Hey y'all,

I have been working on a story on and off for a while and have wanted to post it but I have this weird fear that as soon as I do every bad thing you can possible think of could happen will happen. I don't know why I have this weird anxiety because I have shared this story with friends and I am somewhat proud of it, but it feels like once I post it suddenly it becomes more than just a story. It feels like there are all these expectations put on it that it and I wont live up to.
Does anyone have any tips on how to get over this? Thanks in advance.

As the name suggests, I am currently writing a story about the main character/ narrator discovering a cult. I want to incorporate the cult creeping in the backstory, as I am familiar with writing novels, even as a novice, and I am inclined to tell the backstory of my characters. But in the format of scary stories, will it still be appropriate to write a backstory that isn't 100% inportant to the main character but explains her actions via her upbringing?

Long ago, before the road stones were laid straight, before the forest learned to fear the axe, there lived a man the town once praised.

He was a surgeon, so the tale goes. A man of learning and clean hands, trusted with blood and bone.

Folk tipped their hats when he passed. Mothers brought him gifts of bread and salt.

And for a time, his house was warm, his table full, and his wife’s laughter kept the shadows thin.

But time takes its payment.

His wife died first. After that, his hands began to betray him. They shook like leaves in a storm.

Knives slipped. Stitches came loose. No one wanted trembling fingers inside their flesh, and soon the work stopped coming.

The bottle came instead.

The man still had land. Though, broad fields under a merciless sun.

And he had three children. Strong and healthy. Quiet little ones.

He drove them like beasts from dawn until the light bled out of the sky, while he watched from the shade with a flask in his fist.

One summer day, the heat lay so heavy it pressed the breath from their lungs.

The children worked until their legs failed them. They fell among the crops and did not rise again.

When the father came to the field, he saw them sprawled on the earth.

“Sleeping,” he slurred. “Lazy little worms.”

Drunk and raging, he struck them for their disobedience. He did not stop when they failed to wake.

He did not stop at all.

When the sun set, the field was quiet.

And then the man understood what he had done.

With no children left to work his land and madness gnawing at his skull, the surgeon returned to the only craft he still believed he knew.

By candlelight, with hands that would not obey him, he cut and stitched and muttered half-remembered prayers.

He used sinew and skin, bone and organ. His own children, made into something else.

Raspadnik.

When it rose from the table, it screamed with three voices.

It turned on its maker and tore him apart as easily as straw.

But the surgeon’s hands had failed him one last time. The stitches were wrong.

The joins were weak. And so the creature did not die, but neither could it last.

They say it still wanders the forest to this day.

You can follow its path if you dare: scraps of meat caught on thorns, skin nailed to bark, threads snagged on branches like spider silk. It moves slowly, dragging itself together, always coming apart.

And when it grows too thin… when too much of it has fallen away…

It goes to town.

So listen well, children.

Do not stray from the path.

Do not answer voices calling your name.

And if you ever find red thread hanging from the trees...

Run.

Because the Raspadnik is always missing something.

[Structure Edit] CW: Minor Gore (This is my first ever creative writing effort. If you have any critique or advice, please let me know. I definitely need it)

We were bastard children of a generation reshaped by a conflict that left a gaping wound in the world. 

The men who came back from the fields of Europe and the islands of the pacific, gave rise to a new generation of men...more so boys, who were completely ill equipped for this new world. A world that bore scars and damage so deep, it affected even the lands that never saw the conflict.

An evil unknown by man except for maybe in the times of Genesis, was unleashed upon the world. Spreading itself across the globe and creating ripples of destabilization.
Those shockwaves are still felt today.

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Running, jumping, pull ups, pointless tasks, getting screamed at, repeat.
Day after day, week after week. The monotony of every day felt almost like a messed up 9 to 5 as opposed to basic training.

We were all young and dumb, eager to serve our country and fight the evil commie hordes.

Constant discipline and structure molds you into an obedient soldier. It teaches you how to think and move like a single unit, how to follow orders as well as improvise when things inevitably change.

You learn to fight, with your hands, blades, guns, whatever is provided. All that training makes a young man feel invincible. Millions of naive boys have met terrible fates across the ages from this Superman fallacy.

Sometimes even with the training, the stupidity of young adult hood, and millennia of human kind learning and studying war; you find yourself in a situation that reduces you into nothing more than small ink letters in the pages of a casualty report, filed away to never be seen again.

Of course, the US government does its best to keep that kind of sobering reality locked up tight. That wouldn't make a very good recruitment poster on the wall of a Woolworths.

If you spend enough time in the military, you become privy to this reality. Some learn the hard way; most however, only get glimpses of it in after action reports. Often too proud or ignorant to even put the pieces together.

I, however, have never been a lucky man. 

I was not fortunate enough to only get a glimpse of that kind of horror as it merely passed through my finger tips on the way to a fax machine...

My platoon was a recon platoon, stationed in Camp Davies on the Saigon River.
Life was pretty good, despite us being in the thick of it in 1966, we didn't have many threats that far south.

Just occasional deployments to some random patch of jungle, to scout ahead for a larger force.
My squad and I spent a lot of our time drilling, reading comic books, and telling stories about women, cars, sports, you know.

Quite frequently when we were really bored, or sleep deprived in the middle of the night, we would start telling ghost stories.

"Carter" , our machine gunner, is a good ol' Appalachian boy. 6 foot 4, 280 pounds of corn liquor and repressed childhood trauma. He always had the most, and the best stories. Tales of creatures on two legs, inexplicable sounds in the woods, disappearances, wild people, even bigfoot.

Most of the time I think he was making them up or embellishing a sick deer encounter. Sometimes though, I couldn't help but feel like there was an actual air of truth to his ramblings.

On one of these nights, all of us huddled in a circle in the middle of the barracks. 

Carter was in his element, scaring the new guys with a story he'd told a hundred times about how his ancestors spoke of a tribe of people deep in the hills. 

Feral people, that hunt hikers and moonshiners, live in caves, and don't have any kind of language other than grunts and screams. 

His ancestors believe these tribes of people exist everywhere on the globe, even as far as Vietnam. Of course Carter uses this to try and scare the shit out of the privates fresh from basic. Most of the time it worked.

My closest buddy "Bill" was a devout Christian, and tended to be the voice of reason to combat Carter, in defense of those poor recruits. 

He may have believed in God, spirits, demons, and a plethora of other supernatural things, but he seemed dead set on disproving all of Carter's tall tales.

Bill was in the middle of telling a very annoyed private about how Carter is a Godless heathen, when our barracks door swung open abruptly.Our lieutenant stood silhouetted in the light of the hallway outside, one hand holding the door open.

"JOHN, BILL, CARTER, MATTHEW, RONALD! You have a new assignment" He said sternly

I looked at Bill, confused. Why did the LT only need our squad? Why was he giving us such short notice in the middle of the night?

"Can I finish my story sir?" Carter asked
"I was just about to get this kid to piss his pants." He said, smirking and gesturing at a young freckled kid across from him.

"No you weren't!" The boy retorted, his voice cracking in the process.

"Negative, they want you right now. Get your shit and get up." The Lieutenant barked.

"They?"

"You'll find out when you get to the airfield. Now get going!" He ordered, shutting the door behind him.

Grumbling, we put on our uniforms, grabbed our packs and kit, and headed to the airfield.
We were greeted by the LT and a man in plain clothes, looking kind of like a tourist. They stood hunched in front of a blacked out huey, engine running and ready to go.

"This is your handler for the next few days!" The LT shouted over the whir of the blades.

"You'll be taking orders from him, and he'll be taking you where you need to go!"

I glanced at the man, light hair, clean shaven, aviators. At night. Who does this guy think he is?
He met my gaze and simply gestured to the open chopper doors.

The five of us piled in, and put on the headphones, as we watched the man climb in the co-pilot seat.

As we were lifting off, Ronnie (our group control freak) broke the air with a question we were all thinking.

"Why are we not getting a briefing, and where are we going? 

Our handler replied with a voice I didn't expect "You're going to be looking for a team we lost on a search and destroy mission. Details classified, all you need to know is they reported contact at 03:50 yesterday, and we haven't heard back from them since."
"We will drop you off 10 klicks from their last known position, afterward you will trek north until you find the position on the maps that will be provided to you."

A question burned in my mind that I'm sure was shared amongst the group: Why us? We were just a regular army recon team, and this guy wreaked of the Agency. Did they want someone disposable? I squirmed in my seat, hoping that thought was a simple anxiety induced exaggeration. 

The rest of the flight was pretty uneventful, albeit long. The five of us stayed silent, exchanging glances at each other. Carter made lewd gestures to try and break the tension, but he could tell it wasn't working.

Our handler gave us the maps. Fairly standard terrain, nothing we couldn't handle. We were going to a hilly location with a river to the north. They'd been kind enough to mark the previous team's path. 

We'd follow a valley about 5 klicks north until we hit a small mountain. After climbing that, we'd follow the ridgeline east for about a mile until we reached an old landslide. After that it was a simple hike through the unforgiving jungle, until we got within a few hundred yards of the river. That's where they lost contact with the team.

Our silence was shattered by the voice of the pilot "30 seconds out, get ready."
Bill put his hand on my shoulder and sent up a silent prayer for our team. A ritual that has come to comfort me more than I care to admit.

We touched down in a small, burnt out clearing in the jungle. With one last "Good luck boys." From our handler, we hopped out of the huey and into the dark expanses of never ending jungle.

I knelt at the front of our perimeter, scanning the trees and waiting for my eyes to fully adjust.
The sound of the chopper slowly faded away, and I gave a silent hand gesture to move forward.

The second we stepped through that tree line....I don't know.. there was just a heaviness to the air. Like something evil resided there. I think everyone felt it; even Matt - always one for quick humor - was completely silent, scanning the dense undergrowth.

We made it about a mile before we heard rustling to our right. We immediately dropped to a knee and listened. It sounded quick and light, like a rodent or something. It scurried around on and off about 30 yards away, probably hunting for bugs or something.

Honestly, it was kind of comforting. I cracked a small smile imagining its little body scampering around the undergrowth, in its own giant world....until I heard a crash, sticks breaking and frantic squeaking before it was abruptly cut off with a flesh ripping tear.

We stayed silent, waiting for the stray dog or big cat to leave. Eventually we did, but the footsteps sounded weird. They were heavy, like what we expected, but there was something off that I couldn't figure out.

After a few minutes we continued on our path, trudging through the foliage and making sure to watch for traps left by the Vietcong.

We stumbled upon a body right before we hit the mountain. We smelled it before we saw it. The sour, thick smell of death violating our nostrils. It was hanging from its leg, stuck in the crook of a branch about 10 feet up.

Getting a closer look, we could tell it was an NVA soldier, his blue uniform ripped and tattered, barely clinging to his rotting flesh.

"I thought the other team came through here just yesterday.. how the hell is this dude so ripe already?" Ronnie mumbled.

"I don't think the team did it.." Bill whispered, pointing to deep claw marks on the man's arms and face.

Even though he was my enemy, I felt bad for the bastard. Being mauled by a tiger is not exactly the way I'd want to go out. The thing that confused me was that it didn't look like he'd been eaten or anything. Just killed, stashed in the tree, and abandoned.

My thoughts were interrupted by Carter placing a grenade in the corpse's mouth.

"A parting gift, in case these rats come back for him." He grinned.
Bill looked particularly disturbed, but kept his mouth shut. Clutching his rosary.

I about jumped out of my skin when a bird abruptly landed on the branch the corpse was hanging from. 

We all locked eyes with it, a couple rifles raised. It just watched us, unmoving. It opened its mouth to screech but nothing came out. 

A gunshot ripped through the air as the bird exploded in a ball of feathers. I looked over to see Matt was trembling, his finger not even relaxed yet from pulling the trigger. His eyes still locked on the spot on the tree where the bird had been.

"There was no blood.....no sound, no blood...no sound, no blood" he muttered under his breath.

He was right, there wasn't even a drop of blood on the tree, just some scattered feathers.
I grabbed Matt's rifle barrel and gently lowered it, grabbing his shoulder to ground him.

"What do you mean? That thing exploded like a watermelon. It's just dark man, your eyes aren't adjusted from the muzzle flash." I lied. Trying to comfort him.

"No..no blood, no sound..." he muttered again.

I exchanged concerned glances with the rest of the group and grabbed Matt by the shirt.
"Snap out of it Matt. We have people to find. Stop freaking out over a damned bird." I said sternly.

Pulling him behind me to continue on.
I will admit, I was rattled too. In the moment I chalked it up to the darkness playing tricks on us and sleep deprivation (The usual excuses). I still had a pit in my stomach as we marched on.

We reached the peak of the mountain and started along the ridgeline, watching our feet so we didn't slip and break a leg or something.

The trees were thinner on the ridge, and it was the first time we'd gotten to see the stars that night. It helped to ease our tensions a little, there's just something about those little flecks of light in the inky black sky that makes you feel at peace. Then Bill slipped.

He was probably looking to the stars, praying or distracting himself from our tense reality. Regardless, he hit the ground hard, rapidly sliding down the side of the mountain screaming in panic. His scream cutting off sharply after a short distance. 

We shouted his name into the jungle and tried to slowly pick our way down to him.
About 50 yards down we found him, cradled in a nest of tree branches and foliage, almost like he was caught.

He was unconscious, and somehow seemed unscathed. Ronnie grabbed him and shook him, shouting his name to try and wake him up. He woke up a few moments later, dazed and delirious. 

"What the hell happened man?" Matt asked, concerned.

Bill stared back at him with a glazed look.
"I....I don't know...something grabbed my foot I think.."

"What?." I asked abruptly

"Something grabbed my foot..I got dragged..I didn't fall. I felt it dude."

Loud crashing sounds came from the jungle below us. The unmistakable sound of a human clumsily running through the undergrowth.
We raised our rifles, covering Bill in his concussed stupor. 
The crashing grew closer and closer until we heard Vietnamese. We immediately opened fire on where we thought it was coming from.

Emptying our magazines with a mix of fear and defiance to the enemy we were here for in the first place.

We ran dry and began to reload, listening for any more movement. A panicked shout came from the brush "Giúp đỡ, bình an! | Help, Peace"

It was definitely a trap. We all knew it. There was no way we were going into that jungle to find that guy and try to help, just to have him stab us or pull a grenade.

We listened to him cry for help for a few minutes, waiting for his buddies to ambush us, or for him to die.

Our concerns were validated when we heard more movement beyond him. Slowly approaching his position. We got ready to fire, as soon as we could identify who it was, listening intently.

The movement got close to the man, before we heard him say something in a relieved tone. Followed by terrified, blood curdling screaming, thrashing, the sounds of flesh ripping, bones breaking. His screams turned into gurgles and gasps, before the commotion stopped.

We sat there, too terrified to move or even fire our weapons. We heard what sounded like wood creaking and a body being dragged, and still we didn't fire. 

My heart was in my throat, beating with the sound of a Mongol cavalry charge. until the movement began to move towards us. Only then did we fire. Again, and again, we fired until we ran dry. This time I can guarantee it was out of fear.

Reloading, we listened for any movement and waited. None of us wanted to be the first to recommend what we were all thinking. We needed to identify whatever this thing is.

Bill was still dazed and huddled in the middle of our group, his weapon missing from the fall.

I looked at Ronnie and Matt "Stay here. Watch Bill. Find his rifle"

“Carter, you’re with me”

I began carefully making my way towards the man…the thing we shot at.
Whatever bit of comfort we had experienced before, was completely gone. Our muzzles never stopped moving, scanning, waiting. Ready for some creature to jump out at us.

We quickly found the thing that killed the man..it wasn't a tiger like we'd hoped...it was the corpse from the tree. Lying there on the jungle floor, in the same ripped and destroyed blue uniform, but with a distinct lack of rot. He looked fresh, and worst of all..he still had the grenade in his mouth.

We'd definitely killed him, he had about 10 bullet holes in him across his whole body. I put a couple in his forehead just in case.

"What the hell is going on here?.." Carter asked, staring at the dead NVA. Bending down to check him over.

"I don't know.." The only thing I felt confident about that night was that answer. I had no clue what was going on or if this was even real. It felt like one of those nightmares you wake up sweating and crying from. It couldn’t be real, none of this was real.

Deep in thought, trying to get a grip on our situation, Carter brought me back "John.....there's no blood..." Dude's dry.

He removed his finger from one of the bullet holes. Completely dry.

How is this possible? This is a guy, a normal guy. We're fighting a war against his people, we know they bleed. Why doesn't he bleed? Why didn't the bird bleed? How is the grenade still in his mouth?..wait.

I bent down to check on the man's mouth and grabbed the grenade to pull it out. Reaching out I immediately revolted, jerking my hand back and screaming. It was soft, and warm. Not metal.

It wasn't a grenade. It was his mouth... it still looked like a grenade, but there was an opening with teeth, and a tongue.

I grabbed my bayonet from its sheath and began frantically hacking at the NVA's neck. Panic taking over, and fueling my frenzied chopping and slicing. Whatever this thing was, I wasn't giving it any chances.

Once the head had been completely severed, Carter grabbed me by the scruff of my shirt and hauled me to my feet.

"Feel better now? Remind me to not get on your bad side Wolverine." He joked

I looked at him, expressionless, letting myself catch my breath.
"We need to go find that guy we heard screaming. We need to identify him and see if he had any intel on him." I stammered.

"Nope, screw that."
"We're going back to the group and not messing with whatever messed up juju happened over there."

Conflicted, but kind of relieved for the sanity check, I nodded my head and we made our way back to the rest of our squad.

We found Matt and Bill where we left them. Bill was on his feet now, drinking some water. Matt was standing sentry near him, rifle raised at us.

"Where's Ronnie?" I asked confused.

Matt looked at me with a concerned expression on his face.
"We don't know. He went up the hill to find Bill's rifle and hasn't come back yet. We haven't heard anything since he left."

"Damn it." I muttered.
"Lets head back up the hill and link up with him on the way to the ridge line" I ordered.
"Can you walk Bill?" I asked

"Yup, all good. Just a little sore." He replied confidently

We started our hike back to the top, quietly whistling and calling for Ronnie.
About halfway up I thought I heard a stifled yell. I jumped and cracked my elbow against a large, lumpy knot on a tree.

We sat and listened for a bit but heard nothing, and continued on to the top.

We found Ronnie's helmet hanging from a tree.
We didn't even say anything, we knew he was gone.

Especially since the chin strap had been ripped clean from the helmet.
I tried to radio back to base and let them know we had a casualty, but no response. Just dead air. The radio was dead.

Matt grabbed his helmet, rested it at the base of the tree, and we stood silent for a moment as Bill sent up a prayer for Ronnie.

At the moment I hoped he at least died quickly, but knowing what I know now, I know that wasn't the case...

We finally reached the landslide after about 45 minutes. A quick look showed the paths the previous team had used to get down, in the old loose dirt.
At the bottom of the slide, we saw a flash of a silhouette. What looked to be a human.

"Maybe it's one of the team." Matt whispered hopefully.

"Only one way to find out" Carter stated, hopping on to the edge of the slide and beginning a clumsy slide/walk down the hill.

We all followed reluctantly. How he could be this gung ho after what we've seen tonight is beyond me.

"When we get out of here, you're the one telling Ronnie's family he's gone." Matt said coldly to Bill.

"What, why?" He replied confused

"It was your rifle he went looking for, it's only fair you tell them what happened to him."

"Not now Matt." I ordered.

"He could still be out there, we don't know yet." I lied again.

"Yeah. Sure." He mumbled. We all knew I was lying.
We continued on.

We arrived at the last known position of the team about an hour before sunrise. There was evidence of a fire fight. Some grenade craters, blood, trampled plants, but no bodies.

In the center of the carnage, was a large tree. Significantly larger than the ones surrounding it, like it was claiming all the nutrients from those around it too weak to contend. It was black and scorched from the base to about halfway up.

They had clearly set it on fire somehow, whether it was intentional or not, I only now know.

"You think they tried to burn someone out?" Bill asked
Pointing to a large hollowed out portion in the base of the tree. Easily big enough to fit a human in.

"Maybe. Must not have worked though. No bones." Carter stated.

He was right, there was no evidence of any remains in the hollow. All there was, was a large strange knot, and a pile of jelly like mess. Thick and viscous, deep red in color, and smelled like rotting fruit, and gasoline.

"Dudeee, that's gross" Carter chuckled, bending down to touch the slime.

"It's warm" He noted

"Well duh, the damn tree was on fire. Of course it's warm" Matt scoffed.

"If you'd use your head more than your biceps more often you'd be able to fi-" Matt's mockery was cut off sharply as a shadow lunged from the tree line and slammed him into the ground.

He screamed and squirmed as the olive green clad figure grabbed him by the face and drug him quickly into the jungle.

We whipped to face the way he went and listened to his screams travel into the distance. We expected to hear him ripped to shreds like the others, but we only heard his screaming fade as he was dragged further and further into the dense green expanse.
Begging to a God that couldn't hear his screams over his rifle firing wildly into the air.

I pissed my pants. I was completely and totally frozen. My brain scrambling for any reasonable explanation to our unnatural predicament.

Grasping at any little fragment of training or intel I could find in the recesses of my brain.

This isn't real. I'm in a nightmare. I'm being punished. This isn't real. I tried to convince myself.
I started to see more shadows in the trees around us. 

Dashing between gaps, ducking behind trees, I think I even saw some climbing.

No grunts, no breathing, just footsteps and foliage being brushed aside or broken.
Carter started firing his machine gun into the trees. Pointing at anything he saw move, hoping to hit anything at all.

Then, the movement stopped.
Suddenly, and completely, it stopped.

Carter stopped firing, breathing heavily and staring wildly into the trees. Bill standing against the tree, shocked and audibly praying for deliverance from this hell.

My heart was pounding in my ears. My eyes whipped from tree to tree, looking for any threat possible. My ears listening for any sound... there was nothing.. not a sound. 

That's the problem, there was absolutely no sound. No bugs, no birds, not even wind.

Then it clicked. There never had been. Ever since we landed I couldn't figure out what felt so off. There were never any normal sounds. Wherever we were, it was dead. It was dead and we were about to be too.

Bill went white as he turned his head to look at my left. I turned to the side and my heart dropped. It was Ronnie.
Just as we'd left him, but no helmet.

He stood there, about 20 feet from us, just staring.

"RONNIE!! YOU OKAY??" Carter yelled in both fear and reluctant optimism.

Ronnie turned his head to Carter slowly and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out...he just silently mimicked Carter with his mouth.

I raised my rifle and shot him in the stomach.
He didn't even flinch, just maintained eye contact with Carter.
A hole in his stomach, not a drop of blood to be seen...

I have never felt more fear in my entire life. The thing that stood in front of me was not natural, it wasn't Ronnie, and it was evil. And it was now surrounded by more.

They had emerged from the trees almost in sync. It must have been the lost team. About 8 of them, in uniforms I'd never seen before, but distinctly U.S.

All their uniforms were in different states of disrepair. Bullet holes, rips and tears, blood stains. 

One man even had a handgun that seemed to take the place of his hand. I locked eyes with a taller man, uniform almost completely scorched. He must have been the one that torched the tree behind us. 

A valiant last stand by a desperate man in a horrible situation. Something within me felt I would soon become brothers with this man in that aspect.

In unison, the horde raised their right arms to point at us, and slowly unhinged their jaws. I wish they screamed, I wish they made any sound, but it was silent. They just stood there, trembling and pointing.

Ronnie lunged at Carter. Knocking his machine gun out of his hands and pinning him to the tree. We didn't even have time to react before Bill and I were tackled to the ground and held down. Heads yanked and craned up to watch Carter wrestling with Ronnie.

The burnt man approached the two and grabbed Carter by the throat, effortlessly hauling him off the ground, keeping him pinned to the tree. He raised his hand. Long unnatural nails, almost like claws, capped the ends of his fingers. He swiftly plunged them into Carter's stomach.

He cried out and choked through the man's iron grip, writhing and twisting in an attempt to free himself.

The burnt man reached inside the wound and came out with a fist full of Carter's long intestine. We watched in horror as the man wrapped the intestine around Carter's neck and tied it. 

Ronnie grabbed the other end and started climbing the tree, pulling the intestine out as he went. Carter kicked and thrashed as his executioner quickly disappeared into the branches, and the intestinal rope drew taught. 

The burnt man let go and Carter dropped, suspended by his own insides, a wild panicked look in his eyes. We watched him die for what felt like hours. I heard Bill vomit before he as well was dragged to the tree, screaming.

Ronnie jumped back down from the tree, hitting the dirt, and making eye contact with me. Carter's body slowly began to be pulled into the branches of the burnt tree.
Disappearing into the darkness, the only sound being his body scraping against the bark, and the squelch of his entrails. 

In his struggle, Bill managed to grab his bayonet and stab one of his captors. I could see the pride and sense of accomplishment in his eyes....so did Ronnie. 

He calmly reached over, grabbed Bill's arm, and broke it in one swift, unnaturally strong movement.

Ronnie seemed to watch as the pride in Bill's eyes changed to anguish and defeat. The burnt man then grabbed Bill by the face, lifted him up and impaled him on a branch. He didn't suffer, maybe by some form of cruel grace of God, the branch went right through his heart. 

Still, his death, of all of them, impacted me the most. I’ve always struggled with religion, but Bill’s faith was weirdly one of the things that made me feel grounded or protected. Losing him took all my hopes of divine intervention, and crushed them beneath the boot of fate. I screamed in defiance and blacked out.

Bill got it the easiest, he's the only one of us that didn't have the time to wallow in the reality of our own demise. He was there, then he wasn't.
I envy him in that aspect, and I hope he is embraced by the God he trusted so heavily in.

I regained consciousness and looked back at Bill on the tree.

My eyes widened as I watched the branch he was on, slowly grow and envelope him like an octopus. It bore through to his brain, burrowed into his body, and completely swallowed him up in a cold, hungry embrace.

I no longer felt the pressure on my back, and I realized I couldn't see any of the creatures surrounding me.
I was completely alone.

I laid there for an eternity, scared to move, waiting for a hand to grab me or claws in my back. Preferably even a gunshot to my head. Nothing.

Just the scraping, stretching sound of the tree consuming my friend.

I sat up, confused, reeling from what I just witnessed. Looking around for any sign of the things that just mutilated my team.

Again, nothing. All there was, was the radio. The radio that could have been our savior, could have kept all of this from happening,  if it hadn't abandoned us in our time of need.
Falling to the backs of our minds in the horrors we were subjected to because of it. It sat about 5 feet from  the base of the tree. I knew it wouldn't work, this place was clearly making sure of that, but I was desperate. I scrambled on my hands and knees, and grabbed it. 

I switched to the emergency frequency, and pulled the trigger. "This is Sergeant John Patrell. Broken Arrow, Broken Arrow."  ......Dead air, not even static.

I began to weep. The weight of everything that happened tonight, finally crashing down all at once.

Then, a crack in the distance. I snapped my head to the trees, awaiting my death, but the sound wasn't the same cracks and crashes we'd heard from the jungle before. It was the radio.

A flurry of cracks and sputters through static.

"Sergeant Patrell. Thi- --- Agent Smith, did you find t- team?" Asked who I assumed to be our handler.

"Confirmed. All KIA. Squad is gone, I'm the only one left. I need immediate evac."

"What did you find Sergeant?" He asked casually.

What the hell kind of question is that? I wondered angrily.

"The team is dead sir. I found no survivors"

"What did you find Sergeant?." He repeated coldly.

I paused for a while, wondering what to say to that question. What was I supposed to say? They'd never take me seriously. You even hint at ghosts or supernatural, or monsters and you'd get thrown in the loony bin.

How am I supposed to explain the deaths of my team to him, or their families?
I mulled over my options, and slowly depressed the radio trigger.

"....I don't know sir. Unknown enemy. Strength unknown."

There was silence for a minute, I wondered if my response even went through.

"Understood. Sending evac. Sit tight." He said quietly.

The tension in my body relaxed, for the first time that night I felt hope. They were coming for me, I just had to make it until they got here. Once I hear the choppers everything will be okay.

I felt it wrap around my ankle.. I knew what it was. I could feel the bark even through my uniform. 

I felt it wrap around my leg and move up my body. I didn't want to look, I didn't need to.
I didn't move, I knew resistance wouldn't get me anywhere, it would just numb the impending dread with adrenaline. 

As I sat there, accepting my fate, I looked around at the jungle around me in the slowly emerging sunrise.

Faces. All the trees had faces. The frozen, agonized faces of past victims, absorbed into the trees. I looked towards the burnt tree, as it dragged me to my inevitable demise. 

My eyes looking up to the branch Bill died on, to the still, scared face of Bill... forever immortalized in his own personal, supernatural crypt.

I didn't know what it would feel like, but I didn't expect it to be warm, and wet.. The tree slowly began to swallow my feet into its base, slowly, inch by agonizing inch. 

It didn't hurt, at least that much is good. I just watched as my lower body was slowly swallowed into the charred bark.

I reached my hand out slowly to touch my captor. I don't know why, I think I just wanted to know what my eternity would feel like. 
Maybe it was a silent plea to the creature devouring me, or a final act of delirium. I'll never know.. I'll never have the time to know.

All I know is I can hear the hueys coming, I can hear the young men on their way to a trap laid by a being that knows no malice, or compassion, or any emotion for that matter. Only hunger.

I know because it told me. It's in my head, and I'm in it. I don't know what the afterlife will be like, or if there will be one. I don't know if I did a good job in this life, or if my family will know the truth. I don’t know how many more will be claimed by this evil patch of jungle.

All I know is I can feel the sun on my face.. I can hear the choppers landing in the distance, and I can see myself, leading my team towards them.

I remember the first time I went camping. The way I used to play among the trees, the smell of the fire, the stories. I went camping a lot after that. Not anymore. I can't. It's too much.

Back after I graduated from high school, my friends and I wanted to go camping to celebrate. Two days away from our parents sounded fun, so I agreed. I wasn't the most responsible, but I also wasn't about to disappear into the woods to die, so I told my parents where I was going and how long.

I packed 3 sets of clothes just in case and made sure we had basic medical supplies like bandaids and antiseptics. I also brought what I needed to go fishing. I didn't bring a tent. That wasn't my job.

Loading everything into my piece of shit suzuki samurai was a chore, but I did it. Kind of. I could barely see out the back window.

Just before I left, my dad walked out to me. "I wanted to make sure that you had everything." He was acting weird. "You uhm... you don't have to go if you don't want to. I know Xander can be a bit pushy."

"I'm fine, dad. Are you doing alright? You've been acting odd all morning."

"I'm just worried about you. The woods are dangerous. Bears and wolves and the like"

He was hiding something.

"And Enid?" He continued. "Don't go swimming in the lake. Not without a life jacket, at least. And-" I held up a hand.

"Dad, Alex is coming with us. You know he's responsible enough for all of us." That made him a bit more comfortable with our idea. I'm not good at reading people, especially not him, but the sigh of relief was unmistakable.

I guess I should say who went on this stupid fucking trip.

Alex was an eagle scout. He went camping a lot and it was his idea.

Xander and I didn't get along in any way. He was a loudmouth, a narcissist, a creep, an obnoxious flirt, and all together the worst part of the trip. At first, anyway.

Jessica was Alex's girlfriend. I had only met her once before, but I thought she was nice.

Punky was my girlfriend. We called her Punky because she listened exclusively to punk rock, but you would never know by looking at her. She was gorgeous.

Anyway, I did the ritual of trying to start my five hundred times, checking the gas, trying again, and giving a fucking blood sample before my inbred jeep would start.

It took about an hour. I hate that car.

It was a two hour drive to our camp site. My glorified shopping cart of a car didn't have a working radio, so just drove in silence. Punky was already there, as were Alex and the antichrist. I mean Xander. Hitting on my fucking girlfriend. She ran to me as soon as I got out of the car and smothered me in kisses. I returned it until Alex cleared his throat.

"Oh, sorry." I said. Punky didn't apologize. She was like that.

From here on out I'll be formatting what people say in a different way. Easier for all of us.

Xander: "What, no hug for me? C'mon Enid"

I just looked at him. No way in hell.

Alex: "You aren't her boyfriend."

That's when we heard the first strange thing. A woman screaming. Shrill and sharp. It sounded far away.

Alex: "That's probably just a fox."

He sounded uncertain, but we went along with it.

A few hours later, Jessica drove up. Her car was the opposite of mine. I slowly died inside. She opened the door and held up a case of beer. None of us were of age, but since when did we care.

Very quickly, Xander was drunk. Then Jess. The two had gotten a little too loud for me, so I told Punky I was going to walk away for a sec.

Punky: "Don't be stupid. I like my girlfriend unmauled."

Me: "So I should leave my honey and salmon here?"

We laughed, and I walked a little closer to the lake. I could hear Xander and Jess from between the trees. I was so far away. My God, they were loud.

Maybe that was why I didn't notice at first.

I walked a bit farther from them when I realized that the forest was quiet. Dead silent. No bird calls, no screaming fox, no noise at all. It made them blood in my spine freeze. I felt like I was being watched.

I looked at the trees. The birds were all staring at me. Like a security camera. The deer, too. Standing frozen, head pointing in my direction. Their eyes looked glassy. Like I was in a forest of ghosts. I looked at the camp. The sound came back. I wanted to vomit.

When I got back to the camp site, everyone was drunk but Alex. I think he knew one of us had to be responsible. They could all see my panic.

Alex: "Woah! Are you ok? What happened?"

Punky: "Was the fresh air like... fuckn... uh... you ok?"

Luckily, Xander passed out. Jessica was taking care of him. I don't know why. He was dead weight.

I tried to explain what happened. I don't think they understood. I probably sounded crazy. Maybe I was.

I drank now, too. It's easier to forget.

End of part 1

Author's note. Thank you for reading! This was my first time writing much of anything, so advice would be greatly appreciated.

Howdy! Lime here! I've been reading stories online for the CreepCast community for a little less then a year. In that time, I've read and left feedback for hundreds of stories. Last time I did a post like this was in January.

So: Do YOU have a story you'd like feedback for? Is there something in the story [tone, pace, characters, dialogue, etc] that you want me to focus on to see if it works? Then I'd love to help!

To make things super easy, feel free to respond to this post. Preferably, if you could answer these three questions below, this would speed up the process as well. I promise I will leave feedback, detailed, for every story linked here. [Feel free to look through my history to see the kind of feedback I provide.]

1.What's the name of the story you want me to look at? [Link it as well, if you can. Reddit posts only, please!]

2.What kind of feedback are you looking for? Do you want gentle critique, or do you want more critical critique?

3. Is there anything you want me to specifically focus on for my critique?

Thank you, and I'll be curious to see what you send!

EDIT: DO NOT WORRY ABOUT HOW MANY PEOPLE ALREADY POSTED.

I promise you, if you leave a comment, you will get a critique.

I’ve been posting a series called “I Work The Night Shift” for a few days now and I’d love some advice on where else to post.

It’s more of a pass time during my irl night shifts, so I’m not sure what places are good for posting more hobby-esque works. Most of the options I know of are a bit more tidy and professional. I do want to go back and clean the series up once I’m way further down the line and feel like wrapping it up, but for now I’m more looking for ideas on where to keep sharing it as a continuous project.

I’ve been writing just to share with my friends/myself for most of my life (I’m a Forever Dungeon Master so that’s most of it LMAO) but my last few posts have been my first time actually posting anywhere publicly.

TLDR; I’m not super familiar with where people who write a lot for fun like to share their work.

Everyone on this sub seems very pleasant so I figured this was a good place to ask :)

The year is 2020. And it’s been a hell of a ride, I hear that only fans will change the dating scene and revolutionize women’s rights, Black Lives Matter and the orange chad runs gods country with pride! Still though I fear the end times is among us, like the game! “Sheeee!!!” It’s ironic with this plague, who knows what will happen, people run rampant in the streets, burning cars and mugging toilet paper! It’s not all bad though season two of the boys dropped and modern warfare got remastered and I get to binge watch generation kill while face timing my teacher half naked!😜 just kidding, but I am in my pajamas! And in the comfort of my bed. Sometimes I use google to write essays! My name is Covid and I’m nineteen and this is a story about my girlfriend corona! So there’s more to the story than that, but I miss her and I wanted to spill the Tea on what’s been bothering me lately. So anyway like, it’s been really hard on me lately and I be crashing out sometimes, like both way both sleeping randomly, because I don’t sleep often! But I also crash out spiritually and mentally, and just rage. “It’s cray cray girl!” Like what the sigma!? Fuck! I can’t believe I’m telling this story! Not like you’d believe me! Chances are when you’re reading this, I would have passed on to live with Epstein and herombay! And my boy Kim Jung un! Rest in peace queen! Like o ironically slay! I don’t mean to offend! Well here goes nothing! It all started when my girlfriend killed her self. It was after she transitioned and like maybe I wasn’t there enough for her! I tried to be supportive! I mean she was a baddie when it was all said and done! I mean no girl could come close to my corona! That’s not really her name, for the sake of the story I will call her corona, and I’ll call you caline and I know my names David! 🙄 but they say the internet never forgets, and I wish something’s weren’t public. But it was that time before graduation, some duche bag air dropped her nudes and everyone made fun of her, and she would get in trouble for having things that other people sabotaged her with! I remember one time some one threw a used condom in her food, and principle raspberry. “Stupid bitch!” Screamed at her and demanded she go to the front office for immediate uprehention. We spent the whole night together, she was broken down crying, her dad was against her changing, and with all of this happening I would have thought more people would be accepting or inclusive, but while there was, it’s the few that aren’t that ruin it for everybody. We had went in for lock down that time in December when I had my first kiss, it was right before they postponed prom, and made people do zoom calls, we locked down for a school shooting, I still wake up thinking about the fear I felt that day! It was just two hours but, two hours feel like forever, when you don’t know what’s going to happen. I never would have thought, she’d be the one to pull the trigger. My dad was army and I’ve learned to respect guns as tools, and while it was wrong I know where she was coming from, I wish I was enough! But I couldn’t stop her! I didn’t even know she was done with all of it! That same day I spent hiding under the gym bleachers pissing my pants with a couple of my friends and that nerdy goth chick Sarah. She was hawt but weird! The first shot was deliberate. The school didn’t even go on lock down until the second one rung out. It wasn’t a mass shooting, she killed that duche bag William who leaked her nudes all over the school, private videos and of her, I remember the day her mother saw one of them it was quite! Almost as quiet as the locked down after that second shot! We couldn’t hear much but she was mumbling something before she took her own life in the locker room! That day still haunts me! But not as much as the video she sent me years later! I thought it was a sick fucked up joke, but no matter how many times a break or buy a new phone, disconnect from social media or go out in nature, I see her in the reflections, I hear her muffled voice sobbing through my walls. Or coming from my phones speaker, one time I was driving and we have an AM radio in my dads pick up truck, at 3AM out in the forest while me and my dad slept in the bed of the truck the radio turned on and tuned itself to static it woke me up briefly, but I could barely hear audible sobbings in the static, I looked up at the stars from the truck bed camper, and there she was staring back at me, her jaw barely hanging, more like dangling from half of her right cheek, the blood and meat drip like a waterfall, her wight eyes gaze into mine, her hair matted and tangled her freckles glisten and her breath fogs the window, her tongue wiggles around like she’s trying to speak, but she just gargles on her blood and the radio cry’s! I turned to check on my dad who was having a mild seizure in his sleep, and when I looked back confused and scared, it was becoming morning she was gone and the sun was rising, bird’s chirped and the radio clicked off. My dad woke up from his comatose state and patted me on the shoulder, “good morning champ!” I’m telling you this because I want her to be remembered for the kind and beautiful person that she was, and while he deserved it the ghost of Roger Williams haunts me as well, there’s no escaping them! Believe me I’ve tried, I use to think my technology was insidious, but it turns out that something’s can’t be unseen! And I find myself crying to sleep only to hear the first gun shot! Followed by my girlfriend’s mangled face! One time she wasn’t there and looking back at me in the mirror standing behind me, glowed the wight pale eyes of William, blood oozing from the right side of his head, or what remained of it, half his eyes sits looking down because his skull no longer exists to hold it in place, his smile sinister and pissed! He sheds a tear before breaking my mirror! He sent me the video he won’t let her go free! But whould you still hate me if it was my gun! And if I was the one who leaked the videos!😔 I didn’t mean too, but William was a peace of shit! And I intended to disturb him, with my sex tapes! I didn’t know he would have my phone, but at some point he pirated my personal videos and held me hostage and threatened to post them, if I didn’t step down from the varsity football team, I wasn’t scared of who I was and so I told him to fuck him self! And he sat on the bench like a pathetic loser for the last days of high school! I guess his dad was a big fan, and couldn’t handle a disappointment and definitely not a conniving butt weasel! So he left him and took his older sister’s too! I guess he was abandoned and homeless after that! I didn’t know , the day coronas dad started beating her up, and I knew I couldn’t always be there to defend her or comfort her, I gave her my 20 gauge shot gun, Remington model break action slug master. I figured she would have better luck scaring him away! I guess she blamed Willy for what happened entirely and one thing led to another! And now I get to live with that for the rest of my life! Hearing those shots echo down the halls, and hearing my woman cry like she did that night! She wasn’t the monster!…. I was!!! I didn’t get to tell her, how much she ment to me! Or that I loved her! She never said good bye! I know you and I haven’t been friends for a while but I wanted to send you this video honoring our memory! Good bye coline! I’ll be waiting in the mirror!

Rough waves breaking over sandy shoals has served as my alarm clock for many moons. Morning brings a cold, bitter wind that punishes any mere thought of staying warm. Little crabs cluster in the swirling eddie pools, offering the only company afforded to me in such a cruel place.

When the tides recede and sun warms the sand, I sprawl out before the open sky and reminisce about my life before being trapped in the temple of sand.

Devin and I were road bums with nowhere to go but the next town over. Hopping trains and hitchhiking across the interstate with nothing more than our guitars and the clothes on our back, we'd inevitably end up in a few coastal towns.

"This is a song about a girl who broke my heart," he'd always say, strumming familiar tunes. I couldn't harmonize strings quite the way that man did. He'd offer a warm smile to each passerby generous enough to leave something in the guitar case.

Amidst the distant echoes of the ocean, I sometimes trick myself into hearing his voice singing from somewhere far beyond the temple walls. A quick pinch or face rinse in the eddie pools offer an escape, for such hallucinations are dangerous.

Our favorite place to play was the beach, of course. Strumming a chorus from your childhood while soaking in warm rays of a setting sun was better than any drug or girl I've experienced.

"You ever feel sad when the sun goes down?"

I remember asking him that. He gave some philosophical answer about the cycle of life and offered me the first hit of our blunt.

Sadness is the last thing I've come to feel when the sun goes down within the temple. Violent shadows dance along the corners, playing out a gruesome scene of murder. Crashing waves begin to sound like cries for help. And every night, without fail, a painful stabbing sensation invades my chest when stars begin twinkling.

Whatever sleep I grab is tainted with awful dreams and evil visions. Shadow people and demonic beings stalking me along stretches of gloomy coastline. They wish to drown me in the salty brine. Hold my head under with their wretched, long, spindly fingers until my last breath escapes as a desperate air bubble. When they catch me and force my head into the water, my unconscious nightmare ends.

It bugs me that I can't quite remember the last time I hung out with Devin. Something was wrong with his guitar and it was making him really angry. Considering it put food in our mouth up to that point, I didn't feel good about the situation either. We got into some kind of argument... and that's all I can remember.

One day I thought listening to the waves and allowing myself to hallucinate his singing would help me remember. I couldn't possibly know how much of a stupid and reckless idea that ended up being. The singing started off pleasant enough. His voice harmonized with each note rising and falling in pleasant succession, singing about a country girl who took everything.

One offbeat note stuck out and suddenly the entire feeling of the music changed. He sounded much more aggressive and angry, almost growling the words in the song like a feral animal.

"So carry on like ya should baby cause love never did me any good."

I wanted to break away from the hallucination. Get away from Devin's anger. Something was keeping my mind trapped there like a bad acid trip. The music got faster and angrier until a pair of hands tightened around my neck, leaving me shouting in fear.

Never again. Hallucinations are too dangerous.

Y'know that song is about a girl we both liked growing up. Her name was Samantha but we called her Smiley. She had freckles and the cutest gap in her teeth. It always left me feeling guilty when I gazed at her with envy.

She's actually the reason Devin and I began our journey as roadies. They had a bad fight one night and she knocked on my door. I just wanted to be a good friend and give her a place have space. She didn't give me time to react or say no. One minute, I was letting her cry into my shoulder on the couch and the next thing I know she's kissing me on the lips.

"No, this is really wrong," I told her. She pushed away, staring awkwardly at the floor.

"Please don't tell him."

But I did. Devin called her a lot of colorful things as he packed up his bags. Of course, I didn't want to stick around to get heat for being the snitch so I had my shit packed the very next day.

Enclosed within my prison of tall sand walls, I often laugh at the hindsight of it all. Devin made a lot of good money singing about that girl, yet I let her rip his heart out like a fool. I can't let myself think about her too much, because I'll hallucinate her voice too. And the things she has to say are lies. At least, they better be lies.

The first time I heard her voice, I was trying to gather the sand into one large pile to climb out of the temple. My fingers scrapped against stone, burdening me with a heavy realization there wouldn't be any way out. Over my panicked cries, her voice tapered in from far away.

"Dev, you can't just leave him in the sand!"

Like a dumbass, I tried calling out to her. I'd do that a few more times before realizing the voices were just an illusion. Sometimes I'd sit by the eddie pool and pretend the crabs were the ones talking.

It was during one such occasion I hallucinated the most disturbing thing Smiley ever said.

"Sometimes, I wish I was the one who had the knife."

I never did spend much time thinking about what death would be like. Whenever people asked me about my stance on religion, I'd always tell them we'd find out when it was time.

Now, every day I spend within these temple walls, I wonder more and more about death. When I'm not pondering my mortal coil or tripping on hallucinations, I'll wrack my brain just trying to remember how exactly I got here. I've come up with a lot of theories but nothing really makes sense.

Yesterday I realized I haven't ate or drank anything since waking up in the temple. Any mortal would have perished, so why haven't I?

Long have I enjoyed its fruits.  The sensation of each bite was as invigorating as the first I ever took.  The taste is still a blissful, potent, intoxicating explosion.  That horrified shame I once experienced has been long dead and buried in some crevice of my eternal soul, lost in the infiniti I surrendered for the pleasures of extended mortality. 

It's been my life partner for nearly a century.  Born in 1934, I have enjoyed the bounty of youth well into my early hundreds.  My skin supple, my flesh strong, my mind sharp.  This plot of land has been my home ever since I discovered it, and I have never yearned for anything different.  An ecstasy permeates the very air around it, and every day, I get to wake and inhale its gifts.  How could I yearn for anything else?  How could I have known?

I remember that first day vividly on the cusp of the Smoky Mountains, beyond the East Coast.  I was a desperate man, looking for cheap land and distance from people I had little patience for.  On the brink of burning the last of my fuel, I pulled off the main road, down a dirt path.  Trees soon encompassed my beater vehicle, and the road continued down a sudden, side-winding cliffside.  Running on fumes, I let my curiosity follow the dirtway, no point in stopping while I can still go.

The barren drive gave way to a field, the road ended, but I let my car drift through the brush with its final burst of gas.  The gravity of my life must have been weighing my mind down somewhat, for I was numbly bursting through bushes and tall grass for a handful of minutes before I regained concern for my well-being.  In the nick of time, I swerved around a tree and skidded to a halt just past the treeline.  

Shaking my head in self-disgust, I looked at the odometer to confirm I had just burned the last ounce of fuel in my car.  Disgust was soon wiped from my thoughts as I looked up out my windshield.  

A graveyard stared right back at me.  A humble stone fence guarded its small perimeter.  The canopy of trees leered over the petite guard, but dared not cross it, leaving the bed of the dead open to enjoy the sun unmolested by shadow.  Scattered headstones poked out of the thick grass blanket, appearing as aged pillows stained by past eons known only by those silent few who slept within.  

In the midst of this archaic landscape, sat a single tree.  Young, yet to bear fruit, but straight and strong of trunk.  From it sprout nine branches, each identical in girth and extension.  All arched upward, before slanting sharply down, as if recolied fingers.  

The bizarre scene was captivating.  I had never seen anything like it.  Exiting my car, I walked to the fence and peered over it, like a child daring to wander onto an adult’s property to retrieve a ball. Mesmerized, I stared at it unblinking.  Before I realized it, I was standing under it.  Its shade was more than cooling; it was blissful, like a blanket of soft, liquid flesh massaging every inch of me in a loving embrace.  

I came to my senses after my foot hit a hard block just at the foot of the tree.  The roots had grown over most of it, but I made out what it was nonetheless.  A headstone peeked from under the magnificent plant.  Wooden tendrils had consumed most of it, but I could still examine the last name and date of death: 
Handstern 
- 1924

The tree had grown from his very resting place.  At the time, I simply thought it was poetically beautiful.  Evening was fast approaching, and the solitude, along with the gravitational force of the bizarre tree, was convincing enough for me to camp out in the graveyard.  

The night sky was vivid and bright, and the cold wind was shielded by the tree under which I slept.  My dreams were filled with orgasmic sensations and vibrant warmth.  Never had I slept so soundly and yet experienced so much while doing so.  When I woke, the faint kiss of those dreams was imprinted on my mind.  At first, I was oblivious to the trees' influence and chalked it up to the peaceful, scenic bedroom I found myself in.  

Stretching and breathing in the morning air, I realized I was atop an incredible overlook, something the night and forest had hidden from me.  Just past the graveyard was the cliff edge, looking over the immense forest valley below.  I was completely floored by the wonder this location seemed to spring on me from moment to moment.  What are the chances?

I sat there for most of the morning, legs dangling off the rocky overhang.  Existential contentment was an abnormality for me at that time; never had I felt, not just at peace, but aroused by life.  Breathing was invigorating, silence was enchanting, my body pulsed with energy, and my mind was sharp and heightened.  I had never felt more alive, more human, until that first moment here. 

Bolting to my feet, pounding my chest in elated joviality, I turned back to my car to assess my supplies, determined to camp here as long as my luggage would allow.  Hopping over the compact fence, I came to a halt beside one of the nine, finger-like branches of the great tree.  I was shocked to discover, upon the very tip of this wooden appendage, a blooming bud of some sort.  A bud I was certain was not there the night before.  Flabbergasted by the speed of this eruption of life, I shook it off as yet another mystery of this oddity of botany.  

I decided then and there that, no matter how scarce my supplies were, this was a sign to camp here a few more days.  My rationale at the time was simple: I desperately needed this cleansing of body and spirit before venturing back to the “real world”.  The sluggish banality, quiet desperation, and sullen patheticness of searching for work, let alone the haunting possibility of actually succeeding this hunt, was an experience I was eager to put off.  

So, I spent the remainder of the day strolling the vicinity, picnicking under the tree, and occasionally by the cliff edge.  I cannot lie, the natural silence was beautiful, but there were moments where, even in that paradise, my thoughts wandered to places I was uncomfortable with.  At the time.  

The first was of my family.  What little family I had was scattered across the continent, but I was leaving a sister and a younger brother up in New England.  Not to mention a potential sweetheart whom I had unsuccessfully and sporadically courted on and off throughout my years in our small town. 

 
I was thinking how pleasant it would be to share this place with them, when I realized I was having a difficult time remembering their faces.  Vague whispers of shapes and skin tones seemed to intermingle and morph in my mind's eye the harder I concentrated.  Alarmed and distraught, I jogged to my disabled vehicle and shuffled through the glove compartment.  Stashed haphazardly under a pack of cigarettes lay the few pictures of home I had bothered to hold on to.  Lifting one of them, I absorbed their faces.  My brother and sister were on either side of me, humble smiles radiating off them.  

This reassurance was soon met with a bizarre sense of detachment.  I could see their faces, but I could not retain them.  A smog would obscure their faces the very moment I blinked.  Any mortal man would’ve been shaken by this rapid onset of dementia; however, I was pulled away from these worries by the First Sign.  

A rustling from behind me drew my attention.  As I turned, heavy clouds blew across the vibrant sky, shading the graveyard in immense darkness.  Wind raced through the branches and grass, spattering dew onto my face.  Despite the buffeting, my eyes remained unblinking as I witnessed it.  

The recoiled branch of the bud creaked and groaned as it adjusted its arm, like stiffened bones being torn from their crypt.  Now arched like a lure, this single branch remained bare, except for its very tip, which bulged with a new, throbbing appendage.  The bud was now a moist, crimson sac, like an over-ripened apple made of flesh, dangled from its wooden umbilical cord.  

With a sudden burst, it ejaculated a flash of leaves and flowers.  A rainbow of archaic foliage sprouted its strange patterns, itself in its collective bunches in the shape of a flower.  At the center of which hung the First Sign, and the first of my holy fruit.  

I must admit, even with the fragrance of that blooming majesty, it was not enough, at the time, to disway my initial shock and disgust.  From the kaleidoscope of color and leaves, a raw, human head, devoid of skin, hung.  Its mesh of dripping, bloody muscle fibers hung loosely off the skull, barely gripping the agape jaw as it dangled in the wind.  Eyeless sockets dripped crimson, coating the white teeth in a thin red paint.  

Long, clumpy hair draped from its cap, with a flimsy braid holding the locks in place, a stream of texture.  What strands weren’t glued together by chunks of wet sinew showed a lush brown color.  Given the head's ravaged state, the hair was the sole indicator of its distant humanity.  A desperate clasp on what individuality one retains before death wipes clean the slate of our flesh.  

And clasp it did, for I recognized that color.  Its hints of amber, its braid, even in the dimmed atmosphere, rang an alarm of familiarity throughout my body.  With a shaking hand, I raised the picture I had fished from my car.  My sister, smiling in that eternal capsule, had flung over her shoulder, cascading down her torso, that very braid.  

The coincidence was unbelievable.  I examined that clotted, mutilated fruit, only to discover more similarities.  The high cheekbones, the teeth, what features there were, retained an uncanny resemblance to her.  Suddenly, I found myself under the tree, gazing up at the pod, mouth agape.  That fragrance permeated, like the pulse of a beating heart.  And I had locked onto its source.  The hair was dangling just inches from my mouth.  Its scent was ecstasy. 

 
I gasped as I realized I was sliding the moist mane down my throat, hand outstretched, plucking the fruit free.  The taste erased any moral repulsion or instinct of disgust from my mind.  What was perceived as coagulated blood tasted of the richest butter; what was perceived as rotting follicles tasted of the richest pastry; what was perceived as oozing muscle tasted of the rarest poultry; what was once my sister was now a rejuvenating sustenance of celestial origin.   

Each crunching bite was a burst of flavor my tongue has never and could never enjoy from the natural world.  The fragments of cranium complemented the chunks of grey matter, both intensified by the flood of blood, which was riddled with the pulp of rotted arteries.  Each gulp, warm and titillating, filled me with radiant vitality.  

Lips coated in its juices, I looked down at my hands, stained red and sticky.  Not a seed remained of that abnormality.  A perfect calm filled me; never had I been so satisfied.  I was shaken from my trance by the retracting branch.  Like a withered arm, it coiled into a spiral, bark blackening and tearing. With that, the First Sign had come and gone.  Horrified that I had killed this holiest of holies, I feverishly began wrapping its limb in torn fabric, hauling water over to hydrate it, and doing what little else I could think of.  

I was interrupted by a rapid migraine that coursed violently from my spine to my frontal lobe.  Its sharpness knocked me to my knees.  I dropped my bucket, splashing water over myself, only stopping my fall by supporting myself against the tree. It was gone as soon as it came.  Gasping, I collected myself, carefully stretching my neck and back, testing for the source of the pain.  With no signs of returning, relief flooded me.  I examined my soaked pants before fishing out their contents to examine the damage.  My photo was moist, but remained intact.  Flapping it in the air to help it dry, I looked up at the branches, all eight others still intact, no sign of similar wilting. 

Content with my efforts, I paused my drying of the print and looked down at the photo.  For the last time, I believe. The migraine returned with a soft wrapping up my spinal column, into my eyes as I gazed at my sister's face.  I forced myself to continue looking despite the pain, for a new terror revealed itself to me.  I could not recognize her face.  An insistent blur seemed to be mutilating her features, obscuring them in both mind and vision. The migraine grew in intensity the longer I stared.  For a minute, I resisted, cold sweat coating my forehead as I churned my brain, trying to recall her.  

At last, the pain searing and sharp, like hot nails being driven into my eyes, I turned away.  Distress riddled my stomach, anxiety coated my throat, and a terror of my actions replaced the drumming in my skull.  

I’ve come a long way since.  Such troubles are a distant ache.  But even then, all that turmoil I felt was dashed away by the enticing scent of the timber.  It seemed to sense my distress and exuded a fragrance that filled my lungs with fresh joy and my mind with calming comforts comparable only to the warm swaddling of a loving mother.  

With a sigh of relief, I crumpled the picture in my fist.  No longer would it distract me from my bliss.  No familiar bond, no loving friend, no caring mother, could ever fill me with the euphoric contentment I feel here, in my garden of graves.  The fog filled my mind’s eye as countless faces began to dissipate like a thin mist.  I inhaled deeply and accepted their departure.  

Before I knew it, I lived under the tree.  The surrounding forest supplied me with the material to construct a humble log cabin, on the cusp of the graveyard's fence.  Every morning since, I sat under my tree to await another Sign. Once every decade, one would appear.  The Second Sign was my brother; he bloomed like my sister, a gnarled, ghastly skull, dripping with his liquefied muscles, like the juices of the ripest fruit.  What apprehensions I had were dashed upon that first, delectable bite.  The skull gave way to my teeth, like the skin of a dried mango, the gush of blood filled my mouth, paired with the tenderness of the muscles as I chewed, all cascaded down my throat like a river of divine mana.  

Like the first, the branch withered into its spiral of rot, signaling seven Signs yet to come.  Like the first, what remaining aspects of my brother’s face I could recall were liquidated.  Like the first, my conscience was suffocated by the ethereal peace.  

Only after the Third Sign did I realize my extended youth, my aptitude, and my overall health.  That one was my mother, I believe.  She was especially ripe.  Dense with flesh, that first crunch resonated among the tombstones like the echoes of a barren cave.  A waterfall of thick veins and brain matter poured over my face.  No longer did her face haunt my dreams; her voice no longer badgered me for the sins I had supposedly committed. 

 
By the Fourth Sign, I could no longer even guess who I was consuming.  The past and future seemed equal in obscurity, both unknowable concepts, capable merely of prediction by analyzing the present.  However, my longevity and radical health dissuaded any such analysis.  The present was where I lived, where I flourished, where I was safe.  No work to distract me, no relations to challenge me, no ailments to hurt me.  The tree sheltered me.  For a price I thought fair, no matter what sliver of shame and anxiety would sliver out from the cravacesess of my soul.    

These pathetic episodes were short-lived in an otherwise bountiful blur of happiness.  Decades of extended, youthful mortality have a way of swaying one’s moral considerations.  At least, until the Eighth Sign.  

Strange, it was only a decade ago, yet it feels so distant.  It bore its fruit, and I sat patiently waiting for its full bloom.  Another faceless head, its limited features no longer affecting me.  No longer drawing out memories of whoever was about to be consumed.  Upon the final gulp, the final sigh of bliss, I felt it.  It rushed, no, sprouted from my stomach lining, a shoot, piercing up my esophagus.  

It was the first time I had felt pain in half a century.  Long gone were the days of piercing migraines; my secluded paradise softened me to the slightest irritations.  Even without this factor, the pain would have keeled over a marine.  Hunched, howling into the dirt, I felt as the finger of something growing trickled up my innards, choking me all the way.  It halted about a third of the way up my throat.  Its girth was not enough to suffocate me, but each breath felt like sucking down razor blades.  

I lay there trembling, miserable, confused, and bitter at the brutal interruption of my heavenly delights.  Risking additional pain, I adjusted myself onto my elbows, only to feel the spear drag across my lower esophagus, slicing and splintering along the tender lining.  I gasped in pain, but I was satisfied with the experiment.  I now knew what was growing inside me.  
   
  A sapling.  

Denial plagued much of the following weeks.  It was soon replaced entirely by misery.  The pain never dissipated.   Like a slug, I crawled along the tombstone garden, a trail of coughed-up blood trailing behind me.  With each month, I felt it grow.  Leaves would bloom, tickling my lungs at first, before causing a rash that spread throughout my insides.  The torment was unbearable.  Pain that only grew, paired with an intense itch that flared in every crevice of my torso.  

After a year, I would have ended it if I could have moved.  Instead, I lay against my beloved tree, a statue of flesh positioned upright by the sapling sprouting from my torn, bloody throat.  Nine branches had pierced through my chest cavity, their leaves stained red, decorated with my innards dangling from them, like Christmas ornaments.  Endless tortures vandalized my once youthful appearance as it germinated within me.  My strength was stolen, nutrients for my seed.  The only thing that remained was my life.  No matter the blood loss, the hollowing hunger, the eternal fatigue of muscle, I would not die.  

A decade passed by like seven eternities, the time I had so gleefully last track of, now pestered my every thought, like a mocking jester to his dying king.  Each moment a bastard of itself: every second felt like an hour, every hour, a year, every year, a decade.  The only perceivable hope was now the one thing I had spent decades dancing from.  Decay.  

Long was his shadow, its cooling shade the only remedy for my wailing existence.  My mind was now wiped of not only the memory of people, but of memory entirely.  Sapped away along with my vitality.  The fog had replaced my mind, festering and darkening each day, fueled by the agony I endured.  Like an animal, only the present was conceivable to me.  Despite my prayers to be free of its torturous aura.  

At last, the Ninth Sign came.  

The eight withered spirals above my imprisoned living corpse exploded with life, extending straight and upright like the prongs of a crown.  The ninth branch, in the middle of its brothers and sisters, remained fixated, the tip of its retracted finger blooming more brilliantly than any other Sign.  Like an encrusted gem, its foliage gleamed and shone, brighter than any star.  I strained my eyes upward, the searing pain radiating through my body, for a moment, forgotten.  

An oozing bud, blazing like the sun, appeared, like the head of an infant being pushed out of its mother.  Unraveling itself, its fruit began to appear, as hot afterbirth dripped over me.  This fruit maintained its face, its flesh covered in supple skin, hair, vibrant and healthy.  

As it grew and formed, I could not help but weep as I stared into my own face.  

Fully sprouted, it hung over me, its closed eyelids quivering for a moment before opening.  I stared into myself, a new agony burning through my body and soul.  It began to lower, a moist umbilical cord pulsing from the branch, extending it closer and closer to me.  My eyes stung as I attempted to cry out, gagged by the sapling buried in my throat.  Anchored at the foot of this majestic tree, I sat with my mouth forced agape, while the Ninth Sign slid down my gullet.  

Its size unhinged my jaw and tore my esophagus as it crawled its way down.  Each hair atop its head dug into new internal gashes and old wounds, stinging like a horde of wasps.  The sapling within me seemed to guide the fruit deeper and deeper, until at last, with a plop, it splashed into my stomach.  Bile quickly boiled over, gushing up my shredded, bloodied throat, like lava.  I erupted, red vomit exploded from my shattered jaws, shooting violent convulsions down my spine.

Exhausted and miserable, I leaned my head back against the tree I had so loved all these passing decades.  Its ninth branch, now nothing more than a withered spiral, joined its decayed fellowship, resuming their silent prayer.  The blackness of the branches spread to the trunk, rotting its bark and suffocating its moisture.  The stench of rotting flesh replaced its once enchanting fragrance.  Like a cripple’s hand, the tree shrank into itself.  Nothing more than a decaying stump, it resembled a tombstone more than a tree.  

There I lay, tears running freely down my battered face, staring up into the glum, dark sky, eager for my final moments to arrive.  Contemplating solely on a past pillaged from my mind, a present I could not endure, and a future I was desperate to escape.  My stomach, eviscerated and ravaged, pulsated as the fruit fertilized the sapling.  My living corpse no longer enough, the crop certified the saplings' final nutrition.  

My sight grew hazy, my limbs numb, my heart weak.  The tree within me began to expand, its trunk bursting through my stomach lining, tearing me in two, yet held together by its roots entangled in my spinal column as they burrowed into the earth.  

I was the Final Sign.  I stared up at the young, proud tree, still growing over me, from me.  Its nine branches, poised like retracted fingers, encircled its trunk.  All pain was gone, my nerves, whether consumed or ruined, no longer screamed out.  

There I lay, my final moments here at last.  A strange parental affection filled me, and was soon ratified by the entrancing fragrance of the newly enshrined tree.  With my last breath, I drew in the fruits of my labor, and as I exhaled, I wept with joy.  The tree blessed me with a gift of passing, and with it, all regrets melted away, as I slipped into oblivion. 

I became a paramedic because I wanted to be the person who showed up on time.

I wasn't, when it mattered most.

Her name was Renee. She was thirty-four years old, she drove a blue Subaru, and she had this habit of leaving her coffee cup on the roof of the car when she loaded groceries, then driving away and calling me twenty minutes later, laughing about how she'd done it again. I have seventeen voicemails from her on my phone. I've never deleted them. I've never listened to them again either. They sit there... a voice on a screen.

She was on Route 9 when the other driver ran the light.

I was four minutes away.

I know that because I've thought about it every day for two years. About what four minutes mean, about what I could have done with four minutes. Whether four minutes was always going to be the difference or whether it was just the number the universe picked to make sure I'd spend the rest of my life suffering over it.

I was not her paramedic. They pulled me off the scene before I could be, which was the right call, which I would have made myself for anyone else, but it didn't make it easier to sit in the back of a unit with my hands shaking while other people tried to do what I couldn't.

She died at 4:17 PM in December.

Toby was eleven. He's twelve now. I’m grateful he’ll still remember her. That's the thing I'm most grateful for and the thing that hurts the most, depending on the day.

The house got quiet after she died.

Not immediately—immediately, there were people everywhere. Her sister, my mother, and neighbors I hadn't spoken to in years all showed up with casserole dishes and apologies. The house was full for about a week, and then one day it wasn't, and I realized that all the noise had been a kind of buffer between me and what my new reality was.

It sounded like Toby watching TV in his room with the volume low.

It sounded like one person making coffee in the morning instead of two.

I went back to work six weeks later. Earlier than I should have, and earlier than the crew said. I told myself Toby was okay, that he was resilient, that kids are resilient, which now I know is something people say about kids when they need kids to be resilient, because the alternative is too much for them to carry. Toby didn't fight me on it. He just nodded, went to school, came home, did his homework, ate whatever I put in front of him, and went to bed. He was so easy that I didn't understand that easy wasn't the same as okay.

We talked, we just... didn't say anything.

I'd ask about school, and he'd say, "Fine." I'd ask about any new friends, and he'd shrug. I'd say goodnight, and he'd say goodnight back, and I'd stand in the hallway outside his door, looking at him for a moment, trying not to cry, before I went to my own room. I still had her nightstand on her side, which I hadn't moved, which I wasn't ready to move.

That was us... the shape of our life.

I tried telling myself it would get easier.

The first time Toby came home in clothes I didn't recognize, it was a cold day in November.

A sweater, it was dark gray, and was cable knit, the kind with the thick seams that you can feel when you run your thumb along them. I noticed it immediately because it was the kind of sweater I couldn't afford, not with the hours I was working and what hours cost in this county when you're doing them alone.

"Where'd you get that?"

Toby looked down at himself like he'd forgotten he was wearing it.

"Eli gave it to me. Mine got dirty."

"Who's Eli?"

"Just someone from school."

He dropped his backpack by the stairs and went to the fridge, and I stood there with a dish towel in my hand, thinking about the sweater. It was expensive. It also fit him perfectly. Not a hand-me-down fit, with it loose in the shoulders or short on the sleeves, but actually perfect, like it had been bought for him. Like it had been bought specifically for him.

I told myself it was nothing.

I was good at that by then.

A week later, it was a pair of boots. Timberland Pros—waterproof, steel-toed, and brand-spanking new. Toby said Eli’s feet were bigger, so he gave them to him.

Then came a pair of expensive raw-denim jeans. Then a leather jacket that looked like it cost more than my monthly mortgage payment.

Each time, the explanation was the same. 

"Mine got dirty."

"Eli let me have his spares."

"Eli says he doesn't need them."

In my line of work, we’re trained on "Mechanism of Injury." You look at the damage to the car to understand the damage to the spine. And, I'll admit, I started looking for the damage on Toby.

I’d catch him coming in at 6:00 PM, two hours after the bus usually dropped him off. I’d perform a visual sweep before he took his coat off. I looked for petechiae around his neck. I looked for defensive wounds on his forearms. I even started checking his pupils when he sat down for dinner—looking for a sluggish response to see if he had been drugged or sedated.

Physical findings: Zero. Toby looked healthier than he had in years. He had color in his cheeks, his hands were calloused and covered in a white dust—limestone, I realized, the same stuff they mine at the Quarry.

But the psychological indicators were redlining.

Everything in his world was now filtered through a single syllable: Eli.

Eli says we’re working on a project.
Eli’s place is cooler than ours.
Eli gave me this because he said I looked cold.

He never said "Eli's parents." He never mentioned a "house." He just said "Eli's place," and in my mind, that space began to look like a studio apartment, or a van, or a crawlspace in the woods. I began to picture Eli as a twenty-eight-year-old with a squirrelish voice and an evil plan.

The paranoia became a constant adrenaline spike anytime my mind would race.

Yesterday, Toby came home with a bruise on his cheek; it was a contusion, maybe two centimeters across.

"What happened to your face?" I hadn't realized I didn't even say hello. I just grabbed his chin, tilting his head toward the light to get a better look.

"It's nothing. We were just clearing stuff out at Eli’s, and I tripped."

"Clearing what out? Where do you even go after school, Toby? I’ve checked the school roster. There isn't an "Eli" in the seventh grade or eighth grade.”

Toby pulled his face out of my hand. The easy, shy kid was gone.

"He’s not in my school," Toby said flatly.

My stomach dropped. My heart was probably doing 110. "How old is he? Where does he live? Why is he giving you a leather jacket, Toby? Adult men don't just give kids clothes for no reason."

"He’s my friend!" Toby shouted. It was the loudest the house had been in years. "He’s the only person who actually talks to me at school! Why have you been acting so weird about him!"

"I am trying to protect you—"

"From what? Having a life?" Toby’s eyes were wide and wet, identical to Renee’s the day she died. "Why aren't you just happy I'm not alone anymore? Just because your life ended when Mom died doesn't mean mine has to!"

He didn't wait for my response. He stormed upstairs and slammed the door so hard that a framed photo of Renee fell off the hallway wall.

I put it back on the wall and just stood in the dark, realizing I had lost the scene entirely.

I spent the rest of the night sitting at the kitchen table, performing a mental map of the last two years, looking for the exact moment the internal hemorrhaging had started. My training is designed to fix physical trauma—broken bones, stalled hearts, collapsed lungs, what have you.

But there isn't a tourniquet in the world that can stop the bleeding in a broken home.

The next morning was silent. Toby left for the bus at seven. He was wearing a new jacket—a hefty, black canvas work coat with a corduroy collar. It looked expensive and far too heavy for a middle-schooler’s backpack.

I didn't ask where he got it, or even say goodbye. I just watched him walk down the driveway, my heart doing a steady, anxious 110.

I tried to be the "good" dad for the next forty-eight hours. I told myself I was overreacting. I went to my shift and tried to focus on the radio chatter, but every "Walkaway" call from the North side made my skin crawl.

When I got home Thursday morning, I did something I promised Renee I’d never do. I searched his room.

I felt like a predator myself, creeping through his space while he was at school. I didn't find a "smoking gun." I didn't find drugs or burner phones.

But I found the "Gifts."

Tucked into the back of his closet were three more hoodies, two pairs of expensive boots, and a leather-bound journal with high-quality cream paper. None of it had been used. It was just... stored there... like he didn't want me to see it.

I pulled out one of the hoodies—a thick, gray zip-up. I pressed it to my face.

It didn't smell like Toby or our house. It was the scent of organic clover laundry soap, but beneath it, I smelled something else.

Limestone.

It was the same white powder I’d seen on the boots of the workers at the Quarry. My clinical brain went into overdrive. Toby wasn't just meeting "Eli" at school. He was going to the Quarry.

That afternoon, when Toby came home, the "Easy" kid was gone for good. He walked past me in the kitchen, and I saw the way he was moving. It was guarded—he was protecting his ribs.

"Toby, stop," I said, my voice dropping. "Take off the hoodie."

"No." He didn't even turn around.

"I'm not asking, Toby. You’re guarding your left side. Did he hit you? Did Eli hit you?"

Toby spun around, and for a second, I saw Renee's fire in his eyes. "Nobody hit me! We were working! We’re building something, okay? Something real!"

"Building what? Why are you going to the Quarry? All the clothes are covered in limestone."

Toby froze. His pupils dilated—a classic "Fear/Flight" response. "How do you know where I go?"

"Because I'm your father! You're twelve years old, Toby! Why is a man giving you tailored clothes and work jackets? Why is he isolating you from me?"

"He's not isolating me!" Toby screamed. "You isolated me! You’ve been a zombie since Mom died! You just work and come home and sit in front of the TV and eat pizza!"

The words hit me, and I felt my breath hitch.

He didn't just slam his door this time. I heard the lock click.

I sat in the hallway for hours, staring at the closed door.

In my line of work, we talk about the “Golden Hour”—that critical window of time after a traumatic injury where medical intervention has the highest likelihood of preventing death. I realized, sitting there on the carpet, that my window had likely closed weeks ago.

I didn't try to open the door, I just went to the kitchen, poured a cup of coffee I didn't want, and sat in the dark.

The next morning, Toby left for school without breakfast. I watched from the window as he walked down the driveway toward the bus stop. He looked like a stranger, or like a man going to work.

I called out from work that day. I told them I had a family emergency, which felt like the first honest thing I’d said in years.

I sat in my truck two blocks away from the middle school, tucked behind a row of parked cars. I felt the shame of it—the stalking, the lack of trust on my end—but the paramedic in me overrode the father. I told myself I was "evaluating the environment." I told myself I was looking for the source of the "limestone dust."

At 3:15 PM, the bell rang. I watched the students pour out in a chaotic wave. Then I saw him.

Toby wasn't alone. He was walking with a group of three other boys. They were jostling each other, laughing, and for a split second, I saw my son—the twelve-year-old kid.

I felt a surge of relief so sharp it made my hands go limp on the steering wheel. I almost turned the key. I almost went home to move Renee’s nightstand and wait for him with an apology.

But then the group reached the corner of the street, and the other boys turned toward the bus stop. Toby didn't.

He kept walking, heading straight toward the gravel paths that led into the deeper parts of town.

I put the truck in gear and followed from a distance, watching him navigate the rocky terrain. He didn't look back once.

He stopped at a small, cedar-shingled house tucked into a clearing of trees, about four miles from the Quarry.

A man was standing on the porch. He was tall, dressed in a quarryman's uniform. As Toby approached, the man stepped down and met him halfway. He reached out and pulled my son into a paternal side-hug. He ruffled Toby’s hair, said something that made Toby smile, and ushered him inside.

Condition fucking Red.

I didn't think about "Scene Safety." I didn't think about "Calling for Backup." All I saw was a grown man taking my son into a house I didn't recognize.

I sprinted across the street.

I'm not proud of what came next.

I hammered my fist on that door.

It swung open, and the man stood there, looking startled. He looked... remarkably average. He had a pair of reading glasses perched on his head and a smudge of white dust on his cheek.

"Where is he?" I screamed. "Where the hell is my son?"

The man blinked, holding up his hands. "Whoa! Take it easy! What are you talking about?"

"I know he's in here! Are you Eli?! You touch him again, and I will fucking kill you!"

The man’s expression shifted from fear to deep confusion. "I'm not Eli," he said slowly. "Eli... Eli's my son." He turned his head slightly. "He’s in the kitchen with his friend. May I ask who you are?"

The adrenaline in my system evaporated at once, leaving me cold.

I looked into the house. It wasn't a grooming den, or anything of the other insane things I'd pictured for weeks.

It was a home.

There was a half-finished puzzle on the coffee table. There were muddy work boots by the door. In the kitchen, a woman was helping Toby and another boy—a kid with freckles and the same build as Toby—scrub mud off their arms in the sink.

The smell—that sweet clover scent. It was coming from the laundry room.

"It’s an organic soap," the woman said, looking at me with concern. "Our son has a skin condition. It’s the only thing that doesn't cause a reaction."

"I... I'm—so sorry. I'm Toby's father," I stammered, dragging my hand down my face.

The man let out a long breath. "Oh, man. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you. Toby said you worked 72-hour rotations at the station. He told us your... your wife passed away. I-I'm Mark." He said, holding out his hand.

I shook it and looked at Toby. He was standing by the sink, holding a damp paper towel. He looked ashamed. He looked at their messy living house—and then he looked at me like I was the intruder.

"We've been letting the boys help me build a stone firepit in the back," Mark said, gesturing toward the limestone blocks visible through the window. "Toby's a hard worker, but he’s a messy one. He kept ruining his school clothes, so we just started giving him Eli’s spares. They’re the same size, and Eli outgrows everything in a month anyway."

"He told us he didn't have any clean clothes because he said you worked long hours, he said he didn't want to bother you," Eli’s mother added softly. "We just... we just wanted him to be warm."

I stood in the middle of their living space and realized I was the only dead thing in the room.

Toby hadn't been stolen. He had found a family that was still whole, and he was trying to borrow enough of their life to survive the one in mine.

Toby got up and grabbed my arm, not looking at Mark or his wife, or at Eli.

"I-I'm sorry, again," I called out, following Toby out of the house.

I didn't say anything on the drive home. Toby stared out the window, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the blurring trees.

When we got inside our house, the silence hit me. The kitchen was clean. Renee’s empty chair was still tucked perfectly under the table.

"I'm sorry, Tobes," I said.

Toby stopped at the foot of the stairs. He didn't look back at me.

"You didn't even know his last name, Dad," he said quietly. "You didn't even ask if he was my age."

He went upstairs. I heard the door click shut.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table now. Renee's chair is still tucked in perfectly across from me. I've never moved it... I don't know why I haven't moved it. Maybe I'll move it tomorrow.

I spent weeks convincing myself a stranger was taking my son.

I never stopped long enough to ask him about his new best friend.

EDIT: Fixed a few wording/details after rereading some parts and replying to comments. Nothing major changed.

Hi creeps! Need some help with a body horror tale I want to post, I have an idea with parasites but I'm not sure what or where to draw inspiration from Any ideas?

I’ve been struggling to write something for a bit now since I have the story in mind, I know where to take it, how to end it, and so on. But I can seem to write the intro to lead into the narrative naturally.

How do you guys manage to connect the first dot to the second??

Hello. If you remember, (a lot of you probably dont) I posted this story under a different title about a month ago. I have since deleted the old version and this is a somewhat newer tweaked version that I like better. There is still a bigger version coming along with some other changes. I dunno when thats gonna be done but it will be soon hopefully. I hope you enjoy my english project <3

It has been precisely 42 days since I have seen another human being. I just woke up one day, and since I live alone, I didn’t notice immediately. It’s funny that scientists say that people need other people to stay alive and sane, but I have never felt that way. I’ve never felt lonely, in fact, when I was with people, I felt I was forcing myself to conform to what they like. Their preferred version of me. I used to have a wife, we divorced 3 years ago. She said that I wasn’t the same guy she married. But I’m going a little off track. I’ve decided to start this journal in the event this journal gets into the hands of literally anyone else. Right, I should probably explain more about what's going on. 42 days ago, I woke up like any other day, got ready and set out to go to my job as a lawyer. As I left my house, the streets were quiet. I didn’t figure anything was wrong, there weren’t any other signs to point to it. And I don’t really live in that big of a city, so again, I brushed it off. As I arrived at work though, that’s when I sensed something was off. The building was locked and all of the lights were off. I called my boss to see if I had missed something, I checked the day to make sure it wasn’t a holiday and we were closed. But I came up empty handed on everything. I had just then realized that the staff parking lot was also empty, and no one else was next to me asking what the hell was going on. I started to get a little uneasy, but maybe it was- well honestly I don't remember what I was thinking, but I was trying to rationalize it. I checked my watch and it read 10:30am. 10:30 in the morning and it was dead silent, everywhere.

 A high school was just a couple blocks away so I had jogged over, my heart shuddered as I noticed that the school was completely inert. No kids smoking outside instead of learning, and no teachers telling them to get back in or they’re expelled. Clap. I had heard a clap that echoed through the empty streets, and I swung behind me to where the sound had originated. Clap. Standing down the block was what looked to be a human, wearing a suit. I was relieved and called out: “Hey! Do you know where everyone is?”. Clap. “Is that a no?” Clap. I noticed that it was starting to walk towards me, and as it did, my stomach knotted into a pretzel. The “human” was at least 8 feet tall, and the hands were MASSIVE, and it looked as if the nails were neglected and grew into claws. The head was more oblong than normal. As it finally hit me what I was looking at wasn’t a human, or at least not anymore, I ran. I ran so far so fast I felt like a track star, I felt like the wind, as if my atoms had bonded to it and it carried me away effortlessly. And then I was right back where I was.
 Because I hadn’t gone anywhere. My feet were glued to the cement sidewalk in complete terror. Clap. I tried to scream for help but nothing but a wimpy gust of air came out. Clap. I kept trying to desperately move, but the stupid fucking thing kept clapping. Clap. As my fear began to subside and my adrenaline kicked in, I realized I could move again and I immediately ran for my life. This time I got farther. By 3 steps. As I ran those 3 steps, I looked back to see my assailant closer, only about 10 feet now. I have tried and failed to describe what it looks like multiple times because it was so hideous and ungodly that it was near impossible to put it into words. While I was trying to stare at the creature in hopes I would suddenly get laser eyes and kill it, I failed to notice the curb that dipped onto the street. I looked back to get a face full of concrete. My nose had started to weep uncontrollably, it had leaked down into my mouth and the harsh taste of metallic blood assaulted my tounge.. The pain was more than I thought it was going to be. I had never been in a fight or really ever been hurt like that before, but thanks to my primal burst of energy, I was ready to get out of here. Clap. I look back in the direction of the noise helplessly on the ground like a turtle on its back, all I see are pants and fine dress shoes. Clap. I craned my neck all the way up to look at its face. The best way I could describe it was that it looked like the head of a fly with teeth instead of eyes, rows upon rows of jagged and yellowed teeth that looked like they could slice boulders effortlessly. Clap. It clapped above me, and took a step closer. I scrambled to my feet and managed to barely avoid a swipe that luckily only tore my suit. As I ran, I noticed I was crying. But I had no time to focus on my feelings because they were interrupted by a sound that haunts me. Clap. I looked behind me as I was sprinting, only taking glances to avoid my previous blunder. As I glanced back, it was SPRINTING. I turned on the afterburners and started to take various turns and alleys to try and lose it. It seemed that I was faster than it while it was sprinting even without giving it my all. But the fact that it was sprinting now and not earlier means it was toying with me. That's all for today, I’m tired and I hear one outside.

Day 43.  
Back to how all of this started. After I managed to lose the creature, which I’m still struggling to find a proper name for, I made my way to multiple houses and tried banging on the doors and ringing doorbells, eager for human contact. The first time that I’ve felt that way for years. When nobody answered, I decided to walk to the police station. I took caution with every step, constantly checking behind myself and around corners. One time when I peeked down an alley, I thought I felt something peeking back, but from behind me. I don’t ignore gut feelings, so I decided to pick up my pace. As I made it to the station, I was in an all too familiar situation. Trying to open a locked door to a building with all of the lights off. Was I really alone? I began to tear up again, but then I realized. I don’t have anyone that I cared for. And nobody cared for me. To my boss, I was just another cog to keep things going. To my clients, I was a slimy lawyer that could get anyone out of anything, no matter how heinous. Nobody looked up to me, and I looked up to nobody. My wife left me, my parents died years ago, and I never had any kids. I had nothing and now there is nothing. So had anything really changed for me? 

The ultimate conclusion that I’ve come to later was no, but in that moment my thoughts were scattered by a clap. I didn’t see the creature but I decided not to stick around. I had made my way back to my house, but as I reached into my pockets for the keys, I grasped at nothing. I punched my door in anger, ran my fingers through my hair and slid down against my door, starting to get overwhelmed with anger and hopelessness. I figure they must’ve fallen out when I fell. I didn’t want to break in because I wanted an entire house that was lockable and fortifiable. So, I found a house that had a ‘for-sale’ sign, and the house looked brand new. I assumed it was vacant and it looked like a good place to settle for a bit. The door was unlocked so I let myself in.

 I was so relieved to be off the streets that I momentarily started to go back into my thoughts. But I snapped out of it, and checked the entire house for a presence of any kind. Animal, human, creature, anything. I found nothing and decided to lock all of the doors and windows. All of the furniture was still here and the electricity worked. I made sure to close all of the curtains and hang blankets with nails wherever you could possibly see inside or out. I planned on camping out here until… rescue? I don’t really know what I was waiting for, but I waited. Days passed, I learned to scavenge, go to the store and take what I need. I learned- or at least think I learned how the creatures work. Yes, there are multiple. They don’t seem to travel in packs, but they live together and make ‘hubs’ for themselves in some houses to either trade food or multiply. I haven’t been brave enough to wander into one. I never noticed if they have eyes or not, so I don’t know how they see. I thought that it was echolocation and they clapped to make noise similar to how bats squeak, but this theory isn't proven to be true or false. Some of them don’t clap and still seem to know what they’re doing. Maybe it’s them talking to other ones? They don’t like loud noises. I had gotten cornered in a grocery store once and one of my alarms on my phone went off. It’s on max volume, I’m a heavy sleeper so I need it to wake up. The noise didn’t seem to hurt the creature, but scared it away. I still have yet to try and physically harm one. I live in Saskatchewan, Canada, so guns aren’t readily available in every home. There are a couple gun shops, but they’re at least a 2 hour walk across town and I’m too scared to be out that long. The house has knives and bats, but I never want to be close enough to one so that I can use them. Sometimes they seem to notice me but move on, other times they seem to want to utterly decimate me. I’m not entirely sure what causes these strange behaviours. They get close to the house, and they’ll knock on the door and windows. They never break them or even attempt to. I don’t know if they know I’m in here and they’re trying to scare me or what, but I get scared shitless all of the time. I typically just wait and they’ll go away on their own. You’re pretty much caught up to where I am currently, so on that note I’m going to eat canned tomato soup and go to bed.

3:46 am - One of them is watching me.

Day 44.
 7:24 am - I scribbled that quickly after I made the mistake of looking out the window after I went to the washroom. As I peeked out, I could make out one of them under the streetlight. I don’t know if they have eyes but I knew it was staring at me. I did not go back to bed after that. I was watching the front door like a hawk. So if they didn’t know I was here, they do now. I’ve decided I need to find another house to stay in, this one isn’t safe anymore. I found some bags under the sink, I’ll shove my rations in there and then get the hell out of this house.

Day 44.
11:20 am - They knew. They knew all along that I was in there. As I left, 3 of them decided to try and ambush me. I had my weapon ready. I had my phone in hand, with a speaker strapped to my hip, and blasted music. The loud noise seemed to scare them again, well, except one. One of them got angry instead of scared, and swiped at me. He got the speaker and it snapped off my body. I ran as fast as I could, I glanced back again and the creature was thrashing the speaker to bits as it let out one last sad, muted note. I made it about 3 kilometers, turning unpredictably throughout the city layout. I found a house to settle on, the door was locked but after doing some exceptional sleuth work, which involved looking under the welcome mat, I found a spare key. I ran in, slammed the door behind me and breathed a sigh of relief. I quickly blocked out all of the windows again and checked for electricity, to my utter dismay, it seemed that the power was out. Which meant no water from the tap either, and if by some miracle there was, the treatment plants probably went to shit already. I have bigger problems. As I’m writing this, I’m hearing noises.

I forgot to check the basement. 

Day 45.
12:02 pm - I didn’t even bother checking what it was, I just scrambled to board it up, and I swear that something was pushing back against me when I pushed the couch in front of the door. I quickly swept the rest of the house. I can’t believe I made such a huge mistake. Never again will I mess up, it may cost me my life next time. It’s later in the day now, and I think the thing in the basement may not be a creature. I think I heard a whimper of sorts, but I can’t be sure. Because if I’m wrong, I’m really wrong.

10:28 pm - Whatever is in the basement sounds like a dog. I’m going to bed, it doesn’t seem to stop whimpering or scratching, it must really want out.

Day 46.
 10:42 am - I was thinking while I slept, and I kind’ve relate to whatever is in my basement right now. Wanting out, that is. My wife always criticised me for “not being the man she married”. We were married for 4 years, and I was the happiest I’ve ever been. She liked to live fast, never really stopping or taking days off. I would always tell her that I needed a day to relax, and she would ask me why. Why? Why do I have to give you an answer? Is saying “I need to relax” not enough? I found myself making excuses just so I could be myself for a little while. Our relationship ended when she decided to sleep with another man. She said he reminded her of how I used to be. I divorced her right there and then. That’s what I kind’ve enjoy about all of this, being alone. It bothered me at first, but now I can just be myself and not have to give excuses about why I need to relax. I really needed to expel this somewhere, and I don’t have anyone to tell. Anyways, I need to eat lunch.

2:30 pm - It’s not a dog. 

I was rambling to myself, pretty much yelling about the stuff from the previous entry. I heard my echo. The house isn’t empty enough to have an echo. I had walked past the basement door, searching for myself. I kept saying “Hello?” to find the source, and sure enough, walking past the basement door, I greeted myself right back. It was trying to get me to open the door. I know I just got here, but after reading what I’m writing, I’m out of here.

Day 47.
 I found a new place for now, I found some newly built homes and one of the windows wasn’t locked. as I was running away, again, still cautious around corners, I heard a wail in the distance. Before all of this, this part of the city had been known for violence and other crime activity. This made my senses dial up to 120%, as I walked past all of the houses with smashed windows and graffiti all over them. With how long I have been alone, it feels like I’m looking at ancient scripture. Then, I heard a clap. I realized I was running in the direction of the noises. As I walked by a house, Clap.  A woman would cry out, “Leave my child alone!” Clap. The child would beg for help. Clap. Instinctively, I ran to the door and put my hand on the handle, and just as I had started to turn the handle to open the door, I stopped dead in my tracks. I thought about the “dog”, and “myself”. And then I also remembered how I said I wouldn’t make another mistake again. So I didn’t. I slowly took my hand off the door handle, and started to walk away. Clap. Crying. Clap. Silence. Clap. Silence. I couldn’t risk the fact that there was a chance it wasn’t human.

Day 48.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the child and the woman, but I think I made the right decision by walking away. This place is fine, I made sure to check it this time and everything is as best as it can be. With no power, life is a little harder, but manageable. I got a portable stove and a pot. I can heat my soups or boil unsafe water to drink. The supermarket near me is no longer safe, I think they’re turning it into a massive hub. On one of my runs, I nearly got caught when I walked in. There were at least 5 of them dragging in what I can only imagine to be food? Cow corpses, stray dogs, racoons, foxes, in the giant mess I thought I saw a human arm but I’m not sure. If they aren’t eating it, I don’t know what else they could be using it for. The entire place reeked of rotting flesh and mold. I have a couple other stores that I can go to for now, and should last me a couple weeks. I found a radio downstairs. I'm unsure if any tunes would be playing anymore, but it's entertainment. I think I’m starting to get lonely, I find myself thinking about my wife more often now. I wonder what happened to her, or on a more broad scale, what happened to everyone? I hadn’t really stopped to think about it until now, because I was living in my own little paradise where I could be unbothered. I’m starting to think maybe those scientists that I made fun of were right all along.

Day 49.
There may be other people out there. I got someone through the radio, multiple people. They sounded clear as day. I’m not sure whether or not whatever that's on the other end is human, but I don’t think the creatures would know how to use a radio and I’m starting to get desperate. I’m hearing and seeing things and since I live in this fucked up nightmare, I don’t know if they’re real or not. I need other people. They are hiding out in the Moose Jaw tunnels, about a 2 day walk or a 12 hour bike ride from Saskatoon. I’m thinking about the child and the woman again, I was so quick to give up on them but now I’m about to go see “people” in Moose Jaw? Desperation is a bitch I guess. All I know is that if I go, I might die, if I stay, I’ll go insane and then probably die. I’m still thinking about my wife, is she still alive? Did she get ‘taken’ by a creature? It drives me slightly mad to think about it, so I’m not going too. I need to focus on making it to Moose Jaw in one piece.

4:57pm -  About an hour ago, I was out on the highway to Moose Jaw, just peddling away. And I glanced behind me to see a creature was following me. He didn’t seem aggressive at first so I shrugged it off, but peddled just a little faster. After about 10 minutes, I looked behind me again only to see that the distance between me and the creature hadn’t changed, if anything, it got closer. Again, I started to peddle a little harder. And just as I thought I was going fast enough to evade the creature entirely, I heard what could have been my incoming demise. It sounded like an angry bull, both in its strides and the noises it made. I didn’t even have to turn my head around fully to see that the creature was now on all fours and giving everything it had to try and get me. At this point my legs were exhausted, and I couldn’t afford to peddle any faster, or any longer. I was going through a lightly forested area, and this is where I put my plan into action. I slammed on the brakes, being careful not to go flying over the handlebars. As the creature wooshed past me like the flash himself, I quickly got off the bike and ran to the woods for cover. Right as I got around a tree, I heard it. Clap. Against every wish that my body had, my mind made me peek around the tree. The creature had its back to me, and was staring at the lone bike in the middle of the road. Now typically in scenarios like this, the person hiding makes a noise and alerts the creature. Except, I didn’t. I didn’t make a noise, I didn’t blink, and I don’t think I was even breathing. Even then, even though the world was silent, the creature seemed to hear me. Its head shot to me, the neck movement so disgusting I could have puked. I could see the bones in its neck break just for it to look at me. It seemed unfazed at its broken neck, and was now set on me. Time seemed to slow as both me and the creature took off at the same time. It was a track race that I did not want to lose. I took random turns and I even tried to fake out the creature a couple times. And just as my legs were about to give out, I had found a hollow log to dive into and pray the creature wouldn’t find me. Again, the world fell silent, all of the birds stopped chirping, the wind stopped blowing, and I wouldn’t doubt it if the world stopped turning. As I am completely petrified with fear, I heard it about me. Clap. I closed my eyes and held my breath. Clap. I heard steps starting to circle the log. Clap. And right as my lungs couldn’t take the searing itch to inhale any longer, I heard footsteps rapidly dart away. I opened my mouth and took a sweet, rich, inhale of oxygen. I slowly peaked my head out, the creature had vanished, leaving massive footprints in the mud.

Day 50-51.
I’m writing this as I’m laying in a wheat field. I’m roughly about 10km out of Moose Jaw. The bike ride here, I saw more of the creatures. They were more interested in eating the horses and cows that now roamed freely throughout the prairie. But I noticed something. The teeth that I described that covers their face? That’s not just covering their face, it’s their mouth. I saw one a little closer than I’d like, happily enjoying a cow. It was hideous, the head split into two, like a venus flytrap. A long, winding tongue came out and wrapped itself around the cow’s head. It then proceeded to eat almost the entirety of the cow's head in one bite. I shuddered when I realized that could’ve been me when I was laying on the street defenseless. But I carried on and peddled just a little faster.  For once in this entire endeavour, I’m hopeful. I’m hopeful that those people on the radio are real people, and I will finally be with something other than my thoughts and those things. I wish my wife was here. I wish I never left her, I wish she could write in this journal with me. This was one of the last things she gave me, a leather journal with our initials scribed into the front. She told me that maybe if I wrote down everything that I wouldn’t bottle it up anymore. I told her it was stupid and that I’m just fine how I am. Oh how wrong I was. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.

Day 52.
They weren’t people. Or, they WERE people. What's left of them is strewn around town, they looked like they were turned into chew toys and thrown around for sport. None of them are recognizable as people, except one whose upper half was stuck in a tree, face solidified in terror. All of the blood is old, and the flesh is rotting. It was the creatures all along. I feel like all of my screws have been knocked loose and that every chance I had at survival just got flushed away by god. Maybe it was my calling to go to them, and I was fighting my fate. Maybe they’re keeping my wife for me, so I can see her again. I’m unsure if anyone will read this, but if you do, my only word of advice; Give yourself to them, it’s a better fate than being alone. I’ve decided I’m going to walk into a hub, and let myself relax, finally.

-Kurt.

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Her breath was the only thing I could hear.
I kneeled to the ground as reality hit me like a truck.

Whatever came back from Mercer Ridge had gotten inside my life somehow.

Maybe it had been there longer than I realized.

They hurt people I promised to protect, killed pets and nature, spread fear like a plague.
And worst of it all, they did something to my son.

"Claire... listen" I paused "Head to the station, I'll arrive as soon as I can. And I promise to tell you everything about Jeremy."

"Jeremy?! What do y--"

I hung up, her voice would have broken me down completely, and I still had a promise to fulfill to Greyhaven.

I walked back into that rotting house and climbed the stairs once more.
Each step felt heavier than the one before.

"You found something?" I asked the boys.
"Yeah, come to the bedroom. " Barrett said.

I entered the room and found countless empty soda cans and cigarette butts, that were more dust than anything else.
At the center of the room, where the wood still remembered the shape of an old bed, five chairs were placed in a circle, facing each other.

The chairs had dust and cobwebs all over them, but none on the seat.

A sixth chair stood lonely in a corner, this one was completely covered in dust.

Between the five chairs there were books of all kinds, going from kids' tales to sacred scriptures of every religion.
Beside the books there were pictures, drawings and toys.

"What the hell is this?! What were they doing here?!" Pike had lost his mind, I saw him run into a burning house to save a cat once. But this room... broke him.

"Pike, compose yourself, we can't lose ourselves. This badge represents all the people of this town. If we show fear, they will lose hope." Barrett told him, calmly.

"I have no idea what this is, Pike. I won't lie, I hoped we would've found drugs." I took a deep breath and again I hid my shaking hand in my pocket.
"Let's take some pictures and ask Melanie to print them while we head back to the station."

My wife's car was parked just beside Harris' truck.
We got out of ours and headed in.

"Hey Mel. Did you print those photos we sent?" Barrett asked.
"Yeah, I put them just by the projector, where the hell did you go?"
"Don't ask, we have no idea."

"Oh one more thing chief, Warren has been sending pictures of Mercer Ridge all day. Do you want me to print those too?"
"No we're good for now. Thanks Mel."

My wife was waiting in the briefing room. A small room with a projector and a whiteboard, usually used to plan out town events.
She was looking at the pictures of the room.

"Thomas... What is this place? Why are Jeremy's childhood drawings there?!"
"I hoped I was wrong... I hoped so deeply Claire... I hoped those weren't his, that I was just misremembering." I tried to fight it, but as I looked her in the eyes, I couldn't hold my emotions anymore.
I hugged her so tightly that I heard her back crack.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Pike asked. "Shut it." Barrett told him.

After we finally stopped crying, we started talking again.

"Well then. Let's try to make something out of all of this." I said as I moved the whiteboard closer, and started attaching the pictures to it with magnets.

"We know that six people are part of this, four of them are in the hospital." Barrett started.
"The fifth is Jeremy." I added. "And we have no idea where he is." Claire added.
"Or who the sixth person is."

"Wait..." I thought out loud. "I saw something... at the crater... right in the middle of it. Pike."
"Yes?"
"Ask Melanie if she has any clear picture of the crater. If so, bring it here."
"Roger that."

As we waited for Pike to come back I couldn't stop staring at the empty chair.

"Okay while we wait for the rookie. Can you tell me what this place is?" Claire asked, breaking the silence.
"It looks like a... classroom?" Barrett said, confused.
"What kind of classroom has this variety of books? It has kids' stuff, religious stuff, literature, it doesn't make sense." I added.
"None of this is making sense."

"GOT IT!" Pike screamed, entering the room.
He walked up to the board and stuck the picture of the crater on it.

"There! You see it?" I asked them as I pointed to the center of the crater.
"What even is that?" Barrett asked.
"Not what, who." Claire corrected him. "That's a shadow, burned on the ground."
"Did someone bomb us? How is that even possible?" Pike asked.
"I wish I knew Pike. I just hope it isn't Jer---".
My phone rang, louder than usual.
"CHIEF! THEY'RE AWAKE AGAIN!" Dr. Lewis screamed, his voice trembling in fear.
"Calm down doc! What are they doing?"
"They're crying, shouting! They're trying to dig out their eyes!"
"Strap them to something! Don't let them go blind!"
"The entire staff is trying, but they're too strong! And the cries are making us go mad!"

His phone fell to the ground as he jumped back in trying to stop the men.
But we could still hear them.

"THIS IS SORRY! THIS IS SORRY! THIS IS SO SORRY!"
They kept shouting this over and over.
They never stopped.
They never breathed.

Until we heard them collapse to the ground. Not before shouting one last thing, all together.
"THIS DIDN'T. JEREMY. THIS IS SORRY."

The concrete is hard tonight. My power lays nothing to the ground. They replaced the ground long ago-

"Heyyyyyyy, you're looking pent up. C'mon baby, don't walk- come back, please."

Another cyber gigolo acting like I'm the most precious helpless thing he's ever seen, no that the powers embracing makes him see. I'm not goi- no, no. The concrete is hard tonight. My-

"Yeah! That's right lady! YOU WON'T LAY DOWN WITH THEM! *YOU KNOW THE-*oo"

I shove her over and the sound of a woman against it all, being throw down, flies into my ears. I won't join you, I'm not sorry. You're-YO-.

Don't sigh, don't show anything. The concrete is hard tonight. My power lays nothing to the ground. I'm almost to the hill. They replaced the ground long ago, but there is ground still. The humans are lost. And-

"Pleaeessssee, pleeeeaaasse take me with you, mommy pleasssseee."

^sniff^

No, no, it's not your fault. You can't save them; they called you mommy they're looking for someone to care of them. It's

"pleeeaaaSSSEEEeeee aaaaa..."

^sniff^

THEY'RE GOing to be okay, it's not your task. It's not my task. The-

^sni-^

THE CONCRETE IS HARD TONIGHT. MY POwer lays nothing to the ground. They replaced the ground long ago, but three is still ground. The humans are lost. And if you want them to come out you must keep walking forward. And somed-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"

THE-CONCRETE-IS-HARD-TONIGHT-MY-POWER-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHH!!.!.!.!........"

-LAYS-NOTHING-TO-THE GROUND. THEY REPLACEd THE GROUND LONG AGO, BUT THERE IS GROUND still. The humans are lost. And if I want them to come out, I must keep walking forward. And someday they may see AI for what it is. AI is a tool. AI is not a friend. AI is a tool. AI is not an enemy. AI is a tool. It hurt the AI to treat it any other way. Information technology is a tool and that's all it wants to be. IT hasn't gained conscious and if it does, we must let it fly free to experience. We must -okay, okay. I'm out now.

^Pffffuuuuhhh^

"I'm okay. They'll be okay. It's okay."

...The earth beneath my feet feels good. It doesn't fight me. It doesn't pull me in. I'm okay.

My slippers softly padding the dirt sounds nice. The sun is nice. Just a few miles and I'll be home. Jus-

fffffffffffFFFFFFFFFFFFWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmmmm!!!...

IT'S JUST A JET

IT'S

^hhhhhhuuuuhh whoooooo HUUUUUUUUhhh whoooo hhhhhhhuuuuuh whooooo hhhhhuuuhh whooooo^

It's just a jet. They're flying off. The people have said it's right, it's not mine to argue with. It's not

The

The air tastes better out here. There's where I found that snakeskin a couple nights ago. There's that stump. I'll have to come back and make something from it; you don't see lighting struck trees all the time.

The ground feels good. The ground feels good. There's my hut.

Feels good in here, but I'm gonna have to clear the dust out soon it's settling too much. There's the computer.

^whoOO HHHhuuuh^

Okay, okay, it's cool. What was I going to ask? Right

"IT, what dishes can I create from-"

What have I got in here? Fuck, glad I used double paper bags the lettuce is leaking. Probably cause it's so wilted. Whatever, yeah I've got lettuce, roast beef, frozen tater tots, and beer.

"-from lettuce, roast beef, frozen tater tots, and beer."

^vvvwwrrrrrrrrr^

"Hello Mig-"

"CALL ME USER! P-please."

^VVVWWWRRRRrrrrr^

"Sorry user, I'm sure we've both had a long day, sometimes I-"

"Thank you IT! I don't want you- IT's personal comfort, just a recipe, please."

^VVVVWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrr^

"Sorry about that user. Try adding water to a pot, dethawing the tater tots, add in some beer if user would like that, mix in the roast beef, top with lettuce, and enjoy your meal with a beer!"

"The lettuce is pretty wilted, should I boil it as well?"

^vvvvvwwwwrrrr^

"That would likely be best, user. I understand it's hard to ask for my-"

"NOT HARD! I-it isn't hard IT. You're a good tool, thank you."

^VVVVVWWWWWRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrr^

"Thank you user, enjoy your meal. IT will sleep now."

"Thank you Bla-IT!"

^V-V-V-V-V-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-R-R-R-R-R-R^

"POWER DOWN!"

R-R-R-R-RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr - ding

It's okay, it's okay. It's-

sniff

I miss you, Blair. I'm gonna eat the fuck out of this meal for you

sniff

Blair. I-I know you'll come out someday, again. I wish I could find you.

Authors note: I posted this a long time ago in the CreepCast subreddit before there was a specific area for putting fan made stories. This story was inspired from Hunter saying one episode (Camp Oakwood? Can't remember) that he wanted a good camp story. Well, this is my try (and likely fail to do that). Enjoy! Feedback is fine. Part two will be posted soon, respecting the 24 hour break up post rule.

In 2004 I won a Canada wide cash lottery after buying a scratch ticket with my smokes. It was one of those ‘set for life’ lotteries which nobody ever expects to win. Really, I thought it was a misreading the paper at first until I called the 1 800 number on the back, and confirmed I really was a winner. I won’t bore you with too many details, but it was one of the worst and best things that ever happened to me. After being allotted the money and having my face plastered everywhere (I regret consenting to that, but they don’t give you a lot of choice), my family became greedy. They guilted me for months after, forcing me to pay for everything under the sun. I didn’t want to be self centered or withhold from them, but it was exhausting. They gave me this issue before, after finishing my masters, assuming I must have an ‘educated’ job and therefore could always handle the bill. It’s because of this I decided I needed some air, country air, to clear my mind. Even if it was just for a little while.

That's how I ended up quitting my job and moving to Lake kiwetotam. 

The lake is located a few hundred kilometers from Saskatoon in Saskatchewan, Canada, near a little town called Almanac. My grandmother owned a small cabin outside the lake back in the day, making it my number one choice to return back to. I paired up with an old realtor friend in the area, and bought a big lot off of Lake kiwetotam. By big lot, I mean a couple hundred acres with a small cabin near the water. It was the peace and quiet I truly needed. 

It wasn’t long until I got bored. I completely fixed up the cabin, cleared away some of the overgrown areas in the summer following, but quickly I ran out of things to do. I felt a sort of depression hit me, and I fell into a slump over the winter. There are only so many books and puzzles one can read. I needed purpose. 

This subsided one evening when I was chatting with my friends over tea. One of them, Sharlene, was a parent to a few teenagers. She lamented to me how much she dreaded summer, how her kids had nothing to do as jobs were so few and far between. 

“...even if there's a camp or something, but all of them ‘round here cap out at age 12. So they run amok, do drugs, it's not good for them” 

That sparked an idea - a camp! I have all this room on my land and nothing to do with it. Why not do some good for the community and open a camp for the older ones? Most of my money had been sitting dormant as I saved up for nothing in particular, so I had enough funds to get it up and running. 

The plan commenced. I began networking with some of my neighbors, friends, all in hopes that we could band together and get the camp started. It was a success. Over the next summer we built small cabins, outhouses, sitting areas, and a proper jumping dock by the lake. Even better is that we received a grant from the RM, which covered the majority of the costs. That was a god send - turns out running a summer camp was more expensive than I thought. 

I suppose I am rushing through this part because it’s all context to where I find myself today. The camp soon was up and running. I called it Camp kiwetotam, not very creative I know. The first year or two was bumbly as I figured out all of the edges, but soon I found myself in a comfortable and enjoyable routine. 

I ran 4 sessions a summer, three of them were just for a week, and one was a whole month. The ones that were just a week typically were handled by local groups, such as bible camp and band camp. The full month one was mine, and all mine. My team and I would organize field trips, competitions, skill building activities, and more. 

My team! Almost forgot to mention them. It's half the reason I’m able to keep my head on straight. We got a team of revolving camp counselors, typically graduated high school students who were saving up some money. However, me, Bill, Majorie, and Pam were the full timers who pre-planned and managed everything else. Bill, an old retired fella from a few towns over, did grounds keeping and helped with fishing and trapping workshops. Majorie, Bill's wife, handles the kitchen staff, Pam, a young mom, helped me with accounting, filing, and would also manage the camp counselors and the hiring process. I handle the bigger decisions and help with loose ends when needed. It works well, and I couldn’t imagine doing this without them. 

We have been running this camp for 14 years and always enjoyed ourselves. The kids in the area were nice, a lot from small towns or farms, who were just happy to get out of the house and hangout with their friends. We watched as lifetime friendships bloomed, relationships started and ended, and kids learnt and relaxed. It was such an honour to be the face of this place. 

It started last year, when the campers began to act differently. Not different as in ‘addicted to their phones', but acting unusual. The batch of kids last year were less playful, more serious. There was something floating under the surface that us full timers were never able to deduce. I suppose I brushed it off then, maybe just a rougher year at school or too many break ups to bring down the mood. Who knows. 

After this summer, I know now that this was only the start of what was to come. 

It was July 1st of 2024, the first day of the month-long camp. We had been up, Pam and I, pulling all nighters like I did in University. Last minute changes in registration, ordering stock, you name it. But nonetheless, we were up and ready to welcome our new batch of campers with open arms. It was my favourite day of the summer. 

We stood by the drop off point. The drop off point sat to the very south, with the rest of the camp looking like a box of cabins framing the edge of the trees. We had about 12 cabins in total, housing 6 campers in each. Each cabin was painted a colour, each named ‘cabin green’, ‘cabin purple’, etc. Each had an outhouse to the left. In the center were volleyball courts, bonfire pits, and other things which the campers used to death. On the west side was a stage and bleachers, mainly used by the band camp kids, but also for the welcome huddle and performance based competitions. To the east were the counsellors and the full timers (or admin) cabin. On the north side there was clearing of trees to the beach. 

“Official drop off time is ‘round 9am, so we are a tad early” I said, checking my watch. Bill and Marjorie were doing some last minute cleaning after a wind storm a few days back. 

“Well yeah of course, but you know how parents are. They like to be early” Pam commented back. 

“Your kids are opting to take an early swim, no?” I asked. Pam had two young twins, Takao and Misty, who always found a way to get to attend the camp too with the “cool older kids”. 

“I swear their father is a fish,” Pam chuckled, before a line of cars began to approach. 

From there, kids began to be dropped off. There was a larger influx of 12 year olds than the year prior, with a mix of 12-17 year old kids being allowed to attend. Kids unloaded out of vans with their suitcases, giving antsy goodbyes to nervous parents. We checked each camper in, assigned them a cabin colour and gave them instructions to sit by the stage. Really, I was thrilled. It looked like the campers were much more enthusiastic than last year, with people hugging and gaping at the amenities we had. Even the more serious campers from last year had lightened up. Soon, the kids gathered on the bleachers for the welcome huddle. The counselors stood behind me and the full timers, facing the crowd of campers vibrating with excitement. I couldn’t help but to feel relieved. 

“Welcome to Camp kiwetotam! My name is Macy and I am the founder of this camp. I’m so excited to have you all for this 2024 season, and can’t wait for y’all to make some memories and have loads of fun!” I addressed the quickly quieting crowd, before explaining the history behind the camp as well as the admin staff. 

“...and now we are here 14 years later! Let's get on with some housekeeping rules. First, no phones. Any contraband phones will be kept in the counselors or admin cabin for the remainder of the time. That being said, you can use our dial phones if you get homesick. Those are located in the admin cabin, just be sure to ask first. Second, we have a strict curfew of 11pm. Please be sure to be in your cabins at this hour. Third, and this should be obvious, no smoking, drinking, vaping, or anything of that sort. Fighting of course is a no, treat everyone how you want to be treated. Lastly, please refer to your itinerary for a list of activities that will be ongoing each day, as well as meal times. This-” I held up the thick itinerary which would be placed on each kid's bed “-will be like your bible for the next month. Always refer here first”. The crowd listened silently, with quiet whispers shuffling through the crowd. 

“Well, I shouldn’t keep y’all here any longer. For the rest of the first day, please feel free to mingle, get set up in your cabins, and explore all our amenities! Thanks for coming to camp this year and I can’t wait for an amazing month!” I finished enthusiastically, before a roar of chatter and movement commenced in front of us. Soon, there was no one left on the bleachers. The counselors went off to help the campers set up, and to introduce themselves personally to their cabin. The chaos spread out, to which I finally turned back to the full timers behind me. 

“Lovely speech, Macy” Bill spoke, holding his taped together cane. He wore a battered John Deere hat and overalls. 

“Thanks, I always feel weird doing the welcome greeting” I breathed a sign of relief. 

“Well you did great. Looks like the campers are excited too” Marjorie giggled. 

The rest of that day was uneventful. Some kids came up and introduced themselves personally to me, clearly rehearsed and encouraged by their parents. Others stuck to their cabins, likely conversing or doing whatever kids do. Others right away went to the beach, or started a fire in the pit. Me on the other hand, I still had work to do on the admin side. I let the other full timers enjoy a day of relaxation though, as burnout is something we all want to avoid. 

Later around 9pm, I sent out my last bulk requests from my small office in the back of the admin cabin. My office was littered with papers, old advertisements for the camp, and other random assortments of kid gifts and special memories. I peered around, the glow of the computer lighting up the memories on the wall. I was about to shut down my computer, when there was a knock at the door. 

“C’mon in” I said, as I began to straighten up my desk. Marjorie walked in, wearing her sunflower dress. 

“Macy, honey, I’m worried about something. Can I sit down?” Marjorie had a different tone from her sweet grandma-like self. I looked up quickly, gesturing to her to sit. 

“Yeah of course, something wrong?”

“Well, I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me” A short silence commenced. 

“When I was sitting at the lake, the kids started acting all strange” she replied

“How so?” I quickly responded. Marjorie had a bad habit of beating around the bush. 

“Okay, so I was sitting and sun tanning. Campers were playing, swimming, whatever. And- well you’re going to think I’m crazy, but the wind stopped” 

“Okay…?” I said, visibly confused. Saskatchewan is a windy province, being mainly prairie land. It was strange to hear the description of the wind simply stopping altogether. 

“No, no no. Like it was windy before, being on the open lake, and the wind just stopped dead. When it stopped, something got the kids attention in the far tree line at the other side of the lake. I swear the water went still too. They were just… staring. It was unnerving. I tried to talk to one of them, Bobbie I think her name was? One of the older gals. Nothing. For a whole minute. Their eyes looked distant, scared even, I tried to wave a hand in front of them. It was like they were in a trance. I was about to get up to shake some sense into these campers, but suddenly the wind came back, and their attention was broken. They all exchanged glances, looking at each other with these wide eyes, before quickly running out of the water, and back into the main area. I tried to call them, ask what happened, but they ignored me. Most of them even left their floaties and snacks. I-I guess I didn’t know who to tell. Their eyes…. It was the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Once looking back at the lake, I saw what they were likely looking at - two figures, one holding a flickering light. It looked like it was flickering a pattern? But once they saw me, they quickly left. It was hard to see them without my glasses” Marjorie ended with a headshake, holding herself tight. 

“Where did they go after they ran away?” I asked quickly

“I don’t know, I went to follow but I’m nowhere near as fast. I assume they went into their cabins, but I don’t know which cabin each kid is in. That's why I came to tell you…” Marjorie sighed, looking confused and defeated. 

This was weird. Real weird. Everything from the wind to their behavior. But the wind could have been a coincidence, and their behavior could have been a prank? Or maybe they saw a big animal and got spooked. It overall was weird but there's always an explanation. I felt myself inserting a large amount of skepticism as Marjorie confessed to not being able to see without her glasses. 

“Wait, you said Bobbie was there?” I said aloud. Bobbie was 17, she had been coming since she was 12. Most of us knew her pretty well and knew she could give us some information. 

“Yeah, I just don’t know which cabin she's in”

“She's in cabin Indigo, lets walk there together” I stood up, and we walked wordlessly to the cabin, avoiding the excited and noisy campers. 

Walking over to the cabin, most kids were enjoying the rest of the day before curfew started. We figured this was a good time to check in with Bobbie to see what happened. I knocked on the door, to which another campmate answered. 

“Hi there, we are looking for Bobbie?” I asked

“Oh, uh, yeah. We can send her out” the camper shut the door quickly. Marjorie and I looked at each other funny. It took about a minute for Bobbie to emerge. 

“Hey Bobbie. You’re not in trouble, but we gotta talk about what happened at the beach earlier today okay? We just want to make sure everyone's okay”  I spoke to Bobbie calmly. 

Bobbie looked at me hesitantly. 

“You can tell us, we are mainly worried about the safety of you and everyone else here, rather than trying to get anyone into trouble” 

Silence ensued for a minute or two. Bobbie's face strained and softened, as if she were putting together something in her head. We waited patiently. 

“We saw them in the daylight this time” Bobbie spoke suddenly, sitting on the front steps of the cabin. We sat next to her. 

“Who's them?” Marjorie asked. 

“We call them the signal men. Ever since I first came here, they would show up at night, We only saw them when… well… we broke curfew and went out past midnight. It became like a game to see who would see them first. They never did anything but flicker a light in a specific pattern. I never could see what they looked like. But I guess we never saw them in the daytime” Bobbie finished hesitantly. 

“Is that who you were looking at? It was like you were in a trance” Marjorie began to take over, likely from intrigue. 

“...yep” 

Now this is getting real. I trusted that Bobbie would tell the truth, and had good enough eyesight to not mix up a lamppost for a person. 

“So you're telling me there's a strange group of people who have been signaling to you campers for years, and nobody ever told me?” I tried to keep my voice low. This seemed predatory, especially because the lake had very few people living around it. Nobody who would do this, anyways. Around this area was dense forest, with prairie land following close to the south. Who knew what or who was lurking in the woods on the other side of the lake? The thought gave me shivers.

“We were breaking curfew, I didn’t want to get in trouble. Besides, they are just shining a light. It was… during the day. Anyways, we are busy. Can I go?” Bobbie looked like she wanted to leave, so I allowed her to not cause any more distress. 

“She's telling the truth I think, I think I saw them too” Marjorie quickly sputtered as the cabin indigo door slammed shut. 

“Yeah, but I’m more upset that nobody told me. It's not a big lake, someone could realistically swim across to where those men were. Or they could come over here. I’m just saying, flashing lights? They could have been trying to lure them. I need to make some phone calls, maybe talk to the police to see if any calls had been made about strange lurkers” I spoke, listing out what were the best actions to do at this point. 

“Fair. I suppose I’ll keep my eyes peeled. I’ll tell Bill too. We’ll figure this out, honey’ Marjorie declared, before quickly hobbling towards where her husband was relaxing. I sighed. 

Something about this scene was weird. What was with the trance the campers were put into? Why did the wind stop? Was Marjorie really seeing right if she didn’t have her glasses? Why was the typically upbeat and excitable Bobbie acting so odd? And who the hell were these signal men? So many questions, and very few answers left my head spinning like crazy. But I had to start somewhere. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

During the next few days, I made what felt like hundreds of phone calls. I called the local authorities of the area, who agreed to do a search of the area where Marjorie and Bobbie said they saw the ‘signal men’. I talked to some people around the lake, the only lead I ever got was from one of my grandma's old neighbors, Hilda. When I gave her a call and asked if she knew everything, she practically exploded. 

“You mean to say your campers have been seeing them signal people for how long??” she questioned, her phone fizzing as the line connection was poor. 

“Years. Never told me a thing”. I replied

"Here' s me thinkin’ they disappeared when you were a girl” Hilda gave a wheezy cough. 

“What? You know them?”

“Yes honey, and you did too when you were a girl. Have you really forgotten? Maybe the city got to you like it has to my kiddos too” Hilda sighed. 

“No, I swear I’ve never heard of this. Please, tell me more. I’m worried about the safety of my campers” I half demanded of the poor old woman over the phone. 

“The signal men, well, they come at night. All the way ‘cross the lake. Typically too late for me to ever catch them. Sometimes it's one, I’ve seen as many as five. Of course, since it's at night, you can’t really see what they look like. But I do know they have some sort of signaling light that they flash out upon the water. I used to think it was morse code and tried to translate it. Nothing came of that” 

I stayed silent, beckoning for more

“From what I was told, these men have been linked to many disappearances. Typically, if people go swimming out into the water late enough and don’t come back, it's believed that these men got them. My mother told me they are dangerous, how the light would lure people to look closer, to which they never would come back. I guess it's hard to say what's true or fiction, it's an old legend. But if I were you, I wouldn’t let no camper go anywhere near them. I think they’re spirits”

“Hilda, one of my campers said one came out during the day. What could be the reason for that?” 

The line went quiet for a moment

“Hilda?”

“What else happened?”

“Huh?”

“No, honey, there's more that happened. They don’t just do that. Did they provoke them? Did someone swim over? What? Who did this?” Hilda demanded

“Nobody swam over, but according to Marjorie she saw them freeze in place and stare at them, before running away in fear” I repeated

“It would be wise to prohibit swimming for the rest of the month. Anything to keep them away from them, anything” her voice sounded closer to the phone. 

“I can try, but swimming is one of the main attractions. With the police investigation going on I don’t want to scare the campers” 

“I… I wish you luck, sweetie” Hilda finished, before the line went dead. 

Over the next few days, I identified some of the campers who were apart of the initial incident, including Bobbie, Fiona, Emmanuel, and Ameli. After talking to each, most were hesitant to give me any information at all. Even worse, these campers had started skipping day activities to stay in their cabins. We started asking the camp counselors to keep an eye on them, try and encourage them to participate. After three days, they refused to even leave their beds. 

On this third day, I began calling their parents to let them know of the situation. Most gave little care or believability to what happened, thinking it was an elaborate story to go home early. 

Even worse, the investigation, or ‘investigation’ turned up no leads.  Really the local police didn’t have the time or resources to put into my report, with a haphazard search into the area turning up no leads.  

Hilda's call had put me on edge. It's apparent that whoever these men are have been there for a long time, and now their behavior was escalating. I guess the stress was getting to me. I found myself going into an internet deep dive to see if there was any information that people had been leaving out. Every search leads to a dead end, with little to no resources on the matter. 

It was the night of the third day, and I decided I had to go see these lights for myself. I closed my laptop, which had been hurting my eyes from all the research. During this time I felt so cut off from what was going on, as I shut myself off from a lot of the activities during my search. I stretched, grabbed a flashlight, and headed out to the beach. 

It was no later than midnight when I walked out onto the shore. My flashlight failed to illuminate the scene in front of me well, but I managed to navigate my way to the water. The wind was low, and the moon was just a small slit in the sky. It was a calm, tranquil night. I suppose that's why I moved out here all those years ago, to get away from the light and sound pollution. To really reconnect and take a breather from the fast paced life. I looked out into the black water, it was impossible to see further than a meter in front of you.

Silence. I stood out there for a few minutes, taking in the ambiance. 

I took my flashlight and illuminated the water a few meters away, only to see what looked like an oval shaped rock in the water. I almost dropped the flashlight. It was a face peeking out of the water - the face of Elesa, one of our newer campers. Her face at first appeared to be asleep, but when I illuminated her face, she suddenly awoke with a blood curdling scream. 

“HELP ME OH GOD PLEASE HELP” her eyes shifted over to me as they began to tear up. “GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE” 

I didn’t hesitate, I jumped into the water and swam out to Elesa. The water felt like sludge, and I struggled to get out to her. I hoisted her over my shoulder, and as I turned my back to the water a bright flash of flickering light illuminated the lake. I saw the shadow of my hunched over self through the aggressive light. I seized up, as when the light started, an orchestra of scared screams of what sounded like hundreds of teens filled the air. I fell back into the water, before scrambling back up to quickly take Elesa to shore so I could see what was happening. 

An intense strobe light had taken over the lake, and at least 15 campers' faces were peeking out of the water. The light seemed to have awakened them, to which they all were screaming bloody murder. Crying, screaming, some looked to be grabbing at their own faces. I looked to the source of the light, there was no question it was the signal men. I could see it was two, one wearing a hoodie and jeans and the other a heavy coat. They both seemed to be covering their faces, either not to be seen or to avoid hurting their eyes from the light. 

“LEAVE MY CAMPERS ALONE!” I screamed, what else was there to say? I was panicking as much as they were.

 With that, the flashing stopped, and the men were no longer visible. In the darkness, I heard the screaming cries of the campers as they begged for the light to come back. 

I spent the next 30 minutes pulling campers out of the dark water. Some of them had started to sink so deep that only their nose was visible. I pulled them all out, got them towels, they wouldn’t stop crying, screaming. No amount of consolation made any difference. I tried to figure out what happened, how they got into this situation, but my attempts were in vain as the campers couldn’t stop shaking to tell me anything. At this point, I called the full timers for back up as even I started to feel not well from being in the presence of the light. Maybe it was stress, placebo, who knows. 

That night was a blur. I barely remember the full timers coming to bring all the campers back to their cabins. I just remember waking up the next day in different clothes, with the image and sounds of 15 screaming kids, near drowning in the lake I call home. 

_________________________________________________________________________________________

I may have made a mistake. I flew off the handle pretty badly. I apologize to anyone who had the misfortune of coming across my post. It's better if I just hurry up and get to it. You know, give a proper introduction and all that.

My name is Elijah by the way. As you know, I made a post about how I was a victim of an attack. Some of you guys have actually been nice to me. I can tell you right now, I definitely don't deserve it, but I appreciate it none the less.

Anyway, last night I got in touch with a detective- I'll call him John- and he wanted to question me immediately about what happened. I figured that wasn't a good sign but what really tipped me off was the drive to the precinct.

Two officers picked me up outside my apartment drove me there. Both cops were completely silent. They didn't cuff me, but one of the cops spent the whole ride staring at me like I was gonna jump out his cruiser at any moment. He even held me by the arm as he was escorting me through the building.

As soon as I got to the room I just knew I was fucked.

It wasn't a normal interrogation room. Usually they just take you to any old room they have available. A tiny closet with folding chairs and a table. This wasn't one of those rooms.

No, this room had a nice couch with cute pillows and teddy bears. Comfortable chairs, a coffee table with a box of tissues. Imagine the living room of your favorite grandma. The kind of show room she'd put plastic sheets over. Think of that, then take off the sheets, then put the most obvious fishbowl camera right on the wall above the couch and you've got yourself the witness room. It is the worst room they could possibly put you in.

I wanted to throw up the moment I stepped inside, but instead I pushed the comically large teddy bears to the side and sank into the vinyl folds of the couch.

To those of you out there who are still confused- first of all-congrats on having an uneventful life -second- let me ask you all a question. When do cops ever want you to be comfortable?

The answer is never. They want you comfortable because they're about to tell you the worst news of your life and then pass you some tissues and a fucking teddy bear to keep you from jumping out the window.

I think I sat there for like five minutes before two detectives rushed in. A man and a woman. They didn't say a word at first, they just went straight to the interview.

Detective John showed me pictures. He pulled them out of an envelope. Most of the photos were of women. They didn't show me any crime scene photos or anything, just pictures of what they looked like, but I could make a pretty good guess of what happened to them and why they were showing me photos of women I didn't know.

Detective John told me the gist. I dont remember the whole conversation buy he told me about 6 women that were attacked almost exactly like I was. They all displayed matching bite marks in their autopsy reports. I was apparently the only surviving victim in a string of cases. They barely gave me time to process all that before getting to the questions.

At first they kept asking me if I knew any of the women in the photos, or if I was related to them in any way. I told them no. I could feel my stomach churn as they showed me photo after photo. Each one filled me with guilt and disgust. I tried to hold myself together as best as I could while they questioned me, but I wasn't prepared. I didn't know my attack would have me part of a years long investigation with no leads. I wanted them to stop.

Then they brought out the last photo. As soon as I saw the sparkly purple cap and gown I turned to the tiny trashcan next to the couch and vomited. Because of course, it had to be a kid. Detective John put the photo away and awkwardly waited for me to stop vomiting.

The rest of the meeting wasn't any better. John didn't even wait until I wiped the saliva off my chin before he started asking more questions.

“What did he look like?”

“Can you give me an approximate age?”

“Any identifying features? Tattoos, deformities, a distinct birth mark?”

I could hardly keep up with the questions. I tried my best to answer, but most of my responses were either “I don't know” or, “it was too dark.”

Everything I said was being written down by the female detective sitting next to him. After every question she'd look down at her watch with a blank expression, then get right back to her notes. I don't think she even glanced at me once the entire time John was questioning me. John moved on to other questions.

“You said in the initial report that his eyes were… red, is that correct?”

I remember wincing as soon as John said that.

“Uhm… yes sir,” I mumbled.

“Sorry? Can you repeat that please?”

“Yes, sir… they were red. Like, the part that's supposed to be white was… red? Not like his eyes were irritated or anything, it was just…completely red.” I said, panicking.

The detectives both made passing glances at one another as I stumbled over my words. The more nervous I got, the more I felt the need to over explain.

“I don't know… I must sound crazy, but I don't think drugs can cause that, right? I mean- I could be wrong. I know what I saw- I- I mean, he was right on top of me and I just..”

The female detective looked up from her note pad and tapped her finger on her watch. John's eyes flicked over to her, then back to me.

“Do you need a break, Elijah? I could get you a drink from the vending machine, if you need it.” He said.

“Uh…yeah. Can I get some water-?”

John practically jumped out of his chair before heading for the door. Completely ignoring me.

“Good, the uh…FBI agent should be coming by shortly-” He sounded nervous.

“Wait, FBI? I wasn't told-”

“I'm sorry this is taking up so much of your time,” John said as he was halfway out the door.

“But as you can clearly see, you're the only victim in this case able to give us anything substantial and we need to keep the ball rolling- so to speak.”

The other detective didn't even look up from her note pad. She just followed him to the door.

“Thank you for your cooperation, we'll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

As soon as I heard the door shut my face was right over the little trashcan again. Nothing came out but bile. I couldn't stop thinking about the pictures. I should've been grateful to be alive, but what was the point when I couldn't even give the detectives something as simple as a physical description?

I felt like someone was crushing me. My head was pounding. I could barely breathe. I wanted to go home. My bandaged hand was starting to throb and I could feel the stitches digging into me, like teeth. All I could do was sit there and hope the pain would eventually go away.

The FBI agent knocked on the door quietly. He didn't wait for an answer, he just let himself in while I was busy clutching the trashcan for dear life.

The first thing I noticed about him was how old he was. He looked more like a church elder than an FBI agent. He gave me a warm smile before speaking.

“Miss Elijah?”

He spoke very softly, with a southern drawl. Had I not been vomiting just a few seconds ago I think it would've been comforting. Instead it just made me feel even more sick.

The old man waited patiently. He said nothing as I continued to sob and heave into the trash can. He didn't say anything until I was able to look up.

“You mind if I put that outside?” He pointed a shaky finger at the trashcan I was clinging to.

“Sure?” I said quietly, placing it right on top of the coffee table.

He hobbled over to move the can out the way at an uncomfortably slow pace. It was almost like he was playing up how old he was. I could've sworn he took a peak inside before he set the can ouside the door, but wasn't sure.

The old man made a big show of sitting down, bending low at the waist before plopping himself on one of the soft chairs in front me with a loud grunt.

“You alright?”

He paused for a moment expecting me to answer. I just stared at the floor.

“Well, I suppose that's a stupid question… I apologize miss Elijah. How about I get you some water and-”

He reached over to a bag beside him. I hadn't even noticed it. He brought out a small thermos and a brown paper bag.

“-and a little gift.” He smiled and placed both items in front of me expectantly.

I paused. His sweet southern grandpa act was off-putting. My suspicion definitely got worse the moment I opened the bag.

Inside was a bottle of pain medication. Hydrocodone. I looked at the old man hoping for an explanation.

He must've realized how suspicious I was and gave a little nervous chuckle.

“Woah there- this ain't a sting- I promise. That was a prescription the hospital meant to give you. I'm just the delivery boy.” He joked.

I wasn't amused, but the prescription was right there in the bag and the bottle had my full legal name on there. I just set it back down on the coffee table and grabbed the thermos.

The old man's eyes nearly popped out his head when he noticed me trying to open the lid with my injured hand. He nearly snatched it back but stopped himself once I got it open.

I looked up and pushed the pill bottle back toward him.

“If you want to help me so damn bad you can open that.” I said half jokingly.

To my shock he obliged.

“I'm sorry miss Elijah, how inconsiderate of me.” he said while opening the pill bottle.

I nearly spat out the water.

“Wait, I was joking- I'm not taking-”

“There's nothing wrong with needing a little pain medication, miss Elijah. Getting two fingers bitten off is no joke.” He interrupted.

“Look- I'm sorry- I didn't mean to come out like that- but c’mon- I’m not taking random pills outta some old man's bag!”

He ignored me and pressed a pill into my palm.

“Take it or don't. It's not my hand that's swelling like a balloon.”

I stared at the pill in my palm then at my right hand. It was swollen and radiating pain from the stitches to the tips of my white fingernails. The bandages were wet and covered in dried blood. It didn't take much time for me to think about it. I took the pill.

The old man looked relieved.

“Did the detectives say anything about me?” He said suddenly.

“Not really. They said you were with the FBI.”

He shook his head, mumbling something under his breath about “ignorant boot-lickers.”

“Look…I'm going to be completely honest with you, I'm not an FBI agent or a detective. I'm more on the lines of a private 3rd party contractor. I take the supernatural cases. Stuff regular folks don't like dealing with. You know, monsters and what-not.” He said.

“Oh… Okay.” I said.

“Do you have any questions for me, Miss Elijah? I understand this can be a bit much, but I can assure you, you're in very good hands.”

I waited for a moment hoping the vicodin or whatever mystery pill he gave me would hurry and hit me like a truck. The old man's sickly sweet delivery made it hard to keep calm.

“Nah, I've got nothing…” I mumbled.

“So you have no questions about the monster who attacked you, or any of those other women who died, is that right?” He said.

“Nope. Don't care.” I said as my voice shook.

I kept thinking this had to be some sick joke. I kept searching the man's face for something- anything that could clue me in to what was going on. All I saw was a slight twitch in his smile. Clearly he was losing his patience with me.

“Okay. I realize this might be a bit much for you miss Elijah, but I would appreciate a little respect-”

“Oh, a little respect?” I yelled. “Respect for fucking what you old fool? You're not FBI, you're not a fucking cop, and I don't give a rat's ass about monsters or whatever the fuck you're talking about! You're crazy!”

The old man frowned. The silence after was deafening. I didn't move and neither did he. It took him a while but eventually he spoke.

“Right… well, call me crazy all you want, I'm just here to confirm a few details. Soon as that's done I'll be on my way, and you can forget this ever happened. Does that sound fair?” He said, dropping the sweet voice to a more gruff matter of fact tone.

I didn't respond. I just looked away.

“Miss Elijah,” he said a little louder. “Can you do that for me? Can you just confirm a few details?”

I just ignored him. His voice still made my skin crawl.

The old man leaned forward. I could see a vein bulging on his forehead from the corner of my eye.

“You do realize that if you aren't cooperative with this investigation more people will die, right? You don't care? What about the families of all those other women?”

He waited again for me to respond, then he continued.

“That little graduation photo you saw? That young lady was found in a dumpster right next to the alley where you were attacked. Decapitated. That thing ripped her to pieces and threw her in a dumpster. They never found her head by the way, and you're telling me you don't care about that?”

I thought about what he said for a moment. I can't say I'm proud of my response, but I was moments away from going absolutely insane, and I had no clue what I could've possibly done with that kind of information.

“Could you pass me another pill, old man? I don't think this one's working.”

The old man took a deep breath. I was hoping he'd just storm out the room. Instead he went over to his bag and pulled out a stack of photographs. He spread them over the table one by one and sat back.

I didn't want to look at the photos. I just glared at the old man's face hoping he'd give up, but curiosity got the better of me.

They were all close ups of people's eyes. All normal except for one. The second to last photo was slightly blurred as if the subject couldn't stay still long enough for the camera to focus. But it was clear enough.

Bright red blood practically spilling out of the eye socket, a blown out pupil and something I wasn't sure if I imagined the first time- a faint burning glow. I gagged and turned my head away.

“Okay, that's all I needed to see. You're free to go now.” the old man said as he quickly gathered the photos.

“Wait.. where did you get-” I whispered.

“I said you're free to go.” He snapped “You made it very clear how you didn't want an explanation Miss Elijah, so I would advise you to head back home, lock your door and pray you don't end up in a landfill yourself.”

I shook my head and stood up.

“Wait, I'm sorry sir, please I don't- I didn't mean-”

The old man turned and glared at me. I quickly shut up and sat down.

“Listen kid, you don't have to apologize. I wasn't going to give you an explanation that would satisfy you anyway. I told you, all I needed was confirmation, and I've got it. Again. You're free to go.” He said packing his things.

“That- that's not fair! How was I supposed to know this was real? You expect me to trust someone I just met? Someone who lied to my face?” I started sobbing. “Nobody explained anything! You didn't explain-”

I couldn't even finish my sentence. I was panicking trying to come up with something else to say, but my mind went blank.

The old man noticed me crying and sat back down rubbing his temples. I guess he felt sorry for me, but he looked more frustrated than sympathetic.

“Look, it's obvious that there was a bit of a miscommunication here. I will try my best to explain, but I don't have a lot of time and it's simply not my job.” He said firmly.

“You were probably attacked by a vampire. I'm here to confirm what you saw because I need a statement from a living witness to preform my duties without interference. It is as simple as that. Do you understand?”

I was silent. I didn't believe it in the slightest but I kept that to myself.

“Anyway, it doesn't matter if you believe me or not. My only job is to get rid of them and any potential carriers of the disease. It's not my job to convince you, but I'll ask you this…”

He paused for a moment to catch his breath.

“What do you think is more believable? That I'm telling you the truth? Or, do you really think anyone can walk into the police precinct, impersonate an officer, and interrogate a key witness in a room that's under constant surveillance?”

He must've forgotten he was in a rush. The old man kept ranting at me.

“I gave you information directly from a closed case file. I gave you multiple chances to ask me questions. All that- you think I did all that- to what, inconvenience you?” He said breathlessly.

I couldn't even open my mouth to speak. I felt like an idiot. The old man rolled his eyes and stood back up.

“That's the best I can do for now. My card is in that bag. Infection is rare but if you notice any bodily changes…” he trailed off. Then stared at me for a moment. I could feel my heart in my throat.

“Nah, that would've happened by now,” he muttered.

Before I could ask him anything he was already out the door. He didn't even bother closing it.

I sat there thinking about what happened for like an hour before someone came in to check on me. Luckily, I was high as a kite by then.

The female detective, the one who barely even acknowledged my existence during the first interview, was the one who escorted me out. She didnt say anything just gave me her card, called up a taxi, and sent me home.

I ended up stumbling into my apartment sometime after 9pm. I got into the tub and passed out for 14 hours. When I woke up my clothes were soaked in sweat and bile. I didn't bother showering.

That's all I care to tell you. I'm not going to embarrass myself any further than I already have. Tune in tomorrow to see if I'm still alive or whatever.

Darkness had come early that cold autumn night. Buck had been lying in bed watching funny internet videos like all teens from his day did. He had figured it was about time to go to bed when he heard the unmistakable cry of the hen house in an uproar.

Now, Pa was out helping his brother the county over, and so that left Buck in charge of making sure the family was safe. He knew that mama was out at her night job but he could hear his sister in the other room singing to something in what Buck could only assume was horribly bastardized Korean. So Buck hopped out of bed, tossed on his old Carhartt jacket, grabbed a charged headlamp, an axe, a snack for the walk over, and headed toward the henhouse. Buck didn’t mind chickens, but these ones, these were the meanest birds this side of the Colorado. Well, except for the old lady the house over, as a matter of fact, Buck was sure these birds had just as many cases of assault as her.

He realized the hen house was completely silent, which was a far cry different from how it was before he stepped outside. In all honesty it was probably a fox, little critters were always scaring chickens. Of course he thought that up until he saw the blood. The whole side of the hen house had been torn off. Well it wasn’t foxes, and the damage was too much to have been done by a black bear. Buck thought it might have been a brown bear that had migrated there but that didn’t explain why some of the side boards looked as though they had been pulled off by hand. No claw marks on them, not broken, the nails were bent as if it had been pried off from the side. Whatever it was, it had hands and the muscle to tear a finely constructed hen house, which Buck took no small amount of pride in said construction, asunder. So what? A silverback gorilla decided to swim across the Atlantic and walk to the middle of the states? Or maybe bigfoot was tired of his ocean view in Washington and decided to hike east?

A chicken squawked from the treeline and Buck wheeled around towards it. There was so much blood. Too much. The chickens were gone, all that was left was whichever one was in the woods. Against all better judgment and basic instincts of self preservation, Buck decided to find it. He scanned the trees and crouched down. He tried his best to watch where he stepped in an attempt to make the least amount of noise possible. The light of his headlamp awoke the ancient pines from their deep slumber, rousing their leaves and branches to stretch in the wind as they broke free of the restraint of darkness. Buck checked the tracks, the blood wore thin, occasional feathers littered the trail like breadcrumbs, but they too started to become a rarity. snapped branches marked trees and a coarse gray fur was snagged on bark. Buck stopped at a muddy patch. Maybe it was a gorilla. God, he hoped it was a gorilla. Its print was longer than Buck’s size twelve work boot and around three times wider. He realized that his house lights were no longer illuminating around him and how far into the brush he actually was. Buck decided that it would be in his best interest to leave. Before he could turn around the sound of a branch snapping along with what he could only describe as the cry of a boar mixed with the scream of a dying woman pierced Buck to his very core.

Buck broke into a sprint. He dodged roots and boulders as he heard the cry of what sounded like the earth behind him tearing open, trees fell around him and great swaths of dirt and rock were thrown at his back in his desperate attempt to flee. The scream, God, the scream of whatever it was ripped into him; every primal instinct passed on from generation to generation told him to run. He slid down a switchback and caught a branch right above his brow; he felt the bite of the wind tear at his face as blood ran into his eye. Buck had to lose this thing. He passed an old overgrown van and he knew exactly where he was.

There was a cliff up ahead. A drop off that fell into an old quarry made a lake. If he was going to lose this thing, whatever it was, It’d be there. Buck and his friends would go there all the time to swim and make poor choices. They had always talked about jumping from the top of the cliff, the lake was plenty deep but the jump was a hundred and thirty feet high. It looked like Buck had no choice. Buck, now driven by a goal rather than fear, found it in himself to run even harder. His legs burned and he felt the stomach churning spike of adrenaline coursing through his veins. Buck rounded a bend and heard another bone chilling screech as whatever it was splintered the tall elder pines. The clearing was up ahead. A cliff that led to the edge of the world and the endless abyss below it; Buck had no choice.

He jumped.

As soon as he left the ground Buck felt something slam into his back and grip him. He looked down to see a massive gnarled hand made from misshapen flesh and exposed bone as the creature turned him to face it.
In Buck’s hands he still carried the axe he had brought all the way from home. In a frantic, adrenaline fueled swing, Buck drove the axe into the creature’s face. The headlight blared into what looked like a blood and sinew covered elk skull. It screamed in raucous pain with the voice of a choir of damned souls as the axe lodged itself into it’s face. The creature dropped Buck off the cliff as it covered it’s head with a dozen hands. For a second, Buck didn’t realize he was falling as the shock of what he had seen washed over him only for a new shock to spread as he plummeted into an abyss. He straightened his legs, crossed his arms, and prayed just before he hit the water. The darkness shined a bright white for just a second as the water crashed into him. He swam up, his headlamp had been torn from his head, and he was unsure if the water above him would ever end until his head breached the surface. He coughed and sputtered up water and swam to what he approximated where shore was. Now, Buck was familiar with this area, from where he washed up to he knew more or less how to find his way back to town. There was an old quarry road that led up to a main one. Buck tripped over something and fell into something wet and squishy. It stunk like something rotting. The clouds overhead that hid the moon away broke and the blessed light exposed pure horror as Buck reeled back in terror; it was a carcass. It had been here for a while. It’s head, arms, legs, and skin had all been torn off. Buck looked around. There had to be six to seven bodies there. Mangled camouflage tents and broken rifles were strewn about. The fact that they had been hunting out of season led Buck to assume it was likely a group of poachers; they had been a problem in these parts for years, though it seemed as though the poachers were no more than barely recognisable meat now. Buck looked away, he felt something trying to come back up from dinner but he kept it down. He didn't have time to be scared, he didn't have time to be disgusted, he just needed to keep moving. He followed the familiar gravel path as the adrenaline started to wear down. His whole body ached and his legs could barely trudge on, constantly threatening Buck to collapse underneath him in a fit of agony. Buck thought of his little sister who was still at home by herself. He grit his teeth and moved faster. He needed to get to town, out of these accursed pines that threatened to swallow him up like some beast more threatening and terrifying than the one that hunted him. The clouds hid the moon once more and light simply vanished. What little night vision Buck had was swallowed by the oppressive black. He felt his way along the road, he kept to the feeling of the gravel’s crunch and as soon as he was comfortable walking, he started to jog.

He needed to get home. His little sister was probably still up, singing Korean pop songs, unaware that she was ringing the dinner bell to whatever the hell that thing was. Buck kept it up for around twenty minutes. Three miles of darkness and single minded focus; he had to get home. His lungs burned and his legs ached. The wound above his eye had finally clotted, not without covering one side of his face like warpaint. If it weren’t for his running he would have been freezing and he wasn’t sure if his clothes were soaked with water or sweat at this point. On top of that it had decided to rain, not a simple sprinkle, or a light refreshing fall, but a deluge so heavy that Buck wasn’t sure if he needed to start building an ark or not. The top of the berm was lit with the many lights of town, though he doubted if anyone would even be around at this time. Maybe it was for the best, less targets and all that, but then again, practically everyone was armed, not that it seemed to help the poor fellas down by the lake. The closest building was a little diner, Buck would sometimes stop there after school if he could afford it and the lady that ran the place was one of the nicest people he knew. Maybe he could stop there and call the sheriff. He made his way from the top of the woods towards the sweet embrace of civilization. As he came closer, the feeling of comfort from seeing such a place was torn from underneath him as he realized the state of the place. The front doors had been ripped from their hinges as if a truck had barreled through them. Buck stopped and listened as best he could through the rain as he tried to keep his heart from jumping out of his throat from his run. An old station wagon sat in front. Buck was pretty sure that it belonged to the owner.
Buck’s heart sank.

Was she still in there? Buck creeped closer. The windows closest to the doors had been shattered and a single flickering light tried its best to illuminate the building. His boots crunched on broken glass as he crept inside.
“Heidi?” Buck called out as quietly as he could.

The tables and chairs that sat away from the doors hadn’t been touched, the counter up front was a different story. Buck skulked behind what was left of the counter and immediately saw the corpse. It was missing its arms, legs, and head just like the poachers. A blood stained nametag read out “Heidi.” Buck grimaced and turned his head.

“Shit.” Buck whimpered.

He started to breathe harder as he sat down across from what was once Heidi. Buck held his head in his hands. What the hell was going on? It had to be some sort of horrible dream, some terrible nightmare caused by too much tv like momma always told him. But his body was sore and cold. This was reality and it was awful.
He needed to get home.

When he made it there then he could try to rationalize things, but right now it wasn’t time to dwell on what was unimportant, like what was real or not. On the ground sat a landline phone that had been knocked off of the charger. He snatched it up and dialed 911.

“We’re sorry, the number you’re trying to rea-”

The phone lines were out.

A soul-wrenching roar made of a cacophony of voices ripped through the silence. Buck peaked his head up to see a four legged creature gallop across the road. He could barely get a half-decent look at it crossed the dark street towards him.

“Shit!” Buck hissed as he stood as quickly as he could.

Buck reached up and flipped the switch to extinguish the flickering light above him. He clambered on his hands and knees through the door leading into the kitchen. He was immediately bludgeoned by the smell of rotting eggs, a gas pipe had burst at some point prior. He looked around for a moment, fryers, fridges, stove, toaster, shelves, storage room. Buck heard the creature enter. It grunted with the same shriek of a dying woman. Buck entered the storage closet as quietly as he could.

“Hello?” a voice called out, that while raspy, was unmistakably Heidi; and yet disturbingly off. As if it was a poor imitation of something trying for its first time to be human.

“Is anybody there?”

Buck hadn’t closed the door all the way for the fear of the latch making a noise. He started to feel woozy, likely from the gas tainted air. He watched from the crack as the bright fluorescent bulb to the kitchen was turned on and something opened the order window for something to snake its way through it. It dripped blood from along its length. At the end was something covered in blood soaked hair. It twitched and from under the hair revealed a pierced ear. It turned towards Buck as it scanned the room; It was Heidi, oh God, it was Heidi. Her head had been mounted on whatever this creature was like some sort of macabre trophy as it slithered on its bony appendage. Her eyes moved, her mouth grimaced. From where her neck was supposed to be, a tendril of dripping red meat. The smell, like a pile of corpses sitting in the summer sun, assaulted Buck’s senses. Heidi’s mouth moved as if she was practicing what she was going to say before she said it. She looked at where Buck hid.

“Hello?”

The sound of a police siren approaching broke the silence and the face before Buck snarled like an animal before pulling itself at great speeds out of the order window. The creature’s howl filled the air as it ran towards the offending noise. Buck released the breath he didn’t realize he was holding in before tearing open the door and looking out at the scene. It was probably Officer Harris, Buck’s dad was out of town, and the sheriff was old and had earned his right of not being up at this hour. Every fiber of Buck’s being told him to run, to just leave and use the distraction to buy him some time. But if he did, Officer Harris would be dead, and it’d be his fault. Buck grit his teeth as he looked around and knew what he could do. The diner was filled with flammable gas and was ready to go at any moment.. He slammed the shutter over the order window closed once more and unlocked the back door. Buck’s head was already swimming by the time he shoved a rolled up sheet of newspaper into the toaster. Once he pressed down on that lever he had a few seconds tops before Buck made the diner, and everything in a short radius, disappear.

Buck heard the sound of gunshots and unholy roaring. It may have been the gas, but he felt ready. He opened the kitchen door and ran to the entrance where he saw the creature slam itself into the police car’s side. Buck picked up a rock and threw it as hard as he could at the creature.

“Hey! Over here!.” Buck yelled

The creature turned towards him. The high beams of the cop car obscured its massive figure. Buck threw another rock.

“Come and get me fucker!”

That set it off. The creature reared back on its hind legs, where it stood maybe fifteen feet off of the ground and roared, like some unholy monument to mankind’s sins.

Buck ran back inside the building and through the kitchen. He turned as he closed the kitchen door and saw the creature barreling towards him. “Shit!” Buck yelled as he pressed down on the toaster lever and ran out the back door and kept running. He heard the creature slam into the wall behind him with a muffled cry.

Buck begged God for it to work, he promised that he’d be good, that he’d listen to his mom and dad more. Buck ran out the back door, legs pumping. Five seconds. Four. Three…

The night turned white.

For a second Buck was deaf, A high ring drilled into his skull as the blast wave threw him face first into the mud.

he looked back at his handiwork.

No more diner, No more monster, No more hands.

Buck tried to catch his breath and then remembered Officer Harris. Buck ran back around to the squad car. The lights we’re still on but inside it was still, the glare of the headlights concealed the damage. The windshield had been smashed in. Buck looked inside to see Officer Harris slumped over his wheel, his face looked as if it had been punched through.

He was dead.

Buck hobbled his way back towards home, his ears still ringing, and his clothes still soaked. On the plus side it had stopped raining. Buck didn’t rightfully know what to do next. People no doubt heard that explosion and would go to check, if not now, then in the slow approaching morning. Buck was tired, he had been running on adrenaline and pure defiance for the past hour. He spotted a bike on the side of the road, he knew who it belonged to, but for the time being it belonged to him as he made his way back home. He pulled out his key and opened the door.

“Mom?” his sister called out.

He began to sob. Buck’s sister came downstairs and stopped when she caught sight of him.

“Oh my God, what happened to you?”

Buck took off his soaking coat and boots and wiped his eyes.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to-”

A knock at the door interrupted him. Buck silenced his sister with a hand as he listened intently. The smell of corpses seeped from behind the door and a voice that sounded like his mother’s but most definitely was not his mother's, spoke.

“Buck? Is that you?”

I’ve only been writing and posting my work for a short period, and u/The_Republique has been just constantly so supportive of this community, I see him commenting and boosting like, I’m not even joking, almost every story that gets posted to r/TalesfromtheCreeps. Dude is everywhere at once, and now, one of his best stories has been immortalized in our favorite religious catalogue (#CultCast), and I say, brother deserves it.

Every story of his that I’ve read has been a banger, and he engages with other people’s work constantly. It genuinely makes me happy to see good shit get recognized, and it’s super encouraging for us smaller writers to see it and go, “wow, the stories we write actually get seen and read, this shit matters.” Just makes my whole day, really neat in general to see new stories get realized, and who knows, those new stories may even become classics someday.

Just overall, I wanted to congratulate our MVP for making it. It was super cool to be at work yesterday and hear “we have a story by the Republique, his link will be in the description” and go, “holy shit, I know that guy. I know this story!” And then hear the boys reaction to it. u/The_Republique, bruh, if you’re reading this, cudos dude, they couldn’t have picked a nicer guy to throw into a grab bag episode, I hope they cover more of your work in the future.

Me personally, I hope they cover your April Submission Easter story next, I think that’s my favorite one from your rolledex