What I’m about to write is going to sound impossible, and if I were in your shoes I would think exactly the same. I don’t blame you if you take this as just another stale warning from some raving online lunatic. But laying our triumphs and mistakes bare may just do some good, even if it’s the last thing I do. I think I’m going to pay dearly for what I’ve done soon, even if it was done in good faith. 

I’m not a believer, I never was. And even now with what I’ve seen I can’t say I’ve seen strong evidence for any one religion, but there’s one thing I do now believe. 

The soul exists. 

Within everyone, beyond the firing neurons that make up their person. Beyond conscious thought and beating hearts, there’s an additional key element to the human experience that cannot be measured with anything we’ve invented yet. 

But the prospect of the soul was the least volatile part of our discovery, had we only known what we had really done. 

The whole project was an affront to god, and maybe that’s why we were punished. 

—-

We designed a functional matter-energy transmitter, a machine capable of moving objects instantaneously on the atomic level. Deconstructing them in one place, and reconstructing them in another. Or in layman’s terms, teleportation. 

Though our initial success wasn’t met with celebration from our investors, but fear of their enemies developing the very same technology. And so with newfound clearance and a blank check budget, we hastily began pushing the envelope. But our pace was too slow for them, and a near week after its first successful test on a simple wooden object, we were instructed to begin human trials. 

Our first hurdle was the brain. The physical brain yes we could transport without damage, but the firing between the neurons, the actual signals, gone. A blank slate, rendering our first test subjects with little more development than a fetus. 

And even though our subjects were off death row, it didn’t make turning them brain dead for science any easier. But we had to make progress, we had to solve this issue. 

So we designed an attachment capable of taking a neurological snapshot of the brain as it was in that moment. Essentially mapping someone’s consciousness for lack of a better term. 

The addition should have solved our initial problem, they should have been coming through the same person as before relatively. But the truth was the machine destroys them down to the atom, it kills you before making a molecularly perfect copy somewhere else before injecting it with a snapshot of your mind taken the moment before death. 

And whether we believed the teleported matter is still the same person or not, the machine worked. Or at least it should have. But no matter how many tests we ran, we couldn't figure out why they came out braindead. The data was there, every fired neuron and memory plastered over an atomically perfect copy. But despite our best efforts and constant deliberation, we were still missing something. 

Those who experienced a successful relocation would die within the week, undergoing rapid cellular deterioration with seemingly no cause. We tested the machine so much we had to refill the subject hold three times. 

In all I’ve watched nearly 60 men stand inside our creation, the face they make before it goes off, before it deconstructs them. And the cruel replication that's spit out on the other side, reduced to that. It was hard to sit with on my best days, and nearly crippling on my worst. 

But they where bad men, I was assured these where evil, vile, disgusting people. Rapists, murderers, traffickers, pedophiles. And sometimes a combination of them all. 

But you’d be surprised how much easier wishing their death is when you’re not the one looking them in their eyes. Boring into you as a machine- wielding twice the energy output of a nuclear reactor begins to crackle with power that could only be described as cosmic. 

It’s almost funny, the parts that stick with you from the chaos. Because I really think I could’ve lived with it, with time I think I could’ve found a way to cope. But not now, not with what came next. 

—-

Admitting we couldn’t solve the human teleportation problem was its own humiliation ritual. Explaining to a room of government officials and investors that our top-secret project had yielded lots of research but no progress. What we really discovered is there was something we were missing, some part of the human consciousness that we were failing to grasp let alone harness. 

 And that’s when they brought in their own specialist. 

He was an older man, bordering on infirm. His hair was full but grey with a deceptively young featured face given away by aged eyes. He walked with a cane, dressed in fine clothes, and spoke with authority and charisma that bordered on political ambassador. But his smile was insincere. 

A colleague relayed a rumor that he had some CIA ties in his younger days and supposedly worked on several hushed projects. None of which I believed at the time, but whoever he was it was clear our directors respected his position. 

He was strictly referred to by Mr. C, which did nothing to calm the speculation from my colleagues. Neither did his bold claims shortly thereafter, he said we had done a swell job with our invention and that we were pioneers for all of humanity along with other shameless flattery. He followed this with the claim the soul existed, and that we had neglected to account for such. 

Some of us laughed, most of us exchanged uncomfortable looks, and several questions erupted from our staff all at once. He presented a solution that sounded just as ridiculous as it looked. 

In plain terms, he would create a spell circle capable of trapping a soul before releasing it upon their teleported double to repossess the body. Which sounded more like a magic fantasy than a scientific process, and it seemed many of the other researchers thought so too. 

To say we were skeptical was an understatement. As the ensuing verbal lashing from the mob of researchers had to be physically interrupted by security as it became less than academic to say the least. 

At the time it felt like an insult to our research, like punishment for our failure. But Mr C took it with an inhuman serenity, like our words and accusations were little more than dust on the wind. After we died down he began unpacking his equipment with a robotic smoothness from a series of cases and bags. 

I remember chuckling as I watched him light incense over a leather bag, wafting its smoke over the parcel with a mouthed prayer before producing its contents.

A shrunken human head that resembled a dehydrated rotting apple with a dark brittle ponytail tufted at the top. Gnarled stitches of ancient twine interlaced over its eyes and mouth holding its leathered skin in place. 

As he gingerly moved the shrunken head with practiced ceremony he explained the process. It was a trophy of war made from the head of an enemy meant to trap their defeated soul within. Usually to be used for some sort of ritual shortly thereafter, that would typically involve discarding or destroying it. 

Mr C theorized that those ancient tribes were either spiritually prohibited or unaware that it could be used to trap additional souls. That one could exorcise the original to imprison another instead, and thus create a portable prison for the spirit.

The more Mr C talked, the more it reminded me of the ravings of an intelligent psychosis victim. But with great effort I suspended my disbelief and tried for a moment to trust in our directors and benefactors. They believed he could help, all I had to do was try my best to wrap my head around it. 

I’d like to think as a scientist I could pick up any knowledge thrown at me, that no concept is too abstract or complicated given enough explanation. But his claims left so many more questions about the nature of things, the knowledge felt existential. 

Beyond my confusion, I felt a creeping dread as I stared at the shrunken head. It was so grotesque it was almost hard to identify as human remains. Like my brain couldn't understand it was even looking at what used to be a person's head. As Mr C continued the room grew noticeably colder, and my thoughts ran wild with superstition I never knew I had. 

—-

Within the hour we were making preparations for another test but with Mr C and his new method. We followed his specifications, outlined his sigils and runes and circles and drew them in fresh blood. 

And behind dark glass our directors, our investors, your world leaders, they watched us. Intently.

We were going to atomically deconstruct a living person, download their mind, and capture their soul. Reassemble their flesh with mathematical precision, upload their copied mind, and reinject their disembodied soul. 

We prepared to play god with every building block left at man's disposal. We prepared to change the world. 

By the time the ritual was prepared and the machine was ready, everyone in the room could feel it. Like thick air on a humid day, it was just all around us. This feeling blanketed the room, a choking grasp like a great presence had washed over us. The air became cold enough to see every exhale from our warm lungs. There was no longer a logical explanation, no answer my mind would accept besides Mr C was right. 

The soul, the ritual, all this fucked up voodoo magic, something some part of it all is real. I can’t say for certain to what extent but, I felt it, and it’s like my body knew exactly what it was. 

A handcuffed man in a white jumpsuit was forced inside the machine, and this time when the subject's eyes met mine we held equal fear. Beyond the terror of the construct around him, he could feel it too. He kicked and fought and screamed the moment he laid eyes on the room, on the dark ritual prepared around our incredible invention. 

Everything was ready. 

—-

The sounds of surging machinery drowned out the ritual as the teleporter discharged. Our monitors began blaring warnings of catastrophic failure and neural mapping overlap that triggered an automatic shutdown routine. 

However instead of shutting down, the machine experienced a power surge unlike anything we had seen before. It overclocked in seconds and began causing extreme damage to itself and the surrounding equipment. Around us the building's power bordered between a dwindling flicker and sudden surges that caused lightbulbs to burst. 

With nothing we could do, all of our hard work cooked itself alive before our eyes. Its delicate computers fried and components left useless. By the time we put the internal fires out it was too late to salvage the machine. 

With one final burst of power it died, causing a thundering chain of pops that deafened the room before bathing it in darkness. Leaving behind the smell of sulfur and ash, embers still hanging in the air. 

Yet despite the destruction as the backup lights came on bathing the facility in a red glow, we spotted him. Standing in the receiver was the subject dazed but alive. And not just alive he was moving on his own, and even attempting vocalizations. It was mostly throaty incoherent sounds like that of an animal, but none of the prior subjects even responded let alone vocalized.

We watched as his eyes rolled around, scanning the room in sudden darting focus. His jaw flapped about his face like it was suddenly foreign to him, his tongue slapping around in tandem. But in his eyes was some recognition, if even faint something was in there. His limbs and hands groped outward in slow testing motions curling and uncurling his muscles over and over. 

We refrained from touching him even as he floundered on the ground, waiting for our security team and a stretcher per protocol. And as we watched him struggle under the red lights, he attempted to speak. 

“L-Li b-b” he wheezed out struggling to work his tongue. Straining his back he twists upright without support of his arms, his torso now hanging above the ground.  

“Lib-era libera libera” his words came through clearer each time. But as he choked out the last repetition he began bleeding like a faucet. From his nostrils came a torrent of blood that ran down his face and onto the cold ground. 

As we pulled him onto the stretcher he began to seize violently, forcing us to cart him to the medical wing instead of the lab. The scans would have to wait, first we had to keep him alive. And though stabilized, he remained unconscious despite efforts to rouse him.

By that point we had been working well over 14 hours and our staff was exhausted and overwhelmed with repairs. Only those that volunteered would stay later to monitor the subject and run tests, and I was not one of them.

Although I doubted I’d be able to sleep much after the excitement of the day, my fear told me I needed to get back to my bunkhouse across the facility, far away from the lingering dread in the air. 

It seemed no amount of distance could escape the smell of sulfur and ash, like it permeated the very foundation of the facility. Or maybe it just clung to my skin, I was so worked up I couldn’t have been sure. What I did know is that when I got back to my room, I was utterly terrified. 

I was sweating, my hair was standing on end, my heart was pounding, my primal brain was sending signals of great danger. Like I was staring down a man sized cat beyond the light of my dying fire, clutching a spear beneath sweat-slicked white knuckles. After some time agonizing about a threat I couldn’t see, I decided I’d feel a lot better if I was with someone. 

Glancing at the time I figured it was likely I’d catch the volunteers still monitoring at the lab. And against my better judgment I decided it was better to be afraid in company then terrified alone. Even if it meant returning to the source, I gambled that a familiar presence would be enough to soothe my anxiety. 

How wrong I was. 

—-

I had to force myself to walk at a measured pace, reminding myself nothing was going to jump out at me. But the atmosphere of the empty halls now bathed in the deep red of our back up lighting made every step agonizing. 

My head on a swivel, I glanced down every hall and into every window or doorway I passed. The sound of the air conditioning kicking on caused me to nearly break into a sprint. I was wound up beyond belief, unable to curb my emotions despite my usual measured control. It felt like I had been drugged. 

I stepped into the empty lab, the whir of computers and running machinery humming in the air. The red lighting- broken up by bright digital displays and blinking gauges. As I step into the room I notice an office chair overturned in front of its desk, the keyboard dangling above the ground by its taught wire. 

I called out to the empty room, not sure if I expected an answer. Instead my eye caught a puddle forming on the floor at the end of the aisle. I doubled my pace, fearing a water leak from the earlier damage was seeping into the room. But rounding the corner I found its source. 

Under the red lights I failed to recognize it had been blood, but its source was unmistakable. Crumbled against the standing printer was one of my colleagues, only recognizable by his clothes. 

My eyes fell on his head, whose battered remains better resembled a deflated ball caved into itself. The congealed remnants of his smashed face barely sat propped by his ruined neck, within the mess I could  identify a few teeth scattered among the mangled flesh and crushed skull. His bottom jaw still remained semi in tact, like a morbid platter that the gore sat upon. 

Mortified, I stumbled back, my formal shoes unable to catch purchase in the pool of blood. I fell backwards, roughly slamming my back into a desk, its contents clattering from the impact. Crawling away from the scene I struggled to my feet before making a break for the hall. 

Only as I reached the doorway, down the direction I’d come from I spotted a figure too far away to make out. They stood rigid, arms out from their sides at an awkward distance, head lowered, legs bent. I pulled myself back into the lab, peering around the edge I watched in terror. 

The emergency lights began to flicker, their red flashes accompanied by an electronic whir that rose and fell with their activity and between the moments of blinking I could make out the figure begin to approach. Each step awkward and unsteady, arms swinging and posing without reason. With a constant fight to keep balanced it moved toward me with purpose. And unwilling to corner myself in the lab, I fled into the hall opposite my pursuer. 

It let it a wet roar from its vocally torn throat, akin to the keening of a mourning mother. It’s sound met me like the shock of cold water, the fire of my adrenaline nearly doused by my terror. I glanced over my shoulder as it closed distance, their white jumpsuit spattered with blood. 

Somehow despite its lack of control, it moved with such a power each bound was three of mine. And slowly but surely each violent stride was made with more confidence than the last. I realized I was watching it to learn how to run. And in a moment of desperation, yanked off my shoes that gained little purchase against the waxed halls. 

I lost sight of it as I rounded a wide corner, beelining for the medical wing. If I set it for lockdown, I could barricade myself inside, or potentially and much less likely trap it within. 

But with no better options and praying I run into someone else, it was my best bet. I chanced another glance behind me, the rapid slapping of its bare feet across the ground growing with inhuman speed now. Occasionally it fell forward, only to gallop on all fours before regaining posture. 

Its keening grew closer, the sound more distorted as its vocal chords came undone under the stress. My heart felt ready to explode, my body far too out of shape to maintain my sprint much longer. 

I rounded another corner, barely ten feet between us now. But my strength was renewed as my eyes fell upon medical’s entrance. Bursting through the entry I whirled around and heaved down on the lockdown lever with all of my might. Darkness danced at the edge of my vision as I struggled to suck in a breath, the sounds of the hydraulic door drowning out my pursuer. 

 For a moment I clung to the lever handle, slumping against the wall. I could hear the sound of the subject’s continued keening now muffled behind the thick door. Followed by a series of impacts with such force I felt the vibrations through the ground. An inhuman, impossible strength, like a jackhammer striking concrete. 

I stepped away from the metal door, afraid for a moment it might not hold. I turned to examine the medical wing, catching a figure in my glance. Mr C, the man who caused this, seated and partially obscured at the edge of the red light. 

“How many people have you teleported before today?” his calm voice wavered.

“Fifty eight subjects” 

“And animals?” 

“Dozens at least, I’m not sure” 

My voice only came to me in a tired whisper, we both whispered as if the thing outside the door was listening. 

“You’ve been feeding it” he said with finality.

“What- feeding what? the machine?”

“You fed it fifty nine people, fifty nine souls. Something, lurking here, feeding off everyone you've teleported, everyone you’ve killed.”

“The teleporter doesn’t kill-“ 

“What would you call it then? If you’ve deconstructed something’s atoms it’s dead.” Mr C interrupts beginning to stand. “It saw me” 

What was left of Mr C half limped forward, his body mangled like something pulled from a car wreck. Compound fractures leaving sharp shards protruding through his taught skin. I could see the fat pressing out of his leg over a jagged bone. His face crushed on one side, missing pieces like a world war shrapnel victim. As if the flesh and bone had just been wiped away with a rag. 

One eye remained rolling in its socket impossibly, these wounds kill, he shouldn’t even be moving. His back was twisted, the pain would be unbearable he should’ve been paralyzed. 

Something was clutched in his left hand, the forearm twisted so far his hand stuck out upside down. Dangling from his fingers by its hair, the shrunken head bobbed in his grasp. Seeing it I understood, or at least I thought I did, Mr C was dead, the shrunken head holding the shreds of his being trapped within. 

I stepped away, and he limped forward. Only a few feet between us, his ravaged body fully illuminated. 

“Let me go” I whispered to him.

“I caaaaant” his voice drooped with his body, an inhuman sound. “T-this body huuurts” he whimpered. 

“I I can’t fucking help you!” I shouted while putting a chair between us. 

“Please” he begged a gargled whimper escaping his mangled face. 

I glanced around frantically as I backed away, looking for anything I could use. Small medical instruments, a box of pens, a stack of papers, a box of cigarettes and- my hand clutched around the lighter. 

I backed towards the files, the desks, the cabinets, and what remained of Mr C lumbered after me into the scarcely lit room. Stalks of red separating the isles obscured in darkness, I watched his outline approaching between the light. 

We continued this dance, the sound of his broken bones grinding together, his permeated skins fleshy smacks against the ground where nauseating. Every shuffle and stagger was a new pop and crunch and squelch. 

He moaned through a crushed windpipe, a wet gurgled wheeze of a sound as he followed. Finally gathering my courage, I pulled a shelf down behind me, blocking his path before reaching for a bottle of medical alcohol. I pulled another shelf down between us, struggling with its weight even with my adrenaline. 

Hearing him thrashing his way through my obstacles, I swept the nozzle over the objects between us, a spray of alcohol shining under the emergency lights. For a moment it glistened with the flame of my lighter, a dazzling light before the chaos. 

The flame jumped across the shelf and cabinets, quickly catching their paper filed contents. The flame spreading, I continue spraying over anything I thought will catch. Until a mangled leg slapped over the top of the flaming overturned cabinet, before curling against its shelves and pulling over Mr C’s body. 

The fire growing between us, Mr C’s gurgles became shrill as the flames lapped at his twisted body. His clothes both taught and loose over his new shape, began to singe from the growing heat. 

Twisting around to face him again, I heave the still heavy bottle of alcohol with all my might into his torso. It met it with a dull thud, followed by a sudden burst as the open bottle hit the ground and caught fire.

A shower of flames erupting across his body, he began to scuttle after me as the flames engulfed him. I could feel the growing warmth from the fire as he closed in, nearly upon me. Lifting a chair I jabbed it at him to make distance, the heat lapping at my face. 

He forced his weight against me, pushing me to the ground and pinning me beneath his flaming body. The chair still jammed between us, he grabbed at me with his free arm and sending sizzling droplets dribbling across my body. Like boiling water it sent searing pain across my chest, his molten flesh and blood molding with mine even through my shirt. 

He gargled once more before the skin and muscle on his hands began to slough off in sizzling clumps of melted fat and burning meat. And as the burning shrunken head fell from his melted grasp, his body fell limp. 

With effort and a few more minor burns, I was able to heave his burning body off of mine. I put out the fires with the help of a sink and a fire extinguisher, and without a plan I began doing what I knew how to. 

I looked over my colleagues' results. They finished the subject's medical examination before they woke. And though for the most part nothing was out of the ordinary, the brain scan showed zero activity. Completely braindead, nothing even going on in there. 

But clearly something was in there, and if not in their head then, well I’m not so sure. After everything I’ve seen, after what we accidentally unleashed. 

If souls are indeed real, then what the hell did we put inside that subject, cause it damn sure wasn’t a person. 

It’s been a few hours since I’ve heard anything through the medical wing door, but I’ve been hesitant to lift the lockdown. Someone should’ve raised the alarm by now, there’s no way it hasn’t wandered into someone else yet. I just hope they send help soon. 

I can see my breath still, it’s been freezing in here since I’ve arrived. And the smell, the sulfur stench drowns out even the burnt flesh of Mr C. 

If I don’t hear it for another few hours, I might just make a break for it. It’s been dead silent out there, if anything it’s probably long gone. 

—- 

I'm leaving this message in case I don’t make it out, this is a warning. 

Don’t teleport people. 

Not how we did it, or else something else might just come through.

—-

Everything's felt different since I got back, and I've had some trouble remembering things and collecting my thoughts so. I'm going to start keeping this digital journal to hopefully help with all that. 

A couple of weeks ago I fell at work and woke up in the hospital. I had been up on a ladder when I lost my balance doing something stupid, and before I knew it the back of my head was smacking the ground. 

On the way to the hospital I suffered a stroke, they kept me for almost a week, monitoring me and running tests. I had suffered some minor brain damage, but compared to what it could have been I was extremely lucky. I wouldn't consider any amount of brain damage lucky but the doctors assured me I could make a full recovery given time. 

I've been back home in my apartment for a few days now, and things have felt off. I was told to expect some mental fog and headaches, and I was experiencing those. But this was different, I felt confused and kept seeing movement out of the corners of my eyes.

I wish I could say I had someone to tell about this, but I really don’t. I never kept in close touch with my friends after school ended, and they never really reached out either. Sometimes I wonder if we would have all still been friends if not for my pride, or more accurately my fear that we weren't really all that close. But it seems in hindsight that the fear that kept me from reaching out in the first place to try, ended up isolating me anyways. 

Funny enough we all still have each other added on facebook, and I watched through the digital glass as most of them met up for a recent wedding. I guess I missed the invite. And I haven't exactly been putting myself out there as far as making new connections, I think somewhere along the way I became comfortable in solitude.

I don’t have any siblings or cousins. I was the sole child of our aging family tree. And now I'm the sole remainder of our family all together. Grim I know but it's the truth, and necessary to explain why I'm sharing my thoughts here. Or maybe it's self indulgent, woe is me and all that.

But today when I woke up, something was different. As I emerged from my bedroom I spotted a red door with a brass knob sticking out from behind my couch. And no I don’t mean propped against the wall I mean screwed into a frame that never existed. I pulled my couch aside and tried for the knob only to find it locked. I tried knocking fruitlessly before stepping back and examining the wall around it, there was no way someone could have just installed this while I was sleeping. 

I decided I was going to take the damn thing off its hinges, one way or another I was going to find out what was inside. And hopefully prove I hadn’t just lost my mind, I mean this isn’t exactly what I would call a hallucination. I could run my fingers across its surface and feel the imperfections of the paint. I felt the cold brass of the knob and the clicking of its internal lock. It was here, it was real, I just needed some tools.

I just need to drive down to the store and get a screwdriver set and I could pop it right out of the wall. On my way out I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important. 

---

When I returned from the store I headed straight for the red door, and that's when I spotted it. On my coffee table sat a brand new screwdriver set, the exact same set that I had just purchased. 

In front of the red door was a single curved scrape along the floor that outlined the inward swinging of its path. It had opened while I was gone, and even possibly left me a screwdriver set. This all sounds crazy and I don’t have any real explanation for what's going on, but maybe I can get one. 

I got to work on the hinges, and one by one I freed the screws from their frame. Finally I took off the doorknob and pulled away the door, I held my breath as I peered behind it. 

There was nothing. Well not like an empty nothing more like a wall, only a quarter inch from the doorframe. It was covered in wallpaper, a different one than the rest of my apartment, and it looked a fair bit more worn. It had an ornate floral pattern that blended seamlessly into looping textures, the paper had yellowed with time but still held faded colors. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place where I had seen it before, nor could I confirm I actually had seen it before. 

I felt relieved that nothing was on the other side, but then why did it open when I was gone? I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to find a way to open the wall on the other side. I became convinced it was a false wall or had some sort of trapdoor mechanism, but I found no such thing. I debated just trying to smash my way through, but I was afraid that I might end up busting into someone else's apartment. 

I plan on returning the screwdriver set to the store tomorrow seeing as I have two of them now. Hopefully now I can put this whole door thing to bed and feel like a normal person again.

—---

Today I couldn't find my car. 

No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t remember where I parked it, even after searching the whole parking complex. I ended up scouring the streets nearby to no luck, I must have looked for hours before I gave up. 

Unsure where else to look I figured it must have been stolen so I got on a payphone to make a report. Only to find out there was already a pending investigation because the car was reported missing three days ago. But that couldn't be possible, I had just found the car missing today. 

Feeling confused I rushed back home to check my calendar and instead found the red door securely back in its frame.

I felt a rising frustration at my situation, the confusion only adding to my agitation. I unscrewed the door again, and this time carried it all the way downstairs to the apartment dumpster. Slamming it inside with a barely contained anger, I stomped back to my apartment to sulk, feeling overwhelmed. 

As I sat down I looked over the screwdriver set again, trying to make sense of what was happening. I pulled the receipt from the crumpled bag and looked it over, the purchase date was marked for almost a week ago. I bought it yesterday. I know I did. What the fuck is happening to me? 

-----

Last night I woke up to the sound of knocking at 2 am. 

I stumbled out of bed and started dressing, wondering who could be here at this hour. But as I opened my bedroom door out to the hall, I stopped in my tracks. 

Directly across the hall from my bedroom was the red door. This time with the addition of a brass mailslot three feet up the door.. Through the cracks of the mailslot poured light, a glow that made me squint with pained eyes. From behind the door came faint sounds, and I leaned in straining to hear. Wind chimes and birds and the sound of branches rustling in a calm breeze, but just before my ear met the door's surface the knock sounded again. 

The same knock my grandfather did every time he visited my childhood home when he was still alive. 

Thump, thump, thum-thump, thump. Shave and a haircut. 

And just like my grandfather it never finished the rhythm, instead waiting for a knock back.

“Grandpa?” I whispered out toward the door. 

Again it repeated its half of the knock.

Thump, thump, thum-thump, thump. Shave and a haircut.

Cautiously I reached out to knock back. 

Thump, thump. Two bits. 

I completed the knock and held my breath, but nothing happened. And after a moment I reached out for the knob, unsure what else to do. To my surprise it clicked, and I pulled the door open.

On the other side was a screen door between me and a flood of sunlight. Somehow through the doorway was the front porch of my childhood home, and beyond it the well kept lawn and our tall oak tree adorned with a thick-roped tire swing. 

The cool morning breeze met my face, the sound of chirping birds and windchimes now in full. This was impossible, I was 6 floors up, there was another apartment on the other side of this wall. None of this could be real. 

And yet, the sun felt warm on my skin through the screen, the breeze was cool and the air smelt of fresh grass and sidewalks wet with morning dew. It was exactly how I remembered it, and it only made it more terrifying. The street, the neighboring houses, the trees and well kept lawns and classic cars in driveways. It was all in there, but I couldn’t step through. 

Afraid the world itself was coming undone I shut the door, and the light that had been visible through the cracks before, disappeared as the knob clicked in place. This time I need help, I have to be sure this is real. First thing in the morning i'll call the property manager and ask for maintenance to come check out this door. In the meantime I'm going on a walk to clear my head. On my way out I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important.

-------

The maintenance worker came by today but the door was gone.

As to not appear crazy I claimed I heard weird sounds in the wall the other night like knocking and chimes. While the guy was taking a look around I offered to get him some water, but when I went to the fridge I found it slightly ajar, a foul odor wafted from within. My food had spoiled and the fridge was entirely warm, something I surely would have noticed. The food couldn't have gone bad so quickly, even if the fridge wasn't working this looked like a week's worth of decay. 

A pattern I've continued to notice is a loss or manipulation of time. The door, whatever it really is, maybe warps time around it? I can't remember the last time I shaved, yet my face barely has stubble. Am I even aging?

I can hardly focus, could this really all be real? Am I experiencing some sort of anomaly? Did I ever leave the hospital in the first place? How long have I been home? How long have I been on leave from work? I asked myself question after question until I broke down crying and frustrated and scared. I just want to feel lucid again.

—------

Another sleepless Night.

Last night the door woke me up again, or maybe it was a dream I can’t even be sure. It was right above my bed, already hanging open. Through the door extending straight upward was a familiar dim hallway. It was my grandparents house, their own hall stretching up impossibly into the sky. At the end of the hall I could see the hue-shifting glow of a tv, the muffled sounds of a sitcom drifted down the hall. Intermittently I could hear their laughter, a warm familiar sound. 

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I got up from my bed to rummage around for a stool. But when I returned the door was being pulled shut from within by something, an even smooth pull followed by the clicking of a lock. 

Instead of returning to bed I got to work with my tools and once again pulled the door off its hinges. It fell to my bed with a thud that I worried might wake the neighbors, but I soon forgot seeing the place beyond the door had changed. 

On the other side was a white louvered closet door, its slats letting in morning sunlight despite the real time. Between the slats I recognized the room, my childhood bedroom sat beyond the closet door on my ceiling. But beyond the slats everything was rotated parallel with the doorframe, as if gravity kept different rules just beyond the threshold. This time I had to be sure, I reached up and pulled the closet door open before climbing inside. And as my feet left the stool, I felt my weight suddenly lurch horizontally and nearly fell backwards into my apartment. 

For a moment I struggled on all fours to orient myself as I looked back at the closet door, seeing my bed straight ahead appearing as if it had been stood up against the wall. The stool looked like it had been placed directly into a wall, I forced myself to look away as dizziness swept over me. 

I was here, like my entire childhood bedroom had been placed in a time capsule. I was practically standing in a memory, I dug through my old toy chest clutching a plastic body in my hand. It was real, it was all real. I could smell breakfast being prepared, the aroma of bacon causing me to salivate.

As I stepped toward the blinds-covered window I heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming from beyond my bedroom door. As it got closer down the hall I recognized the sound as my fathers work shoes. Realizing they were nearing my door, I reached for the knob only to find it locked. 

“Hello?” I called out hesitantly.

The footsteps stopped just behind the door, the shadow of two shoes casting beneath the crack but no response. 

“Please is someone there? I don’t understand where I am.” 

“Whos out there?” I tried one final time.

And my fathers voice replied.

“Your mom wanted me to remind you you’re grounded before I leave for work, but instead I'll just remind you to take out the trash before I get home. I guess its my fault you’re a disobedient fuck up, my fear of becoming my own father poisoned my efforts in raising you. But I couldn’t trust myself, if I could hurt the people I love the most, even as a punishment, what would that make me?” 

I felt a turning in my stomach as he talked at me, words my father had never spoken. But about things that sowed doubt into my image of the man he was, things that I almost feared were true.

“Instead I ignored anything that upset me, unwilling to react in fear of blowing up. And your mother, your poor mother, left to be the bad cop, the jury and the judge. You resented her, and she resented me in turn, as it was like many things, all my fault.”

“D-dad?” My voice cracked as I spoke.

“Before I leave for work, your mother and I will kiss with the same transactional formality of a public bus making its route. In the parking lot I’ll take off my wedding ring before entering the office and hitting on the receptionist that I drunkenly kissed at last year's christmas party. I still remember the feeling of her clumsy fingers running over my zipper as our lips met, only pulling away after seeing your judging face staring up at me from my desk. Now I place the photo facedown instinctually when she comes by my office, how monstrous is that?” he finishes nearly emotionless. 

Stunned at their words, and unsure if any of that could be true I took a step away from the bedroom door. I watch the shadow beneath the door intently, frozen in place. 

Suddenly the violent banging and rattling of the door breaks me from my fear and I dart back toward the closet. The banging becomes louder and louder, the door practically jumping in its frame with each blow. The frame and hinges begin to give way just as I cross the threshold back into my apartment. But as I tumble out, again my weight and inertia shift so suddenly I find myself twisting through the air. 
I fell for a half second in terror, before I felt myself smack against the bedframe and everything went dark. 

---------

When I woke I found dried blood on the side of my head, the skin having broken when colliding with the wooden edge of my bedframe. My head pounded, my thoughts swam in a sea of pain as I got up and inspected my bedroom. The red door was gone from the ceiling, but the stool and tools still sat out, at least I know it really happened. 

Or at least that I believe it did. But I can’t, there's no explanation that makes sense. I need to bring something back from behind the door, something that can prove these places physically appear. Tangible holdable evidence, I just needed some things and I could prepare this time. 

So I got dressed, left my apartment and began packing a bag. Preserved foods, flashlight, rope, knife, first aid. Anything I could think of I loaded into my cart. But my card declined, and then my other card declined, and then my credit card declined too. But my situation was desperate, and you’d be surprised how much merchandise you can cram inside a backpack in a pinch. I promise I’ll pay them back when it's all over, if that means anything.

The long walk back to my apartment gave me time to think about the situation, and I figured that if the red door hadn't shown up when other people were around then maybe it was time to get a roommate. Or at least move somewhere else, If I could even figure out what was wrong with my bank. I even considered selling items from behind the red door if I could physically bring them back with me. As ridiculous as that sounds, I don’t know what I can do here, or what I even should do.

I don’t know why the red door appeared, or why it keeps showing me these places from my past. But I can’t help but feel like I’m in danger, or maybe I've been in danger for a long time and I only just realized it. I keep waking up in the night, afraid I'm going to be facing the door, afraid something's going to crawl out of it. It only started showing up in real life after my head injury, but before that I faintly remember dreams with a similar door. But nothing significant beyond a faint recognition, everywhere I looked for answers came up empty.

And as I came to this conclusion and reached my apartment floor, I spotted the red door again. Directly where my apartment door once stood, its brass fixtures shining with the overhead light. 

---------

The red door was my only path forward.

With nowhere left to go, I prepared my items in the hall, discarding their plastic and cardboard on the ground. The door was unlocked, and beyond it was the family bathroom from my childhood home. Its white tiles bathed in a square of moonlight from the lone window above, casting a partial spotlight over the bathroom mat. 

I found myself climbing out of where the shower door would've been, stepping out my rubber soled shoe squeeked against the clean tile. I froze and listened only stepping through once I was sure nothing had stirred, I reached for the bathroom door, and it clicked open. 

I felt my heart begin to race as I pushed into the hallway, the moonlight trailing behind me. I crept down the hall toward the living room, the layout burned into memory. And as I rounded the corner I froze, a dark silhouette sat on the corner armchair unmoving. I felt immense dread as I realized my flashlight was inside the backpack, and I slowly moved to unsling the bag. 

I froze as her voice cut through the air. My mother. 

“I know it's you, there's no use in pretending. You snuck out didn’t you? And now you have to make me the bad guy again for being concerned for your safety. And your father will say I'm being too hard on you, that young boys will sneak out, that's what they do. Bullshit, you never respected me, and you defy me again and again. No matter how lenient I try to be, you always find another line to cross. You know I never wanted children? But your father did, oh your father. He who always gets his way in the end doesn't he? I get to swell up with his child, lose control of my autonomy and my emotions. I get irreversible damage to my body and for what? For you?” 

I remember this night, I had snuck out to hang out with a girl I liked. And my mom caught me trying to sneak back into bed. And she did chew me out for it, but nothing like this. She never spoke like this, not to me, not to anyone. And this shadow of her sat impossibly rigid, unexpressive as she spoke, her tone even. 

“We had broken up, you know. Until I found out I was pregnant with you, and well I told him. And that was my biggest mistake, because there was no going back. He didn’t want me to kill his child, he begged me to consider raising a family. And threatened to tell my parents if I thought of getting rid of it. Of you. And then, the person I was, my aspiration, my goals, my career. I lost everything, changed everything, because your father wanted it so. And because he made sure I didn't have a choice. And no amount of time in a happy marriage or with a swaddled baby in my arms, could undo that betrayal. And what scars does he have to show for it? A wife who’s become a roommate, a drunken, medicated roommate. How easy for him, I just hope he doesn’t get that poor girl from his office pregnant.”

The venom of her words made me nauseous, I struggled to catch my breath as I fumbled for my flashlight, unable to bear the darkness of the room any longer. Flicking it on, her shadowed form vanishes, leaving an empty armchair where she once sat. The light begins to flicker and in the brief moments of shadow I swear I can see her again, slowly rising from her seat. 

Just her outline, like the cast shadow of her person, a void in the shape of my mother. My light completely dies, and she is standing before me. Poised and rigid, arms at her sides, jaw unmoving despite the speech.

“And how do you repay me? By turning on me? You came from me, from inside my body, and you say you hate me? With his eyes? After everything I've given, my body, my life, it's never enough. Well maybe I despise you, maybe I was terrified to admit that you were the living embodiment of my ruined life and that I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand you.”

I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. “Mom please I’m sorry, if this is real I’m sorry.” 

A crushing silence enveloped me as I sniffled back tears, and for a brief moment we stood in the darkness facing one another.

Her tone softening she whispered “I should be sorry too.” before my light came back on, and she was gone.

I looked around the room, remembering my plan, I pulled a quilted blanket off the corner armchair and tucked it into my bag. It smelt like her perfume. Her words played over and over in my mind, then my fathers. Is this really what was going on? Had they really kept it in till their death beds? The more I considered it the more overwhelmed I felt. But I had to keep moving.

Every other door I came across was locked. And unwilling to try and pry them open after everything I just endured I moved for the exit. The door was closed, even though I had wedged it open when I came through. I tried for the knob and found it locked.

A rising terror overtook me, the thought of being stuck in that place nearly sending me into a panic. Shakily I produced my tools and began working on the door, constantly checking over my shoulder and jumping at every noise as I worked from the bathroom floor. Finally I pulled the door away from its frame, and my breath caught in my throat.

A second door just behind it, a half foot of space between them. 

Frantically now I knelt down again, working the screwdriver on the doorknob and hinges. From my childhood living room I heard the sound of our clock begin to chime, over and over. I removed the second door, to find a third. 

With rising frustration and panic I roughly tossed the doors into the hall to make space before getting to work on the third. When the sound of a loud crash causes me to stop and listen. The chiming of the clock stops as I hear the bang and shattering echo through the house. 

I redouble my efforts as more crashes begin to sound, a few pieces clattering down the hallway as the destruction continues. The third door comes off, and as I turn to push it out of my way a heavy thudding comes down the hall.

It stops just before the bathroom doorway, but I can hear one of the discarded wooden doors creaking under its weight. 

“Son” the voices of both my mother and father overlap. “Don’t leave”

I try to speak but nothing comes out, fear holding me hostage. 

“I love you” it’s voices overlap.

“You're not them.” I managed to say.

The wood creaks as if it shifts its weight, a heavy silence hanging over. 

“Stay” it hisses.

I glance over my shoulder seeing my apartment through the doorway, no more doors blocking my path. I wonder for a moment if this thing will try and stop me, or if I could even resist. 

I dart for the exit without a word, and I hear the sound of heavy snapping wood behind me and the resulting shower of splinters striking the tiled bathroom. As I tumble out into my apartment I pull myself over my couch and whip around to see the doorway. From within the darkness I start to hear whistling, a familiar tune unmistakable from any other in my mind. One my father used to whistle to me as a kid, one he used to calm me down as a baby. His own version, misremembered and out of tune, came out of the doorway as if plucked directly from my memory.

And slowly in the darkness I watched as the shadow of an arm reached across the doorway and pulled my apartment door shut from within as if it had never changed. I stared blankly at my front door, unsure if the apartment really still lay behind it, or if I really ever escaped the red door in the first place. For all I know I could be in a perfect copy of my own home, and how would I even tell.

I doubt I'll get any sleep after this, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know what the fuck that thing in there is, but it clearly knows me. I’ll try and update if something happens, for now I just need to rest. I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important.

-----------

I must have fallen asleep at some point.

When I woke up, I was on my couch, flashlight still on in my hand, and my knife clutched in the other. The first thing I noticed was I still had my shoes on, and secondly I noticed a sweltering heat in the apartment.

I found my oven on at 450 degrees, with no way of telling how long it had been on. I just considered myself lucky that no fire had started. I treated myself to a cold shower and aired out the house while I considered what to do next. I already tried leaving the apartment, and I've become convinced I'm not trapped inside so at least I have that. 

I've been keeping the tv on at all times to help fill the silence, and I think the background noise helps distract me. At least until reality comes knocking. A maintenance worker came by and asked me if I was experiencing any leaks, I said no but he asked to come in and look around. I glanced back into my apartment, furniture rearranged in defensive positions, items strewn about. Makeshift weapons sitting on my coffee table, the markings of a crazy person. 

So I let him in.

And he pretended to ignore the state of my apartment as we headed toward the bathroom, which I had been too afraid to approach for days. But unfortunately as we neared the door, I recognized the sound of a running showerhead that I didn’t remember leaving on. 

Before we even opened the door, his boots squished against the wet carpet of my hallway and he rushed to get inside. The showerhead was on inside, and crumbled against the drain was the clothing I wore through the red door yesterday. Or at least I thought it was yesterday but, I swore I had been too afraid to enter it. 

As the man began frantically trying to fix it, I became overwhelmed with the urge to flee. Like I was a child being caught doing something wrong, I grabbed my backpack and fled the apartment. I was so confused, I don’t understand how any of that could have happened. I don’t remember doing any of that. I can’t remember taking a shower or turning on the oven, I can’t even remember the last thing I ate.

But as I neared the elevator all I found was the red door. And I tried the stairwell but there was only the red door. The exits the rooms, everything, it was all red doors, and sooner or later I had to go through one, I decided my best bet was the stairwell and tried the handle.

It turned and as I pulled the door open, I saw inside.

It was my grandfather's garage, his classic car parked inside. A single light fixture overhead illuminated the cluttered space. His stacked assortment of objects and memorabilia casting shadows along the walls that played tricks on my mind.

Slowly I inspected the room, the details perfect in the light. The smell of cigar smoke and motor oil hung in the air, and beyond the garage door I could hear the sounds of small fireworks. I stepped toward the garage door, the tall windows flashing with light as distant fireworks boomed in the sky. 

Smoke, barbecue, sun screen. It smelled like the fourth of July at my grandparents house. I could hear delighted voices and cheery tipsy chatter from outside the garage, the family likely all lined up on the sidewalk to watch the show. I heard the harsh whistling of a piccolo pete and the flashing stutter of showers of multicolored sparks. The light of which danced across the dusty garage glass, but the view was obscured by the garage light.

Feeling nostalgic, I reached up and pulled the chord, bathing the garage in darkness. And finally I could see the fireworks beyond the glass. The mortars illuminating the night with spectacular blasts, the waving of sparklers, the cheering of children. I couldn't quite see it all, but I could picture it behind the door, and I felt warm in the memory.

From the corner of the garage I heard a lone voice call out to me.

“I remember you were afraid of the pop-its, scared they’d blow pieces right off your hand. Until I popped one between my fingers, and the way you looked at me, I might as well have been a super hero.” My grandfather's voice carried from the dark a lone orange ember’d cigar marked his location among the boxes. 

“Grandpa?” 

“Your dad was always so protective over you when it came to me, I guess he always assumed I'd beat you if you misbehaved. But that beast had long been tamed by the time you came around, sometimes I looked at your smiling face and felt guilt at why I hadn’t seen the same in my son. Why I saw a man to be molded instead of a boy to be cherished, I can’t say. You were too young to remember, but one time I was too rough with you when I was drunk. I picked you up by your arm, wrenching it in the process. And when I heard your little cries, saw your face, it clicked for me.” 

A haze of smoke drifted through the garage as he paused. “I never hated my son, I wanted him to be strong, but I was a weak man. I carried a darkness with me from my youth, and I fear I only passed it on to him. Only my old man treated me worse, and I did much worse things for it. I hurt a nice girl in a bad, bad way, and I never got caught for it. I went on to live a normal life, even when ruining others. I like to think that I've suffered and paid for it, but I think I'm going to hell.”

“Is that what this place is?” I managed.

“How about me and you go get some ice cream bud? I'll even let you hold the wheel.” 

“Can I stay here a little longer?” I asked unsure if it would even respond to me.

“Sure buddy, enjoy the fireworks.” His smoke carried his words, but the ember disappeared.

So I sat for a while and watched the fireworks through the garage door, and listened to the sounds of a happy family. And at some point I heard the sound of the car door opening, and without protest, I climbed inside, expecting to die.

-----------

I fell asleep in the backseat, and woke up to the lurching of the car. I peeked my eyes open, scanning the inside of the car. It was my parents old suv now, and I was in the backseat. It was dark out, the car itself pitch black, but beyond the windows I could see the street stretching into the distance illuminated by lightposts. 

In the front seat sat the outline of my father and mother, rigid like mannequins, untouched by light. I watched them for a time, but the lull of the car made my eyes heavy. I heard them begin to speak, their voices intertwining.

“Is he asleep?” 

“Yeah, he had a big day” 

“Mm after that cake, what kind of restaurant gives a 6 year old a slice that size”

“You let him finish it”

“Well it is his birthday”

“I suppose you're right. I'm glad he had fun.”

As the car comes to a stop, I let myself lie limp, pretending to be asleep. I feel myself being scooped up into my dads arms, and I dare not to open my eyes to break the illusion. As I'm carried inside to my bed and tucked in, I feel a calm wash over me as something leans in and whispers.

“Next time you return, there won’t be a way back home.”

-----------

I woke to find myself in an unfamiliar bed, and felt cold metal around my left wrist. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the bright room, and found myself in a small hospital room. I feel drowsy, hardly able to think I try to rise from bed and find my back in pain.

After a while someone comes along and spots me awake, and eventually someone enters the room. But I can hardly make heads or tails of the conversation, mumbling at responses as they speak at me. 

She shut the blinds for me, and that helped a bit. She talked about care plans, and something about my insurance, and asked about family. At some point she asked me if there was anyone the hospital could call to inform, and I couldn’t think of anyone. I wanted to see my grandfather, so I asked if he could come and see me. She said that she would see what she could do, and I hoped that was enough. 

But he never came, and neither did anyone else. And at some point I remembered he was dead, and he had been for a long time. 

And as I looked around and realized that my fear had come true, and that I had indeed lost my mind, and was now sitting in a hospital bed like I was sick. I had to get out, I realized I would do anything not to be here, not to face what was happening. I would even go through the red door, even if I never got to come back.

And as if on que, like my thoughts had cast a silent prayer and summoned it themselves, I could see the red door just beyond the bed curtain. Slowly and cautiously I got up, and heard the sound of a handcuff coming undone around my wrist. I stepped toward the door, and it opened on its own, an orchestra of light flooding into the room. 

So if this is all real, and I really can step through. I’ll update you on the other side, and if it's not well, then this is goodbye.

------------

Today was a good day. 

Mom got me up early for breakfast before she left for book club. And I spent all morning eating cereal and watching cartoons until I felt sick from sugar. It was a weekend marathon of my favorite shows, so I nearly ate a whole box.

Around noon I took my toys out to the backyard and played in the shade. I used the hose to make mud for my army men battle but I'm pretty sure I couldn't find them all after. Mom got home and helped me wash up before making lunch. I had a sandwich and chips, and I even got a popsicle after finishing my food. 

I tell her she's the best mom in the world when she brings me the popsicle and she laughs at me as if it's anything but true. She tells me she loves me, and I believe her, because I'd never had a reason to doubt it. 

I get to play on the game cube with dad when he gets home from work, so I already set up the controllers for us even though mom says it's blocking the living room walkway she still let me. When he walks through the door I’m nearly jumping with excitement, and he settles in to play with me until dinner time. 

I smile up at him from my little chair, and he down at me. And even though we both struggle through the game, I enjoy every second of losing. I stepped away to sneak some halloween candy while dad was in the bathroom even though we are having burgers in an hour. 

I can’t wait to finish up our game, and mom said if I eat all my dinner she has a special dessert for me, I just hope the candy didn’t mess up my appetite.

I had a lot of fun today and I'm excited for tomorrow. I love my mom and dad, I’m glad they love me too.

---

Everything's felt different since I got back, and I've had some trouble remembering things and collecting my thoughts so. I'm going to start keeping this digital journal to hopefully help with all that. 

A couple of weeks ago I fell at work and woke up in the hospital. I had been up on a ladder when I lost my balance doing something stupid, and before I knew it the back of my head was smacking the ground. 

On the way to the hospital I suffered a stroke, they kept me for almost a week, monitoring me and running tests. I had suffered some minor brain damage, but compared to what it could have been I was extremely lucky. I wouldn't consider any amount of brain damage lucky but the doctors assured me I could make a full recovery given time. 

I've been back home in my apartment for a few days now, and things have felt off. I was told to expect some mental fog and headaches, and I was experiencing those. But this was different, I felt confused and kept seeing movement out of the corners of my eyes.

I wish I could say I had someone to tell about this, but I really don’t. I never kept in close touch with my friends after school ended, and they never really reached out either. Sometimes I wonder if we would have all still been friends if not for my pride, or more accurately my fear that we weren't really all that close. But it seems in hindsight that the fear that kept me from reaching out in the first place to try, ended up isolating me anyways. 

Funny enough we all still have each other added on facebook, and I watched through the digital glass as most of them met up for a recent wedding. I guess I missed the invite. And I haven't exactly been putting myself out there as far as making new connections, I think somewhere along the way I became comfortable in solitude.

I don’t have any siblings or cousins. I was the sole child of our aging family tree. And now I'm the sole remainder of our family all together. Grim I know but it's the truth, and necessary to explain why I'm sharing my thoughts here. Or maybe it's self indulgent, woe is me and all that.

But today when I woke up, something was different. As I emerged from my bedroom I spotted a red door with a brass knob sticking out from behind my couch. And no I don’t mean propped against the wall I mean screwed into a frame that never existed. I pulled my couch aside and tried for the knob only to find it locked. I tried knocking fruitlessly before stepping back and examining the wall around it, there was no way someone could have just installed this while I was sleeping. 

I decided I was going to take the damn thing off its hinges, one way or another I was going to find out what was inside. And hopefully prove I hadn’t just lost my mind, I mean this isn’t exactly what I would call a hallucination. I could run my fingers across its surface and feel the imperfections of the paint. I felt the cold brass of the knob and the clicking of its internal lock. It was here, it was real, I just needed some tools.

I just need to drive down to the store and get a screwdriver set and I could pop it right out of the wall. On my way out I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important. 

---

When I returned from the store I headed straight for the red door, and that's when I spotted it. On my coffee table sat a brand new screwdriver set, the exact same set that I had just purchased. 

In front of the red door was a single curved scrape along the floor that outlined the inward swinging of its path. It had opened while I was gone, and even possibly left me a screwdriver set. This all sounds crazy and I don’t have any real explanation for what's going on, but maybe I can get one. 

I got to work on the hinges, and one by one I freed the screws from their frame. Finally I took off the doorknob and pulled away the door, I held my breath as I peered behind it. 

There was nothing. Well not like an empty nothing more like a wall, only a quarter inch from the doorframe. It was covered in wallpaper, a different one than the rest of my apartment, and it looked a fair bit more worn. It had an ornate floral pattern that blended seamlessly into looping textures, the paper had yellowed with time but still held faded colors. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place where I had seen it before, nor could I confirm I actually had seen it before. 

I felt relieved that nothing was on the other side, but then why did it open when I was gone? I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to find a way to open the wall on the other side. I became convinced it was a false wall or had some sort of trapdoor mechanism, but I found no such thing. I debated just trying to smash my way through, but I was afraid that I might end up busting into someone else's apartment. 

I plan on returning the screwdriver set to the store tomorrow seeing as I have two of them now. Hopefully now I can put this whole door thing to bed and feel like a normal person again.

----

Today I couldn't find my car. 

No matter how hard I tried I couldn’t remember where I parked it, even after searching the whole parking complex. I ended up scouring the streets nearby to no luck, I must have looked for hours before I gave up. 

Unsure where else to look I figured it must have been stolen so I got on a payphone to make a report. Only to find out there was already a pending investigation because the car was reported missing three days ago. But that couldn't be possible, I had just found the car missing today. 

Feeling confused I rushed back home to check my calendar and instead found the red door securely back in its frame.

I felt a rising frustration at my situation, the confusion only adding to my agitation. I unscrewed the door again, and this time carried it all the way downstairs to the apartment dumpster. Slamming it inside with a barely contained anger, I stomped back to my apartment to sulk, feeling overwhelmed. 

As I sat down I looked over the screwdriver set again, trying to make sense of what was happening. I pulled the receipt from the crumpled bag and looked it over, the purchase date was marked for almost a week ago. I bought it yesterday. I know I did. What the fuck is happening to me? 

-----

Last night I woke up to the sound of knocking at 2 am. 

I stumbled out of bed and started dressing, wondering who could be here at this hour. But as I opened my bedroom door out to the hall, I stopped in my tracks. 

Directly across the hall from my bedroom was the red door. This time with the addition of a brass mailslot three feet up the door.. Through the cracks of the mailslot poured light, a glow that made me squint with pained eyes. From behind the door came faint sounds, and I leaned in straining to hear. Wind chimes and birds and the sound of branches rustling in a calm breeze, but just before my ear met the door's surface the knock sounded again. 

The same knock my grandfather did every time he visited my childhood home when he was still alive. 

Thump, thump, thum-thump, thump. Shave and a haircut. 

And just like my grandfather it never finished the rhythm, instead waiting for a knock back.

“Grandpa?” I whispered out toward the door. 

Again it repeated its half of the knock.

Thump, thump, thum-thump, thump. Shave and a haircut.

Cautiously I reached out to knock back. 

Thump, thump. Two bits. 

I completed the knock and held my breath, but nothing happened. And after a moment I reached out for the knob, unsure what else to do. To my surprise it clicked, and I pulled the door open.

On the other side was a screen door between me and a flood of sunlight. Somehow through the doorway was the front porch of my childhood home, and beyond it the well kept lawn and our tall oak tree adorned with a thick-roped tire swing. 

The cool morning breeze met my face, the sound of chirping birds and windchimes now in full. This was impossible, I was 6 floors up, there was another apartment on the other side of this wall. None of this could be real. 

And yet, the sun felt warm on my skin through the screen, the breeze was cool and the air smelt of fresh grass and sidewalks wet with morning dew. It was exactly how I remembered it, and it only made it more terrifying. The street, the neighboring houses, the trees and well kept lawns and classic cars in driveways. It was all in there, but I couldn’t step through. 

Afraid the world itself was coming undone I shut the door, and the light that had been visible through the cracks before, disappeared as the knob clicked in place. This time I need help, I have to be sure this is real. First thing in the morning i'll call the property manager and ask for maintenance to come check out this door. In the meantime I'm going on a walk to clear my head. On my way out I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important.

------

The maintenance worker came by today but the door was gone.

As to not appear crazy I claimed I heard weird sounds in the wall the other night like knocking and chimes. While the guy was taking a look around I offered to get him some water, but when I went to the fridge I found it slightly ajar, a foul odor wafted from within. My food had spoiled and the fridge was entirely warm, something I surely would have noticed. The food couldn't have gone bad so quickly, even if the fridge wasn't working this looked like a week's worth of decay. 

A pattern I've continued to notice is a loss or manipulation of time. The door, whatever it really is, maybe warps time around it? I can't remember the last time I shaved, yet my face barely has stubble. Am I even aging?

I can hardly focus, could this really all be real? Am I experiencing some sort of anomaly? Did I ever leave the hospital in the first place? How long have I been home? How long have I been on leave from work? I asked myself question after question until I broke down crying and frustrated and scared. I just want to feel lucid again.

-------

Another sleepless Night.

Last night the door woke me up again, or maybe it was a dream I can’t even be sure. It was right above my bed, already hanging open. Through the door extending straight upward was a familiar dim hallway. It was my grandparents house, their own hall stretching up impossibly into the sky. At the end of the hall I could see the hue-shifting glow of a tv, the muffled sounds of a sitcom drifted down the hall. Intermittently I could hear their laughter, a warm familiar sound. 

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I got up from my bed to rummage around for a stool. But when I returned the door was being pulled shut from within by something, an even smooth pull followed by the clicking of a lock. 

Instead of returning to bed I got to work with my tools and once again pulled the door off its hinges. It fell to my bed with a thud that I worried might wake the neighbors, but I soon forgot seeing the place beyond the door had changed. 

On the other side was a white louvered closet door, its slats letting in morning sunlight despite the real time. Between the slats I recognized the room, my childhood bedroom sat beyond the closet door on my ceiling. But beyond the slats everything was rotated parallel with the doorframe, as if gravity kept different rules just beyond the threshold. This time I had to be sure, I reached up and pulled the closet door open before climbing inside. And as my feet left the stool, I felt my weight suddenly lurch horizontally and nearly fell backwards into my apartment. 

For a moment I struggled on all fours to orient myself as I looked back at the closet door, seeing my bed straight ahead appearing as if it had been stood up against the wall. The stool looked like it had been placed directly into a wall, I forced myself to look away as dizziness swept over me. 

I was here, like my entire childhood bedroom had been placed in a time capsule. I was practically standing in a memory, I dug through my old toy chest clutching a plastic body in my hand. It was real, it was all real. I could smell breakfast being prepared, the aroma of bacon causing me to salivate.

As I stepped toward the blinds-covered window I heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming from beyond my bedroom door. As it got closer down the hall I recognized the sound as my fathers work shoes. Realizing they were nearing my door, I reached for the knob only to find it locked. 

“Hello?” I called out hesitantly.

The footsteps stopped just behind the door, the shadow of two shoes casting beneath the crack but no response. 

“Please is someone there? I don’t understand where I am.” 

“Whos out there?” I tried one final time.

And my fathers voice replied.

“Your mom wanted me to remind you you’re grounded before I leave for work, but instead I'll just remind you to take out the trash before I get home. I guess its my fault you’re a disobedient fuck up, my fear of becoming my own father poisoned my efforts in raising you. But I couldn’t trust myself, if I could hurt the people I love the most, even as a punishment, what would that make me?” 

I felt a turning in my stomach as he talked at me, words my father had never spoken. But about things that sowed doubt into my image of the man he was, things that I almost feared were true.

“Instead I ignored anything that upset me, unwilling to react in fear of blowing up. And your mother, your poor mother, left to be the bad cop, the jury and the judge. You resented her, and she resented me in turn, as it was like many things, all my fault.”

“D-dad?” My voice cracked as I spoke.

“Before I leave for work, your mother and I will kiss with the same transactional formality of a public bus making its route. In the parking lot I’ll take off my wedding ring before entering the office and hitting on the receptionist that I drunkenly kissed at last year's christmas party. I still remember the feeling of her clumsy fingers running over my zipper as our lips met, only pulling away after seeing your judging face staring up at me from my desk. Now I place the photo facedown instinctually when she comes by my office, how monstrous is that?” he finishes nearly emotionless. 

Stunned at their words, and unsure if any of that could be true I took a step away from the bedroom door. I watch the shadow beneath the door intently, frozen in place. 

Suddenly the violent banging and rattling of the door breaks me from my fear and I dart back toward the closet. The banging becomes louder and louder, the door practically jumping in its frame with each blow. The frame and hinges begin to give way just as I cross the threshold back into my apartment. But as I tumble out, again my weight and inertia shift so suddenly I find myself twisting through the air. 
I fell for a half second in terror, before I felt myself smack against the bedframe and everything went dark. 

--------

When I woke I found dried blood on the side of my head, the skin having broken when colliding with the wooden edge of my bedframe. My head pounded, my thoughts swam in a sea of pain as I got up and inspected my bedroom. The red door was gone from the ceiling, but the stool and tools still sat out, at least I know it really happened. 

Or at least that I believe it did. But I can’t, there's no explanation that makes sense. I need to bring something back from behind the door, something that can prove these places physically appear. Tangible holdable evidence, I just needed some things and I could prepare this time. 

So I got dressed, left my apartment and began packing a bag. Preserved foods, flashlight, rope, knife, first aid. Anything I could think of I loaded into my cart. But my card declined, and then my other card declined, and then my credit card declined too. But my situation was desperate, and you’d be surprised how much merchandise you can cram inside a backpack in a pinch. I promise I’ll pay them back when it's all over, if that means anything.

The long walk back to my apartment gave me time to think about the situation, and I figured that if the red door hadn't shown up when other people were around then maybe it was time to get a roommate. Or at least move somewhere else, If I could even figure out what was wrong with my bank. I even considered selling items from behind the red door if I could physically bring them back with me. As ridiculous as that sounds, I don’t know what I can do here, or what I even should do.

I don’t know why the red door appeared, or why it keeps showing me these places from my past. But I can’t help but feel like I’m in danger, or maybe I've been in danger for a long time and I only just realized it. I keep waking up in the night, afraid I'm going to be facing the door, afraid something's going to crawl out of it. It only started showing up in real life after my head injury, but before that I faintly remember dreams with a similar door. But nothing significant beyond a faint recognition, everywhere I looked for answers came up empty.

And as I came to this conclusion and reached my apartment floor, I spotted the red door again. Directly where my apartment door once stood, its brass fixtures shining with the overhead light. 

---------

The red door was my only path forward.

With nowhere left to go, I prepared my items in the hall, discarding their plastic and cardboard on the ground. The door was unlocked, and beyond it was the family bathroom from my childhood home. Its white tiles bathed in a square of moonlight from the lone window above, casting a partial spotlight over the bathroom mat. 

I found myself climbing out of where the shower door would've been, stepping out my rubber soled shoe squeeked against the clean tile. I froze and listened only stepping through once I was sure nothing had stirred, I reached for the bathroom door, and it clicked open. 

I felt my heart begin to race as I pushed into the hallway, the moonlight trailing behind me. I crept down the hall toward the living room, the layout burned into memory. And as I rounded the corner I froze, a dark silhouette sat on the corner armchair unmoving. I felt immense dread as I realized my flashlight was inside the backpack, and I slowly moved to unsling the bag. 

I froze as her voice cut through the air. My mother. 

“I know it's you, there's no use in pretending. You snuck out didn’t you? And now you have to make me the bad guy again for being concerned for your safety. And your father will say I'm being too hard on you, that young boys will sneak out, that's what they do. Bullshit, you never respected me, and you defy me again and again. No matter how lenient I try to be, you always find another line to cross. You know I never wanted children? But your father did, oh your father. He who always gets his way in the end doesn't he? I get to swell up with his child, lose control of my autonomy and my emotions. I get irreversible damage to my body and for what? For you?” 

I remember this night, I had snuck out to hang out with a girl I liked. And my mom caught me trying to sneak back into bed. And she did chew me out for it, but nothing like this. She never spoke like this, not to me, not to anyone. And this shadow of her sat impossibly rigid, unexpressive as she spoke, her tone even. 

“We had broken up, you know. Until I found out I was pregnant with you, and well I told him. And that was my biggest mistake, because there was no going back. He didn’t want me to kill his child, he begged me to consider raising a family. And threatened to tell my parents if I thought of getting rid of it. Of you. And then, the person I was, my aspiration, my goals, my career. I lost everything, changed everything, because your father wanted it so. And because he made sure I didn't have a choice. And no amount of time in a happy marriage or with a swaddled baby in my arms, could undo that betrayal. And what scars does he have to show for it? A wife who’s become a roommate, a drunken, medicated roommate. How easy for him, I just hope he doesn’t get that poor girl from his office pregnant.”

The venom of her words made me nauseous, I struggled to catch my breath as I fumbled for my flashlight, unable to bear the darkness of the room any longer. Flicking it on, her shadowed form vanishes, leaving an empty armchair where she once sat. The light begins to flicker and in the brief moments of shadow I swear I can see her again, slowly rising from her seat. 

Just her outline, like the cast shadow of her person, a void in the shape of my mother. My light completely dies, and she is standing before me. Poised and rigid, arms at her sides, jaw unmoving despite the speech.

“And how do you repay me? By turning on me? You came from me, from inside my body, and you say you hate me? With his eyes? After everything I've given, my body, my life, it's never enough. Well maybe I despise you, maybe I was terrified to admit that you were the living embodiment of my ruined life and that I couldn’t stand it. Couldn’t stand you.”

I felt hot tears welling in my eyes. “Mom please I’m sorry, if this is real I’m sorry.” 

A crushing silence enveloped me as I sniffled back tears, and for a brief moment we stood in the darkness facing one another.

Her tone softening she whispered “I should be sorry too.” before my light came back on, and she was gone.

I looked around the room, remembering my plan, I pulled a quilted blanket off the corner armchair and tucked it into my bag. It smelt like her perfume. Her words played over and over in my mind, then my fathers. Is this really what was going on? Had they really kept it in till their death beds? The more I considered it the more overwhelmed I felt. But I had to keep moving.

Every other door I came across was locked. And unwilling to try and pry them open after everything I just endured I moved for the exit. The door was closed, even though I had wedged it open when I came through. I tried for the knob and found it locked.

A rising terror overtook me, the thought of being stuck in that place nearly sending me into a panic. Shakily I produced my tools and began working on the door, constantly checking over my shoulder and jumping at every noise as I worked from the bathroom floor. Finally I pulled the door away from its frame, and my breath caught in my throat.

A second door just behind it, a half foot of space between them. 

Frantically now I knelt down again, working the screwdriver on the doorknob and hinges. From my childhood living room I heard the sound of our clock begin to chime, over and over. I removed the second door, to find a third. 

With rising frustration and panic I roughly tossed the doors into the hall to make space before getting to work on the third. When the sound of a loud crash causes me to stop and listen. The chiming of the clock stops as I hear the bang and shattering echo through the house. 

I redouble my efforts as more crashes begin to sound, a few pieces clattering down the hallway as the destruction continues. The third door comes off, and as I turn to push it out of my way a heavy thudding comes down the hall.

It stops just before the bathroom doorway, but I can hear one of the discarded wooden doors creaking under its weight. 

“Son” the voices of both my mother and father overlap. “Don’t leave”

I try to speak but nothing comes out, fear holding me hostage. 

“I love you” it’s voices overlap.

“You're not them.” I managed to say.

The wood creaks as if it shifts its weight, a heavy silence hanging over. 

“Stay” it hisses.

I glance over my shoulder seeing my apartment through the doorway, no more doors blocking my path. I wonder for a moment if this thing will try and stop me, or if I could even resist. 

I dart for the exit without a word, and I hear the sound of heavy snapping wood behind me and the resulting shower of splinters striking the tiled bathroom. As I tumble out into my apartment I pull myself over my couch and whip around to see the doorway. From within the darkness I start to hear whistling, a familiar tune unmistakable from any other in my mind. One my father used to whistle to me as a kid, one he used to calm me down as a baby. His own version, misremembered and out of tune, came out of the doorway as if plucked directly from my memory.

And slowly in the darkness I watched as the shadow of an arm reached across the doorway and pulled my apartment door shut from within as if it had never changed. I stared blankly at my front door, unsure if the apartment really still lay behind it, or if I really ever escaped the red door in the first place. For all I know I could be in a perfect copy of my own home, and how would I even tell.

I doubt I'll get any sleep after this, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I don’t know what the fuck that thing in there is, but it clearly knows me. I’ll try and update if something happens, for now I just need to rest. I noticed a small stack of bills and mail by the door. I have to remember to check on those later, they look important.

----------

I must have fallen asleep at some point.

When I woke up, I was on my couch, flashlight still on in my hand, and my knife clutched in the other. The first thing I noticed was I still had my shoes on, and secondly I noticed a sweltering heat in the apartment.

I found my oven on at 450 degrees, with no way of telling how long it had been on. I just considered myself lucky that no fire had started. I treated myself to a cold shower and aired out the house while I considered what to do next. I already tried leaving the apartment, and I've become convinced I'm not trapped inside so at least I have that. 

I've been keeping the tv on at all times to help fill the silence, and I think the background noise helps distract me. At least until reality comes knocking. A maintenance worker came by and asked me if I was experiencing any leaks, I said no but he asked to come in and look around. I glanced back into my apartment, furniture rearranged in defensive positions, items strewn about. Makeshift weapons sitting on my coffee table, the markings of a crazy person. 

So I let him in.

And he pretended to ignore the state of my apartment as we headed toward the bathroom, which I had been too afraid to approach for days. But unfortunately as we neared the door, I recognized the sound of a running showerhead that I didn’t remember leaving on. 

Before we even opened the door, his boots squished against the wet carpet of my hallway and he rushed to get inside. The showerhead was on inside, and crumbled against the drain was the clothing I wore through the red door yesterday. Or at least I thought it was yesterday but, I swore I had been too afraid to enter it. 

As the man began frantically trying to fix it, I became overwhelmed with the urge to flee. Like I was a child being caught doing something wrong, I grabbed my backpack and fled the apartment. I was so confused, I don’t understand how any of that could have happened. I don’t remember doing any of that. I can’t remember taking a shower or turning on the oven, I can’t even remember the last thing I ate.

But as I neared the elevator all I found was the red door. And I tried the stairwell but there was only the red door. The exits the rooms, everything, it was all red doors, and sooner or later I had to go through one, I decided my best bet was the stairwell and tried the handle.

It turned and as I pulled the door open, I saw inside.

It was my grandfather's garage, his classic car parked inside. A single light fixture overhead illuminated the cluttered space. His stacked assortment of objects and memorabilia casting shadows along the walls that played tricks on my mind.

Slowly I inspected the room, the details perfect in the light. The smell of cigar smoke and motor oil hung in the air, and beyond the garage door I could hear the sounds of small fireworks. I stepped toward the garage door, the tall windows flashing with light as distant fireworks boomed in the sky. 

Smoke, barbecue, sun screen. It smelled like the fourth of July at my grandparents house. I could hear delighted voices and cheery tipsy chatter from outside the garage, the family likely all lined up on the sidewalk to watch the show. I heard the harsh whistling of a piccolo pete and the flashing stutter of showers of multicolored sparks. The light of which danced across the dusty garage glass, but the view was obscured by the garage light.

Feeling nostalgic, I reached up and pulled the chord, bathing the garage in darkness. And finally I could see the fireworks beyond the glass. The mortars illuminating the night with spectacular blasts, the waving of sparklers, the cheering of children. I couldn't quite see it all, but I could picture it behind the door, and I felt warm in the memory.

From the corner of the garage I heard a lone voice call out to me.

“I remember you were afraid of the pop-its, scared they’d blow pieces right off your hand. Until I popped one between my fingers, and the way you looked at me, I might as well have been a super hero.” My grandfather's voice carried from the dark a lone orange ember’d cigar marked his location among the boxes. 

“Grandpa?” 

“Your dad was always so protective over you when it came to me, I guess he always assumed I'd beat you if you misbehaved. But that beast had long been tamed by the time you came around, sometimes I looked at your smiling face and felt guilt at why I hadn’t seen the same in my son. Why I saw a man to be molded instead of a boy to be cherished, I can’t say. You were too young to remember, but one time I was too rough with you when I was drunk. I picked you up by your arm, wrenching it in the process. And when I heard your little cries, saw your face, it clicked for me.” 

A haze of smoke drifted through the garage as he paused. “I never hated my son, I wanted him to be strong, but I was a weak man. I carried a darkness with me from my youth, and I fear I only passed it on to him. Only my old man treated me worse, and I did much worse things for it. I hurt a nice girl in a bad, bad way, and I never got caught for it. I went on to live a normal life, even when ruining others. I like to think that I've suffered and paid for it, but I think I'm going to hell.”

“Is that what this place is?” I managed.

“How about me and you go get some ice cream bud? I'll even let you hold the wheel.” 

“Can I stay here a little longer?” I asked unsure if it would even respond to me.

“Sure buddy, enjoy the fireworks.” His smoke carried his words, but the ember disappeared.

So I sat for a while and watched the fireworks through the garage door, and listened to the sounds of a happy family. And at some point I heard the sound of the car door opening, and without protest, I climbed inside, expecting to die.

----------

I fell asleep in the backseat, and woke up to the lurching of the car. I peeked my eyes open, scanning the inside of the car. It was my parents old suv now, and I was in the backseat. It was dark out, the car itself pitch black, but beyond the windows I could see the street stretching into the distance illuminated by lightposts. 

In the front seat sat the outline of my father and mother, rigid like mannequins, untouched by light. I watched them for a time, but the lull of the car made my eyes heavy. I heard them begin to speak, their voices intertwining.

“Is he asleep?” 

“Yeah, he had a big day” 

“Mm after that cake, what kind of restaurant gives a 6 year old a slice that size”

“You let him finish it”

“Well it is his birthday”

“I suppose you're right. I'm glad he had fun.”

As the car comes to a stop, I let myself lie limp, pretending to be asleep. I feel myself being scooped up into my dads arms, and I dare not to open my eyes to break the illusion. As I'm carried inside to my bed and tucked in, I feel a calm wash over me as something leans in and whispers.

“Next time you return, there won’t be a way back home.”

-----------

I woke to find myself in an unfamiliar bed, and felt cold metal around my left wrist. I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the bright room, and found myself in a small hospital room. I feel drowsy, hardly able to think I try to rise from bed and find my back in pain.

After a while someone comes along and spots me awake, and eventually someone enters the room. But I can hardly make heads or tails of the conversation, mumbling at responses as they speak at me. 

She shut the blinds for me, and that helped a bit. She talked about care plans, and something about my insurance, and asked about family. At some point she asked me if there was anyone the hospital could call to inform, and I couldn’t think of anyone. I wanted to see my grandfather, so I asked if he could come and see me. She said that she would see what she could do, and I hoped that was enough. 

But he never came, and neither did anyone else. And at some point I remembered he was dead, and he had been for a long time. 

And as I looked around and realized that my fear had come true, and that I had indeed lost my mind, and was now sitting in a hospital bed like I was sick. I had to get out, I realized I would do anything not to be here, not to face what was happening. I would even go through the red door, even if I never got to come back.

And as if on que, like my thoughts had cast a silent prayer and summoned it themselves, I could see the red door just beyond the bed curtain. Slowly and cautiously I got up, and heard the sound of a handcuff coming undone around my wrist. I stepped toward the door, and it opened on its own, an orchestra of light flooding into the room. 

So if this is all real, and I really can step through. I’ll update you on the other side, and if it's not well, then this is goodbye.

-----------

Today was a good day. 

Mom got me up early for breakfast before she left for book club. And I spent all morning eating cereal and watching cartoons until I felt sick from sugar. It was a weekend marathon of my favorite shows, so I nearly ate a whole box.

Around noon I took my toys out to the backyard and played in the shade. I used the hose to make mud for my army men battle but I'm pretty sure I couldn't find them all after. Mom got home and helped me wash up before making lunch. I had a sandwich and chips, and I even got a popsicle after finishing my food. 

I tell her she's the best mom in the world when she brings me the popsicle and she laughs at me as if it's anything but true. She tells me she loves me, and I believe her, because I'd never had a reason to doubt it. 

I get to play on the game cube with dad when he gets home from work, so I already set up the controllers for us even though mom says it's blocking the living room walkway she still let me. When he walks through the door I’m nearly jumping with excitement, and he settles in to play with me until dinner time. 

I smile up at him from my little chair, and he down at me. And even though we both struggle through the game, I enjoy every second of losing. I stepped away to sneak some halloween candy while dad was in the bathroom even though we are having burgers in an hour. 

I can’t wait to finish up our game, and mom said if I eat all my dinner she has a special dessert for me, I just hope the candy didn’t mess up my appetite.

I had a lot of fun today and I'm excited for tomorrow. I love my mom and dad, I’m glad they love me too.

---

Have you ever dreamt of a place that didn't really exist? a place so detailed and lifelike that it felt like you had been there before?

Every so often when I was younger, I would experience locations from previous dreams months- sometimes years apart. Not that It was the same dream, just the same location, the actual events would differ wildly. And though the locations would stick in my memory, the actual events of the dreams would rapidly fade as I woke up. I was resting a lot around the time, as I had a heart condition and became fatigued easily.

But one dream never faded from my mind no matter how much time passed afterward. A recurring nightmare that stuck in my mind and haunted every shadow and shape in the dark that my child-eyes fell upon. Everytime the nightmare was the same, and everytime I would startle awake to a dim sunless sky and sweat-damped sheets. The fear was so strong it would cause chest pains, which greatly worried my parents.

The first thing I would recall was always floating or swimming through a dim void, feeling totally enveloped as if I was underwater. But it was more than just a pressure, the space around me felt alive. Like I was swallowed inside the mass of a formless being. It was all around me, but felt empty at the same time.

Then the shifting begins, a strong descending current so vast and powerful I'd be sucked downward toward the shifting darkness far beneath me. The light ended abruptly, as if the dark was a heavy gas sitting beneath a layer of air. The emptiness was so vast I couldn't tell if I was falling toward it, or if it was billowing up toward me, but no matter how hard I kicked, I couldn't outrun it.

Before long I would find light again, a crackling wooden torch lying on a moist rock, surrounded by an oppressive darkness. Reaching for it, a new round of sensations flooded in as my surroundings evolved with the newfound light. Stretching in all directions, was a sweltering, claustrophobic cavern deep within the earth. My torchlight glistened off slick grime coating the cave walls, and the air smelled of sulfur and death. Waist high water filled the cavern, its temperature so close to my own body that I hadn't noticed it at first.

Slowly I begin to trudge through the settled muck resting on the slick uneven ground, searching for a way out. In my hand the torch sizzles and pops against the humid air and dripping rocks, the light slowly begins to dim. And I hear a sound, something that sends a shiver down my body despite the heat. A deep chortle that morphed into a high pitched wail like that of an animal call, the sound causing the water to ripple and jump against its powerful reverberation. 

I freeze in fear like prey, as the call rings out again followed by the approaching sound of sloshing water from deeper in the cavern. I crouch instinctually, submerging myself to my neck in the water as I strain my ears trying to catch the direction of the sound. Another chortle like a choir of deep voiced men laughing as one, before it turned into the high whine of a whale like call. The sloshing continues toward me, much closer than before any moment it would be upon me.

The final sound of disturbed water stopped just before the edge of my dying torchlight, the wailing stopped. Against the shifting darkness, the thing begins to lean in, shadows dancing across its obscured form. Its eyes catch the fading torch light in their colorless reflection, painting them as six shiny wet orbs in the dark. Its eyes transfixed on the flame in my hand, I felt frozen in fear, neither of us moving. From my lips came some ancient speech that felt heavy on my tongue and thick with syllables I didn’t know in that order. My voice, not really my own, was laced with unmistakable fear.

Further still the creature leans, revealing two great ram horns as dark and sparkling as obsidian, protruding from its large skull. Its lips curled back like a dog bearing its teeth, but its maw was shaped like a deer with the thickness of a man's structure. Rows of predatory teeth shone with a wet reflection against the dying torchlight, but it made no sound. 

It leans in no further, only leering its head in from the inky blackness beyond the light. Finally the last flicker of flame dies, its orange embers hissing in protest against the heavy putrid air. My gaze transfixed on the smoldering embers, my last lifeline to sight dwindling into an orange haze before my eyes. As the glow finally dies with a weakening sizzle, the sounds of disturbed water continue with a renewed pace toward me. 

A loud whimper rose in my chest as it stopped no more than a foot away, choked sobs escaped my lips, the silence broken by my fear once more before I was interrupted for the final time. 

“Sssssshhhhhhh”

At my worst I’d have this dream multiple times a week, sometimes even several days in a row. But even stranger, the dreams all stopped once I had my final heart surgery. And sometimes I wonder, would I still have had that dream if I was born without a hole in my heart?

Game (hunting) /gām/: wild animals, birds, or fish hunted for animal products, recreation, or trophies.

Overlooked and overdeveloped, that was my hometown. A place neatly cut from a sea of trees, a single oasis of human life connected to the rest of the world by thin winding veins of poorly kept asphalt. And the rotting timber remains of train tracks long since abandoned.

The town had a small and short-lived boom before I was born, some minor country star purchased a cabin out here for the rustic charm. She convinced some rich friends to get vacation homes, and with it came some notoriety. A handful of families moved in all at once, causing a sudden influx of businesses seeking to take their slice of the projected pie. 

Soon the rustic quiet life became swept up in a flourish of change and industry. A few people actually got up and cheered when they announced they were adding a mini mall to our soon-to-be renovated downtown. 

But things didn't last, the influx of new people was a short lived spark that lit no fire. The buyers never came, the new houses never filled or never finished. And with nothing left to prepare for, the renovations were all but abandoned. 

The remnants of which left scars of unfinished concrete foundations impaled with rusting rebar, and the dilapidated wood innards of houses never made homes. A monument to empty promises and misguided spending that left a sour taste with all that once hoped. 

And though there was a long list of issues that factored into the failed development, most people around here attribute it to the tragic disappearance of that country singer. She and five other people went missing while camping together, minor celebrities and their friends, just gone without a trace. It made national news.

The search was maintained for years, but they never found any of them, no bodies, no closure. There was blood at the campsite but no apparent sign of struggle, not that they televised that part. But the damage was already done, for most people their first time hearing our town's name was tacked on to speculation about the possible murder or human trafficking of a beloved country star.

It was especially shocking to people as we’d never experienced something so severe. Things like petty theft became the talk of the block, and people still bring up the time a gas station got held up on the edge of town over ten years ago. For a place as sedimentary as this it was unprecedented, and we were eager to forget it for our reputations sake. Some might call it sweeping it under the rug, others call it ignorant bliss, a manufactured distance from the memory. 

Our town became poorer than ever, people that could afford to leave did, everyone else was left to pick up the pieces. At least that's how the adults talk about it, a lot of people found purpose in doing their part to help fix the town no matter how small. But for the younger generation it felt like everyone's dream was to just get the hell out of here. 

We had very little, even less once the only bowling alley closed, its bar remaining open despite the lanes shutting down only added salt to the wound. Most people my age struggled to find anything to do as it was, every loss of a possible activity was a hammer blow to our efforts against boredom. 

The one thing we did have was the woods, cradling our town on all sides like a tight swaddle of endless green. The most serene of which was a stretch of particularly lush forest to the north, an array of small hills and flats of dense woods split by foot worn paths. It looked like something straight out of a fairytale, brimming with life and beauty. 

A river cut through the scenery, providing a cool respite from hot summers and a natural draw for wildlife. The area became widely popular for camping, hiking, and swimming making it a treasured place for the community. 

My friends and I had even begun turning our hangout spot into a fort. Though we only finished a small outhouse sized shack and a fire pit, we were still incredibly proud of our secret place away from everything. 

A lot of people held special memories in those woods, bonfire parties and camping trips happened year-round. It really felt like all we had, but now it's been nearly four years since the land was sold and fenced off. Right in the beginning of my eight grade year they started building the perimeter fence and the buildings within. A wealthy middle aged man who started his own tech company or something, bought the place to make it his trophy hunting sanctuary. And in doing so lined the pockets of our city, or so I've been told. 

The school got an updated playground and cafeteria, and several stretches of road and sidewalk were completely redone. Which was enough to quell most adults that were up in arms about losing tens of acres of public woods, but for the younger generation it was a devastating loss. 

Since the land was sold, my friends and I had half jokingly vowed revenge against the guy and our stolen land. Which over time grew into a real concrete mission that we spent many days brainstorming and preparing for. It was fun, we felt like criminals planning the perfect heist and in a way we kind of where.

Our deadline was adulthood, we agreed we had to take our revenge before we could be charged as adults. As from what we heard the owner was the type to press charges on those that ‘wander’ onto his property. And with our senior year looming around the corner, enacting our plan took on a new urgency. 

But finally after years of speculation and prep we had the perfect opportunity to test our plan. And as I finished packing my backpack with everything I could think to bring, I felt a sense of immense pride at what we had accomplished so far. Caught or not, we would remember this for the rest of our lives.

—————————————————————————————

Slowly I inched my window open as quietly as possible, the hot noon air flooding through as I threw my leg over the window seal. I glanced back to my room one last time half expecting my mom to be standing at the door. Hopefully by the time she notices I'm gone, I'll already be across town neck deep in a trespassing charge. I dropped to a low crouch as I finished pulling the window shut behind me, and once I was far enough from the house I ran the rest of the way. If everything is timed right, my friends should swing down the street just as I reach it for the perfect getaway.

But of course as usual, Shaun was not on time and so I crouched behind some brush and waited.

I leaned in from the treeline to scan the road again, reluctant to leave my only respite from the beating summer sun. Still nothing, they should’ve been here already, and they know I’m fucked once my mom catches me sneaking out again.

Chancing another glance down the road, I finally spot Shaun’s ancient ford explorer making the turn at the top of my street. I spotted his mop of shaggy blonde hair behind the steering wheel, as they pulled over jaggedly and I scrambled into the backseat. I settled into my chair with a mocking “took ya long enough”, before noticing that George wasn’t the one in the passenger seat. 

“Samantha?” I asked as she turned back and her green-speckled eyes met mine, hazel brown curls swinging over the seat in her wake. I forced a fake smile as she spoke “Hey Daniel, we used to chat in chemistry last year” she explained our familiarity with the rest of the car. “Shaun told me about what you guys were doing and I am totally down.” 

“Oh did he?” I shot a glance to George across the backseat. 

Much too tall to be anywhere but shotgun, he sat with his legs spread awkwardly so his knees weren’t crammed into the chair in front of him. His usual mane of thick curly hair was cut short for the summer, his dark brown eyes the same color as what remained on his head. George and I had known each other since we were little kids, if i’d call anyone my best friend it would be him. My mom calls George her second son, he lived with us for over a year back in the seventh grade while he was having family issues.

We exchanged a brief look and I understood why Samantha was here. His smirk and shooting glance at our driver confirmed for me that Shaun had a thing for her, and like it or not he was our friend and the only one with a car. 

“Yeah I mean we really could use all the help we can get and she won’t snitch.” Shaun chimed before Samantha had to.

I didn’t feel keen on adding someone to our mission who I’d only talked to a handful of times, but admittedly she was cute and I could help break the ice between her and Shaun.

“So she’s all caught up then?” I ask toward Shaun but George answers.

“Pretty much yeah, she's in it for the deer or squirrels or whatever.” 

Samantha half scoffed “I’m in it because that guy is a total rich asshole, buying up woods that the whole community used? Just to shoot animals? He doesn’t sell meat, he's a game hunter. Killing just for the sport of it.” Samantha increased in volume as she detailed his crimes. 

“Yeah my little brother’s scout troop used to do pretty much all their camping and hiking with the kids there, he was super bummed about it being closed to the public.” Shaun added. 

“My Dad was saying they sold it to the guy because our town is flat broke.” George said bluntly as he fanned himself with his shirt collar.

“So is he really out of town? Like you guys are sure?” Samantha questioned, poorly masking her worry. 

“Well he's either out of town or he shot himself in his cabin” I teased morbidly before continuing. “My mom said he hasn’t come into town for groceries in a month.” 

“Well why would that mean he’s out of town? Couldn’t he just order groceries or something?” Samantha persisted. 

“The property is a total internet dead zone, when Daniel and I went to scope out the riverbed last week we couldn't get any service.” Shaun answered.

We spent the rest of the ride going over our precautions and the overall plan, we felt proud of how well we thought things out. We joked that we were professionals, and that this would be our ultimate heist. It’s like the stars themselves had aligned to allow us to take revenge for the loss of our fort in the woods. The place where we had our first beers, where George allegedly got his first handy, where we smoked our first bowl out of an apple and Shaun threw up from coughing too hard.  

The plan was perfect, the town had been in a drought so long that the river running through the hunters property had completely dried up. The river water was funneled out of a wide concrete irrigation tunnel at the edge of his property. The waters of which typically ran too high and fast to even swim through, but ever since the river dried up, it became nothing more than a dingy concrete passage wide enough to fit a car down. Which is exactly what we planned to do, after we scouted out the entrance on foot a few weeks prior. We figured with a little maneuvering and the help of four wheel drive, we could enter through the rocky riverbed and circumvent the perimeter fences all together. 

Though the entrance plane was solid and avoided the perimeter cameras, the plan would go nowhere if the hunter was home. As we surmised it was only a matter of time before we ran into another trail cam and he would catch us.

We didn’t tell Samantha, but the entire plan relied on the assumption that the hunter didn’t have a remote alert system. But we assumed that with no reception, or wifi coverage he most likely couldn’t digitally check in from out of town. We had accepted this risk, but it seemed that Shaun had neglected to mention that the plan hung on a ‘most likely’.

Soon we spotted the perimeter fence behind the thin line of roadside trees. Thick 8 foot columns of black steel jetted out from a concrete base, held in place by crossbeams of thinner metal that gave it a picket fence like structure. Each column came to a point at the top, too tall for wildlife to escape. The fence stretched endlessly in each direction, running the entire 20 acres of land, boxing it into a neat rectangle. 

We passed by the front gate, our excitement building as we followed the road along the fence line toward the riverbed. We double checked our bags as we neared the turnoff, and I took a moment to show our spray paint to Samantha. Finally we turned off the road, the car bumping and jolting on its old shocks as we passed over rocks. 

“Okay this is it, it’s gonna be bumpy in the riverbed so hang on. George, can you guide me?” Shaun asks, turning around to us. 

“Gotcha” George hops out of the car and steps into the tunnel as Shaun turns his headlights on. “Okay looks like it’s clearest on the left side, take it slow!” 

George’s voice echoes through the tunnel as he shouts over the engine. It takes us a few minutes to navigate his car out of the river bed, but after some maneuvering and bumped heads we emerged into a small clearing of trees. 

“So are you guys just gonna spray paint some shit? Or are we taking some real revenge?” Samantha says as she reaches in her bag and produces a small claw hammer. 

“Whoa we aren’t here to kill anyone” I laugh at her sudden escalation, eager to ignore her question as we did really only plan to write some crude messages on his house or spray whatever we came across.

“Im not gonna hurt hurt anyone, it's to smash any trail cams we find.” She retorted.

“Oh good idea, we were just gonna spray over the cameras we found.” Shaun admitted before stepping out of the car. 

“Shit destruction of property? Now we reaallly can’t get caught.” George says sarcastically.

“Well, did you guys plan for what we’d do if he catches us?” Samantha prodded  

“Oh yeah Daniel’s got it covered, remember buddy relax your throat and don’t forget eye contact.” He jokes. “I want a good clean game down there, don’t neglect his balls and watch the teeth” he says in a mock transatlantic accent. I laugh shoving him away.

“Common guys really?” Shaun rolls his eyes at us, and George and I exchange a look before I shake my head disappointedly. 

“Yeah man knock it off there’s a lady present” I say in my best impression of a nassaly virgin. 

Shaun softly socks my shoulder “Not in front of my car dude” he says with a fake dude-bro cadence and Samantha giggles, prompting me to raise a smug eyebrow at Shaun.

The joking died down as we finished collecting our gear, the mission ahead causing a nervous excitement to fill the air. I noticed some distant darkening clouds, and decided to point them out mostly to break the silence. 

“Didn’t it say there was a chance of rain tonight?” I pointed as I spoke. 

Shaun squinted up at them before answering “Well it looks like they’re headed away from us, so we should be fine. But even if it does start to rain, the river shouldn’t get enough water to cause a problem before we can hike back to the car.” He assured us, and I believed him. 

“And if it does?” Samantha asked after a brief silence. 

“Then we climb the perimeter fence and walk home with our dicks tucked between our legs.” George answered before us. 

“Pretty much.” I add, already imagining having to ask for Shaun’s car back and trying to explain how it got there in the first place.

“Alright seriously we should get moving, we only have like six or so hours until the sun starts setting and-“ suddenly I’m cut off by the sound of all four of our phones going off at once. Our ringtones blaring from our pockets as we scrambled to check them, the jingles overlapping into an overwhelming digital orchestra. 

Finally I declined the call, “no caller ID” I say as it silences. 

“Same here” Samantha adds, we all exchange looks. 

“Should I call back?” George asks, already moving to redial. But before he could hit the button all of our phones went off a second time. This time all of us declined the call instantly, except for George who was raising the phone to his ear and saying “hello?” 

“Dude hang up!” Shaun shouts as George says hello a second time. 

“It automatically hung up.” George says, pulling the phone from his ear and examining the screen. 

“Let’s just put them on airplane mode so they can’t receive calls” I say while already doing so. 

“How can we all be getting called at once?” Samantha questions as she follows suit.

“I’m not sure” Shaun admits and I feel a creeping dread, yet not enough to deter me from our mission. We speculated for the next half hour what could have caused it, but even as we did, our legs carried us deeper into the woods. Our mission had just started, and it felt like each of us was eager to prove that we wouldn’t be the first one to turn back.

_________________

Taking in the landscape for the first time in years, made me realize just how much I had taken its natural beauty for granted. It always seemed corny to me when adults would gush about how breathtaking the land was. I thought they were being ridiculous, to me it was just the woods I’d always known. The same trees and trails and dirt as the day before.

But now, stepping out of the treeline onto a foot-stamped dirt path, I could really see it for what it was. 

Knee high brushstrokes of vibrant green stalks and wild wheat encompassed the trail, the thin ends glowing gold from the afternoon sun. Small birds fluttered between lush green canopies bordering our path, their calls mixing into a nostalgic melody carried by the calm breeze. 

It wasn’t just breathtaking, it was alive. Small animals rustled through the undergrowth, darting away from our path as we passed them by. It felt like the fauna itself was coming out to say hello, welcoming us back like an old friend. 

And as if we had been sharing thoughts, Samantha let out a soft “wow” taking in the scenery. 

“This breeze is a life saver, my balls were starting to pressure cook in here” George says while fanning the waistline of his jeans. 

“Way to spoil the moment man” Shaun half jokes.

“I’m serious dude, my boys are bakin’, I’m talking sous vide in their own sweat here.” George says between barely stifled laughter at his own joke. 

“What the fuck does that even mean” Shaun asked wearily and Samantha laughed again. 

As we continued to banter, the low topped canopies thinned. Giving way to towering sycamores interspersed with thick-trunked white oaks and eastern cottonwoods. Providing a vast sun dotted shade that cooled the woods ahead. 

Here the ground has much less growth, instead covered with low creeping ivy and dead leaves. And littered with patches of mushrooms thriving off soft refuse from the forest floor. 

Instantly we spotted a trail cam, and with few words Samantha pulled the hammer from her bag. “Who wants to smash it?” 

We exchanged looks, determined, nervous, and contemplative. I could see the gears turning, faces considering backing out, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I had to convince them, this can’t be how it ends after everything. 

“Guys listen real quick, we’ve been waiting to do this for years. These were our woods, not just ours, the whole town’s. And this guy just thinks he can show up and take whatever he wants, just because he has money? Our fort, the river, the trails, the local wildlife?” I grab the hammer from Samantha, my palms already sweating as I step toward the camera. “This is what I think” 

Whack

I bring the hammer down on the lense and it cracks under the blow. “Now show me what you think” I finish my short speech, holding out the hammer towards them. 

George steps forward first and I can’t help but grin at my closest friend as he takes a swing of his own. And as if he knew exactly what I was going for, he turns and holds the hammer out for Shaun and Samantha.

One by one we each took a swing at the camera, and I felt proud at the moment I created. A little cheesy maybe, but sometimes the low hanging fruit is the sweetest. And as I watched Samantha take the last swing at the camera, my apprehension of her lessened. The pact had been formed, and our collective confidence returned with a renewed determination. 

We followed a winding footpath marked by red rope tied on low branches or the occasional thin trunk. Every few minutes finding another trail cam and smashing it to pieces, our excitement turning our pace into a half jog.

George kept ahead of us carving out our path with long strides, he leapt over branches and rocks with a nimble athleticism I nearly forget he possessed. Only once he had spotted a clearing did he look back, hosting a satisfied grin and the sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Theres a building out in the clearing.” George shouted back as he waited for us to catch up.

As we emerged from the treeline together, we spotted the low topped concrete box the size of a large garage. On the opposite side of the building I spotted the gravel road that we had been looking for, the soul route to the hunters cabin. A faint electrical hum emanated from the structure that grew to a dull buzz as we approached. The only apparent entrance was a large metal hatch slightly below ground level, but no matter how we pulled or pried, we couldn't get it open. Above metal hinges sat a sign reading Primary Grid. 

“What the hell does this guy need his own power station for?” George questions. 

“Well I don’t know if you noticed, but all of the trail cams we came across were wired into the ground so I’m willing to bet they’re all connected by this grid.” Shaun says matter of factly. “Maybe he just has so many things running he needs his own generators.”

“Since when did you become an electrician?” George teases while peering down the gravel road. “Well lead the way Mr electric” 

“Was that a sharkboy and lava girl reference?” Samantha cocks an eyebrow and George nods. “Daamn I see you, this cracka’ knows ball.”

We bust up in response and Samantha beams at having nailed our humor. Seems she’ll fit in with us just fine after all, during our laughter I catch Shaun’s attention and give him a nod of approval as if he needed my blessing to begin with.

Giving up on the primary grid building, we turned our attention back toward the gravel road. However just as our conversation picked back up, I began to hear a distant noise that caused me to freeze and listen. The sound was approaching rapidly, growing in volume until I was sure what I was hearing, the roar of a diesel engine. The conversation halted and everyone froze with me.

“Off the road now, those trees!” I pointed and we ran, gravel spitting out from behind my shoes as I pushed off. I practically tumbled off the road into the brush, only stopping once I had a thick tree to press my back against. My chest heaved with both panic and effort, my arms stung with fresh scrapes. 

My friends scrambled to cover around me, just in time for the truck to come into view. Cautiously I watched through a thin bush, the truck looked incredibly old and the headlights and taillights seemed to be missing. I couldn't catch a solid glimpse of the driver, not that I was trying, if I could see him he could see me after all. But one thing was certain, this changes things.

We waited several minutes after the sound faded just to be sure we were safe, but this new danger lingered on our minds. Samantha argued we should assume it was the hunter and get out before we got caught. But I was quick to remind everyone that my mom had mentioned that someone was watching over his property, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. My mom had mentioned that she thought there was someone looking over the property, not that she was sure. But suddenly I felt thrust into the role of keeping us together, determined to finish the job. I justified the lie thinking certainly the worst trouble we could get in was a night in jail.

Shaun argued that anyone being here changes things, and said we had to adapt in response. But ever the peace-maker, Shaun was determined to find a compromise for us and proposed a modified plan. We just watched the old truck head the opposite direction of the hunters cabin, so it's likely they were headed for the front gate. So we had a small window of opportunity before they would return. He proposed we head straight for the cabin, spray paint the outside and make a beeline for the exit. 

Not exactly the satisfying damage we had envisioned, but he made a lot of sense. One last stupid move, and we’d leave before we pushed our luck too far. George and I tried prying at the plan for more leeway, but Shaun and Samantha held firm. Though he had a point, and with nearly three miles between us and the cabin and we had no time to argue. 

Sticking to the sides of the gravel road, we jogged down the path. Only now we stopped whenever we heard a strange noise and constantly checked over our shoulders. I felt like prey, every strange shape and twig snap became a hunter leveling a rifle. On the way we spotted another concrete structure just off the gravel path, slowing long enough to read Secondary Grid posted above a metal hatch door. 

But as George begins towards the building I call out “Dude there’s no time, we can check on our way out lets just keep moving.” to which he reluctantly agreed. 

“Yeah I'd rather not spray paint in the dark I guess.”

“If we get split up we could meet back here, like a rendezvous point.” I say and the group agrees. 

Having our original confidence shaken, we hike the majority of the way in silence, only interrupted by the occasional side comment or observation. At times like this I wish I knew what everyone was thinking, I scanned their faces for the weakest link. As long as I could keep the most reluctant person from turning back early, I felt I could prevent a snowballing agreement to abort the mission. 

I slowed until I was walking alongside Samantha, sure that she was the most likely to turn back first. “Exciting huh?” I ask tentatively watching her expression. 

“That’s certainly a word for it” she replies.

“Look we got your back there's nothing to worry about, besides worst case we run for it.” I say leveling my voice.

“I think there’s scenarios worse than having to run for it.” she retorts before swigging her water.

“Well even if we do get caught you know Shaun won’t let anything happen to you.” I watch her involuntary smile forming at my words. 

She shoots a shy glance toward Shaun and George ahead of us before responding “I don't know, I think Shaun and I are just friends.” Her flushed face gives her away.

“Huh if you say so, but you sure stare at him a lot when he’s not looking.” I press further and she avoids my gaze. “I bet you haven't noticed he does it back.” 

“Oh my god please shut up.” Samantha buries her face in her hands “you're messing with me.” she groans quietly.

Convinced that her fear of getting caught was being overtaken by her anxious crushing on Shaun I went in for the killing blow. “I wouldn't lie about that, he’s definitely into you. Now time to find out if you’re into him.” I say giving her a light push in his direction, and she quickens her pace to catch up with him. 

Now admittedly it did feel a little disingenuous, maybe even a little manipulative. But I felt I was doing them a favor, not only am I making sure we don’t regret backing out of our adventure early but I was pushing Shaun and Samantha closer. If anything it was getting two birds with one stone, they would be thanking me later.

The sun had just begun to set as we arrived at the hunters cabin, the large clearing visible from over a mile away. It was a rustic two story mansion of a log cabin but a log cabin nonetheless, its dark wood contrasting with the green field and pale barked trees. Not a single light was on inside, giving each window a reflective sheen that gave way to the swallowing darkness within.

Approaching the cabin I was already unzipping my bag, determined to make our mark before the sun finished setting. Already I was debating phrases to write on the walls and possible crude images to pair with it, everyone crowded around me to grab their own cans. Soon the rhythmic clacking of shaking spray cans and the hiss of thin nozzles filled the air, I glanced at Samantha’s work and saw she was halfway through spraying the word MURDERER in block letters. While we painted the sky filled with dark clouds from the horizon, the setting sun illuminating distant rain. 

We worked for several minutes before a surprised and shrill word rang out from the far right side of us. “GUYS!” 

Shaun’s tone was so full of fear that even before I turned my head I already felt my stomach drop and my pulse quicken. Standing ten feet from Shaun was a large bearded man, he wore a sweat stained sleeveless shirt tucked into worn jeans with muddy black boots and a dusty cap. His face and arms red and tanned from the sun, his expression was wide eyed and tight lipped. And in his arms sat a shotgun held from his waist, the muzzle already raised in our direction. 

“Don’t run!” his gruff voice barked at us, a distinct lack of local midwestern draw in his tone. I had no doubts now that this was the hunter.

We huddled against each other in fear, not realizing we had already been backstepping away. “Come here! That's far enough” 

“We just want to leave, we’ll leave okay” George stammered his voice cracking with fear. 

“No! You don’t understand, you need to come with me now okay?” he takes a step closer and Samantha lets out a stifled cry. 

“No please we just want to go home” Samantha fights back tears as she pleads. 

The man takes a deep breath “I’ll take you out of here. I promise you’re not in trouble, but do not run, do you hear me?” he was still shouting but his tone felt wrong, like he wasn’t angry but more pleading. He sounded insane, his eyes were wide and wild like he was afraid of something. 

I tightened my grip on the back of Shaun's shirt and continued to move us backwards another half step. In response he raises his gun and begins to shout again “I’m serious don-” his words are cut off by the sound of a loud echoing bang and a flash of light.

All at once we began to scramble away toward the treeline before we had a chance to recognize the sound as thunder and the flash as its lightning. He shouted after us as we sprinted for the edge of the clearing, but my adrenaline and fear made it impossible to do anything but run.

I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the trees before my friends, only to watch the huntsman suddenly halt mid chasing-stride. And in one fluid motion he raised the shotgun and racked a shell before I could even react.

In my panic I reached for the person closest to the clearings edge, I clutched at Samantha’s sleeve attempting to yank her behind a tree. But as I grabbed hold of her arm a single terrifying sound cut through the chaos.

The echoing boom of a shotgun.

What’s the hungriest you've ever been?

Really think about it for a second, what's the longest you've gone without food? 

Most people I know would say a day, maybe two.

With hunger the brain starts to go before the body, your self control, your lucidity, your ability to think. Before long you become too weak to move, your mind misfiring as you starve. You might even debate eating your own flesh. 

You wouldn't be the first person to eat human flesh either, nor would you be the last, Flight 571, The Donner Party, the 1609 Jamestown Starving. 

Though eating the dead and eating the living are two very different things.

Kuru is a very rare, fatal, and incurable prion disease that's contracted from eating human brain matter. It’s called the laughing sickness as it's known to cause uncontrollable laughter, spasms, tremors, and slurred speech. 

But that's not what they have.

My colleagues I mean.

I realize this might sound like nonsense, I know I’m all over the place, but just bear with me I've hardly slept in days. 

Let me start somewhere more coherent, I need to get this all down before they come back tonight. Before I decide what to do.

___________________

I work, or worked at a space telescope monitoring station for the US government. A private sect of nasa launched our telescope into space along with a series of relay satellites to breadcrumb behind its path. 

Here I lived and worked in a series of air conditioned trailers, repurposed shipping containers, and mobile homes. We were tasked with analyzing a specific sector of space via the telescope, before passing off our findings to the government. 

We operated out of Nevada in the scorching desert far from any main highways or roads, and we subsisted entirely off monthly shipments of supplies provided by the army. 

Now I can’t exactly say aliens are real, but we’ve definitely captured some photos that might imply life in distant space. Which of course I'm not permitted to speak on, but considering my current situation I figured it doesn't matter now anyways.

We’ve photographed what we think are signs of mining on distant moons and asteroids. And have captured geometric structures around distant stars that we theorized could be part of a dyson sphere. But despite these findings, we’d never photographed actual life, only speculative remnants of intelligent interference.
At least not until recently.

____________

A little over a week ago I was startled awake by the fire alarm blaring in the pale light of dawn. I stumbled out of my trailer to find my equally confused team minus a senior researcher named David. 

Smoke was rising from the kitchen trailer, the moving orange glow of fire visible through the nearest window. We split up, half of us running for extra extinguishers and water, while the rest of us headed for the kitchen. 

I was the second one through the door, but the sight caused me to freeze while the others shoved past me. 

Flames from the stovetop licked at the walls and ceiling leaving black stains in its wake. A burning box of frozen meat sat haphazardly on top of the fire, dripping and sizzling over the burner. The cupboards and fridge were wide open, open packages and food scraps were strewn about the entire kitchen. And standing amongst the mess was David.

His eyes were glazed over, their glassy sheen catching the flickering fire before him. His stomach was horribly distended, bulging beyond his skinny frame like a grotesque meat balloon. 

With his right hand he shoveled the partially raw beef from the still-burning box into his mouth, and with his left he incoherently poured milk from a jug into his flapping, overfilled maw. The meat and milk gushed down his chin, chest, and misshapen stomach. Pooling at his feet with the rest of the half chewed food from his frenzy, the sight of which disgusted me.

His hand was beginning to burn as he grabbed at the ground beef, sizzling fat rolling down his arm as he forced another handful in his mouth. The damage of which finally forced us out of our collective shock and into action.

David was unresponsive to verbal commands, and was completely uncooperative. We ended up having to sedate him, as when we tried to pull him out of the kitchen he dislocated his shoulder blade during the struggle just to get back to his meal. 

He was in rough shape, much worse than anything we were equipped to deal with at the sight. We thought David was experiencing some sort of psychotic episode, If only we had known.

_______________________

The second incident happened two days later, when again my sleep was interrupted early. In the dead of the night a junior researcher named Clyde woke me up asking about the infirmary key, to which I reminded him he had pinned it to a cork-board in the common room. 

But even in my freshly woken state, something about his demeanor felt wrong. He never turned on the light, he leaned in too close, and wobbled side to side as he spoke to me. 

Initially I thought he was drunk, especially considering he forgot where he had placed the key. But as I remembered David in the infirmary, I decided to catch up with Clyde just in case something happened. 

After a few minutes I was dressed and walking under the stars toward the infirmary. However seeing the unlit windows, I hesitated, contemplating if I had dreamt that interaction in the first place. But under the moonlight I caught a shadow shift within the building, and my heart began to pound.

With growing concern I doubled my pace and reached the infirmary door calling out to Clyde. The door was locked, but I could clearly see movement in the darkness beyond the moonlight, I knew someone was inside. 

I debated smashing my way in a window, but had nothing on me to do so. Finally deciding it was an emergency, I turned and ran toward the nearest trailer and began pounding on the door. “Get up quick, something’s wrong in the infirmary!” Twice more I repeated myself before I ran to the next trailer. By the time I turned back toward the Infirmary, people where already emerging from their bunks and heading toward me. 

Together with the help of three others we kicked in the door and forced our way inside. A cabinet and desk were stacked against the door, and the overhead bulbs shattered. Even outside David's room, the smell of blood permeated the air with a thick iron tinge. 

Clyde and another man Harry sat on opposite sides of David, pupils dilated like dinner plates despite flashlights cast over them, and they paid no mind to our entry. David’s stomach had been split open from sternum to hips and its contents were being consumed raw by the other men. 

David was intermittently being fed pieces of himself by the two, of which he chewed like a cow with cud. His eyes lacked any human recognition, David looked onward unblinking, chewing but unable to swallow.

Clyde and Harry babbled about nonsense with mouths full of viscera while plunging their hands into David's disemboweled front. Their tones where even but laced with desperation. 

“It hurts, it hurts and it’s watching and it hurts.” Clyde spit while chewing. 

“Dreadful, mongrel, slithering, fucking whore, hungry, hungry, hungry, I hate you, feed, feed him.” Harry repeated in a whine. 

They wielded scalpels and scissors, snipping and slicing away bits from David like a living cheese board. 

Unlike with David however, when we attempted to stop them, the room exploded into violence. A tangle of wild slashing and grappling that knocked David’s mutilated body to the ground with a wet thud. Resulting in one of the men slipping in David’s entrails, disorienting him long enough for Clyde to rip a scalpel along his throat. And as the man laid writhing and clutching his neck, Clyde used the opening to throw himself out the window and make a dash for the open desert. 

In the heat of the moment, Harry was savagely beaten, partly in retaliation for the man Clyde killed, and partly because he was howling with laughter the entire ordeal. No matter how hard we hit him, Harry kept laughing, even when his mouth filled with blood and his breath came through a wheeze. 

We buried David and the young researcher the following morning and agreed that constant watch had to be kept in case Clyde came back. But we figured it would only be another day before he died of exposure to the heat, or was forced to return.

Even beaten half to death Harry proved a constant issue, he got loose on the first night by fucking chewing one of his hands into a mutilated stump just to pull it free of the metal cuffs. And when the night watch caught him trying to crawl out of the bathroom window he bit one of their ears off in the struggle.

After that we broke his legs, and I told myself it was out of necessity. Though part of me couldn’t help but feel like we just wanted to justify hurting him more. These people were our colleagues and friends, and whatever madness that afflicted them was spreading.

Harry started talking nonstop about the telescope, he claimed something’s using it as a peep hole and was staring right back at us. He also begged for food constantly, and had to be restrained to keep him from trying to consume himself. We did feed him, but no matter how much we gave him it was never enough. 

Nine of us remained excluding Harry, and we discussed in length what to do about our situation. Our communications had been sabotaged the night Harry tried to escape, which we surmised was done by Clyde while we were distracted. Leaving us without a way to properly contact the outside world, we were trapped until supplies arrived at the end of the week. 

An older man named Allistor suggested we had an obligation to make sure Clyde and Harry couldn’t reach civilization, and argued we should pour out our fuel entirely. While others argued the truck should be utilized to send someone to get help. We settled with keeping the gas locked up and guarded around the clock, but I could tell Allistor disagreed. We still had no idea what exactly caused people to turn mad, and it made everyone uneasy. 

We also realized after what David did to the kitchen, we’d have to ration our emergency supplies to last until help arrived. And again another intense debate was started about whether or not we should feed Harry. But in the end we ultimately voted against letting him starve, even if it meant smaller portions for the rest of us.

_________

With some urging from Allistor and I, we convinced the rest of the team that we should investigate Harry’s claims about the telescope. I was sure this was our best chance at an explanation for what was going on. 

How could I have known what would happen? 

We found in addition to someone sabotaging our communications, all of our research had been manually wiped. 

All of our research, all of our documents, every image ever decrypted from our telescope deleted. 

We had some backups, but a large portion of our data was lost. Including the images Harry must have been referring to. Refusing to give up I volunteered to interrogate Harry for more information while the others worked on recovering our files.

Harry was where we had left him the night before, wrapped in a blanket on the chair we handcuffed him to. He stirred slightly as I entered, locking the trailer door behind me. 

“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.” He muttered weakly to himself.

“What happened Harry” 

He continued to mutter, staring off into a corner. I felt impatient so I shouted.

“Harry!” I slammed my palm on a dresser. “What did you see what’s wrong with Clyde and David?!” 

“The..closet” he whispered hoarsely. 

“What? Focus Harry what happe-“ 

“The closet” he repeated, leaning his head toward the closet behind me. 

My frustration growing I turned around and threw open the closet's shutter door. “What about the closet-“ Harry’s bloody handcuffs sat on the floor of the closet, my blood ran cold. 

In the same second I heard Harry's blanket hit the ground behind me and the floorboard creak. I tried to whip around but only managed a half turn before something struck the back of my head, and everything went black.

_______

I woke up violently, retching and choking on soft tissue. The smell of iron filled my nose, and I could feel my face and chest slick with blood. I was barely conscious and my head ached so intensely I found it nearly impossible to open my eyes against the light. 

Through a squint I saw Harry weakly wiping my chin with a blood soaked rag, before lifting another morsel to my mouth. I turned my head refusing the peace and Harry responded by roughly pinching my nose shut. Holding it until I was forced to open my mouth, before stuffing another chunk into it. 

“Ssshhhh you must be starving” Harry’s voice sounded far away. My mind swimming in pain, my thoughts unable to congeal into solid words. 

By the time everyone found me, Clyde was dead. He had opened himself up with a wooden handle he managed to snap into a jagged point. He then pulled out his own stomach, and began wringing it out and feeding its contents to me until he passed out from blood-loss. 

But that’s not what it looked like. 

It looked like I killed him myself and began eating him. It looked like it succumbed to the same madness. And by the time I had woken up again, I was locked inside the trailer and handcuffed to the desk. 

A lot happened while I was out, and by the time I woke up the whole site was in chaos. The garage had burned down with the truck inside, and I often heard screaming at random intervals.

From what I could tell, Allistor, Clyde and at least four other people have succumbed to hunger madness. At least that’s what I’ve been calling it, ever since Allistor came by late one night to chat with me through the window. 

He told me there was something out there so large that the telescope could only capture its eye. A celestial body, greater than entire galaxies, and an eye so massive in size that our sun would be swallowed by its mere pupil. 

He said its body was a design-less undulating mass of writhing flesh, and that it carried the knowledge of everything it’d ever consumed. And it was in pain, it was starving, and nothing could satiate it. And that was its gift to him. 

Its hunger, the hunger. 

And all he wanted to do was share its gift. 

Every night since then Allistor’s came back, and tried to force his way inside my trailer with the help of the other afflicted. And each night they get closer to succeeding, and I get more tired. 

I’ve barricaded myself best I can, but it’s only a matter of time before they hack their way through, I knew that. I was just hoping I could hold out long enough for the supplies to get here. For help to arrive. 

But soon they’ll have either caught or killed everyone. And their undivided attention will fall on me, and when that happens I won’t be able to hold them off. 

I’m out of food, completely and utterly. The heat makes it near impossible to think, and even with the bathtub I had filled days ago, the water would be undrinkable soon in the open air. 

I found Harry’s work laptop in this desk, and decided it was best to write this out while I still had some mind left. Because as my options are now, I either starve until I’m too weak to fight off Allistor and the other hungry. Or I eat Harry’s body, and prolong the suffering in the hopes help arrives. 

In case things go wrong for me, I’m leaving this as a warning. Destroy the telescope, scrap our work, and for the love of god don’t look at it. 

I’ve never been this hungry before, and Harry’s been rotting for days in this stuffy trailer baking in the Nevada heat. But that’s the thing about hunger, it can make you do crazy things.

What’s the hungriest you've ever been?

Really think about it for a second, what's the longest you've gone without food? 

Most people I know would say a day, maybe two.

With hunger the brain starts to go before the body, your self control, your lucidity, your ability to think. Before long you become too weak to move, your mind misfiring as you starve. You might even debate eating your own flesh. 

You wouldn't be the first person to eat human flesh either, nor would you be the last, Flight 571, The Donner Party, the 1609 Jamestown Starving. 

Though eating the dead and eating the living are two very different things.

Kuru is a very rare, fatal, and incurable prion disease that's contracted from eating human brain matter. It’s called the laughing sickness as it's known to cause uncontrollable laughter, spasms, tremors, and slurred speech. 

But that's not what they have.

My colleagues I mean.

I realize this might sound like nonsense, I know I’m all over the place, but just bear with me I've hardly slept in days. 

Let me start somewhere more coherent, I need to get this all down before they come back tonight. Before I decide what to do.

___________________

I work, or worked at a space telescope monitoring station for the US government. A private sect of nasa launched our telescope into space along with a series of relay satellites to breadcrumb behind its path. 

Here I lived and worked in a series of air conditioned trailers, repurposed shipping containers, and mobile homes. We were tasked with analyzing a specific sector of space via the telescope, before passing off our findings to the government. 

We operated out of Nevada in the scorching desert far from any main highways or roads, and we subsisted entirely off monthly shipments of supplies provided by the army. 

Now I can’t exactly say aliens are real, but we’ve definitely captured some photos that might imply life in distant space. Which of course I'm not permitted to speak on, but considering my current situation I figured it doesn't matter now anyways.

We’ve photographed what we think are signs of mining on distant moons and asteroids. And have captured geometric structures around distant stars that we theorized could be part of a dyson sphere. But despite these findings, we’d never photographed actual life, only speculative remnants of intelligent interference.
At least not until recently.

____________

A little over a week ago I was startled awake by the fire alarm blaring in the pale light of dawn. I stumbled out of my trailer to find my equally confused team minus a senior researcher named David. 

Smoke was rising from the kitchen trailer, the moving orange glow of fire visible through the nearest window. We split up, half of us running for extra extinguishers and water, while the rest of us headed for the kitchen. 

I was the second one through the door, but the sight caused me to freeze while the others shoved past me. 

Flames from the stovetop licked at the walls and ceiling leaving black stains in its wake. A burning box of frozen meat sat haphazardly on top of the fire, dripping and sizzling over the burner. The cupboards and fridge were wide open, open packages and food scraps were strewn about the entire kitchen. And standing amongst the mess was David.

His eyes were glazed over, their glassy sheen catching the flickering fire before him. His stomach was horribly distended, bulging beyond his skinny frame like a grotesque meat balloon. 

With his right hand he shoveled the partially raw beef from the still-burning box into his mouth, and with his left he incoherently poured milk from a jug into his flapping, overfilled maw. The meat and milk gushed down his chin, chest, and misshapen stomach. Pooling at his feet with the rest of the half chewed food from his frenzy, the sight of which disgusted me.

His hand was beginning to burn as he grabbed at the ground beef, sizzling fat rolling down his arm as he forced another handful in his mouth. The damage of which finally forced us out of our collective shock and into action.

David was unresponsive to verbal commands, and was completely uncooperative. We ended up having to sedate him, as when we tried to pull him out of the kitchen he dislocated his shoulder blade during the struggle just to get back to his meal. 

He was in rough shape, much worse than anything we were equipped to deal with at the sight. We thought David was experiencing some sort of psychotic episode, If only we had known.

_______________________

The second incident happened two days later, when again my sleep was interrupted early. In the dead of the night a junior researcher named Clyde woke me up asking about the infirmary key, to which I reminded him he had pinned it to a cork-board in the common room. 

But even in my freshly woken state, something about his demeanor felt wrong. He never turned on the light, he leaned in too close, and wobbled side to side as he spoke to me. 

Initially I thought he was drunk, especially considering he forgot where he had placed the key. But as I remembered David in the infirmary, I decided to catch up with Clyde just in case something happened. 

After a few minutes I was dressed and walking under the stars toward the infirmary. However seeing the unlit windows, I hesitated, contemplating if I had dreamt that interaction in the first place. But under the moonlight I caught a shadow shift within the building, and my heart began to pound.

With growing concern I doubled my pace and reached the infirmary door calling out to Clyde. The door was locked, but I could clearly see movement in the darkness beyond the moonlight, I knew someone was inside. 

I debated smashing my way in a window, but had nothing on me to do so. Finally deciding it was an emergency, I turned and ran toward the nearest trailer and began pounding on the door. “Get up quick, something’s wrong in the infirmary!” Twice more I repeated myself before I ran to the next trailer. By the time I turned back toward the Infirmary, people where already emerging from their bunks and heading toward me. 

Together with the help of three others we kicked in the door and forced our way inside. A cabinet and desk were stacked against the door, and the overhead bulbs shattered. Even outside David's room, the smell of blood permeated the air with a thick iron tinge. 

Clyde and another man Harry sat on opposite sides of David, pupils dilated like dinner plates despite flashlights cast over them, and they paid no mind to our entry. David’s stomach had been split open from sternum to hips and its contents were being consumed raw by the other men. 

David was intermittently being fed pieces of himself by the two, of which he chewed like a cow with cud. His eyes lacked any human recognition, David looked onward unblinking, chewing but unable to swallow.

Clyde and Harry babbled about nonsense with mouths full of viscera while plunging their hands into David's disemboweled front. Their tones where even but laced with desperation. 

“It hurts, it hurts and it’s watching and it hurts.” Clyde spit while chewing. 

“Dreadful, mongrel, slithering, fucking whore, hungry, hungry, hungry, I hate you, feed, feed him.” Harry repeated in a whine. 

They wielded scalpels and scissors, snipping and slicing away bits from David like a living cheese board. 

Unlike with David however, when we attempted to stop them, the room exploded into violence. A tangle of wild slashing and grappling that knocked David’s mutilated body to the ground with a wet thud. Resulting in one of the men slipping in David’s entrails, disorienting him long enough for Clyde to rip a scalpel along his throat. And as the man laid writhing and clutching his neck, Clyde used the opening to throw himself out the window and make a dash for the open desert. 

In the heat of the moment, Harry was savagely beaten, partly in retaliation for the man Clyde killed, and partly because he was howling with laughter the entire ordeal. No matter how hard we hit him, Harry kept laughing, even when his mouth filled with blood and his breath came through a wheeze. 

We buried David and the young researcher the following morning and agreed that constant watch had to be kept in case Clyde came back. But we figured it would only be another day before he died of exposure to the heat, or was forced to return.

Even beaten half to death Harry proved a constant issue, he got loose on the first night by fucking chewing one of his hands into a mutilated stump just to pull it free of the metal cuffs. And when the night watch caught him trying to crawl out of the bathroom window he bit one of their ears off in the struggle.

After that we broke his legs, and I told myself it was out of necessity. Though part of me couldn’t help but feel like we just wanted to justify hurting him more. These people were our colleagues and friends, and whatever madness that afflicted them was spreading.

Harry started talking nonstop about the telescope, he claimed something’s using it as a peep hole and was staring right back at us. He also begged for food constantly, and had to be restrained to keep him from trying to consume himself. We did feed him, but no matter how much we gave him it was never enough. 

Nine of us remained excluding Harry, and we discussed in length what to do about our situation. Our communications had been sabotaged the night Harry tried to escape, which we surmised was done by Clyde while we were distracted. Leaving us without a way to properly contact the outside world, we were trapped until supplies arrived at the end of the week. 

An older man named Allistor suggested we had an obligation to make sure Clyde and Harry couldn’t reach civilization, and argued we should pour out our fuel entirely. While others argued the truck should be utilized to send someone to get help. We settled with keeping the gas locked up and guarded around the clock, but I could tell Allistor disagreed. We still had no idea what exactly caused people to turn mad, and it made everyone uneasy. 

We also realized after what David did to the kitchen, we’d have to ration our emergency supplies to last until help arrived. And again another intense debate was started about whether or not we should feed Harry. But in the end we ultimately voted against letting him starve, even if it meant smaller portions for the rest of us.

_________

With some urging from Allistor and I, we convinced the rest of the team that we should investigate Harry’s claims about the telescope. I was sure this was our best chance at an explanation for what was going on. 

How could I have known what would happen? 

We found in addition to someone sabotaging our communications, all of our research had been manually wiped. 

All of our research, all of our documents, every image ever decrypted from our telescope deleted. 

We had some backups, but a large portion of our data was lost. Including the images Harry must have been referring to. Refusing to give up I volunteered to interrogate Harry for more information while the others worked on recovering our files.

Harry was where we had left him the night before, wrapped in a blanket on the chair we handcuffed him to. He stirred slightly as I entered, locking the trailer door behind me. 

“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.” He muttered weakly to himself.

“What happened Harry” 

He continued to mutter, staring off into a corner. I felt impatient so I shouted.

“Harry!” I slammed my palm on a dresser. “What did you see what’s wrong with Clyde and David?!” 

“The..closet” he whispered hoarsely. 

“What? Focus Harry what happe-“ 

“The closet” he repeated, leaning his head toward the closet behind me. 

My frustration growing I turned around and threw open the closet's shutter door. “What about the closet-“ Harry’s bloody handcuffs sat on the floor of the closet, my blood ran cold. 

In the same second I heard Harry's blanket hit the ground behind me and the floorboard creak. I tried to whip around but only managed a half turn before something struck the back of my head, and everything went black.

_______

I woke up violently, retching and choking on soft tissue. The smell of iron filled my nose, and I could feel my face and chest slick with blood. I was barely conscious and my head ached so intensely I found it nearly impossible to open my eyes against the light. 

Through a squint I saw Harry weakly wiping my chin with a blood soaked rag, before lifting another morsel to my mouth. I turned my head refusing the peace and Harry responded by roughly pinching my nose shut. Holding it until I was forced to open my mouth, before stuffing another chunk into it. 

“Ssshhhh you must be starving” Harry’s voice sounded far away. My mind swimming in pain, my thoughts unable to congeal into solid words. 

By the time everyone found me, Clyde was dead. He had opened himself up with a wooden handle he managed to snap into a jagged point. He then pulled out his own stomach, and began wringing it out and feeding its contents to me until he passed out from blood-loss. 

But that’s not what it looked like. 

It looked like I killed him myself and began eating him. It looked like it succumbed to the same madness. And by the time I had woken up again, I was locked inside the trailer and handcuffed to the desk. 

A lot happened while I was out, and by the time I woke up the whole site was in chaos. The garage had burned down with the truck inside, and I often heard screaming at random intervals.

From what I could tell, Allistor, Clyde and at least four other people have succumbed to hunger madness. At least that’s what I’ve been calling it, ever since Allistor came by late one night to chat with me through the window. 

He told me there was something out there so large that the telescope could only capture its eye. A celestial body, greater than entire galaxies, and an eye so massive in size that our sun would be swallowed by its mere pupil. 

He said its body was a design-less undulating mass of writhing flesh, and that it carried the knowledge of everything it’d ever consumed. And it was in pain, it was starving, and nothing could satiate it. And that was its gift to him. 

Its hunger, the hunger. 

And all he wanted to do was share its gift. 

Every night since then Allistor’s came back, and tried to force his way inside my trailer with the help of the other afflicted. And each night they get closer to succeeding, and I get more tired. 

I’ve barricaded myself best I can, but it’s only a matter of time before they hack their way through, I knew that. I was just hoping I could hold out long enough for the supplies to get here. For help to arrive. 

But soon they’ll have either caught or killed everyone. And their undivided attention will fall on me, and when that happens I won’t be able to hold them off. 

I’m out of food, completely and utterly. The heat makes it near impossible to think, and even with the bathtub I had filled days ago, the water would be undrinkable soon in the open air. 

I found Harry’s work laptop in this desk, and decided it was best to write this out while I still had some mind left. Because as my options are now, I either starve until I’m too weak to fight off Allistor and the other hungry. Or I eat Harry’s body, and prolong the suffering in the hopes help arrives. 

In case things go wrong for me, I’m leaving this as a warning. Destroy the telescope, scrap our work, and for the love of god don’t look at it. 

I’ve never been this hungry before, and Harry’s been rotting for days in this stuffy trailer baking in the Nevada heat. But that’s the thing about hunger, it can make you do crazy things.

What’s the hungriest you've ever been?

Really think about it for a second, what's the longest you've gone without food? 

Most people I know would say a day, maybe two.

With hunger the brain starts to go before the body, your self control, your lucidity, your ability to think. Before long you become too weak to move, your mind misfiring as you starve. You might even debate eating your own flesh. 

You wouldn't be the first person to eat human flesh either, nor would you be the last, Flight 571, The Donner Party, the 1609 Jamestown Starving. 

Though eating the dead and eating the living are two very different things.

Kuru is a very rare, fatal, and incurable prion disease that's contracted from eating human brain matter. It’s called the laughing sickness as it's known to cause uncontrollable laughter, spasms, tremors, and slurred speech. 

But that's not what they have.

My colleagues I mean.

I realize this might sound like nonsense, I know I’m all over the place, but just bear with me I've hardly slept in days. 

Let me start somewhere more coherent, I need to get this all down before they come back tonight. Before I decide what to do.

___________________

I work, or worked at a space telescope monitoring station for the US government. A private sect of nasa launched our telescope into space along with a series of relay satellites to breadcrumb behind its path. 

Here I lived and worked in a series of air conditioned trailers, repurposed shipping containers, and mobile homes. We were tasked with analyzing a specific sector of space via the telescope, before passing off our findings to the government. 

We operated out of Nevada in the scorching desert far from any main highways or roads, and we subsisted entirely off monthly shipments of supplies provided by the army. 

Now I can’t exactly say aliens are real, but we’ve definitely captured some photos that might imply life in distant space. Which of course I'm not permitted to speak on, but considering my current situation I figured it doesn't matter now anyways.

We’ve photographed what we think are signs of mining on distant moons and asteroids. And have captured geometric structures around distant stars that we theorized could be part of a dyson sphere. But despite these findings, we’d never photographed actual life, only speculative remnants of intelligent interference.
At least not until recently.

____________

A little over a week ago I was startled awake by the fire alarm blaring in the pale light of dawn. I stumbled out of my trailer to find my equally confused team minus a senior researcher named David. 

Smoke was rising from the kitchen trailer, the moving orange glow of fire visible through the nearest window. We split up, half of us running for extra extinguishers and water, while the rest of us headed for the kitchen. 

I was the second one through the door, but the sight caused me to freeze while the others shoved past me. 

Flames from the stovetop licked at the walls and ceiling leaving black stains in its wake. A burning box of frozen meat sat haphazardly on top of the fire, dripping and sizzling over the burner. The cupboards and fridge were wide open, open packages and food scraps were strewn about the entire kitchen. And standing amongst the mess was David.

His eyes were glazed over, their glassy sheen catching the flickering fire before him. His stomach was horribly distended, bulging beyond his skinny frame like a grotesque meat balloon. 

With his right hand he shoveled the partially raw beef from the still-burning box into his mouth, and with his left he incoherently poured milk from a jug into his flapping, overfilled maw. The meat and milk gushed down his chin, chest, and misshapen stomach. Pooling at his feet with the rest of the half chewed food from his frenzy, the sight of which disgusted me.

His hand was beginning to burn as he grabbed at the ground beef, sizzling fat rolling down his arm as he forced another handful in his mouth. The damage of which finally forced us out of our collective shock and into action.

David was unresponsive to verbal commands, and was completely uncooperative. We ended up having to sedate him, as when we tried to pull him out of the kitchen he dislocated his shoulder blade during the struggle just to get back to his meal. 

He was in rough shape, much worse than anything we were equipped to deal with at the sight. We thought David was experiencing some sort of psychotic episode, If only we had known.

_______________________

The second incident happened two days later, when again my sleep was interrupted early. In the dead of the night a junior researcher named Clyde woke me up asking about the infirmary key, to which I reminded him he had pinned it to a cork-board in the common room. 

But even in my freshly woken state, something about his demeanor felt wrong. He never turned on the light, he leaned in too close, and wobbled side to side as he spoke to me. 

Initially I thought he was drunk, especially considering he forgot where he had placed the key. But as I remembered David in the infirmary, I decided to catch up with Clyde just in case something happened. 

After a few minutes I was dressed and walking under the stars toward the infirmary. However seeing the unlit windows, I hesitated, contemplating if I had dreamt that interaction in the first place. But under the moonlight I caught a shadow shift within the building, and my heart began to pound.

With growing concern I doubled my pace and reached the infirmary door calling out to Clyde. The door was locked, but I could clearly see movement in the darkness beyond the moonlight, I knew someone was inside. 

I debated smashing my way in a window, but had nothing on me to do so. Finally deciding it was an emergency, I turned and ran toward the nearest trailer and began pounding on the door. “Get up quick, something’s wrong in the infirmary!” Twice more I repeated myself before I ran to the next trailer. By the time I turned back toward the Infirmary, people where already emerging from their bunks and heading toward me. 

Together with the help of three others we kicked in the door and forced our way inside. A cabinet and desk were stacked against the door, and the overhead bulbs shattered. Even outside David's room, the smell of blood permeated the air with a thick iron tinge. 

Clyde and another man Harry sat on opposite sides of David, pupils dilated like dinner plates despite flashlights cast over them, and they paid no mind to our entry. David’s stomach had been split open from sternum to hips and its contents were being consumed raw by the other men. 

David was intermittently being fed pieces of himself by the two, of which he chewed like a cow with cud. His eyes lacked any human recognition, David looked onward unblinking, chewing but unable to swallow.

Clyde and Harry babbled about nonsense with mouths full of viscera while plunging their hands into David's disemboweled front. Their tones where even but laced with desperation. 

“It hurts, it hurts and it’s watching and it hurts.” Clyde spit while chewing. 

“Dreadful, mongrel, slithering, fucking whore, hungry, hungry, hungry, I hate you, feed, feed him.” Harry repeated in a whine. 

They wielded scalpels and scissors, snipping and slicing away bits from David like a living cheese board. 

Unlike with David however, when we attempted to stop them, the room exploded into violence. A tangle of wild slashing and grappling that knocked David’s mutilated body to the ground with a wet thud. Resulting in one of the men slipping in David’s entrails, disorienting him long enough for Clyde to rip a scalpel along his throat. And as the man laid writhing and clutching his neck, Clyde used the opening to throw himself out the window and make a dash for the open desert. 

In the heat of the moment, Harry was savagely beaten, partly in retaliation for the man Clyde killed, and partly because he was howling with laughter the entire ordeal. No matter how hard we hit him, Harry kept laughing, even when his mouth filled with blood and his breath came through a wheeze. 

We buried David and the young researcher the following morning and agreed that constant watch had to be kept in case Clyde came back. But we figured it would only be another day before he died of exposure to the heat, or was forced to return.

Even beaten half to death Harry proved a constant issue, he got loose on the first night by fucking chewing one of his hands into a mutilated stump just to pull it free of the metal cuffs. And when the night watch caught him trying to crawl out of the bathroom window he bit one of their ears off in the struggle.

After that we broke his legs, and I told myself it was out of necessity. Though part of me couldn’t help but feel like we just wanted to justify hurting him more. These people were our colleagues and friends, and whatever madness that afflicted them was spreading.

Harry started talking nonstop about the telescope, he claimed something’s using it as a peep hole and was staring right back at us. He also begged for food constantly, and had to be restrained to keep him from trying to consume himself. We did feed him, but no matter how much we gave him it was never enough. 

Nine of us remained excluding Harry, and we discussed in length what to do about our situation. Our communications had been sabotaged the night Harry tried to escape, which we surmised was done by Clyde while we were distracted. Leaving us without a way to properly contact the outside world, we were trapped until supplies arrived at the end of the week. 

An older man named Allistor suggested we had an obligation to make sure Clyde and Harry couldn’t reach civilization, and argued we should pour out our fuel entirely. While others argued the truck should be utilized to send someone to get help. We settled with keeping the gas locked up and guarded around the clock, but I could tell Allistor disagreed. We still had no idea what exactly caused people to turn mad, and it made everyone uneasy. 

We also realized after what David did to the kitchen, we’d have to ration our emergency supplies to last until help arrived. And again another intense debate was started about whether or not we should feed Harry. But in the end we ultimately voted against letting him starve, even if it meant smaller portions for the rest of us.

_________

With some urging from Allistor and I, we convinced the rest of the team that we should investigate Harry’s claims about the telescope. I was sure this was our best chance at an explanation for what was going on. 

How could I have known what would happen? 

We found in addition to someone sabotaging our communications, all of our research had been manually wiped. 

All of our research, all of our documents, every image ever decrypted from our telescope deleted. 

We had some backups, but a large portion of our data was lost. Including the images Harry must have been referring to. Refusing to give up I volunteered to interrogate Harry for more information while the others worked on recovering our files.

Harry was where we had left him the night before, wrapped in a blanket on the chair we handcuffed him to. He stirred slightly as I entered, locking the trailer door behind me. 

“Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.” He muttered weakly to himself.

“What happened Harry” 

He continued to mutter, staring off into a corner. I felt impatient so I shouted.

“Harry!” I slammed my palm on a dresser. “What did you see what’s wrong with Clyde and David?!” 

“The..closet” he whispered hoarsely. 

“What? Focus Harry what happe-“ 

“The closet” he repeated, leaning his head toward the closet behind me. 

My frustration growing I turned around and threw open the closet's shutter door. “What about the closet-“ my eyes fell on Harry’s bloody handcuffs and my blood ran cold. 

In the same second I heard Harry's blanket hit the ground behind me and the floorboard creak. I tried to whip around but only managed a half turn before something struck the back of my head, and everything went black.

_______

I woke up violently, retching and choking on soft tissue. The smell of iron filled my nose, and I could feel my face and chest slick with blood. I was barely conscious and my head ached so intensely I found it nearly impossible to open my eyes against the light. 

Through a squint I saw Harry weakly wiping my chin with a blood soaked rag, before lifting another morsel to my mouth. I turned my head refusing the peace and Harry responded by roughly pinching my nose shut. Holding it until I was forced to open my mouth, before stuffing another chunk into it. 

“Ssshhhh you must be starving” Harry’s voice sounded far away. My mind swimming in pain, my thoughts unable to congeal into solid words. 

By the time everyone found me, Harry was dead. He had opened himself up with a wooden handle he managed to snap into a jagged point. He then pulled out his own stomach, and began wringing it out and feeding its contents to me until he passed out from blood-loss. 

But that’s not what it looked like. 

It looked like I killed him myself and began eating him. It looked like it succumbed to the same madness. And by the time I had woken up again, I was locked inside the trailer and handcuffed to the desk. 

A lot happened while I was out, and by the time I woke up the whole site was in chaos. The garage had burned down with the truck inside, and I often heard screaming at random intervals.

From what I could tell, Allistor, Clyde and at least four other people had succumbed to hunger madness. During the day they lurked in the shade and shelter of the trailers, but at night they stalked the area and feasted on anything they could find. Allistor attempted to feign sanity in an attempt to be let inside, but once I denied him entry he dropped the act.

I was surprised at how lucid Allistor was, besides his disheveled appearance he spoke coherently. But David had gone fully catatonic, while Harry and Clyde talked nonsense but retained enough function to set traps and sabotage the site. Three varying degrees of insanity, with some kind of ability to differentiate and coordinate with other afflicted.

Though it’s become clear to me, the more coherent the individual, the more danger they pose. And unfortunately for me, I was trapped here with them. But in the same breath they were trapped here with me, their madness unable to protect them from the scorching desert that surrounds us.

I decided to try and reason with him to learn anything I could in the hopes of finding a way out, I told Allistor I would let him inside if he could explain what was happening to everyone and he agreed.

He told me there was something out there so large that the telescope could only capture its eye. A celestial body, greater than entire galaxies, and an eye so massive in size that our sun would be swallowed by its mere pupil. 

He said its body was a design-less undulating mass of writhing flesh, and that it carried the knowledge of everything it’d ever consumed. And it was in pain, it was starving, and nothing could satiate it. And that was its gift to him. 

Its hunger, the hunger. 

And all he wanted to do was share its gift. 

I tried asking him how he knew all of this, if something had spoken to him. And in a shaky voice he replied “all you have to do is look, and you understand.”

When I refused to let Allistor inside, he tried to force his way in with the help of the other afflicted. And each night since then he tries again, and each night they get closer to succeeding, and I get more tired. 

I’ve barricaded myself best I can, but it’s only a matter of time before they hack their way through, I knew that. I was just hoping I could hold out long enough for the supplies to get here. For help to arrive. 

But soon they’ll have either caught or killed everyone. And their undivided attention will fall on me, and when that happens I won’t be able to hold them off. 

I’m out of food, completely and utterly. The heat makes it near impossible to think, and even with the bathtub I had filled days ago, the water would be undrinkable soon in the open air. 

I found Harry’s work laptop in this desk, and decided it was best to write this out while I still had some mind left. Because as my options are now, I either starve until I’m too weak to fight off Allistor and the other hungry. Or I eat Harry’s body, and prolong the suffering in the hopes help arrives. 

In case things go wrong for me, I’m leaving this as a warning. Destroy the telescope, scrap our work, and for the love of god don’t look at it. 

I’ve never been this hungry before, and Harry’s been rotting for days in this stuffy trailer baking in the Nevada heat. But that’s the thing about hunger, it can make you do crazy things.

I’m writing this in the hopes someone will understand why I did what I did. I’m not asking to be forgiven, but I couldn’t stand the idea of harsh speculation from those that never knew me. Don’t forgive me, but try to understand. 

I hate them. 

The ones that fly, the ones that buzz, the ones that clamber. I hate every single one. 

And worst of all they hate me too. Dark pupil-less eyes, hard bodies covered in barbed hairs. Odd-bending joints, terrifying mouths, and their mechanical movements. Every aspect of them disgusted me, and just proximity to a single insect used to send me into an anxious mania that would sometimes take hours to fully calm from. 

Severe ptsd, anxiety disorder, and selective muteness. As far as adoption was concerned I was a high risk case, and for most people, that was far beyond the scope of childcare they had hoped for. I was damaged goods, far worse than many of the other children in the care facility. 

Most friends I made got transferred out to foster care or group homes. After a while I stopped trying to make new ones, not that I'd ever been the first to approach before. 

Despite my loneliness, I enjoyed the lack of bugs inside the building. Everything was so sterile and quiet, and the workers were kinder than anything I’d known. I had access to cartoons and toys, and on Wednesdays we had chocolate pudding. 

So when I heard a foster family had applied to take me on, I was resistant to leaving the place behind. I had my own bed with actual blankets, I had coloring books and got to watch teenage mutant ninja turtles whenever I wanted. All of which I brought up to my case worker, only to be informed I would have all those and more at my new home. 

It took some convincing and a few breakdowns, but after meeting the foster parents my apprehension was replaced with an eager curiosity that delighted my therapist. They were willing to take me in, cracks and all, and for that I could never repay them. 

Living with them brought a new set of challenges, but they supported me the whole way. My therapist said this place was an opportunity for me to heal, but truthfully I felt more afraid of bugs than ever. The anxiety of a new home only worsened my fears, proving a difficult adjustment period. But they took utmost care to keep me away from any bugs, and for that I was grateful. 

————

It never occurred to me just how inexperienced I was with normal interactions. How strange was an adult I could talk to without immense dread, ones that actually listened to me. But I guess I’d never had a proper example of a parent.

My real mom was a lot different, she ignored me a lot and slept most of the time. Sometimes she would sleep entire days, only ever getting up when one of her boyfriends came around. 

That's what she called the men that came around, her boyfriends. Every couple days another would come by, sometimes a few at a time. Sometimes they were mean, but mostly they just ignored me. 

The apartment was always cluttered, trash and clothes strewn about the place like a tornado had come through. Random assortments of items my mom kept to “sell later” though she never did. The walls were a gallery of chipped paint and holes of various sizes. Small piles of drywall left white dust on the stained carpet, a physical reminder of the violence that created it.

And despite everything the worst part of it all was the bugs. The rotting carpet, the piles of trash, the spoiled food, a sanctuary for insects. Roaches prowled the house at all hours, flies and mosquitoes filled the air, and bedbugs spawned endlessly in meager stained mattresses and dank carpeting. 

The constant terror of their presence, the sounds of their buzzing, the feeling of them on my skin. At the time i was barely seven, and was only allowed out on rare occasions to fetch ice or use a vending machine down the hall. I was trapped utterly and completely, and held in place by my fear of upsetting my mother. 

————

Moving into my new home came with a new set of challenges. And for once I felt hyper aware of my behavior, and began to feel immense guilt. I knew I wasn’t rational, I knew normal people didn’t act like this. But everyone was so kind to me, and they were endlessly patient through it all. 

My fear of lice was so strong I had to keep my hair buzzed, though it made me feel ugly. But the feeling of my own hair brushing my neck or face was enough to send me into a frenzy of itching until my skin was raw. 

My eyes turned every ball of dust or speck of lint into an infestation. I would unmake and remake the bed until I was sure the mattress was absolutely spotless. I would scour the room top to bottom, sometimes spending entire hours cleaning. And instead of scolding me, my foster mom would bring me a bucket of cleaning supplies and even offer to help sometimes. 

She taught me how to clean properly, and what chemicals to use where, and what not to mix. And though I wasn’t able to go outside without a breakdown, I felt confident in her abilities to keep a clean home. 

I could wander the house without falling into a panic, and that was enough for then. I rarely spoke, but my foster mom did enough talking for the both of us. She said so long as I could nod, she would do the rest. 

I wanted to make her proud, I promised myself I would heal, if only for her sake. Someone believed in me, and I wanted to believe it too. 

—————

At my old house I slept on an uncovered mattress on the floor. The folds housed a seemingly endless army of bed bugs that left me covered in little itchy red bumps. And sometimes if I cried to my mom enough, she would even have one of her boyfriends spray it down with Raid. Which did little more than irritate my lungs, but it made me feel safer regardless. 

I used to keep my light on all night in an effort to keep the roaches away. But I found that left on long enough even the roaches could get used to its sickly yellow glow. And no amount of toxic spray could keep them away from the garbage and decay that littered the apartment. 

The smell clung to my skin and clothes, mildew, mold, and cigarette smoke. But I hardly noticed it anymore, having gotten used to all terrible scents in the apartment but one. Moms medicine, which smelled distinctly different from everything else. At least once a week, clouds of smoke would drift from my moms room that cut through the stench. A chemical burning smell that made me feel woozy, and usually marked the start of my moms sleeping cycle. 

She told me she was sick, and needed to take her medicine or else she would die. She would sell anything worth money, and to my protest I would always hear something along the lines of “You don’t want your mommy to die do you?”. I started deliberately damaging my toys in an effort to make them less desirable for sale, and made an extreme effort to hide the one dvd I possessed. 

Season one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was my prized possession. Ever since one of her boyfriends found it on sale at a blockbuster for me, I would play it on repeat on my tiny DVD player. How ironic it was that a bargain-bin dvd purchased as an afterthought to keep me distracted meant everything to me. 

After taking her medicine, she would spend a few days in bed. During this time she was impossible to communicate with, nodding off in the middle of conversations and speaking nonsense. And even though I had to fend for myself during this time, it was the lesser of her two evils. 

When she didn’t have her medicine for long enough she would become erratic. It felt like being in a cage with an agitated animal, she would jump between extreme emotions while ranting at me or anyone who would listen. Sometimes she became super-mom for a day, buying me toys, feeding me, bathing me, being kind. 

These days made me incredibly anxious, knowing that at any moment she would flip like a switch. Beneath her surface lurked a predator wearing the skin of kindness and motherhood. She would care for me with all the tension of a sharp object in a taught plastic bag, and I felt every razor thin moment. Sometimes I wished she would die, and the guilt of it consumed me. 

—————

In my new home, I had become increasingly agitated at my slow recovery. I felt guilty that despite all of my foster parent’s efforts, I had barely made any progress. My frustration grew so intensely that the next time I saw a bug I became enraged. And despite my near overwhelming fear, I charged at it and squashed it under my shoe. 

At first I felt intense nausea and anxiety so badly I fell to my knees. I began preparing for another episode, crying and shaking until I was a withered dehydrated husk. But instead, the growing feeling was suddenly swept away by intense satisfaction. A euphoric moment that made me feel not just happy, but powerful. 

My foster parents cheered at the news, reinforcing my own joy at having conquered my fear. It felt so good to make them proud, and to take control over something that tormented my life if even in a small way. I felt so good in fact, that I spent the whole next day scouring the house for another bug to squash. 

And when I did, I ground its meager frame into a smear under my shoe. And again I felt a euphoric release that sent tingles down my spine. Every subsequent bug I smashed brought me another step toward healing, I was able to walk around the house without fear. I became more talkative and even started playing with my foster siblings. 

Now I was eagerly searching for bugs to smoosh, searching in every dusty corner of the house. It became my new obsession, each insect destroyed brought me hours of relief. It’s like each time I did, my fear faded more. 

Only my anxiety never really went away, it simply changed. Suddenly if I went an entire day without killing a bug, I felt my panic return tenfold. An itch that if left ignored would grow into a panic attack more severe than before. And unable to reliably find bugs inside the house to satisfy my needs, I began exploring the garden outside. 

Again I was met with extraordinary praise at my steps outside, everyone viewed it as a huge leap forward. Of course I never told them why I was driven to go outside, as I felt ashamed. And further still I was beginning to feel less and less of a release with every bug extinguished. The time between the craving became shorter, and the payoff less satisfying each time and it was starting to scare me.

—————

Most meals at my old home consisted of chips that went on sale, and the occasional pizza or microwave slop. More often than not I would be going to sleep hungry, I was skinny even for a kid and sometimes the men that came around felt pity. Occasionally they’d give me a candy bar or a few bucks for the vending machine, but never anything more than a snack.

I learned to stop telling my mom I was hungry, as that seemed to agitate her most of all. I was an ungrateful nuisance as she often reminded me, and that she must be the worst mom in the world. God I wish just once I would have told her it was true, that she was indeed terrible. That I was a half starved, neglected little girl and she had failed me miserably. 

Instead I would comfort my own mother, a child grasping at sweetened lies to placate her outbursts. I would have to assure her she was a good mom, and everything was alright and that I loved her. As I knew all too well her wallowing could turn into utter vitriol at any moment. 

The lice and bed bugs became so bad, I began sleeping in our grime-stained bathtub. Stuffing blankets and pillows between me and the cold fiberglass tub, I would drift to sleep to the buzzing sound of the vent fan above. Its mechanical lull acting as a sound mask for the happenings of the apartment at night.

—————

My fears became realized as I smashed my next bug and felt hardly anything at all. Until all at once the relief faded entirely, and I became inconsolable for days. I hardly ate or left my room, it felt like I was backsliding on all of my progress and worst of all letting my foster family down. 

In my desperation I went scouring for another bug, hoping that even just for a moment I might feel relief again. After a frantic search I found a beetle on the back porch. And this time instead of stepping on it, I reached down and plucked it from the ground. 

Instantly I had shuddered involuntarily, my stomach lurching at the sensation of its chitinous body flailing against my hand. It squirmed desperately, attempting to pull itself free of my grasp. I struggled against my own body, seeing flashes in my vision. I remember seeing hundreds of flies buzzing around my head as I fled back to my room with the beetle. I clenched my eyes shut in fear of the swarm and felt my way back to my room. 

In the darkness of my eyelids I saw my mothers face, her expression mirroring the very last time I had seen her. An icy terror shot through my body, before my knees buckled and I fell to the ground. When I opened my eyes and the flies where gone and I was in my room. And in my hand sat the beetle.

Without thinking I unfurled my hand, reached down, and pulled a leg from the beetles body. I watched it flail wildly on its back and felt a tinge of relief. So again I reached down and pulled another leg from its body. This time pulling a lump of soft flesh from its socket along with it, and I felt my own body relax in response. 

Slowly I pulled its limbs off one at a time, and this time felt more than relief. I felt a wave of satisfaction at it’s torturous death, as if I was transferring my own suffering into it’s tiny form. This is what I was looking for, relief and pleasure intertwined, my own medicine, just like mom. 

Soon I began experimenting with different methods, cutting pieces off them, burning them with matches, impaling them, I even drowned a few, though that method was never very precise. I would restrain them with scotch tape and poke them with needles, sometimes even heating it over a candle first. I was always looking for new ways to inflict suffering on them, and each one brought me more joy than the last. 

I would do this several times a day, and unlike just squashing them, the relief never started fading. But even as damaged as I was I knew it was wrong. Or at least I was afraid of letting my foster family down again. I was afraid of getting caught, afraid of being deprived of my outlet, and I was afraid I’d get in trouble. 

————

I spent a lot of time daydreaming at the old apartment, anything to help my mind escape from my real situation. I would pretend the ninja turtles showed up to take me on adventures and eat pizza and take me to a real school. 

Sometimes I’d get so lost in my pretend I’d go several days without so much as knocking on my moms bedroom door. Until one week the bugs had gotten worse than ever, clusters of flies in every room, roaches on the walls, nowhere was safe. 

Despite my fear of angering my mother, I reached a breaking point when I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of a roach crawling across my arm. I sobbed outside her door, a howling cry hoping to wake her up without needing to enter. Usually this many days after taking her medicine she would come out needing more. 

But lost in my own world, I had failed to notice she hadn't so much as left her room in days. I knocked and called out her name for what must have been hours, too afraid to open it without permission and warrant her usual beating. I debated leaving the apartment for outside help, but felt sure that would earn me a beating as well.

—————

I tried to stop, really I did. But by then my attachment to torturing insects was inseparable. I couldn’t eat or sleep without it, if I refrained for even a day I would completely break down. But by then I was socializing and leaving the house, I was a whole new person. 

But to remain this way, I began spending my allowance at the local pet store. I’d buy containers full of feeder bugs, crickets, mealworms, roaches, just about anything I could get my hands on. I’d stash the live bugs in a shoebox where I kept my instruments of torture. I took great care to stash the box in different places so no one could find it, I wasn’t allowed to have matches and lighters after all. 

The pet store workers knew me by name now, I had to make up a fabricated story about having chickens I would hand feed. An uncomfortable lie that I had slowly begun to believe myself, I even debated asking my foster parents if I could get chickens. 

By now I was torturing bugs nearly every moment I had alone, no longer just to curb my anxiety, but for pleasure. It felt amazing, and no other description would do it justice. A few times I stayed up all night, capitalizing on the free time to indulge in my sadistic ecstasy. 

I was twelve years old, old enough to know better, old enough to understand what I was doing. But I was addicted, that was the truth of it, helplessly addicted and no one noticed until it was too late. 

—————

As I sat crying fruitlessly at my mothers door, I could make out a dull humming sound coming from within the room. It reminded me of the bathroom fan and the ice machine down the hall, its lull called to me, and despite my fear I finally tried opening the door. 

For a moment I struggled against a small pile of clothes and towels, the room was dim and smelt foul. So much worse than the rest of the house that I pinched my nose shut before pushing my way inside. 

Only then did I realize what the hum was, a cloud of flies filled the room, emanating a menacing buzz that drowned out all other sound. I ducked as my movement stirred up the swarm, hundreds of flies pushing out into the apartment as I stepped toward the bed. 

The room was illuminated by a single shaded lamp on the bedside, and in its yellow glow I could make out my mothers shape. I weakly pulled myself onto her bed and crawled towards her, calling out her name. As I neared her legs I felt a cold wetness soak into my stained pajamas. The smell of the liquid caused me to gag again, it felt slimy against my skin. 

To my horror I realized she was coated in insects of all kinds, flies, roaches, gnats, a disgusting swarm the size of which I’d never seen. Her face was covered in a writhing mask of dark bodied bugs, overlapping and scrambling about her skin. 

I tried shaking her awake, all the while calling out “mom! Mom, wake up! Mom please!” 

Her body felt cold under my hands, and unsure how else to help her I began batting the bugs away from her face. I sobbed as I felt them on my hands, I smacked and hit and batted at them. I could see more crawling from her nose and deflated sockets, clambering over each other to escape my attention. Her face seemed to writhe with them, her nostrils distending over their bodies as they freed themselves like living blackheads. 

Her mouth was agape, and from it poured insects and maggots and a foul smell that caused me to vomit over her cold chest. I cried and begged and shook her as violently as my thin frame would allow. Until I couldn't take the swarming insects anymore, and I fled the apartment. A half starved, filthy, nine year old girl, screaming for someone to stop the bugs. 

————

I thought I could hide the bug box forever, I even began planning a permanent spot outside the home. My little shoebox was nearly full of implements and containers of live insects, and I planned on expanding my operation. 

I got greedy, I started swiping scissors and kitchen knives. Things my foster family noticed missing, things I lied about without second thought. I even shifted blame to my younger foster brother, after all I was much too old to do something like that. 

But by then things had gotten out of hand, I craved the feeling at all hours. I would get physically sick if I tried stopping for even a single day. Some sessions went for hours upon hours and I would become agitated whenever I was interrupted. I hated the bugs so much, but I loved how they made me feel.

I watched them, bisection, segmentation, immolation.
I hurt them, Inpaled, crippled, drowned, amputated. 
I destroyed them, crushing, stabbing, tearing. 
I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

And everything would have been just fine, if my brother hadn’t found my bug box. On that day I had just got back home with a fresh container of crickets and caught him in my room. He was holding a lighter and kitchen knife, missing items I had blamed him for. 

“I’m telling mom, you’re in so much trouble” he chimed at me. 

I stepped toward him while he continued talking, but the only sound I could hear was the buzzing. The rumble of a thousand flies emanating from his mouth, I felt terror overtake me. I watched in horror as dozens of insects began clambering over the edges of his face toward his mouth and eyes. 

I screamed as they filled his orifices, as they wriggled beneath his flesh, yet his mouth continued moving but no words came out. He dropped the knife and lighter as I screamed, “No more bugs!”

Suddenly I was on top of him, pinning him in place, the knife tightly clutched in my hand. I continued to shriek.
“Stop it! No more!”

I brought the knife down on the swarm, their carapaced bodies crunching under the blade. 
My brother wrenched violently underneath me, but I held him firmly in place, his frame much smaller than mine. I wouldn’t let the bugs kill him, I wouldn’t get in trouble, I wouldn’t let this happen. 

“No more bugs!” 

Again and again I brought the knife down on the bugs, killing more and more with every stab. But the swarm on his face was relentless and so densely packed, that I couldn’t make out his features below. 

“No more bugs!”

Frantically I continued to stab, each thrust sounded wetter and meatier than the last. I could feel crushed insectiod organs and juices coating the front of my body, the knife, my hands.

“No more bugs!” 

I continued until the handle was too slick to grip, and my arms were shaking with exhaustion. And as I looked down at him, the buzzing stopped, the fog lifted. And I realized what I had done. 

“No more bugs.” 

I’m writing this in the hopes someone will understand why I did what I did. I’m not asking to be forgiven, but I couldn’t stand the idea of harsh speculation from those that never knew me. Don’t forgive me, but try to understand. 

I hate them. 

The ones that fly, the ones that buzz, the ones that clamber. I hate every single one. 

And worst of all they hate me too. Dark pupil-less eyes, hard bodies covered in barbed hairs. Odd-bending joints, terrifying mouths, and their mechanical movements. Every aspect of them disgusted me, and just proximity to a single insect used to send me into an anxious mania that would sometimes take hours to fully calm from. 

Severe ptsd, anxiety disorder, and selective muteness. As far as adoption was concerned I was a high risk case, and for most people, that was far beyond the scope of childcare they had hoped for. I was damaged goods, far worse than many of the other children in the care facility. 

Most friends I made got transferred out to foster care or group homes. After a while I stopped trying to make new ones, not that I'd ever been the first to approach before. 

Despite my loneliness, I enjoyed the lack of bugs inside the building. Everything was so sterile and quiet, and the workers were kinder than anything I’d known. I had access to cartoons and toys, and on Wednesdays we had chocolate pudding. 

So when I heard a foster family had applied to take me on, I was resistant to leaving the place behind. I had my own bed with actual blankets, I had coloring books and got to watch teenage mutant ninja turtles whenever I wanted. All of which I brought up to my case worker, only to be informed I would have all those and more at my new home. 

It took some convincing and a few breakdowns, but after meeting the foster parents my apprehension was replaced with an eager curiosity that delighted my therapist. They were willing to take me in, cracks and all, and for that I could never repay them. 

Living with them brought a new set of challenges, but they supported me the whole way. My therapist said this place was an opportunity for me to heal, but truthfully I felt more afraid of bugs than ever. The anxiety of a new home only worsened my fears, proving a difficult adjustment period. But they took utmost care to keep me away from any bugs, and for that I was grateful. 

————

It never occurred to me just how inexperienced I was with normal interactions. How strange was an adult I could talk to without immense dread, ones that actually listened to me. But I guess I’d never had a proper example of a parent.

My real mom was a lot different, she ignored me a lot and slept most of the time. Sometimes she would sleep entire days, only ever getting up when one of her boyfriends came around. 

That's what she called the men that came around, her boyfriends. Every couple days another would come by, sometimes a few at a time. Sometimes they were mean, but mostly they just ignored me. 

The apartment was always cluttered, trash and clothes strewn about the place like a tornado had come through. Random assortments of items my mom kept to “sell later” though she never did. The walls were a gallery of chipped paint and holes of various sizes. Small piles of drywall left white dust on the stained carpet, a physical reminder of the violence that created it.

And despite everything the worst part of it all was the bugs. The rotting carpet, the piles of trash, the spoiled food, a sanctuary for insects. Roaches prowled the house at all hours, flies and mosquitoes filled the air, and bedbugs spawned endlessly in meager stained mattresses and dank carpeting. 

The constant terror of their presence, the sounds of their buzzing, the feeling of them on my skin. At the time i was barely seven, and was only allowed out on rare occasions to fetch ice or use a vending machine down the hall. I was trapped utterly and completely, and held in place by my fear of upsetting my mother. 

————

Moving into my new home came with a new set of challenges. And for once I felt hyper aware of my behavior, and began to feel immense guilt. I knew I wasn’t rational, I knew normal people didn’t act like this. But everyone was so kind to me, and they were endlessly patient through it all. 

My fear of lice was so strong I had to keep my hair buzzed, though it made me feel ugly. But the feeling of my own hair brushing my neck or face was enough to send me into a frenzy of itching until my skin was raw. 

My eyes turned every ball of dust or speck of lint into an infestation. I would unmake and remake the bed until I was sure the mattress was absolutely spotless. I would scour the room top to bottom, sometimes spending entire hours cleaning. And instead of scolding me, my foster mom would bring me a bucket of cleaning supplies and even offer to help sometimes. 

She taught me how to clean properly, and what chemicals to use where, and what not to mix. And though I wasn’t able to go outside without a breakdown, I felt confident in her abilities to keep a clean home. 

I could wander the house without falling into a panic, and that was enough for then. I rarely spoke, but my foster mom did enough talking for the both of us. She said so long as I could nod, she would do the rest. 

I wanted to make her proud, I promised myself I would heal, if only for her sake. Someone believed in me, and I wanted to believe it too. 

—————

At my old house I slept on an uncovered mattress on the floor. The folds housed a seemingly endless army of bed bugs that left me covered in little itchy red bumps. And sometimes if I cried to my mom enough, she would even have one of her boyfriends spray it down with Raid. Which did little more than irritate my lungs, but it made me feel safer regardless. 

I used to keep my light on all night in an effort to keep the roaches away. But I found that left on long enough even the roaches could get used to its sickly yellow glow. And no amount of toxic spray could keep them away from the garbage and decay that littered the apartment. 

The smell clung to my skin and clothes, mildew, mold, and cigarette smoke. But I hardly noticed it anymore, having gotten used to all terrible scents in the apartment but one. Moms medicine, which smelled distinctly different from everything else. At least once a week, clouds of smoke would drift from my moms room that cut through the stench. A chemical burning smell that made me feel woozy, and usually marked the start of my moms sleeping cycle. 

She told me she was sick, and needed to take her medicine or else she would die. She would sell anything worth money, and to my protest I would always hear something along the lines of “You don’t want your mommy to die do you?”. I started deliberately damaging my toys in an effort to make them less desirable for sale, and made an extreme effort to hide the one dvd I possessed. 

Season one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was my prized possession. Ever since one of her boyfriends found it on sale at a blockbuster for me, I would play it on repeat on my tiny DVD player. How ironic it was that a bargain-bin dvd purchased as an afterthought to keep me distracted meant everything to me. 

After taking her medicine, she would spend a few days in bed. During this time she was impossible to communicate with, nodding off in the middle of conversations and speaking nonsense. And even though I had to fend for myself during this time, it was the lesser of her two evils. 

When she didn’t have her medicine for long enough she would become erratic. It felt like being in a cage with an agitated animal, she would jump between extreme emotions while ranting at me or anyone who would listen. Sometimes she became super-mom for a day, buying me toys, feeding me, bathing me, being kind. 

These days made me incredibly anxious, knowing that at any moment she would flip like a switch. Beneath her surface lurked a predator wearing the skin of kindness and motherhood. She would care for me with all the tension of a sharp object in a taught plastic bag, and I felt every razor thin moment. Sometimes I wished she would die, and the guilt of it consumed me. 

—————

In my new home, I had become increasingly agitated at my slow recovery. I felt guilty that despite all of my foster parent’s efforts, I had barely made any progress. My frustration grew so intensely that the next time I saw a bug I became enraged. And despite my near overwhelming fear, I charged at it and squashed it under my shoe. 

At first I felt intense nausea and anxiety so badly I fell to my knees. I began preparing for another episode, crying and shaking until I was a withered dehydrated husk. But instead, the growing feeling was suddenly swept away by intense satisfaction. A euphoric moment that made me feel not just happy, but powerful. 

My foster parents cheered at the news, reinforcing my own joy at having conquered my fear. It felt so good to make them proud, and to take control over something that tormented my life if even in a small way. I felt so good in fact, that I spent the whole next day scouring the house for another bug to squash. 

And when I did, I ground its meager frame into a smear under my shoe. And again I felt a euphoric release that sent tingles down my spine. Every subsequent bug I smashed brought me another step toward healing, I was able to walk around the house without fear. I became more talkative and even started playing with my foster siblings. 

Now I was eagerly searching for bugs to smoosh, searching in every dusty corner of the house. It became my new obsession, each insect destroyed brought me hours of relief. It’s like each time I did, my fear faded more. 

Only my anxiety never really went away, it simply changed. Suddenly if I went an entire day without killing a bug, I felt my panic return tenfold. An itch that if left ignored would grow into a panic attack more severe than before. And unable to reliably find bugs inside the house to satisfy my needs, I began exploring the garden outside. 

Again I was met with extraordinary praise at my steps outside, everyone viewed it as a huge leap forward. Of course I never told them why I was driven to go outside, as I felt ashamed. And further still I was beginning to feel less and less of a release with every bug extinguished. The time between the craving became shorter, and the payoff less satisfying each time and it was starting to scare me.

—————

Most meals at my old home consisted of chips that went on sale, and the occasional pizza or microwave slop. More often than not I would be going to sleep hungry, I was skinny even for a kid and sometimes the men that came around felt pity. Occasionally they’d give me a candy bar or a few bucks for the vending machine, but never anything more than a snack.

I learned to stop telling my mom I was hungry, as that seemed to agitate her most of all. I was an ungrateful nuisance as she often reminded me, and that she must be the worst mom in the world. God I wish just once I would have told her it was true, that she was indeed terrible. That I was a half starved, neglected little girl and she had failed me miserably. 

Instead I would comfort my own mother, a child grasping at sweetened lies to placate her outbursts. I would have to assure her she was a good mom, and everything was alright and that I loved her. As I knew all too well her wallowing could turn into utter vitriol at any moment. 

The lice and bed bugs became so bad, I began sleeping in our grime-stained bathtub. Stuffing blankets and pillows between me and the cold fiberglass tub, I would drift to sleep to the buzzing sound of the vent fan above. Its mechanical lull acting as a sound mask for the happenings of the apartment at night.

—————

My fears became realized as I smashed my next bug and felt hardly anything at all. Until all at once the relief faded entirely, and I became inconsolable for days. I hardly ate or left my room, it felt like I was backsliding on all of my progress and worst of all letting my foster family down. 

In my desperation I went scouring for another bug, hoping that even just for a moment I might feel relief again. After a frantic search I found a beetle on the back porch. And this time instead of stepping on it, I reached down and plucked it from the ground. 

Instantly I had shuddered involuntarily, my stomach lurching at the sensation of its chitinous body flailing against my hand. It squirmed desperately, attempting to pull itself free of my grasp. I struggled against my own body, seeing flashes in my vision. I remember seeing hundreds of flies buzzing around my head as I fled back to my room with the beetle. I clenched my eyes shut in fear of the swarm and felt my way back to my room. 

In the darkness of my eyelids I saw my mothers face, her expression mirroring the very last time I had seen her. An icy terror shot through my body, before my knees buckled and I fell to the ground. When I opened my eyes and the flies where gone and I was in my room. And in my hand sat the beetle.

Without thinking I unfurled my hand, reached down, and pulled a leg from the beetles body. I watched it flail wildly on its back and felt a tinge of relief. So again I reached down and pulled another leg from its body. This time pulling a lump of soft flesh from its socket along with it, and I felt my own body relax in response. 

Slowly I pulled its limbs off one at a time, and this time felt more than relief. I felt a wave of satisfaction at it’s torturous death, as if I was transferring my own suffering into it’s tiny form. This is what I was looking for, relief and pleasure intertwined, my own medicine, just like mom. 

Soon I began experimenting with different methods, cutting pieces off them, burning them with matches, impaling them, I even drowned a few, though that method was never very precise. I would restrain them with scotch tape and poke them with needles, sometimes even heating it over a candle first. I was always looking for new ways to inflict suffering on them, and each one brought me more joy than the last. 

I would do this several times a day, and unlike just squashing them, the relief never started fading. But even as damaged as I was I knew it was wrong. Or at least I was afraid of letting my foster family down again. I was afraid of getting caught, afraid of being deprived of my outlet, and I was afraid I’d get in trouble. 

————

I spent a lot of time daydreaming at the old apartment, anything to help my mind escape from my real situation. I would pretend the ninja turtles showed up to take me on adventures and eat pizza and take me to a real school. 

Sometimes I’d get so lost in my pretend I’d go several days without so much as knocking on my moms bedroom door. Until one week the bugs had gotten worse than ever, clusters of flies in every room, roaches on the walls, nowhere was safe. 

Despite my fear of angering my mother, I reached a breaking point when I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of a roach crawling across my arm. I sobbed outside her door, a howling cry hoping to wake her up without needing to enter. Usually this many days after taking her medicine she would come out needing more. 

But lost in my own world, I had failed to notice she hadn't so much as left her room in days. I knocked and called out her name for what must have been hours, too afraid to open it without permission and warrant her usual beating. I debated leaving the apartment for outside help, but felt sure that would earn me a beating as well.

—————

I tried to stop, really I did. But by then my attachment to torturing insects was inseparable. I couldn’t eat or sleep without it, if I refrained for even a day I would completely break down. But by then I was socializing and leaving the house, I was a whole new person. 

But to remain this way, I began spending my allowance at the local pet store. I’d buy containers full of feeder bugs, crickets, mealworms, roaches, just about anything I could get my hands on. I’d stash the live bugs in a shoebox where I kept my instruments of torture. I took great care to stash the box in different places so no one could find it, I wasn’t allowed to have matches and lighters after all. 

The pet store workers knew me by name now, I had to make up a fabricated story about having chickens I would hand feed. An uncomfortable lie that I had slowly begun to believe myself, I even debated asking my foster parents if I could get chickens. 

By now I was torturing bugs nearly every moment I had alone, no longer just to curb my anxiety, but for pleasure. It felt amazing, and no other description would do it justice. A few times I stayed up all night, capitalizing on the free time to indulge in my sadistic ecstasy. 

I was twelve years old, old enough to know better, old enough to understand what I was doing. But I was addicted, that was the truth of it, helplessly addicted and no one noticed until it was too late. 

—————

As I sat crying fruitlessly at my mothers door, I could make out a dull humming sound coming from within the room. It reminded me of the bathroom fan and the ice machine down the hall, its lull called to me, and despite my fear I finally tried opening the door. 

For a moment I struggled against a small pile of clothes and towels, the room was dim and smelt foul. So much worse than the rest of the house that I pinched my nose shut before pushing my way inside. 

Only then did I realize what the hum was, a cloud of flies filled the room, emanating a menacing buzz that drowned out all other sound. I ducked as my movement stirred up the swarm, hundreds of flies pushing out into the apartment as I stepped toward the bed. 

The room was illuminated by a single shaded lamp on the bedside, and in its yellow glow I could make out my mothers shape. I weakly pulled myself onto her bed and crawled towards her, calling out her name. As I neared her legs I felt a cold wetness soak into my stained pajamas. The smell of the liquid caused me to gag again, it felt slimy against my skin. 

To my horror I realized she was coated in insects of all kinds, flies, roaches, gnats, a disgusting swarm the size of which I’d never seen. Her face was covered in a writhing mask of dark bodied bugs, overlapping and scrambling about her skin. 

I tried shaking her awake, all the while calling out “mom! Mom, wake up! Mom please!” 

Her body felt cold under my hands, and unsure how else to help her I began batting the bugs away from her face. I sobbed as I felt them on my hands, I smacked and hit and batted at them. I could see more crawling from her nose and deflated sockets, clambering over each other to escape my attention. Her face seemed to writhe with them, her nostrils distending over their bodies as they freed themselves like living blackheads. 

Her mouth was agape, and from it poured insects and maggots and a foul smell that caused me to vomit over her cold chest. I cried and begged and shook her as violently as my thin frame would allow. Until I couldn't take the swarming insects anymore, and I fled the apartment. A half starved, filthy, nine year old girl, screaming for someone to stop the bugs. 

————

I thought I could hide the bug box forever, I even began planning a permanent spot outside the home. My little shoebox was nearly full of implements and containers of live insects, and I planned on expanding my operation. 

I got greedy, I started swiping scissors and kitchen knives. Things my foster family noticed missing, things I lied about without second thought. I even shifted blame to my younger foster brother, after all I was much too old to do something like that. 

But by then things had gotten out of hand, I craved the feeling at all hours. I would get physically sick if I tried stopping for even a single day. Some sessions went for hours upon hours and I would become agitated whenever I was interrupted. I hated the bugs so much, but I loved how they made me feel.

I watched them, bisection, segmentation, immolation.
I hurt them, Inpaled, crippled, drowned, amputated. 
I destroyed them, crushing, stabbing, tearing. 
I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

And everything would have been just fine, if my brother hadn’t found my bug box. On that day I had just got back home with a fresh container of crickets and caught him in my room. He was holding a lighter and kitchen knife, missing items I had blamed him for. 

“I’m telling mom, you’re in so much trouble” he chimed at me. 

I stepped toward him while he continued talking, but the only sound I could hear was the buzzing. The rumble of a thousand flies emanating from his mouth, I felt terror overtake me. I watched in horror as dozens of insects began clambering over the edges of his face toward his mouth and eyes. 

I screamed as they filled his orifices, as they wriggled beneath his flesh, yet his mouth continued moving but no words came out. He dropped the knife and lighter as I screamed, “No more bugs!”

Suddenly I was on top of him, pinning him in place, the knife tightly clutched in my hand. I continued to shriek.
“Stop it! No more!”

I brought the knife down on the swarm, their carapaced bodies crunching under the blade. 
My brother wrenched violently underneath me, but I held him firmly in place, his frame much smaller than mine. I wouldn’t let the bugs kill him, I wouldn’t get in trouble, I wouldn’t let this happen. 

“No more bugs!” 

Again and again I brought the knife down on the bugs, killing more and more with every stab. But the swarm on his face was relentless and so densely packed, that I couldn’t make out his features below. 

“No more bugs!”

Frantically I continued to stab, each thrust sounded wetter and meatier than the last. I could feel crushed insectiod organs and juices coating the front of my body, the knife, my hands.

“No more bugs!” 

I continued until the handle was too slick to grip, and my arms were shaking with exhaustion. And as I looked down at him, the buzzing stopped, the fog lifted. And I realized what I had done. 

“No more bugs.” 

I’m writing this in the hopes someone will understand why I did what I did. I’m not asking to be forgiven, but I couldn’t stand the idea of harsh speculation from those that never knew me. Don’t forgive me, but try to understand. 

I hate them. 

The ones that fly, the ones that buzz, the ones that clamber. I hate every single one. 

And worst of all they hate me too. Dark pupil-less eyes, hard bodies covered in barbed hairs. Odd-bending joints, terrifying mouths, and their mechanical movements. Every aspect of them disgusted me, and just proximity to a single insect used to send me into an anxious mania that would sometimes take hours to fully calm from. 

Severe ptsd, anxiety disorder, and selective muteness. As far as adoption was concerned I was a high risk case, and for most people, that was far beyond the scope of childcare they had hoped for. I was damaged goods, far worse than many of the other children in the care facility. 

Most friends I made got transferred out to foster care or group homes. After a while I stopped trying to make new ones, not that I'd ever been the first to approach before. 

Despite my loneliness, I enjoyed the lack of bugs inside the building. Everything was so sterile and quiet, and the workers were kinder than anything I’d known. I had access to cartoons and toys, and on Wednesdays we had chocolate pudding. 

So when I heard a foster family had applied to take me on, I was resistant to leaving the place behind. I had my own bed with actual blankets, I had coloring books and got to watch teenage mutant ninja turtles whenever I wanted. All of which I brought up to my case worker, only to be informed I would have all those and more at my new home. 

It took some convincing and a few breakdowns, but after meeting the foster parents my apprehension was replaced with an eager curiosity that delighted my therapist. They were willing to take me in, cracks and all, and for that I could never repay them. 

Living with them brought a new set of challenges, but they supported me the whole way. My therapist said this place was an opportunity for me to heal, but truthfully I felt more afraid of bugs than ever. The anxiety of a new home only worsened my fears, proving a difficult adjustment period. But they took utmost care to keep me away from any bugs, and for that I was grateful. 

————

It never occurred to me just how inexperienced I was with normal interactions. How strange was an adult I could talk to without immense dread, ones that actually listened to me. But I guess I’d never had a proper example of a parent.

My real mom was a lot different, she ignored me a lot and slept most of the time. Sometimes she would sleep entire days, only ever getting up when one of her boyfriends came around. 

That's what she called the men that came around, her boyfriends. Every couple days another would come by, sometimes a few at a time. Sometimes they were mean, but mostly they just ignored me. 

The apartment was always cluttered, trash and clothes strewn about the place like a tornado had come through. Random assortments of items my mom kept to “sell later” though she never did. The walls were a gallery of chipped paint and holes of various sizes. Small piles of drywall left white dust on the stained carpet, a physical reminder of the violence that created it.

And despite everything the worst part of it all was the bugs. The rotting carpet, the piles of trash, the spoiled food, a sanctuary for insects. Roaches prowled the house at all hours, flies and mosquitoes filled the air, and bedbugs spawned endlessly in meager stained mattresses and dank carpeting. 

The constant terror of their presence, the sounds of their buzzing, the feeling of them on my skin. At the time i was barely seven, and was only allowed out on rare occasions to fetch ice or use a vending machine down the hall. I was trapped utterly and completely, and held in place by my fear of upsetting my mother. 

————

Moving into my new home came with a new set of challenges. And for once I felt hyper aware of my behavior, and began to feel immense guilt. I knew I wasn’t rational, I knew normal people didn’t act like this. But everyone was so kind to me, and they were endlessly patient through it all. 

My fear of lice was so strong I had to keep my hair buzzed, though it made me feel ugly. But the feeling of my own hair brushing my neck or face was enough to send me into a frenzy of itching until my skin was raw. 

My eyes turned every ball of dust or speck of lint into an infestation. I would unmake and remake the bed until I was sure the mattress was absolutely spotless. I would scour the room top to bottom, sometimes spending entire hours cleaning. And instead of scolding me, my foster mom would bring me a bucket of cleaning supplies and even offer to help sometimes. 

She taught me how to clean properly, and what chemicals to use where, and what not to mix. And though I wasn’t able to go outside without a breakdown, I felt confident in her abilities to keep a clean home. 

I could wander the house without falling into a panic, and that was enough for then. I rarely spoke, but my foster mom did enough talking for the both of us. She said so long as I could nod, she would do the rest. 

I wanted to make her proud, I promised myself I would heal, if only for her sake. Someone believed in me, and I wanted to believe it too. 

—————

At my old house I slept on an uncovered mattress on the floor. The folds housed a seemingly endless army of bed bugs that left me covered in little itchy red bumps. And sometimes if I cried to my mom enough, she would even have one of her boyfriends spray it down with Raid. Which did little more than irritate my lungs, but it made me feel safer regardless. 

I used to keep my light on all night in an effort to keep the roaches away. But I found that left on long enough even the roaches could get used to its sickly yellow glow. And no amount of toxic spray could keep them away from the garbage and decay that littered the apartment. 

The smell clung to my skin and clothes, mildew, mold, and cigarette smoke. But I hardly noticed it anymore, having gotten used to all terrible scents in the apartment but one. Moms medicine, which smelled distinctly different from everything else. At least once a week, clouds of smoke would drift from my moms room that cut through the stench. A chemical burning smell that made me feel woozy, and usually marked the start of my moms sleeping cycle. 

She told me she was sick, and needed to take her medicine or else she would die. She would sell anything worth money, and to my protest I would always hear something along the lines of “You don’t want your mommy to die do you?”. I started deliberately damaging my toys in an effort to make them less desirable for sale, and made an extreme effort to hide the one dvd I possessed. 

Season one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles was my prized possession. Ever since one of her boyfriends found it on sale at a blockbuster for me, I would play it on repeat on my tiny DVD player. How ironic it was that a bargain-bin dvd purchased as an afterthought to keep me distracted meant everything to me. 

After taking her medicine, she would spend a few days in bed. During this time she was impossible to communicate with, nodding off in the middle of conversations and speaking nonsense. And even though I had to fend for myself during this time, it was the lesser of her two evils. 

When she didn’t have her medicine for long enough she would become erratic. It felt like being in a cage with an agitated animal, she would jump between extreme emotions while ranting at me or anyone who would listen. Sometimes she became super-mom for a day, buying me toys, feeding me, bathing me, being kind. 

These days made me incredibly anxious, knowing that at any moment she would flip like a switch. Beneath her surface lurked a predator wearing the skin of kindness and motherhood. She would care for me with all the tension of a sharp object in a taught plastic bag, and I felt every razor thin moment. Sometimes I wished she would die, and the guilt of it consumed me. 

—————

In my new home, I had become increasingly agitated at my slow recovery. I felt guilty that despite all of my foster parent’s efforts, I had barely made any progress. My frustration grew so intensely that the next time I saw a bug I became enraged. And despite my near overwhelming fear, I charged at it and squashed it under my shoe. 

At first I felt intense nausea and anxiety so badly I fell to my knees. I began preparing for another episode, crying and shaking until I was a withered dehydrated husk. But instead, the growing feeling was suddenly swept away by intense satisfaction. A euphoric moment that made me feel not just happy, but powerful. 

My foster parents cheered at the news, reinforcing my own joy at having conquered my fear. It felt so good to make them proud, and to take control over something that tormented my life if even in a small way. I felt so good in fact, that I spent the whole next day scouring the house for another bug to squash. 

And when I did, I ground its meager frame into a smear under my shoe. And again I felt a euphoric release that sent tingles down my spine. Every subsequent bug I smashed brought me another step toward healing, I was able to walk around the house without fear. I became more talkative and even started playing with my foster siblings. 

Now I was eagerly searching for bugs to smoosh, searching in every dusty corner of the house. It became my new obsession, each insect destroyed brought me hours of relief. It’s like each time I did, my fear faded more. 

Only my anxiety never really went away, it simply changed. Suddenly if I went an entire day without killing a bug, I felt my panic return tenfold. An itch that if left ignored would grow into a panic attack more severe than before. And unable to reliably find bugs inside the house to satisfy my needs, I began exploring the garden outside. 

Again I was met with extraordinary praise at my steps outside, everyone viewed it as a huge leap forward. Of course I never told them why I was driven to go outside, as I felt ashamed. And further still I was beginning to feel less and less of a release with every bug extinguished. The time between the craving became shorter, and the payoff less satisfying each time and it was starting to scare me.

—————

Most meals at my old home consisted of chips that went on sale, and the occasional pizza or microwave slop. More often than not I would be going to sleep hungry, I was skinny even for a kid and sometimes the men that came around felt pity. Occasionally they’d give me a candy bar or a few bucks for the vending machine, but never anything more than a snack.

I learned to stop telling my mom I was hungry, as that seemed to agitate her most of all. I was an ungrateful nuisance as she often reminded me, and that she must be the worst mom in the world. God I wish just once I would have told her it was true, that she was indeed terrible. That I was a half starved, neglected little girl and she had failed me miserably. 

Instead I would comfort my own mother, a child grasping at sweetened lies to placate her outbursts. I would have to assure her she was a good mom, and everything was alright and that I loved her. As I knew all too well her wallowing could turn into utter vitriol at any moment. 

The lice and bed bugs became so bad, I began sleeping in our grime-stained bathtub. Stuffing blankets and pillows between me and the cold fiberglass tub, I would drift to sleep to the buzzing sound of the vent fan above. Its mechanical lull acting as a sound mask for the happenings of the apartment at night.

—————

My fears became realized as I smashed my next bug and felt hardly anything at all. Until all at once the relief faded entirely, and I became inconsolable for days. I hardly ate or left my room, it felt like I was backsliding on all of my progress and worst of all letting my foster family down. 

In my desperation I went scouring for another bug, hoping that even just for a moment I might feel relief again. After a frantic search I found a beetle on the back porch. And this time instead of stepping on it, I reached down and plucked it from the ground. 

Instantly I had shuddered involuntarily, my stomach lurching at the sensation of its chitinous body flailing against my hand. It squirmed desperately, attempting to pull itself free of my grasp. I struggled against my own body, seeing flashes in my vision. I remember seeing hundreds of flies buzzing around my head as I fled back to my room with the beetle. I clenched my eyes shut in fear of the swarm and felt my way back to my room. 

In the darkness of my eyelids I saw my mothers face, her expression mirroring the very last time I had seen her. An icy terror shot through my body, before my knees buckled and I fell to the ground. When I opened my eyes the flies where gone and I was in my room. And in my hand sat the beetle.

Without thinking I unfurled my hand, reached down, and pulled a leg from the beetles body. I watched it flail wildly on its back and felt a tinge of relief. So again I reached down and pulled another leg from its body. This time pulling a lump of soft flesh from its socket along with it, and I felt my own body relax in response. 

Slowly I pulled its limbs off one at a time, and this time felt more than relief. I felt a wave of satisfaction at it’s torturous death, as if I was transferring my own suffering into it’s tiny form. This is what I was looking for, relief and pleasure intertwined, my own medicine, just like mom. 

Soon I began experimenting with different methods, cutting pieces off them, burning them with matches, impaling them, I even drowned a few, though that method was never very precise. I would restrain them with scotch tape and poke them with needles, sometimes even heating it over a candle first. I was always looking for new ways to inflict suffering on them, and each one brought me more joy than the last. 

I would do this several times a day, and unlike just squashing them, the relief never started fading. But even as damaged as I was I knew it was wrong. Or at least I was afraid of letting my foster family down again. I was afraid of getting caught, afraid of being deprived of my outlet, and I was afraid I’d get in trouble. 

————

I spent a lot of time daydreaming at the old apartment, anything to help my mind escape from my real situation. I would pretend the ninja turtles showed up to take me on adventures and eat pizza and take me to a real school. 

Sometimes I’d get so lost in my pretend I’d go several days without so much as knocking on my moms bedroom door. Until one week the bugs had gotten worse than ever, clusters of flies in every room, roaches on the walls, nowhere was safe. 

Despite my fear of angering my mother, I reached a breaking point when I woke in the middle of the night to the feeling of a roach crawling across my arm. I sobbed outside her door, a howling cry hoping to wake her up without needing to enter. Usually this many days after taking her medicine she would come out needing more. 

But lost in my own world, I had failed to notice she hadn't so much as left her room in days. I knocked and called out her name for what must have been hours, too afraid to open it without permission and warrant her usual beating. I debated leaving the apartment for outside help, but felt sure that would earn me a beating as well.

—————

I tried to stop, really I did. But by then my attachment to torturing insects was inseparable. I couldn’t eat or sleep without it, if I refrained for even a day I would completely break down. But by then I was socializing and leaving the house, I was a whole new person. 

But to remain this way, I began spending my allowance at the local pet store. I’d buy containers full of feeder bugs, crickets, mealworms, roaches, just about anything I could get my hands on. I’d stash the live bugs in a shoebox where I kept my instruments of torture. I took great care to stash the box in different places so no one could find it, I wasn’t allowed to have matches and lighters after all. 

The pet store workers knew me by name now, I had to make up a fabricated story about having chickens I would hand feed. An uncomfortable lie that I had slowly begun to believe myself, I even debated asking my foster parents if I could get chickens. 

By now I was torturing bugs nearly every moment I had alone, no longer just to curb my anxiety, but for pleasure. It felt amazing, and no other description would do it justice. A few times I stayed up all night, capitalizing on the free time to indulge in my sadistic ecstasy. 

I was twelve years old, old enough to know better, old enough to understand what I was doing. But I was addicted, that was the truth of it, helplessly addicted and no one noticed until it was too late. 

—————

As I sat crying fruitlessly at my mothers door, I could make out a dull humming sound coming from within the room. It reminded me of the bathroom fan and the ice machine down the hall, its lull called to me, and despite my fear I finally tried opening the door. 

For a moment I struggled against a small pile of clothes and towels, the room was dim and smelt foul. So much worse than the rest of the house that I pinched my nose shut before pushing my way inside. 

Only then did I realize what the hum was, a cloud of flies filled the room, emanating a menacing buzz that drowned out all other sound. I ducked as my movement stirred up the swarm, hundreds of flies pushing out into the apartment as I stepped toward the bed. 

The room was illuminated by a single shaded lamp on the bedside, and in its yellow glow I could make out my mothers shape. I weakly pulled myself onto her bed and crawled towards her, calling out her name. As I neared her legs I felt a cold wetness soak into my stained pajamas. The smell of the liquid caused me to gag again, it felt slimy against my skin. 

To my horror I realized she was coated in insects of all kinds, flies, roaches, gnats, a disgusting swarm the size of which I’d never seen. Her face was covered in a writhing mask of dark bodied bugs, overlapping and scrambling about her skin. 

I tried shaking her awake, all the while calling out “mom! Mom, wake up! Mom please!” 

Her body felt cold under my hands, and unsure how else to help her I began batting the bugs away from her face. I sobbed as I felt them on my hands, I smacked and hit and batted at them. I could see more crawling from her nose and deflated sockets, clambering over each other to escape my attention. Her face seemed to writhe with them, her nostrils distending over their bodies as they freed themselves like living blackheads. 

Her mouth was agape, and from it poured insects and maggots and a foul smell that caused me to vomit over her cold chest. I cried and begged and shook her as violently as my thin frame would allow. Until I couldn't take the swarming insects anymore, and I fled the apartment. A half starved, filthy, nine year old girl, screaming for someone to stop the bugs. 

————

I thought I could hide the bug box forever, I even began planning a permanent spot outside the home. My little shoebox was nearly full of implements and containers of live insects, and I planned on expanding my operation. 

I got greedy, I started swiping scissors and kitchen knives. Things my foster family noticed missing, things I lied about without second thought. I even shifted blame to my younger foster brother, after all I was much too old to do something like that. 

But by then things had gotten out of hand, I craved the feeling at all hours. I would get physically sick if I tried stopping for even a single day. Some sessions went for hours upon hours and I would become agitated whenever I was interrupted. I hated the bugs so much, but I loved how they made me feel.

I watched them, bisection, segmentation, immolation.
I hurt them, Inpaled, crippled, drowned, amputated. 
I destroyed them, crushing, stabbing, tearing. 
I hate them, I hate them, I hate them.

And everything would have been just fine, if my brother hadn’t found my bug box. On that day I had just got back home with a fresh container of crickets and caught him in my room. He was holding a lighter and kitchen knife, missing items I had blamed him for. 

“I’m telling mom, you’re in so much trouble” he chimed at me. 

I stepped toward him while he continued talking, but the only sound I could hear was the buzzing. The rumble of a thousand flies emanating from his mouth, I felt terror overtake me. I watched in horror as dozens of insects began clambering over the edges of his face toward his mouth and eyes. 

I screamed as they filled his orifices, as they wriggled beneath his flesh, yet his mouth continued moving but no words came out. He dropped the knife and lighter as I screamed, “No more bugs!”

Suddenly I was on top of him, pinning him in place, the knife tightly clutched in my hand. I continued to shriek.
“Stop it! No more!”

I brought the knife down on the swarm, their carapaced bodies crunching under the blade. 
My brother wrenched violently underneath me, but I held him firmly in place, his frame much smaller than mine. I wouldn’t let the bugs kill him, I wouldn’t get in trouble, I wouldn’t let this happen. 

“No more bugs!” 

Again and again I brought the knife down on the bugs, killing more and more with every stab. But the swarm on his face was relentless and so densely packed, that I couldn’t make out his features below. 

“No more bugs!”

Frantically I continued to stab, each thrust sounded wetter and meatier than the last. I could feel crushed insectiod organs and juices coating the front of my body, the knife, my hands.

“No more bugs!” 

I continued until the handle was too slick to grip, and my arms were shaking with exhaustion. And as I looked down at him, the buzzing stopped, the fog lifted. And I realized what I had done. 

“No more bugs.” 

There’s a monster living on this island
That’s what the people said.

I scoffed, any beast approach my land and I’d put one through it’s head

Tales is all it was, tall as the mountains peak

Besides I was a good Shepard, I’d never lost a sheep

For my son and I took shifts, we were never both asleep

Strange noises all night long, that’s what my son said

Sometimes it whistles, sometimes it screams, but never had we seen the thing

Until one day, I got sloppy and I dozed

Only for a moment, but when I arose

Three sheep and a lamb where gone with no trace

The lamb my sons favorite, painted revenge on his face

Three days passed, and still no sign despite how my boy tried

Then one night, under a full moon I woke

Two gunshots from the field, I pulled on my coat

The flock was scattered, their bleats pierced the night

On the edge of the field I spotted fading light, a flickering lantern toppled on its side

Fresh blood on the ground, and sign of a struggle

I followed the trail, calling out into the dark

From the silence came a sound, a single long cry

The bleating of a lamb, I felt a surge inside

The young thing had survived, but how I was unsure

My son would be relieved that his dear friend had been saved, I hurried toward the sound raising my lantern close to face

I pushed through the thicket and raised my light, scanning the brush I heard a rustle to my right

I turned toward the sound, wishing now I had listened to the tales of the town

Skin like coal, hunched over bent knees, sat a form nearly human, gorging on meat

Twice my size, Its body held no fat, skin both taught and loose

It’s features that of a hairless baboon

And pinned beneath its wretched form, was my son half alive

His face pressed against the ground, gaping like a fish

And from his wounds the beast reached in, to pull more meat into its fist

It swallowed the morsel, viscera dripping from its chin

And as it’s eyes set into mine, it raised its head as if to speak

But from its mouth came the sound of the little lamb’s bleat

(Ended up more free form ig)

There’s a monster living on this island
That’s what the people said.

I scoffed, any beast approach my land and I’d put one through it’s head

Tales is all it was, tall as the mountains peak

Besides I was a good Shepard, I’d never lost a sheep

For my son and I took shifts, we were never both asleep

Strange noises all night long, that’s what my son said

Sometimes it whistles, sometimes it screams, but never had we seen the thing

Until one day, I got sloppy and I dozed

Only for a moment, but when I arose

Three sheep and a lamb where gone with no trace

The lamb my sons favorite, painted revenge on his face

Three days passed, and still no sign despite how my boy tried

Then one night, under a full moon I woke

Two gunshots from the field, I pulled on my coat

The flock was scattered, their bleats pierced the night

On the edge of the field I spotted fading light, a flickering lantern toppled on its side

Fresh blood on the ground, and sign of a struggle

I followed the trail, calling out into the dark

From the silence came a sound, a single long cry

The bleating of a lamb, I felt a surge inside

The young thing had survived, but how I was unsure

My son would be relieved that his dear friend had been saved, I hurried toward the sound raising my lantern close to face

I pushed through the thicket and raised my light, scanning the brush I heard a rustle to my right

I turned toward the sound, wishing now I had listened to the tales of the town

Skin like coal, hunched over bent knees, sat a form nearly human, gorging on meat

Twice my size, Its body held no fat, skin both taught and loose

It’s features that of a hairless baboon

And pinned beneath its wretched form, was my son half alive

His face pressed against the ground, gaping like a fish

And from his wounds the beast reached in, to pull more meat into its fist

It swallowed the morsel, viscera dripping from its chin

And as it’s eyes set into mine, it raised its head as if to speak

But from its mouth came the sound of the little lamb’s bleat

(Ended up more free form ig)

Summary

When a rich game hunter buys up a large portion of former public land in a poor rust belt town, a group of friends gather to exact juvenile revenge against the man and his property. But as tension builds and things begin to go wrong, their coming of age adventure is shattered by violent realities.

Consider checking out part one first on my profile, imbedded link will be added soon. As always thanks for reading hope you enjoy, next part coming soon.

Part 2

Taking in the landscape for the first time in years, made me realize just how much I had taken its natural beauty for granted. It always seemed corny to me when adults would gush about how breathtaking the land was. I thought they were being ridiculous, to me it was just the woods I’d always known. The same trees and trails and dirt as the day before.

But now, stepping out of the treeline onto a foot-stamped dirt path, I could really see it for what it was. 

Knee high brushstrokes of vibrant green stalks and wild wheat encompassed the trail, the thin ends glowing gold from the afternoon sun. Small birds fluttered between lush green canopies bordering our path, their calls mixing into a nostalgic melody carried by the calm breeze. 

It wasn’t just breathtaking, it was alive. Small animals rustled through the undergrowth, darting away from our path as we passed them by. It felt like the fauna itself was coming out to say hello, welcoming us back like an old friend. 

And as if we had been sharing thoughts, Samantha let out a soft “wow” taking in the scenery. 

“This breeze is a life saver, my balls were starting to pressure cook in here” George says while fanning the waistline of his jeans. 

“Way to spoil the moment man” Shaun half jokes.

“I’m serious dude, my boys are bakin’, I’m talking sous vide in their own sweat here.” George says between barely stifled laughter at his own joke. 

“What the fuck does that even mean” Shaun asked wearily and Samantha laughed again. 

As we continued to banter, the low topped canopies thinned. Giving way to towering sycamores interspersed with thick-trunked white oaks and eastern cottonwoods. Providing a vast sun dotted shade that cooled the woods ahead. 

Here the ground has much less growth, instead covered with low creeping ivy and dead leaves. And littered with patches of mushrooms thriving off soft refuse from the forest floor. 

Instantly we spotted a trail cam, and with few words Samantha pulled the hammer from her bag. “Who wants to smash it?” 

We exchanged looks, determined, nervous, and contemplative. I could see the gears turning, faces considering backing out, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I had to convince them, this can’t be how it ends after everything. 

“Guys listen real quick, we’ve been waiting to do this for years. These were our woods, not just ours, the whole town’s. And this guy just thinks he can show up and take whatever he wants, just because he has money? Our fort, the river, the trails, the local wildlife?” I grab the hammer from Samantha, my palms already sweating as I step toward the camera. “This is what I think” 

Whack

I bring the hammer down on the lense and it cracks under the blow. “Now show me what you think” I finish my short speech, holding out the hammer towards them. 

George steps forward first and I can’t help but grin at my closest friend as he takes a swing of his own. And as if he knew exactly what I was going for, he turns and holds the hammer out for Shaun and Samantha.

One by one we each took a swing at the camera, and I felt proud at the moment I created. A little cheesy maybe, but sometimes the low hanging fruit is the sweetest. And as I watched Samantha take the last swing at the camera, my apprehension of her lessened. The pact had been formed, and our collective confidence returned with a renewed determination. 

We followed a winding footpath marked by red rope tied on low branches or the occasional thin trunk. Every few minutes finding another trail cam and smashing it to pieces, our excitement turning our pace into a half jog.

George kept ahead of us carving out our path with long strides, he leapt over branches and rocks with a nimble athleticism I nearly forget he possessed. Only once he had spotted a clearing did he look back, hosting a satisfied grin and the sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Theres a building out in the clearing.” George shouted back as he waited for us to catch up.

As we emerged from the treeline together, we spotted the low topped concrete box the size of a large garage. On the opposite side of the building I spotted the gravel road that we had been looking for, the soul route to the hunters cabin. A faint electrical hum emanated from the structure that grew to a dull buzz as we approached. The only apparent entrance was a large metal hatch slightly below ground level, but no matter how we pulled or pried, we couldn't get it open. Above metal hinges sat a sign reading Primary Grid. 

“What the hell does this guy need his own power station for?” George questions. 

“Well I don’t know if you noticed, but all of the trail cams we came across were wired into the ground so I’m willing to bet they’re all connected by this grid.” Shaun says matter of factly. “Maybe he just has so many things running he needs his own generators.”

“Since when did you become an electrician?” George teases while peering down the gravel road. “Well lead the way Mr electric” 

“Was that a sharkboy and lava girl reference?” Samantha cocks an eyebrow and George nods. “Daamn I see you, this cracka’ knows ball.”

We bust up in response and Samantha beams at having nailed our humor. Seems she’ll fit in with us just fine after all, during our laughter I catch Shaun’s attention and give him a nod of approval as if he needed my blessing to begin with.

Giving up on the primary grid building, we turned our attention back toward the gravel road. However just as our conversation picked back up, I began to hear a distant noise that caused me to freeze and listen. The sound was approaching rapidly, growing in volume until I was sure what I was hearing, the roar of a diesel engine. The conversation halted and everyone froze with me.

“Off the road now, those trees!” I pointed and we ran, gravel spitting out from behind my shoes as I pushed off. I practically tumbled off the road into the brush, only stopping once I had a thick tree to press my back against. My chest heaved with both panic and effort, my arms stung with fresh scrapes. 

My friends scrambled to cover around me, just in time for the truck to come into view. Cautiously I watched through a thin bush, the truck looked incredibly old and the headlights and taillights seemed to be missing. I couldn't catch a solid glimpse of the driver, not that I was trying, if I could see him he could see me after all. But one thing was certain, this changes things.

We waited several minutes after the sound faded just to be sure we were safe, but this new danger lingered on our minds. Samantha argued we should assume it was the hunter and get out before we got caught. But I was quick to remind everyone that my mom had mentioned that someone was watching over his property, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. My mom had mentioned that she \\\*thought\\\* there was someone looking over the property, not that she was sure. But suddenly I felt thrust into the role of keeping us together, determined to finish the job. I justified the lie thinking certainly the worst trouble we could get in was a night in jail.

Shaun argued that anyone being here changes things, and said we had to adapt in response. But ever the peace-maker, Shaun was determined to find a compromise for us and proposed a modified plan. We just watched the old truck head the opposite direction of the hunters cabin, so it's likely they were headed for the front gate. So we had a small window of opportunity before they would return. He proposed we head straight for the cabin, spray paint the outside and make a beeline for the exit. 

Not exactly the satisfying damage we had envisioned, but he made a lot of sense. One last stupid move, and we’d leave before we pushed our luck too far. George and I tried prying at the plan for more leeway, but Shaun and Samantha held firm. Though he had a point, and with nearly three miles between us and the cabin and we had no time to argue. 

Sticking to the sides of the gravel road, we jogged down the path. Only now we stopped whenever we heard a strange noise and constantly checked over our shoulders. I felt like prey, every strange shape and twig snap became a hunter leveling a rifle. On the way we spotted another concrete structure just off the gravel path, slowing long enough to read Secondary Grid posted above a metal hatch door. 

But as George begins towards the building I call out “Dude there’s no time, we can check on our way out lets just keep moving.” to which he reluctantly agreed. 

“Yeah I'd rather not spray paint in the dark I guess.”

“If we get split up we could meet back here, like a rendezvous point.” I say and the group agrees. 

Having our original confidence shaken, we hike the majority of the way in silence, only interrupted by the occasional side comment or observation. At times like this I wish I knew what everyone was thinking, I scanned their faces for the weakest link. As long as I could keep the most reluctant person from turning back early, I felt I could prevent a snowballing agreement to abort the mission. 

I slowed until I was walking alongside Samantha, sure that she was the most likely to turn back first. “Exciting huh?” I ask tentatively watching her expression. 

“That’s certainly a word for it” she replies.

“Look we got your back there's nothing to worry about, besides worst case we run for it.” I say leveling my voice.

“I think there’s scenarios worse than having to run for it.” she retorts before swigging her water.

“Well even if we do get caught you know Shaun won’t let anything happen to you.” I watch her involuntary smile forming at my words. 

She shoots a shy glance toward Shaun and George ahead of us before responding “I don't know, I think Shaun and I are just friends.” Her flushed face gives her away.

“Huh if you say so, but you sure stare at him a lot when he’s not looking.” I press further and she avoids my gaze. “I bet you haven't noticed he does it back.” 

“Oh my god please shut up.” Samantha buries her face in her hands “you're messing with me.” she groans quietly.

Convinced that her fear of getting caught was being overtaken by her anxious crushing on Shaun I went in for the killing blow. “I wouldn't lie about that, he’s definitely into you. Now time to find out if you’re into him.” I say giving her a light push in his direction, and she quickens her pace to catch up with him. 

Now admittedly it did feel a little disingenuous, maybe even a little manipulative. But I felt I was doing them a favor, not only am I making sure we don’t regret backing out of our adventure early but I was pushing Shaun and Samantha closer. If anything it was getting two birds with one stone, they would be thanking me later.

The sun had just begun to set as we arrived at the hunters cabin, the large clearing visible from over a mile away. It was a rustic two story mansion of a log cabin but a log cabin nonetheless, its dark wood contrasting with the green field and pale barked trees. Not a single light was on inside, giving each window a reflective sheen that gave way to the swallowing darkness within.

Approaching the cabin I was already unzipping my bag, determined to make our mark before the sun finished setting. Already I was debating phrases to write on the walls and possible crude images to pair with it, everyone crowded around me to grab their own cans. Soon the rhythmic clacking of shaking spray cans and the hiss of thin nozzles filled the air, I glanced at Samantha’s work and saw she was halfway through spraying the word MURDERER in block letters. While we painted the sky filled with dark clouds from the horizon, the setting sun illuminating distant rain. 

We worked for several minutes before a surprised and shrill word rang out from the far right side of us. “GUYS!” 

Shaun’s tone was so full of fear that even before I turned my head I already felt my stomach drop and my pulse quicken. Standing ten feet from Shaun was a large bearded man, he wore a sweat stained sleeveless shirt tucked into worn jeans with muddy black boots and a dusty cap. His face and arms red and tanned from the sun, his expression was wide eyed and tight lipped. And in his arms sat a shotgun held from his waist, the muzzle already raised in our direction. 

“Don’t run!” his gruff voice barked at us, a distinct lack of local midwestern draw in his tone. I had no doubts now that this was the hunter.

We huddled against each other in fear, not realizing we had already been backstepping away. “Come here! That's far enough” 

“We just want to leave, we’ll leave okay” George stammered his voice cracking with fear. 

“No! You don’t understand, you need to come with me now okay?” he took a step closer and Samantha let out a stifled cry. 

“No please we just want to go home” Samantha fights back tears as she pleads. 

The man takes a deep breath “I’ll take you out of here. I promise you’re not in trouble, but do not run, do you hear me?” he was still shouting but his tone felt wrong, like he wasn’t angry but more pleading. He sounded insane, his eyes were wide and wild like he was afraid of something. 

I tightened my grip on the back of Shaun's shirt and continued to move us backwards another half step. In response he raises his gun and begins to shout again “I’m serious don-” his words are cut off by the sound of a loud echoing bang and a flash of light.

All at once we began to scramble away toward the treeline before we had a chance to recognize the sound as thunder and the flash as its lightning. He shouted after us as we sprinted for the edge of the clearing, but my adrenaline and fear made it impossible to do anything but run.

I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the trees before my friends, only to watch the huntsman suddenly halt mid chasing-stride. And in one fluid motion he raised the shotgun and racked a shell before I could even react.

In my panic I reached for the person closest to the clearings edge, I clutched at Samantha’s sleeve attempting to yank her behind a tree. But as I grabbed hold of her arm a single terrifying sound cut through the chaos.

The echoing boom of a shotgun.

Summary

When a rich game hunter buys up a large portion of former public land in a poor rust belt town, a group of friends gather to exact juvenile revenge against the man and his property. But as tension builds and things begin to go wrong, their coming of age adventure is shattered by violent realities.

Consider checking out part one first on my profile, imbedded link will be added soon. As always thanks for reading hope you enjoy, next part coming soon.

Part 2

Taking in the landscape for the first time in years, made me realize just how much I had taken its natural beauty for granted. It always seemed corny to me when adults would gush about how breathtaking the land was. I thought they were being ridiculous, to me it was just the woods I’d always known. The same trees and trails and dirt as the day before.

But now, stepping out of the treeline onto a foot-stamped dirt path, I could really see it for what it was. 

Knee high brushstrokes of vibrant green stalks and wild wheat encompassed the trail, the thin ends glowing gold from the afternoon sun. Small birds fluttered between lush green canopies bordering our path, their calls mixing into a nostalgic melody carried by the calm breeze. 

It wasn’t just breathtaking, it was alive. Small animals rustled through the undergrowth, darting away from our path as we passed them by. It felt like the fauna itself was coming out to say hello, welcoming us back like an old friend. 

And as if we had been sharing thoughts, Samantha let out a soft “wow” taking in the scenery. 

“This breeze is a life saver, my balls were starting to pressure cook in here” George says while fanning the waistline of his jeans. 

“Way to spoil the moment man” Shaun half jokes.

“I’m serious dude, my boys are bakin’, I’m talking sous vide in their own sweat here.” George says between barely stifled laughter at his own joke. 

“What the fuck does that even mean” Shaun asked wearily and Samantha laughed again. 

As we continued to banter, the low topped canopies thinned. Giving way to towering sycamores interspersed with thick-trunked white oaks and eastern cottonwoods. Providing a vast sun dotted shade that cooled the woods ahead. 

Here the ground has much less growth, instead covered with low creeping ivy and dead leaves. And littered with patches of mushrooms thriving off soft refuse from the forest floor. 

Instantly we spotted a trail cam, and with few words Samantha pulled the hammer from her bag. “Who wants to smash it?” 

We exchanged looks, determined, nervous, and contemplative. I could see the gears turning, faces considering backing out, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I had to convince them, this can’t be how it ends after everything. 

“Guys listen real quick, we’ve been waiting to do this for years. These were our woods, not just ours, the whole town’s. And this guy just thinks he can show up and take whatever he wants, just because he has money? Our fort, the river, the trails, the local wildlife?” I grab the hammer from Samantha, my palms already sweating as I step toward the camera. “This is what I think” 

\\\*Whack\\\*

I bring the hammer down on the lense and it cracks under the blow. “Now show me what you think” I finish my short speech, holding out the hammer towards them. 

George steps forward first and I can’t help but grin at my closest friend as he takes a swing of his own. And as if he knew exactly what I was going for, he turns and holds the hammer out for Shaun and Samantha.

One by one we each took a swing at the camera, and I felt proud at the moment I created. A little cheesy maybe, but sometimes the low hanging fruit is the sweetest. And as I watched Samantha take the last swing at the camera, my apprehension of her lessened. The pact had been formed, and our collective confidence returned with a renewed determination. 

We followed a winding footpath marked by red rope tied on low branches or the occasional thin trunk. Every few minutes finding another trail cam and smashing it to pieces, our excitement turning our pace into a half jog.

George kept ahead of us carving out our path with long strides, he leapt over branches and rocks with a nimble athleticism I nearly forget he possessed. Only once he had spotted a clearing did he look back, hosting a satisfied grin and the sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Theres a building out in the clearing.” George shouted back as he waited for us to catch up.

As we emerged from the treeline together, we spotted the low topped concrete box the size of a large garage. On the opposite side of the building I spotted the gravel road that we had been looking for, the soul route to the hunters cabin. A faint electrical hum emanated from the structure that grew to a dull buzz as we approached. The only apparent entrance was a large metal hatch slightly below ground level, but no matter how we pulled or pried, we couldn't get it open. Above metal hinges sat a sign reading Primary Grid. 

“What the hell does this guy need his own power station for?” George questions. 

“Well I don’t know if you noticed, but all of the trail cams we came across were wired into the ground so I’m willing to bet they’re all connected by this grid.” Shaun says matter of factly. “Maybe he just has so many things running he needs his own generators.”

“Since when did you become an electrician?” George teases while peering down the gravel road. “Well lead the way Mr electric” 

“Was that a sharkboy and lava girl reference?” Samantha cocks an eyebrow and George nods. “Daamn I see you, this cracka’ knows ball.”

We bust up in response and Samantha beams at having nailed our humor. Seems she’ll fit in with us just fine after all, during our laughter I catch Shaun’s attention and give him a nod of approval as if he needed my blessing to begin with.

Giving up on the primary grid building, we turned our attention back toward the gravel road. However just as our conversation picked back up, I began to hear a distant noise that caused me to freeze and listen. The sound was approaching rapidly, growing in volume until I was sure what I was hearing, the roar of a diesel engine. The conversation halted and everyone froze with me.

“Off the road now, those trees!” I pointed and we ran, gravel spitting out from behind my shoes as I pushed off. I practically tumbled off the road into the brush, only stopping once I had a thick tree to press my back against. My chest heaved with both panic and effort, my arms stung with fresh scrapes. 

My friends scrambled to cover around me, just in time for the truck to come into view. Cautiously I watched through a thin bush, the truck looked incredibly old and the headlights and taillights seemed to be missing. I couldn't catch a solid glimpse of the driver, not that I was trying, if I could see him he could see me after all. But one thing was certain, this changes things.

We waited several minutes after the sound faded just to be sure we were safe, but this new danger lingered on our minds. Samantha argued we should assume it was the hunter and get out before we got caught. But I was quick to remind everyone that my mom had mentioned that someone was watching over his property, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. My mom had mentioned that she \\\*thought\\\* there was someone looking over the property, not that she was sure. But suddenly I felt thrust into the role of keeping us together, determined to finish the job. I justified the lie thinking certainly the worst trouble we could get in was a night in jail.

Shaun argued that anyone being here changes things, and said we had to adapt in response. But ever the peace-maker, Shaun was determined to find a compromise for us and proposed a modified plan. We just watched the old truck head the opposite direction of the hunters cabin, so it's likely they were headed for the front gate. So we had a small window of opportunity before they would return. He proposed we head straight for the cabin, spray paint the outside and make a beeline for the exit. 

Not exactly the satisfying damage we had envisioned, but he made a lot of sense. One last stupid move, and we’d leave before we pushed our luck too far. George and I tried prying at the plan for more leeway, but Shaun and Samantha held firm. Though he had a point, and with nearly three miles between us and the cabin and we had no time to argue. 

Sticking to the sides of the gravel road, we jogged down the path. Only now we stopped whenever we heard a strange noise and constantly checked over our shoulders. I felt like prey, every strange shape and twig snap became a hunter leveling a rifle. On the way we spotted another concrete structure just off the gravel path, slowing long enough to read Secondary Grid posted above a metal hatch door. 

But as George begins towards the building I call out “Dude there’s no time, we can check on our way out lets just keep moving.” to which he reluctantly agreed. 

“Yeah I'd rather not spray paint in the dark I guess.”

“If we get split up we could meet back here, like a rendezvous point.” I say and the group agrees. 

Having our original confidence shaken, we hike the majority of the way in silence, only interrupted by the occasional side comment or observation. At times like this I wish I knew what everyone was thinking, I scanned their faces for the weakest link. As long as I could keep the most reluctant person from turning back early, I felt I could prevent a snowballing agreement to abort the mission. 

I slowed until I was walking alongside Samantha, sure that she was the most likely to turn back first. “Exciting huh?” I ask tentatively watching her expression. 

“That’s certainly a word for it” she replies.

“Look we got your back there's nothing to worry about, besides worst case we run for it.” I say leveling my voice.

“I think there’s scenarios worse than having to run for it.” she retorts before swigging her water.

“Well even if we do get caught you know Shaun won’t let anything happen to you.” I watch her involuntary smile forming at my words. 

She shoots a shy glance toward Shaun and George ahead of us before responding “I don't know, I think Shaun and I are just friends.” Her flushed face gives her away.

“Huh if you say so, but you sure stare at him a lot when he’s not looking.” I press further and she avoids my gaze. “I bet you haven't noticed he does it back.” 

“Oh my god please shut up.” Samantha buries her face in her hands “you're messing with me.” she groans quietly.

Convinced that her fear of getting caught was being overtaken by her anxious crushing on Shaun I went in for the killing blow. “I wouldn't lie about that, he’s definitely into you. Now time to find out if you’re into him.” I say giving her a light push in his direction, and she quickens her pace to catch up with him. 

Now admittedly it did feel a little disingenuous, maybe even a little manipulative. But I felt I was doing them a favor, not only am I making sure we don’t regret backing out of our adventure early but I was pushing Shaun and Samantha closer. If anything it was getting two birds with one stone, they would be thanking me later.

The sun had just begun to set as we arrived at the hunters cabin, the large clearing visible from over a mile away. It was a rustic two story mansion of a log cabin but a log cabin nonetheless, its dark wood contrasting with the green field and pale barked trees. Not a single light was on inside, giving each window a reflective sheen that gave way to the swallowing darkness within.

Approaching the cabin I was already unzipping my bag, determined to make our mark before the sun finished setting. Already I was debating phrases to write on the walls and possible crude images to pair with it, everyone crowded around me to grab their own cans. Soon the rhythmic clacking of shaking spray cans and the hiss of thin nozzles filled the air, I glanced at Samantha’s work and saw she was halfway through spraying the word MURDERER in block letters. While we painted the sky filled with dark clouds from the horizon, the setting sun illuminating distant rain. 

We worked for several minutes before a surprised and shrill word rang out from the far right side of us. “GUYS!” 

Shaun’s tone was so full of fear that even before I turned my head I already felt my stomach drop and my pulse quicken. Standing ten feet from Shaun was a large bearded man, he wore a sweat stained sleeveless shirt tucked into worn jeans with muddy black boots and a dusty cap. His face and arms red and tanned from the sun, his expression was wide eyed and tight lipped. And in his arms sat a shotgun held from his waist, the muzzle already raised in our direction. 

“Don’t run!” his gruff voice barked at us, a distinct lack of local midwestern draw in his tone. I had no doubts now that this was the hunter.

We huddled against each other in fear, not realizing we had already been backstepping away. “Come here! That's far enough” 

“We just want to leave, we’ll leave okay” George stammered his voice cracking with fear. 

“No! You don’t understand, you need to come with me now okay?” he took a step closer and Samantha let out a stifled cry. 

“No please we just want to go home” Samantha fights back tears as she pleads. 

The man takes a deep breath “I’ll take you out of here. I promise you’re not in trouble, but do not run, do you hear me?” he was still shouting but his tone felt wrong, like he wasn’t angry but more pleading. He sounded insane, his eyes were wide and wild like he was afraid of something. 

I tightened my grip on the back of Shaun's shirt and continued to move us backwards another half step. In response he raises his gun and begins to shout again “I’m serious don-” his words are cut off by the sound of a loud echoing bang and a flash of light.

All at once we began to scramble away toward the treeline before we had a chance to recognize the sound as thunder and the flash as its lightning. He shouted after us as we sprinted for the edge of the clearing, but my adrenaline and fear made it impossible to do anything but run.

I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the trees before my friends, only to watch the huntsman suddenly halt mid chasing-stride. And in one fluid motion he raised the shotgun and racked a shell before I could even react.

In my panic I reached for the person closest to the clearings edge, I clutched at Samantha’s sleeve attempting to yank her behind a tree. But as I grabbed hold of her arm a single terrifying sound cut through the chaos.

The echoing boom of a shotgun.

Summary

When a rich game hunter buys up a large portion of former public land in a poor rust belt town, a group of friends gather to exact juvenile revenge against the man and his property. But as tension builds and things begin to go wrong, their coming of age adventure is shattered by violent realities.

Consider checking out part one first on my profile, imbedded link will be added soon. As always thanks for reading hope you enjoy, next part coming soon.

Part 2

Taking in the landscape for the first time in years, made me realize just how much I had taken its natural beauty for granted. It always seemed corny to me when adults would gush about how breathtaking the land was. I thought they were being ridiculous, to me it was just the woods I’d always known. The same trees and trails and dirt as the day before.

But now, stepping out of the treeline onto a foot-stamped dirt path, I could really see it for what it was. 

Knee high brushstrokes of vibrant green stalks and wild wheat encompassed the trail, the thin ends glowing gold from the afternoon sun. Small birds fluttered between lush green canopies bordering our path, their calls mixing into a nostalgic melody carried by the calm breeze. 

It wasn’t just breathtaking, it was alive. Small animals rustled through the undergrowth, darting away from our path as we passed them by. It felt like the fauna itself was coming out to say hello, welcoming us back like an old friend. 

And as if we had been sharing thoughts, Samantha let out a soft “wow” taking in the scenery. 

“This breeze is a life saver, my balls were starting to pressure cook in here” George says while fanning the waistline of his jeans. 

“Way to spoil the moment man” Shaun half jokes.

“I’m serious dude, my boys are bakin’, I’m talking sous vide in their own sweat here.” George says between barely stifled laughter at his own joke. 

“What the fuck does that even mean” Shaun asked wearily and Samantha laughed again. 

As we continued to banter, the low topped canopies thinned. Giving way to towering sycamores interspersed with thick-trunked white oaks and eastern cottonwoods. Providing a vast sun dotted shade that cooled the woods ahead. 

Here the ground has much less growth, instead covered with low creeping ivy and dead leaves. And littered with patches of mushrooms thriving off soft refuse from the forest floor. 

Instantly we spotted a trail cam, and with few words Samantha pulled the hammer from her bag. “Who wants to smash it?” 

We exchanged looks, determined, nervous, and contemplative. I could see the gears turning, faces considering backing out, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I had to convince them, this can’t be how it ends after everything. 

“Guys listen real quick, we’ve been waiting to do this for years. These were our woods, not just ours, the whole town’s. And this guy just thinks he can show up and take whatever he wants, just because he has money? Our fort, the river, the trails, the local wildlife?” I grab the hammer from Samantha, my palms already sweating as I step toward the camera. “This is what I think” 

\*Whack\*

I bring the hammer down on the lense and it cracks under the blow. “Now show me what you think” I finish my short speech, holding out the hammer towards them. 

George steps forward first and I can’t help but grin at my closest friend as he takes a swing of his own. And as if he knew exactly what I was going for, he turns and holds the hammer out for Shaun and Samantha.

One by one we each took a swing at the camera, and I felt proud at the moment I created. A little cheesy maybe, but sometimes the low hanging fruit is the sweetest. And as I watched Samantha take the last swing at the camera, my apprehension of her lessened. The pact had been formed, and our collective confidence returned with a renewed determination. 

We followed a winding footpath marked by red rope tied on low branches or the occasional thin trunk. Every few minutes finding another trail cam and smashing it to pieces, our excitement turning our pace into a half jog.

George kept ahead of us carving out our path with long strides, he leapt over branches and rocks with a nimble athleticism I nearly forget he possessed. Only once he had spotted a clearing did he look back, hosting a satisfied grin and the sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Theres a building out in the clearing.” George shouted back as he waited for us to catch up.

As we emerged from the treeline together, we spotted the low topped concrete box the size of a large garage. On the opposite side of the building I spotted the gravel road that we had been looking for, the soul route to the hunters cabin. A faint electrical hum emanated from the structure that grew to a dull buzz as we approached. The only apparent entrance was a large metal hatch slightly below ground level, but no matter how we pulled or pried, we couldn't get it open. Above metal hinges sat a sign reading Primary Grid. 

“What the hell does this guy need his own power station for?” George questions. 

“Well I don’t know if you noticed, but all of the trail cams we came across were wired into the ground so I’m willing to bet they’re all connected by this grid.” Shaun says matter of factly. “Maybe he just has so many things running he needs his own generators.”

“Since when did you become an electrician?” George teases while peering down the gravel road. “Well lead the way Mr electric” 

“Was that a sharkboy and lava girl reference?” Samantha cocks an eyebrow and George nods. “Daamn I see you, this cracka’ knows ball.”

We bust up in response and Samantha beams at having nailed our humor. Seems she’ll fit in with us just fine after all, during our laughter I catch Shaun’s attention and give him a nod of approval as if he needed my blessing to begin with.

Giving up on the primary grid building, we turned our attention back toward the gravel road. However just as our conversation picked back up, I began to hear a distant noise that caused me to freeze and listen. The sound was approaching rapidly, growing in volume until I was sure what I was hearing, the roar of a diesel engine. The conversation halted and everyone froze with me.

“Off the road now, those trees!” I pointed and we ran, gravel spitting out from behind my shoes as I pushed off. I practically tumbled off the road into the brush, only stopping once I had a thick tree to press my back against. My chest heaved with both panic and effort, my arms stung with fresh scrapes. 

My friends scrambled to cover around me, just in time for the truck to come into view. Cautiously I watched through a thin bush, the truck looked incredibly old and the headlights and taillights seemed to be missing. I couldn't catch a solid glimpse of the driver, not that I was trying, if I could see him he could see me after all. But one thing was certain, this changes things.

We waited several minutes after the sound faded just to be sure we were safe, but this new danger lingered on our minds. Samantha argued we should assume it was the hunter and get out before we got caught. But I was quick to remind everyone that my mom had mentioned that someone was watching over his property, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. My mom had mentioned that she \*thought\* there was someone looking over the property, not that she was sure. But suddenly I felt thrust into the role of keeping us together, determined to finish the job. I justified the lie thinking certainly the worst trouble we could get in was a night in jail.

Shaun argued that anyone being here changes things, and said we had to adapt in response. But ever the peace-maker, Shaun was determined to find a compromise for us and proposed a modified plan. We just watched the old truck head the opposite direction of the hunters cabin, so it's likely they were headed for the front gate. So we had a small window of opportunity before they would return. He proposed we head straight for the cabin, spray paint the outside and make a beeline for the exit. 

Not exactly the satisfying damage we had envisioned, but he made a lot of sense. One last stupid move, and we’d leave before we pushed our luck too far. George and I tried prying at the plan for more leeway, but Shaun and Samantha held firm. Though he had a point, and with nearly three miles between us and the cabin and we had no time to argue. 

Sticking to the sides of the gravel road, we jogged down the path. Only now we stopped whenever we heard a strange noise and constantly checked over our shoulders. I felt like prey, every strange shape and twig snap became a hunter leveling a rifle. On the way we spotted another concrete structure just off the gravel path, slowing long enough to read Secondary Grid posted above a metal hatch door. 

But as George begins towards the building I call out “Dude there’s no time, we can check on our way out lets just keep moving.” to which he reluctantly agreed. 

“Yeah I'd rather not spray paint in the dark I guess.”

“If we get split up we could meet back here, like a rendezvous point.” I say and the group agrees. 

Having our original confidence shaken, we hike the majority of the way in silence, only interrupted by the occasional side comment or observation. At times like this I wish I knew what everyone was thinking, I scanned their faces for the weakest link. As long as I could keep the most reluctant person from turning back early, I felt I could prevent a snowballing agreement to abort the mission. 

I slowed until I was walking alongside Samantha, sure that she was the most likely to turn back first. “Exciting huh?” I ask tentatively watching her expression. 

“That’s certainly a word for it” she replies.

“Look we got your back there's nothing to worry about, besides worst case we run for it.” I say leveling my voice.

“I think there’s scenarios worse than having to run for it.” she retorts before swigging her water.

“Well even if we do get caught you know Shaun won’t let anything happen to you.” I watch her involuntary smile forming at my words. 

She shoots a shy glance toward Shaun and George ahead of us before responding “I don't know, I think Shaun and I are just friends.” Her flushed face gives her away.

“Huh if you say so, but you sure stare at him a lot when he’s not looking.” I press further and she avoids my gaze. “I bet you haven't noticed he does it back.” 

“Oh my god please shut up.” Samantha buries her face in her hands “you're messing with me.” she groans quietly.

Convinced that her fear of getting caught was being overtaken by her anxious crushing on Shaun I went in for the killing blow. “I wouldn't lie about that, he’s definitely into you. Now time to find out if you’re into him.” I say giving her a light push in his direction, and she quickens her pace to catch up with him. 

Now admittedly it did feel a little disingenuous, maybe even a little manipulative. But I felt I was doing them a favor, not only am I making sure we don’t regret backing out of our adventure early but I was pushing Shaun and Samantha closer. If anything it was getting two birds with one stone, they would be thanking me later.

The sun had just begun to set as we arrived at the hunters cabin, the large clearing visible from over a mile away. It was a rustic two story mansion of a log cabin but a log cabin nonetheless, its dark wood contrasting with the green field and pale barked trees. Not a single light was on inside, giving each window a reflective sheen that gave way to the swallowing darkness within.

Approaching the cabin I was already unzipping my bag, determined to make our mark before the sun finished setting. Already I was debating phrases to write on the walls and possible crude images to pair with it, everyone crowded around me to grab their own cans. Soon the rhythmic clacking of shaking spray cans and the hiss of thin nozzles filled the air, I glanced at Samantha’s work and saw she was halfway through spraying the word MURDERER in block letters. While we painted the sky filled with dark clouds from the horizon, the setting sun illuminating distant rain. 

We worked for several minutes before a surprised and shrill word rang out from the far right side of us. “GUYS!” 

Shaun’s tone was so full of fear that even before I turned my head I already felt my stomach drop and my pulse quicken. Standing ten feet from Shaun was a large bearded man, he wore a sweat stained sleeveless shirt tucked into worn jeans with muddy black boots and a dusty cap. His face and arms red and tanned from the sun, his expression was wide eyed and tight lipped. And in his arms sat a shotgun held from his waist, the muzzle already raised in our direction. 

“Don’t run!” his gruff voice barked at us, a distinct lack of local midwestern draw in his tone. I had no doubts now that this was the hunter.

We huddled against each other in fear, not realizing we had already been backstepping away. “Come here! That's far enough” 

“We just want to leave, we’ll leave okay” George stammered his voice cracking with fear. 

“No! You don’t understand, you need to come with me now okay?” he takes a step closer and Samantha lets out a stifled cry. 

“No please we just want to go home” Samantha fights back tears as she pleads. 

The man takes a deep breath “I’ll take you out of here. I promise you’re not in trouble, but do not run, do you hear me?” he was still shouting but his tone felt wrong, like he wasn’t angry but more pleading. He sounded insane, his eyes were wide and wild like he was afraid of something. 

I tightened my grip on the back of Shaun's shirt and continued to move us backwards another half step. In response he raises his gun and begins to shout again “I’m serious don-” his words are cut off by the sound of a loud echoing bang and a flash of light.

All at once we began to scramble away toward the treeline before we had a chance to recognize the sound as thunder and the flash as its lightning. He shouted after us as we sprinted for the edge of the clearing, but my adrenaline and fear made it impossible to do anything but run.

I glanced over my shoulder as I reached the trees before my friends, only to watch the huntsman suddenly halt mid chasing-stride. And in one fluid motion he raised the shotgun and racked a shell before I could even react.

In my panic I reached for the person closest to the clearings edge, I clutched at Samantha’s sleeve attempting to yank her behind a tree. But as I grabbed hold of her arm a single terrifying sound cut through the chaos.

The echoing boom of a shotgun.

I got some amazing suggestions and advice on my first part for this story, so I thought I'd put the second part here to get some feedback. Again looking to see if the story flows well and descriptions make sense. Anyways thanks for taking a look.

The first part can be found Here

Plot Hook

When a rich game hunter buys up a large portion of former public land in a poor rust belt town, a group of friends gather to exact juvenile revenge against the man and his property. But as tension builds and things begin to go wrong, their coming of age adventure is shattered by violent realities.

Part 2

Taking in the landscape for the first time in years, made me realize just how much I had taken its natural beauty for granted. It always seemed corny to me when adults would gush about how breathtaking the land was. I thought they were being ridiculous, to me it was just the woods I’d always known. The same trees and trails and dirt as the day before.

But now, stepping out of the treeline onto a foot-stamped dirt path, I could really see it for what it was. 

Knee high brushstrokes of vibrant green stalks and wild wheat encompassed the trail, the thin ends glowing gold from the afternoon sun. Small birds fluttered between lush green canopies bordering our path, their calls mixing into a nostalgic melody carried by the calm breeze. 

It wasn’t just breathtaking, it was alive. Small animals rustled through the undergrowth, darting away from our path as we passed them by. It felt like the fauna itself was coming out to say hello, welcoming us back like an old friend. 

And as if we had been sharing thoughts, Samantha let out a soft “wow” taking in the scenery. 

“This breeze is a life saver, my balls were starting to pressure cook in here” George says while fanning the waistline of his jeans. 

“Way to spoil the moment man” Shaun half jokes.

“I’m serious dude, my boys are bakin’, I’m talking sous vide in their own sweat here.” George says between barely stifled laughter at his own joke. 

“What the fuck does that even mean” Shaun asked wearily and Samantha laughed again. 

As we continued to banter, the low topped canopies thinned. Giving way to towering sycamores interspersed with thick-trunked white oaks and eastern cottonwoods. Providing a vast sun dotted shade that cooled the woods ahead. 

Here the ground has much less growth, instead covered with low creeping ivy and dead leaves. And littered with patches of mushrooms thriving off soft refuse from the forest floor. 

Instantly we spotted a trail cam, and with few words Samantha pulled the hammer from her bag. “Who wants to smash it?” 

We exchanged looks, determined, nervous, and contemplative. I could see the gears turning, faces considering backing out, but I wasn’t ready to let that happen. I had to convince them, this can’t be how it ends after everything. 

“Guys listen real quick, we’ve been waiting to do this for years. These were our woods, not just ours, the whole town’s. And this guy just thinks he can show up and take whatever he wants, just because he has money? Our fort, the river, the trails, the local wildlife?” I grab the hammer from Samantha, my palms already sweating as I step toward the camera. “This is what I think” 

Whack

I bring the hammer down on the lense and it cracks under the blow. “Now show me what you think” I finish my short speech, holding out the hammer towards them. 

George steps forward first and I can’t help but grin at my closest friend as he takes a swing of his own. And as if he knew exactly what I was going for, he turns and holds the hammer out for Shaun and Samantha.

One by one we each took a swing at the camera, and I felt proud at the moment I created. A little cheesy maybe, but sometimes the low hanging fruit is the sweetest. And as I watched Samantha take the last swing at the camera, my apprehension of her lessened. The pact had been formed, and our collective confidence returned with a renewed determination. 

We followed a winding footpath marked by red rope tied on low branches or the occasional thin trunk. Every few minutes finding another trail cam and smashing it to pieces, our excitement turning our pace into a half jog.

George kept ahead of us carving out our path with long strides, he leapt over branches and rocks with a nimble athleticism I nearly forget he possessed. Only once he had spotted a clearing did he look back, hosting a satisfied grin and the sheen of sweat on his brow. 

“Theres a building out in the clearing.” George shouted back as he waited for us to catch up.

As we emerged from the treeline together, we spotted the low topped concrete box the size of a large garage. On the opposite side of the building I spotted the gravel road that we had been looking for, the soul route to the hunters cabin. A faint electrical hum emanated from the structure that grew to a dull buzz as we approached. The only apparent entrance was a large metal hatch slightly below ground level, but no matter how we pulled or pried, we couldn't get it open. Above metal hinges sat a sign reading Primary Grid. 

“What the hell does this guy need his own power station for?” George questions. 

“Well I don’t know if you noticed, but all of the trail cams we came across were wired into the ground so I’m willing to bet they’re all connected by this grid.” Shaun says matter of factly. “Maybe he just has so many things running he needs his own generators.”

“Since when did you become an electrician?” George teases while peering down the gravel road. “Well lead the way Mr electric” 

“Was that a sharkboy and lava girl reference?” Samantha cocks an eyebrow and George nods. “Daamn I see you, this cracka’ knows ball.”

We bust up in response and Samantha beams at having nailed our humor. Seems she’ll fit in with us just fine after all, during our laughter I catch Shaun’s attention and give him a nod of approval as if he needed my blessing to begin with.

Giving up on the primary grid building, we turned our attention back toward the gravel road. However just as our conversation picked back up, I began to hear a distant noise that caused me to freeze and listen. The sound was approaching rapidly, growing in volume until I was sure what I was hearing, the roar of a diesel engine. The conversation halted and everyone froze with me.

“Off the road now, those trees!” I pointed and we ran, gravel spitting out from behind my shoes as I pushed off. I practically tumbled off the road into the brush, only stopping once I had a thick tree to press my back against. My chest heaved with both panic and effort, my arms stung with fresh scrapes. 

My friends scrambled to cover around me, just in time for the truck to come into view. Cautiously I watched through a thin bush, the truck looked incredibly old and the headlights and taillights seemed to be missing. I couldn't catch a solid glimpse of the driver, not that I was trying, if I could see him he could see me after all. But one thing was certain, this changes things.

We waited several minutes after the sound faded just to be sure we were safe, but this new danger lingered on our minds. Samantha argued we should assume it was the hunter and get out before we got caught. But I was quick to remind everyone that my mom had mentioned that someone was watching over his property, though that wasn’t exactly the truth. My mom had mentioned that she thought there was someone looking over the property, not that she was sure. But suddenly I felt thrust into the role of keeping us together, determined to finish the job. I justified the lie thinking certainly the worst trouble we could get in was a night in jail.

Shaun argued that anyone being here changes things, and said we had to adapt in response. But ever the peace-maker, Shaun was determined to find a compromise for us and proposed a modified plan. We just watched the old truck head the opposite direction of the hunters cabin, so it's likely they were headed for the front gate. So we had a small window of opportunity before they would return. He proposed we head straight for the cabin, spray paint the outside and make a beeline for the exit. 

Not exactly the satisfying damage we had envisioned, but he made a lot of sense. One last stupid move, and we’d leave before we pushed our luck too far. George and I tried prying at the plan for more leeway, but Shaun and Samantha held firm. Though he had a point, and with nearly three miles between us and the cabin and we had no time to argue. 

Sticking to the sides of the gravel road, we jogged down the path. Only now we stopped whenever we heard a strange noise and constantly checked over our shoulders. I felt like prey, every strange shape and twig snap became a hunter leveling a rifle. On the way we spotted another concrete structure just off the gravel path, slowing long enough to read Secondary Grid posted above a metal hatch door. 

But as George begins towards the building I call out “Dude there’s no time, we can check on our way out lets just keep moving.” to which he reluctantly agreed. 

“Yeah I'd rather not spray paint in the dark I guess.”

“If we get split up we could meet back here, like a rendezvous point.” I say and the group agrees. 

Having our original confidence shaken, we hike the majority of the way in silence, only interrupted by the occasional side comment or observation. At times like this I wish I knew what everyone was thinking, I scanned their faces for the weakest link. As long as I could keep the most reluctant person from turning back early, I felt I could prevent a snowballing agreement to abort the mission. 

I slowed until I was walking alongside Samantha, sure that she was the most likely to turn back first. “Exciting huh?” I ask tentatively watching her expression. 

“That’s certainly a word for it” she replies.

“Look we got your back there's nothing to worry about, besides worst case we run for it.” I say leveling my voice.

“I think there’s scenarios worse than having to run for it.” she retorts before swigging her water.

“Well even if we do get caught you know Shaun won’t let anything happen to you.” I watch her involuntary smile forming at my words. 

She shoots a shy glance toward Shaun and George ahead of us before responding “I don't know, I think Shaun and I are just friends.” Her flushed face gives her away.

“Huh if you say so, but you sure stare at him a lot when he’s not looking.” I press further and she avoids my gaze. “I bet you haven't noticed he does it back.” 

“Oh my god please shut up.” Samantha buries her face in her hands “you're messing with me.” she groans quietly.

Convinced that her fear of getting caught was being overtaken by her anxious crushing on Shaun I went in for the killing blow. “I wouldn't lie about that, he’s definitely into you. Now time to find out if you’re into him.” I say giving her a light push in his direction, and she quickens her pace to catch up with him. 

Now admittedly it did feel a little disingenuous, maybe even a little manipulative. But I felt I was doing them a favor, not only am I making sure we don’t regret backing out of our adventure early but I was pushing Shaun and Samantha closer. If anything it was getting two birds with one stone, they would be thanking me later.

The sun had just begun to set as we arrived at the hunters cabin, the large clearing visible from over a mile away. It was a rustic two story mansion of a log cabin but a log cabin nonetheless, its dark wood contrasting with the green field and pale barked trees. Not a single light was on inside, giving each window a reflective sheen that gave way to the swallowing darkness within.

Approaching the cabin I was already unzipping my bag, determined to make our mark before the sun finished setting. Already I was debating phrases to write on the walls and possible crude images to pair with it, everyone crowded around me to grab their own cans. Soon the rhythmic clacking of shaking spray cans and the hiss of thin nozzles filled the air, I glanced at Samantha’s work and saw she was halfway through spraying the word MURDERER in block letters. While we painted the sky filled with dark clouds from the horizon, the setting sun illuminating distant rain. 

We worked for several minutes before a surprised and shrill word rang out from the far right side of us. “GUYS!” 

Shaun’s tone was so full of fear that even before I turned my head I already felt my stomach drop and my pulse quicken. Standing ten feet from Shaun was a large bearded man, he wore a sweat stained sleeveless shirt tucked into worn jeans with muddy black boots and a dusty cap. His face and arms red and tanned from the sun, his expression was wide eyed and tight lipped. And in his arms sat a shotgun held from his waist, the muzzle already raised in our direction. 

“Don’t run!” his gruff voice barked at us, a distinct lack of local midwestern draw in his tone. We huddled against each other in fear, not realizing we had already been backstepping away. “Come here! That's far enough” 

“We just want to leave, we’ll leave okay” George stammered his voice cracking with fear. 

“No! You don’t understand, you need to come with me now okay?” he took a step closer and Samantha let out a stifled cry. 

“No please we just want to go home” Samantha fights back tears as she pleads. 

The man takes a deep breath “I’ll take you out of here. I promise you’re not in trouble, but do not run, do you hear me?” he was still shouting but his tone felt wrong, like he wasn’t angry but more pleading. He sounded insane, his eyes were wide and wild like he was afraid of something. 

I tightened my grip on the back of Shaun's shirt and continued to move us backwards another half step. In response he raises his rifle and begins to shout again “I’m serious don-” his words are cut off by the sound of a loud echoing bang and a flash of light.

All at once we began to scramble away toward the treeline before we had a chance to recognize the sound as thunder and the flash as its lightning. We make it halfway across the clearing before we hear a different sound, the deafening boom of a shotgun.