He sits alone in a dark room, the only light coming from the single bulb above his worktable.

On the table sits a head.  It was with great care that he had removed it from the body’s neck, making sure not to cause any damage to it.  The skin and muscle had put up little resistance against the knife.  It had been the bone that had slowed the work.  It would have been so much simpler to saw through the spine, but he isn’t interested in simplicity.  It is precision and, yes, perfection that he is after.  There can be no flaws in his art.

He had used a small pick and chisel to disconnect the skull from the spine.  The process had been agonizingly slow, but it had been worth it.  The head that sits on his worktable is pristine.

Plucking a scalpel from a small glass jar filled halfway with fluid, he carefully examines it to make sure that the blade is sharp enough to meet his standards.  He nods to himself in satisfaction.  He always makes it a point to keep his instruments in working order, but it never hurts to make a final check before beginning the more delicate steps of the process.

Placing the tip of the scalpel at the very edge of the hairline, he pushes just hard enough for the blade to penetrate through the skin.  There was a time that he would have likely scraped the bone underneath, but he has come a long way since those early days and he knows exactly how much pressure to apply.  With a steady hand he cuts an incision that follows along the hairline.  He stops to rotate the head slightly after every inch to ensure the line is as accurate as possible.

The scalpel finally reaches the point he had started at.  He places the instrument back into the jar.  The drops of blood that had formed on it swirl throughout the fluid, turning the clear liquid a light pink.  He uses a clean rag to dab away the small amount of blood around the incision.  He had drained most of it out of the body before he had begun, but it’s impossible to get all of it.

He takes a tuft of hair in each hand and carefully pulls up.  The disconnected portion of skin slides away from the rest of the face with a sucking sound, exposing the top of the skull.  He places the scalp into a plastic tray before picking up a drill.

The bit at the end of the drill is extremely fine; the holes it makes as it bores into the skull are barely visible.  He drills a dozen of the holes around the exposed bone before setting the tool back down.  He leans in and examines his work to make sure that each hole is right where it needs to be.

He opens a small box at the edge of the worktable and takes out a long wire with a loop at each end.  The wire is jagged, with hundreds of razor-like points across its length.  The tool is a Gigli saw, a surgical instrument designed to cut through bone with extreme precision.  He slips the wire through the holes and moves it back and forth, pulling just hard enough for it to penetrate and tear at the bone.  The cuts are smooth and straight as they connect the holes together.  Finishing the task, he returns the saw to its case and closes the lid.

The top of the skull comes off without any resistance.  A few quick cuts with a knife shears away the three layers of tissue below the bone level.  The brain is now exposed, and he stares at it in disgust.  Like the other body organs, he considers it to be useless.  It is merely a lump of tissue.  It cannot be carved or repurposed, and it only gets in the way of his work.  Using the scalpel, he severs the nerve fibers attaching it to the eyes.  He once again places the tool in the jar before lifting the brain and the attached brainstem out of the cranial cavity.  He drops the organ into a trash bag without giving it a second thought before sliding the eyes out of the sockets.

It takes a few minutes for him to clear out the fluid from inside the cavity.  He uses a small cotton pad to wipe the bone clean, making sure to get it completely dry.  He always finds this part of the process to be relaxing, even soothing.  He often wonders if other artists feel the same way as they set up a new canvas on an easel or clear debris off of a fresh block of stone.  It’s ritualistic, and there is comfort in that ritual.

Using a tiny chisel and hammer, he begins the long process of carving an intricate series of symbols and designs on the inside of the skull.  He is not naturally gifted as a scrimshander, and it has only been through intense practice over many years that he has been able to get his skills up to a level that he is satisfied with.  Still, this is the only part of the process that he dislikes.  If his hands slip even a fraction of a centimeter, the entire project will be ruined and he will have to start again with a new subject.

His fingers are throbbing as he finishes connecting the lines of the final design.  Bringing the head up closer to his face, he lightly blows away the flakes of bone that have gathered at the bottom of the skull.  He plucks a jeweler’s loop off of a hook on the pegboard hanging beyond the worktable and holds it up to his right eye.  He examines every single line that he has carved to ensure that they are perfect.

The work is satisfactory.

Using a strong adhesive from a tiny white bottle, he reattaches the top of the skull to the head.  He waits patiently as the adhesive dries.  With the bone locked once again in place, he uses the same substance to glue the removed scalp back over it, making sure to return it to the exact position it had been in when he had cut it off.

He lays the head down on the worktable so that the face is pointed up towards the light.  Now that it has been prepared, the real work can begin.  For a third time, he picks up the scalpel, the tip gleaming in the light.  Using the point, he cuts a line from the right corner of the mouth.  It runs down over the edges of the chin and across the underside of the jaw.  When he reaches the section where the neck had originally been attached, he goes back to the lips and does the same thing down the left side.

With the guidelines cut, he exchanges the scalpel for a saw.  It is roughly the length of his forearm, and the teeth are straight and sharp.  He follows the lines that he cut, being sure to apply enough pressure for the saw to grind through the jawbone.  The trickiest part, as always, is getting it past the gums in such a way as to not damage the teeth outside of the cutting area.

One final push of the saw moves it through the flesh and bone and into the neck hole.  Keeping one hand on the forehead, he grips the detached section of face with the other and pulls.  It breaks free of the skull with a sound like twigs snapping.  The tongue flops down through the new opening and onto the worktable with a wet thump.  He puts the rectangular portion of removed face into a bucket before cutting the tongue free from the hyoid bone and placing it into the same trash bag he had used for the brain.

He clears the tools he had been using from the worktable and stands up from his stool.  The room is dark, but he knows exactly where each item he needs is located.  He shuffles away from the light on his long thin legs and disappears into the gloom.  When he returns a few minutes later, he places four items on the side of the worktable: a jar filled with greyish white orbs floating in sickly brown fluid, a shoebox, a cup holding thick bolts and nuts, and a heavy hand crank drill.  He sits back down on the stool with a sigh.

He removes the lid of the shoebox and pulls it towards him.  Inside the box is a large block of wood.  It is solid oak, and it feels smooth to the touch as he removes it from the cardboard box.  Setting it down on the worktable, he takes a black case off of the pegboard and opens it.  Inside are a wide variety of woodworking tools.  He lays them out one at a time in a neat line in front of him.

Over the next hour, he skillfully carves the block of wood.  He works very quickly as he cuts and shapes the oak.  He doesn’t take his eyes off of it even when he switches tools.  There’s no need.

The frenzy of activity finally slows before eventually stopping.  In his hands is a perfect wooden replica of the section of head that he had removed.  Every detail is exact, right down to the chip in the lower right cuspid tooth and the small scar on the chin.  Nodding to himself, he rubs down the finished work with a piece of sandpaper to remove any remaining shards or splinters.

He inserts the wooden replica into the hole in the bottom of the head and aligns it properly.  The next step is to drill two bolts into the head through the cheeks, one on each side.  The old hand crank drill squeaks as he applies pressure and turns it.  The bolt turns clockwise as it cuts down through the layers of skin, then into the muscle.  There’s a loud crack as it pushes through the bone.  There’s more resistance now as it presses into the wooden replica, but soon he has the bolt in place.  He repeats the process on the other side of the face.

He is almost finished.  He unscrews the lid of the jar and takes one of the orbs out of the thick liquid.  He holds the preserved eye in his palm and examines it.  Normally when a person dies, the cornea of the eye clouds over after an hour or two, taking away that spark of life that not even the best artificial eyes can duplicate.  The eye then becomes flaccid before eventually decaying away.

Using just the right chemical mixture, however, he is able to preserve the eyes.  The solution he has created hardens them into a rock-like consistency while never allowing them to lose that spark, that indescribable something that makes them seem alive.  It had taken him a long time to work out the mixture, but the end result is worth it.

Being careful not to scratch the preserved eye, he places it into the head’s open right socket.  He makes sure that it’s facing straight ahead before taking another one out of the jar and pushing it into the left socket.  The head is finished.  He feels a sense of satisfaction as he sits up and looks down at the result of his efforts.

He reaches out into the darkness behind him and pulls on a beaded chain.  A second light bulb hanging from the ceiling comes to life, illuminating another section of the room.  There is one last task to perform.

In the center of the light, supported by a tall metal pole, is the body the head was originally attached to.  He has already taken care of the necessary alterations.  The body is now a combination of biological and wooden parts.  The hands and feet are flesh and bone, but the fingers and toes are the same oak as the lower mouth and jaw.  The elbows and knees have been replaced by wooden counterparts.  The connection between the waist and spine has been completely rebuilt.  Every joint is replaced with bolts and hinges.  

The result is that every moveable part of the body can now swing in any direction.  He has, in essence, created a human marionette.  It is dressed in a fine Italian suit with a small red flower in the coat lapel.

He slides the head onto the top of the spine and bolts it on.  There is a loud click as it locks in place.  He brushes a stray bit of string off of the shoulder before narrowing his eyes.

“Live,” he says in a voice that sounds like he’s breathing the word instead of speaking it.

The eyes turn slowly in their sockets and focus on him.  The new wooden mouth opens and closes on its hinges, as if the creature is trying to speak but cannot.  He reaches around the body and releases the hooks attaching it to the metal pole.  It remains silent as it watches him.

Almost before he is able to release the final hook, the door to the room opens.  Warm yellow light from the hallway streams in, and he turns towards it.  A short silhouette stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

The girl asks her Papa if her new doll is ready.

He smiles and tells her that indeed, he has just finished.  He presents it to her and asks her what she thinks.

Her face lights up in delight as she exclaims that she loves it, and that it’s the most wonderful one so far.  She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek.  He returns the hug and asks what she will name him.

She think about it for a moment before declaring that the doll shall be named Mr. Dobbs.  She almost sheepishly asks him if he thinks that is a good name.  He assures it that it is a splendid one before suggesting that she introduce Mr. Dobbs to her other dolls.

The girl holds out her hand.  The creature takes a step forward obediently.  It walks oddly on its hinged legs, like a figure from an old stop motion animation film.  It gently takes the offered hand.

They start to leave the room before the girl looks back over her shoulder at him.  She politely asks her Papa if the next doll can be a girl, as she only has one of those so far.

The Puppeteer nods, his eyes twinkling.

“Of course, my dear,” he says.  “I happen to know just the one.”

Ethan Powell felt a single bead of sweat trickle across the side of his face as he watched the old Ford pickup truck drift by.  Having only crossed the border to this humble little town some days before his leisurely stroll, he was certain nobody could have found him here; not yet anyway.  

The fact that the truck was a near-perfect doppelganger of the one his older brother used to drive fueled his startled state just as much as the man behind the wheel.  He had only viewed its pilot for seconds at best, and the rational side of his brain was certain it could not truly be who he had initially thought.  Of course, his was not always the most rational mind; not with the particular hobby that defined his life.  

•

He was only nine years of age when he experienced his first kill; the first he could speak of anyway.  Jeremy Powell had only taken the youngest of his three children with him for this excursion out into the woods, though he hoped to make such outings a family affair in the future.  Edward, the eldest of the Powell kids, had accompanied his dad many times over the years.  

Being a good three years older than his sister, Lisa, and five years his brother’s senior, he had experienced a good deal more than his siblings.  He could be quite cocky about it at times; his vast knowledge of the way the world really works.  Though the only daughter of Jeremy and Samantha Powell looked up to her big brother, Ethan grew to despise his arrogance.  

After their mother passed, a little over a year before this outing, their father learned to drown his sorrows in old rotgut, otherwise known as the cheapest whiskey his money could buy.  Rarely did his daily inebriation cause him to lash out at his kids, as he was quite the mellow drunk, but there were those times that his grief and intoxication got the better of him.  

Edward, being the oldest of the trio, was more of their dad’s buddy than his son, so he never had to worry about being on the receiving end of his wrath.  Lisa was Jeremy’s little angel, not to mention the spitting image of her mother, so her father would sooner cut off his arm than ever raise his hand to her.  Ethan would not be so fortunate.

He never beat him, so to speak, but the lashes from his belt most certainly left their mark, both on his rear end and subconscious.  He wasn’t a child of great emotion, nor was he one of many words.  He would take his whoopin’, while not allowing the tears to release from his welling eyes, but he wouldn’t argue against it; not at such a young age anyway.

•

Regardless of how slim the likelihood of the beat-up old truck being the one his brother used to drive was, just the sight of it stuck a fork into Ethan’s lower back.  While still glaring at the cracked and tarnished tail lights as they drifted up the road, taking a left and leaving his sight, he idly pushed through the door of whatever shop he was next to at the time.  

He continued to gaze at the road until the small, brass bell jingled against the door, effectively snapping his attention away from the sporadic traffic outside.  The building he had walked into was small but spacious.  The items that sat upon the shelves before him all looked ancient, yet well-kept, pulling his curious mind away from what led him there, to focus on what now surrounded him.  

He idly stroked his fingers across the old grandfather clock, which stood next to a row of smaller, tabletop time pieces arranged on an oak shelf.  He continued to allow his forefinger to lightly caress each one, while he paced farther down the aisle.  

Why such things held such fascination to him at the time, he couldn’t say.  To a certain extent, each trinket he passed by looked to have a story attached to it, or that’s how it felt to his curious mind.  He gazed upon framed paintings that lined the walls, again absentmindedly creating intriguing worlds in which they originated.  

The image of the blonde woman, whose hair blew in the wind as she stared out into the world from the clifftop upon which she stood, caused his pulse to quicken slightly.  He could only see her from the back, but he imagined her to be quite striking, were she to have the ability to turn around from her frozen stance.  

He could practically hear the sounds of the waves brushing against the lighthouse that shone its light upon the stormy seas in the next painting in line, as the rain fell upon his subconscious.  The one to the right featured a small child with wide eyes and a vacant stare; something that once more flashed his mind back to days long since passed.  

•

“Squeeze the trigger, boy.  Don’t pull,” Jeremy spoke directly into the ear of his youngest son, “breathe in deep.  Don’t let it out until…”

Before his father could continue his coaching from the sidelines, Ethan tightened his forefinger.  At first, the kickback from the rifle made him jump, feeling as though he’d just received a slug to the shoulder from his big brother; an all too familiar sensation.  

He didn’t even notice the blood gushing from the wound he drilled into the unsuspecting buck at first, only the enthusiastic cheer from his father.  When he once more turned his focus back to the task at hand, he felt almost loopy from the adrenaline rush.  He couldn’t have predicted such exhilaration from witnessing the large deer fall limp to the ground.  

“I knew ye could do it, boy!” Jeremy said, clapping his son across the back, WOO-EEE! I ain’t never seen shootin’ like ‘at from a first timer!” 

Though his heart still thumped against his sternum, Ethan had already returned to his default, vacant glare.  He had never been one to show a great degree of emotion, but this out-of-character pride from his father almost inspired his blank eyes to light up, for the briefest of moments.  The small child even offered his dad a smile for his efforts; something that almost caught the old man off guard for a second.  

It’s not as though he never showed happiness, just not to a particular extent.  While his siblings were often quite loud, running through the house playing hide and seek, or cops and robbers and the like, Ethan had little interest in such things.  He liked to read, solve mathematical equations, and plenty of other things the average nine-year-old had no interest in, but he saw himself as a thinker, more than a doer, so to speak.  

It wasn’t until his father led him to where his prey had fallen, that he truly understood the one joy that would trump any of his other desires in life.  He gazed into the wide eyes of the buck, feeling his pulse quicken even more than when he squeezed the trigger.  

As he glanced up to his dad to see tears trickling down his weathered and wrinkled cheeks, he felt his own eyes begin to well up.  Though the old man responded to this by wrapping his arms tightly around the son he had never before connected with, he couldn’t know what had actually caused the boy to cry.  

Ethan continued to stare at the lifeless shell, spurting blood across the forest floor, while his dad sobbed upon the bright orange vest his eldest son had grown out of some years back.  

“I’m so damn proud of ye, kid!” Jeremy said, rubbing his son’s back.  

“Thank you, father.  I am too,” the young boy replied, barely shifting the tone of his voice.  

•

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” a voice spoke from somewhere behind where Ethan gazed at the paintings.

“Hmmm? No, sir.  I’m just browsing.”

He didn’t look back to meet the eyes of the shop’s proprietor; only continued to gaze upon the framed canvas.  

“Looking to decorate your home a bit?” the man continued, almost annoying his potential customer with his badgering.  

“I do not have a home to speak of.  Just passing through “

“Very well, then.  Should you have any questions, simply call out, and I shall be at your beck and call.”

“Your name, sir?” Ethan replied, finally turning to face the man in the neatly pressed, black velvet suit, “You do have one, yes?”

“I do indeed, my new friend.  I’ll be available should you have any questions.” the man with the curled mustache said, holding out his hand.  

“Pleasure,” Ethan replied with a nod, cutting his eyes down to the outstretched hand.  

“My apologies, sir.  I do not shake hands.  Germs, you understand…”

The shop owner returned a courteous nod, followed by a slight bow, before turning on his heels to stroll back to his counter at the rear of the shop.

Momentarily caught off guard by what he almost considered to be harassment, Ethan continued his tour of the little shop.  He could feel the man staring back at him from time to time, causing his face to flush slightly.

Surely he does not think me to be a common thief! He thought, seeing this as the most feasible explanation for the man refusing to allow him peace.  

He could tell that this store likely didn’t do a whole lot of business, being such a classy place in an otherwise hovel of a town.  

Perhaps he’s just desperate to make a sale, practically begging you to purchase something, his more rational mind offered.

Yes, that made so much more sense than seeing the well-spoken and well-dressed Ethan Powell as nothing more than a meager shoplifter.  This allowed his facial temperature to regulate, as well as the pulse beating beneath his wrists and neck.  

His tastes, after all, were far too refined for something as pathetic as ripping off a local shop.  He had committed crimes like this humble store owner could not fathom; something that caused that rare smile to breach his lips once more.  

He continued his pacing up and down each aisle with his head held high, even when his eyes glanced down to meet another series of intriguing artifacts.  It wasn’t until he was content enough to make his way back to the exit, as he glanced to the man at the rear of the shop, pulling open the doors to a simple, wooden cabinet, that he saw something that immediately captured his attention.  One more precious trinket that opened the floodgates to memories of days gone by.  

•

The young boy could barely contain his excitement while his proud father taught him to skin the deer.  Being his son’s first kill, Jeremy promised to preserve the head until he could get it to the local taxidermist; something he had done for his eldest son and daughters first as well.  

Ethan wasn’t fond of the frozen eyes of the decapitated trophies gazing down on him from the living room wall, but he wouldn’t deny himself this memento.  He was one of few words; always had been, but he made sure to ask every single question that came to mind while stripping the carcass.  Though he didn’t fully appreciate it at the time, these would be lessons he would utilize a great deal in the future.  

Even while the whole family feasted on the venison the youngest of the Powell children had provided, his mind was elsewhere, still on the hunt for something new to feed his growing impulses.  He would offer his token words of gratitude to those unusually complimentary from his siblings, but none of that mattered to him.

That night, once every stomach in the house was satisfied, Jeremy asked his youngest son to accompany him to his den.  The boy was nervous at first, as he had never been allowed to enter his father’s sacred space before.  Even with the adoring and prideful look on the old man’s face, Ethan had no idea what to expect.  

He took a seat across from his father with a small table between them.  As two short and stumpy, crystal glasses were laid before him, he finally understood what was happening.  Jeremy pulled the familiar, tarnished silver flask from his pocket, unscrewing the cap before pouring a small amount of the dark liquid within into both glasses.  

The old man lifted his glass while nodding to the one remaining.  When his son lifted his drink, staring intensely at the dark brown fluid, he clinked the rim of his glass against the other.  

“Ye did good today, kid; damn good!” he said, gulping down his whiskey in one shot.  

Ethan sniffed at his glass, glancing at his father as if to ensure this was acceptable, before following the example and allowing the entirety of the liquid into his waiting gullet.  Jeremy was already on his feet, patting his son on the back as the boy violently coughed from the shock of such a thing entering his throat.  

His father chuckled while he continued to slap the palm of his hand against the sweat-moistened t-shirt until the spluttering gag subsided.  His son glared up at him, both thankful for the assistance, while somewhat agitated by the situation.  

“Thank you,” he said, still clearing his throat, but maintaining his monotoned and emotionally vacant tone.  

“I coughed like ‘at when my pop gave me my first shot too,” the old man said, still chuckling, “he called it a right of passage or somthin’.”

Once his breathing regulated, Ethan allowed himself to enjoy the somewhat light feeling in his head, as well as the lingering flavor of the cheap whiskey.  When his father pulled the flask out once more, holding it outstretched with his eyebrows raised, he gave a single nod to signify he was ready for another.  

Over the years that followed his first successful hunt, the whole family would trudge out into the woods on many early mornings.  He would allow his brother and sister the occasional kill, but his instincts were already honed so finely at such a young age, that he was quick to put down any prey that slipped through their fingers.  

Though he adored the adrenaline rush of the bullet tearing into the flesh of his victims, he far more enjoyed what came next.  As the blood would leak between his slender fingers and along his boney forearms, he would find his pulse quickening so erratically, that he feared he may lose consciousness before the job was done.  

After every successful hunt, the Powell children would share a drink with their old man.  Though Lisa and Edward only reluctantly accepted their glasses, Ethan looked forward to it more each time.  His older siblings did not have as refined a palette as himself, but he enjoyed the celebratory drink almost as much as the hunt itself.  

•

The small, tarnished flask that sat upon the shelf was identical to the one his father used to carry.  Ethan found himself standing beside the shop owner, gazing at the thing, mesmerized by the all too familiar object.  

“What is this!?” he belted, not breaking his gaze from the artifact before him.  

“Hmmm?” the unusual man replied, seemingly having not noticed the approaching, potential customer.

“How did you acquire this?” Ethan asked, ignoring the question presented to him.  

“If memory serves, I came across that one in London…”

“No! This belonged to my…someone I used to know.  Now, sir, how did you acquire this?”

Ethan finally turned to face the owner of this curious little shop, while gesturing to the flask with a slightly trembling finger.  

“I am afraid you’re mistaken, my friend.  If you will allow me…”

The well dressed man pulled a light blue handkerchief from the inner pocket of his coat, cupped it in his hand, and pulled the flask from the cabinet.  Powell looked on with his face reddening, instantly feeling rage tremor beneath his skin while this unusual individual held what he was certain to be his father’s flask.  

“If you look right here,” the man said, turning the small canteen upside down, “you will see the base is imprinted with a crest, yes?”

Ethan looked to the object and back to the eyes of the shopkeep, still attempting to calm his quickened pulse.  

“And?” 

“Well, this is a royal crest, my friend, as this once belonged to a somewhat, well, forgotten member of England’s royal family, you see?” 

Ethan studied the man, allowing his breathing to regulate.  Though he couldn’t deny he had no recollection of seeing such a brand on his father’s flask, he was uncertain if he had ever examined it in this much depth.  The more the man before him attempted to explain the origins of what he held, the more he took in the little details of the thing.  

While at first, it had looked identical to the one that provided him that frequent taste of cheap whiskey, he could now make out subtle inconsistencies.  A blemish here, a missing scratch there; little things that he remembered from his youth that were not present on the article he now gazed upon.  

“A forgotten member? If so, how can you know of him?” 

“Well, mister…?” the shop owner replied, attempting to receive his customer’s name for a second time.  

“Jameson,” Ethan replied, “Jack Jameson.”

Mr.  Powell had used this alias; inspired by his fathers love of whiskey, for some twenty years or so.  While the brands that lent their names to the false moniker he adopted would only grace his old man’s gullet on those rare occasions he could afford something better than old rotgut, he thought it had a nice ring to it.

“You see, Mr.  Jameson,” the man continued, barely missing a beat, “I am something of a collector–not of simple baubles and trinkets, but stories.”

“And this flask?” 

“This flask, my new friend, is said to have belonged to one of the most infamous killers in history: none other than the legendary Jack the Ripper.”

The two gazed at each other, both wearing a similarly subtle grin.  

“It may be no coincidence that this particular object caught your interest, Mr.  Jameson, given your forename, of course,” he said, allowing his smile to widen, “Naturally, that is the only thing you have in common with its previous owner, after all.”

•

It was only two weeks after receiving his own rifle for his thirteenth birthday when Ethan Powell finally gave into the desires which had been building since his first kill.  A surprise storm had prevented the planned hunt the day after celebrating him becoming an official teenager.  Responsibilities and a handful of other reasons had gotten in the way of being able to plan the next excursion out into the woods after that.  

Whether it was the constant badgering from his older siblings or the indifference of their father, the young boy found his patience with them waning.  Granted, his old man had a busy work schedule at his factory job, as did Edward at a local shop, now that he was saving for wherever life was to lead him after high school.  

Lisa had little time for either of her brothers, as her only concerns were with her friends and her ever-changing series of boyfriends.  Ethan could not deny that his sister had grown into quite the striking young woman, though he would never allow her to hear that from him.  

He had never given much attention to the opposite sex, as his passions were leading him on a different path.  Still, the changes his body was going through caused his normally focused mind to stray from time to time.  Perhaps that was a factor in his transitioning from a socially distant, yet intelligent boy, to what lay just around the corner.  

It had been some time since Jeremy Powell lost his temper with any of his children, but that Tuesday evening would be the last.  Being exhausted from his work, the attitude his youngest son put behind every word he spoke quickly got under his skin.  He was already a good four beers and half a flask of old rotgut into distancing himself from his troubles when Ethan completely ignored his request to take the garbage out.  

“I’ll get it later,” his son replied to the third attempt to get him to do this simple chore.  

“You’ll do it now, boy.  I ain’t askin’, I’m tellin’, you hear me?” 

Both the bluntness and the underlying disrespect of his old man’s words caused the young boy’s face to flush.  He had been strolling towards the stairs when the demand was belted out across the living room, causing him to stop in place while attempting to compose the anger building within.  

“I know you heard me, boy! Don’t make me…”

“Make you what, exactly?” Ethan asked, spinning in place to face the man still sitting on his recliner, “Make you stop binge drinking for two seconds to do it yourself?” 

The arrogant tone fueled his father’s rage as much as the blank look on the face of his youngest child.  He pressed his palms to the armrests of his chair, pushing himself to his feet, feeling his head spin for a moment.  He stood in place, waging a staring contest with the cocky young man across the room, battling for some semblance of dominance before he spoke again.  

“You’re gettin’ too big for yer britches, boy,” he said, unbuckling his belt before pulling it free, “been a long time since I’ve had to set you straight, but don’t think for a second, you ain’t old enough for me to tan yer hide!” 

He continued to glare into the blank eyes of his son with the belt dangling from his right hand.  Had he not still been attempting to convince his head to stop spinning, he would’ve already closed the gap, but he knew if he tried to take one step at a time, he would have likely dropped to the floor.  

Ethan took one glance to his father’s feet, before meeting his gaze again, allowing a small smirk to reach across his lips.  

“You can barely stand, old man,” he said, condescendingly, “how exactly do you expect to tan my hide, hmm?” 

Jeremy Powell grew more angered by the arrogant look on his son’s face, than the disrespectful words he spilled.  As he forced one foot forwards, not taking his eyes off his youngest child, he felt his mouth form its smirk, finding his stance more stable than anticipated.  

For the briefest of moments, Ethan felt his back stiffen with fear as his father plundered toward him, but he would not show it.  He stood in place, finally letting his grin melt away.  

I am not a child anymore, old man, he thought, balling his fists as the man who doubled his height drew closer.  

As his dad reached for him with one hand, while raising the one holding the belt high above his head, the teenage boy took advantage of how slowly the man moved.  He sped right at him, releasing his tightly balled fists to push against the round beer belly, just below eye level.

Whether it was the shock of the swift attack, or simply not being as stable as he presumed, Jeremy felt his feet betray him.  In that one quick motion, the boy caused the old man to lose his footing, falling straight to the floor behind him.  He would not connect directly with the weathered and stained carpet; not at first anyway.  

The chipped and tarnished coffee table had sat in that same spot for the better part of a decade, before the skull slamming hard against the corner closest to the door caused it to shift back a foot or so.  While the wide eyes of the father of the Powell children met those of his youngest boy, he accepted that this would be the last thing he saw before falling into the black, just as his wife had so many years before.

Ethan continued to stare at the twitching shell his father used to occupy, tilting his head from one side to the other as though he were a curious deer.  He traced his eyes from the dead stare of his old man to the shimmering crimson pool forming around where he lay.  

He did not feel guilty for his actions, nor was he repulsed by the sight of the corpse of the man who raised him.  It was nothing more than a fascination to him at the time.  He had gazed into that vacant glare of many forest animals over his thirteen years, but none were as intriguing as this.  Once more, his lips formed that smirk; something he experienced with every kill before, and the many more that lay ahead.  

•

Ethan blinked from the old flask to the annoyingly friendly face of the shopkeep, seeking meaning behind his words.  

Why would he choose to say something like that? He thought, attempting not to reveal the gears spinning inside his skull to the well-spoken Mr.  Hyde.  

Could he somehow know that I share a similar passion to the legendary Ripper of White Chapel?

He’s never laid eyes on you before this day, his rational mind argued, stop being so paranoid! He’s simply trying to sweeten the pot.

He continued to study the unblinking eyes of the man who still clutched what he had presumed to be his father’s flask, between his fingers and handkerchief, unable to get a read on the unusual individual.  Ethan always had a talent for being able to understand what was going on behind the gaze of those he looked upon.  

It was a talent that aided him in his craft; being able to get into the mind of his prey.  The mysterious shopkeep, however, was a nut he couldn’t quite crack.  

“Would you be interested in purchasing this item, Mr.  Jameson? I understand if the grim nature of its previous owner is something of a deterrent, but I assure you it has been thoroughly cleansed.”

The usual man offered a slight chuckle with his words, inspiring the would-be Jack Jameson to return a smile.  He glanced back to the tarnished flask, maintaining his light grin and holding his hand out to receive the curious item.  Once the man in the velvet suit placed it into the waiting palm, Ethan felt the cold metal react with his flesh in a not unpleasant manner.  

He turned it from one side to the other, upside down to further inspect the crest, and back to face him from the side once more.  He unscrewed the lid, holding the open vessel to his nostrils, closing his eyes as he could swear the familiar scent of old rotgut spilled from within.  

Momentarily stunned, he took a second sniff, to find nothing more than fresh oxygen greeting his senses.  He gave a slight chuckle, both at the memory of those first drinks he shared with his father, as well as the silliness of allowing his imagination to get carried away.  

“Yes,” he said, still staring at the article in his hand, “I believe I would like to purchase this.”

“Would you like to know the cost before making a final decision?” the man asked, maintaining his grin, “given its history, I’m afraid it is…”

“The price does not concern me,” Ethan said, interrupting the words of the surely common salesman.  

He had little doubt the strange individual was pulling his leg with his claims of its previous owner, but money had never been a problem for him; not for some time now.  

•

“What the hell happened!?” Lisa Powell asked, having sprinted down the stairs to see what the commotion was, “Oh ma Gawd! Daddy!” 

She ran to her father’s side, kneeling in the fresh pool, still growing wider.  Rubbing his face, while shaking him softly, she begged him to wake up.  Tears flowed down her face as she walked out, gazing at his empty expression.  

“He fell,” Ethan stated softly, finally choosing to answer his sister’s initial question.

“I…I think he’s dead…” Lisa said, hiccuping from her erratic breathing, “we…we gotta call someone…we gotta do something!” 

“Nothing to be done.  It’s too late for him.”

The teenage boy continued his emotionless words while staring down at his sister while she wept on the floor.  The sight of her kneeling in his father’s blood, wearing only a thin tank top and sweat shorts caused Ethans’ pulse to quicken.  The way the red seeped into the fabric of her garments fueled his gooseflesh just as much as the stains upon her tanned skin.  

Though he was well aware of how wrong it was to be glaring at his older sister this way, it didn’t prevent his mouth from watering.  He licked his lips, not breaking his gaze from her heaving back while she wailed on her knees.  The plan began to form before he even realized it.  

He finally cut his eyes from his sister, peeking at his watch, before redirecting his gaze to the gun cabinet, only a few feet from where he stood.  When Lisa finally got to her feet, still breathing heavily, she walked towards the phone, mounted to the wall, next to the kitchen.  That should be all the time he needed.  

Given that it was nearing seven o’clock, he only had a little over an hour before his brother would return.  His shift ended at eight, and the drive home generally only lasted fifteen to twenty minutes.  

Plenty of time to have a little fun, he thought, pulling open the unlocked glass door, and retrieving his father’s replica Colt 45.  

Be sure not to fire the weapon, the more rational portion of his brain added, keep it simple.  Keep it clean.

Clean? He thought, glancing back at the still widening crimson pool, too late for that.  

You know what I mean…

While his trembling sister attempted to dial the simple three-digit number with her shivering fingers, Ethan spun the blueish-black cylinder to ensure each slot held a bullet.  For his plan to work, he had to do as his logical mind suggested, but he hoped he could instill enough fear without pulling the trigger.  

“Hang it up,” he said, aiming the barrel on his sister, who stared back with shock in her eyes.  

“Eth…”

“NOW!” 

She jumped, allowing the phone to slip from her grasp.  At the time, she was unsure if the gun scared her more or the out-of-character raised voice of the one who trained it on her.  Ultimately, she would never secure the answer to this brief debate.  

“Back away from it,” Ethan said, pacing towards where the phone still swung from side to side, bouncing against the floor as the spiral cord expanded and contracted.  

Lisa did as she was asked, her whole body spasming as she stepped back with her hands raised.  

“W-what’re you d-doin’, Ethan?” she asked, struggling to form words, “d-did you do that to daddy?” 

“He started it,” Ethan shrugged, racking the phone back on its perch, “I finished it.”

“W-what’re you gon’ do to m-me?” 

“Nothing.  Well, nothing you haven’t done with plenty of boys already.  I’m certain of that.”

She stared back, fighting against the urge to retch from the implications.  

“Why don’t you go ahead and get undressed, hmmm?” He said, spinning one of the dining table chairs to take a seat.  

“You’re fuckin’ sick!” she barked, spitting with the words.  

“Strip, you filthy whore!” 

As those words slipped his watering lips, he felt his previously still extremities begin to shudder with anticipation.

“NOW!” he belted, cocking the pistol.  

Lisa jumped, certain she would be shot dead any second.  Just the idea of what her brother was planning caused her stomach to churn, but she knew she had little choice in the matter.  As she gripped her trembling fingers around the hem of her flimsy, white shirt, she began to sob even harder than before.  Unfortunately, this only made the boy even more excited than he had been.  

Ethan felt his muscles twitch as she pulled the garment free of her upper half, and even more so when the shorts fell to her ankles.  She stood there, still violently shivering while attempting to hold one hand high and the other low to maintain some semblance of dignity.  

“D-don’t,” Ethan stuttered, “d-don’t you cover-up.  Not yet.” 

He got to his feet, momentarily embarrassed by the way his body was reacting to the sight before him.  The look of sheer hatred and disgust his sister wore, caused his cheeks to flush even more.  

“Don’t look at me!” he barked.  

She did not comply.  

“DON’T FUCKING LOOK AT ME!” 

Her spiteful gaze did not falter.  

Holding the gun outstretched before him, with his arm shuddering, he stomped toward her.  As he drew closer, he noticed his sister’s hands, tightening into fists.  For a second, he considered abandoning the plan and shooting her dead right here and now, but that would ruin everything.  

Having lost his previous urges, he stopped in place, still facing the contemptuous gaze of his older sister.  

“Get dressed.  You disgust me.”

Lisa felt her heart beating so hard against her sternum, that she was certain she could not maintain consciousness much longer.  Her rage was boiling over, as was her fear of what the boy she barely recognized had planned for her, but she did not hesitate in obeying his demands this time.  

By the time she raised back up, pulling her shorts securely back in place, she had no time to react to the knife being plunged into her midsection, once and once again.  In those seconds before her rapid descent into oblivion, she glanced over to the knife rack beside the kitchen sink, now missing the one that pierced her flesh, over and over.  

“Why?” was the last word she was capable of speaking before she felt the agony give way to something almost blissfully light.  

•

When the proud new owner of the silvery and tarnished flask set foot back on the sidewalk outside the odd little antique shop, he had already forgotten about what initially sent him inside.  He had turned down the shopkeeper’s offer to box up his new artifact, choosing to slip it into the pocket inside his coat.  

Though he had a certain fondness for old rotgut, he stopped by one of the numerous local liquor stores to pick up something with a bit more class.  He would still sample the dirt cheap whiskey from time to time, but he favored something smoother.  He saw himself as having a far more refined palette than that of the late Jeremy Powell, so he would generally allow nothing less than twelve-year-old scotch to pass his lips, outside of those times he felt nostalgic.  

When he returned to the Honda he had left in a nearby parking lot, he picked up that old familiar scent again.  He took his place at the driver’s seat, inspecting both of his recent purchases to assure himself neither had leaked, though the flask was yet to be filled.  Regardless of the strange shop owners’ guarantee the flask had been cleansed, he would not feel secure drinking from it until he had fully rinsed it himself.  

Once he was certain the seal was yet to be broken on his bottle of significantly aged scotch, he began the drive to the cabin he was renting on the outskirts of this little town.  The familiar aroma lingered throughout the handful of miles he traversed, at right around the recommended speed limit, but it wasn’t unwelcome.

Being one of such intellect and imagination, Ethan often found himself experiencing surprisingly vivid reactions to his wandering mind.  Given the nature of his childhood, this would be neither the first nor last time he would pick up that old scent, being carried on the wind from unknown origins.  Yes, this time was far more intense than normal for him, but not enough to cause him any distress.  He did have quite the fondness for it, after all.  

During his brief drive to the outskirts of this humble, yet ratty little town, Ethan began to consider that the mysterious shop owner would be his first prey in this new hunting spot.  Whether or not his remarks were indicative of any insight into how Jack Jameson passes his hours away or not, he did seem an arrogant sort.  Perhaps he could relieve him of a few of his interesting belongings after the work was done.  

It’s only fair with how much he charged me for such a simple trinket, he thought.  

You didn’t have to buy it, the more rational side of his brain argued.  

And have him think me a pauper!? I certainly could have bartered with the infuriating man, but that would have left him the victor.  Besides, I’ll get my money back soon enough, with interest.  

Settling in for the night in his temporary living quarters, Ethan began rinsing his both new and ancient flask.  Every time he poured the hot water back into the sink, his memory revisited just about every drop of blood he had spilled to the floor, from one vessel or another.  He offered a smile to the imagery flashing before his mind’s eye, even those of the lone incident of his own fluids soiling the stained and weathered carpet.  

•

Glancing from the spasming corpse of his sister to the clock on the wall, Ethan knew time was running short.  Of course; for everything to go as planned, he would have to be certain the timing was perfect.  Time had flown more rapidly than he had expected, while he enjoyed his previous task so much, leaving him maybe a half hour to have everything in place for his brother’s arrival.  

He would occasionally arrive back home substantially later than expected, having spent time with friends or romantic interests after leaving his job.  Fortunately, his recent break-up should all but guarantee his lack of desire for any such social interactions.  Edward had been moping around the house these past few days, and he had surely been of that same mindset at his place of employment.

Taking one last glance at the knife protruding from his sister’s leaking corpse, Ethan wiped down the revolver and placed it back in the gun cabinet, just where he had found it.  

He’ll see father first, he thought, tracing his eyes from his lifeless old man and up to the door.  

That goes without saying, his rational mind insisted, inspiring him to roll his eyes at his sarcastic thoughts.  

Taking note of where Lisa had knelt in the crimson puddle, leaving a trail leading to her body in the kitchen, he hoped this would not raise any eyebrows.  

It’ll take him a minute to notice that.  He’ll be in shock, seeing dad like that.  He’ll cry, try to resuscitate him perhaps.  Five minutes tops.  Then he’ll follow the trail.  

He paced onwards, attempting to mimic the predicted actions of his older brother.  

This’ll hit him harder than seeing father.  He’ll assume the old man tripped, likely being drunk and unstable.  This one is no accident.  

He stood in the doorway, gazing at the vacant husk of human flesh once more.  

He won’t take as long on this one.  The shock will hit him like a sock to the jaw, but he’ll think someone broke in and killed her.  They may still be in the house.  

He walked back to the cabinet, being sure to avoid stepping in any specs of evidence.  Yes, he had his sister’s blood all over his shirt, but he didn’t have time to dispose of his clothing; not in a manner that wouldn’t be discovered.  If his plan was sound, he hoped this wouldn’t be a problem for him.

Ed prefers a rifle, but he won’t want to risk a longer weapon hitting a wall if he had to act fast.  

He glanced from one rifle to the next in line, and the handful of pistols on the bottom shelf.  

Automatics can jam.  He won’t want to risk it; not if he wants to be sure.  

He smirked at the replica Colt he had returned only moments before.  

Yes.  That’s what he’ll use.  Won’t matter if I didn’t wipe it down well enough with his prints on it.

He walked to the staircase that led to the second floor.  His room was in the very back of the hall at the top.  

Father’s dead, Lisa’s a goner, he’ll want to check on me as well.  He’ll move slowly, keeping his wits about him.  If the killer is still here, he can’t risk getting too hasty.  

He reached his bedroom door after acting out the entire scenario.  Taking one final glance at his watch to see only nine minutes having passed since he began his walkthrough.  This left a little more than a quarter of an hour before he should arrive.  

The scene was set, but he would have to act quickly as soon as he saw the lights of his brother’s truck approaching.  He flipped off the lights, taking one last mental note of any blood spatter he could not risk trudging through.  Surrounded by darkness, he took his place next to the phone, wrapping his fingers around it.  Glancing back at the hilt of the blade still embedded in his sister’s gut, he knew he would have to move quickly.  With the time to act drawing closer by the second, Ethan felt his fingers tingle and shudder with anticipation.  

When the time when Edward would normally arrive came and went, the blood-covered teenage boy began to feel his heart racing.  

What if he’s late!? 

He’s already late, dingus! 

But what if he doesn’t get here soon!? 

Then the evidence will show that he cannot be responsible for this.  

His breathing grew heavier by the second, Ethan felt his previously calm, yet jubilant state becoming something far more harried and manic.  He left his post by the phone, pacing from one side of the room to the other, attempting to prevent himself from having a meltdown.

When a subtle light was cast across the back wall of the otherwise darkened room, he almost stepped right into the puddle which had formed around his sister’s shell in his haste to reach the phone.  

His shuddering fingers battled to dial the simple, three-digit number, but with him having mentally rehearsed it several times while waiting, he got it on the first try.  

“9-1-1 emergency response.  What is your emergency?” 

“H-help m-me…” Ethan whined into the receiver.  

“Sir!? What is your address?”

The lone car driving the otherwise empty street drew closer each moment, inspiring the boy to quicken his performance.  

“43 Denford drive…h-hurry! H-he’s coming for me n-now!” 

With that, he set the phone back on the cradle, snatched the knife from his sister’s gut, and began his sprint to the bedroom at the rear of the second-floor hallway.  He heard the wheels directly outside coming to a halt as soon as he hit the landing.  He made sure to wipe a bloody handprint across the front of his door before he slammed it shut, preparing himself for what had to come next.  

“DAD!?” screamed out from the floor below.  

Here we go, kid.  Can’t back out now.

Ethan pressed the hilt of the knife against the left wall, preparing to push himself upon the blade when a thought occurred to him.  

You’ll spray across the wall, you simple shit! How’s that going to look?

He hadn’t thought about the potential for leaving obvious evidence in plain sight.  

“LISA!? JESUS CHRIST! NO!” 

Fuck! No time left! Why is he moving so quickly? He should be frozen with shock right now!

“ETHAN!? ETHAN, WHERE ARE YOU!?” 

Damnit!

Without giving himself a chance to back out or even put much thought into where he was aiming, Ethan raised the knife out in front of him, instantly plunging the blood-soaked blade into his own gut.  The pain was far more intense than anything he could have imagined, but he knew one cut wouldn’t be enough to sell him as the victim.  

You’ll be fine with just one kidney.

One more swing, right to the side of the last one.  It took every ounce of self-control he had not to scream out against the horrendous agony.  

As he heard footsteps thundering up the stairs, he pulled the blade from his stomach, slicing it quickly across one palm and the other forearm.  Dropping to his knees, he planted the blade one last time into his left shoulder, barely gripping onto consciousness when his door was thrown ajar.  

“NO!” Edward shrieked, running to where his brother swayed back and forth on his knees, “who did this to you, kiddo!”

“Ed?” 

“I’m here, kid.  Just hang in there, okay?” 

Without taking the time to second guess his actions, the eldest of the Powell children yanked the knife from his brother’s shoulder, releasing a thick and sticky spout of blood across his shirt.  

Ethan wrapped his weakened arms around his brother, squeezing as much of the fluids that spurted from his body across him.  He slid down, tracing more blood in his wake, before dropping limply to the floor.  

Having done considerably more damage to himself than planned, before his panic and haste got the better of him, Ethan blacked out as his brother dropped to his knees beside him, still holding the bloodied blade in his trembling hand.  Neither of the boys was fully aware of the flickering blue lights, just outside that splayed open front door, nor was the near-catatonic Edward fully capable of understanding why the cold metal handcuffs were being tightened around his wrists.  

Somewhere in the black, Jeremy Powell’s youngest son was still hopeful that his plan would come to fruition, almost as much as he hoped to grasp onto life.  When he would finally awaken, some two months later, he would find his world far different from how he left it, with his brother behind bars, and his father and sister buried.  

He would resist the smile attempting to breach his lips when the sheriff gave him the horrific news of his brother’s unfathomable crime, but his tears looked genuine enough, to someone not looking for anything else behind them.  

•

Ethan took his time cleaning out his purchase from the curious little antique shop.  He was always thorough when cleansing anything from silverware to his most recent victim.  Grime and germs belong on his cutlery just as much as evidence at a crime scene, after all.  

After no less than ten straight minutes of soapy hot water therapy for his new flask, he spent another five or so, rinsing out the suds.  Once content with his work, Ethan peeled off the seal from his fresh bottle of aged scotch, slipped the cork free, and gently poured some of the contents into their new temporary residence.  

Swiping the cork under his nostrils before sealing the bottle shut, he took one quick swig from his flask.  The sudden cough caught him by surprise as his throat was prepared for something far smoother than what drained into it.  The flavor wasn’t unpleasant, mind you, just unexpected.  

Once his spluttering fit calmed down, Ethan popped the cork to the bottle again, taking a sip directly from the source.  The smooth scotch almost instantly cleansed his pallette of whatever it was that the small flask provided, causing quite the puzzled expression to form on his face.  

Following that sip with another from the flask, there was most certainly a variance.  If he didn’t know better, Ethan would almost think he did indeed drink from that very flask his father stored in his pocket just about every day before he passed.  With the flavor of old rotgut swirling across his tongue, the strange sensation of nostalgia did not cause an unwelcome reaction.  Only an unexpected one.  

Being of logical and sound mind, Ethan chose not to dwell on this unusual occurrence, simply chalking up the confusion to the experience of drinking from such a vessel.  Though he poured some of the fresh scotch into a glass, he continued to indulge in the occasional belt from the weathered flask, in between refills of the stubby glass.  

As his head began to grow light and blissfully loopy, he carried the bottle, glass, and flask out to the front deck of his little cabin, just a ways back from the coastline.  He gazed up to the long-since darkened lighthouse, some miles in the distance, pondering whether or not that could be the prime location for his first kill in this dilapidated little town.  

Perhaps a certain shopkeep would like to visit the old place with you? Bring a little life into the old thing…

…Then snuff it out.

“What the fuck you doin’ all the way out here!?” a voice sneered from behind him.  

Turning to see only the exterior wall of the small cabin, Ethan took an accusatory glance at the half-drained bottle of aged scotch on the table to his left.  

“Hello?” he called, darting his eyes from one side to the other, pressing his palms to the armrests of the simple rocking chair, “Who’s out there?” 

With only the distant sound of the waves brushing the shore replying to his voice, he was certain he was simply hearing things.  

Old rotgut gets the wheels spinning, is all.  

It always did.  Each time he would sample its flavor over the years, it brought a different sort of inebriation than the good stuff.  There was something more vivid about the sensation than the average drunken echoes.  

Regardless of attempting to convince himself the voice was only some bizarre flashback of sorts, he wasn’t about to leave it at that.  After a quick jaunt back inside to pull his Walther from his bag, Ethan returned to the front deck, peering around the side, glaring from left to right once more.  

“You ain’t tryin’ to hide away from somethin’, are ye?” the voice whispered in his ear as he descended the steps from the patio.  

Without taking the time to investigate, he spun to the left; to where the sound came from.  Two shots were fired from the Walther, in search of whoever it was that taunted him.  

Once more, he saw no trace of anyone.  No footprints in the sandy dirt around the little cottage.  No evidence of anything around him, other than the sporadic trees.  Nothing that would have a voice with which to badger him.  

Someone’s fucking with you, his rational mind called out in an attempt to slow how quickening pulse.  

But how? 

Maybe there are speakers set up around the cabin? 

Ethan was quick to investigate the claims of his inner bargaining, practically tearing apart anything not bolted down.  He tipped the chair he had previously been sitting in, shattered the bulb of the lone light above the door, and even flipped over the unassuming welcome mat.  

Once he cleared the exterior of the house, he began on the interior.  Within a little over an hour, after the quaint little cabin looked as though a veritable hurricane passed through it, there was no trace of any manner of something that could have provided the disembodied voice.  

The drink got to you, kid.  Only thing that makes sense.

That wasn’t enough; not for Ethan Powell, the man who had butchered men and women alike across all seven states on his way to this one.  Were he a man with nothing to hide, perhaps he could let this rest, but he was one of many secrets.  

No.  Must investigate further.  

Taking another enthusiastic swing from the flask he did not recall placing in his pocket, he marched back towards the front deck.  With his Walther in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Ethan planned to check the entire surroundings of the small cabin.  He stood in the open doorway, staring out into the night, when,

“I ain’t out there, ya damn dumbass!” a female voice sneered from behind him

Spinning again to see nothing but the wreck he had made of the cozy living room, his anger began to reach its boiling point.  

“FACE ME, YOU CHICKEN SHIT!” 

“Why?”

He spun again.  Still nothing.  

“Gonna gut me like a fish, are ye?” 

With every word seemingly coming from a different direction, Ethan screamed with rage, spinning in place while unleashing a barrage of bullets.  He continued to squeeze the trigger, even after the ammunition was spent.  When the laughter erupted from all around him, so many more voices joined in on the hilarity.  

He shrieked out an anguished wail, which barely registered over the apparent throng of invisible audience members who scoffed at his pain.  

“STOP! FOR GOD’S SAKE STOP!!” he cried out, only inspiring the crowd to jeer more violently.  

Covering his ears did not muffle the mockery in the slightest, nor did his continued wails.  The only chance he could fathom was to escape this place.  His head was swimmy from the alcohol, while his limbs felt like slightly muscled gelatin, but if he lingered any longer, he was sure to lose his sanity.  

As he fled the cabin, climbed into his vehicle, and cranked the engine, Ethan could barely believe his ears when the laughter quietened.  He could still hear it as if the muffled sounds of the crowd of hecklers were indeed trapped behind the door of the cabin, but all that mattered was his escape.  

As he sped away, leaving that horrible cottage in the dust, the jeers faded into the beyond.  Whether the maddening laughter that erupted from his mouth was an indication of some level of insanity kicking in, or simply the sweet relief of silence after such an experience, he did not know, nor did he care at the time.  He was free.  That was his assumption anyway.  

•

While the young Ethan Powell had not truly accounted for whatever would come next for him, with his only remaining family member locked away, the news of his father’s generous life insurance policy allowed some semblance of security.  Yes, he would not be able to touch a cent of it until turning eighteen, but surely the next five years would pass quickly for him.  

Once he was released from the hospital, with many months of physical therapy to look forward to, he would be placed in the foster system for a time.  It wasn’t easy for the boy to resist his urges when bounced from one temporary family to the next; each one solely interested in the cheque they would receive for his care, but he knew he could not give in.  

Derek and Elaine Crawford, parents of twin boys, attempted to make his living arrangements comfortable.  It was clear they didn’t especially want him in their home, but they would at least play the part from time to time.  Daniel and Jake, the twins, did not conceal how they felt about the situation, however.  

It took far more restraint than Ethan had expected to not slice through the throats of the entire family in their sleep.  He even awoke in the wee hours of the morning, one rainy Thursday in October, to slide one of the blades from the rack in preparation.  Fortunately, that more rational voice talked him down from the ledge of his impulses.  

Just a few more years, kiddo.  Then we’re free and clear.  

His more rational mind could make a good point at times, though it would be quite annoying when it made too much sense.  Ethan wanted nothing more than to gut the owners of every home he lived in over those five years after his father’s death, but he held his ground.  When the time would come for him to be able to access his father’s insurance money, however; all bets were off.  

With no responsibilities to bind him in one place or another, the young Mr.  Powell began to see the wonders of the country around him.  For years he lived life on the road, adopting a new town as his home for a time, before heading on to the next one.  

Though he didn’t attend any further schooling after graduating, he continued studying just about any subject that caught his interest.  most of these topics involved just about anything that would assist him in his passion: anatomy, biology, criminal law, and forensics, were only a handful of those he acquainted himself with.  With every lesson, he would adapt his routine to fit.  

He never followed a specific type of victim; nothing with which the authorities could narrow down their search.  He slaughtered a couple of working girls in Miami, as well as the disrespectful individual who sold them for hours at a time.  He made quick work of the girls, after he indulged his other impulses, of course.  

With the flesh peddler, he took his time a little, testing out some new tricks he had picked up along the way.  His bits and pieces were scattered from one side of his ratty apartment to the other by the time Jack Jameson had his fill of blood for the evening.  He could only imagine the reaction of whatever poor bastard was the first on the scene for that one; something that inspired quite the satisfying belly laugh from the cross-country killer.  

After Florida, Ethan skipped over his home state of Georgia, heading straight for Tennessee.  A bartender who took far too long to serve Mr.  Jameson was the first of many across that state.  A few tone deaf karaoke singers were next, a snarky, elderly librarian, and some random, middle-aged man who gave him a look he didn’t care for after that.  He could never predict who or what he would look for in his next victim, but his plans would form quickly when it came to him.  

With several states crossed off his list over the decade that preceded his visit to the little town of Grady, Mr.  Powell thought it best to seek out a more humble venue for his next performance.  While authorities were still baffled by the identity of this madman, he was beginning to feel their breath on the back of his neck, so to speak.  

While there was little in common with each of the fifty-seven people he had laid to rest over the years, he had gotten sloppy a time or two.  A portion of a fingerprint here, an eyelash there, perhaps.  Perhaps it was only his paranoia, given his chosen profession, that fueled his need to get away from the more bustling areas, but even his rational mind agreed this would be for the best.  

He had never even heard of this little seaside hole in the walls of the world until his headlights shone upon the city limits sign.  It may have been little more than the hours on the road that inspired him to pull over to a nearby truck stop to inquire about lodgings in the vicinity.  

After being directed to a realtor in a somewhat larger town some miles away, they spoke of many rental properties they had spanning both the coastline and further back from the little town that caught his eye.  After arranging a small cabin, just a ways back from the ocean, Jack Jameson set his sights on the denizens of this shitty little slice of America.  

Surely a rathole such as this has plenty of people in need of killing.

•

Speeding across that forest-lined back road, Ethan knew he should let up on the pedal a bit, especially in his inebriated state.  As he attempted to release the tension of his lead foot, he found it to be resisting his will.  

Cool it already.  We’re not going back there any time soon.  

As the needle slowly drifted back from the seventy miles per hour he had reached, he let out a trembling sigh.  Reaching into his pocket while settling back into a more comfortable speed, he pulled the flask out to calm his quickened pulse.  With the familiar liquid burning the inner wall of his throat, he felt the trembling of his fingers begin to subside.  

I should’ve grabbed the bottle before I left, he thought, inspiring a light chuckle.  

Had he screwed the lid back on after taking that lone sip, he may have noticed the dark figure on the road sooner.  As it was, he was tipping the flask to his lips once more before he saw it standing in the dead center of the lane he was traversing at the time.  If nothing else, having slowed down substantially made the impact with the tree he veered into after dramatically cutting the wheel far less jarring.  

Peeling himself back from the windshield on which his forehead had collided, Ethan briefly considered that he should have buckled up before speeding away from the cabin.  With his head pounding and blood steadily trickling down from the open wound, it took him a moment to recall what forced him off the road in the first place.  

They’ve found me! he thought, ducking down in the seat he had only just flipped back to.  

There’s no fucking way anyone found you out here! Get your head straight already!

He raised up, glaring through the passenger side window, to see no trace of that shadowed figure from before.  Absent-mindedly, he reached for the flask which had practically flown from his hand as he jerked the steering wheel to the left.  Paying little attention to the fact it was laying open on its side in the seat beside him, he took in yet another mouthful of the liquid within.  

Don’t you think that’s a little strange?

What? The disappearing man on the road?

No, you idiot! The whiskey you keep knocking back! 

It keeps me calm.  Get off my ass about…

But why isn’t it empty yet!? Think about it for two fucking seconds! 

He glared down at the open flask, swirling it around in his hand.  He tipped it to his lips once more; not to take another sip, but to test how long it took the liquid to reach his mouth.  After barely having to raise the thing for the fluid to caress his lips, he cut his eyes to the puddle, splashed across the passenger seat, and back to the open container he held.  

How is it still full? 

Even if you hadn’t spilled it, how long have you been knocking it back? How many times did you even fill it up!?

He continued to stare at his recent purchase, realizing that it could not be as simple as the metal flask causing expensive whiskey to taste more like the cheap shit his father used to drink.  

The shopkeep…

Yup! That son of a bitch drugged us! 

But I cleaned it! How the hell…

It doesn’t matter how he did it! It only matters that he pays for it!

He turned the key, instantly causing the engine to rumble.  The front end took a decent hit, but the engine wasn’t shot just yet.  As he pulled the seatbelt across his body, preparing to get back on the road and make his way to the nearest pawn shop, he took one last swing from the flask.  

Stop that! For fucks sake, man! 

He tossed it back to the passenger seat, pulling the shifter into reverse and peeling the hood away from the thick tree.  

“Don’t run off on me now, boy…” the voice sneered from behind him.  

Ethan ignored what he assumed to be inspired by whatever hallucinogens were hidden away in the flask, turning back to the road, pressing his foot to the pedal harder than he had before.  

“Where the fuck are you going, ya damn psycho!?” 

He cracked the window to allow fresh oxygen to circulate him.  Not only did he hope to clear his senses of whatever drug was coursing through his system, but his head still thumped as though the wide trunk of a tree were beating against it every second or two.  

“You think you can escape me, boy? You think I’m all you got to worry ’bout?” 

“You’re not real,” Ethan stated to the voice that grew more familiar with every word, “I don’t believe in ghosts…”

“Don’t matter,” the light and almost joyful female voice spoke from his right, “we believe in you…”

When two more shadowed figures appeared before him, he pushed the pedal harder, tearing right through the pair.  They burst into a cloud of dark smoke which spiraled and spun around him, even as he pushed far past the speed limit.  He would not be distracted from his mission.  Nobody could talk Jack Jameson down when he had killing in mind, not even the false shadows of the long-since dead.  

Even when the smoke shot through the open window, encompassing the entire cabin of the car within seconds, Ethan would not take his eyes off the road.  As the thick fog separated in two; one drifting to the back and the other to his right, the driver refused to pay any attention to the silhouette riding shotgun, nor the one in the back seat.  

“You got this all wrong, kid,” the one beside him said.  

“That’s right, ya damn dumbass.  We ain’t in your head,” the other stated, before both began that hysterical laughter again.  

With the sporadic lights of the town ahead of him, he continued fighting to ignore the wailing hallucinations.  Being certain the drugs would run their course soon enough, he refused to even entertain the idea that they could be anything more than false shadows.  That was until a sharp and near blinding pain erupted from the side of his face.  

It’s not real! It can’t be real! You’re almost there! Don’t let up now!

While the blood rained across his shoulder from the split tissue of his cheek, he began to scream out as he had back at the cabin.  This only caused the shadows to wail even louder, causing his ears to ring from the sheer volume of their maddening howl.  

The tires bounced across the curb, almost sending the side of the car careening into the boarded windows of the old pharmacy at the end of the main strip.  When another sharp pain screamed from his right hand, his jaw dropped at the sight of the crimson spray where his knuckles used to lead to four fingers.  

“Aw shit,” the female voice whined, “someone’s got a boo-boo!” 

Ethan tumbled from the driver’s seat after throwing open the door, with that howling laughter echoing from all around him.  He whipped his belt off, wrapping it around his wrist to slow the blood spewing from the four gushing nubs.  He almost planted his face on the sidewalk as he fought to flee from the buckled and beaten sedan.  

As he began to stagger across the sidewalk, his head loopy from the combination of old rotgut and blood loss, he felt his body violently collide with a storefront window.  Ethan screamed out against the pain of his torn cheek making contact with the glass, sending him back to the concrete below his feet.  

“Damnit, boy! You can’t handle yer liquor fer shit!” the voice jeered from behind as he pushed back from the ground, wincing as he pressed his oozing stumps against it.  

“What, you ain’t never had a drink before?” the other sneered in between her wailing laughter.  

Ethan crawled across the ground before stumbling back to his feet, still attempting to charge across the sidewalk in search of the strange little antique shop.  

Maybe he has an antidote…maybe I’ll let him live if he gives it to me…

“You really think you been drugged, boy?” 

Another blinding pain; this time from his right knee, sent him back to the concrete.  Ethan shrieked with anguished horror when he looked down to see his leg flipped backward at its middle.  Jagged bones pierced through the flesh, spilling another flood of crimson across the sidewalk.  

Keep going!

Ethan still fought through the agony, pulling himself across the ground with his fully fingered right hand, while pushing with the foot that still had feeling.  

“You’re fuckin’ pathetic,” the voice of his father said, as Ethan felt a tight grip around his right upper arm.  

“DON’T TOUCH ME!” 

“Yeah…you disgust me,” Lisa sneered, wrapping her shadowy tendrils around his left.  

Ethan screamed out in horror as the two gently lifted him from the pavement, planting him back on his feet.  He continued to squeal, even after lifting both hands to his field of vision, seeing eight fingers and two thumbs, with not a speck of blood in sight.  Standing there, shivering from head to toe, gazing slack-jawed at the emaciated and decayed faces of his father and sister, Ethan felt little more than a child in their presence.  

They simply stared back at him, allowing him to take in each of the deep and grizzled wounds he had carved into his sister.  

“I…I’m sorry…I’m so fucking sorry for what I did to you! Both of you!”

Both gave him a warm smile at these words; something he could never have expected.  

Perhaps the shopkeep had pure motivations, after all, he thought, allowing his lips to form a gentle smile in return.

No more…no more death…time to…

His thoughts were cut short when the corpses before him snatched him up by the arms once more, spinning him in place to look upon what approached from behind.  The large, muscled man who charged right at him, wore a far more weathered and time-worn face than he remembered.  

Under different circumstances, Ethan Powell would never be caught off guard.  He was careful, almost to a fault.  He was meticulous in his preparation for things both expected and unexpected.  For every angle that stood between him and his goals, he would have a plan in place.  When it came to escaping whatever horror he left scattered in one back alley or hotel room across the country, he figured out no less than ten options for escape.  

In those brief moments, before his consciousness fell into the black, Ethan could not deny that even at his best, he couldn’t have seen this coming.  When Edward had been released from prison, or how he was able to track him to this particular hole in the world, he still could not fathom, but as the long, serrated blade pierced upwards, entering just below his sternum, he was almost proud of his older brother.  

The old, beat-up red truck was parked only a few yards away; something he would have surely noticed had he been of sound mind at the time.  As he gazed into the sheer hatred behind the eyes that almost mirrored his own, he felt the blade slip free, before cutting into him over, and over again.  

Edward did not look at the mortal wounds he was inflicting, as Ethan often would.  He loved to watch his hands at work, as well as the thick fluids that poured from within his victims.  His older brother clearly did not share his passion.  His gaze did not falter until there was no life left behind the eyes of the youngest son of Jeremy Powell.  

Edward was still heaving with heavy breath, gazing down at the twitching corpse of his youngest sibling.  When a subtle light began to stream across the blood soaked sidewalk, his heart skipped several beats, fearing that he would be dragged back to the cell he had only recently been freed from.  

His head was still in a daze as he approached the door of the small shop which had previously been closed up for the night.  The bell above the door as he pushed through it, once more caused him a moment of pause, before his eyes met those of a tall and slender man, with a curled mustache and neatly parted, dark hair.  

As he approached the counter, his gaze drifted from the man in the classy dark vest and rolled up, white sleeves, to the object perched on the countertop.  

“I believe this belongs to you,” the man said, sliding the tarnished, silver flask across the glass surface.  

“How much? I don’t got much money.” Edward asked, uncertain of why this was the only question that struck him at the time.  

“I’m a collector of stories, my friend,” the shopkeep said, his lips forming a crooked, but innocent smile, “how about a trade?” 

As the only living child of Jeremy Powell walked back out into the chilly night, he was only vaguely aware of the vacant sidewalk.  He strolled back to the truck he had left parked on the side of the road, choosing not to register the absence of the younger brother he had laid to rest only moments before entering the curious little shop.  

The headlights illuminated the dry and unblemished pavement, his fingers absentmindedly twisting the cap from the small, silver flask.  He would not take a sip until he returned to his hotel room, a few towns over only breathed in the euphoric scent that only Old Rotgut could provide.  

As he pulled back onto the road, set to drive off into the night, leaving behind the burdens he had carried these many years, he glanced at the older man riding shotgun, and the young woman in the back seat.  He screwed the cap back on the small flask, tucked it in his pocket, and allowed a smile to cross his lips.  

After the door to the little pawn shop was locked up for the last time–the last time in this pleasant, if somewhat downtrodden town, its owner made certain to fully cleanse his new artifact.  As the final droplets of the late Mr.  Jack Jameson’s blood was rinsed away, the slender, and well dressed man admired the craftsmanship of the old hunting knife.  

Once he was secure in the fact that not a single blemish remained, he paced between the aisles, approaching his simple, wooden cabinet.  Pulling open its doors, and resting the blade upon the red, velvet cushion he had hand picked for this very object, he took a single step backwards, to appreciate how nicely the red complimented the silver.

“I cannot wait to meet your new owner,” he said, a mischievous smirk lifting the left curl of his mustache.  

As he lifted his arms to close the doors back shut, a quick wink reflected in the polished metal of the hardened steel.  

“Farewell, Ethan Powell…and good luck, in whatever awaits you next…”

NOTE:  I am a friend of Andrew Talbot, the man that sent me this recording.

I recently received an email from Andrew that contained a recording of his podcast that, to my knowledge, never aired.  There was no explanation as to why he had sent it to me.  There was just a request that I distribute it.  When I tried to call him to find out what was happening, I was unable to get through.  The call didn’t go to voicemail; it just beeped twice and hung up each time that I tried.  Over the last few days I’ve called multiple times and have gone over to his house twice, but I haven’t been able to reach him.

Whenever I would try to upload the podcast to a website as he requested, there would always be an error message.  No matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to properly upload.  Because of this, I wrote a transcript of the recording so that I could instead distribute that.  This is the first time that I’ve ever done anything like this, so I’m sure that there are some errors in formatting.

Andrew, if you’re reading this, please let me know that you’re alright.

—–

ANDREW TALBOT

On April 18, 2022, Carolyn Blake committed suicide.

Her body was found when her downstairs neighbor reported water leaking through the ceiling.  Thinking that there was a burst pipe, the landlord had knocked at Carolyn’s door for nearly twenty minutes to try to gain access to her apartment.  It was easier to go in through her floor rather than through the complaining tenant’s ceiling.  She didn’t answer, and after checking with his lawyer that this qualified as an emergency allowing him to enter without permission, he unlocked the door using his master key and went in to perform the repair.

The landlord discovered her body in the bathroom.  She was lying fully clothed in the bathtub.  The water had been left running, and it poured over the side of the tub like a waterfall as it drained into the floor vent and soaked into the floor and wood trim.

I didn’t know Carolyn.  It’s a small town, so I may have passed her in a store or bumped into her in a restaurant, but I don’t remember if something like that did happen.

I’d like to say that her death had an effect on the community.  Maybe people holding a memorial, or even asking the town council to improve the way mental health programs were handled to help prevent this sort of thing from happening again.  That’s what I’d like to say.  What actually happened was, well, nothing.  Carolyn’s death was just a blip on the radar that the vast majority of people didn’t even register.

One of the exceptions to this was Ray Carsten.  I had known Ray since first grade, and while we had never been particularly close, we had always been on friendly terms.  When he called me three days after Carolyn’s suicide, I quickly agreed to meet him at the same Denny’s that a large group of us had gone to after every home baseball game in high school.

---

[AUDIBLE CLICK, FOLLOWED BY A SHORT HIGH-PITCHED BEEP]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

Fuck.  I think…

[Short pause]

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

Okay, maybe not.  It might have just been…

[Short pause]

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

Ray told me that he had known Carolyn for a few years.  They worked in the same office, and they had grown particularly close while working on a project that had been assigned to them.  One thing led to another, and they began a relationship.

The problem was that Ray was married.  Happily married, as he put it.  I have my doubts about that since in my experience happily married people don’t tend to have long term affairs, but that’s what he told me.

Because of this, he was worried that she might have left something behind that could expose their affair and get back to his wife.  At some point she had introduced him to her mother, and he had convinced the elderly woman to let him help with going through Carolyn’s things and getting the necessary arrangements made.  This had allowed him to rummage through her late lover’s possessions with impunity.  Her mother had been grateful for the assistance and had thanked him profusely for it, if you can believe it.

Ray had managed to check everything except for Carolyn’s cellphone.  It was password protected, so he wasn’t able to find out what was on it.  That’s why he came to me.

---

[SHORT BURST OF STATIC THAT CUTS OFF THE BEGINNING OF THE NEXT SENTENCE]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

…arted this podcast about electronics and technology, I never thought that it would lead to old acquaintances asking me to go through dead people’s phones.  That’s what Ray wanted me to do, though.  He didn’t just need me to unlock the phone.  That would only have gotten him so far.  Carolyn had frequented multiple social media platforms, and she used dozens of different apps that he knew of.  What he needed was for me to go through everything and make sure that all mentions of the affair were removed.

At first I refused.  I was polite about it, but just the thought of doing what he was asking disgusted me.  He kept pressing.  He told me that he had already wanted to end the affair and had planned to do so, but she took her own life before he was able to.  He said that if the relationship was exposed it would hurt not just his wife, but also their two children and they didn’t deserve to have that happen to them.  I eventually relented and agreed to do what he asked, under the condition that he give me the phone and not be present while I worked.

I had already started to rationalize things in my head.  We’re all exceedingly good at doing that when we know what we’re doing isn’t right, aren’t we?  I convinced myself that since Ray wouldn’t be seeing anything, I would be protecting Carolyn’s privacy as much as possible.  That’s a load of bullshit, obviously.  I would have actually been protecting it if I hadn’t agreed to break into her cellphone in the first place.

[Pause]

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

I don’t know if I’m about to confess to a crime here.  Is it a crime to break into a dead person’s phone?  Whether it is or not, I’m not going to pretend that it wasn’t wrong.  It absolutely was.  It’s just…  It’s just not what’s important right now.

[Pause]

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

It wasn’t hard to unlock the cellphone.  All I needed was to hook it up to a computer and use a program that’s free and easy to find if you know where to look.  Most people would be surprised at how unsecure their supposedly secure phones are.  That goes for most pieces of technology in this day and age, but you’re not here to listen to a lecture on proper tech security and I’m not here to give one.

I wasn’t sure where to start looking, so I opened the calendar and began to check appointments and reminders.  I didn’t find anything that had to do with Ray.  I moved onto the Notes app and once again came up empty.  It wasn’t until I started digging through her email that I found something of interest.

I probably should have realized that something was off when the inbox was completely empty.  Carolyn had been dead for three days.  Anyone that uses their email for everyday use can tell you that at least one or two spam emails will get past your filter and wind up in your inbox over a three day period.  At the time I didn’t think of that.  I was so preoccupied with hurrying up with what I had agreed to do that my critical thinking skills didn’t have time to catch up.

When I checked the trash folder, I found hundreds, if not thousands, of automated notifications that had been deleted.  They were from all corners of social media and content sites: YouTube, Facebook, Twitter, Tik Tok, and many, many more.  Every notification was marked as having been read.  I did a bit more digging, and I found that they had all been sent within the span of a week.  I picked one at random and opened it.

The notification was for a new comment on a video that Carolyn had posted, and it wasn’t flattering to say the least.  The poster, screen name YrlGrl, had gone on a rant about how bad the video was and that they were going to be unsubscribing from the channel because of continued poor content.  That’s greatly cleaning up the language that was used.  The entire post was phrased in such a way that it read like a personal attack.

There was a link to the video in question.  I tapped on it and watched the first minute or so of the video.  It was a makeup tutorial that Carolyn had posted.  It wasn’t something that I was interested in, but judging by the number of views it had and how many followers she had, it was definitely something that many others enjoyed.

Now that I had some context, I scrolled down to the comments to locate the post by YrlGrl to see if other people had replied to it.  I found the post, but it wasn’t anything like the notification had said.  It was instead a glowing review that went out of its way to praise Carolyn and the content that she provided.  That was odd, obviously, but I figured that there had been two posts and the negative one had been deleted.

I began to doubt that theory as I went through more of the notifications.  All of them were bad, with many of them bordering on hateful.  When I would check the platform they were supposedly hosted on, though, I would always find a positive post.  Something very odd was going on.

I came to an email that was a response to a complaint that Carolyn had filed with a site administrator about a particularly disgusting comment.  The administrator had sent back a response saying that they hadn’t found any evidence of harassment, and that they had checked to make sure the comment in question hadn’t been deleted or edited.  They didn’t come right out and say it, but it was strongly implied that they believed she was making the entire thing up.

She had attached two items to her original email.  The first was a copy of the original notification that she had received.  The second was a screenshot that she had taken of the comment.  The image included a number of other comments as well, all of which were negative.  When I tracked down those comments, however, none of them contained the same message.

---

[LONG BURST OF STATIC.  THERE IS A LOW HUM ACCOMPANYING THE NOISE.  THE SOUND MAKES ANDREW TALBOT’S SPEAKING IMPOSSIBLE TO HEAR UNTIL IT ENDS]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

…wrote on Facebook about how she was feeling down after the onslaught of negative comments.  Her mother and a number of friends replied to the post, and all of them basically told her that she had become both a whiner and a disappointment in some extremely colorful language.  The messages were long and intense, and I felt myself growing more and more sympathetic towards Carolyn.  Nobody deserved the amount of abuse that she was receiving, especially from the people that she was closest to.

I took a break for about an hour.  At some point during the process, I had begun to care less about helping Ray weasel out of his affair being discovered and more about figuring out just what had caused this avalanche of hatred towards Carolyn.  None of the pieces, especially the comments seeming to magically change between negative and positive, seemed to fit into a coherent image.

---

[SHORT BURST OF STATIC.  THE HUMMING IS SLIGHTLY LOUDER THAN PREVIOUSLY]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

…sten to it, but I figured that I’d already come this far.  I clicked on the voicemail and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t.

What followed was a nearly five minute long message from Carolyn’s mother berating her daughter.  It tore into every aspect of her life; there didn’t seem to be any line that the woman wouldn’t cross.  At one particularly horrible point, she stated very matter-of-factly that the only reason that Carolyn had been born in the first place was because she hadn’t been able to afford to terminate the pregnancy after becoming pregnant from a man other than Carolyn’s father.  I only managed to get through half of it before I stopped the playback.  I couldn’t stomach any more than that.

The second voicemail was from Ray.  She had received it less than an hour after getting her mother’s voicemail.  If the first message had sickened me, this one made my blood boil.  In a very condescending tone, he proceeded to talk about every flaw he saw in her in great detail.  He tore into everything from her intelligence to her looks to even her lovemaking skills.  It was brutal to listen to.  It was almost a relief when he finally declared that their relationship was over and hung up the phone.

I was reaching for my own phone even before the recording had ended.  Friendship be damned, I wasn’t going to help someone that could be that cruel to another human being.  The number was entered and my thumb was over Call when a thought made me pause.

Ray had told me that he had been getting ready to break off his relationship with Carolyn when she had committed suicide.  According to the voicemail he had left, though, he had already done so.  Why had he lied to me about that?  There didn’t seem to be any point to it.  Had he been feeling guilty about his message having possibly contributed to her taking her own life?

I thought back to the mysteriously changing online messages.

I was starting to think that maybe-

---

[LONG PULSING SOUND, LIKE THE FLOW OF ELECTRICITY.  THERE ARE QUIET WHISPER-LIKE NOISES IN THE BACKGROUND]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

I found that Carolyn had downloaded an audio file the day before her death.  A woman’s voice, quiet and level, played from the phone’s speaker when I tapped on the file.  It took me a few seconds to realize that I was listening to an autonomous sensory meridian response recording, also known as the much less taxing to say ASMR.  For those that don’t know what that is, it’s basically voices and sounds that are recorded in such a way as to elicit a physical response from people.  You know that odd tingling sensation that you get sometimes in your head?  ASMR recordings are supposed to trigger that.

A lot of people, a lot more than you probably think, use ASMR videos on YouTube or audio recordings to relax and even fall asleep.  They don’t work for everyone, but many people swear by them and use them as part of their everyday routine.  After the stress that all of the sudden negativity in her life must have caused her, it was no wonder that Carolyn had looked for something to help relieve it.

Rather than try to explain the recording on her phone, I’d like to play a portion of it.  A quick warning: there’s some questionable content in it, so if that sort of thing bothers you, I’d recommend skipping ahead until you’re past it.  If I’m able to get this posted I’ll try to leave markers on the timeline so you’ll know when it’s over.

Here it is.  I’m not going to reveal the name of the person who made it or the source it was downloaded from, for reasons that will be extremely obvious in just a bit.

---

[RECORDED CONTENT BEGINS PLAYING.  IT IS A WOMAN’S VOICE, BARELY ABOVE A WHISPER]

---

WOMAN’S VOICE

Sometimes it’s best to take a step back, take a deep breath, and try to let go of all that stress that you’re feeling.  I know that life can be hard sometimes, and we all have our personal crosses to bear.  It can feel like you’re being overwhelmed, like you’re being smothered.  It’s important to remember that there are always other people that you can turn to when you need comfort and reassurance.

---

[WHISPERS, BARELY AUDIBLE, BEGIN IN THE BACKGROUND]

---

WOMAN’S VOICE (cont.)

Sometimes we need to ask ourselves what we would do if we didn’t have those incredibly important people in our lives.  Imagine how lonely that would be.  If everyone in your life had turned against you, what would you do?

I think that if everyone was turning against me, I’d need to take a good hard look at myself.  All of those people couldn’t be wrong.  What did they know that I didn’t?  What was so wrong with me that it invited such disdain and hatred?  There would have to be something for everyone to act that way.  

How about you?  Have you ever experienced all of your friends and family turning their backs on you?  If so, did you look deep inside yourself and figure out why you’re so repellent to others?

I think that if it was me, I would have to decide if the people I cared about were better off without me in their world.  After all, is my one life more important than the happiness of all those other people?  No, of course not.  I love my family and friends.  I want them to be happy, much more than I want myself to be.  If my being gone was what would make them happy, then wouldn’t it be better for everyone if I was just-

---

[FINAL WORD IS LOUDER AND DISTORTED]

---

WOMAN’S VOICE (cont.)

–DEAD?

[RECORDING ENDS]

ANDREW TALBOT

There’s more, a lot more, but I’m sure that you get the idea.  I’m also sure that you know where this is leading.  I tracked down the site that Carolyn had downloaded the ASMR recording from, and when I played it there it was nothing like the version she had downloaded.  It was instead focused on something called Reiki, which I’m not familiar with but was clearly not something sinister.

[Pause]

In the Downloads folder I also found a copy of a recent bank statement from her online account.  It showed that the account had contained a decent savings until a week before Carolyn’s death.  At that point it had gone to zero.  The change in balance was listed as a teller withdrawal.  It was a lot of money to have been taken out in a single transaction.

Because of everything that I had come across so far, I was immediately suspicious.  I went through the phone’s call history for the date she had downloaded the document and discovered that she had made a call to the customer service number at the bottom of the statement.  The call had lasted over an hour.  It seemed to me that Carolyn hadn’t been the person that emptied her account, and when she had checked her account and seen that it was empty, she had called the bank to get it corrected.

In her final days Carolyn had been under assault mentally, emotionally, and financially.  It must have been hell.

This assault had obviously been engineered.  I just couldn’t see how that would have been possible.  Online posts on major social media platforms that appeared one way to someone but completely different to everyone else?  Audio recordings that were magically different for one download?  And the bank withdrawal had been a teller withdrawal, meaning that someone had gone into a physical bank location and taken the money out of the account.  How could that have happened?  That wasn’t even getting into the voicemails.

As someone who has to regularly do a lot of research in the tech industry, I knew that the message and recording changes should have been impossible.  It would technically have been possible to target a single system like that, in this case a cellphone, but to do it in real time?  That’s where it crossed into the realm of fantasy.  Even if there was a way to do it, it would have required a lot of manpower.  A huge conspiracy against a single small town government employee didn’t make any sense.

---

[A COMBINATION OF DISTORTED STATIC AND LOUDER WHISPERS THAN PREVIOUSLY.  THE WHISPERS ARE IN AN UNRECOGNIZABLE LANGUAGE]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

One by one I went through all the apps on Carolyn’s phone.  I had completely abandoned the original plan of getting rid of references to her affair with Ray.  Instead, I was now solely searching for other signs that her life and wellbeing had been tampered with.

There were a number of things that I found that I would have dismissed as unimportant if I hadn’t specifically been looking for oddities.  For example, her latest Instagram posts had significantly less interactions than previous ones had, to the point that there might as well have been nothing at all.  The same went for her Tik Tok account.

Most concerning was that I started to see a pattern emerging on non-social media apps as well.  All of her content suggestions on Netflix and HBO Max were depressing stories or contained characters that commited suicide.  I tried clicking on a few of Carolyn’s previously watched movies and shows that weren’t these suggestions, but each time an error message would pop up saying that the content wasn’t currently available and to try again later.  The suggested shows, however, would instantly start to play.

---

[MORE DISTORTED STATIC AND LOUDER WHISPERS.  THIS TIME THE WHISPERS ARE IN ENGLISH, AND REPEAT THE WORDS “ONE WAY” OVER AND OVER AGAIN]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

I finally ran out of apps to check with the exception of one.  I had been purposely avoiding it.  During the hours that I had been going through Carolyn’s phone, I had been invading her privacy.  As I’ve said already, it wasn’t right and it’s not something that I’m proud of having done.  The last app would take that invasion of privacy one step further, though.  It was the feed and recordings from her home security cameras.

I forced myself to click on the app.  There was no doubt in my mind that Carolyn had been targeted and pushed over and over again until she had finally taken her own life.  I needed to collect every bit of evidence that I could and turn it all over to the police.  I’d probably get in trouble for what I had done, but it was worth it to have the authorities look into whoever had done this to her.

There were only three camera footage recordings listed on the app.  Each one had a time and date stamp, and all of them were listed as having been captured when a motion sensor was triggered.  All of them were within a few days of Carolyn’s suicide.  Taking a deep breath, I started the first recording.

It showed a woman in her mid to late thirties walking towards the camera.  The shot was at an odd angle, and it took me a couple of seconds to realize I was watching footage from a doorbell camera.  I recognized the woman as Carolyn from her social media pictures.  She stopped a few feet from the camera and dug around in her pocket before producing a set of keys.  As she did so, her face tilted at an angle that allowed me to see the dark circles under her eyes.  She looked exhausted.

She found the key that she was looking for and inserted it into the lock.  When she went to turn it, however, she struggled to do so.  She fought with the lock for a moment before stepping back and looking at the key she was holding.  It was now broken.  She stared at it blankly before her face screwed up in anger and she threw it to the ground.  She leaned forward and placed her head against the door.  It was hard to tell from the angle, but I thought that she was crying.

I felt horrible for her.  She was being put through so much, and it was clearly wearing her down.  I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to go through something like that.

The second recording was completely black, and it was impossible to see anything on it.  I assumed that there was some sort of error, but there was still audio.  Either the camera hadn’t properly recorded or it was just too dark for the camera to illuminate.  I could hear a series of odd whispers that were too faint to make out words.  There was also a humming noise that I couldn’t identify.

[Pause]

If you’re still with me to this point, I’m hoping that means that you understand that this isn’t some sort of elaborate joke or prank.  I…  I get how this all sounds.  It’s about to sound a lot worse.  If you already think that I’m crazy, you’re about to hear something that’s going to set that in stone in your mind.  If you don’t think that, you probably will soon.

---

[MORE DISTORTED STATIC.  IT IS LOUDER THIS TIME.  A HIGH-PITCHED MECHANICAL VOICE SAYS THE WORDS “END ALL”]

---

The third and final recording was from a camera in a hallway.  It was angled so that it was pointing through an open doorway.  This was Carolyn’s bedroom.  The bed could be seen on the right side of the opening, and to the left was a small table or desk with an open laptop on it.  The image was that odd black and white that you get when a security camera is in night vision mode.  According to the time stamp, the recording was taking place at 2:54am the morning of Carolyn’s suicide.

---

[A LONG MOMENT OF HEAVY BREATHING WITH NOTHING ELSE IN THE BACKGROUND]

---

The… thing came into view from the left side of the bedroom.  It leaned down from the top portion, and at first I thought that it was extremely tall.  That wasn’t the case, though.

I’m going to try to describe it.  I’m sorry if I don’t make a lot of sense while I’m doing so.  Every time I’ve tried to do so it feels like the limits of the English language make it impossible to do so properly.

It was being lowered by thin sinuous tendrils.  The creature itself was…  Fuck, how do I put this.  It was only a few inches wide, but was the height of a person.  It was like the head and body were just a mask and covering being manipulated by the tendrils rather than an actual figure.  Three arm-like appendages reached out towards the bed, each ending in thin delicate strands that acted as fingers.

Because of the circumstances of the recording, with it being so dark and the low resolution of the camera’s night vision, it was difficult to make out any further details.  I was thankful for that.

The creature slowly pulled the blanket off of the bed.  It released its grip and allowed the cloth to fall to the floor.  One of the appendages slowly stretched out through the open door and into the hallway.  The fingers touched a thermostat attached to one of the walls and turned the dial all the way to the left.  The appendage retracted, and the creature pulled back up out of sight.

Minutes passed as the recording continued.  I started to wonder if anything else was going to happen when a pair of legs swung out over the side of the bed.  Carolyn got out of bed, her arms folded tightly over her chest as she visibly shivered.  She went out into the hallway and checked the thermostat.  Turning it back to where it was before the creature had adjusted it, she put a hand on the wall and leaned against it for a moment.  She looked like she was about to collapse from exhaustion.  She gathered herself and went back into the bedroom, picking up the blanket before getting back into bed.

The recording ended.

---

[EXTREMELY LOUD AND QUICK BURST OF STATIC]

---

I watched it back…  I don’t know how many times it was.  I just kept replaying it over and over again.  No matter how many times I watched it, I just couldn’t force myself to accept it.  Not really.

I’m trying to figure out how to put this in a way that really explains how I was feeling.  It was like being in a car accident.  When it happens, you know intellectually that you were just in a collision.  The evidence is right there in front of you: the twisted metal, the broken glass, the smell of smoke.  Even when you’re staring right at the wreckage, though, there’s this weird disconnect that doesn’t allow you to grasp what’s just happened to you.

That was what I was experiencing while I watched the security camera footage on loop.

I’m not sure what viewing I was on when I began to question why it was even happening at all.  Why was this creature pulling off a blanket and adjusting a thermostat?  It seemed juvenile, something on the same level as a college prank.

I probably should have put it together faster than I did, but my mind was still reeling.  It wasn’t the actions themselves that were important.  It was the result.  The creature was depriving Carolyn of sleep.  That was the last component it needed to push her past her breaking point.

The creature had made sure that all roads led to her taking her own life.

---

[A SERIES OF TICKING NOISES, LIKE THE SOUND OF A CLOCK TICKING BUT SLIGHTLY DISTORTED]

---

ANDREW TALBOT (cont.)

I haven’t taken any of this to the police.  That was my original intention, and I would if I thought that it would do any good.  The problem is that none of this can be corroborated.  I have, what, some screenshots that the sites themselves said weren’t accurate and a couple of grainy videos?  From their perspective I would just be the nutjob podcast host that’s using a tragic event to drum up interest in his show.

This is where Carolyn Blake’s story comes to an end.  It’s unfortunately not where the story as a whole does.

Twenty-four hours ago, I found out that Ray Carsten committed suicide.  A single gunshot wound in the right temple.  The moment before the trigger was pulled he was there, and the moment after he wasn’t.

I called his wife to offer my condolences.  We got to talking, and I don’t know if it was the grief or some need to get it off her chest or what, but she told me that the day before he died a woman had shown up on their doorstep while Ray was at work.  The woman had presented her with a stack of pictures and email records showing in great detail that Ray had been having an affair.  That same woman had then identified herself as Carolyn Blake.

It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.  The creature from the security footage had gone after Ray, and it had once again been successful.

This morning, I woke up to a text on my phone alerting me that my checking account was overdrawn.  Thousands of dollars were just… gone.  I also received notice that my podcast is currently suspended while it is being investigated for violating the terms and conditions of the hosting site.

It’s my turn to be targeted.  I’m hoping that because I actually know what’s happening, I will be able to get through what’s about to come my way.  That’s what I hope.

There’s no way of knowing what plan the Suicide Engineer has for me.

---

[STATIC WITH THE SAME TICKING NOISE AS BEFORE.  THE NOISE GOES ON FOR SOME TIME BEFORE THE RECORDING ENDS]

---

I should be asleep, but I’m not.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t sleep much these days.  I’m constantly tired to the point of passing out at random intervals throughout the day, but when it comes to actual deep sleep at night, I rarely have that luxury.  I lay down in bed, get comfortable, and then… nothing happens.  I simply stare up at the ceiling wondering if sleep will ever come.  When it inevitably does, it’s always only a couple of hours at most before I need to be up.

So that’s what I’m doing as the light appears: just staring up at the ceiling wondering when my body will let me rest tonight.

I turn my head towards the window.  I have heavy blackout curtains, but there’s an odd white glow managing to seep into the dark room from around the edges.  With a sigh, I get out of bed to see what’s going on.  It’s probably just some asshole’s car headlights pointed at my house.

I open the curtains and immediately shield my eyes.  The light is brighter than I thought it would be.  It’s also not coming from the ground level like I had assumed.  It’s coming from up in the sky.  A helicopter searchlight, maybe?

Curious, I quickly put on some jeans and a sweatshirt before heading downstairs.  I slip on my shoes before opening the front door and going outside.  If I’m not going to be able to sleep, I might as well find out what’s going on.

I look up into the night sky and freeze.  The light definitely isn’t from a searchlight.  It’s huge.  It fills the sky from end to end; it looks like it covers at least the entire town, if not more.  The white light is so bright that it’s almost like it’s daytime, but the color makes everything it touches look pale and washed out.  The shadows in the spaces it doesn’t reach also seem much darker because of the contrast.

I have no idea what I’m looking at.  There’s no sound coming from it, just the cold white light.  There is, however, an odd…  The best word I can use to describe it is ‘pressure’.  I can feel whatever is up there that’s generating the light.  It’s like it’s pressing down on me just enough that I can feel it.

I tear my eyes from it and look around the neighborhood.  Apparently I’m the only one that came outside to investigate.  That seems strangely implausible.  Sure, it’s the middle of the night, but at least a few other people had to have noticed whatever the hell this is.  

There’s no one, though.  Everything is also eerily quiet.  It takes me a few moments to realize that the power in the neighborhood is out.  The streetlights are dark, and there isn’t any light coming from any of the houses.  I look over my shoulder and see that my own porch light, which I turn on every evening, is out.  It’s like everyone shut things down and abandoned the street without letting me know what was happening.

No, it’s more than that.  The air is completely still.  There’s no breeze blowing through the leaves or bushes.

I’m trying to wrap my head around what’s happening when I hear a shrill shout.  It cuts through the silence and echoes off of the nearby houses.  It’s the sound of a baby crying.

I turn towards the noise and see a small shape in the middle of the road.  My eyes go wide, and I hurry over to it.  There’s no way that someone would-

My suspicion is proven true.  Wrapped in a front-facing baby carrier, a small pink hat adorning its head, is an infant.  It looks terrified, and it’s crying for all its worth.

Not sure what else to do, I carefully slide the child out of the carrier and hold it up.  I frown.  I recognize this baby.  Four months ago my neighbors across the street, the Aldermans, had a daughter.  I had seen her a number of times as her mother pushed her down the sidewalk in a  stroller.  I try to remember her name for a few seconds before it comes to me.  Samantha.  Her name is Samantha.

She stops crying and stares back at me.  There are still tears in her eyes, but it seems like the human contact has comforted her a bit.  Her face and fingers are cool to the touch, and I hold her closer to help keep her warm.

Something has to have happened to her parents.  I don’t know them well, but even the few interactions I’ve had with them is enough to know that they love their daughter.  They wouldn’t just abandon her in the middle of the road like this.

I carefully reach down and retrieve the carrier.  It’s mostly made of cloth, and it has two straps that are designed to go around each of the parent’s arms.  Moving slowly so that I don’t scare Samantha, I put it on before setting her down inside.  She immediately places her head on my chest before letting out a few hiccups.

“Come on,” I say to the baby in what I hope is a soothing tone.  “Let’s go check on your parents.”

My footsteps sound extremely loud in my ears as I cross the street.  I’m feeling both scared and nervous, which seems perfectly reasonable given the situation.  I avoid looking up at the mysterious light.  There’s nothing that I can do about it, so there’s no point in worrying about it.  Instead, I stay focused on the task at hand.

I also try to avoid looking down at Samantha more than I need to.  There was no way that I was going to leave a baby abandoned in the middle of a road, but at the same time I’m not really comfortable holding her.  Not her specifically, but babies in general.  Doing so makes me think of things that I really don’t want to think about.

I reach the Alderman house and stop at the base of the porch steps.  The house is dark and silent, just like all the other homes on the block.  It’s somehow intimidating.  Maybe it’s just the way the light above makes the shadows look deeper or how it emphasizes each imperfection in the wood and siding.  Whatever it is, it’s got the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.

I turn my head to one side.  I would swear that I just heard something.  It was off in the distance so I can’t be completely sure, but it sounded like… jingling?  Is that the right word?  It was like the sound of coins clinking together.  I listen closely.  There’s only silence now.

Returning my attention to the matter at hand, I ascend the porch steps and go to the front door.  There’s something taped to the small glass window towards the top.  Frowning, I knock on the door and wait.  There’s no response.  I try again, but it leads to the same result.  After a brief hesitation I attempt to turn the doorknob.  It’s locked.

Not knowing what else to do, I reach up and pull the object free from the window, making sure not to jostle Samantha too much.  It’s a note.  No, I correct myself.  Not a note.  It’s a folded picture.  The paper stock is glossy to the touch.  There’s a note written in black pen on the white backing.

Gone to the Coplings.

I know that the Coplings are a family here in the neighborhood, but I’m not sure which house is theirs.  I look down at the baby I’m carrying, and she stares right back up at me.  Was her family on the way to a neighbor’s house when they had left her in the road?  That didn’t make any sense.  I can’t imagine that they’d just abandon their child for no reason.  Had they been taken against their will?  If that’s the case, why wasn’t Samantha taken with them?

I have no way of knowing the answers to those questions, or even if they’re the right questions to be asking.

I unfold the picture and step back out into the light to get a better look at the image.  It’s in black and white, and I’m not really sure what I’m looking at.  It kind of looks like one of those sonogram pictures that are taken of a woman’s womb when she’s pregnant.  This one doesn’t really show anything, though, except for a dark empty space in the center.

Folding the paper once again, I retape it to the window.  There’s no point in bringing it with me.

“Let’s go back to my house,” I say to Samantha.

I don’t know where the Coplings live.  With the power out, it’s not like I can go online and look it up, either.  However, I’m pretty sure that I have a phone book buried in one of my kitchen drawers.  If that’s actually the case, there’s a chance that I can find the address there.

I come to a stop on the sidewalk.  There’s that noise again.  I turn my head towards it.  This time I see something down at the far end of the block.

There are two figures approaching, one shorter and thin and the other tall and massive.  The smaller one is holding what appears to be an old lantern.  The glowing orange flame inside looks very out-of-place in the washed-out colors of the world around it.  The person holding it is a woman, and although I can’t make out many details due to the distance, I can tell that her hair is pulled back in a tight bun and she’s wearing a long black dress that is buttoned up almost to her chin.

The other figure is a man.  He’s the largest person that I’ve ever seen, easily seven feet tall and built like a tank.  He’s wearing a long black leather coat that just barely avoids touching the ground, and his gloves and wide-brimmed hat are made of the same material.  A strip of leather covers his mouth and nose.  The shadow from the hat completely covers his eyes in darkness.

Wrapped around his right arm is a thick metal chain.  It clinks as he walks.  It must be the source of the sound that I’ve been hearing.  I take a step back at the sight of it.  The light from the lantern is glinting off of something woven through the links.  It’s barbed wire.

The sight of the hideous chain is enough to make my stomach churn.  The way he carries it makes it clear that he intends to use it as a weapon.  There’s no reason I can think of for him to use a chain wrapped in barbed wire over a more efficient tool except to cause as much pain and damage as possible.

Instincts take over.  I hurry back into the shadow of the house and continue into the side yard.  Placing my back up against the siding, I crane my neck around the corner so that I can watch the two figures.

The woman is speaking to the man.  Normally I wouldn’t be able to hear what she’s saying at this distance, but the silent world I’m now in lets her voice carry.

“Can you feel it, Father?” the woman says in a flat tone.  “He is here.”

The man does not answer, but she silently regards him as if he is saying something that only she can hear.

“Of course I’m sure.  He’s here, as expected.  I can feel his self-loathing and smell his despair.”

They stop walking.  The woman, Mother, holds up the lantern and looks around slowly.  I duck back behind the side of the house as her gaze turns towards the general area where I’m hiding.  There’s no way that she can see me from that distance and in these deep shadows, but I’m not taking any chances.

Are they talking about me?  I don’t know why they would be looking for me.  I’ve never seen either one of them before.  They have to be searching for someone else.

“Wait,” Mother said abruptly.  “There’s someone else here, too.  Someone…  A girl.  An infant.”

I look down at Samantha.  She’s staying silent, but she’s beginning to squirm and I’m guessing that means she won’t be quiet for long.  Her life is supposed to be one of calm and comfort, not being carried around by a stranger as he stumbles around in fear and confusion.

“We’ll take the child first,” Mother is saying.  “Every moment she’s with him is a moment that she isn’t safe.  He’ll inevitably fail her.”

The words cut through me like a knife.  While I still don’t know if I’m the one they’re searching for, it feels like what she said was intended for me.  Samantha makes a protesting sound.  I quickly pat her lightly on the back and tell her that everything is okay as quietly as I possibly can.

I watch as they draw closer.  Mother stops at the mailbox in front of my house and examines it for a moment.  She nods.

“This one, Father,” she says.  “This is his home.”

Without a word, the giant brute stomps up the short path and onto my house’s porch.  The wood groans under his weight, and I hear a loud snap as one of the boards breaks.  He stops at the door for a few seconds and looks it up and down.  Seemingly satisfied with what he sees, he continues forward and walks through the door.

I stare at the hole in shock.  Father didn’t open the door or even pull it from its hinges.  He simply walked right through it as if it was no thicker than a piece of paper.  He didn’t even bother to raise an arm as he did so.

Crashing noises echo around the neighborhood as he moves through my house.  A part of me wonders if this is what people feel like when they watch a tornado rip through their homes.  This man is a force of nature that seems determined to destroy anything in his path.

There’s a sharp crack as the house visibly leans to one side.  He’s going right through the support beams.  I really believe that the entire structure is going to fall.  Before that can happen, though, he emerges through the shattered doorway.

“So he is not home,” Mother says.  “He’s somewhere nearby, though.”

She looks around the surrounding homes slowly, the lantern raised and her eyes narrow.

“You can hear me, can’t you?” she calls out.  “You’re out there somewhere, hiding like a coward and not knowing what to do.  Again.”

Mother lets Father walk past her before she goes up to the front door of my house.

“You have a decision to make, Christopher,” she says, leaving no doubt now that she’s speaking to me.  “Reveal yourself and turn over the child to us, or flee from us to try to save your miserable life.  Which will it be?”

I stand still with my mind racing with confusion and fear.

“No decision,” Mother says with a disappointed shake of her head.  “Of course not.  Once again, your indecision causes your life to burn to ash.”

Without warning, she throws the lantern into the house.  I hear the glass shatter before flames immediately begin to fill the entryway.  The fire is burning impossibly fast, and everything that it touches is consumed.  In less than a minute the entire structure is aflame.  Mother calmly walks back over to stand next to Father.

“There’s no hiding this time, Christopher,” she yells over the roar of the fire.  “Your reckoning has come.”

She raises one hand and points directly at me.  Without hesitation, Father begins to advance towards me.

I immediately start to run.  I only take a few steps before I remember that Samantha is still strapped to me.  Using one hand to support the back of her head as much as possible, I run into the backyard with the intention of crossing through the connecting yards to escape.

My plan is immediately screwed as I find that the backyard is surrounded by neighbors’ fences on all three sides.  I stop and turn around.  Father is already in the side yard, and he’s headed towards me with surprising speed.  Not having any other options, I hurry over to the other side of the house and work my way back towards the street.

Father can follow me around the house, or he can simply turn around and go back to the street on his side.  Either way, I won’t have much time.  I need to figure out a way to lose him for just a few minutes.  I need time to think and come up with a plan.

There’s a booming sound to my left.  I barely manage to duck my head down as a large hand breaks through the side of the house and reaches towards me.  I swear loudly.  Instead of waiting to chase me when we both reach the street, Father has instead gone straight through the building.

Samantha cries out in fear and begins to cry.  I don’t have time to comfort her.  Father has almost fully emerged from the wall.

I just keep running.  There’s nothing else that I can do.  I reach the street and immediately continue on to the east, leaving both Mother and the burning remains of my house behind me.

“You can’t run forever,” Mother calls after me.  “This is what you want.  This is what you need.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about.  I reach the end of the block and turn down an alley.  The road here is narrow; it’s a one-way street that’s only meant for residents to reach their driveways and for waste collectors to pick up the trash.

My legs are starting to feel heavy, and my lungs are burning.  I’m not a very active person, and my body isn’t used to this level of exertion.  I need to find a place to stop and rest.  Turning into the nearest driveway, I hurry up to the house’s backdoor and try to open it.

Miraculously, the door is unlocked.  I dart inside and close it behind me before locking it.  Samantha is still crying.  Trying not to panic, I soothe her as best as I can.  The tears continue to stream down her cheeks, but at least she stops yelling.

I’m standing in a small laundry room.  Hanging from a rack is a small washcloth.  I grab it and give it to Samantha.  Her little fingers wrap around it, and her crying stops as she begins to play with it.  She sticks one of its corners into her mouth and gums it contentedly.

A large shadow blocks the light coming through the door window.  I practically throw myself down next to the washing machine in an attempt to hide myself from view.  Less than a second later Father steps up to the door and peers inside.

This isn’t going to work.  He must have been closer than I thought when I had left the alley.  He saw me go into the house, and now he was going to force his way inside and kill me.  I looked down at the small baby in the carrier.  Kill us.

He turns away from the door and leaves.  I blink as I stare at the window in incomprehension.  I can’t believe what’s happening.  He hadn’t seen me after all.  I let out the breath that I hadn’t known that I was holding.  I’m not sure how long I just sit there before I finally get back up.

We’re safe, if only for a little while.  I walk through a doorway into the house’s kitchen.  Turning on the faucet, I’m relieved to see that the water is still working even though the other utilities aren’t.  I retrieve a glass from one of the cupboards and fill it before drinking the water down in seconds.  I do this a second time, and then a third before turning off the faucet and placing the glass on the counter.

As I’m doing so, I notice a block of knives near the sink.  I select the largest knife in the set and pull it out of the block.  I doubt that I’ll be able to do much damage to Father with it, but it’s better than nothing.

I slowly walk around the kitchen, bouncing Samantha softly as I do so.  There’s a pile of mail on the table.  I idly flip through it as I try to regain my strength.  According to the envelopes and mailers I’m in the home of the Franklin family.

I come to the last letter and pause.  This one has a different address on it.  It must have been delivered with the rest by mistake.  I slide it out of the pile and take a closer look at it.

It’s addressed to Melinda Copling.  I glance down at Samantha.  The note at her house had said that her parents were going to the Coplings.  I hadn’t known who that was at the time, but now through sheer dumb luck I have their address.  248 Tall Elm Drive.  It’s as good a place as any to go.  There might be more people there, and if we’re going to survive what’s happening we’ll need as much help as we can get.

I last saw Father prowling out in the alley, and I definitely don’t want to leave the house that way.  Leaving the kitchen, I go out into the next room and head towards the front door.

A picture on the wall causes me to pause.  Inside of a silver frame and under a thin piece of glass is a sonogram photograph much like the one that was taped to the Alderman house.  It isn’t exactly the same, though.  It’s difficult to tell for sure in the dark, but this one seems to have a gray shape in the center.  I lean in closer to get a better look.

“This is what you wanted,” Mother suddenly says, shattering the silence.

I spin around in surprise and terror, but there’s no one there.

“You’ve laid awake in your bed every night and asked for this to happen,” she says.

I can’t tell where she’s speaking from.  Her voice seems to be coming from both everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

“You even prayed for it.  Imagine, a man like you actually praying.  How absurd.  You begged a god that you have never believed in to help you, to take mercy and pity on you.  But you and I both know that it’s not mercy and pity that you need.  It’s not what you deserve.  Father and I are here to do what truly needs to be done.”

“What are you talking about?” I demand, my anger and frustration temporarily replacing my fear.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she snaps.  “You may not be willing to admit it to yourself, but you know.  It’s about them.  Everything is always about them.”

The floorboards above me creak.  She’s on the second floor.

I don’t even consider trying to attack her with the knife.  Samantha’s carrier is still strapped to me, after all, and I doubt that I could hurt her anyway.  I have the feeling that she’s every bit as durable as Father, if not even stronger.

Instead, I unlock the front door and go back outside.  I audibly gasp as I see flames all around me.  The fire that consumed my house was now working its way through the other homes.  Shaking my head to clear it, I hurry down the sidewalk towards the address I had found on the letter.  Hopefully the fires haven’t already gotten to it.  For her part, Samantha remains obsessed with the washcloth.  

To my relief it’s in a part of the neighborhood that remains untouched.  Looking around quickly to make sure that I haven’t been followed, I practically leap up the front steps to the door.

Without warning, Samantha is gone.  One moment I’m feeling the weight of her carrier against my chest, and the next both she and the carrier are simply not there.  I look around in a panic.  That’s not possible.

A faint sound catches my attention.  It’s the sound of the baby’s crying.  I close my eyes and listen closely, trying to figure out where it’s coming from.  It seems to be in front of me, but also… below me?  The basement.  It must be coming from the house’s basement.

Not bothering to knock, I fling the door open and go inside.  I’ve never been inside this particular house before.  I’ve never even met the people that live here even though it’s just a few doors down from my own house.  I’m not usually a very social person.

I’m standing in an entryway.  In front of me is a staircase leading up to the second floor, and to my right is the kitchen.  To my left…

Sitting in a small chair in the tackily-decorated living room, her hands folded in her lap, is Mother.

My grip tightens around the knife, but I don’t move.  She doesn’t, either.  Instead, she simply sits there, her eyes locked on mine.  There’s something different about her now.  I’m not sure what that something is.

I hear Samantha cry again.  It’s closer now, less muffled.  Setting my jaw, I step through the archway and into the living room.  Mother remains in her chair as she silently watches me.  As I come to a stop in front of her, her eyes slowly lower down to the knife.

“You don’t need that,” she says.

trgThere’s none of the earlier menace in her voice.  If anything, she sounds defeated and tired.  The change in her demeanor makes me feel unsure of myself.  It doesn’t make any sense.  First she’s trying to kill me, and now she seems like she’s completely disinterested.

“You can’t take it in there with you anyway,” Mother continues.  “Just set it on the table.  Nothing here is going to hurt you.  Not in a way that something like a knife will protect you from, anyway.”

Above the chair she’s sitting in is a large portrait.  Inside of the frame is another of the black and white sonogram pictures.  I stare at it for a long moment before dropping the knife onto the carpet.  I recognize this one.  Something in my mind clicks into place.  I’ve recognized all of them.  This one is forcing me to admit that.

The womb in this sonogram is full.  I can easily make out the fetus within, the curve of its head and the shapes of its arms and legs.  Part of me, a big part, wants to break down and weep as I stare at the child.  Whatever dam there is inside of me continues to hold, though, and the tears don’t come.

I jump as something touches my hand.  I look down to find that Mother has taken it in her own and is staring up at me.  There are dark circles under her eyes, and the expression on her face makes it seem like she’s carrying a great weight.

“Soon,” she promises.  “You understand now why the Lodge sent me and Father?  It’s the answer to those prayers you’ve sent out into the universe.”

I look at her without answering.  I don’t know what this Lodge she’s talking about is, but the rest of it…

Samantha’s cries bring me back to what I was originally doing.  Slipping my hand out of Mother’s, I cross the room to a closed door at the far end.  I take one last brief look at her over my shoulder.  

The baby’s wailing rises to almost deafening levels as I reach out towards the doorknob.  My fingers stop less than an inch from the metal.  I know what’s waiting for me beyond the door.  I shouldn’t, but I do.  It terrifies me far more than anything else that’s happened.

Taking a deep breath that catches in my lungs, I open the door and go inside.  The crying stops.

I’m no longer in the house.  Instead, I’m standing in a dark hospital room.  A bed sits against one wall, with a number of machines standing next to it.  I recognize the room immediately.  It’s the place where I spent the worst moments of my life.  I stand inside this room every time the nightmares come when I sleep, and the nightmares always come.

She’s not in the bed.  Instead, she’s leaning against the wall and staring out the open window.  The curtains flutter gently as the night breeze pushes against them.  She’s dressed in a white hospital gown, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.

“What do you think it is?” she asks without turning around.

The sound of her voice cuts through me.  I haven’t heard it in so long.  I’m convinced that even if she was standing in the middle of a giant crowd I would still be able to distinguish her voice from all the rest.

“The light over the town,” she prompts, pointing out the window with one finger.  “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know,” I answer after swallowing hard.

“I wonder if anyone does.”

“Is…”  I swallow again.  “Is this real?”

She turns away from the window and looks at me with those large brown eyes.  “I don’t know.  I doubt there’s any way to know for sure.  I want it to be.”

I join her at the window.  The hospital room is a few stories up from the ground floor, and the white light shining down on Harvest End looks somehow different from this vantage point.  It looks curved, almost rounded, with the highest point above the direction of the center of town.

“I wish you could see her,” she says.

“See who?” I asked in confusion.

“Our daughter.  She’s beautiful.  I know all parents say that about their children, but in this case it just so happens to be true.  She’s got my eyes, but she has your nose.”

“She’s… with you, then?”

“Oh yes.  Did you really think that anything in this world or the next could have kept me away from her?”

“No, I suppose not.”  I pause.  “Molly, I’m sorry, I-”

“You were told to make an impossible decision,” she cuts me off firmly.  “A decision that no one should ever have to be asked to make.”

I look away.  “I did make it, though.  I said to-”

“Chris.”  She puts her hands on the sides of my face.  “It doesn’t matter.  You were told that you had to choose between your wife and your child.  There was no right answer.  No wrong one, either.  I don’t blame you for making the choice that you did.  That’s not really the problem, though, is it?”

I don’t know how to respond to that.

“The problem is that you blame yourself.  No matter what anyone tells you, you continue to blame yourself.”

“It is my fault,” I tell her.  “I was told to make a choice, and by the time that I did it was too late.”

She shakes her head.  “You’re leaving a pretty important part out.  The doctor told you that only one of us could be saved, but even then it would be extremely low odds.”

“If I had made it faster…”

“It wouldn’t have mattered.  We both would have still died.  There was too much bleeding.  You know that, at least intellectually.  That brings me back to your problem.  You might know the truth, but you still feel like you did this horrible thing that you should be punished for.  Not just punished, but almost… ruined.”

I don’t have to turn around to know that Father is standing just inside the doorway.  Mother steps out of the shadows to stand next to Molly.  Both of the women’s faces are distraught, and there are tears in their eyes.  Mother places a hand on my wife’s shoulder.

“I wish there was some other way to convince you that you don’t need to torture yourself anymore,” Molly says.  “Some other way for you to move on with life instead of being stuck in this cycle of self-loathing and numbness that you’re in.  The way that you’ve chosen, though… either you come out the other side of it able to move on, or you die.”

“I’ve always been a bit of a stubborn asshole,” I reply with a small smile.

She half-laughs, half-chokes.  “That’s an understatement.  How do you want to do this?”

“I…  I guess over by the bed.”

I walk over to it and run my hand along the thin sheet.  I remember the feel of it against my skin from when I sat at Molly’s side and held her hand.  She had been so happy that it was finally time for our child to be born, and despite the physical pain and exhaustion her happiness had been infectious.

My mind turns to the moment that the bleeding started.  I had first seen it as a single drop falling onto the sheet.  The dark red liquid had absorbed into the material, slowly spreading out from the middle like a flower blossoming.  It had been an odd moment of beauty before the ugliness.

I take off my shirt and bunch it up before setting it down on the bed.  Kneeling down on the ground, I fold my arms under my head and use the shirt as a makeshift pillow.  My back is fully exposed.

Molly surprises me by lifting my head and taking away the shirt.  She sits down on the bed in front of me and crosses her legs before setting my head back down in her lap.  She gently strokes my hair.

“I don’t want you to do this alone,” she says softly.

I don’t answer, but I don’t have to.  She knows that I’m grateful for the comfort.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

“Yes,” I answer.  “I have been for a long time.”

I feel the air shift as Father steps up and looms over me.  His presence is just as strong as it had been, but there is something different about it now.  While I’m nervous, I’m not consumed by fear like I had been.  I feel the fingers of his leather gloves touch my back.  Tears begin to well up in my eyes.  There’s no doubt that he’s going to do what I’ve desperately needed to have done.

The fingers pull away from my skin, and I know that it’s about to begin.  Molly whispers to me in words too quiet to be heard.  Her voice gives me strength.  I close my eyes and wait.

The wire-wrapped chain comes down across my exposed back.  I cry out in pain as the metal makes contact so hard that it nearly knocks me to the floor.  The agony is indescribable.  I feel blood running down my skin before it drips onto the hospital room floor.

It’s not over yet.  I grip the side of the bed tightly as Father pulls the chain free.  The barbs from the wire rip and tear at my flesh.  I scream, a primal sound with no words.  Stars float in front of my eyes as my ears are filled with a loud rushing noise.  I began to slip towards unconsciousness.

“Not yet,” Molly murmurs.  “Almost, but not yet.”

She’s right, of course.  If I black out now I won’t be able to finish my penance.  I grit my teeth.  There’s so much pain, but in a way it’s a vast relief to experience it physically instead of the mental torment I put myself through every day.  This is real and tangible.  It’s a brutal therapy that I have to see through.

I don’t know how many times the dreadful lash comes down.  Each time it does there is an explosion of agony, followed by pain that is less intense but much more sustained.  In the moments between I feel a sense of relief that goes far beyond corporeal comfort.  It’s the breaking of the shackles that I had put around my own soul the moment that I had lost my family.

At last, long after the period of I’m suddenly outside in the front yard of my house.  I’m on my knees in the grass. The pain in my back is intense, but nowhere near as much as it should be.  I was beaten and flayed open just moments before.  Now I just have nearly-healed scars to show for it.  The memories of the beating are clear in my mind, though, and with little effort I can remember exactly what it felt like as the chain wrapped in barbed wire was brought down on my back.

It’s cold, and I shiver against the winter wind.  My shirt is sitting on the grass next to me.  I put it on and stand up.  As I do so, the white light in the sky goes dark.  That feeling of something pushing down on me disappears, and as it does so I have the distinct impression of an impossibly large object moving away.  As my eyes adjust to the night I notice something else above me.  The stars have returned.

I take a deep breath of the chilled air.  It smells sweeter than any breath I have taken in a long time.  Feeling much lighter and more free than I have in many years, I turn to go back into my undamaged house.  I need my sleep, after all.  When the sun rises it will do so on the first day that I’ve been alive in a long, long time, and I’m determined to experience every moment of it in full.

18 July 1918

My name is Maria Nikolaevna, Grand Duchess of Russia, third daughter of the great Tsar Nicholas II and his beloved Alexandra, true child of the Empire, and this is the end of my story.

Two hours ago, the execution of my family began.  Gunshots shattered the quiet night, and the screams of my father and mother echoed throughout the halls of this cursed place.  They were followed closely by those of my three sisters and my brother.

It has been over a year since my father was forced to abdicate his throne.  Those that participated in overthrowing him have called their deeds a revolution, of course.  Revolution is a much finer sounding word than treason.  They wrap themselves in a cloak of righteousness to avoid having to admit that they have caused the downfall of a good and loving Tsar.

We were moved between a number of places, no doubt to keep us hidden from those still loyal to my father.  At one time we were even separated, my father, mother, and I being sent to Yekaterinburg while my three sisters and little Alexei remained at Tobolsk.  That was the most difficult time of our wrongful imprisonment.  Like all true families we were at our strongest together, and at our weakest apart.

It had to be done, however.  The Bolsheviks insisted on Father and Mother being moved, and my siblings and I couldn’t bear the thought of them having to be away from all of us.  I was the only logical choice to accompany them.  Anastasia was too young for such a journey, Tatiana’s medical training was required to tend to Alexei’s illness, and Olga, dear sweet Olga, was too fragile.

I was only allowed to take one personal item with me.  I chose an old music box that my father had given to me on my tenth birthday.  Turning the gold key and opening the lid would cause it to play a lovely melody.  I had loved it from the moment that I had been given it.

Eventually we were reunited here, in this den of horrors.  I believe that a part of me knew that this place would be where we would spend the last of our days from the moment I first saw it.

It is known as Ipatiev House, but the servants and guards call this place “The House of Special Purpose.”  I originally assumed that this was because it was now the home to royalty rather than a simple merchant’s home.  Over the past year, however, I’ve come to understand that it has a different meaning.  There has been someone else imprisoned behind these walls, and not only has she been here longer than we have, she was under much tighter guard than any of us as well.

When my family was first brought here, we were given four rooms on the top floor to use.  While this was far from the comfortable confines of Peterhof Palace, I must admit that they were pleasant enough.  There was room for all seven of us to spread out comfortably, and after the separation that we had recently gone through I saw it as a blessing that we were all back together again.  The rooms, while more cramped now, were filled with much more joy with my sisters and brother having arrived.

I was allowed to walk the halls and grounds as long as a guard accompanied me.  I did not like or approve of most of the guards that were assigned to my family.  They were boorish and uncivilized, their language unfit for the presence of ladies and their crude advances most unwelcomed by myself and by my sisters.

There was one, however, that somehow managed to rise above the others.  His name was Ivan, a simple name for a most complicated young man.  I found our conversations to be pleasant, and his quick wit never failed to surprise me.  He became my constant companion during my walks.  I grew quite fond of him, and he of me.

The only place that I was not allowed was in the cellar below the house.  Even Ivan, who allowed me things that were against his orders simply to please me, would not let me down onto the lower level.  Whenever I would ask why this one place was kept closed to me, his face would become hard like stone and he would refuse to answer me.

This, of course, only made my curiosity stronger.  One of the worst parts of captivity is the boredom that creeps into your life.  Your days are filled with the same activities over and over again.  There is precious little that is new to experience.  You begin to crave excitement, any excitement.  Even something as simple as finding out what is kept in a cellar.

During the winter, on a crisp and clear day, one of the neighboring houses caught fire.  I learned later that part of the old fireplace had broken apart, and a burning log had fallen out onto clothes that were drying in front of it.  The flames had quickly spread from there, and soon the entire house was ablaze.  Everyone in town hurried out to help extinguish the fire before it could spread to other homes, including the guards stationed at Ipatiev House.

This was my chance.  While the other members of my family were distracted watching the fire from the windows, I crept out of the room and down to the first floor.  I made sure that I was alone before opening the old wooden door leading down into the cellar.  Feeling the same impish glee that I would get as a small child when I would steal tiny cakes from the kitchen, I quickly descended the stairs.

The stone hallway at the bottom was lit by candles, but there weren’t many of them and shadows covered most of the path.  I slipped one out of its holder and made my way down the tunnel.  It was longer than I had expected it to be, and I was just considering that it might be time to turn back when I finally reached the end.

I was standing before a large wooden door.  It was covered in heavy iron chains with strong locks affixed at various places.  I had never seen anything quite like it.  In the center of the door was a small rectangular opening with bars spaced across it.  Forcing aside my trepidation, I stepped up to the door and peered into the opening.

The room beyond was dark.  There were no windows, and the pitiful light from my candle didn’t penetrate very far.  From inside, however, I could hear the shifting of chains.

“Ah, a daughter of an emperor, down where she is forbidden to be,” an old woman’s voice came from inside of the cell.

“Maria!” someone shouted from behind.

I turned to find Ivan there, concern and panic in his eyes.  When he saw that I was unharmed, however, his expression turned to anger.  He demanded to know why I had gone against his order not to trespass in the cellar.  I could give him no good answer, and a flush of embarrassment stained my cheeks.  Ivan was one of the only people during this whole ordeal that had been truly kind to me.  In return, I had betrayed his trust.

He had been the first of the guards to return to the house, and he was able to escort me back upstairs before any of the others found out what I had been doing.  Before returning me to my family’s rooms, however, he led me down a side corridor so that he could have a private word with me.

“Please, Maria, you must not go back down there,” he pleaded with me.  “It is for your own safety.”

“She is just an old woman,” I replied.  “Why do you have such a poor creature kept locked away in such a wretched place?  Ivan, you must tell me, and speak truthfully.”

He was silent for a long moment.  “Because she is Baba Yaga.  Now go, return to your family before the others return.  Hurry.”

That night, long after the rest of my family had retired to their beds, I remained in the sitting room listening to my music box as I pondered what Ivan had said.  Surely I had misheard him, or he was mistaken.  Baba Yaga was just a myth, a story told to young children to thrill and frighten them.

I had heard the stories myself as a child.  Baba Yaga was said to be a hideous old woman who devoured those who wandered into her forest.  According to the tales she was a powerful witch with no equal.  She would fly on a mortar to scoop up her victims before taking them back to her house, which according to legend walked through the woods on giant chicken legs.

The notes from the music box became slower.  I absently wound the key to keep it playing.

It was impossible that Baba Yaga was real, and even more impossible that she would be locked up here if she was.  Still, even the tiniest possibility that it was really her in the cellar was an intriguing one.  Perhaps a bargain could be made, her freedom for the freedom of my family.  It was a pleasant thought, one that kept going through my head until I eventually fell asleep in my chair.

I resolved to find out the truth about the old woman.  Over the next few weeks, I stayed on my very best behavior as I waited for another opportunity to sneak into the cellar.  During this time I was both kind and apologetic to poor sweet Ivan.  I disliked lying to him, but I had no choice.  The safety of my family had to come first.

My next chance came at a very unfortunate time.  My young brother that we all happily doted on suffered from the condition of hemophilia.  Because of this, any bleeding could become severe, and it threatened his life a number of times as he grew up.

Alexei developed a severe cough one evening, and by the next morning there was blood coming up from inside of him.  Doctors were summoned at once, and there was a flurry of activity throughout Ipatiev House.  During the commotion I was able to slip down into the cellar once again and go to the chained door.

“Elder,” I asked politely, “is it true that you are Baba Yaga?”

The unseen woman didn’t answer immediately.  Again I heard the sound of rattling chains as she moved in the darkness.  When she finally spoke, her voice was filled with amusement.

“I am indeed known as Baba Yaga,” she told me.  “I have been called many other names as well.  Jezibaba.  Jedza.  Many others.  The name that you call me is of no importance to me.”

“Is it also true that you possess great power?” I questioned.  “That you are a witch without equal?”

There was another pause.  “When I am not shackled in iron, I am indeed powerful.  Powerful enough to free your entire family, Grand Duchess of Russia.  Powerful enough to restore your father to his throne.”

We spoke many times over the months to come.  The number of guards at Ipatiev House was reduced over time, and those that remained were replaced by others.  My wonderful Ivan was one of these, and I missed him dearly after he was gone.  These new soldiers didn’t seem to know exactly who was being kept in the cellar, and they allowed me to visit the old woman freely.  I even overheard one of them say that he was touched by my desire to provide companionship to the elderly prisoner.

Baba Yaga told me much about herself.  She was not the first woman to carry the name.  She was the latest in a long line of Baba Yagas.  When one would approach her time of death, she would find an apprentice to pass along her dark powers.  This had gone on for centuries, far longer than recorded history.  There had always been a Baba Yaga, and there always would be one.

She took an interest in me as well.  She seemed fascinated by the various activities of royalty.  While I was far too guarded around her to consider her a friend, I did come to see her as a pleasant companion.  I would even bring my precious music box down into the cellar and play it for her.  She once remarked that she had never heard anything so beautiful.

Everything came crashing down around me yesterday evening.  The day started the same as any other.  As the hours passed, however, I began to feel that something was different.  The guards in the hallways spoke to one another less frequently than usual.  When I went for a walk in the gardens with my father and sisters, the soldiers refused to make eye contact.  It was such an uncomfortable situation that we ended our walk early.

At dinner we were informed that our kitchen boy Leonid had been sent to visit a family member.  No reason for the visit was given.  This greatly saddened Alexei, who had considered the boy a friend.  My father and mother had exchanged a long look, and although I did not know what private thought it was that they were sharing, their expressions made me feel cold.

When the guards awakened us after midnight, we thought that we were once again being moved to another location.  That was how the other relocations had taken place, after all.  My sisters and I gathered the dogs while my brother and parents collected our bags and belongings.  I made sure that I took my music box before we left the rooms.

Instead of leaving the house, we were gathered together in the entryway.  Standing there in full uniform with a smug look on his rat-like face was Yakov Yurovsky, a battalion leader that I had previously had the displeasure of meeting multiple times during our stay at Ipatiev House.  To our absolute horror, he produced a document from inside of his coat and proceeded to read a sentence of execution for all of us.

My father stepped forward to argue with Yurovsky, and at that moment all of the soldiers were focused on the two of them.  Thinking quickly, I slipped away from the group and hurried down to the door leading to the cellar.  Before I reached it, however, I went into a small room to my left.  I had learned that this was the room where the guards kept the heavy sets of keys for the house’s many locks.  As I had hoped, the room was empty.  All the men were gathered in the entryway.

It wasn’t hard to locate the keys that I was looking for.  They were larger than the rest, and they were made of the same heavy iron as the chains that bound the door downstairs.  I took them from their hook and descended into the cellar.

I ran as fast as I could down the long stone hallway.  My absence would be discovered shortly, and when it was the guards would search the entire house for me.  I would be found within minutes.

When I reached the door, Baba Yaga demanded to know what was happening as I struggled to unlock the chains.  I told her about the execution order as I removed the locks one by one.  She listened to me silently.  The final lock fell to the floor with a loud clang, and I pulled off the chains and opened the door.

I could just barely see the old woman in the corner of the cell.  She was bent over and contorted, the heavy chains wrapped tightly around her weighing her down.  I hurried to her and tried to release the lock that kept her bound, going through the keys one at a time.  I started to panic as I heard voices approaching from behind me.

When I turned the last key, the lock released with a loud click.  Baba Yaga smiled broadly, exposing her rotting teeth, and the chains slid off of her as she stood up straight.  Her long black hair fell down over her back as she stretched.

The guards arrived at the cell door, their guns clenched in their hands.  Before any of them could raise their weapons, Baba Yaga extended her hand and rotated it like she was turning a doorknob.  The three men’s necks twisted to one side as they snapped, and they fell lifelessly to the ground.

Without a word spoken between us we marched down the hallway towards the stairs.  There was an ugly fire burning in Baba Yaga’s eyes, like a starving wolf staring at its prey.  I knew that she was my family’s only chance of salvation, but I felt a great fear of her.

We had just started up the stairs when the sound of guns being fired began.  They were followed by screams, the screams of my family.  They were full of terror and agony.  I cried out in despair.

Baba Yaga snatched the music box from me and opened the lid.  It hadn’t been wound, and no sound came out of it.  She placed her long thin fingers inside and spoke a few words that I didn’t understand.  With a nod, she handed it back to me.

“Your family is dead,” she told me in a flat voice.  “Never forget their screams, child.  Let their deaths fill you with strength and rage so that you may destroy those that brought them to this fate.  Every month, when the moon is as it is this night, their cries shall ring out from your music box to remind you of how you felt in this moment.”

The soldiers were dragging the bodies of my family towards the front door when we came to the entryway.  I collapsed down to my knees next to my lifeless sister Anastasia and cradled her head in my lap.  We had been so close that we had begged our parents to purchase the same dresses for us when we were little so that we would match.  Nearby was Tatiana, and I reached out to take her hand in mine.  I was the last of my family, and I wept alone.

I was so deep in my sorrow that I did not see the guards approaching, their guns drawn and pointed at me.  When I felt the barrel of one of the terrible weapons press against the back of my head, a part of me welcomed it.

The cold metal was suddenly gone, and in its place was something warm.  I reached back tentatively with my free hand and pressed my fingers against the back of my neck for a moment.  When I looked at them, I found that they were covered in blood.

Forgetting my grief for just a moment, I looked up and stared in awe at what I saw.  The soldiers were suspended in the air before me.  Their bodies were torn in half, and their blood and internal organs hung above the ground around them.  Something stirred within me.  There was beauty in the carnage.

Baba Yaga put her hand on my shoulder as she looked upon her work.

“Come, child,” she said.  “Say your goodbyes to your family, and to your old life also.  Then we will go from this place so that you may find your vengeance.”

She waits for me now as I write this.  She doesn’t understand why I am leaving this letter, but I do not wish to leave without giving a record of my family’s final days.  There is precious little left to remember them by, just my words and the screams from my music box during the half moon.

If this letter is found by true sons and daughters of the Empire, know that your Tsar remained loyal to you until the end.  He loved his people, and he worked tirelessly for you.  He and his beloved instilled this sense of duty in their children.  It was the greatest honor for us to be your servants.

If instead this letter is found by enemies of the Empire, by those who claim to be revolutionaries but are in truth only seekers of personal power and gain, let it serve as a warning.  Before tonight I was but a woman of royal birth that had been kept from her people.  Now, though, I shed the name of Maria Nikolaevna.  I lay down the title of Grand Duchess of Russia.

When next you see me I shall be known only as Baba Yaga, and I will exact my vengeance for what you have taken from me.

On December 31, 1992, Sam Weaton’s father beat his mother to death with a broken whiskey bottle.

His parents hadn’t been arguing.  There hadn’t been any tension between them, or some inciting incident that set his father off.  One minute the man was pouring himself his nightly two fingers of whiskey, and the next he was swinging the bottle as hard as he could.

Sam would later say that he’d never forget the sound that the bottle made as it collided with his mother’s left temple.  It was a dull thunk, followed by a brief echo.  He had never heard that exact sound before, and he hasn’t since.

That noise was followed by the crunch of bone as his mother’s skull broke inward.  Next came the escaping hiss of air as she gasped.  Finally, there was the thud of her already lifeless body striking the kitchen floorboards.

It was a momentary symphony of death.  When the instruments fell silent, Sam no longer had a mother.

At the same moment that everything was crashing down around him, another murder was taking place three doors down the block.  Jeremy Thomas’ mother was using one of her disposable razors to slit the throats of both him and his older sister.

Despite him living so close, Sam didn’t know Jeremy all that well.  Jeremy was a year ahead of him in school.  They had played little league baseball together when they were younger, but they didn’t have much in common so they didn’t spend time together except during those games.

Across the street, Ginny Sanderson’s mother didn’t murder anyone.  Instead, she used the freezer door of the refrigerator to bash her own brains in while her daughter watched in horror.  The entire time she was doing so, she screamed loudly in French.  Ginny had been unaware that her mother spoke that particular language.

That night, at exactly 8:17pm, a portion of the population in roughly a two block radius of Porter’s Grove, Indiana simultaneously went horribly and violently insane.

By 8:25pm that same night, it was over.

Sometime around 8:20pm, Sam Weaton’s father finished clubbing his mother with the blood-splattered whiskey bottle and turned his attention to him.

Sam’s father was an older man.  He had married late in life to a woman over fifteen years his junior.  He never came right out and said it to his son, but Sam always had the feeling that his father hadn’t expected to ever get married.  That was until he met Sam’s mother.  Despite the age difference, it was like they had been born for each other.  He had fallen head over heels in love with her and proposed to her less than a year after they met.

Because he was older, Sam’s father wasn’t physically able to do many of the things with him that other fathers could with their sons.  The spirit was more than willing and in fact wished very much to, but the body wasn’t able.  The arthritis he suffered from made it difficult for him to do something as simple as play catch.

Sam never blamed him for his inability to run around and play.  Even from a young age Sam understood that it wasn’t his father’s fault.  In a way, he even came to appreciate the man’s age.  What his father lacked in athletic ability he more than made up for with stories from his life experiences and his fondness for classic adventure stories.  He passed that love along to Sam.

The man’s age ended up being what saved Sam that night.

When his father turned towards Sam, his right hand clutched around the neck of the bottle, Sam knew that it wasn’t his father.  Not really, not in any way that mattered.  The sharp intelligence and gentle spirit were gone from his eyes.  Whoever or whatever was looking at him was just some husk whose soul had been hollowed out and replaced with madness.

Sam’s father took one step forward before the bottle slipped from his grip.  Sam watched it fall downward in slow motion before it struck the wooden flooring.  He heard the glass crack, and dark brown liquid poured out from underneath the cap, but it still didn’t break.

His father’s hand curled into a claw, and its fingers scraped at the empty air.  His other hand moved to his chest.  His breath caught in his throat, and within seconds of his body hitting the floor next to his wife the heart attack had taken his life.

The only reason Sam’s father didn’t murder him was because the man’s heart gave out before he could do the deed.  It’s been nearly twenty-five years, and Sam still thinks about that almost every day.  How could he not?  How does someone possibly move on from a moment like that?

Sam has tried therapy.  He’s tried medication.  He’s tried burying it under enough liquor to drown a fish.  If there’s a cure for what ails him out there, he hasn’t found it yet.

I’ve spoken with some of the other survivors of that night.  They haven’t found that elusive cure, either.

Eight minutes.  That’s all it took for dozens of lives to be changed forever.  Eight… minutes.

My name is Brian Eddings, and you’re listening to Dead and Buried Crimes.

The Porter’s Grove massacre has been a subject of debate from the moment that it happened.  There are countless questions that have never been fully answered.  Why did it happen?  How did it happen?  What was the inciting incident?  There had to be one, right?  Dozens of people don’t just randomly go crazy at the exact same time.

The official statements provided by the authorities don’t provide many insights.  There don’t seem to be any facts, just a series of assumptions and hypotheses.  The general consensus from the various agencies is that terrible night was the result of a particularly violent case of mass hysteria.

That explanation doesn’t feel very satisfactory, does it?  It’s no wonder that many people have stated publicly that they believe the government is trying to hide something.  It’s the belief of many that the officials know more than they are saying.  A simple shrug and a statement that amounts to “We don’t know” can’t be the entire story.

As I dug deeper into what happened that night in Porter’s Grove, I got in contact with a number of the people that had issued these official reports.  I had expected there to be resistance to my inquiries, or at least that I’d have some difficulty getting people to speak with me.

To my surprise, almost everyone that I spoke with seemed eager to assist in any way that they could.  I went into the interviews prepared for almost anything.  I wasn’t prepared to come out of them convinced that no one that I talked to was lying.

While I appreciated the honesty, it also meant that these interviews were something of a dead end.  The people that had worked on the official reports had presented everything they knew in those reports.

The story would have ended there if not for pure dumb luck.  While doing research for a different episode, I found myself in communication with a local historian in the town of Hampton, Nebraska.  While he wasn’t able to provide much information on the topic I contacted him about, he did send over a series of documents detailing other strange events in the town’s history.

One of those events took place on July 8, 1974.  During a screening of The Man with the Golden Gun, a number of unrelated individuals attacked the other people there to see the movie.  The movie had been playing for roughly an hour when eight people began violently assaulting the other moviegoers around them.  Four people were killed and nearly a dozen others were injured.

Based on the point in the movie where the attacks began and when they ended, it was determined that the entire incident had lasted a total of eight minutes.

These reports had something that the Porter’s Grove ones did not: comments from the attackers themselves.  Each of them stated that they remembered everything leading up to the incident and everything after, but the eight minutes where they were brutally attacking everyone they could get their hands on was a complete blank.

Now that I knew that the length of time the event took was a shared detail, I was able to focus my research and find another event that fit the pattern.

This event occurred on February 16, 2004.  It took place in a more isolated area, but in a way that made it even more terrifying.

Dennis and Brianna Ingles were newlyweds, having been married just days earlier.  While many couples would have spent their honeymoon on a tropical island or taken a cruise, they had always been more outdoorsy and instead decided to rent a cabin at Yellowstone National Park.  It provided them with everything they wanted: access to hiking trails, new places to explore, and, of course, privacy.

Their second evening there, Brianna went to bed earlier than usual.  They had been hiking through the park all day, and the exhausting exercise had given her a migraine.  Dennis read a few more chapters of the book he had started their first day at Yellowstone before joining her.

At just after two in the morning, Dennis awoke to find that Brianna was no longer in bed next to him.  He assumed that she had gone to the bathroom, and he rolled over to go back to sleep.

He immediately returned to full consciousness as Brianna brought the fire poker down as hard as she could on his right ankle.

Brianna wasn’t a large woman.  She stood barely over five feet tall, and she weighed under a hundred and twenty pounds.  Because of this, the blow didn’t do as much damage as it could have.  It was still enough to crack bone, however, and it split the skin just above the foot.

More out of instinct than anything else, Dennis rolled off the far side of the bed before the second swing struck him.  Instead, it landed on the bed with a muffled thump.  With foam coming out of her mouth and rage written into every inch of her face, Brianna quickly followed him around the bed and attempted to bludgeon him again.

Dennis managed to get upright enough to wrestle the poker away from his wife.  Now disarmed, she immediately reached out with her hands to attempt to wrap her fingers around his throat.

Because of their size difference, Dennis was able to fight her off and pin her down on the floor.  Without hesitation, she sank her teeth deep into his shoulder.  No matter how hard he tried to pull away, she kept biting down.  Pushing as hard as he could, he finally forced her to release her grip.  Skin tore away and blood poured out of the wound.

Not sure what else to do, Dennis pulled the mattress down on top of Brianna and covered her with it, keeping her pinned to the floor as he pleaded with her to come to her senses.  He was careful not to push hard enough to suffocate her, but this compassion made it much more difficult.  Eventually, mercifully, she stopped her thrashing and called out her husband’s name.

When he removed the mattress, Brianna was staring up at him in fear and confusion.  She had no memory of attacking her husband.  From start to finish, her temporary insanity had lasted just eight minutes, but to Dennis it had seemed to go on forever.

He drove them both to the closest medical facility.  While his wounds were being treated, Brianna went through a battery of psychological tests to try to determine what had caused her to snap.  When she passed those tests and no signs of mental illness were detected, the determination was made that it hadn’t been a case of temporary insanity after all.  Instead, she was told that she had been going through a rare form of sleepwalking and hadn’t been in control of her actions.

If this was an isolated case, sleepwalking might sound like a perfectly acceptable diagnosis.  Brianna Ingles’ doctors were only able to work with the information that they had.  Eventually she was released and there have been no further incidents.  I was surprised to learn that she is still married to Dennis.  I can only imagine how much of a strain such an event is on a marriage.

—

[There is a long silent pause in the recording]

—

Normally when I put together these podcasts, I try to keep myself out of the narrative as much as possible.  I’ll drop in a personal opinion from time to time, yes, but I make it clear when that is happening.  I’d much rather be the vessel for the story rather than be a part of it.

In this case, though, through no desire of my own I find myself having been brought into the story.

I’m not sure how someone found out that I was looking into these particular events.  It wasn’t that I was trying to keep my interest a secret or anything along those lines.  When I contacted the involved parties I used my real name and was honest about wanting more information so that I could present it to my listeners.

One of the people that I had contacted either passed my interest along to another party, or that party learned of my inquiries some other way.  My contacts have all told me that they didn’t speak with anyone else about the matter, and I have no reason not to believe them.  Still, it’s possible one or more of them are lying to me.  I don’t think that’s the case, but it’s a possibility.

The other possibility, the one that I believe to be both more likely and more frightening, is that my research raised some red flags and led to me being monitored by… someone.  I don’t know this person’s identity, but simply to have something to refer to that person as I’ve taken to calling them X.

Not a very creative moniker, I admit, but appropriate given my lack of information about the person.

Two days after speaking with Dennis Ingles, I received my first email from X.  All of my communication with the people involved in the eight minute events had been done through the podcast’s email account.  X’s email, however, came to my private account, one that I only give to friends and family.

Thinking back on it, I’m convinced that this was a flex, a way to impress on me that X knew more about me than they should.

The email was titled ‘Eight Minutes’, and there wasn’t anything written in the body itself.  Even the From field was blank, which I didn’t know was possible.  There were only a pair of attachments.

The first attachment was a simple list of twelve items.  Each of those items consisted of a date, a time window of eight minutes, and a location.  All three of the events that I had discovered independently were on this list.

I stared at the list for a long time, trying to wrap my mind around the implications.  Twelve events over a fifty year period, with the most recent of them occurring in May of last year.  All of them on American soil.

It seemed impossible.  How could that possibly be the case?  Surely the existence of these events would be common knowledge if there had been that many.

The second email was a series of spreadsheets that were heavily redacted.  Each sheet was labeled with the name of one of the towns on the list of events.  It was difficult to tell because of the redacting, but they appeared to be a listing of personnel assignments for some unnamed agency.

I had barely finished reading through the spreadsheets when my cellphone rang.  When I checked it, I saw that the call was from an unknown caller.

I’m not ashamed to say that I was feeling pretty freaked out at this point.  I seriously considered ignoring the call and deleting the email.  There was obviously something going on that went well beyond what I was comfortable with.

My curiosity won out over my apprehension, however.  Taking a deep breath, I answered my phone.

The voice on the other end of the call was so distorted that it could have been either male or female.  It instructed me to remain silent, and stated that it would not answer any questions.  Before I could even think about responding, it continued on.

On July 16, 1945, the United States performed the first nuclear weapon test a little over 200 miles outside of Los Alamos, New Mexico.  The testing of this plutonium implosion device was code named Trinity, and the officials responsible for the test were more than satisfied by the results.  The detonation was so powerful that it turned the sand and asphalt into green glass.

As this was the first test of its kind, there was no way to know what other effects the detonation would have.  The radiation levels were higher than expected, for example, and the explosion area was larger than the initial prediction.

Eight days after the detonation, in a small town called Christensen, New Mexico, the first eight minute event occurred.  Six people attending a church baseball game went into a psychotic rage and began to attack both the other players and the people watching the game.  It resulted in three deaths and at least a dozen people hospitalized.

Due to the closeness of the event to the bomb test, both in time and proximity, the government responded by sending in representatives from a number of different agencies to investigate any possible connection.  This was done without the knowledge of the residents of Christensen.

The government agents were able to determine that the event and the bomb test were indeed related to one another.  X didn’t give me any specific details as to how it happened, but he told me that the detonation of a nuclear device had inadvertently caused a temporary change in the area’s electromagnetic field.  In a small section of that area, where the change happened to be exactly what it needed to be, it would cause a catastrophic interaction with certain individuals whose brains’ electrical impulses happened to be firing in exactly the right way.

In other words, some people’s brains would short circuit for a small amount of time, causing uncontrollable rage and bloodlust to take over.  After further investigation, the government agents found that it would take the human brain eight minutes to reset.

A flood of questions came to mind, and without thinking I attempted to ask one when X paused to take a breath.  Instead of allowing me to proceed or reminding me that I was told I wouldn’t be able to ask questions, they instead continued on as if they didn’t even hear me.

Although the result hadn’t been expected, the government welcomed it.  Officials immediately saw the potential in it.  If they could find a way to replicate the change in the electromagnetic field and control where that change happened, it could be a potent weapon.  Plant a device inside of an enemy town or base, turn it on, and let the people inside tear themselves apart.

Of course, that was easier said than done.  Duplicating a side effect of a nuclear detonation wasn’t a simple process, especially considering the very first of those detonations had just happened.  It would be a long and difficult process, and even if it was indeed possible to recreate the results, those results would also need to be improved upon.  The government officials didn’t want just some of the people in the targeted area affected.  They wanted them all to be.

That was the beginning of an ongoing series of experiments performed by the United States government on its own population.  Twelve experiments, to be precise, performed between 1945 and 2023.  According to X, a different device was used during each experiment, with each iteration improving on the last.  The experiments are still ongoing, meaning that there are more planned for the future.

WIth that, X ended the call.

That call took place two weeks ago.  Right up until the moment that I pressed the Record button, I debated whether or not to release this episode into the wild.  I don’t know if I can trust X, or if it’s just someone screwing around with me, but if what they say is true, this is way above my pay grade.

Ultimately, I decided that it was best to put everything that I have together and present it to you listeners to come to your own decisions.  If everything X has told me is a hoax, it still adds an interesting twist to the three eight minute events that I was able to verify before they contacted me.  I’ve tried to verify the other nine events on X’s list but haven’t been able to one way or another.

If what X is telling me is true, though… that’s an entirely different thing.  It would mean that our own government is using us as guinea pigs in a horrible experiment designed specifically to drive people into a state of violent insanity.  It would explain why I haven’t been able to prove or disprove the other events on X’s list.  The government would be only testing in places where it knew that it could tightly control the narrative.

I wish that I had more answers for you, listeners.  Maybe someday I will.  What I’ve laid out for you today is all the information that I have at this moment, though.  If someone out there knows more, please, get in touch with me.  This is one of those stories that I don’t think that I’ll be able to let go.

Thank you for listening to the Dead and Buried Crimes podcast.  I’m Brian Eddings, and as always, stay safe out there.

So there’s this story about an incident that happened at Disney back in the 1950s.

Yeah, I know, I’m not here to tell you ancient stories from the golden era of animation.  I get that.  I know exactly why I’m sitting in this chair with you three fine gentlemen looming over me.  Just indulge me for a moment, though.  I promise there’s a point.

Back in the 50s, Disney wasn’t the entertainment juggernaut they are today.  At that point, they were almost exclusively concerned with churning out cartoons.  Most people are under the impression that all of the company’s films were successful, but the truth of the matter was that Disney was in trouble.  A number of their films had failed financially, even some of the ones that are seen today as classics, and it was really the television and newspaper cartoons that were keeping the lights on.  Small film strips, too, the kind that used to play before the feature presentations.

A couple of cartoonists were working on a short when they realized that they needed a particular sound effect to make a scene work.  It wasn’t one that they had used before, and after going through the sound archives they didn’t find anything that was quite right.  One of them realized that they could get what they wanted by slowing down the noise of a soldering iron at work.  They tinkered around with it for a while and at one point put it down all the way to 12 hertz.

They didn’t understand what sound can do if you’re not careful.  The cartoonists were sick for days after they created the effect.  Rumor has it that Walt Disney happened to be there with them at the time and that he fell ill as well.  Having a 12hz sound run through your body is roughly the equivalent of sitting in an office chair and letting your coworkers spin you around for a few hours.

When the body is exposed to sound, just like when it’s exposed to anything else, there’s a reaction.  This is especially true with low frequencies, called infrasounds.  Our ears can’t hear them, but they can do a number on us.  Did you know that noise around 19hz can cause people to hallucinate?  That’s because it’s the resonant frequency for the human eye.  The vibrations can cause us to see all kinds of crazy things, and you know what they say.  Seeing is believing.

The real dangerous one is 7hz.  That’s the resonant frequency for your brain and other internal organs.  You crank that one up if you really want to get the party started.  Nausea, disorientation.  You start to get paranoid, like everyone in the world is watching.  Let it go long enough and your organs start to tear open.  Just a bit longer and that’s it.  The end.  You’re done.  Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

I’m telling you all of this because you need to understand that the science behind what Dr. Varadkar attempted was sound, no pun intended.  As much as it sounds like something that came out of a bad pulp science fiction novel, it’s actually based on a hundred years of scientific research.  That’s how he got the government to agree to the funding.

I wasn’t a part of that pitch meeting, so I can only imagine those suits licking their chops at what he was presenting them.  And it made sense, right?  If sound can be used to affect the human body, it should be possible to use sound to make changes to it as well.  With the right frequency, volume, and other conditions, it would be theoretically possible to make a person far more susceptible to suggestion.  Taking it a step further, it would even be possible to basically rewrite how that person thinks.  The human body is, for all intents and purposes, a biological machine, and sound can be used to hack that machine.

You know what happened next.  The committee approved Dr. Varadkar’s grant.  How could they not?  He was telling them that he was going to give them a way to directly influence each and every member of the population on a silver platter.  Even if they weren’t going to use that technology on American citizens, and let’s be honest with ourselves and acknowledge that someone eventually would have tried to do just that, it would be one hell of a weapon.  Win a war without firing a single shot by making the enemy see things your way.  

Whether they want to or not.

The committee went one step further, though.  Varadkar needed test subjects.  Lots of them, and they needed to be highly varied.  Different backgrounds, different biological makeups, different diets, all of that.  Being able to adjust the thought process of a single person wouldn’t cut it.  He needed to make sure that he found universal sounds and frequencies so that anyone and everyone would be affected.

Because of this, the committee agreed to allow Varadkar to use an entire town as his own personal playground.  Even with everything that’s happened, that’s the part that I still can’t get my head wrapped around.  The United States government turned over an entire town of its own citizens to a single person so that he could poke and prod and experiment on it.  That pretty much sums up what our elected officials really think about us regardless of their party affiliations, doesn’t it?

The town that Varadkar chose was Williams, Arizona.  It was the perfect place for Varadkar’s experiments.  It had a varied enough population that it would present a wide range of test subjects, but it was also isolated from the main highways and had very little in the way of outsiders passing through.  Three thousand one hundred and eight brains to pump dangerous sounds into.  Three thousand one hundred and eight men, women, and children that didn’t have a choice.

The four towers that were constructed, one in each direction outside of town, were my design.  I even suggested the building of the fifth tower to fill out the coverage area gaps.  I didn’t know what the experiment’s true purpose was at the time.  In fact, it was explained to me as something much different.  

Varadkar had told me that he was working on a new warning system that could transmit a warning signal throughout a large area by using particular tones on specific frequencies.  That’s not anything that’s needed here, but it would be invaluable in places where groups of people lived that didn’t have the luxury of readily available cell phone service.  People could be warned about imminent floods in even the most remote parts of the Middle East, for example.  A specific sound would be transmitted over a much larger distance than, say, the sirens we use now to warn people about tornadoes.  It would completely eliminate issues like language barriers.  A person hears the sound, and they know to get somewhere safe.

Varadkar said that what he was working on was a series of tones that could be used as a universal system.  One tone for flood, another one for sandstorm, a different one for tornado, and so on.  He told me that once he had the system figured out, he was going to work with frequencies to increase distance and reception by the human body.  As crazy as it seems now, I actually did believe that I was helping with some kind of humanitarian project.

Part of the project was to conceal the towers from view.  I did find that odd, but it was explained to me that it was simply to not take away from the natural beauty around the town.  Yeah, I know, it was a bad reason and I probably should have questioned it further, but it really wasn’t that strange of a reason.  I’ve been contracted by countless people that want a system that works, but don’t want to see it when it’s doing so.  It wasn’t like I was unaccustomed to hiding some rich person’s giant satellite dish or transmitting towers in a stadium.

Varadkar and I got along well enough during the building stage.  Once the towers were finished, he asked me to stay on-site in case any mechanical issues came up.  I think it’s fair to say that my services are in high demand, so at first I turned him down.  When he showed me the figure that he was willing to pay me for a few months’ work, though, I decided that I couldn’t afford to turn it down.

This next part is what Varadkar himself ended up telling me had happened.  I didn’t find out about what he had really been up to until later, and as much as I’d like to say that I had a bad feeling or some sneaking suspicion, the truth is that I didn’t notice anything that made me question what I had been told.  What I’m about to tell you is what he told me, not what I witnessed firsthand.  So take that for what it’s worth.

Varadkar and his team started small.  They already had a number of frequencies that would make a person feel anxious or disoriented, so they tried to see if they could simply tweak those to make the test subjects more open to suggestion.

Nothing really happened for the first few weeks.  That may sound like a long time to be working on such a small range of sounds, but you have to understand just how precise of frequencies they were working with.  There’s a lot of room between, say, 8hz and 9hz.  Varadkar was testing frequencies out to over fifty decimal places.

The majority of the time the residents didn’t even realize anything was happening.  We can’t hear anything below roughly 20hz, and he was working in ranges much lower than that.  He was also just using short bursts in the beginning.  It wasn’t until he started to extend the broadcast times that things began to go downhill for the people of Williams.

The number of people going to the local hospital rose dramatically.  A lot of the people were complaining about feeling sick even though they didn’t have the usual symptoms of a cold or the flu.  There were several cases involving coughing up blood or bleeding from various orifices.  A few elderly patients suffered heart attacks.

Varadkar was aware of all of this.  Somehow he was getting all of the medical records that were processed at the hospital.  Either someone was getting the information to him, or he was obtaining it himself.  I’m not sure which it was.

Like I said, this is just what I’ve pieced together from what he told me and from things that I saw later.  I didn’t see Varadkar much during that time period.  Since the towers were working without issues there wasn’t much for me to do, so I spent the majority of my time in the trailer that I had been provided with.  Like the other trailers and the few buildings that had been constructed, it was heavily soundproofed.  I and all of the other staff on site would be sent a text message when a test was about to occur, and we’d go into our designated areas to wait for it to be over.

I don’t know what test number it was when things started to get out of hand.  My guess is that it wasn’t one single test, but a cumulative effect from multiple ones.  Dozens of assaults were reported to the local police within a three hour window.  We were located miles outside of the city limits, but I could still hear gunshots when I stood outside of my trailer.  I was listening to that distinctive popping sound when one of the guards came into camp with the news that a fire was burning on the east side of town.

Varadkar and his team came rushing out of the temporary metal building they used as their base camp.  I’ve never seen anyone move as quickly as they were.  He barked a few harsh orders to his team, and they piled into a group of minivans and left.  Once they were gone, he yelled at the guards to begin breaking down the camp.  He then hurried over to me and grabbed me by the shirt, demanding that I tell him how to turn off the towers.

I was completely baffled by his shouting.  I knew for a fact that he was aware of how to shut them down.  He had been doing just that at the end of each test.  I tried to explain that to him, but he kept saying that they were still on and that I needed to turn them off.  His eyes were wild, and there was spittle or foam at the corners of his mouth.  Normally he was calm and collected, but now he looked like a maniac.

He brought me into the metal building and once again instructed me to shut off the broadcast towers.  As calmly as I could, I told him that it was all done through the main power switch, which was on the main computer board underneath a series of a dozen monitors.  He sneered at me and pointed at the monitors, telling me that they couldn’t possibly be off if this was still happening in Williams.

I went over to the monitors to see what he was referring to.  I instantly regretted that decision, and I have every minute since.  The images depicted on the monitors showed what I imagine Hell to look like.  Citizens of the town were tearing themselves and each other apart.  The atrocities being committed…

It wasn’t a riot.  I know that’s the popular story, but I’m here to tell you that it most definitely wasn’t a riot.  As strange as this sounds, it wasn’t organized enough to be one.  It was like everyone had suddenly decided that it was every man for himself.

I watched as an older man of maybe sixty brutally club in the skull of a teenage boy with a tire iron.  I actually knew that man; I had gone into town on several occasions to get food or simply to stretch my legs when testing wasn’t happening, so I recognized him as the owner of a local deli.  It was impossible to tell who the boy was.  He just…  There wasn’t enough of him left to even call him a person anymore.

On another monitor, two women were slowly driving around the parking lot of a gas station in an old beat up station wagon.  A rope was tied around the back bumper, and at the end of the rope was a man with his neck tied in a noose.  He was screaming as he was dragged across the pavement, leaving smears of blood in a trail behind him.

There were countless examples of depravity on display, but there’s one that I just can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try.  A woman was standing directly in front of one of the cameras.  No doubt it was hidden, but somehow she had managed to get into the very center of the frame.  She was just standing there in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, slowly peeling chunks of skin off of her face with an almost bored expression.

I tore my eyes away from the monitor as Varadkar once again demanded that I shut off the towers.  Feeling my stomach churning, I looked down at the computer board on the desk.  The light that indicated when the towers were transmitting was off.  I checked the logs and verified that there wasn’t even power running to them.  They weren’t sending out a signal, and they hadn’t been for several hours.

When I showed all of this to Varadkar, he sat down in one of the leather chairs and buried his face in his hands.  He looked tired, and he seemed older somehow.  I was close to panicking at this point.  I knew that what was happening in Williams had to be at least partially my fault, and I yelled at him to tell me what was going on.  He just pointed at a clipboard sitting on one of the tables.

As I retrieved the clipboard and started to read through the documents, Varadkar haltingly told me what I told you earlier.  The real intentions of the project, the committee meeting, and how the government had handed over an entire town to him.  He didn’t sound remorseful.  If anything, it was more like he was trying to convince me that he had done the right thing.

The papers were a listing of test numbers along with the results of those tests.  There weren’t any exact frequencies listed, but there were reference numbers that I assumed could be used to find that out.

The most recent test, the one that had happened a few hours prior, was detailed on the top sheet.  At first the team had thought that it was another failed test.  Nothing had happened immediately, and the people that they were observing didn’t seem to be affected by it in any way.

About an hour after the test, however, a man was observed hitting another man without any provocation.  More of these incidents had happened as time passed, until suddenly the entire town had erupted in violence.  Instead of things growing calmer the further out they got from the test, they had instead inexplicably ramped up.

There was a handwritten note at the bottom of the page that I read several times to make sure that I was understanding it correctly.  One of the scientists had found that the test frequency was still resonating in the brains of the subjects they had monitors installed in.  I have no idea how they got monitors into people’s brains.  I mean, there’s no way that the people knew about it, right?  They never would have volunteered for that, and Varadkar’s group wouldn’t have told them what it was for anyway.

Regardless of how they did it, the scientist noted that the resonance was actually growing stronger as time passed rather than fading.  That simply should not have been possible.  That’s not how it works.  If you take away the source, there’s nothing to continue to cause the resonance to happen.  There could be effects from the resonance, obviously, but it wouldn’t just continue on.  For it to keep getting stronger…  I don’t have an explanation for it.

There was more to it, though.  The vibration was actually passing on from person to person.  When an affected person was close to an unaffected one for a long enough period of time, the brain of the unaffected one would begin to display a synchronous vibration.  To put it simply, the madness was contagious.

I put down the clipboard and just stared at Varadkar for a long time.  I don’t know how long it was.  I couldn’t think of anything to say.  I mean, how do you put the feelings you experience from reading something like that into words?

Varadkar was the one that ended up speaking.  He raised his head out of hands and looked directly at me.  The expression on his face was one of someone that had completely given up.

“The Devil’s Tone,” he said in a matter-of-fact voice that sent a chill down my back.

Before I knew what was happening, he reached under his lab coat and pulled a gun out from his belt.  I hadn’t noticed it before with everything that was happening.  He pointed it at me.  I stood completely still, afraid that even the smallest movement might make him shoot.  Without even blinking he turned the gun, put it into his mouth, and pulled the trigger.  It went off with a roar, and his body slumped forward in the chair as pieces of skin and blood and bone splattered onto the wall behind him.

That’s when the guards came into the building.  You obviously know the rest.  I had a hood put over my head, and the next time it came off was when I got here.  Wherever here is.

Look, I don’t know what you’re going to do to me, and frankly, I don’t care.  I didn’t know what I was a part of, but I was still a part of it.  None of that matters, though.  The only thing that matters is that you figure out how to stop that resonance.  There’s no way that it is just in Williams at this point.  There were hours between the final test and the outbreak of violence.  How many people left town during that time period without knowing what they were carrying inside of them?  It’s impossible to know.

You have to figure out how to stop it before it keeps getting passed on and on and on until we’re all completely and totally fucked.  Do you understand me?  You have to stop it now, and when you do, you need to toss everything Varadkar worked on into a fire and burn it to ashes.  Slam this door to Hell closed and make sure it never opens again.

I wasn’t very gentle with the door as I kicked it open.  In fact, I struck it so hard with my foot that I felt a stab of pain in my toes.  Swearing loudly, I entered the stairwell and stormed down the steps.

My footsteps echoed off of the close walls and metal steps as I descended.  As I did so, I kept thinking that I shouldn’t have come to the damn apartment building in the first place.  I hadn’t lived there in months.  I had a place across town.  The only reason I was there was at the bidding of my wife.

No, not wife, I corrected myself.  Ex-wife.  Even though that was an extremely new development, there was a huge difference there.  No more trial separation.  What a fucking joke name for a fucking joke idea.  You’re having trouble with your marriage?  Let’s see if distance helps with solving all the problems the two of you have.  Communication?  Nah.  Counseling?  Nope.  What you need is fucking distance.

When she had called earlier that day, I had thought that maybe, just maybe, Courtney had realized the separation was nonsense.  We had been together since freshman year of high school.  We knew each other better than anyone else.  It wasn’t distance that our admittedly struggling marriage needed.  What we needed was closeness and an open dialogue and just being with one another.  That’s all.  We could get past our issues and get things back on track if we were in the same damn room together.

Apparently the hope of reconciliation was an empty one.  I had barely stepped through the apartment door before she was shoving divorce papers in my face.  She had already signed them, her name written out in that perfect penmanship that she’d always had.  The relationship of a lifetime burned away with nothing more than a few strokes of a pen.

To say that I hadn’t been happy about it would be an understatement.  In that exact moment I think I hated her, and anger had flowed out of me.  I had yelled and ranted and raved, not really knowing what I was saying but letting her have every ounce of venom that I had festering inside of me.  She had simply stood there and took it.  The calm expression on her face made my rage grow even stronger.  I don’t know how long it was that I screamed at her.  It was quite a while, though, and by the time I was done I was soaked in sweat.

Courtney had weathered the storm of my accusations and insults, and she had done so without a single word.  Once I had finished, she had led me into the kitchen, sat me down at the table, and waited for me to sign the papers.

She was so… so matter-of-fact about it.  It was like everything that we had been through up to that point simply didn’t matter.  All that she wanted was to be done with the marriage, done with me, and done with the conversation.

Yeah, well, she had gotten what she wanted.  We were done.  All that was left of our relationship were the various items and mementos in the box I was now carrying.

The apartment building wasn’t large, just two stories tall from the top floor to the ground level.  I was about halfway down the stairs when the lights overhead began to flicker.  What the building lacked in height, it made up for in age.  It was easily the oldest structure on the block, and there were always issues with the power.  Most of those issues weren’t serious, but they were still annoying.

I glanced up at the lights before continuing on.  I had only gone down a few more steps when the bulbs over the stairs behind me went out completely.  Stopping, I turned slightly and looked back up towards the second floor.  There were no windows in the stairwell, and without the lights everything more than a couple of yards away from me was covered in total darkness.

My anger diminished slightly as a small bit of discomfort replaced it.  I know it’s irrational and maybe even borderline stupid, but I’ve always been afraid of the dark.  Not to the point where I can’t sleep without a light on.  I’m not a child.  It’s enough that I won’t go into dark basements or walk down unlit alleys at night, though.

Turning back around, I started descending the stairs again.  My pace was just a bit quicker than it had been previously.  While I knew logically there was no one in the stairwell with me, the lizard part of my brain didn’t care what my fancy logic said and just wanted to be back out in the daylight.

I felt a wave of relief go through me as I reached the ground floor.  I hurried over to the door and tried to pull it open.  It didn’t budge.  Frowning, I tried again with the same result.  I didn’t understand what was happening.  The knob was turning, but the door wasn’t opening.

After a few more futile attempts, I knelt down and examined the door closely.  The knob itself didn’t have a lock, and there was enough light coming through the crack between the door and frame for me to see that there wasn’t a deadbolt.  There was no reason, at least not one that I could find, for it not to be cooperating.  It had to be broken or jammed or something.

Not sure what else to do, I knocked on it a few times.  Those knocks started off quiet, almost timid, but they quickly became harder and more desperate as the seconds ticked by without an answer.  My knuckles began to hurt.  Giving up, I lowered my hand and rubbed it with my other.

“Hello?” a voice called from the other side.

Despite myself, I jumped in surprise.  I had been completely convinced that no one could hear my pounding.  I waited for my heat rate to return to something resembling normal before I answered.

“Yes, I’m here,” I said, leaning closer to the door.  “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” came the reply after a moment’s hesitation.

Even without seeing the speaker, I could tell that the voice belonged to a young girl.  I had been hoping to get the attention of someone older and more likely to be able to help, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I got down on one knee so that my own voice would be closer to her level.

“The door is stuck,” I told the girl as calmly as I could.  “Can you go get an adult to help me?  Maybe your mommy or your daddy?”

“My daddy isn’t here anymore,” she answered.  “Momma says that he went to go live with his other family because he doesn’t care about us.”

I blinked, not sure where to even begin with that.  “I’m sorry.  Could you go get your Momma, then?  I really need to get out of here.”

Another hesitation.  “I can’t do that.”

“What?  Why not?  It doesn’t have to be your Momma, it can be any grownup that can help.”

“I’m really sorry.”

I shook my head in frustration.  “Come on, kid, just go get an adult.”

“Nuh uh.  We can’t open the door.  A monster is in there.”

Before I could even process what she just told me, I heard rapid footsteps as she ran away from the door and farther down the hallway.  I started banging on the door again, yelling for her to come back.  That yelling turned to pissed off screaming.  Nothing seemed to work, and by the time I stopped my throat was slightly sore.

A monster.  It was probably some bullshit her absentee mother told her to keep her out of the stairwell.  What a fucking brat.

I turned away from the door and looked up the stairs.  If I couldn’t get out this way, the only option was to go back up to the second floor and use the stairwell on the other side of the building.  With a sigh, I started forward.

As my foot pressed down on the first step, there was an audible pop as another of the overhead lights went out.  I stopped moving and craned my neck upwards.  The upper half of the stairwell was now dark.  Only two lights, the ones closest to the ground level, were still lit.

I stared into the darkness nervously, but I knew that I didn’t have a choice.  Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, I started climbing the stairs back towards the upper level.  Each step brought me closer to the gloom, and every time I took those steps my heart beat in my chest a little harder.

There was something strange about the darkness.  It wasn’t until I drew closer that I was able to figure out what that something was.  There was a clearly defined line where the light stopped and the black void began.  Normally there would be a fading effect, a certain distance where light gradually diminished until it was swallowed up by the dark.  That wasn’t what was happening here.  It was like the light from the bulbs couldn’t break through at all.

I tried shrugging it off.  My eyes were playing tricks on me and the fading was there, or maybe the way the ceiling was sloped had something to do with it.  There was, of course, a rational explanation even if I couldn’t immediately recognize it.

No matter how much I tried to rationalize things, though, I just couldn’t convince myself that something else wasn’t going on.  My fear of the dark had kicked into full swing.  As I peered up the stairs I was sure that I could see figures even blacker than their surroundings moving inside of the darkness.  Without realizing I was doing so I came to a halt and gripped the railing tightly.  I couldn’t force myself to continue on.

Shaking my head, I practically ran back down the stairs to the ground floor.  I didn’t care if I was acting like a frightened child.  All that I cared about was getting further into the light and away from the dark.

I set down the box I was carrying next to the door and leaned up against the wall.  My heart was thudding violently against my chest, and I was breathing heavily.  If things continued that way I was going to have a heart attack.  It was difficult, but I managed to get myself calmed down enough that I no longer felt light-headed and the spots in my vision disappeared.

I almost let out a yelp when I heard a thump from the upper level.  It was the sound of the second floor stairwell door opening.  I had heard it countless times when I had lived in the building.  Now that familiar noise was scaring me half to death.  I curled my hands into fists as I silently cursed myself for being such a coward.

I waited for the person that had come into the stairwell to come down, but that didn’t happen.  I strained my ears as much as I could while I listened intently.  There was nothing.  Apparently no one had actually come through the door.  Maybe they had bumped it while passing by, or maybe they had taken one look at how dark it was inside and said fuck no.

So quiet that I wasn’t sure that I actually heard it, something in the darkness moved.

The breath caught in my throat.  I stood completely still, my eyes locked on the spot where the light and dark met.  In my mind that marked the spot where safety and danger were clearly defined.  Whatever had made the sound was on the wrong side of the line.

I was paralyzed, rooted to the spot as I listened for any other sign that something was really up there.  While I didn’t hear anything, I became more and more convinced as the seconds ticked by that there was a presence in the darkness.  I know how that sounds, especially coming from someone that was self-admittedly afraid of the dark.  I was absolutely sure that I was being watched, though.

There was another noise.  It was still quiet, but I was able to hear it better this time.  It was the sound of a bare foot stepping down onto concrete.  I had been right.  There really was someone up there.

Under normal circumstances I would have called up to the person.  These were hardly normal circumstances, however.  Every instinct that I had was telling me that whatever was up on the second floor wasn’t just a resident of the apartment building.

I didn’t say anything.  I kept my mouth shut while also trying to keep myself under control.  I didn’t think that my heavy breathing could be heard that far up, but I didn’t want to find out, either.

I heard a third slap as the unknown presence went down another step.  It was moving slowly and methodically towards me.  Trying to be as quiet as possible, I attempted to pull the door open again.  It remained stuck.  When the person took yet another step, the next in the series of overhead lights flickered.

A voice in the back of my head told me that I didn’t know that whatever was coming down those stairs was a person.  Unbidden images of monstrous abominations came into my mind.  Any sort of nightmare could be hidden in the darkness.

I forced those thoughts out of my head.  I was only going to drive myself into a complete breakdown if I continued thinking that way.  I had to keep my wits about me so that I could come up with some way out of this.

And there had to be a way out.  I couldn’t accept that I was trapped inside and at the mercy of whatever was descending those stairs.  I wouldn’t let myself be a victim, not ever again.  I once again surveiled my surroundings in hopes of finding something that I had missed.

I noticed a large air vent on the wall to my left.  I either hadn’t seen it earlier or I had subconsciously dismissed it.  It was up high on the wall, but I hurried over to it anyway and reached up.  The tips of my fingers touched the bottom of the metal grate.  After stretching as hard as I could I was able to grasp the frame, but it was secured firmly to the wall and there was no way that I was going to be able to pry it off, let alone climb up into the vent itself.

The flickering lights died completely as I heard another step in the darkness.  This one was closer, around the halfway mark where there was a small landing before the stairs turned towards my direction.  The gap between myself and the unseen presence had closed considerably while I had been distracted with the vent.

I looked up.  There was only one set of lights left.  The illuminated section of the stairwell now barely reached to the stairs.  If the last bulbs went out, there wouldn’t be anything left except the small amount of light coming from the red Exit sign above the door.

I backed up closer to the door.  There really wasn’t a way out.  Even though I knew it was pointless, I grabbed the knob and pulled as hard as I could.  After straining against it for a long moment, I placed one foot on the wall and yanked back so hard that my other foot came off the ground.  For at least a minute I put my full bodyweight into it, suspended above the ground as I prayed that my sweaty hands wouldn’t slip off the knob.

The muscles in my back and arms went from sore to feeling like they were on fire, and I was forced to stop.  I banged on the door with my right hand.  There wasn’t much power behind it.  I was exhausted from the exertion and fear.

Not knowing what else to do, I turned towards the encroaching darkness as the lights started dimming.

“Please,” I begged, feeling tears start to run down my cheeks.  “Please just leave me alone.”

The last of the overhead lights went out.

With terror completely taking over, I pressed myself up against the door.  The only source of light now was the dim red glow of the Exit sign, and although it wasn’t even strong enough to illuminate my entire body, I clung to the hope that it would protect me like a child clings to a stuffed animal.  My eyes were moving constantly back and forth as they tried in vain to see anything in the darkness.

I was breathing in short ragged gasps and on the verge of a panic attack.  Because of this, it took a moment for me to smell the scent that had wafted into my nose.  When I finally realized what it was, though, I recognized it immediately.

It was the smell of the shampoo that my wife used.

I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but I became even more afraid.  It wasn’t possible that she was here.  There was no fucking way.

My mind flashed back to the scene in Courtney’s apartment earlier that afternoon.  She had ambushed me with the divorce papers, and after my initial anger over that had started to die down, we had gone into the kitchen and I had signed the papers.  She had gotten what she wanted.

Even though I had signed the damn papers that I never wanted in the first place, she just had to open her mouth one last time.  She had looked me in the eye and told me with this look of pity on her face that this was for the best.

That was when all the pain and disappointment and boiling rage came back tenfold.  This woman who didn’t even want to be in my life anymore was going to tell me that she knew what was best for me?  Fuck her!  How dare she think that she had the right to determine anything for me!  I’d show her who was the one making the fucking decisions.

Picking up the same pen I had used to sign the papers, I had lunged out of my chair and drove it deep into Courtney’s right eye.  Our combined weight toppled her own chair over onto the tile kitchen floor, and although she opened her mouth to scream, the impact had forced the wind out of her lungs.  Untangling myself, I had hurried over to a set of drawers and dug out a butcher knife.  With the handle clenched tightly in my hand, I returned to Courtney.

I’m not sure how long I stabbed her.  I just kept plunging the knife into her body over and over again.  Each time felt just as good as the first.  By the time that I had grown too tired to continue, both myself and the kitchen were covered in blood, and Courtney was completely unrecognizable as she laid dead on the floor.

Feeling a sense of calmness for the first time in a long time, I had washed up in the bathroom and changed into some of her clothes that were close to my size.  I had then gotten a small box out of a closet and filled it with items from around the apartment that I had purchased over the years.  There was no sense in leaving them behind.  It wasn’t like she was going to need them anymore.

Before I had left the apartment, the very last thing that I had done was go back over to Courtney’s remains and looked down at them.  She had been such a strong woman in life, but now she was nothing at all.  After what she had put me through, it seemed fitting.  I spit on the body and left.

There was absolutely no way that she could have survived.  None whatsoever.  This had to be my mind playing tricks on me.  It was the result of the panic I was feeling over the lights going out.  That had to be it.

I heard a quiet tinkling noise coming from a short distance in front of me.  Courtney had a pair of acorn earrings that she liked to wear.  When she moved, the dangling halves of the acorns would strike each other, making a distinct jingle-like sound.

I tried to remember if she had been wearing them when I had killed her.  I wasn’t sure, but I thought that she was.

Something moved in the darkness, and this time I could see it.  I couldn’t make out any details, but something even blacker than the shadows had shifted.  My voice was caught in my throat.  No matter how much I wanted to cry out and beg for this nightmarish creature to leave me alone, not a single word would come out.

My entire body recoiled as something extended out of the darkness towards me.  With the fear clouding my senses I didn’t recognize what it was, and I stared at it blankly.  The object was shaken aggressively by the holder.  Scared of what would happen if I didn’t figure out what was going on, I peered closer at it.

It was a piece of paper.  It was too dark for me to tell for sure, but it looked like it was blank.  The only exception to this was a long thin line that went from one side of the paper to the other.

“One more to sign,” a soft and raspy voice said from within the darkness.

Another object was extended to me and I took it immediately.  I dropped it just as quickly.  It was the pen that I had stabbed Courtney in the eye with.

The unseen speaker hissed, and I quickly knelt down to collect the fallen pen.  I had to grope around in the darkness for it, and for a horrible moment I thought that I wouldn’t be able to find it.  My fingers finally wrapped around it and I stood back up.

“Sign,” the voice instructed me firmly.

Nodding rapidly, I turned slightly so that I could press the paper against the door.  With a shaking hand I signed my signature on the line.

All of the lights in the stairwell burst to life.  I screamed in surprise, dropping the paper and pen in the process.  Before the scream had fully escaped my lungs, I felt something slam into me.  I stumbled a short distance before tripping and falling to the hard concrete floor.

It was the door that had hit me.  It pushed inward, and a man in a police uniform stepped into the stairwell.  He looked around before his eyes fell on me.  He hurried over to me and helped me back to my feet.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the officer asked.  “We got a call that someone was stuck in here.”

I couldn’t answer him.  Thinking back on it I think that I was in shock.  The ordeal I had just gone through had taken everything out of me, and all that I could do was break down and start sobbing.

“It’s going to be okay,” the officer told me awkwardly.

“Sir?” another man’s voice interjected.

Through my tears, I looked towards the voice.  A second officer had come into the stairwell.  He was younger than the first, and he was staring at the older man with a look of surprise on his face.  His right hand was raised up.  Pinched between his fingers was a piece of paper, the same paper that I had dropped.

Written in blood, slightly distorted from the wrinkles in the paper and above my clearly visible signature, were the words, I Killed My Wife.

“I told you there’s a monster in there,” a little girl said from out in the hallway.

As was usually the case during the winter, the rooms and hallways were absolutely freezing.  Kathy Turner retrieved a sweater from the small closet in her office and quickly put it on.  Making sure that her hair was still at least somewhat pulled back, she put on her lab coat and stuck her hands into her armpits in an attempt to warm them up.

It didn’t help that her office was the closest to the hospital’s main entrance.  Every time the doors opened, the cold air would blow right at her office door.  Even if it was closed the gusts would get in through the cracks and crevices to fill the space and drag the temperature down.

She made a face.  One of the many perks of being the newest doctor on staff.  Another one would be having to work on New Year’s Eve in the first place.  All of the other doctors were bringing in 1974 with their loved ones, and she was stuck here.

She sighed.  There was no point in complaining, even just to herself.  The building was quiet, and with the nurses handling most of the routine work she was getting off easy, all things considered.  She might even be able to finish the book she had been trying to get through for the past three months.

Before she could sit down at her desk, she heard the sound of the front doors opening.  Cold air washed in over her feet and legs from under the office door.  She closed her eyes and shook her head.  Lovely.

“Doctor Turner,” a man’s voice called from out in the hallway.

Kathy opened her eyes.  It was the voice of one of the security guards.  Whenever one of them came to get her, something was wrong.  She mentally gathered herself and left the office.

The guard was a giant of a man.  He stood nearly seven feet tall, and he was built like a linebacker.  He nodded as she joined him.

“The police are here,” he told her as they headed towards the entryway.

“Right,” she replied shortly, knowing that meant that she wasn’t walking into a pleasant situation.

A group of people were wrestling with a distraught man on a gurney near the front desk.  He was tied to it with the usual straps, but a long cord had also been wrapped around his chest.  His eyes were bulging and the veins in his neck were standing out.  He was speaking so quickly that Kathy couldn’t understand what he was saying.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked as she approached, pointing at the cord.

“You’re damn right it is,” a man dressed in a police uniform growled back at her.  “Where are we putting this nutjob?”

“He’s bleeding from his forehead,” she pointed out.  “He also has multiple contusions on his arms and legs.  You should be taking him to County General.”

“We can’t,” one of two paramedics told her in a much kinder tone than the office had used.  “There’s a major accident just outside of it.  At least a dozen cars.  No one can get in or out.”

“Besides,” the officer put in, “a nutjob belongs in the nuthouse.”

“We prefer to call this a hospital,” Kathy snapped, already tired of the man’s attitude.  She looked over at the nurse behind the front desk.  “Joanne, would you please show them the way to one of the rooms, one far enough from the other patients that they won’t be disturbed?  Seventeen is open, I think.”

The paramedic stayed behind while the rest of the group followed the nurse.  Kathy opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head and waited until the others were out of earshot.  When he was satisfied he nodded.

“There’s one more wrinkle in this, Doc,” he said, running a hand over his face.

“I don’t even know what this is,” Kathy pointed out.  “Everyone just barged in without actually filling me in.  If I didn’t think that man would be safer away from that cop I wouldn’t have assigned a room.  What is going on?”

The paramedic hesitated.  “Maybe it would be best if you get that from the officers.”

“Oh, yeah, they seem really inclined to give an unbiased account.”

He smiled slightly.  “You’ve got a point.  The patient’s name is Charles Mayweather.  He lives over on Sixth and Pennington.  You know the neighborhood?”

She nodded.  “Yeah.  Pretty upscale place to live.”

“Maybe not tonight.  From what we can tell, Mayweather just sort of… snapped.  He tried to kill his kid tonight.”  He looked away.  “Eight years old and his dad tried to strangle him.”

“Jesus.  Why?”

“I don’t know.  You heard him ranting and raving, right?  He’s been doing that since we got on the scene.  One of his neighbors called it in.  Apparently the screaming was so loud they could hear it two houses over.”

Kathy mulled it over for a moment.  “It could be stress related.  Maybe his family is prone to mental disorders.”

“Yeah, maybe.”  The paramedic turned his attention back to her.  “He went completely off the deep end with those cops before we got there.  He even bit Officer Sunshine on the arm.  But listen, Doc, there’s that wrinkle I mentioned.  We’ve got the kid with us.”

She blinked.  “You brought him here?  Why the hell would you do that?”

“We didn’t have a choice.  Child services couldn’t get there for hours because of the storm, and both us and the cops are going to be out most of the night with all the wrecks.  Drunk people and ice don’t mix.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Philip.  His name is Philip Mayweather.”

“Fine.  Philip.  What are you going to do with him?”

The paramedic smiled crookedly and shrugged.  “We were kind of hoping that he could stay here until the social worker picks him up.”

Kathy shook her head.  “We’re a hospital.  No, you know what?  Let’s cut the crap.  We’re an asylum.  This isn’t a place for a kid.”

“Neither is out there,” he pointed out.  “We haven’t been able to track down any family, and we’ve got to get back out there.  He’s got nowhere else to go.”

She sighed in frustration.  As much as she didn’t like to admit it, he was right.  The child couldn’t go back out into the storm with the police or paramedics, and at eight years old he certainly couldn’t just wait alone at his house.  She grudgingly nodded once.

“Okay, fine,” she agreed.  “It’s just a few hours, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the paramedic said with noticeable relief in his voice.  “Just until child services gets here.  He’s a good kid, too.  Polite and everything.”

“Yeah, yeah, you can stop the hard sell.  Hand him off to Joanne when she gets back, okay?  I have to go get Mr. Mayweather checked in.”

Kathy went over to the front desk and dug a clipboard out of one of the drawers.  She was glad to find that admission paperwork was already fastened on it.  With a final nod at the paramedic she headed down the hall towards Room Seventeen.

The second paramedic and the two police officers were just coming out of the room as she approached.  They walked past her without a word.  It was rather rude, but she actually preferred it that way.  The officer she had briefly spoken to had rubbed her the wrong way, and she didn’t have time for people like that.  She childishly hoped that the bite on his arm was still hurting.

She entered the room’s open door without pausing.  Although she was still in her first year at the hospital, she had seen her fair share of disturbed individuals.  A surprisingly high number, in fact, when she took into account the small population of Blackwood.

Joanne was in the room talking to the patient in soothing tones.  Mayweather didn’t seem to be responding to her.  He just continued to rave at high speed while struggling against the bonds that kept him tight against the gurney.

“Mr. Mayweather,” Kathy said to him, loud enough that she knew he could hear her voice over his own.  “My name is Dr. Turner.  May I speak with you?”

He continued on as he had been.  She motioned for Joanne to come closer, and she relayed that the son would be waiting for her in the entryway.  The nurse nodded but didn’t move as she continued to watch the man.

“I’ll be fine,” Kathy assured her.  “Just have one of the guards standing by in the hall, okay?  Oh, and have one of the other nurses come in to treat these wounds.”

Joanne left the room.  She observed Mayweather for a few moments.  He was straining against his bonds so hard that she started to worry that he would give himself a heart attack.  Coming to a decision, she went over to the side of the gurney and gently placed her right hand on his shoulder.

“Mr. Mayweather,” she said, keeping her voice calm and friendly.  “You need to settle down before you hurt yourself.  I want to get this cord taken off of you, but I can’t do that if you’re pulling against it like this.”

The man turned his eyes towards her.  They looked surprised, like he hadn’t even realized that she was in the room with him.  His rantings slowed down and grew quieter until they stopped entirely.  He fell flat against the gurney and ceased struggling against the restraints.

“There, that’s much better,” she told him with a smile.  “Thank you for letting me help you.”

She set down the clipboard on the room’s only chair and knelt down to get a better look at the cord.  It was an extension cord, the kind that you could find at any hardware store.  She shook her head in revulsion.  No matter how difficult he had been, this was bordering on inhumane.

It took her a few minutes to undo the knot.  It had been tied tight, and the end had been looped through multiple times.  She eventually managed to get it to come free and unwrapped the cord from around his body.

“There,” she said as she tossed it on the floor and retrieved the clipboard.  “That’s much better, isn’t it?  I know the straps aren’t very comfortable, but that should at least give you a bit more breathing room.”

Mayweather stared at her for a long moment.  She returned his gaze as she waited to see what would happen next.  She would eventually have to go through the standard admission forms, but she wanted to give him some time to process what was happening before getting into that.

Truth be told, she was feeling a bit unsure of herself.  The man that had been dragged into the room acting like a lunatic had been someone that she was used to.  Not him in particular, but she had seen patients in the same kind of mental state before.  Now, though, he was acting completely different.  It was like he was another person entirely.

“The others,” he half spoke, half whispered.

“The other straps?” Kathy asked.  “Those can come off when I’m sure that you’re not going to be a danger to either me or yourself.  I’d like to talk for a while and see how that goes, and we can go from there.  Is that fair?”

He nodded his head once.

“Okay, good.  Let’s start over.  My name is Dr. Turner.  Yours is…?”

“Mayweather,” he replied after a moment.  “Charles Mayweather.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Mayweather.  May I call you Charles?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Charles it is, then.  Now, are you on any medications that I should know about, or any-”

“Philip,” he interrupted sharply.  “Where is he?”

Kathy blinked.  “Philip?  As in your son?  He’s safe.  He’s with one of the nurses right now.”

Mayweather’s face grew pale.  “Keep him away.  Keep him away.”

“Why should we do that, Charles?  Are you afraid that you’ll hurt him again?”

He surprised her by laughing loudly.  It was a cynical laugh, one that didn’t have any mirth behind it.  The sound was cut off as he began to cough.

Kathy tried asking more questions, but Mayweather either refused to answer them or he was no longer processing that she was even speaking to him.  Telling him that she would be right back, she left the room and made sure that the door closed behind her.  Logically she knew that he’d never be able to get out of the restraints, but something about the looks he had given her and the way his voice sounded made her want to take every precaution.

She wasn’t going to be able to get through to him when he was like this, and it was very possible that he would injure himself if he was allowed to remain in such a state.  After motioning for the security guard in the hallway to stay near the room, she hurried down the hallway to a locked door at the far end.  She fished a key out of her pocket and unlocked it.  Inside was the hospital pharmacy.  

Normally she would have opted for the less intrusive option of pills, but she doubted that she could get those down Mayweather’s throat.  Instead, she went over to a cabinet and retrieved a syringe and two small glass bottles.  She put them  into her right lab coat pocket and hurried back to her patient’s room.  He was still caught up in a fit of laughter.

“I’m sorry about this, Charles,” she said as she stuck the point of the needle into the first bottle and pulled back on the plunger part of the way before doing the same with the second bottle.

Kathy inserted the syringe’s needle into the man’s arm and pushed down on the plunger.  When she had empted the syringe, she leaned back out of the room and tossed it and the empty bottles into a wastecan in the hallway.  She waited patiently for the medication to take effect.

After a few minutes, Mayweather’s laughing subsided and his body relaxed.  She waited longer to make sure that it wasn’t some sort of ruse.  She doubted that he was in any condition to come up with anything like that, but there was no point in taking chances.

“There now,” she said finally.  “Feel better?”

“I’m… a bit light-headed,” Mayweather answered slowly.

“That’s a side effect of the tranquilizer.  Nothing to worry about.  Now that you’re calm, I have some questions that I need you to answer.  Can you do that, Charles?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Good.”  She paused to gather her thoughts.  “Can you tell me what happened tonight with your son?”

“That… that thing is not my son,” he spat back with such hatred that she was momentarily taken aback.

“How do you mean that?  Who is he?”

He laughed again, but this time it only lasted for a few seconds.  “What’s the point?  You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

She arched an eyebrow.  “Try me.”

Mayweather was silent for a long moment.  At first Kathy thought that she had lost him again, but as she watched him closely she could tell that he was internally struggling with something.  He chewed on his lower lip as he stared up at the ceiling.

“You’re a psychiatrist, Dr. Turner?” he asked.

“I am,” she confirmed.

“I figured by the room decor.  It’s funny, my wife used to joke that someday I’d be dragged kicking and screaming to the looney bin, and here I am.”

“You’re married?”

“I was.  Doreen passed away five years ago.  Wait, no, it’s six now.  As of this past November.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”  He sighed.  “Anyway, as a psychiatrist, you must have some experience with recurring dreams.”

She nodded.  “Some, yes.”

“I’ve been having the same dream every night since the day my wife passed away.  The exact same dream, down to the smallest detail.”

Kathy furrowed her brow.  It was rare for someone to have a recurring dream that frequently.  Usually a person would have them sporadically rather than over and over again.  She sat down in the small uncomfortable chair and crossed her legs.

“What happens in this dream?” she asked.

“I’m standing on a beach filled with white sand,” Mayweather began.  “In front of me is a vast ocean.  It stretches from horizon to horizon.  The water looks gray in the pale light, and it’s surface is completely undisturbed.  It’s flat and unmoving, without a single wave.

“I look out over the water for what feels like hours.  It could be days, or weeks, or maybe even longer.  I just wait on the beach for something to happen.  I don’t know what will, but I can feel it in my bones that something is going to happen.”

He licked his lips.  One of the side effects of the tranquilizer was dry mouth.  Kathy stood up and retrieved some water from the room’s sink in a small paper cup.  She helped him take a few sips.

“Thank you,” he said gratefully.  “After what seems like an eternity I can just make out a figure walking on the surface of the water.  At first I think it’s some trick of the light, but as it draws closer I can see that it’s definitely a person.  When it reaches the water’s edge I see that it’s Doreen.”

“Your late wife?” she asked.

“Yes.  She’s wearing this long flowing white robe, and she looks like she did when she was in her twenties.  She smiles at me, and all that I want to do is run to her.  Somehow I know that I can’t do that, though.  I can’t leave the beach.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know.  I just can’t.  It’s like…  It’s like there’s this invisible barrier.  I don’t know how to explain it any better than that.  I can’t go into the water and she can’t come up onto the sand.”

“So there are… rules in this dream.”

“I guess so.”  Mayweather grunted uncomfortably.  “Can I at least have the strap around my head taken off?  My neck is killing me.”

Kathy went over to the gurney and undid the restraint.  He sighed in relief and moved his head from side to side.  She could hear his neck crack as he did so.

“Much better,” he muttered before he began to describe his dream once more.  “Doreen and I stare at each other for a long time.  I don’t know if you’ve ever lost someone that you love, some that’s your entire world, but you lose some of yourself when you do.  Seeing her, even like this, makes me feel whole again.  It’s a feeling that you don’t want to end.”

He stopped talking and stared off into the distance.  His eyes were wet, and Kathy could tell that he was struggling to continue.  She patiently waited until he started to speak.

“Eventually Doreen reaches out one hand.  I think that she’s trying to touch me, but she’s actually pointing.  I turn around, and right behind me is a metal contraption.  A machine.”

“A machine,” she repeated.  “What kind of machine?”

“In the dream, she calls it the Stygian Machine.”  He sounded almost wistful as he spoke.  “An instrument that can pierce the veil between life and death.  She tells me that if I can build it to the exact specifications, she and I can be together again.”

There was a scream from out in the hallway.  Mayweather’s head snapped towards the sound, and the blood rushed out of his face.  His breathing became hurried and shallow.

“What was that?” he asked sharply.

“Just one of the other patients,” Kathy assured him.  “The nurses will get it taken care of.  Tell me about this machine.  What does it look like?”

“It’s three pieces,” he replied, his eyes still locked on the door.  “There are two platforms and a large ring.  The ring sits on the platforms, and they supply power to allow it to spin.  On all three pieces are these markings that I don’t recognize.”

“Describe them to me.”

“They’re…  I don’t know.  They look kind of like Egyptian hieroglyphs, but not quite.  They’re carved into the metal on nearly every square inch of the machine.”

“If I unstrap your hand, can you draw some of them for me?”

Mayweather furrowed his eyebrows.  “Well, yes, but is it important?”

She tilted her head slightly.  “It could be.  Symbols in our dreams can represent important messages that the subconscious is trying to pass on to the conscious.”

Being careful not to get in reach of his fingers, Kathy carefully undid the strap around his left wrist.  He rotated it a few times, most likely to get the feeling back into it, but he didn’t make any move to grab her.  She carefully slid her pen into his hand and held up the clipboard so that he could draw on the paper.  When he was finished, she retrieved the pen and looked carefully at the symbols.

“Tell me the rest of the dream,” she instructed.

“There isn’t much more to tell,” Mayweather said.  “I look at the machine for a while, and then I wake up.  But here’s the thing.  When I wake up, I know exactly how the Stygian Machine should be built.  I know exactly where every bolt should be and exactly how tight it should be tightened.  I know that I can build it and get it working.”

Playing on a hunch, she stated, “So you built it.”

His eyes narrowed as his head nodded ever so slightly.  “I built it.  God help me, I built it.”

“And you used it.”

Before he could reply, there was another yell from outside the room.  This one only lasted for a second before it cut off in an odd gurgling noise.  He opened his mouth but Kathy was already continuing on.

“You built the Stygian Machine and you used it,” she said.  “You got the plans for it in your dream and, not knowing exactly what it did or what the symbols meant, you built it and flipped it on.  Does that pretty much sum it up?”

“It wasn’t that simple,” Mayweather countered with sudden anger.  “The machine took me years to build.  Everything had to be exact.  Every single night after my son went to bed I’d go down into the basement and work on the blasted thing.  I had to custom make most of the parts.  It cost me nearly every penny that I had.  And do you think that I liked killing those people?”

The words were barely out of his mouth when his eyes opened wide in shock.  He stammered incoherently as he shook his head slowly.

“Why did I say that?” he asked in a confused voice.

“Who did you kill?” Kathy countered.

“Nobody.  Just some hitchhikers I picked up on the highway.”  The answer was automatic, and he didn’t seem to have any control over it.  “What the-”

“Why did you kill them?”

“I had to.  The machine runs on human flesh and blood.  Please stop, I can’t-”

“How many people did you kill?”

“Eleven, maybe twelve.  I lost count.  What did you do to me?”

Kathy set the clipboard down on the chair and reached up behind her head with one hand.  Using two fingers she took out the band holding her hair up, allowing it to fall down onto her shoulders.  She brushed it away from her eyes before looking back at Mayweather.

“Sodium thiopental,” she told him.  “I filled the syringe with medication from two bottles, remember?  The first was a tranquilizer, like I said.  The other was sodium thiopental.  We use it mainly as a general anesthetic, but at the right dosage it can make a person very compliant when answering questions.  You might have heard it referred to as truth serum.”

Mayweather stared at her uncomprehendingly.

“You built the Stygian Machine,” she continued.  “You carved the symbols into the metal.  You fed it victim after victim to give it the strength to work.  The whole time you thought it was just some… how did you put it?  You thought it was just some contraption.  Never once did you realize that you had created something alive.  Made of metal and oil, yes, but alive nonetheless.”

She leaned in close to him.

“And then a miracle happened, right?  The machine actually worked.  It shredded time and space to create a gate between this world and… somewhere.  Only it wasn’t your wife that came through.  It was something else.”

Tears were streaming down Mayweather’s face.  He was on the verge of breaking down entirely.  It was a bit surprising that he managed to choke out words around the sobs.

“It… it came through and…”  He sniffed loudly.  “I thought Philip was in bed.  He…  must have heard the noise from the machine, and he was at the bottom of the basement stairs watching, and the thing went into him…”

There was a hard thump against the door.  It was quickly followed by a second, and then a third.  When the fourth one came a thick red liquid sprayed against the small window that allowed hospital staff to look into the rooms from the hallway.  It ran down the glass in wide streaks.

Kathy shook her head in a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

“I can’t believe you’re the one that did this,” she said.  “Then again, maybe I can.  You’re the perfect puppet, aren’t you?  An idiot that’s easily manipulated.  You didn’t even think that much about what you were doing.  You just followed an empty promise.  You brought a god into this world without even realizing it.  Then you, what, tried to kill it?  As if you could.”

She absently smoothed a wrinkle out of her lab coat.  “You asked me if I had any experience with recurring dreams, and I told you that I did.  You see, Charles, I have one myself.  There’s a great darkness surrounding me, and a thunderous voice proclaims that I will be the first to greet the bringer of the world’s end.  When this voice speaks, you believe it.  Now that day has finally come, and in a way that I never could have imagined.”

Kathy reached out and opened the door leading to the hallway.  Standing just on the other side of it was an eight year old boy.  He was wearing plaid pajamas; they were soaked in blood, and flecks of skin and gore were stuck to it and tangled throughout his light brown hair.  In the hallway behind him body parts were strewn across the floor and blood was splattered across every surface.

The boy took a step forward.  There were small protrusions coming from underneath his eyes, thin translucent tendrils that moved across the surface of his eyeballs.  He opened his mouth, and four tentacle-like appendages emerged.  Saliva dripped from them as they curled and writhed.

“Charles Mayweather,” Kathy said with a twisted grin on her face, “please allow me to introduce you to the son of your blood, your labor, and your sin.  He is Ancient Erra, Akkadian God of Violence and Plague, and the end of all things.”

The boy came into the room, and she slowly closed the door behind him.

Mayweather screamed.