us, and its large round eyes reflected its orange light. We stared at each other for a moment; my hands tightened around the rifle. The cow’s mouth started to move, its jaw rigidly moved up and down. Then a strange clicking sound came from its lips. Its eyes never blinked. The clicking shifted to broken syllables.

“Wh, Wh, Wh,”

It sounded like a monotone parrot coming through a broken record player.

“Wha- What.”

I could feel my jaw tightening

“What”

“Your”

“Name”

“Stop-”

I covered my mouth with my hand. I didn’t mean to speak; it was subconscious. The cow stopped; we stared at each other for a long while. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead. Then it smiled. Not like a cow, like a man.

“What. Your. Name.”

It grew faster and longer.

“What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I quickly rose to my feet, shouldered the rifle, and shot it between the eyes. The bullet flung the cow’s carcass back several feet; its limp and mangled body flopped on the ground just beyond the firelight. Still standing, I kept the rifle trained on the pile of flesh for several minutes; it didn’t move. Finally, I lowered the rifle to my side, and it slipped from my shaking hand and fell to the dirt. I ran both hands through my hair as I tried to calm down. I took deep, slow breaths and reached down for my canteen.

A loud snap reset my attention on the dead cow. With a volley of twitches and snaps, its spine realigned. Its four legs stretched and moved with quick muscle spasms.

Its front legs folded inward. The joints bent the wrong way. Its spine cracked. The thing's chest rose until it was almost upright.

“Name.”

crack.

“Name.”

Then it stood. Its hulking form balanced delicately on its thin back legs. Its body was wrong. The cowhide hung loose around its frame, almost flapping as it moved. At the same time, the hide was stretched tight horizontally. As if the body beneath was too thin and too tall for the skin. Its joints clipped with every movement it made.

Its eyes were no longer the black eyes of a cow; instead, they were a thin, yellow, reflective color. It took a creaking step towards me. Loud, wheezing breaths escaped its mouth. I closed my eyes. I’m not very religious, so I prayed the only prayer I knew.

“Our Father.”

I muttered aloud.

It took a step towards me

“Our Father.” A lifeless voice mimicked me.

“Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

It took another step towards me.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Its hot breath blew against my face.

I opened my mouth to continue.

“Our Father.” It repeated

Fear overtook my voice. No words came out. Hoof-like fingers grabbed me by the shoulders. I whimpered in fear as a jaw of cow's teeth closed around my right shoulder. I screamed as the rounded teeth punctured my skin. It tightened its grip on my flesh and began to drag me out of the camp. But it didn’t get very far before Dan's knife pierced its eye. It released my shoulder and howled in anger. Dan left his knife in its eye socket and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet.

“Run.”

Was all he said. The others were up, and we ran after them towards the horses. I glanced back at the ‘cow’; it writhed in pain and screeched. Almost as if answering a call on the distant horizon, a dozen dark, strange shapes and yellow eyes appeared. They reached the camp by the time we mounted our horses, and fled.

We rode hard, harder than I’ve even ridden before. I’ve never ridden much at night; it was like driving on a dark road with no headlights. The ‘cows’ followed. They cried and screamed and called to use the whole way.

“Hello.”

“Your. Name.”

“Please. Help.”

“Stop. Stay.”

Their inhuman chatter was constant. The horse of one of the older cowboys stepped in a gopher hole and fell, throwing him violently to the ground. I hope the fall killed him. When they reached him and his horse, we heard things like

“Thank. You.”

“Please. Stay.”

“Love. You.”

It distracted them long enough for us to get to the bunkhouse. But they weren’t far behind. The rest of the night they banged on the doors, as we barracked them with our bodies.

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

A dozen broken voices all in unison.

The voices began to fade as morning drew closer, and soon everything was quiet again. We waited till the sun was up before looking out the windows. They were gone. There was nowhere for them to hide; they all left. They cleaned and bandaged my wound; one of the guys said he thinks the bite cracked my shoulder blade. I told Dan I wanted out. He offered to drive me to town; I took him up on the offer.

We drove in silence for a bit before I looked at him and asked

“You’re leaving too, right?”

He watched the road for a bit and replied

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Are you serious? Why would you stay?”

He shrugged

“Three Oaks has been good to me, don’t really have much else, don’t really know much else.”

A short silence followed; Dan broke it.

“You weren’t supposed to answer it.”

He wasn’t mad; it was a statement void of emotion. I didn’t answer.

We rode in silence the rest of the way. He dropped me off at the airport; I thanked him, and with that he was gone. I’m writing this as I sit and wait for my flight out East. I think I’m done cowboying, hoping for a fresh start on the East Coast. At least, that's what I thought.

Until a man with no shadow walked past me.

There are rules for everything on the ranch.

How to handle a bull that gets loose. What to do during a lightning storm. Where to take an injured horse. And what to do if one of the cows starts talking.

I always thought that last one was a joke.

I don't anymore.

I’ve been riding for the Three Oaks Ranch for nearly five years now. They say it earned that name because only three oaks were found growing on the property when the original owner bought the land. None of them survived. Lightning got one. Drought took another. The third supposedly stood for more than a hundred years before finally dying.

The ranch didn't.

Here on the plains of Texas, a man could feel closer to civilization on the far side of the moon. Nothing but dirt, grass, and sagebrush for as far as the eye can see. All it takes is a few 100,000 acres to forget about most modern problems; the only things to worry about here are riding, roping, and the cows.

Like all new cowpokes, I was given a slip of paper when I started; the foreman Dan told me to memorize it quickly and tear it up. I’ll never forget those rules. The paper read

“Rules for dealing with strange cows:

If a cow crosses the outer river, shoot it right away.

If a cow starts speaking, don’t answer it.

If a cow starts crying like a human, take your hat off.

If a cow laughs, leave the ranch immediately. Don't look back until you reach the gate.

If a cow has no shadow, call Dan.

If a cow is standing on two legs, don't shoot it. Pray.”

I never paid much attention to the cow rules; they seemed to me to be just a joke on the new guys. In my years here, I only saw a few cows get shot when they crossed the outer river; it always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good cow to me. Nobody ever seemed particularly upset about losing one. They'd just leave the carcass where it lay, mark the number in the ledger, and move on.

I never heard a cow speaking.

Until last week.

We were pushing a herd to the far pasture, something I'd only done a handful of times in my five years there. Dan, three others, and I planned to be out for a few weeks. Lately, I had been herding cows and their calves closer to the bunkhouse, so heading out to the farthest reaches of the ranch was a welcome change.

The first two days were uneventful. We rode from sunup to sundown, stopping only to eat, sleep, and check the herd. Dan was always very strict about getting the right count every time we stopped. It never made much sense to me; there’s no place to lose a cow on these barren plains. But I’m not one to question what the boss says. We pushed the herd hard on the third day; it was late afternoon by the time we reached the far pasture. We began circling the herd up for the night, when I noticed one of the cows watching me from the other side of the herd.

I slowed my horse for a moment and stared at it. It was an ordinary looking Hereford, except for the way it was looking at me. Not watching me, not exactly. It was studying me. I moved left. Its head followed. I moved right. Its head followed again.

I laughed nervously to myself and kept riding. But I couldn’t help but look back over my shoulder; it was gone.

“Settle in,” Dan announced from his saddle

“We’re camping here for a few days while the herd grazes, then we’re pushing them south.”

Silent nods and low grunts of agreement rose from the riders, and it didn’t take long for the tents to be sent up and the chuckwagon unloaded. That night we relaxed around the fire. Jokes and old cowpoke stories echoed in the vast darkness of the plains. The night grew long, the stars grew brighter, and the coyotes cried to each other in the distance. The older riders turned in for the night, leaving just Dan and me around the dying fire.

After a few attempts at small talk, I worked up the courage to ask

“Why do we need to count the cows?”

Dan glanced at me before staring intently into the fire.

“I mean, it’s not like we could lose one out here.” I tried to joke

“Ain’t about losing one,” he said quietly

He paused, then said

“It’s about making sure we don’t take home more than we brought out.”

I didn’t answer; his response didn’t make much sense, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to say anymore.

We sat in silence for a while, and I began to think about heading off to my tent when I saw the silhouetted shape of a cow, blocking out the stars where the sky met the earth. I pointed

“Looks like one wandered off,” I said to Dan.

Dan didn't answer. He stared at it for several seconds. Then he stood and grabbed his rifle.

“Come on.”

I followed.  

We walked over to the shape, stopping about ten feet away. The cow's black, beady eyes watched us the whole time. It didn’t move as we approached. Dan raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot the cow in the head. With a thud, it fell limply to the ground. Dan turned and walked back to the fire. I ran to catch up.

“Why did you do that?” I asked

He shrugged

“Wasn’t one of ours.”

As we walked away, I glanced back at the carcass. Something bothered me about it.

"Dan?"

He stopped.

"That cow is facing the wrong way."

He looked back at it.

"What do you mean?"

"When we walked up, it was facing us."

"Yeah."

"But when you shot it, it fell backward."

Dan stared at me.

"And?"

I pointed. The dead cow was now facing the direction we'd come from. Dan looked at it for a long moment.

"Don't worry about it."

He turned back toward camp.

"And don't look at it again."

 

The fire was low, barely more than embers

“Get some sleep,” Dan said. “I’ll watch it till it goes out.”

The next day the camp was awake before the sun. After a hearty breakfast, we saddled our horses and prepared for another long day in the saddle. Dan pulled his horse up alongside mine

“Count the herd.” He said

I nodded as he rode off.

It took about ten minutes to get the right count: 63. The same amount we had yesterday. We rode till noon, then rested for lunch. As we headed back out, Dan looked at me and said

“Count them again, just to be sure.”

I nodded and got to it. I rode around the pasture and counted the cows: 64. I frowned; that can’t be right, I thought, and started a second count. It was the same 64. I looked around, confused. Seeing Dan off in the distance, I kicked my horse to a gallop and headed his way.

“Dan!” I yelled as I neared him

He turned to look at me, but in that moment, a horrific wail resounded across the plain. It's hard to describe what it sounded like. At times it sounded like a woman weeping, then it would shift to the sound of a crowd of kids crying, then grow deeper like a heartbroken man. It was all of these at once.

Every horse stopped dead. The riders stopped with them. Even the herd went completely still. Only one cow was moving; it moved slowly to and fro across the pasture. I could tell that it was the source of the crying; its mouth moved rhythmically as if it were singing, but only the terrible constant crying came out.

I froze; terror filled my heart as I saw the animal move towards me. It didn’t run; it lazily trotted towards me. My heart beat faster, and my hands began to shake; I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The crying grew louder as it got closer; its black eyes were locked on mine. Soon it stood right next to me; its coarse fur slid across my pant leg like a cat wanting attention. Its crying began to change from sad wailing to rage-filled screaming.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Dan off to my right. He stared at me; he was white as a sheet, and he’s eyes held a primal fear. Through gritted teeth, he said

“Your hat.”

The screaming grew louder.

“Take your damn hat off.”

It took effort to move my hand to my head; it was like trying to move my hand through molasses. The cow stared at me the whole time. After some time, I finally pulled my hat from my head. The crying stopped for a moment as the cow just stared at me, then it started again as the beast lumbered by, heading off into the distance, crying as it went.

It wasn’t till it vanished beyond the horizon that I felt able to speak. I turned to Dan and, in a panic, asked

“What the hell was that?”

He stared in the direction the cow had gone, still white as could be.

“That is why we have the rules.”

We were done for the day; the cows huddled together in fear by camp, and we huddled in our own circle around the campfire. We all looked at Dan, waiting for his guidance.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had to deal with this.” He began

“But you all know the rules; I know you do.”

He glanced at me before continuing.

“They’ve worked in the past, and they’ll work now, so just stick to them. We’re only here for a few more nights, so watch each other's back in the meantime.”

Silent nods told him we understood.

“From now on, we’re going to take turns watching through the night.” He looked around the circle

“Any volunteers for tonight?”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand.

The afternoon moved slowly; we all tried to busy ourselves around camp as best we could. Dan counted the herd three or four times. No one was in the mood for conversation. Night fell, and unlike the night before, there was no laughing and stories around the fire. I sat there while everyone else headed to bed. Dan walked by on his way to his tent; all he said was

“Remember the rules.”

I was alone; the cool desert night was quiet, except for crickets and the occasional coyote far in the distance. A rifle lay across my lap; the shaky fire was my only companion. Its flickering light warmly illuminated a ten-foot radius, but plunged everything beyond that into deeper darkness. My eyes scanned the horizon, but despite my alertness, my mind began to wander.

I thought of the strange happenings of the day, trying desperately to find a reasonable explanation. I found none. My mind jumped from theory to theory as I stared deeply into the hypnotic movements of the fire. I don’t know how long I was daydreaming, but when I came back to reality, A cow was standing in front of me.  

The fire separated us, and its large round eyes reflected its orange light. We stared at each other for a moment; my hands tightened around the rifle. The cow’s mouth started to move, its jaw rigidly moved up and down. Then a strange clicking sound came from its lips. Its eyes never blinked. The clicking shifted to broken syllables.

“Wh, Wh, Wh,”

It sounded like a monotone parrot coming through a broken record player.

“Wha- What.”

I could feel my jaw tightening

“What”

“Your”

“Name”

“Stop-”

I covered my mouth with my hand. I didn’t mean to speak; it was subconscious. The cow stopped; we stared at each other for a long while. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead. Then it smiled. Not like a cow, like a man.

“What. Your. Name.”

It grew faster and longer.

“What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I quickly rose to my feet, shouldered the rifle, and shot it between the eyes. The bullet flung the cow’s carcass back several feet; its limp and mangled body flopped on the ground just beyond the firelight. Still standing, I kept the rifle trained on the pile of flesh for several minutes; it didn’t move. Finally, I lowered the rifle to my side, and it slipped from my shaking hand and fell to the dirt. I ran both hands through my hair as I tried to calm down. I took deep, slow breaths and reached down for my canteen.

A loud snap reset my attention on the dead cow. With a volley of twitches and snaps, its spine realigned. Its four legs stretched and moved with quick muscle spasms.

Its front legs folded inward. The joints bent the wrong way. Its spine cracked. The thing's chest rose until it was almost upright.

“Name.”

crack.

“Name.”

Then it stood. Its hulking form balanced delicately on its thin back legs. Its body was wrong. The cowhide hung loose around its frame, almost flapping as it moved. At the same time, the hide was stretched tight horizontally. As if the body beneath was too thin and too tall for the skin. Its joints clipped with every movement it made.

Its eyes were no longer the black eyes of a cow; instead, they were a thin, yellow, reflective color. It took a creaking step towards me. Loud, wheezing breaths escaped its mouth. I closed my eyes. I’m not very religious, so I prayed the only prayer I knew.

“Our Father.”

I muttered aloud.

It took a step towards me

“Our Father.” A lifeless voice mimicked me.

“Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

It took another step towards me.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Its hot breath blew against my face.

I opened my mouth to continue.

“Our Father.” It repeated

Fear overtook my voice. No words came out. Hoof-like fingers grabbed me by the shoulders. I whimpered in fear as a jaw of cow's teeth closed around my right shoulder. I screamed as the rounded teeth punctured my skin. It tightened its grip on my flesh and began to drag me out of the camp. But it didn’t get very far before Dan's knife pierced its eye. It released my shoulder and howled in anger. Dan left his knife in its eye socket and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet.

“Run.”

Was all he said. The others were up, and we ran after them towards the horses. I glanced back at the ‘cow’; it writhed in pain and screeched. Almost as if answering a call on the distant horizon, a dozen dark, strange shapes and yellow eyes appeared. They reached the camp by the time we mounted our horses, and fled.

We rode hard, harder than I’ve even ridden before. I’ve never ridden much at night; it was like driving on a dark road with no headlights. The ‘cows’ followed. They cried and screamed and called to use the whole way.

“Hello.”

“Your. Name.”

“Please. Help.”

“Stop. Stay.”

Their inhuman chatter was constant. The horse of one of the older cowboys stepped in a gopher hole and fell, throwing him violently to the ground. I hope the fall killed him. When they reached him and his horse, we heard things like

“Thank. You.”

“Please. Stay.”

“Love. You.”

It distracted them long enough for us to get to the bunkhouse. But they weren’t far behind. The rest of the night they banged on the doors, as we barracked them with our bodies.

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

A dozen broken voices all in unison.

The voices began to fade as morning drew closer, and soon everything was quiet again. We waited till the sun was up before looking out the windows. They were gone. There was nowhere for them to hide; they all left. They cleaned and bandaged my wound; one of the guys said he thinks the bite cracked my shoulder blade. I told Dan I wanted out. He offered to drive me to town; I took him up on the offer.

We drove in silence for a bit before I looked at him and asked

“You’re leaving too, right?”

He watched the road for a bit and replied

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Are you serious? Why would you stay?”

He shrugged

“Three Oaks has been good to me, don’t really have much else, don’t really know much else.”

A short silence followed; Dan broke it.

“You weren’t supposed to answer it.”

He wasn’t mad; it was a statement void of emotion. I didn’t answer.

We rode in silence the rest of the way. He dropped me off at the airport; I thanked him, and with that he was gone. I’m writing this as I sit and wait for my flight out East. I think I’m done cowboying, hoping for a fresh start on the East Coast. At least, that's what I thought.

Until a man with no shadow walked past me.

There are rules for everything on the ranch.

How to handle a bull that gets loose. What to do during a lightning storm. Where to take an injured horse. And what to do if one of the cows starts talking.

I always thought that last one was a joke.

I don't anymore.

I’ve been riding for the Three Oaks Ranch for nearly five years now. They say it earned that name because only three oaks were found growing on the property when the original owner bought the land. None of them survived. Lightning got one. Drought took another. The third supposedly stood for more than a hundred years before finally dying.

The ranch didn't.

Here on the plains of Texas, a man could feel closer to civilization on the far side of the moon. Nothing but dirt, grass, and sagebrush for as far as the eye can see. All it takes is a few 100,000 acres to forget about most modern problems; the only things to worry about here are riding, roping, and the cows.

Like all new cowpokes, I was given a slip of paper when I started; the foreman Dan told me to memorize it quickly and tear it up. I’ll never forget those rules. The paper read

“Rules for dealing with strange cows:

If a cow crosses the outer river, shoot it right away.

If a cow starts speaking, don’t answer it.

If a cow starts crying like a human, take your hat off.

If a cow laughs, leave the ranch immediately. Don't look back until you reach the gate.

If a cow has no shadow, call Dan.

If a cow is standing on two legs, don't shoot it. Pray.”

I never paid much attention to the cow rules; they seemed to me to be just a joke on the new guys. In my years here, I only saw a few cows get shot when they crossed the outer river; it always seemed like a waste of a perfectly good cow to me. Nobody ever seemed particularly upset about losing one. They'd just leave the carcass where it lay, mark the number in the ledger, and move on.

I never heard a cow speaking.

Until last week.

We were pushing a herd to the far pasture, something I'd only done a handful of times in my five years there. Dan, three others, and I planned to be out for a few weeks. Lately, I had been herding cows and their calves closer to the bunkhouse, so heading out to the farthest reaches of the ranch was a welcome change.

The first two days were uneventful. We rode from sunup to sundown, stopping only to eat, sleep, and check the herd. Dan was always very strict about getting the right count every time we stopped. It never made much sense to me; there’s no place to lose a cow on these barren plains. But I’m not one to question what the boss says. We pushed the herd hard on the third day; it was late afternoon by the time we reached the far pasture. We began circling the herd up for the night, when I noticed one of the cows watching me from the other side of the herd.

I slowed my horse for a moment and stared at it. It was an ordinary looking Hereford, except for the way it was looking at me. Not watching me, not exactly. It was studying me. I moved left. Its head followed. I moved right. Its head followed again.

I laughed nervously to myself and kept riding. But I couldn’t help but look back over my shoulder; it was gone.

“Settle in,” Dan announced from his saddle

“We’re camping here for a few days while the herd grazes, then we’re pushing them south.”

Silent nods and low grunts of agreement rose from the riders, and it didn’t take long for the tents to be sent up and the chuckwagon unloaded. That night we relaxed around the fire. Jokes and old cowpoke stories echoed in the vast darkness of the plains. The night grew long, the stars grew brighter, and the coyotes cried to each other in the distance. The older riders turned in for the night, leaving just Dan and me around the dying fire.

After a few attempts at small talk, I worked up the courage to ask

“Why do we need to count the cows?”

Dan glanced at me before staring intently into the fire.

“I mean, it’s not like we could lose one out here.” I tried to joke

“Ain’t about losing one,” he said quietly

He paused, then said

“It’s about making sure we don’t take home more than we brought out.”

I didn’t answer; his response didn’t make much sense, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to say anymore.

We sat in silence for a while, and I began to think about heading off to my tent when I saw the silhouetted shape of a cow, blocking out the stars where the sky met the earth. I pointed

“Looks like one wandered off,” I said to Dan.

Dan didn't answer. He stared at it for several seconds. Then he stood and grabbed his rifle.

“Come on.”

I followed.  

We walked over to the shape, stopping about ten feet away. The cow's black, beady eyes watched us the whole time. It didn’t move as we approached. Dan raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot the cow in the head. With a thud, it fell limply to the ground. Dan turned and walked back to the fire. I ran to catch up.

“Why did you do that?” I asked

He shrugged

“Wasn’t one of ours.”

As we walked away, I glanced back at the carcass. Something bothered me about it.

"Dan?"

He stopped.

"That cow is facing the wrong way."

He looked back at it.

"What do you mean?"

"When we walked up, it was facing us."

"Yeah."

"But when you shot it, it fell backward."

Dan stared at me.

"And?"

I pointed. The dead cow was now facing the direction we'd come from. Dan looked at it for a long moment.

"Don't worry about it."

He turned back toward camp.

"And don't look at it again."

 

The fire was low, barely more than embers

“Get some sleep,” Dan said. “I’ll watch it till it goes out.”

The next day the camp was awake before the sun. After a hearty breakfast, we saddled our horses and prepared for another long day in the saddle. Dan pulled his horse up alongside mine

“Count the herd.” He said

I nodded as he rode off.

It took about ten minutes to get the right count: 63. The same amount we had yesterday. We rode till noon, then rested for lunch. As we headed back out, Dan looked at me and said

“Count them again, just to be sure.”

I nodded and got to it. I rode around the pasture and counted the cows: 64. I frowned; that can’t be right, I thought, and started a second count. It was the same 64. I looked around, confused. Seeing Dan off in the distance, I kicked my horse to a gallop and headed his way.

“Dan!” I yelled as I neared him

He turned to look at me, but in that moment, a horrific wail resounded across the plain. It's hard to describe what it sounded like. At times it sounded like a woman weeping, then it would shift to the sound of a crowd of kids crying, then grow deeper like a heartbroken man. It was all of these at once.

Every horse stopped dead. The riders stopped with them. Even the herd went completely still. Only one cow was moving; it moved slowly to and fro across the pasture. I could tell that it was the source of the crying; its mouth moved rhythmically as if it were singing, but only the terrible constant crying came out.

I froze; terror filled my heart as I saw the animal move towards me. It didn’t run; it lazily trotted towards me. My heart beat faster, and my hands began to shake; I couldn’t take my eyes off it. The crying grew louder as it got closer; its black eyes were locked on mine. Soon it stood right next to me; its coarse fur slid across my pant leg like a cat wanting attention. Its crying began to change from sad wailing to rage-filled screaming.

In my peripheral vision, I noticed Dan off to my right. He stared at me; he was white as a sheet, and he’s eyes held a primal fear. Through gritted teeth, he said

“Your hat.”

The screaming grew louder.

“Take your damn hat off.”

It took effort to move my hand to my head; it was like trying to move my hand through molasses. The cow stared at me the whole time. After some time, I finally pulled my hat from my head. The crying stopped for a moment as the cow just stared at me, then it started again as the beast lumbered by, heading off into the distance, crying as it went.

It wasn’t till it vanished beyond the horizon that I felt able to speak. I turned to Dan and, in a panic, asked

“What the hell was that?”

He stared in the direction the cow had gone, still white as could be.

“That is why we have the rules.”

We were done for the day; the cows huddled together in fear by camp, and we huddled in our own circle around the campfire. We all looked at Dan, waiting for his guidance.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve had to deal with this.” He began

“But you all know the rules; I know you do.”

He glanced at me before continuing.

“They’ve worked in the past, and they’ll work now, so just stick to them. We’re only here for a few more nights, so watch each other's back in the meantime.”

Silent nods told him we understood.

“From now on, we’re going to take turns watching through the night.” He looked around the circle

“Any volunteers for tonight?”

I don’t know why, but I raised my hand.

The afternoon moved slowly; we all tried to busy ourselves around camp as best we could. Dan counted the herd three or four times. No one was in the mood for conversation. Night fell, and unlike the night before, there was no laughing and stories around the fire. I sat there while everyone else headed to bed. Dan walked by on his way to his tent; all he said was

“Remember the rules.”

I was alone; the cool desert night was quiet, except for crickets and the occasional coyote far in the distance. A rifle lay across my lap; the shaky fire was my only companion. Its flickering light warmly illuminated a ten-foot radius, but plunged everything beyond that into deeper darkness. My eyes scanned the horizon, but despite my alertness, my mind began to wander.

I thought of the strange happenings of the day, trying desperately to find a reasonable explanation. I found none. My mind jumped from theory to theory as I stared deeply into the hypnotic movements of the fire. I don’t know how long I was daydreaming, but when I came back to reality, A cow was standing in front of me.  

The fire separated us, and its large round eyes reflected its orange light. We stared at each other for a moment; my hands tightened around the rifle. The cow’s mouth started to move, its jaw rigidly moved up and down. Then a strange clicking sound came from its lips. Its eyes never blinked. The clicking shifted to broken syllables.

“Wh, Wh, Wh,”

It sounded like a monotone parrot coming through a broken record player.

“Wha- What.”

I could feel my jaw tightening

“What”

“Your”

“Name”

“Stop-”

I covered my mouth with my hand. I didn’t mean to speak; it was subconscious. The cow stopped; we stared at each other for a long while. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead. Then it smiled. Not like a cow, like a man.

“What. Your. Name.”

It grew faster and longer.

“What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name. What. Your. Name.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I quickly rose to my feet, shouldered the rifle, and shot it between the eyes. The bullet flung the cow’s carcass back several feet; its limp and mangled body flopped on the ground just beyond the firelight. Still standing, I kept the rifle trained on the pile of flesh for several minutes; it didn’t move. Finally, I lowered the rifle to my side, and it slipped from my shaking hand and fell to the dirt. I ran both hands through my hair as I tried to calm down. I took deep, slow breaths and reached down for my canteen.

A loud snap reset my attention on the dead cow. With a volley of twitches and snaps, its spine realigned. Its four legs stretched and moved with quick muscle spasms.

Its front legs folded inward. The joints bent the wrong way. Its spine cracked. The thing's chest rose until it was almost upright.

“Name.”

crack.

“Name.”

Then it stood. Its hulking form balanced delicately on its thin back legs. Its body was wrong. The cowhide hung loose around its frame, almost flapping as it moved. At the same time, the hide was stretched tight horizontally. As if the body beneath was too thin and too tall for the skin. Its joints clipped with every movement it made.

Its eyes were no longer the black eyes of a cow; instead, they were a thin, yellow, reflective color. It took a creaking step towards me. Loud, wheezing breaths escaped its mouth. I closed my eyes. I’m not very religious, so I prayed the only prayer I knew.

“Our Father.”

I muttered aloud.

It took a step towards me

“Our Father.” A lifeless voice mimicked me.

“Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name.”

It took another step towards me.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done.”

Its hot breath blew against my face.

I opened my mouth to continue.

“Our Father.” It repeated

Fear overtook my voice. No words came out. Hoof-like fingers grabbed me by the shoulders. I whimpered in fear as a jaw of cow's teeth closed around my right shoulder. I screamed as the rounded teeth punctured my skin. It tightened its grip on my flesh and began to drag me out of the camp. But it didn’t get very far before Dan's knife pierced its eye. It released my shoulder and howled in anger. Dan left his knife in its eye socket and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet.

“Run.”

Was all he said. The others were up, and we ran after them towards the horses. I glanced back at the ‘cow’; it writhed in pain and screeched. Almost as if answering a call on the distant horizon, a dozen dark, strange shapes and yellow eyes appeared. They reached the camp by the time we mounted our horses, and fled.

We rode hard, harder than I’ve even ridden before. I’ve never ridden much at night; it was like driving on a dark road with no headlights. The ‘cows’ followed. They cried and screamed and called to use the whole way.

“Hello.”

“Your. Name.”

“Please. Help.”

“Stop. Stay.”

Their inhuman chatter was constant. The horse of one of the older cowboys stepped in a gopher hole and fell, throwing him violently to the ground. I hope the fall killed him. When they reached him and his horse, we heard things like

“Thank. You.”

“Please. Stay.”

“Love. You.”

It distracted them long enough for us to get to the bunkhouse. But they weren’t far behind. The rest of the night they banged on the doors, as we barracked them with our bodies.

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

“Let. Me. In.”

A dozen broken voices all in unison.

The voices began to fade as morning drew closer, and soon everything was quiet again. We waited till the sun was up before looking out the windows. They were gone. There was nowhere for them to hide; they all left. They cleaned and bandaged my wound; one of the guys said he thinks the bite cracked my shoulder blade. I told Dan I wanted out. He offered to drive me to town; I took him up on the offer.

We drove in silence for a bit before I looked at him and asked

“You’re leaving too, right?”

He watched the road for a bit and replied

“I don’t see how I can.”

“Are you serious? Why would you stay?”

He shrugged

“Three Oaks has been good to me, don’t really have much else, don’t really know much else.”

A short silence followed; Dan broke it.

“You weren’t supposed to answer it.”

He wasn’t mad; it was a statement void of emotion. I didn’t answer.

We rode in silence the rest of the way. He dropped me off at the airport; I thanked him, and with that he was gone. I’m writing this as I sit and wait for my flight out East. I think I’m done cowboying, hoping for a fresh start on the East Coast. At least, that's what I thought.

Until a man with no shadow walked past me.

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.