For the past five years, it’s just been Ian and me.

My wife’s pregnancy with him wasn’t easy.  There were a number of scares and close calls due to health issues that she had experienced all her life.  Every doctor she had ever been to had told her that she would never be able to get pregnant in the first place.  She put on a brave face and joked that she would just get an entire litter of puppies instead, but when she was thinking about it and didn’t know I was watching her real feelings were etched all over her face.  She loved kids, and the thought of not being able to have one herself was heartbreaking for her.

We discussed other options, of course.  Adoption, fostering, you name it and we looked into it.  We even had a meeting scheduled with an adoption agency when a miracle happened.

That miracle was Ian.  Against all the odds, Ellen became pregnant.  Her doctors were at a complete loss.  It should have been impossible, but suddenly there we were, talking about converting our second bedroom into a nursery and planning out how to shuffle around our work schedules to make sure that one of us was always home with the baby.

The complications began about four months into the pregnancy.  It seemed like every few weeks we were at the hospital while the staff ran tests or performed procedures.  Ellen was amazing during all of it.  I was acting like a complete lunatic, worried out of my mind about every little thing, but she would just lay there in the uncomfortable hospital bed stroking her increasingly large belly and smiling to herself.  She would tell me that she just knew that everything would work out in the end, and that all of the issues were just bumps in the road.

She went into labor early, just a few days after the thirty-one week mark.  She waddled into the kitchen and told me in a very calm and very matter-of-fact tone that the baby was coming.  I had been getting ready for bed, so in that same collected manner she retrieved the bag we had packed weeks earlier and the car keys while I frantically got dressed and grabbed the few necessary items that hadn’t gone into the bag yet.

Six hours later, Ian was born.  He was so small, and I could feel my heart sink as he emerged.  The doctor immediately took him over to a radiant warmer table where he and a nurse began working with him.  A second nurse kept me from getting too close to ensure that I didn’t get in the way.  The activity suddenly stopped, and the most wonderful sound filled the room: our son started to cry.  The doctor informed me that due to Ian’s size he would need to spend a couple of weeks in the newborn intensive care unit, but that from what he could see the child would be fine.  I remember feeling so relieved that I had to put a hand on the bed’s footboard to steady myself.

My fingers had just touched the plastic when the alarm on Ellen’s monitor went off.

Ian and I lost her in less than an hour.

It wasn’t anything that the hospital staff did wrong, and it wasn’t anything that could have been prevented.  The stress of the labor and birth had been too much for her, and she had suffered massive hemorrhaging.  The staff did their absolute best to save her.  It just wasn’t possible.  She never even got to hold Ian before she was gone.

I never got a chance to mourn her.  I was now a single parent, and all that mattered was that tiny little baby in the NICU.  The next few weeks were spent going to work, getting through my shift, and immediately returning to the hospital to sit with Ian all night before doing it all over again.  Shortly before he was released, I secured a position with a new company.  It paid less, but it allowed me to work from home.  Without much of a family support system I needed to be there for him at all times.  After all, it was just me and him now.

I wish so much that Ellen could see this incredible child that we made together.  He’s loving, energetic, frustrating, confounding, and so much more.  He’s everything that we could have hoped for and so much more.

He also has a very vivid imagination for his age, which is partly why I didn’t believe him when he first told me that he was being visited by something during the night.

It took a while to get to this point, but we’ve settled into a routine each evening.  We have dinner together, spend about an hour running around outside if the weather is nice or playing inside if it isn’t, Ian gets his bath, and then he lays down to sleep for the night.  This routine is supposed to be finished around eight o’clock each night, but if you have kids you know that no routine is foolproof.  On the first night that he was visited I didn’t manage to get him wrangled into bed until almost nine.

I was catching up on work at my desk when I heard Ian yell for me.  I’m ashamed to admit that my first reaction was to feel irritated.  Normally when he called out like that it was to try to get one last drink of water or to tell me that he isn’t tired and can’t go to sleep.  That would happen at least twice a week.  I said that I have an incredible child, not one that wasn’t prone to the usual four year old tendencies.

When he immediately cried out a second time, though, I stood up and pushed my chair back so hard that it tipped over.  There was panic in his voice.  I hurried up the short flight of stairs to the second floor and flung his door open, my hand immediately going for the light switch.

Ian was sitting in his bed with tears streaming down his face.  The left leg of his pajama pants was pulled up, and his hands were pressed down on the skin.  The sheets and comforter from his bed were laying on the floor.  His pillow was hanging halfway off the mattress.

I hurried over to him and knelt down next to this bed, putting down the safety rail as I did so.  He immediately flung his arms around my neck and started crying harder.  The sobbing was so intense that he started to cough uncontrollably.  I pried him off of me and held him in my lap to allow him to catch his breath.  We sat there for a long time, him crying and sniffing loudly with me gently stroking his hair and telling him that everything was all right.

When he finally calmed down, I sat him on the edge of his bed and took his hands away from his leg.  There were three long scratches running down it.  They weren’t deep, but there were a few tiny beads of blood.  I gently asked him what had happened.  He remained silent.  I asked him again, and this time he lifted his head to look me in the eyes.

“Nighty Night hurt me,” he told me in a tiny voice.

I looked back at him in confusion.  I don’t know what I had expected him to say, but it certainly hadn’t been that.

“Nighty night?” I asked softly.  “Like what I tell you at night before you go to sleep?”

“Nighty Night,” Ian repeated, more forcefully this time.  “He scratched me.  Like the bad cat did.”

Just after his third birthday, he had been scratched by a neighbor’s kitten while trying to play with it.  The claws had even punctured the skin, but the incident had stuck with him.

“I’m sorry, big guy, I don’t understand.  Are you saying that Nighty Night is a cat?”

“No cat.  Nighty Night is a monster, Daddy.  He hurt me.”

I looked back down at the scratches.  They were obviously real, but just as obviously they hadn’t been caused by any monster.  Something else had happened.

I want to make it clear that I never thought for a second that Ian was lying to me.  Sure, he was prone to the occasional fib just like any young child was, but he never lied to me about important things.  Besides, he was too scared to be making up a story.

Scooping Ian into my arms, I carried him into the bathroom and got the first aid kit out of the cabinet.  As I sat down on the toilet and maneuvered him into my lap, I mentally slapped my forehead.  The past few nights I had forgotten to trim his fingernails when I had given him his bath.  He must have scratched himself in his sleep.  It had woken him up, and his still half-asleep mind must have interpreted the whole thing as a monster attacking him.

I quickly bandaged the scratches before trimming his nails with a small silver clipper.  He had calmed down by that point, and I gave him a hug before carrying him back to his room.  When I went to put him down in bed, however, he held onto me so tightly that I nearly tipped forward.  He absolutely refused to sleep in his bedroom that night.  We ended up falling asleep together on the couch downstairs, and by the time the sun was up he was back to his usual self.  The events of the previous night seemed to be forgotten.

It was Saturday, and because I didn’t have to work on the weekends I took Ian to a local state park.  We spent the entire day playing on the playground and splashing around in the lake.  By the time we left the park and headed home we were both exhausted.  He fell asleep in his car seat just a few minutes away from the house.  I carried him inside and up to his bed.  He remained passed out through the entire process.

I planned to let him sleep for an hour or so.  He still needed to eat dinner, and I knew that if he napped for too long it would be almost impossible to get him down that night.  I kicked off my shoes and flopped down in a chair to enjoy the momentary silence.

That silence didn’t last long.  It was shattered by Ian screaming.  It wasn’t a yelp or crying out like it had been the previous night.  This was a full scream, one filled with pain and terror.  I yelled his name as I leaped up the stairs and burst into his room.

Ian was seated on the floor, his thumb in his mouth and his eyes watery.  He was rocking back and forth slowly.  He looked up at me with a blank expression, as if he knew that I was there but my presence didn’t mean anything to him.

I picked him up, and as I did so I felt something warm and wet on my hand.  I pulled it away from his back and saw that there was blood on my fingers.  Just as I had the night before, I carried him into the bathroom and turned on the light.  I immediately saw his back reflecting off the mirror over the sink, and I felt like ice was poured into my veins.

Pieces of his shirt were torn away, and the shreds that remained were red with blood.  I set Ian on the counter and lifted the shirt up over his head.  He was unresponsive during the entire process, and the part of me that was still thinking clearly wondered if he was in shock.

On his back were three cuts, each of them spaced roughly the same distance as the scratches on his leg.  These were much deeper than those, though, and they were bleeding freely.  I bandaged them as fast I could before taking him downstairs and back out to the car.  The cuts were too much for my basic first aid skills.  He needed a doctor.

The drive to the hospital was torture.  I padded his carseat as much as I could with a blanket to try to take pressure off of his back, but he started screaming in pain before we got very far.  Knowing full well that it was illegal, I pulled over, unstrapped him, and set him down in the passenger seat with him sitting sideways before getting back in and continuing to drive.  Maybe that was the wrong call.  I honestly don’t know.  All that I know is that I couldn’t stand for him to be in agony like that.

The nurse behind the emergency room desk immediately waved us through the door when she saw Ian’s back through the window.  She ran off to get a doctor while I carefully set him down on a nearby gurney.  I hugged him as best as I could without touching his back and told him that everything was going to be okay.

“I know it hurts, little man, but I have to ask you something,” I told him, giving him a reassuring smile.  “What happened?”

“Nighty Night,” he replied immediately in a matter-of-fact voice.  “Nighty Night hurt me.”

I didn’t have time to question him further.  The doctor arrived, and she took one look at Ian’s back before telling a nurse to wheel him into a nearby examination room.  I went to follow, but the doctor told me that she thought it was best if I waited outside.  Her eyes were looking past me as she spoke, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw that she was looking at a security guard standing at the far end of the hallway.

If I had been thinking straight I would have understood what was happening, but at the time I was too worried about Ian to figure out what that look meant.

The doctor went into the examination room as the nurse came back out.  She put her hand on my arm and gently led me away from the door.  I protested, of course, but she made it clear that I had to come with her and answer some questions before I would be able to see Ian.

She started by asking me if there were any pets or animals in the house, to which I replied that there weren’t.  She then asked if we had been with anyone else when his injuries had occurred.  When I told her that we hadn’t, she followed up by inquiring if I had been drinking that day.  That was the moment that I started catching on.  The hospital staff was trying to determine if I had been the one that hurt my son.

At some point during the conversation a man in a gray suit entered the hallway and came to a stop next to us.  He introduced himself as a social worker, and he stated that it was his job to make sure that Ian was safe and got the best care possible.  He asked his own set of questions and I answered them as best as I could, but I was sure that he wasn’t really believing me.  It didn’t help that I couldn’t tell him what had happened because I had no idea myself.

Some time later the doctor came back out of the room and informed me that while one of the cuts had been shallow enough to bandage, the other two had required stitches.  To say that I was irate was an understatement.  I wasn’t upset that she had done what was medically necessary.  I was angry that I had been kept out of the room the entire time instead of being in there to comfort him during the process.  She stood there calmly as I yelled, and once I had said my peace and was winding down she told me that she was recommending that Ian stay at the hospital overnight for observation.  After taking a deep breath, I asked as calmly as I could if I would be able to stay with him.

She didn’t answer, but the social worker did.  He told me in a clearly practiced tone that due to the nature of the injuries, he was going to take Ian into his custody for the night while he worked to determine the nature of the injuries.  His tone might have been pleasant and measured, but the implication behind his words was very clear.

“You think that I hurt Ian,” I said, fighting back a second wave of anger.  “I would never hurt my son.  If you think for one second that I’m going to let you-”

“That’s enough,” the social worker snapped, cutting me off.  “You need to stop right there.  I haven’t made a determination one way or another on if I think you did this.  I will say that I’ve met a lot of abusive fathers in my time, and you don’t strike me as one of them.  I have policies and protocols that I have to follow, though.  What’s best for everyone involved is if you go home for the night, get some sleep, and let me do my job so that we can get this put behind us.”

He had caught me off guard.  I stared at him for a long moment before nodding once.  Anything I did other than what he told me to would only jeopardize my situation, and even though the thought of being apart from Ian for a night made me sick, the thought of him being taken away permanently was much worse.  I nodded again and he patted me on the arm.  He told me to come back in the morning and to ask for him at the desk before turning to go into the examination room.  As he opened the door, I clearly heard Ian call out for me.

I left the hospital feeling as if my entire world was burning before my eyes.

I went home and immediately marched up to Ian’s room.  I was determined to figure out what had happened to him.  The scratches on his leg could have been explained away by him causing them in his sleep, but the cuts on his back were another matter.  He couldn’t have reached that area of his body.  Even if he could have, there was no way that he could have made markings that deep.  Something else had happened.

I tore apart his room looking for answers.  A loose screw or nail that he had leaned up against, a broken piece of bed that I hadn’t noticed, a toy with something protruding, anything.  I examined every inch of the room from top to bottom.  I came up empty.  There was nothing that I could find that could have caused his injuries.

Defeated, I leaned up against the wall and slid down the floor.  Something caught my eye, and I reached over to pick up a small stuffed duck.  Its yellow cloth had faded, and overall it looked a bit worse for wear, but I could still easily identify it as the first toy that Ellen had bought for Ian.  It had been right after we had found out that she was pregnant.  She had named it Mr. Quackers.  An absurd name for an absurd-looking duck.

The events of the day caught up with me, and I started to nod off.  I felt my eyelids growing heavier with each heartbeat.  This was good, I reasoned.  I would get some sleep, then be at the hospital the moment the sun began to rise.

That was when I saw the creature standing in the corner of the room.  One moment there was nothing there, and the next there it was, its extremely tall gray body bent over as it pushed up against the ceiling.  Its limbs were extremely long and thin for the creature’s size.  The two arms ended in three needle-like fingers that had to have extended at least three feet from the hands.

Stretched out on its elongated neck was its face.  Its lips, dry and cracked and missing entire chunks in some places, were pulled back in an eternal grin that exposed its oversized white teeth.  The lidless eyes were black in the center, and the areas that on a person would have been white were the dried yellow collar of old parchment.  Dark ichor that had pooled in its jaws slowly dripped onto the floor as it watched me.

“Nighty night,” the creature rasped out.

My entire body jumped as I snapped back to full consciousness.  The creature was gone again, with no trace that it had even been there in the first place.  The spots where the ichor had splattered onto the floor had vanished.  I sat there on the floor, alone in the room with my pulse racing and my breath coming in short gasps.

I could have attempted to rationalize what I had seen.  It probably would have been easy enough to convince myself that I had imagined it, that it was a trick of the light that my nearly unconscious mind had twisted into a horrifying vision.  That was a perfectly rational explanation.

The problem was that I had seen it.  I knew that it had been real.  There was no question about it in my mind.  It was impossible, but I was sure that it had been occupying the corner of the room across from me seconds earlier.

My breathing slowed, and my panic was slowly replaced by nausea as a realization came to me.  Ian had also seen this creature.  It had stood over my four year old son with that nightmarish face.  It had then proceeded to hurt him not once, but twice.  If I was this scared, I couldn’t fathom how frightened he had been.

Nighty Night.  Ian had called it Nighty Night.  It must have said the same thing to him that it had said to me.

I got up off of the floor and left the bedroom, closing the door behind me.  I stood in the hall for a moment before rushing into the bathroom and throwing up in the toilet.  It went on for quite some time, so long that I started to wonder if it would ever stop.  When it finally did, I collapsed against the bathtub, light-headed and close to passing out.

There was a thud from inside of Ian’s room.  I lifted my head as best as I could and looked out through the bathroom doorway.  I managed to focus my eyes just in time to see the knob on the bedroom door start to turn.  There was an audible click, and the door slowly swung open.

Nighty Night’s face took up much of the bedroom doorway as it grinned at me.  I tried to stand up, but I was too weak from throwing up to manage it.  I could only watch as Nighty Night pressed its head against the wood frame.  It was too large to make it through the opening.

My feeling of relief was only momentary.  Nighty Night started to push its head harder.  Its face stretched back as the head slowly began to force its way through.  It was like watching rubber being forced through a hole.

“Nighty night,” it rasped, the voice coming out distorted through the stretched lips.

I had to leave, and I had to do so quickly.  More of the monster’s head was making it through the doorway every second, and it wouldn’t be long before it was free of the room’s confines.  Ignoring my aches and pains, I forced myself into a standing position.  My head swam and once again I was sure that I was going to pass out, but somehow I was able to  barely remain conscious.  Nighty Night’s face was almost all the way through the doorway now.  I stumbled into the hallway and pressed myself up against the wall opposite from the creature.  Being as careful as I could, I moved past it, feeling its hot breath on me as I did so.  Its teeth were mere inches away from my body.  I made it through the thin opening and hurried down the stairs.

My foot caught on the last step.  It wasn’t enough to make me lose my balance entirely, but it did trip me up and I stumbled forward before falling over the side of the couch.  My head struck one of the armrests.

I must have blacked out.  I don’t remember doing so, but the next thing I knew I was being awoken by the sound of knocking.  I sat up on the couch and immediately regretted doing so as the worst headache I’d ever had greeted me.  The knocking continued.  It took me a few seconds to figure out that someone was banging on the front door.

I stood up and took two steps towards the door before I remembered what had happened.  I looked up the stairs expecting to see Nighty Night squeezing its way down the hallway towards me, but the creature was gone.  Still a bit dazed and not sure what else to do, I continued over to the front door and opened it.

Standing on the other side was a large man in a police uniform.  He was holding a clipboard under his arm and a pen in one hand.  He nodded at me but didn’t smile.

He asked me my name and I gave it to him.  He informed me that he was here at the request of the social worker from the hospital, and that he would like to inspect my son’s room.  I moved aside and let him into the house.  I closed the door behind him and led him up the stairs.  I didn’t want to go anywhere near the second floor after what I had experienced, but if I didn’t comply with his request it would undoubtedly impact my chances of getting Ian back as soon as possible.  I took him to the still open bedroom door and we went inside.

Night Night wasn’t there, of course.  The officer took the clipboard out from under his arm and asked me a few questions, and I answered them as best as I could.  He scribbled some notes on the paper as I spoke.  Seemingly satisfied with my responses, he then got down on one knee and examined the safety rail that ran along the sides of Ian’s bed.

“Have you done anything in this room since you brought your son into the hospital?” the officer asked.

“I looked around to try to figure out what happened,” I told him.

“Okay, but did you change the bedsheets or anything like that?”

“What?  No.  I just moved things around and put them back.  I didn’t change the sheets.”

The office nodded.  “Well, it looks like Mr. Eaton was right.”

“Mr. Eaton?”

“The social worker assigned to your son.  See here?  There’s no blood on the sheets, but there are three streaks along the safety rail.  They match up to where the poles are on the rail.  Mr. Eaton thinks that your son tried to get out of bed while he was still out of it and slid over the rail.  He must have caught the poles just right through the fabric and they dug into him.  Cute kid, by the way.  He said that he was going nighty night and that his back started feeling ouchy when he got out of bed.  Eaton put things together from there.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.  The theory was wrong, and Ian’s words had been completely misinterpreted.  The blood trails and the spacing of the rail poles were pure coincidence.  It was all working completely in my favor, though.

“Good thing, too,” he continued.  “If he hadn’t figured it out or if I had found anything to prove him wrong here, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

Seemingly satisfied with everything, the officer left and went back to his car.  I watched him through the window as he pulled out and headed down the street.  The sun was starting to come up over the trees, and I could hear the family of robins in the front yard tree chirping.  I decided that it was close enough to morning to go to the hospital and get my son back.

It went smoother than I had expected.  The social worker had me fill out some quick paperwork so that they had my statements for the record, and after that he led me to a patient room on the opposite side of the hospital.  He had barely opened the door for me when Ian came running up to me barefooted with his little hospital gown waving behind him and practically jumped into my arms.  He hugged me tightly and, being careful to avoid the white bandages covering his stitched cuts, I hugged him back.  We stood there for what seemed like an eternity, me crying and him telling me all about his stay in the hospital.

That was two months ago.  The house that I raised Ian in is currently for sale, and my realtor tells me that there are a number of people interested even though it hasn’t been listed very long.  A seller’s market, she calls it.  I’ve only been back twice since that night, once to pick up our clothes and other necessary items, and once to pack the remainder of our belongings and put them into storage.  Both times were during the middle of the day, and each time I made arrangements for Ian to stay with someone instead of accompanying me.

We’ve been living at a hotel on the other side of town.  My long term plan is for us to move far away, possibly all the way to the coast.  I want to put as much distance between us and this place as possible.

Last week, I read a newspaper article in the local paper about an officer that killed his wife.  According to the report, he had said that he had just started to doze off one night when a giant monster appeared in his room.  He had grabbed the gun that he kept in his nightstand and fired off five shots at it.  The monster disappeared, but his wife had been walking into the room at the time and two of the bullets struck her, killing her almost instantly.

No one believed him, of course.  How could they possibly have?  It was a ludicrous story.  He seemed so convinced that he was telling the truth that a psychological evaluation was ordered before formal charges were filed.

Three days later he was found dead in his cell.  Not just dead, but damn near decapitated.  The police are baffled.  He was alone in his cell, and there was nothing he could have used to do that to himself.  The guards think that one of the other prisoners got in and did the job.  Former cops don’t have a lot of friends in jail, after all.  They’re at a loss to explain just how a prisoner could have gotten into the cell and caused so much damage without alerting anyone.

This was the same officer that had come to my house.  

I know what happened to him.  It was the same thing that almost happened to both myself and my son.  It was Nighty Night.

I think that I’ve got the creature’s appearing and disappearing act figured out.  I was on the verge of becoming unconscious both times that I saw it.  The first time I was almost asleep, and the second time I was trying not to pass out.  When I actually did black out it didn’t harm me.  The officer said in his statement that he was falling asleep when he saw the monster in his room.

I think Nighty Night exists in that ever so brief moment between awake and asleep.  When you enter into that moment, you can see it… and it can look right back at you.  Or maybe I’m wrong and it’s always there, watching and waiting until it can come for you in that short time where your world and its are connected.  I don’t know.  I don’t have all the answers.  I doubt that I ever will.  

Knowing exactly what Ian had gone through might provide more insight, but it doesn’t matter.  I refuse to ask him about it.  He’s sleeping through the night now that his wounds have mostly healed, and I’m not going to dredge up bad memories that could only hurt him.  He deserves to be safe and protected from things both natural and unnatural.  He’s been through enough already.

I’m afraid that he’s going to be through more before this is all over.  Last night, as I watched him sleeping on the bed in our hotel room, I started to drift off in the uncomfortable chair in the corner of the room.  I was just about out when I heard something through the glass window to my right.  It was faint, as if coming from quite a distance away, but I recognized it immediately.

“Nighty night,” the raspy voice called out in the darkness.

I jerked awake and immediately stood up to start packing our things, being careful not to wake Ian up as I did so.  He needed his rest.  We were going to be on the road for a long, long time.

I know these woods like the back of my hand.  Being one of the rangers around these parts, I’ve spent a lot of time taking in the beautiful scenery.  I could tell you God knows how many different stories about brawls I’ve broken up, kids smoking weed out here, and even reports of stalkers, just in this area alone.  

Okay, in all honesty, I haven’t exactly broken anything up, but I have assisted those who did.  I haven’t always been the best with confrontation, but I’m starting to get better about it.  Some of the guys would make fun of me for not being more forceful when it’s necessary, but that just wasn’t my scene.  

The forest surrounding Grady National Park wraps around at least half of the city.  We’ve always had plenty of bizarre rumors and such, dating back to long before the series of strange deaths, when I was just a toddler.  I suppose most small towns have their fair share of unsettling stories in their history.

Even over the years I’ve been a Ranger, people would go missing on occasion, or some freaked out tourists may claim they had seen some bizarre things.  Sometimes a dismembered body will turn up, which I have fortunately not been around for, as I wasn’t always able to handle the sight of blood too well.  Still, I could barely wrap my mind around what happened that day.

Granted, my mind wasn’t what it used to be.  The car accident, back when I was in junior high, not only left my heart heavy but changed me as well.  The truck that ran the red light, plowing into the passenger side of my father’s car, instantly killed my mother, left my father with his left leg, missing below the knee, and landed me in a coma.  

I came out of it a month or so later, but the damage to my brain took some time to repair.  While I was once a stellar student, on my way to bigger and better things before that wreck, the time it took for me to recover from my injuries, as well as my altered brain function, left me a shadow of the man I could’ve been.  

The loss of my mom, the dramatically altered parenting style of my heartbroken dad, and my inability to focus the way I used to, made life far more difficult over the following years.  My father was still a loving guardian, but we grew more distant over time.  I knew he was hurting, but I was too.  I just wish we could’ve remained as close as we once were after we shared such a devastating loss.  

Before the accident, we would take a camping trip at least once a year.  Considering that it was as we made our way back from that final vacation that our family was left in ruins, there wouldn’t be any more excursions out into the wilderness, or anywhere else, for my old man and I.  

Though that last trip had such an impact on my life, I still had so many fond memories of those happier times.  I think that’s why I ended up settling on this particular profession.  It may seem a bit morbid to some, as this is the same spot we used to frequent in my youth–the one we had only just left behind before the accident, but I couldn’t blame such a beautiful place for a tragic event.  

I still felt connected to it, in a strange sort of way.  Maybe it’s simply because it was the last place where I really felt content–where I felt whole.  Perhaps it was just my inherent love of nature, and being there made me feel closer to my mom, in a strange sort of way.  Yes, she died not far from here, but this was the last place I saw her smile–something that was always contagious.  

I like to keep moving, for the most part.  Some of the guys stick to specific areas, plus they’re a hell of a lot more sociable to the residents and tourists, but I like to take in the sights as much as I can while being left alone, if possible.  It’s a beautiful countryside out here, so there’s no shortage of spots to just immerse yourself in the wonder of it all.  

This one clearing, right next to the lake, where the waterfall from high above cascades into the rapids, has always been one of my favorites.  I couldn’t even tell you how many recordings I’ve captured over the six years I’ve been a Ranger, but I always find myself coming back to this place.  

Not to sound like I’m pushing aside my responsibilities or anything like that, but I’ve taken quite a few naps, leaning up against the base of the mountain, and just drinking in the ambiance.  Of course, as soon as I wake up, I end up having to find the nearest tree, as passing out next to rushing water has quite the effect on the bladder, but it’s a fair trade for the peacefulness of it all.  

It was after coming back to the waking world one day that I noticed it for the first time.  Many of the trees surrounding the clearing are ancient, wide, and tall, damn near reaching as high as the peak of the mountain.  While I shambled over to one of the more secluded trees, tucked away from any wandering eyes by the shadows cast by the rock formations above, I noticed the light of the setting sun reflecting off of something.  

At first, I almost thought someone was out there, shining a flashlight in my direction, exposing my draining bladder to the world, but I would be very mistaken about that assumption.  After taking care of my business, I wandered over to where the glow was coming from, immediately puzzled by what stood before me.  

This tree was a beast, its trunk as wide as my truck is long, reaching so high you could very possibly step right off the mountain and onto its branches.  Being one of the more imposing in this area, I knew it pretty well or was at least familiar enough with it to know that it wasn’t like this before.  

The simple, black, wooden door was recessed about a foot into it, the shiny, brass knob catching the light as the sun sank away behind the mountain.  It didn’t look painted if that makes sense.  It was more like the wood the door was constructed from was black, or possibly burnt.  I hesitantly ran my fingers across it, surprised by how smooth it was.  It felt like stroking a chrome-plated bumper, rather than a door that looked as though it belonged in a creepy, old house.  

It was that very thought that inspired me not to attempt to open it–the idea of some sinister mansion being somehow tucked away in the guts of an enormous tree.  I came close; though–wrapping my hand around the shiny knob, protruding from the bizarre entrance to God knows what, but after a moment, I let go.  

It may sound a bit nuts, but when I grabbed that knob, everything fell silent around me.  Being that the door was facing the waterfall, maybe about twenty or thirty feet from it, at that moment, it may as well have been twenty miles away.  It was as though some impenetrable wall suddenly formed around where I stood, blocking out the sounds of the rushing water, the wind gently brushing the leaves, and the cars drifting by on the interstate, off in the distance.  

Though I was quite curious about what may lie behind the door, I was feeling more unsettled than anything.  I just backed away from the thing as if it had me at gunpoint.  The further I got from it, the more my head cleared up, which was enough to convince me to head back to the station.  

During my walk, I was arguing with myself about whether or not to tell some of the other guys about this, while attempting to convince myself that I was just seeing things.  It’s not unusual for me to see strange things after waking up, my mind with one foot still in a dream and the other dragging it along in the real world.  

By the time I reached the cabin that we worked out of, I had shaken the whole thing off, deciding it was best not to give the guys a reason to look at me like I’m crazy.  It was still on my mind, of course: the unusual door as well as the way it made me feel, but that part only assured me that I was still half asleep at the time.  

A week or so passed before I went back out there to see no trace of the door, just the thick trunk and rough bark staring back at me.  I still felt a bit uneasy about dozing off out there, even if the absence of the bizarre entrance to something else convinced me of my suspicions about it not being real.  

It was probably a month or two after that day, that I would find myself face-to-face with it again.  It wasn’t as I patrolled, but as I headed home for the night.  The nearby highway that ran parallel to the waterfall was the second step in my usual return trip, after the back roads from the cabin to the wider, two-lane road.  

There wasn’t much traffic that night, so I kept an eye on the path ahead, and another thumbing through my playlists in search of music for the ride.  It was during that silence as I sought out my driving soundtrack, that I heard the screaming.  I practically skidded into the ditch as it caught my wandering mind by surprise so much that I jumped in my seat.  

I pulled over to the side of the road, next to the woods that would lead to that waterfall, hearing that muffled wailing again.  While I was reluctant to seek out the source of the agonized howl, I felt a strange sort of compulsion to pursue it.  Though I’m not one to look for a fight if I don’t have to, something inside me was begging me to check it out.  

I don’t want to come off like a coward or anything, but on any normal day, I try to avoid conflict like the plague.  Not this one, though.  I wasn’t certain how far into the woods the sound was coming from, but I pulled the heavy flashlight from the center console and headed directly into the forest without giving it a second thought.  

Though I was quite familiar with the area, it didn’t make sprinting between the trees with only the torchlight illuminating the path ahead any easier.  Still, the louder the screaming grew, the more I was certain I was on the right track.  

After about ten to fifteen minutes of forcing my quickly weakening legs onward, I cleared the denser woods that led to that clearing.  As soon as I passed through to where those thicker, far more ancient trees surrounded the cascading waterfall, the screaming fell silent.  It almost felt like it was some insanely realistic recording that ended the moment I set foot in that area.  

I panned my flashlight around the vicinity, desperate to locate the source of that pain-filled squeal, but there was nobody out there, not that I could see anyway.  It wasn’t until I stepped a few more places forward, passing by the first of the thicker trunks that I saw something that almost caused my fingers to lose their grip on my guiding light.  

The warm glow emitting from the cracked open door, recessed into that same enormous tree almost looked inviting at first.  There was only an inch of light peering through the opening, making me wonder if someone had meant to close the door, neglecting to allow it to latch all the way.  That was a theory that made sense anyway, even if the door itself made none.  

As I walked closer, my torch bouncing against my upper thigh as my arm swung limp beside it, I felt that same bizarre sensation of walking into a tunnel.  Just as it had before, the sounds of the rushing water and wind sweeping through the branches drew further away with every step.  When I stopped right in front of the thing, it was as though I had my head was dunked in the lake, with pillows strapped around my ears.  

The world felt so far away from where I stood, my body beginning to slightly spasm from the cold and eerie grip of that warm hue, leaking from within.  Before my mind had a chance of grasping what my body was doing, my palm pressed against the slick wood, nudging the entrance open a little more.  The hinges squealed like a mouse caught in a trap, as the glow from whatever lay within that tree grew wider and wider, tracing my shadow across the autumn leaves behind me.  

While I couldn’t make out the sound of the rushing water to my back, the further the door swung open, the more I could hear the rapids on the other side.  The vision of that same riverbed I had slept next to more times than I can count, caused me to turn my head to ensure the one behind me was still there.  Sure enough, that very waterfall was both behind and before me as I stood in front of that splayed open entrance.  

When that same scream echoed from somewhere beyond the threshold of that ancient tree, my somewhat reluctant instincts took over for my absent mind at the time, speeding me into the foreign and eerily familiar landscape.  As soon as I passed through, darting my head from side to side in search of whoever may be in trouble out there, the sudden, jarring sound of the door slamming shut almost caused me to leap out of my skin.  

Glancing back to see a white door, recessed into the tree, with the same, brass knob protruding from it, I almost forgot what had inspired me to enter.  Again, I moved closer, back the way I came, hearing the ambient sounds of my new location fading further away.  Though the screaming met my ears again, it was far more muffled than the last, taking me a moment to register.  When the distant ‘help’ joined the wailing, though, I finally snapped my senses back to the situation at hand.  

With the terrain being so familiar to me, I began to head to the left of the waterfall, where a trail should lead up around the side of the mountain.  It wasn’t until I almost ran straight into the wall I would often rest against, that I understood in what manner this place differed from the one I left behind.  

After studying the flat, rocky surface for a moment, I made for the right–the opposite direction from the one I was more familiar with.  Every west I knew was an east here, like a mirror image of the world I left behind.  Though I wanted to dwell on this more: to unlock the mystery of my puzzling location, I had no time to waste with whoever provided that scream moving further away by the second.  

Everything I veered around as I ran as quietly as I could in pursuit of the source of that agonized wail was so familiar to me, but so foreign at the same time.  Even the steep, uneven and winding path turned in the opposite direction I was used to, but not in a way that caused me to stumble or slip.  

If anything, as bizarre as it may sound, I felt as though I could close my eyes and find my way around without a second thought.  Perhaps it was nothing more than the way our mirror image is the one we know, as opposed to how we look a little off in pictures or recordings.  We can never truly look upon our own faces, not the way others can.  

These thoughts and realizations didn’t fully form in my mind until I ran into another clearing, near the midway point in the trail.  It wasn’t as much the shrieking woman who looked to be in her late teens, or early twenties, being trussed up to the tree.  It wasn’t the three other scattered bodies, two male and another female, bleeding from various wounds either.  The man who was tying the rope around the screaming girl, however; he inspired me to stop in my tracks.

“I thought this might be enough to grab your attention,” he said, my own voice sounding unnervingly confusing to my ears.  

I had no words of my own to offer the man with the exact same facial features as me.  Everything about him was like I was gazing into my reversed reflection, down to the scar across my right eyebrow, his being on the left.  

The uniform he wore, down to the scuffed-up belt buckle, was the same as mine, just a slightly darker color scheme.When he smiled, raising the left side of his mouth a little higher than the right–again, mimicking my mirror image, I felt the blood drain from my face, my head spinning from this bizarre sight.  

“I wasn’t gonna hurt her,” he said, a shrug accompanying his familiar grin, “not until you got here anyway ” 

“NO!” I yelled out, my quivering legs attempting to push me towards him, as he unclipped my father’s pocket knife from his belt.  

I couldn’t even hope to close the gap between us by the time I convinced my trembling extremities to move, before he flipped open the blade, digging it into her chest.  Blood streamed to the forest floor as he turned it from side to side, gaping the wound wider as he twisted his wrist, the woman only moaning as she had no strength left to scream.

My legs burned and my heart beat like a stampeding herd as I drew close enough to tackle him, taking us both to the ground.  

“Wait!” he barked, his words stopping short as my fist met his jaw, causing us both to recoil from the hit.  

I tumbled to the side of him, wrapping my hand around my swelling jaw, while he did the same.  After a moment, we just started at one another, with his whimpering victim falling silent.  It was at that moment that I fully understood the gravity of the situation, while we both wiped the blood from our split lower lips.  

“What the hell are you?” I asked, gasping for breath.  

“You don’t recognize me?” 

“That’s not an answer! What…the hell …are you!?” 

He cut his eyes from me to the scattered corpses on the grass, to the lifeless woman with blood still trickling from her chest and mouth, and back to me again.  

“I’m your better half,” he said, a sinister smile reaching across his lips.  

This was the first moment in which I couldn’t see myself in his face.  His piercing gaze seemed to darken, as he bared his teeth in a way that made him completely foreign to me.  

“I won’t let you go…I won’t let you…”

“What, exactly?” he said, the smile fading from his face, “you won’t let me kill again? Is that what you think? How are you gonna pull that off? You can’t hurt me without hurting yourself, even your stupid ass can figure that much out.”

“You got some freaking nerve! How exactly am I any dumber than you!?” 

“For one: you think you can reason with me, or stop me from being what I was born to be.  Two: I was always the better part of us.” 

“What the..?” 

In that second, the puzzle pieces fell into place, as though a veil was lifted from my eyes.  Though it was not easy to deny facts that I was quite literally confronted with, I refused to accept what he was implying: that it was he that I lost in the accident that stole my mother from me and my dad.  

“We’re all two parts, buddy,” he said, interrupting my reeling thoughts, “one good, one…well, not so much…” 

The doctors told me that my brain was damaged in that collision–that I lost a part of myself, but that couldn’t have been literal, right? We’re not two physical beings, trapped in one fleshy husk! 

No, I wouldn’t believe it.  There was no part of me capable of doing what he did.  My whole life, I’d never so much as hurt a fly; not if I could help it.  Though I wasn’t the sharpest kid in high school, I never mocked or insulted anyone.  My teachers would practically brag about my behavior to my dad, even if that was to soften the blow of my grades not being the best.  

I had, and would never hurt…wait…that’s not quite true, is it? Yes, I was smart in junior high and kindergarten–gifted, my teachers would even say, but that’s not all I was, was it? I was egotistical, arrogant, and cold.  I treated my popular friends well while pushing around the smaller and less fortunate kids.  

I was a bully.  

“You’re getting there,” my reflection said, that unsettling grin breaching his lips again.  

“I…I like who I am…I like who I am, without you,” I said, the weight of my former self weighing heavily on my conscience.  

“Ain’t about what you like more,” he said, walking closer, “neither of us can be right until we’re whole again.” 

“Back the hell off!” I shouted, drawing my heavy flashlight like a sword.  

“You wanna stop me, don’t ya…only two ways that can happen…” 

“I’m serious! Back the…”

“ONE: you can beat me senseless with your little toy there, and hope to God you can end me before you bleed dry yourself…” 

“You’re not….”

“TWO: you can let me back in…you can let me come home…”

“Never,” I said, shaking my head in denial, “I’ll never let you in.” 

“Ain’t like you’ll go around, snuffing folks out when we’re whole again,” he said, tossing our dad’s pocket knife to the ground, “I’m only like this ’cause I’m undiluted…got no happy, happy thoughts bouncin’ around the old noodle.  It’s the same reason you’re such a FUCKIN’ PUSSY! You’re all sunshine ‘n’ rainbows, y’see…ain’t got no black blood pulsin’ through you…” 

I felt the tears streaming down my face, both in denial of facts I was still fighting to deny, as well as what I may have to do to prevent him from getting what he wanted.  

“Time to make a decision,” he said, hunching over as drew closer, spreading his fingers like a cat about to pounce, “LIVE OR DIE, LITTLE BOY!” 

With that, he charged me, tackling me to the ground as I had to him only moments earlier.  As we rolled on the dead leaves and grass, he thrust his fist into my gut, causing us both to cough and buckle from the impact.  My elbow struck his chin, jarring my jaw so hard, I feared I had broken it.  

We continued like this until we were equally as bruised and bloody, each of us wincing from every blow we traded.  By the time I pushed myself back from him, back in the direction I came from, I hadn’t even realized how far we had tumbled while we waged our battle of self-injury.  

I pushed up from the bumpy ground, my head spinning so much that I didn’t realize that it was not my dizziness that made my equilibrium so offset, but the steep slant I was next to at the time.  

“No!” my doppelganger screamed as I lost my footing, leaving me tumbling down the uneven path.  

It almost felt like I was moving in slow motion, seeing my own, anguished face yelling out as his arms reached for me.  I can’t say whether it was my back meeting the slanted ground, or the other me leaping into my midsection that felt more jarring at the time, but before I knew it, the two of us were tumbling down that hill, sharing more wounds as we bounced from rocks to dips in the path, over and over.  

How long we careened from one object to the next as we poured like a poorly choreographed avalanche down that hill, I couldn’t even tell.  When our descent finally came to a close, mud, dirt, and leaves pasted to the sticky blood leaking from God knows how many places on my body, I found myself just lying there, gazing up at the moon, shining down from above.  

My conscience wavering, every inch of my broken body screaming in agony, my eyes fell shut, sending me once more into blissful darkness.  

I can’t say if it was the ominous, humming sound, or my body being dragged across the ground that shot me back to consciousness, but my vision was still blurry, at best.  With the still uncertain condition I was in, I hadn’t the strength or ability to fight against the hands gripped under my arms, pulling me from the spot where my fall came to a close.  

“Stay with me,” a gentle, feminine voice spoke–one that felt so familiar, and so distant at the same time, “we’re almost home, baby boy.” 

When my eyes finally registered the now violently shuddering tree, with the white door forming cracks in the trembling wood, my already thundering heart sank with the possibility of my way home crumbling apart before me.  

When the hands slipped free from around me, my bones clicking and crunching as I attempted to face the one who brought me this far, I heard the hinges of that ancient door swinging open.  

“You have to go the rest of the way on your own,” the voice said, “I can’t follow you through.” 

My eyes finally met those I had first seen in this world, the distant and forgotten memory of that moment, shooting forward from the depths of my subconscious.  Fresh tears blended with the thick blood, crusted to my cheeks, my chest burning from this wondrous vision.  

“Go!” she said, glancing from me to the door, “you have to go, baby boy…there’s no time!” 

While my fractured heart begged me to stay, my weary and agonized shell fought to push me free of the hard ground, a warm hard cupped around my split and swollen face.  

“I’ll see you again, my love,” she said, her lips forming that playful smile I adored since I formed my first thought, “but not yet…” 

I found myself standing on my own two feet, the shuddering, open door to my back, and the dark sky splitting like a sheet of heavily tinted glass.  

“Not yet,” my mom said, as the world around us crumbled apart, my body falling weightless through the opening to the one I belonged in.  

•

My eyes sprung back open, uncertain of when they had closed, with my back pressed to the glass and dirt.  I sat straight up, running my fingers across my face in search of injury, only meeting my stubble in the process.  

The ancient, wide tree stood before me, with no trace of a door in sight, only the centuries-old bark, with the moonlight accentuating its hardened texture.  My senses still reeling, while my mind fought to recall where I had just been.  Ultimately, after understanding that I was only recently on my way back home, after a long day at work, I headed back in the direction of my truck, hoping it was still by the road where I left it.  

The next few days came and went in something of a haze.  There were reports of some missing college kids: two male, and two female, but there was no sign of where they went.  Though the memories of my time behind that door took a while to fully reform in the back of my mind, it’s not something I could really explain to anyone.  

Not only did I not want people to think I was nuts, but I wasn’t about to tell them what, or who had abducted the four who went missing.  While the man I was before following the path they ended up taking may only be half of the one who came back, I won’t be held responsible for what my sentient darker half did.  

Once upon a time, my conscience would have been crippled beneath the weight of those deaths, but my more recently reclaimed, logical mind understands that it wasn’t truly my fault.  It was as he, well, I said, ‘that he was the undiluted version’, after all.  

Whether it was that fall that linked us back together or the actions of the one who saved me from being lost in that place, I suppose I’ll never know.  It is quite amazing though, the feeling of being whole again for the first time in years.  

I still don’t fully understand how I came back to this side with none of the injuries I received there.  Perhaps it was more the split parts of my soul who faced off in that bizarre, mirror world, rather than the physical form of my fractured body.

While that doesn’t fully explain the missing teens, I suppose I’ll never have all the answers to what happened that night, nor what truly occured after that collision that ripped my family apart.  Life goes on, regardless of any of that, when all is said and done.  

 Though I’m planning to start taking some night classes, to finally earn some sort of degree, I don’t plan to quit being a Ranger.  I love my job, which is something that both sides of me can agree on.  I suppose I just have something of a need to prove to myself that my brain is working as it used to before I ended up with quite the literal split personality.  

Don’t worry, I don’t have any desire to stalk and murder anyone, well, not entirely.  I have a few urges I didn’t have before, but I’m certain it’s nothing that I can’t control.  Yes, I’m a little more broody than I was not so long ago, but also a good deal less cowardly, so that’s something at least.  

 Whatever happens from here, I will neither be taking naps on the job nor revisiting that spot by the waterfall, if I can help it.  One thing I learned from all of this, is that there’s far more to being content, than being happy.  It’s not all sunshine and roses, but that’s life.  

You have to take the bad with the good, in the end.  One cannot exist without the other, after all.

I don’t need to watch to know where the woman has decided to hide.  It’s always one of three places, and out of those three it’s usually one specific spot.  It’s all so… predictable.

I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t absolutely need to.  If I could avoid it, I would.  That’s always the case.  The problem is that I can’t.  Not when my condition reaches this point.

I really thought that I was going to make it this time.  That happens more often than you might think.  I managed to get through the past two cycles without having to resort to this.  I was so damn close to making it this time as well.  Yesterday my hands started shaking, though, and that was soon followed by the sensation of itching in the back of my skull.  I knew at that point that I was out of time.

There’s no point in lamenting what isn’t to be.  I retrieve the pair of knives from the table.  The blades bob up and down in the air due to my shaking hands, but I will just have to make them work.  I slowly walk down the stairs leading into the main warehouse storage area.

This would not be my choice of hunting grounds.  Much of the space is taken up by crates and storage containers, and all the doors and windows are chained shut.  It creates a claustrophobic environment that offers no chance for escape, which in turn takes away any potential thrill and makes for a tedious experience.  Unfortunately, it can’t be avoided.  I can’t take any unnecessary risks, even if that means that everything has become repetitive and dull over time.

There was a time that I would have tried to drag this out for as long as possible.  That was back when I still believed that I could make all of this mean more than simply fulfilling an unavoidable physical need.  I thought that I could force satisfaction from it through ritual.  Maybe there was a time when that did work, or at least when I could believe that it did.  Now, though, there’s no point.  I just want it to be over with.

I make my way over to the large stack of crates with the opening between the bottom ones.  This is where the majority of people choose to hide once they realize that escape isn’t an option.  If she isn’t here I’ll move onto the storage container with the broken door, and from there to the small office near the large metal doors.  Those are the only three places in the warehouse where hiding makes sense, so inevitably one of them is chosen.  All so damn predictable.

I don’t have to check the other two hiding spots, because I can see the woman crouched down in the shadows between the crates.  I sigh.  Of course she is.

This isn’t some random woman.  She is the chef and owner of one of the best restaurants in town.  I stopped in to dine there earlier in the evening, and the pork I had eaten had been exquisitely prepared.  The meal had been the highlight of my evening.  I had hoped that I would be able to spare her.  She had sent her staff home when she had closed the restaurant for the night, though, and she had stayed late alone to do the final bits of cleaning.  With no time to find someone else, my hands had been tied.

She looks up at me with wide-eyed terror as I approach.  It doesn’t have to take long or be overly painful.  I’ll finish this quickly.  I owe her that much for the pleasant meal.

Television shows and movies would have you believe that people start screaming at the top of their lungs or try to fight back when their would-be killer approaches.  I’ve found that’s not typically the case.  Oh, it does happen from time to time, but usually they behave the way that this woman is.  She is frozen in fear, her mouth moving but no sound coming out.  I suppose that this kind of reaction should make me feel powerful, maybe dominant.  It does nothing for me.

I hunch over slightly to enter into the small opening.  She’s whimpering now, but I ignore it as I raise the knives.  The shaking in my hands is worse now, and it’s all I can do to keep my fingers wrapped around the wooden handles.  I need to get this done quickly.

The knives plunge into her body, and for the first time she screams.  I swear loudly as blood leaks out onto my hands.  The blades hadn’t gone into the points that I had intended them to.  I had tried to make the stabbing lethal so that she wouldn’t have to suffer.  Now I had to do things the messy way.

I pull the knives free.  I’ve waited too long, and my hands are shaking uncontrollably now.  I have to forget the original plan and improvise.  Tossing one of the knives back behind me, I wrapped both hands around the handle of the one that I’m still holding.  This is a bit better.  I definitely have more control over the weapon even if I can’t hold it perfectly steady.

The woman is still stunned from the initial attack.  I don’t think it’s registered through the shock that she’s been stabbed.  She stares at me blankly as her hands press against the pair of wounds.  Before she can recover, I thrust the knife forward and this time my aim is true.  The metal slides into her chest and I feel it pierce through her heart.  I make sure to remove it instead of leaving it in.  That way the bleeding will increase and death will come faster.

I sigh again as I back out of the space between the crates and walk away.  She’s not dead, but she will be in just a few moments.  I’ve been doing this long enough to know when a wound is fatal.  There’s no point in standing around and watching the inevitable.

I hold out my hands in front of me.  They’re still shaking, but the tremors are small and easily managed.  The itching is gone from the back of my head.  It’s an improvement, albeit a minor one.

It’s just so fucking unsatisfying.  It never feels the same way that it does during that incredible final night of the cycle.  My dissatisfaction is quickly being replaced by anger.  Why the fuck can’t it ever feel the fucking same?  One night of an incredible indescribable unmatched high, and nearly a month of rock bottom and just trying to exist until the next one.  How in the fuck is that fair?

I force myself to calm down.  The answer is that it’s not fair, but there’s nothing that I can do about it, either.  Besides, the end of the cycle is almost here.  I just have to make it until tomorrow night.

The smart thing to do would be to clean up the mess that I had just made and go home to get some rest.  I know from experience that I won’t be able to sleep, though, and I’m not in the right headspace to make sure that I take care of my crime scene properly.  Both those things will just have to wait.

Pulling a set of keys out of my pocket, I remove the locks from one of the doors and pull the chains free.  I toss them off to the side in a small pile and go outside.  The cold winter wind immediately assaults me, and I grit my teeth as I wish that I hadn’t left my coat inside.

Before I leave, I go around the side of the warehouse until I reach a spigot.  I turn the valve and freezing water starts pouring out of it.  As quickly as I can, I wash the blood off of my hands and dry them on the legs of my jeans.  I let the water run long enough to allow the ichor to flow into a nearby storm drain, then close the valve once again.

A light drizzle begins to fall as I walk towards town.  The warehouse that I use is located at an old dockyard that hasn’t been used in years.  I don’t own it, and the various cargo items inside of it aren’t mine, but somewhere along the way the actual owner stopped caring about it and left it to rot.  I look around at the other buildings that I’m walking past.  They’re all in various states of decay.  I often wonder what happened here to make so many people walk away at the same time.

Having such a large area to myself, especially one that includes more contained ones throughout the site, has been extremely useful.  No one is around to hear any noises from either myself or my guests, and there’s no security that might accidentally stumble on my activities.  It’s basically the perfect environment.

I grit my teeth.  Except it isn’t perfect, is it?  If it was, maybe I wouldn’t feel so hollow when I treat my condition.  Maybe I need a challenge, and this place is making everything all too easy.

I shake my head firmly.  That isn’t it.  I know that it isn’t.  The abandoned dockyard gives me safety when I otherwise wouldn’t have it.  I’m just irritable and lashing out.  Another wonderful side effect of my condition.

My car is parked at the edge of the dockyard.  I ignore it and continue on foot.  I’ve found that the best way to prolong the effects of a treatment is to remain active.  The physical activity helps to distract from the return of my symptoms, at least for a short while.  I check my watch.  About twenty hours left.  Fuck.

The road leading away from the docks is empty.  That’s no surprise, as there’s nothing else out this way.  There’s no reason for anyone else but myself to be here.  I walk down the middle of the road instead of off to one side.  In a very real sense, this is my own personal domain.

I walk for over two miles before I reach an intersection.  Without even considering it, I continue on without so much as a glance to either side.  Both the left and right paths lead to highways.  The direction I’m headed in goes into town.  Before it does that, though, it leads right past a smaller diner that’s open all night.  That’s where I’m going.

After another mile I arrive at the diner.  I’m pleased to see that there are only two cars in the parking lot.  I go inside and sit down at a booth in the corner.  I’m alone in the eating area.  The cars must believe to a server and a cook.

Speak of the devil.  A woman comes out of the kitchen and gives me a smile.  I see the smile slip a bit.  It wasn’t by much, but I definitely did.  Did I still have some blood on me that I missed?

“Looks like you got caught outside in this lovely weather,” she says to me.  “Did your car break down or something?”

“Truck, actually,” I lie easily, my worries dissipating.  “Just down at the 219 ramp.  I called it in, but I can’t get anyone out until morning.  I had to walk here.”

I wasn’t born a good liar.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I was terrible at it as a child, and every time that I attempted lying I would be caught.  I’ve developed the skill over the years.  It’s been a necessity that I do so.  Now I do it as needed without even thinking about it.

I order a cup of coffee to start before asking to see a menu.  I can smell a fresh pot brewing somewhere nearby, and my walk through the cold and rainy night has chilled me to the bone.  I avoid caffeine most of the time, but I’m willing to make an exception on this particular occasion.

When the waitress returns with my drink, I order something off the menu.  It’s some sort of sandwich, but I’m not sure which one.  I just point at a line and she nods before going back to the kitchen.  I’m not actually hungry.  I know that I need to eat, though.  My body needs as many calories as possible during the final phase of the cycle.

The coffee helps get the chill out of my body.  That, combined with time having passed since the kill, makes me feel more like myself than I have in days.  It won’t last, it never does, but for the moment I don’t want to focus on that.

I sit in the uncomfortable booth for a little over an hour, slowly eating my rather mediocre chicken sandwich and drinking progressively worse cups of coffee.  Eventually it’s time for me to go.  The diner is only a few miles from the dockyard, and I don’t want to leave too much of an impression on the waitress just in case something happens down the line.

The waitress brings me the check, and as she does so she offers to give me a ride back to my non-existent truck.  I give her a smile and politely decline, telling her that I’ve been stuck inside it all day and it feels good to be able to walk around and stretch.  She glances out at the still-falling rain and asks if I’m sure.  I assure her that I am.

As she’s walking back towards the kitchen, I feel the familiar itching in the back of my head.

No.  This is too soon.  I’ve never had the itching come back just hours after making a kill.  It’s always a few days at the very least before I start to notice it.

I sit still in the booth, the pin-like pricks working their way up and down my skull.

Something is very wrong.  Usually the itching starts out so faintly that it’s barely noticeable.  Over the course of two or three days it gradually increases in intensity until it’s so strong that it pushes me to the point of insanity.

That isn’t happening now.  The sensation is already intense, and I can feel it growing steadily as each second ticks by.  I don’t understand.  This doesn’t make any fucking sense.

Think.

Did I do something wrong, change something about the kill?  I shake my head.  That doesn’t make sense.  There’s no ritual or anything like that.  Make the kill, satisfy the need.  That’s all there fucking is to it.  It’s not goddamn rocket science.

Calm down.  Breathe.

Maybe there was something different about the woman that I had chosen.  All that had mattered before was the killing, but I guess that it’s possible.  There’s no way to know for sure.

Focus.  Fucking focus.  None of this matters.  What matters is what I do now.  There’s no way that I’m going to make it until the end of the day.  I look at the clock hanging on the wall.  The sun won’t even be up for another hour.

At the rate it’s going, the itching will reach its peak soon.  When that happens, the pain will begin.  It will feel like spikes being hammered into every inch of my body.  I’ll be so blinded by the agony that I will no longer be capable of rational thought.

The last and only time that it got to that point, I regained my wits in the family room of a house that I didn’t recognize.  The remains of three people, torn apart and barely recognizable as being human, surrounded me.  Every inch of me was covered in hot blood.  All my symptoms were gone, but I had no idea what had happened and where I was.

It had solved one problem and created a slew of others.  I can’t risk that sort of thing happening again.

There’s an odd thumping noise.  I dismiss it as noise coming from the diner’s ancient-looking heating ducts.  It continues, however, and it doesn’t seem to be coming from above me.  I look down and find that my hands are shaking so much that they’re banging against the top of the table.  I stare at them for a long moment.  I hadn’t even noticed that they were trembling.  I wrap my fingers around the edge of the table and grip it as tightly as I can in an effort to stop them.

I’ve come to a decision.  I don’t know when I started working my way towards one, or how I had arrived at this particular conclusion, but I know what needs to be done.

Taking my wallet out of my back pocket, I pull a few bills out and place them on top of the check the waitress had left me.  I know that she’s watching me through the small window that looks out from the kitchen into the dining area.  After all, I’m the only customer.  I’m not going to be ordering anything else, and she’s already earned whatever tip that I decide to leave.  At this point she’ll just want me gone so that I’m out of her hair and she can go back to doing nothing.

I allow myself a small imperceivable smile as she immediately comes out of the kitchen.  Some people are just too easy to read.

I don’t have a plan.  It doesn’t matter.  I don’t need one.  I’ve taken so many lives over the years that it’s instinctive at this point.

She reaches the table and puts her hand out to pick up the check and money.  As she does so, my arm lashes out like a snake and my fingers dig into her brown hair.  Before she can react, I’m slamming her face into the edge of the table.  Her scream is silenced almost as soon as it begins.  She slides to the tile floor, unconscious.

I know that she’s not dead.  Instead of tending to that, I slide out of the booth and immediately head towards the kitchen.  The waitress isn’t going anywhere, and even if she wakes up she won’t be in any condition to leave or present a threat to me.  There’s one more person in the diner, though, and I can’t take the chance that they heard her short cry.

The door to the kitchen begins to open just before I reach it.  I grab a steak knife out of a basket of silverware behind the counter before kicking the door back towards the person emerging from the other room.  There’s a loud grunt as it smashes hard into someone.

Pressing my momentary advantage, I throw open the door and thrust the blade at the large man standing behind it.  The knife isn’t nearly as sharp as the ones I keep at the dockyard, and the slightly serrated blade is designed for cutting rather than stabbing.  I wasn’t expecting the person to be quite so tall, either.  The knife digs into his flesh, but it’s not much more than a flesh wound.

Ducking my shoulder, I ram it into his chest to knock the wind out of him.  He really is big.  He’s got at least six inches and fifty pounds on me.  This is the danger of not planning things out before killing.  I find myself in situations like this where I can’t fully control what’s happening.  At the end of the cycle this wouldn’t matter, but until then these kinds of risks are extremely dangerous.

He’s temporarily winded now, though, and he’s been wounded.  Judging from the expression on his face, he’s also unsure of what’s happening.  I can work with that.

I take a quick glance around me and my eyes fall on a skillet on the stove to my right.  Its contents are sizzling from the heat underneath it.  I pick it up by the handle and swing it like a tennis racket at the man’s head.  

It impacts hard with his forehead.  There’s a sickening crunch of bone, followed by a crackling noise as the hot metal burns his flesh.  His mouth opens, but he doesn’t scream.  Instead, he makes a gurgling sound as bloody foam spills out over his lower lip.  Thick red fluid also starts to drip from his ears and the corners of his eyes.

The skillet makes a sucking sound as I pull it free from his face.  It tears skin off as I do so.  It sticks to the pan like burned leather.  I swing the skillet for a second time, and he immediately slumps over onto his side.  His right eye has come free from its socket, and it lays across the bridge of his nose with the optic nerve trailing back into the gap.

He’s almost done.  I have to give him credit for surviving the two blows with the skillet, even if he did so with quite a bit of brain damage.

I allow the skillet to fall to the floor as I stop over the man to reach a microwave sitting on a shelf.  Unplugging it from the wall, I carry it over to him and take one last look at him as he twitches and convulses.  I raise the heavy appliance up over my head before bringing it down as hard as I can.  His damaged skull provides little resistance, and his body goes still.

There’s a sound from out in the dining area.  I hurry out through the kitchen door, worried that a customer has walked into my kill zone.  Instead, I find the waitress struggling to get up.  She’s leaning up against the side of the booth’s seat, the salt shaker she had knocked over with her hand lying shattered on the floor next to her.

I get another knife from the silverware basket and cross the distance between us.  She looks up at me with glazed-over eyes, and I doubt that she can even see me.  I adjust my grip on the knife and cut her throat.  Blood bursts out from the gash.  The small piles of spilled salt on the ground become sticky and clumpy as it covers them.

The itching has stopped.  My hands are as steady as rocks.  I sit down on a stool at the counter and sigh in relief.  For the first time since the symptoms started this cycle I feel human.

With the relief comes a familiar bitterness.  No matter how satisfying a kill is, it never has the same pleasure and overwhelming satisfaction that one does during the final night of the cycle.  It’s infuriating.  It’s like some higher power has decreed that I’m only allowed to be happy one night each month.  Twice a month every two and a half years or so.

I allow myself a minute to sulk in my anger and disappointment before I force myself to put it aside.  There’s a pressing matter to attend to.  I’ve got two dead bodies and all the mess they created to deal with.  It won’t be long before people start to arrive for breakfast.  I have to figure out what I’m going to do before that happens.

It doesn’t take me long to realize that I’ve made a hell of a mistake.  No matter what I do, this place is going to end up being a crime scene.  Since it’s only a few miles from the dockyard, the police are bound to search it.  When they do, they’ll find the woman that I killed earlier, likely along with evidence of previous kills as well.  I don’t have any choice but to abandon the dockyard and move onto somewhere else.  Probably another state entirely.  I look up at the ceiling.  Definitely another state.

Fine.  If that’s what I have to do, it’s what I have to do.  Going back around the counter, I open the cash register and take the small amount of money that it contains.  I also go into the kitchen and take the money from the cook’s wallet, as well as a set of car keys from his other pocket.  It doesn’t end up being much in total, but it’s better than nothing.

I just have to make it through the day.  If I can do that, I can end the cycle tonight in a different place before continuing on my way in the morning.  I just…  I just have to make it through the day.

The kitchen provides me with the answer I need for covering my tracks.  There is an exposed gas line that runs through the kitchen.  Covering my mouth, I break a section of the line before quickly making sure that the pilot light in the stove is still burning.  Good.  I had broken a secondary line just like I had thought, not the main line.

I leave the diner through the front door.  There’s still no one in the parking lot, and there isn’t any traffic on the road, either.  I try the key that I took from the cook in the small white car first, but it doesn’t fit the lock.  It slides easily into the driver’s side door of the red pickup, though, so I get in and start the engine.

The rain has stopped, and the first hints of the rising sun can be seen in the distance as I turn out onto the road and head away from town.  After less than a minute of driving, I see what appears to be the light of a second sunrise in the rearview mirror.  I nod to myself.  It won’t be long before the fire at the diner is completely out of control, if it isn’t already.  At the very least it will take the authorities a couple of days to dig through the rubble and ashes.  Even if they somehow manage to find enough evidence to piece together what happened, I’ll be long gone before then.

The only thing working against me is the truck that I’m driving.  It won’t take the police long to figure out that it’s missing.  If they do that fast enough, they’ll be able to get word out across the state with the make, model, and license plate number.  That could lead to disaster.

Luckily, I don’t have to stay in this pickup for long.  I drive back towards the dockyard, going as fast as I dare on the slick pavement.  I reach my destination without incident and pull the truck up to the edge of one of the concrete docks before putting it into neutral and getting out.

I try to push the pickup off the edge of the dock, but I’m barely able to get it to budge.  I get down lower and press my back up against the tailgate as I push as hard as I can.  It eventually starts rolling forward.  There’s a crash of metal as the front wheels go over the edge.  I nearly fall as the weight of the front end does the rest of the work for me.  The truck slides into the dark water and sinks below the surface.

I give myself a few moments to rest before dusting myself off and hurrying over to the car that I had parked at the dockyard earlier.  It’s a black four-door sedan, the kind that countless people drive in every city in the country.  I check to make sure that my backpack is still in the passenger seat before opening the trunk and retrieving a duffel bag.  I change out of my bloodstained clothes and into fresh ones before getting into the car and leaving the dockyard.

This time, I turn right at the four-way intersection instead of continuing towards town.  My plan is to put as many miles between here and me that I can by mid-afternoon, then find a place where I can complete the cycle.  I fish my cellphone out from the car’s glove box and bring up the Map app.  The phone is a pre-paid one, of course, and I purchased it under a fake name.  There are half a dozen other ones in the car trunk and one in the backpack, all of which are still in their packages and are listed under different names.

The map confirms what I already thought.  If I stay on the highways and don’t make any stops, I can be out of Minnesota and into North Dakota by one o’clock.  That should give me more than enough time to get myself oriented and figure out where I would spend the night.

So that’s what I do.  Ignoring the fatigue that crept in, I drive towards the state border, making sure to keep my speed at or under the limit to avoid the possibility of being pulled over.  I have to resist the urge to go faster.  While I know sticking to the speed limit is the smart play, I’m anxious to reach my destination.

I almost nod off twice during the drive.  Now that the symptoms of my condition are gone, at least for now, my body is more relaxed than it has been in quite a while.  It isn’t helping that the roads in this part of Minnesota are mostly just trees and open land with nothing to break up the monotony.

It’s with more than a little relief that I reach the state border.  There is a sign for a rest stop a few miles past the line, and I gratefully follow it into the parking lot.  I need to get out and stretch for a bit, get some fresh air.

I’ve never been to this part of the country before, and I’m surprised to see that the rest stop isn’t one of the standard ones with just a few bathrooms and vending machines.  This one is quite a bit larger, with a cafeteria-like section housing five or six chain fast food restaurants.  There’s also a small arcade, as well as a side room with a dozen leather massage chairs.

I’m mostly interested in a kiosk just inside the doorway.  It contains racks of maps and brochures, both for specific landmarks and for North Dakota in general.  I take a few of them and tuck them under my arm as I buy some lunch.  Once I have my burgers and drink, I pick a table in the corner away from the other people and open one of the maps.

I’m looking for a town to use for the night.  It has to fit some specific criteria, though.  It needs to have a large enough population to be worthwhile, but also not so large that it has a major police presence.  The police aren’t a concern during the final night of the cycle.  I’m worried about what could happen the next day.

I also prefer a town that is isolated.  The more that things are contained, the better.

There don’t seem to be many options that meet my needs.  I’m starting to think that I’m going to have to go with something less than ideal.  I’ve had to do that in the past.  Never on this short of notice, though.  I don’t like going into something blind.  It’s not looking like there’s a choice, though.

Wait.  There.  A small town about a hundred miles from where I’m from, with enough clustered streets on the map to imply at least a decent-sized population.  I pull the town up on my phone and confirm this is indeed the case.

Broken Bend, North Dakota.

Finishing my food, I toss the wrappers and maps into a trash can.  I make sure that I have directions to my new destination before I leave.  As I hold the door open for an elderly man, I notice a newspaper rack off to one side.  The story on the front page of the newspaper on top had the title ‘The Planets Align’.

I fish fifty cents out of my pocket and buy the newspaper.  I return to my car and open it.  According to the article, over a roughly eighteen hour period the Earth will be going in and out of alignment with multiple planets.  It’s extremely rare for this to happen; normally three or more planets align for a short period of time, then move along their orbits until they’re no longer in a line with one another.

This is different.  Because of where the planets are at in their orbits around the sun currently, the Earth has been and will be moving in and out of different alignments with different planets.  Two of these events will involve the moon as well.

That has to be it.  That has to be why my symptoms returned so quickly.  I’ve always known that the lunar cycle is tied in with my own.  Something about these planetary alignments must be throwing things off.

There’s nothing that I can do about it.  I toss the newspaper into the backseat before getting back out on the road.  It doesn’t really change anything anyway.  I still need to reach Broken Bend and get myself situated before dark.

The path to the town that I’ve chosen takes me off the main highways and onto smaller state routes.  The roads are in much worse condition on these, and I have to slow down to make sure that the car doesn’t bottom out in some of the larger potholes.

The forests are much thicker along these roads as well.  The trees are taller and closer together, and their tops reach out over the road like a canopy.  Even though it’s the afternoon on a sunny day, I have to turn on the car lights to see where I’m going.  It’s like I’m driving through a tunnel.

Two hours after I leave the rest stop, I pass a sign with the words ‘Welcome to Broken Bend’ painted on it.  Just beyond it is a wooden bridge that spans over a river.  The car bounces uncomfortably as it passes over the boards.

A few minutes after leaving the bridge behind, the trees thin out and I arrive in town.  I’ve found that most towns this size tend to look the same, and Broken Bend is no exception.  The downtown area is comprised of local businesses, a couple of churches, a few government buildings, and a gas station on both sides.  As I drive beyond that, I find that most of the older homes are on fairly large properties, but there are also some newer-looking developments with the houses much closer together.  Past the residential areas are parks and nature preserves.

I smile slightly.  This is perfect.

I begin to make plans.  There’s a closed construction site just outside of downtown that I can hide my car in overnight.  It’s in both walking distance to the various shops and businesses, as well as at least two of the housing developments.  I can park the car, go into town until dusk, come back to the car to get ready, and head for the housing developments as night falls.

I pull the car into the construction site and maneuver it around the equipment to park it behind a long trailer.  I take a moment to make sure that I have everything that I’ll need.  It isn’t much.  Since I’m going to be coming back to the car before nightfall, I only really need my wallet.  I get out of the car and feel the cold air against my skin.  Correction.  My wallet and a coat.

I open the trunk and retrieve my heavy coat.  While I do so, I also take out a large pocket knife.  Typically I don’t carry a weapon with me.  As strange as it sounds, it’s safer that way.  I don’t have to worry about metal detectors or, as has happened a few times in the past, being frisked.  Besides, it’s not like I really need it.  I can be quite creative when it comes to figuring out ways to hurt people.

This is a new town that I’m not familiar with, though.  It doesn’t hurt to take extra precautions.

My short trip into downtown Broken Bend is uneventful.  Only a few cars pass by as I walk along the side of the road, and none of the drivers pay much attention to me.  I’m not in any particular hurry.  At this point I’m just looking to waste time until sundown.

When I reach downtown, I slowly walk past the various businesses and shops.  A number of pedestrians greet me as I move down the sidewalk.  I nod and smile at them in turn.  These people have no idea what is coming for them tonight.  That thought causes my smiles to become even wider.

It’s been a long day, so it’s a relief when I come to a bar.  The painted window proclaims it as The Rockcreek Tavern.  I open the door and head inside.

That’s where I spend the next couple of hours.  The food is surprisingly good, the beer is pleasantly cold, and the patrons leave me alone.  I’ve had worse afternoons.

I’m struck by the need to go to the bathroom.  As I stand up to head to the restroom, I check the time on my phone.  It’s just past five.  That’s plenty of time to do my business, have one last beer, and start back towards the car.

It’s a single toilet bathroom.  I lock the door before I relieve myself.  Once I’m finished, I wash my hands and look at myself in the mirror.  I’m feeling a bit warm.  I suppose that shouldn’t come as a surprise.  It’s been a long day, and I’ve been on the road for most of it.  It’s either from the stress or the beers.

I look at myself closely in the mirror.  I definitely look tired.  My eyes are a bit bloodshot, and there are dark circles under them.  I’m also looking a bit pale.  Sighing, I run a hand over my face.

I stop.  My hand is shaking.

I force myself to stay calm.  The shaking doesn’t matter.  I’m only a few hours away from the end of the cycle.  I can make it until then.  There isn’t even any itching at the back of my neck.

Sweat begins to drip from my forehead.  I’m getting warmer.  Gripping the sink with both hands, I lean in towards the mirror and take a closer look at my eyes.  The black of the pupil is no longer circular.  Instead, it resembles a blot of ink that has run out across the blue iris.

It’s happening.  The end of the cycle has arrived.  The change is beginning.

This shouldn’t be possible.  The change shouldn’t happen until the moon begins to rise.  The sun isn’t even all the way down yet.

I remember the newspaper story about the strange planetary alignments.  There must be something about it that’s not just causing my symptoms to return faster, but also forcing the change to happen earlier.

I need to leave the bar.  If I hurry, I might be able to get to the car before-

There’s an audible snap as my right cheekbone breaks in half.

I gasp at the sudden blossom of pain.  It’s too late.  It’s happening now.

As quickly as I can, I strip off the clothes that I’m wearing.  I normally have time to pack away any clothing so that I can come back for it after the night is over, but I doubt I’ll be able to retrieve them this time.  It’s still best to take them off.  The less restrained my body is during the change the better.

I feel pressure in my upper back.  This signals that one of the worst parts of the change is coming.  I sit down on the bathroom floor and slide my belt out of my pants.  Putting it in my mouth, I bite down on the soft leather.  Mere seconds later, my arms slide forward in their sockets before dislocating completely.  I know what’s coming next.  I lean back against the wall and close my eyes.  My jaw presses into the belt so hard that my gums hurt as my leg bones jerk out of place.

I nearly black out as my spine pops and cracks, creating a steep curve near the top.  Saliva and dark blood are leaking out around the belt from my mouth.  More of it comes pouring out as the front of my skull starts breaking into pieces and my ribs pull apart further.  I feel like I’m on fire, but I know that the worst is coming.

During this part of the change, my pain is doubled.  This is because I have double the amount of nerves in my body, the ones running to my current body, and the ones attached to what’s emerging.  All of them are screaming in agony as they’re stretched and mangled and torn.  There is no thought or reason.  There is only the torture, deep and infinite.

I’m so lost in this void of pain that I can no longer register the individual changes that are happening.  Everything is merely a part of the overall torment.  I float in the pain as it engulfs me.  Moments pass.  Years, maybe.  It’s impossible to tell.  Time has no meaning now.  Only pain exists.

Suddenly, mercifully, there is relief.  My skin tears open as my new body emerges from underneath it.  The belt falls from my mouth as I pant heavily.  It’s like an unbearable pressure has been released.  There are small stabs of discomfort as the change is completed, but it’s barely noticeable when compared to what I’ve just gone through.

The last of my bones lock into place.  I can feel my rational mind beginning to slip.  In moments it will be secondary to instinct.  I never lose my mind completely.  I’m fully conscious of what I’m doing.  It just doesn’t matter.

I get to my feet.  Everything feels so different now.  Powerful.  I can’t believe that I ever managed to stand on my weak human legs.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  The face of a wolf stares back at me.  It is thin and gaunt, the skin stretched tight against the face and muzzle.  The black fur is matted down with blood.  I pull a loose strip of ruined flesh off of the bottom of my jaw.

Movies.  Television.  Books.  Legends.  They’re all wrong about werewolves.  There’s a resemblance to wolves after the change, yes, but that resemblance only goes so far.  My body is far more skeletal and thin than the popular interpretations.  Certain parts of me like my clawed fingers appear almost delicate.  I don’t have a tail, and my long muzzle contains multiple rows of teeth.

It’s my eyes that tell the true story.  They are completely black, with pinpricks of red light barely visible in their depths.  To look into them is to know fear.  It’s to know death.

I hear movement out in the bar, and I turn away from the mirror.  My senses are heightened far beyond what a human is capable of.  I hear a stool pulling away from the bar.  I can smell the scent of beer wafting in from under the door.  I can see every crack and imperfection on the tiled bathroom wall.  I feel alive in a way that I never do except when the wolf comes out to play.

I take one last look around the bathroom.  There is blood everywhere, and pieces of my human skin cover the floor.  Even though it’s my own blood, the smell of it excites me.  I bare my teeth as I turn back to the bathroom door.  Finally.  After all this time, the hunt is finally here.

The door explodes into a shower of splinters as I burst through it.  There’s a man standing nearby in the short hallway, a half-filled glass in his hand.  His eyes grow wide with shock.  Before he can say or do anything, my right arm is swinging towards him.  The claws slide through skin, muscle, and bone as though they offer no resistance at all.  His body splits into two pieces and falls to the ground in a heap.

Oh fuck yes.  My heightened senses enhance every moment of the kill.  It’s a pleasure that goes beyond the effects of any drug.  More.  I need more.

There are screams coming from the main room.  Bar patrons are staring at me in surprise and horror, and some are fleeing towards the door.  I take two strides forward before leaping over their heads and landing between them and the exit.  No one leaves.  This is my moment.

One of the customers swings a clumsy punch at me.  I open my jaws to expose my rows of teeth and bite down into the flesh of his arm.  The razor-sharp fangs sink in deep.  With a twist of my head, I tear off the arm and fling it off to the side.  The blood running down my throat tastes incredible.

I’m a flurry of suffering and death.  Throats are torn, limbs are severed, lives are ended.  Each kill increases my need for more.  I revel as I tear apart the bar patrons.  I am the god of the hunt, and it is my purpose to reap the prey.

The man behind the bar has a gun.  He brings it up and fires once, twice, a third time.  All his shots are true.  I feel the impact of the bullets as they strike my skin.  The metal is hot, and it singes the tips of my fur.  My mouth opens slightly as a grin spreads across my face.  The sheep believes it can harm the wolf.

I jump onto the bar and snap my mouth around the sides of his head.  For a moment I let him struggle, my teeth piercing his skin as he tries to free himself.  Now he understands his place in the order of things.  His struggling ends as I clamp my jaws closed.

Music plays from the jukebox in the corner of the bar as I survey the room.  The Rockcreek Tavern is now a monument to carnage.  The scent of death fills my nostrils as I bask in the pleasures of the kill.  I raise my head towards the ceiling and howl triumphantly.

A werewolf’s howl is not like a wolf’s.  It is an inhuman sound, a deep guttural call that spreads fear to all that hear it.  It is the sound of Hell’s gates being opened.

I need more.  The hunt has just begun, and I intend to make the most out of every second.

I go out the front door and into the streets.  People immediately begin to scream, but I ignore them for the moment.  The sun is just beginning to set in the distance.  The sky is filled with splashes of red and thick purples.  I’m momentarily frozen in place.  I’ve never seen the sunset before, not with these eyes.  The charge has always happened after nightfall.  Even through my frenzy the beauty of the scene before me is striking.

The spell is broken as I smell the blood on my fur.  It’s time to continue what I’ve only just started.

A car is beginning to pull out of the parking space in front of me.  Baring my teeth, I jump through the passenger side window and into the vehicle.  In one motion I wrap my claws around the driver’s neck and throw both him and myself through his door.  We land hard on the concrete.  I crush his throat before looking over my shoulder to watch the car crash into an oncoming truck.

A man and a woman are running down the sidewalk away from me.  I race after them and catch up to them before they even realize that I’m following.  The woman falls as my claws and arm push through her back and out of her chest.  Grabbing the man, I lift him up over my head and rip him in half, his blood and entrails pouring out of him.

I drop the body and narrow my eyes.  The wind has brought a scent to me, one that isn’t the sweet coppery smell of blood or one of the common smells associated with a small town.  This scent is much different.  For the first time, not just during this change but for the first time ever in this form, I feel uneasy.

I don’t recognize the smell, but I do understand what it means.  Someone else, something else, has already marked this town as its own.  I’m in claimed territory.

It doesn’t matter.  I only get this opportunity once per cycle.  If another creature has claimed Broken Bend, it’s more than welcome to come try to defend its territory.

Most of the people have abandoned the street.  They hope to hide from me, or at least put some distance between them and me.  It’s a futile hope, and I suspect that some part of them knows that.  I’ll hunt out those in the small downtown area, then move onto the housing developments.  Before the night is over, I’ll slaughter as much of this town as possible.

I hear sirens begin to blare from less than a mile away.  It isn’t often that I encounter the police while under the influence of the full moon.  Normally I make sure that I’m in less public places than this when the change takes place to avoid that.  The changes to my cycle from the planetary alignments is making this night far more complicated than it usually is.  I bare my teeth, unable to contain my excitement.  It’s been so long since my prey has tried to resist its slaughter.  I didn’t know that I missed the thrill of it this much.

The first of the police cars comes around the corner.  I grab a nearby mailbox and tear it free from the heavy bolts attaching it to the sidewalk.  With one arm, I fling it into the approaching car’s windshield.  It shatters the glass and smashes into the upper body of the driver.  The car veers wildly to the right and crashes into the side of a store.

The sun has set now, and the sky is growing darker.  A second police car comes into view, its red and blue lights flashing and its siren shrieking.  It stops a block away from me and two officers get out, using their car doors as shields as they pull their guns free from their holsters.  I begin running towards them, my jaws gnashing and my claws flexing eagerly.

I get about halfway before I stop.  The air is full of the smell of the other creature.  It’s stronger now, no longer the lingering scent of something that had previously passed through but instead the fresh odor of something approaching.  I ignore the officers and inhale deeply.  It’s coming from upwind.  Either this creature doesn’t know that I’m here, or it doesn’t care that it’s announcing its presence to me.

There’s something about the scent that makes me feel unsettled.  Even though I don’t recognize it, it’s like some primal part of me, some past memory buried in my werewolf biology, knows that it means danger is near.

I know that there are other unnatural beings out in the world.  I’ve encountered a few over the years, but none of them had triggered this sort of response in me.  I was the alpha predator.  Nothing was above me in the food chain.

The hairs along my back stand up as the smell continues to grow stronger.  I try to tell myself that these feelings are only a result of the unusual circumstances surrounding tonight’s change.  My instincts know that this isn’t true.

The officers begin to fire their guns.  I barely noticed as some of the shots struck me.  I concentrate on the smell, trying to decipher what I could from it.

Thoughts begin to flash through my head.  No, not thoughts.  More like… impressions.  The scent makes me think of the dark cold waters of the deepest oceans, the still and silent darkness down far below the surface.  At the same time, I am reminded of the vast night sky, of the black emptiness between stars.  The images flash through my mind quickly like single frames of movie film in a projector.  There is madness in them.

Fog is starting to fill the streets.  It is cool and thick, and it makes my skin feel greasy.  It has come out of nowhere and is rapidly becoming too dense to see through.  It smells the same as the approaching creature.

The police officers are no longer shooting at me.  I turn my head towards them and find that they are no longer pointing their guns at me.  Instead, they are standing perfectly still, their faces blank as they each point the index finger of their left hands towards me.  I’ve never seen anything like it before.

People that had been hiding from me inside of the businesses are now coming back outside.  Each of them has the same blank look on their faces as the officers, and they’re all pointing at me in the same way.  I growl at them in warning.  All of them no longer smell human, and instead reek of the scent of the fog.

My instincts scream at me that I need to abandon my hunt and escape.  Whatever is coming for me isn’t just unnatural.  It’s not of this world.

I shake my head in frustration.  This is my night.  This is my hunt.  It is my right to spill blood and feast on flesh.

I hear the creature coming.  It’s close; if it wasn’t for the fog, I would be able to see it already.  It sounds…  I don’t know how to describe it.  The closest word I can think of is wet.

I look around at the gathered people as a realization comes to me.  This isn’t just some other creature’s territory.  The territory is part of the creature.  I’ve come to a long-conquered town.  All of the citizens are extensions of its will.

My bloodlust melts away.  If I remain, it will take me as well.

I run, moving on all fours to get away as fast as I possibly can.  The scent of the creature rapidly fades into the distance; it’s not following me, at least not at any significant speed.  Its smell is still around me, though, and it’s closing in from both the sides and in front of me.  The fog is expanding outward, and more people are coming out of their shops and homes.

The otherworldly creature doesn’t believe that it needs to personally come for me.  It thinks that it can tighten a noose around me with its followers.

If I was human I could get back to my car and drive out of town.  In this form, I don’t have that option.  Instead, I plunge into the woods at the edge of downtown.

There are people waiting for me just inside of the treeline.  These aren’t just standing and pointing, however.  Each of them is armed, most of them with knives and the rest with various tools.  They swarm towards me in a semicircle, looking to cut off my escape.

I howl as I charge directly into the middle of the crowd.  Their master may make me afraid, but these are humans.  With teeth and claws I tear into their bodies.  There are no screams or wails of pain.  They are completely silent as they stab at me with their knives before being torn apart.  As the last one falls I pause to catch my breath.

The creature’s scent is closer.  While the people weren’t able to stop me, they were successful in delaying me.  I continue on.

Something slams into my side hard, and I lose my footing.  I strike a tree hard before sliding to a stop.  I reach down with one clawed hand and touch where I was struck.  I’m bleeding.

A man steps out of the brush and into view.  He is soon followed by one woman, and then another.  They are all heavy-looking rifles.  Bullets don’t typically hurt me, but these are large caliber weapons and pack far more of a punch.

I regain my footing and keep running.  Shots are fired, but none of them manage to hit me.  I’m moving slower than I was just moments earlier.  The round that pierced me must have hit something important.  I’m having a harder time breathing, and my right leg is slightly numb.  I ignore these things and push on.

The creature’s scent is growing stronger, the fog is getting thicker, and I have a long way to go before I leave its territory.

“There’s a storm coming…are you ready?” the stranger asked.  

I couldn’t see his face, as he was hidden by the darkness.  I could make out his mouth to a point; his pure white teeth almost glowing through the pitch-black surroundings.  

“A storm?” I asked, “why do I need to be ready for that?” 

“It is not the storm, but what awaits within you should fear…are you ready for that? Are you prepared to stay?” 

“I don’t understand.  Why can’t you just tell me what…”

I felt my words catch in my throat.  I was unable to convince them to even reach my mouth, let alone escape out into the world.  Though I had been unable to see anything at first, when the sky lit up with such vibrant flashes of lightning, I could make out the silhouette of the man.  

He just stood in place, holding a black umbrella above his head, still shielding his appearance from me.  When the scarlet rain began to cascade down upon us, I no longer attempted to focus on the stranger, only on the heavy, blood-like drops as they quickly formed pools around our feet.  

“A decision must be made.  Once you choose, your fate is sealed…”

•

When my eyes blinked open, I was sitting straight up in my bed, momentarily confused and somewhat dazed.  The dream felt more real and at the same time more surreal than any I had ever experienced.  I could still hear that deeply haunting voice reverberating against my eardrums as though he stood in the corner of my bedroom, still holding his umbrella.  

I chalked it up to nothing more than good old-fashioned nerves with this being my first day of a new job.  I’d done some security work, here and there, over the past few years, so I assumed my new responsibilities as a bonafide park ranger wouldn’t be much different.  I’d been through orientation and the like over the previous days, even though I would only be a glorified temp until I could prove one way or another that I could handle the full-time responsibilities.  

After the meet and greet with the others who worked the morning shift, Slade, the guy they referred to as the Chief, or simply Cap, called me back into his office.  He was an older guy; maybe around fifty or so, but he was a good bit taller than me and quite stocky.  He looked like someone you don’t want to be disrespectful or rude to.  I most definitely didn’t want to get on his bad side anyway.  

We talked back and forth for a while, just shooting the shit and getting to know each other a bit.  He asked if I saw this as something I could see myself making a lifelong career out of, but I couldn’t give him a straight answer on that.  It was my first day, after all.  He seemed understanding to my stuttered reply when I tried to come up with something to say to his question at least.

Once all the small talk was out of the way, he got up from his seat, shook my hand, and led me towards the door to his office.  He reached out for the latch before hesitating, glancing over to me, and placing his hand on my shoulder.  

“Once you see them, they see you too,” he told me, staring into my eyes with such intensity, I felt my spine stiffen.  

“Huh?”

“There are a lotta strange things out there, but nothin’ else like them.  You best be sure if you wanna stick around before the rain comes.”

“I’m sorry, sir…I don’t know what you’re…”

“Get a feel for the job.  Get the routines down and get to know the rest of the guys.  We’re a family ’round here; more so than that.”

I just continued to stare back at him, feeling more puzzled by the second.  To be honest, I thought he was just messing with me; hazing the new guy and all.  Still, he was getting up in years, so I thought he may well have been a bit…well, I was sure he meant well, anyway.  

“There’s a storm comin’, son.  Best be sure before it gets here,” he said, finally pulling the door open.  

His words instantly flashed me back to the bizarre dream from the night before, but I was certain it was nothing more than a coincidence.  There had been something of a drought of late.  I couldn’t even remember the last time it rained, so it had to come sooner or later.  I just chalked the shared sentiment between my new boss and the stranger in my dream as nothing more than my subconscious longing for the rain to come and cool off the world some.  

He handed me a set of keys, warning me to never be without them.  The keychain that dangled from the eight or so keys of various shapes and sizes, was the same unusual symbol that was mounted to the outside wall of the rangers station.  I didn’t pay it much attention at the time, as I assumed it simply represented whatever company may own or operate things around these parts, but I would learn to damn sure do what he advised, and keep them on me at all times.

As that first week progressed, I grew to very much enjoy the job, as well as the company of my fellow employees.  Since I had technically signed on for seasonal work, there was potential for it to become a full-time thing, so I tried to learn everything I could to give myself a better shot.  I worked staggered shifts those first few weeks, working with just about all of the other rangers to get all the different perspectives.  

They were a friendly group, but Rick, the graveyard shift guy, was a bit twitchy and nervous for someone hovering right around thirty years old.  He was a slender, shaggy haired guy, but he looked like he had some solid muscle on him.  There were scars up and down the length of both of his forearms, but I assumed that may have been from his time overseas, and likely a factor on his troubled mind.  

“You hear some crazy shit out here when the sun goes down,” he said more than once over the days we worked together.  

“What kinda crazy shit?” I asked, honestly quite curious as to what would qualify as such, given all the wildlife around.  

“Hard to say, really.  Just, I don’t know, unnatural, I s’pose.”

“But, I mean, like, how so? Weird animal noises? Squealing tires of cars and such? Maybe people messing around? What?” 

“I guess a bit of everything, in a way, you know?” 

“Um, nope…don’t know,” I replied with a laugh.

“You’ll understand more when you see them,” he said, attempting to laugh with me, “kinda opens your eyes some, though…best if you don’t…you know…see them…”

“Who are ‘they’?” I asked, making air quotes with my fingers, “Cap said something about ‘them’ my first day, but…”

“Can’t say what they are, on account of the fact I don’t really know.  Can’t even see them, you know, all the time…just when it rains, I guess…I know they’re there, though.  Can feel ’em lookin’ back at me…just…”

He sort of drifted off while he spoke, just gazing out the window.  Whether he was looking at ‘them’, out there in the dark, I didn’t know.  In all honesty, I didn’t buy it at all; that something out there was only visible in the rain, but Rick did look troubled.  

Craig; one of the early shift boys, told me that Rick had some lingering PTSD from his time in Afghanistan, and he ‘wasn’t all there’ anymore.  For the most part, he seemed like a good dude, but he had seen some shit; his eyes revealed that much.  

Were it not for Captain Slade having dropped the warning about the elusive ‘them’ when I started, I wouldn’t pay Rick’s words any mind, but it had most certainly piqued my curiosity.  

“Are they dangerous?” I asked after the room fell silent for a while.  

“I…not sure, honestly…but some of the other things are.  All kinda things out there…gets more clear when you see them, though.”

The more he spoke in his almost frustrating riddles, the more uneasy I felt; not from the elusive ‘them’, but from Rick’s seemingly troubled mind.Fortunately, the shift had almost reached its end by this point.  I had grown more awkward and somewhat uncomfortable the longer we shared each other’s company, so when the clock chimed to signify the morning crew should be arriving any minute, I almost jumped to my feet to ready my escape.  

Before I signed on for seasonal work, I hadn’t realized what sort of schedule I may be working.  I’d been to various campsites and parks before, and witnessed a few ranger stations closing up shop for the night around seven or eight.  Had I understood that this particular area required twenty-four-hour supervision, for some reason, I’m not entirely sure if I would’ve gone for it, but it would seem I would be fluctuating my hours at least.  

Over the following weeks, I completed my training, grew far more familiar with most of the trails and more populated hiking spots, and had begun to feel like a solid part of the team.  Being the new guy, I was still working a different shift each week, but I was okay with that.  I would still have plenty of time off, plus guaranteed at least one full weekend off a month.  

Sure, the job didn’t pay quite as much as I would like, but I would apparently get a healthy raise after becoming a full-time employee.  Cap assured me it was entirely in my own hands; whether or not I wanted to become a permanent member, though I wasn’t exactly sure what he meant by that.  If I chose to just stick with part-time, my time with the rangers would come to an end by around September, so I had a lot to think about.

I had worked the job for about two months by the time I had yet another uncomfortable conversation, but I had already grown quite accustomed to such things.  When the chief called me into his office, the expression he wore made me think he was about to fire my ass for a moment.  It looked almost more like he was intending to give me a piece of his mind, rather than asking if I’d come to a decision yet; that’s how it felt to me at the time anyway.  

“So, how committed to this job are you?” he asked, staring me down as though it was some sort of interrogation.

“Um, I mean, I care about the job a lot, if that’s what you’re asking.  Not to, like, butter my own popcorn too much, but I feel as though I’ve proved I can handle everything you guys have handed me so far.” 

“Mhmm, yeah.  The team has nothin’ but good things to say about you, and you seem quite outgoing with the public and such, but that’s not entirely what I’m asking.” 

“I’m so sorry sir, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“You understand why we close off the trails and damn near seal off the whole mountain when there’s storms brewin’?” 

“Well yeah, I mean, it’s too dangerous out there when it’s wet, right?” 

“Yes, that, but also…”

“Them, right?” I said with a sigh, “I know, supposedly you can only see them when…”

“Ain’t no supposedly about it, son.  I know you got your doubts, and I don’t blame you none, but if you do intend on makin’ this a full-time thing, you’re gonna learn.  You need to be sure.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, sir.  With all due respect; and please understand that I do have the utmost respect for you, but all this ‘them’ stuff, I don’t know, it sounds like some crazy superstition or something.”

He just looked up at me from his chair, drumming his fingers across the wood of his desk.  Judging by the especially faded and worn section his fingertips bounced against at the time, it would appear he had been performing this very ritual for years.  

“You’ve certainly proven yourself, son, I can’t deny that.  Every task we’ve given you, you’ve performed admirably, but there’s still so much more to our responsibilities than what you’ve seen so far.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” I said with a laugh, “I’d be one arrogant son of a bitch if I thought I had everything down in just a couple of months.”

“That’s the thing, though.  You ain’t even seen a hint of what we’re really here for; not yet anyway.”

Again we shared the silence, as we gazed at one another.  He had such intensity in his eyes, but I still couldn’t fathom where he was going with any of this.  Yes, I had no doubt there would be far more trying times ahead of me, should I decide to stick around, but how bad could it be? 

I’d already had to lend a hand in breaking up a bit of a scuffle between a few campers who knocked back a few too many.  Some of the guys and I even had to deal with a drug deal that was taking place behind the trees, but I handled that okay.  Those fellas tried to get physical with us, and I held my own, even if I did take a few hits.  

Still, should things get more of hand than anything I’d seen over those first weeks, I was certain I could deal with it.  I’d seen my fair share of scraps when I was younger; even had to defend my little sister against our drunk father more than once, so I’m no stranger to either tough times or hard decisions.  

*S’pose to rain this weekend,” the chief said, finally breaking the uncomfortable silence, “you ok with workin’ Saturday and Sunday?” 

“Yeah.  Shouldn’t be a problem at all,” I replied, fully aware that I couldn’t expect to have every weekend to myself.  

“I want you on the graveyard shift for the next few days too.  You alright with that?” 

“Um, yeah.  Sure thing.”

“You think about how you see your place here.  When the rain comes; if it’s while you’re on the job, really think about it.  You wanna stay and be a part of this, take a look outside.  If not, well, might be best to just turn on the TV and tune out the world for a time.”

I wasn’t exactly psyched to work the late shift, nor was I thrilled about sharing the office with Rick again, but I had a feeling Cap was testing me.  I still hadn’t given him a yay or nay on the ready for full-time question yet, but I was interested.  I couldn’t deny the strange superstitions of the group had made me a bit uneasy, but I still liked everyone I had worked with so far; even Rick, when he wasn’t being so, well, dramatic, I suppose.  

To my surprise, when I came to work the following night, it would seem I would be working alone.  On one hand, it was quite intimidating to be left to my own devices for the first time, but on the other, it would be incredibly peaceful to have the place to myself.  The times I’d worked the night shift before, little to nothing happened, other than the occasional phone call or making rounds to pass the time.  

It had already begun to sprinkle during my drive to work, and I had to manually open the main gates at the base of the mountain, as they had already shut everything down for the storm.  When I strolled into the station, Sarah and James made a little small talk, before almost ordering me to give them a call if anything came up.  

James is a pretty big black guy; even taller and more stocky than the chief.  He’s super friendly and almost carefree in the way he carries himself, though he looks the type who would fit right in as a bouncer at one of the popular hot spots in the city.  Sarah is maybe a half a foot shorter than me, but very pretty, with big, hazel anime eyes and curly dark hair.  She comes off as really sweet and friendly, but I get the feeling she could kick some serious ass if a situation called for it.  

Given how quiet everything had grown outside, I assured them they had nothing to worry about.  I didn’t want to just flat out admit that I would likely just take a nap after a while, as I didn’t see myself making rounds in the rain.  Also, with the day shift having seemingly run everyone off the mountain before the first drop hit the ground, I was certain it’d be a peaceful night.  

“If you do go out there,* Sarah said, wearing the expression of a mother lecturing her child, “make sure you’ve got your keys with you.”

“Oh yeah, the last thing I need is to get locked out,” I replied with a laugh.  

“No, it’s…”

“He’s got this,” James said, laying his hand on Sarah’s shoulder, “We all had to handle the first one solo.  You got this, right?” 

“Hell yes,” I said, still chuckling a little.  

“Just…be safe, yeah?” Sarah said, giving me a concerned smile before she and James walked out.  

I rolled my eyes at the overly dramatic performance my colleagues were putting on, but I did give an absent-minded jiggle to the keys, dangling from my belt loop to ensure they were in place.  With the place all to myself, I kicked back, switched on the tv in the lounge, and kicked back on the couch.  

Maybe an hour or so after the previous shift had headed out, the bottom fell out.  It sounded like a veritable monsoon was hammering against the walls of the cozy cabin we called a rangers station.  Even with the brutal wind sounding as though it was thrusting the trees themselves against the exterior walls, it didn’t concern me much until the tv lost its signal.  

I don’t mean to sound like I was just trying to ride the system and whittle the hours away watching TV, but I suppose that had been my plan up until that point.  I gave a heavy sigh, staring at the static on the screen until I just turned the damn thing off.  I got to my feet, unclipped the keys from my belt to fidget with them; spin them around my finger and the like, pulled out my phone, and just aimlessly wandered around the cabin.  

As I casually played my bubble popper game while tinkering with my keys like a fidget spinner, I sighed once more when the lights went out.  I could feel the absence of air conditioning almost immediately.  The room got stuffy in a hurry, making me realize I was in for a long night indeed.  

While the storm continued to rage on; rattling the building so violently I almost jumped with every lightning strike, a new sound joined the soundtrack of my first night alone in the cabin.  The scream sounded as though it was right outside, inspiring me to stash my phone and head to the gun cabinet.  

Whether it was from the scream itself, the fact I was alone, or just a bit of inherent fear at the time, my hand was shaking pretty aggressively while I unlocked the door to the gun safe.  I grabbed a shotgun, a handful of shells, and a flashlight from the rack beside the safe, still trembling while I clicked it on.  I exhaled a shaky breath as I softly walked to the window, planning to see if I could make out where the scream had come from before marching out into the storm.  

As I moved to pull open the blinds, the warnings of the chief leaped to the forefront of my mind, reminding me that this very act could be the deciding factor in my future with the rangers.  For a moment, I hesitated, still holding the string to the blinds between my fingers.  I just stared around the room, almost searching for something to guide me one way or the other, but when the horrified shriek echoed for a second time, my mind was made up, be it for better or worse.  

For several minutes I gazed through the glass, unable to make out much of anything.  When the power went out, it had also snuffed out the street lamps, which left me just glaring into the darkness and the rain beating against the glass.  It wasn’t until the world outside was illuminated by a succession of lightning strikes that I finally got my first glimpse of what I assumed to be ‘them’, though that’s not saying much.  

That first flash allowed me to see little more than the rain itself, looking like a veritable hurricane with how heavy and violently it beat across the ground and the cabin.  The second strike revealed something my eyes couldn’t quite register at first, but it was enough for me to focus on that spot for the next one.  When the third lit up the world below, I felt my mouth droop and my eyes widen, when they saw the shape almost silhouetted by the rain.  

The longer I gazed through the glass, the more clearly I could see them, though it was only the one at first.  It didn’t look like anything; only the shape of a large man, accentuated by the water splashing against its body.  After a few minutes, I could see more of them; almost too many to count, just surrounding the building.  They didn’t move, but be it the inherent dread I was feeling, or my denial faltering, I could swear I felt them looking back at me.  

When the shrill scream blended into a frenzied cry for help, I had no more time for staring contests.  Whatever those things were, I had to believe they had no ill intent besides just glaring back at me.  The yelling now sounded as though it was further back into the trees, so I was certain they were not exactly running from these invisible things that just stood in place.  

I ran out into the stormy night, wielding my flashlight in one hand and my shotgun in the other.  I had shoved the extra ammunition into the pocket of my raincoat, but I hoped to God I wouldn’t have to use them.  My heart was racing harder than my feet as I weaved in between the still unmoving, rain-soaked silhouettes, while I half expected them to reach out for me.  To my relief, I was clear of them and cutting through the trees before I knew it.  

The further I sprinted through the woods, the louder the screaming grew, assuring me I was nearing whatever frightened individual had found their way this far up the otherwise sealed off mountain.  My legs almost sent me to the soggy forest floor; skidding to a halt when I finally looked upon the one who continued to shriek.  I felt my limbs shudder more violently than the slender branches shaking from the aggressive wind when my eyes met those of the screaming figure.  

“Help me…” it said in a voice, not unlike a terrified child.  

I couldn’t form anything legible from my mouth, which trembled just as much as my fingers and toes.  

“Save me, mister…” it said, getting to its feet.  

The more it spoke, the more its voice transformed from that childlike tone to something far deeper and hauntingly unnatural.  

“You will help me…won’t you?”

It stood seven feet tall, to my reckoning, though I can’t say I was in control of my faculties enough to make an accurate assessment of such things.  It looked like a skeleton, with pale flesh and slender musculature lining its bones.  Its face was long, with its pointed chin almost touching the top of its chest, even with the neck that appeared just as lengthy as its scrawny forearms.  

When my flashlight slipped from my fingers, I could only make out its features in between flashes of lightning; each one revealing it had neared since the last.  It looked as though its arms and legs had two joints for every one I had, making its staggering movements in the sporadic light even more unsettling to look upon.  

As it opened its mouth wider to reveal thin and pointed teeth, it appeared as though its jaw did not hinge, but simply dropped open as though it had pistons behind its wafer-thin cheeks.  The emaciated and sunken chest heaved as it moved closer, accenting its ribs that seemed to double my own in number.  

Those insanely lengthy legs darted right at me, until I could finally make out the pure and almost shimmering white of its eyes.  There were no irises to speak of; only tiny, round, blackened dots in the dead center of the otherwise milky pool of its gaze.  

“Do something!” a voice in the back of my head yelled out, but I couldn’t convince my paralyzed limbs to move.  

It wasn’t until the thing shrieked out again in that shrill squeal that almost caused my bladder to rupture from within, that I finally forced my body to listen to me.  It reached out towards me with those slender arms shifting in its inhuman angles, while I moved my limb, training my loaded shotgun before me.  

I pulled the trigger, releasing the shotgun spray directly into the midsection of the horrendous creature.  Since I had only managed to take possession of the hand that held my weapon, my inability to stabilize the damn thing before I fired, kicked the gun right out of the fingers that barely gripped onto it.  As soon as the shell discharged, I felt it jerk my wrist and elbow to the side, sending my only weapon to the ground.  

Though the skeletal creature shrieked more aggressively when the shrapnel tore into its gut, it was only momentarily stunned.  My weakened knees dropped me just as hastily to the soggy forest floor as the low-flying shotgun had only moments before, while I watched the torn flesh and tissue repair itself before my eyes.  

“My God…” the voice in the back of my mind whimpered, “what can I do?”

The thing let out another squeal, but it was not one of anguish or pain.  If I had to wager a guess, I would assume it was laughing.  Its arms flailed wildly as it gyrated with its nauseating howl, which only sealed the reality of my fate in the recesses of my mind.  I would not survive this.  

When it settled back down from its fit of maddening laughter, it just stared down at me.  It had me whipped and it knew it.  Hell, I knew it too, but I just couldn’t fathom how to do a damn thing about it at this point.  While I gazed up at it, attempting to accept the inevitability of my mom and sister being able to cash in my life insurance policy, another bright stab of lightning revealed something I hadn’t noticed before.  

Its pale flesh had scars across it; not remnants of tears and gashes, or even shotgun spray to the gut, but symbols burned into it.  Not just any symbol, but the one that adorned the outside wall of the ranger’s station, though these were about the size of a keychain.  

I reached for my belt; my heart racing with the prospect of a possible manner of escape.  A desperate plea of preserving my worthless life that crumbled in an instant when I realized my keys now lay upon the shelf next to the gun cabinet back at the cabin.  

“No…” I whimpered; my heart sinking into the pit of my stomach.  

I exhaled one last trembling breath as the thing leaned over at its lengthy waist, reaching out for me with both of its hauntingly unnatural arms, steadily twisting as they neared.  I could smell the sickeningly foul stench, drifting up from the blackened tips of its fingers as they closed the gap between us, before I closed my eyes, bracing for whatever it had planned.  

When the gunshot rang out, I almost confused it for a violent clap of thunder at first.  As the sticky fluids and grizzled tissue sprayed across me, my eyes blinked back open to see the thing glaring at the meaty stump of its left hand before another bullet tore into its chest.  

“You ok, kid?” Slade said, panting for breath while James and Sarah beat the creature away from me with the butts of their guns.  

I still couldn’t quite produce words; only gazed on as the creature regrew its hand, while each wound inflicted by my colleagues sealed shut before the next.  Once they had it down on its knees, they pulled something from their pockets, pressing it against the flesh of the beast.  

The thing shrieked out in agony from the circular crests burning its skin, leaving that same symbol that hung from my keychain in their wake.  While the injuries inflicted by our weapons faded within moments, those charred into it from the bizarre symbol remained reddened and angry.  

Slade helped me back to my feet before the thing pushed away from my associates, attempting to get to its feet and sprint back into the woods.  When James kicked the legs out from under it, Sarah drew a lengthy machete from her hip.  They moved so quickly; coordinating each attack so flawlessly, that I could barely keep track.  

James finally pinned the thing to the ground, pushing the heel of his boot against the withered chest of the flailing creature.  With one swipe of her blade, Sarah separated that horrendously long head from the slender neck, kicking it to the side like a soccer ball when the work was done.  

I still just gazed on while they severed each limb, before gathering up the dismembered parts in thick garbage bags once it was split apart into easily manageable servings.  Only moments prior, I was certain I would not live to see another day, so I didn’t speak a word while they handed me a few of the bags before helping me back to the station.  

Nobody acknowledged the things only made visible by the pouring rain as we left the trees behind, nor did anyone speak up until we got back into the cabin.  Slade walked down to an apparent basement I never knew about, after tossing the bags down the stairs, while James and Sarah fished some towels from a closet.  Moments later; after the rumbling of something below, the lights flickered back on.  

Some time later, the chief came back up from the lower level, panting slightly as he rubbed his brow with the back of his forearm.  I had no way to know what exactly he did to dispose of the pieces of the creature in the woods, but that was only one of so many questions I had bouncing as round in my mind at the time.  

“Prob’ly shoulda told you about the generator downstairs,” Slade said with a chuckle, giving Sarah a grateful nod for the towel she handed him.  

“Probably shoulda told me a lot of things,” I replied, almost coughing on the first words I’d spoken in what felt like hours.  

“You wouldn’t have believed him,” Sarah said, vigorously rubbing the towel across her thick and wavy hair, “I know I wouldn’t back then.”

James was just staring out the window while attempting to dry himself off, only looking back from time to time to give an agreeing nod or a smile.  Sarah went to the kitchen, coming back some moments later with a tray holding four steaming cups.  

I hadn’t even realized how frigid my flesh was until the hot coffee flowed down my throat.  I could feel its warmth spread through me the instant it entered my mouth.  Slade handed out some blankets, before we all gathered up in the lounge, sitting around like huddled up kids at a sleepover.  

“They can see you now,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the window in the lobby.  

“The invisible guys?” I asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all.  

“The Watchers, we call ’em, on account of that’s all they do.  They don’t mess with us, and we don’t mess with them, but when they’re out, well, so are the others.” 

He cut his eyes between each of us while he spoke, though I had no doubt the rest of the room’s occupants had been through this speech before.  Still, he didn’t come off as our boss at the time.  The way he talked felt more like a close relative or a dear friend telling a tale.  

“You see, son, this mountain is home to what could be called a weak spot; a flimsy doorway between this world and another.  For some reason, things can’t get through one way or another on any normal day, but when it storms…well, that’s a different story.  Can’t say why, as I’m sure it’s way above my understandin’, but something about the rain opens that door up further.  That’s where we come in.”

“So, what are we, like, I don’t know, the guardians of the storm, or something?” I asked, still fighting back a chuckle at how silly the concept sounded.  

“Hell yeah!” James said with a smile, cutting his eyes at Sarah, “I like that! We should put that shit on a T-shirt!” 

We all laughed at his enthusiastic reaction to an otherwise insane conversation.  If nothing else, that moment of levity allowed the tension in my back to release for the first time in god knows how long.  Once the laughter settled down, the room fell silent.  We all sort of stared into our cups or around the room, but I knew there was more to be discussed, given the nature of what our jobs entail.  

“We’ve all been through something like this,” Sarah said, giving me a somehow compassionate smile, “but we were nearby the whole time…”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t leave you alone on your first storm, it’s just, I guess, part of it, you know?” James said, sounding equally as understanding as Sarah, “You gotta feel alone with it to appreciate what it is we’re protecting people from out here.”

“I don’t know, man,” I replied, giving him a smirk, “I think I still woulda been freaked out if I had a whole damn army with me.”

While we talked back and forth, another question occurred to me.  

“So, if the door, I don’t know, swings open when it rains…I mean, are those things still out there?” 

“Rest of the team is out there right now; will be until the storm calms,” Slade replied.  

“Should we be out there too?” 

“Believe it or not,” Sarah said, “this isn’t a bad one.  Besides, everyone else is out by the gateway.”

“Yeah, every now and then, a stray gets by, but we keep the main group at the door, and the rest of us stay back to catch any that get through,” James added.  

“You’ll get the feel for everything soon enough,” Slade said, giving me a more compassionate look than I thought him to be capable of, “One thing you need to prepare for though: it’s all hands on deck when it storms.”

As the night progressed, they explained more about the doorway, and how it’s up to us to fight back against anything that comes through.  I couldn’t quite understand how something like this couldn’t be left in the hands of some government-run military force, but Slade just said it’s best if those in charge didn’t know about the rips in the world like these.  Yes, I couldn’t deny that it was scary to think of what the powerful people of the world could do with something like this, but could a handful of half-assed trained rangers do enough to keep this concealed?

As it turned out, I was about the only one who was half-assed trained at the time; something that would be remedied very soon.  Before the storm finally calmed down, Slade asked me once and for all if I was ready to be a full-time member of the team.  I was scared; I can’t lie about that fact, but how often does some average asshole get the chance to make a difference in the world?

I told him I was in before the words even left his mouth; something that inspired the rest of the room’s occupants to act like it was my damn birthday or something.  Slade looked downright proud as he clapped me on the shoulder while shaking my hand so enthusiastically that I thought it might just pop right off.  He laughed pretty hard when I said that very thing, and it was only then that I realized I had never seen him smile before this night.  

When the morning crew arrived, they all took turns shaking my hand and truly welcoming me on board, after the chief gave them the news.  They would likely take turns sleeping off the busy night, but that was just another part of the routine I had to look forward to.  When I finally got back to my home just a little while later, I passed out as soon as my head hit the pillow.

•

“A decision has been made, yes?” the stranger in the dark asked.  

Once more, all I could see was that wide smile, but be it due to the veil being lifted from my eyes, or just the simple fact that this was our second meeting, I was a bit more apprehensive about his presence this time.  

“It has,” I replied, with confidence in my words.  

“Then you have found your place?”

“I believe I have.  Yes.”

Just as it had the last time we spoke, the rain began to trickle down around us.  I looked to my hands to see the pools of crimson forming upon my palms, before I glanced back up to that unwavering grin.  

“A storm is still coming…”

“I survived the last one.”

“That was nothing; just a taste of what is yet to come…”

“And what is any of this to you? Who even are you?” 

“You will see soon enough.”

•

The laughter that erupted from that oversized mouth after those last words broke free from it, damn near caused me to retch over the side of my bed when I, once more, found myself sitting straight up, gasping for breath.  I plan to ask Slade and some of the others if they’ve experienced any strange dreams featuring this unusual individual, but I’m sure it’s nothing more than my subconscious, getting carried away with my new outlook on the world.  

I still have a lot to learn, and the guys pretty much guaranteed that my training is going to be far removed from a simple walk in the park, but I think I’m prepared for it.  I am most certainly intimidated by what else could be out there, just waiting for us in the storm, but I hope I’m strong enough to handle it.  

Slade told me they’ll have a local tattoo artist come to the station within the next few days, to hook me up with the same ink they all share; that symbol that hangs from the keys I’ll be damn sure never to be without again.  I hope to find out what this symbol is, or at least what it represents, but that’s only one of the many things I have yet to learn.  

Depending on how things go with my training, I’ll try to post more soon.  Just rest assured that the next time the heavens open wide, cleansing the world below with its ferocious storm, we will be out there; lending a hand to keep the other side from breaking through.  It may not be what I originally signed up for, but I think that, for the first time in my life, I have truly found where I belong.  Be it for better, or for worse, well, that remains to be seen.  

We made a mistake.  A horrible, horrible mistake, and there’s no putting this particular blood-soaked genie back in its bottle.  Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that there’s no getting everything back out of that bottle.  That’s probably closer.  We shoved the world into the bottle and the genie is holding onto it for all its worth.

I’m not making any sense.  This is just senseless rambling.

That’s a good thing, right?  It’s good that I still recognize that I’m not making sense.  If I was all the way gone I’d just think that everything coming out of my mouth is rational.  Isn’t that how insanity works?

Come on, focus.  Have to focus.  There’s no time for this.  Get the message recorded so that others know what happened.  Only have a few minutes.

My name is Greg Roberts, and I’m a behavioral neuroscientist.  For the past six years I’ve been part of a government research project.  No, not one of those kinds of projects.  This isn’t tied to the military or anything nefarious.  At least I don’t think that it is.  Who really knows when you’re working for the government on something classified, right?

The team that I’m part of has been focused on using a combination of new therapies and evolving technology to help advance the field of mental health treatment.  The more that we’re able to connect with a patient, the more we can aid them.

What the hell was that?  I think…  No, okay.  Maybe not.

Um, I’m sorry, I don’t remember what I was saying.

Right, new treatments.  The project has essentially been built around one man, Albert Weissman.  He’s absolutely brilliant.  He’s technically an engineer, but his areas of expertise stretch so far into every field that he can’t really be defined by a single one.  His mind puts all of the rest of ours to shame.

The STP machine was his design.  Wait, I haven’t told you about the STP yet.  It’s…  It’s hard to keep things in order.  My thoughts aren’t in a straight line anymore.  They’re churning and writhing and changing order and no matter how hard I try I just can’t get them to stop swapping places.

STP is an acronym, the letters S, T, and P.  It stands for Subconscience Transmission and Projection.  We call it the STP because everything needs a fancy name when you are presenting it to people in charge that don’t understand a neurotransmitter from a xylophone.  The STP.  Short enough for even the most limited of minds to remember.

The machine itself doesn’t look that remarkable.  It’s built into one of those reclining beds that you find in hospitals.  There’s a series of wires and cables that connect into two small discs that are attached to a person’s temples on one side and a group of computers on the other.  In turn, those computers are linked to a ring of projectors drilled into the ceiling of the room.

While it doesn’t look like much, what the STP does is almost unbelievable.  I’ve seen it work countless times, and I still don’t believe it.  It feels more like…  like sorcery than science.

The STP interprets all the chemical and electrical information flowing throughout the human brain and converts it into computer data.  It then interprets that data to form images before sending those images to the projectors, which in turn produces three dimensional videos of them.  In short, the STP lets us see the thoughts of the subject.

Yeah, I know how that sounds.  It sounds like pure science fiction crap.  Whether you believe it or not, though, it exists.  Keep in mind that twenty years ago you would have been called a moron if you stated that you believed a portable phone would one day be more powerful than the most powerful computer systems of the time.

Weissman is a genius, but he’s also an idiot.  This is his damn fault.  How could he have been so wrong about what his own machine did?

Was he wrong?  Is it possible that he actually knew what he was doing?  Not an idiot.  A madman.  It’s possible.  Probable?  I don’t know.  Can’t think.  My thoughts are too big, getting too tight in my mind.  Makes it hard to think.

The STP tested so well on most people.  We were able to do good work with it.  It didn’t just project the active thoughts.  Just like its name implied, it could dig into the subconscious as well.  It could show us thoughts that even the patient didn’t know existed inside of them.  The process of treatment was so accelerated that we could do the work of years in the space of weeks.  Therapy sessions could be tailored to the individual so precisely that helping them through their various problems became laughably easy.

I don’t know when we put Ernest Carlisle into the STP.  It feels like it was earlier today, but I don’t think that’s right.  Time doesn’t matter here.  Days and hours and minutes are all the same thing.

This damn migraine.  It feels like it’s going to crush my brain.  So much pressure.  Like a broken boiler starting to swell and screech.

Maybe you’ve heard of Carlisle.  About a decade ago, he sent a series of bombs to daycares across the country.  When he was finally indentified and arrested by the FBI, he claimed that he had sent the bombs because children throughout the country had been replaced by demons summoned by the Illuminati.  In medical terms, he was a certified lunatic.

I don’t know how Weissman got him, but he did.  Carlisle was strapped into the STP as he was monitored by half a dozen armed guards.  Usually only a few of the project members were present each time the STP was run.  This time we were all there.  Each of us was fascinated by the idea of seeing into the mind of an insane man.

At first everything was fine.  The STP works in layers, you see.  Conscious thoughts are the most prominent in the mind, so it would project those images first.  The guards must have been surprised to see warped images of themselves appear in front of their faces.  It was how Carlisle saw them, not how they truly were.

There it is again.  The screams within the screams.  I thought locking myself in here woudl be enough to block them out, but I should have known better.  These aren’t voices that care about soundproofing and insulation.  The screams are free of life’s restrictions, free to flow into the ears of anyone they want.  I think the worst part is the echo.  It just bounces off the sides of your ears as it worms its way down the canals.

They’re worms made of voices that tunnel down down down into you.

When the STP reached Carlisle’s deeper thoughts, that’s when things went wrong.  I can’t describe the images that the projectors showed.  Twisted pictures of creatures beyond words.  Demonic entities that never held a single shape for more than a second, with each iteration worse than the last.

Carlisle kept laughing as the projections continued.  At one point he cried out that now we all saw the truth and that his words could no longer be suppressed by the weak minded.

Most of us could only stare in horror, but one of the scientists managed to snap out of it and shut down the STP.  When he did so, though, the projections continued.  That wasn’t possible.  Without the STP active, there was no power running to the projections.

That’s when one of the demonic images reached over and tore the throat out of one of the guards.

Weissman’s machine had somehow given form to Carlisle’s thoughts.  Or maybe it had drawn out things that were inside of him.  That’s what we all thought in that moment, anyway.  The demons started attacking the people closest to them, and the rest of us ran.  What else could we do?  We got the hell out of the STP chamber and sealed the doors behind us.

Somehow the demons had appeared beyond the chamber, however.  There were dozens of them lurking in the hallways, and the moment that they saw us they attacked.  Fellow scientists…  No, no detachment through disassociation.  Many of my closest friends were torn apart piece by piece by the nightmare creatures.  In the confusion I got separated, and I found myself here, in the security room.

Like I said, I don’t know how long I’ve been here.  I’ve heard someone or something bang on the door a few times, beggining for me to let them in.  It could be fellow survivors.  Probably not, though.  It’s more likely that it’s the demons trying to trick me into opening the door.  I’m no fool.  I’m not opening that door.

Oh, God, please stop this headache.  It’s pushing so hard against the inside of my skull.

Maybe it’s not a headache.  What if it’s the churning thoughts trying to push out of me?  Those worm screams are driving them on, spurring them to grow and search and squeeze.  The demons on the inside are more dangerous than those on the outside, you know.  Their claws are sharper and their teeth gnash louder.

Before I started recording this, I watched the security footage from the STP chamber.  For some reason the footage doesn’t show the demons.  Instead, it shows everyone in the room watching the images before some of them start to kill each other and others run from the room.

That’s not what happened.  I was there.  These demons are sneaky.  They’ve changed the footage so that anyone watching it later thinks everyone went insane from seeing the images projected from Carlisle’s mind.  I was there, though.  It was demons.  Sneaky, brutal, terrifying demons.

The voices from outside in the hall are trying to convince me otherwise.  They’re saying that our minds couldn’t what they were being shown and snapped.  They say they believe it’s only temporary, and that I need to open the door so that they can help.

One of them even sounds like Shawna.  I don’t know how the demons know what my wife sounds like.  The impersonator is talking about our children, about how they need me and how I have to come out for their sakes.  It even sounds like the speaker means it.

Even with my thoughts squirming, though, I’m not going to fall for that.  It’s a hell of a try, pardon the pun, but these demons aren’t going to fool me.

I have to find a way out, though, and to do that I need to be able to concentrate.  There’s only one way to do that.  I have to let out the worm scream thoughts.  Then there will be more space for thinking.

There are a number of guns in a cabinet here in the security office.  It’s locked, but it’s a pretty flimsy one.  This is an old building, and you don’t really need state of the art security for the type of work that we do, anyway.  I bet that I can use this chair to bash off the lock to get to one of the guns.

That will help me make a hole in my head for the worm scream thoughts to leave through.  Then I’ll be able to think straight again.  Yes, that’s what I need to do.  It’s the smart thing.

It’s the sane thing.

When Jacob Housley turned up dead, it didn’t take long for me to hear about it.  Just about everyone knew everyone, back in the old town, and I was more than familiar with the Housleys.  Well, I used to be, anyway.  

Jacob was one of my fathers closest friends–almost an uncle to me in my youth.  Though I hadn’t seen him for many years, when my childhood friend, Tony called to tell me the news, it still knocked the wind out of me.  

I had moved out to the city, right after graduating high school, working a few jobs, here and there, to carve out my own life, free from my father.  We were never exactly close, but after my mom walked out on us, things only got worse between us.  

After many attempts to settle on a career choice, I took some classes to become a private investigator.  I’ve been doing this for a good six years, by this point, but it feels like what I’m supposed to be doing.

I have a good relationship with the local police department–something that makes life so much easier, in a profession like this.  While I mostly deal with cases involving cheating spouses, some fraud, and neighborhood thieves, I’ve been told that I’m a natural at this.  

I can often tell when people are being truthful or not, while clues to my investigations practically fall into my lap, sometimes.  It’s hard to explain, really, but I know when I’m on the wrong track, no matter how much things may, or may not add up at the time.  

I think that’s what motivated me to head back to the small town in which I was raised, to look into the death of my childhood, adopted uncle.  I won’t say that I don’t have faith in the local law, back home…okay, that’s exactly what I’m saying.  

Whether they didn’t care, or were just completely inept, Mayberry PD came off like the fucking FBI in comparison.  Not that anything particularly noteworthy ever happened when I lived there, of course.  

Still, my lack of faith in their investigation skills aside, I had such an intense need to know what happened to Jacob Housley.  My only apprehension was in potentially having to reach out to my old man, as he was the only person I knew to be particularly close to Jacob.  

Honestly, I can’t even recall the last time we spoke, let alone met in person.  I have visited my old stomping ground a few times over the decade or so I’ve been gone, but only to touch base with some friends.  I should probably feel bad for not checking in on him sooner, but he lost those privileges a long time ago.  

Jacob almost seemed a polar opposite to my father at times.  He actually treated me like a human being, for one.  While my dad generally made sure to keep me at arms length.  Of course, the more he pushed me away, the more I wanted to get away, and never look back.  

I booked a hotel room, on the outskirts of town, spending the first day just settling in, and making a few phone calls.  Like I said: it’s not a big place, by any means, but there were still a few good spots, right off the interstate.

Daryl Gently–quite the fitting name for the completely indifferent sheriff, who had been in that position since before I left, was not particularly forthcoming with any details concerning the death.  What he did, I suspect, inadvertently let me know, was that the fire which consumed the house did not appear to be accidental.

I had a feeling about that–that his premature demise was likely the result of foul play.  I suppose I wouldn’t have felt compelled to head out this way, if I believed it to be just a simple electrical fire.  Still, whether he meant to share these facts or not, Gently’s indication that this was no accident assured me that I was on the right track.  

With or without the sheriff’s blessing, that would be my first stop, the following morning–the remains of the home in which the old family friend perished, along with all of his worldly belongings.  He had once shared the place with his wife and daughter, who was like a sister to me, but they walked out on him, some years before I left this town behind.  

I was thankful for that, if for no other reason–that he was alone when the building was reduced to ash and cinders.  I still keep in touch with Sarah, who still feels like a sibling to me, but she doesn’t seem to think too highly of her father.  Of course, that’s something to which I can relate, even if I do have very different memories of her old man.  

I felt my breath catch in my throat, when I pulled up alongside the ruined structure, still concealed behind the yellow tape–the sight of the house in which I had played as a boy, completely unrecognizable.  

I just stood there, next to my car, gazing at the charred wood and ash, my jaw dropping involuntarily.  I was so mentally checked out, I didn’t even notice the car pulling up on the other side of the road.  But when the siren sounded one time, my senses collided with my mind again, spinning me in place.  

Gently just glared at me, with his driver’s side window rolled down, shaking his head with an expression of parental disappointment on his face.  It would seem that he was well aware that I would not simply leave this alone, with his dismissal of my request to look into this.  

Regardless of that, I gave him a pleasant enough smile and a nod, climbing back into my car.  He didn’t move until I did–likely to make certain I would leave the scene behind, but I wasn’t about to walk away from this.  

If anything, his adamant refusal to allow me to just look at the damn place, safely and legally behind the yellow tape, only made me more determined to find out what happened here.  

Taking one final glance at the crumbled and burnt structure, I gave a complimentary wave to the elderly sheriff, before easing back down the road.  His intervention only fueled the theory which had been building in the recesses of my mind–that there was a conspiracy here, or some sort of cover up.  

Whether this was the case or not, when I took that last look at the remnants of the home of my adopted uncle, those indescribable instincts assured me that I would find no answers there.  Still, I couldn’t quite get a read on where I should go next, as effortless as such things have been, since I began my career as a PI.  

Perhaps it was simply my connection to the house, as well as the town itself.  I can’t deny that my thoughts were cluttered, my mind uneasy about being back here, under these circumstances.  No, I had to get my head right, if I hoped to find my next lead, with or without the aid of the local police department.  

I spent the next few hours driving around with no destination in mind.  Not only should a relaxing drive allow my mind to wander a bit, but this was part of my process when I didn’t know where to turn.  

Though it’s difficult to articulate–how these inspirations creep up on me, the best way I can describe it is that this is my bloodhound stage of investigation.  I can’t say what it is, whether some sort of mental itch, or simply allowing my thoughts to categorize themselves while I focus on the road.  But it’s not unlike a dog seeking out a specific scent.  

With my head in the clouds as I drove aimlessly, I would rely on my dashcam and gps to paint a picture of my travels, should nothing strike me, as I plundered on.  Even after I felt as though I had toured the entirety of my home town, a number of times, I didn’t feel the slightest itch or twinge.  

Ultimately, after hours spent spanning the streets, suburbs, and back roads, I returned to my hotel room, having picked up some fast food to ease the grumbling of my stomach.  Flipping on the television, and sitting on the surprisingly cozy bed, I hoped the distractions would settle my erratic thoughts as I indulged in my well earned meal.  

No matter how much I tried to focus on the movie on the screen, something was nibbling on my subconscious–like a distant voice I couldn’t quite make out.  I knew there was something I was missing, even with having absolutely no evidence to go on.  

I’d felt this before, or at least a watered down version of it.  Like something hiding in plain sight, just out of view.  Whatever it was, as I had to force my waning appetite to indulge, it was obvious I would not be able to distract myself–not until I at least understood my next step.  

I had grown both restless and exhausted, though I knew that sleep would not be in the cards for me anytime soon.  Stashing the remainder of the meal I couldn’t finish for the time being, I pulled up the GPS on my phone, to track my hours of weaving from one road to the next.  

In some ways, given that uneasy feeling in the back of my mind, I wasn’t surprised about the recurring steps in my aimless driving.  Still, that didn’t make it any easier to accept where I would need to visit, to unlock the next chapter in my investigation.  

It looked as though I had driven past my father’s house a total of five times, during which my mind had been so distant, I didn’t even realize I was on his street.  Though I could chalk this up to the fact that it was the house I grew up in, potentially guided there by that subconscious need to go back home, I hadn’t considered it a home for a very long time.  

My father could barely stand to look at me, after his wife left, pushing me further and further away with each passing day.  I was around twelve when she walked out, though my memories of that are sort of vague.  I do remember her well, and how she had that way of making me feel like the most precious part of this world.  

I felt like I was everything to her, as she was to me, when I was a kid.  I can’t even describe how much it fractured me when she left.  The fact that she didn’t speak a word to me about what she was planning was just as perplexing as it was hurtful.  

I simply woke up one day, and she was gone.  It was almost like she had never even lived in the house, with how quickly my old man seemingly vanquished the place of all of her things.  Of course I don’t really recall her having much in the way of material belongings.  

I won’t say that my dad was exactly a loving parent before she departed our lives, but I do recall him smiling more.  He would tell me that it was my fault that she left, for being such an unusual child over my younger years, though those memories are hard to locate.  Naturally, regardless of what I could or could not remember, he continued to point his finger at me for everything that brought him misery afterwards.  

While he was never physically violent with me, he made certain that I knew what a curse I had been to his life.  Somehow; though, I made it through those times with no lingering damage to my self esteem or inner worth.  I always had a confidence in myself that he couldn’t shake, no matter how hard he tried.  

My old man had only two passions in his life: the church, and the bottle.  He still kept his faith in his god–honestly to a fault, but that wouldn’t stop him from getting hammered just about every single night after my mom took off.  

The more drunk he got, the more vocal he was about how I looked, in his eyes.  I know he was hurting–even at a young age, I could see that.  But, after she bailed on us, he acted like I was some sort of demon, haunting his once happy home.  

He would drag me to church, every damn week, spilling the gospel all the more when we got back to the house.  While a lot of my memories of those years are somewhat foggy, I’ll never forget how he looked at me.  That hatred and resentment in his eyes.

I never felt alone or abandoned, though–even while hiding out in my bedroom, attempting to avoid my father’s attempts to make me suffer.  A child’s mind can be scarred so easily, when shown such resentment by those tasked with raising them.  But I only became all the more independent, and driven to escape his endless negativity.  

It’s as if there was a dense cloud of melancholy surrounding the man at all times, which only left me so much lighter when I left.  Leaving that house behind, once and for all, was like bursting through the surface of the ocean, after being lost to the sea for years.  

It was that fog of misery, even more than the resentment, that inspired me never to return to that place.  That’s also what was making me all the more uneasy about having to return, should I hope to get to the bottom of what was really going on in this town.  I swear I could feel it creeping back up on me, as I sat on that hotel mattress, my skin trembling from the thought of what may lie ahead for me.  

Sometime, during the night, as I fought to sleep away my old ghosts, the thunder beyond my window sprang me from the bed, almost gasping for breath.  It felt like the knowledge that I must face my father had summoned the storm itself–his inherent disparity presiding over this damned town.  

As I rolled back over to allow my weary mind to drift away once more, I felt the most intense sensation of being watched.  I sat straight up, the blanket pouring from my suddenly shivering frame, cutting my eyes to the window on my right.  

Even with the curtains closed, the lights from the parking lot revealed the slender silhouette, standing right in front of the glass.  I couldn’t make out any features, but I didn’t need to.  I could feel the eyes burning into mine, as though I was locked into a dead stare with whoever was out there.  

Snapping my drowsy and erratic mind back to the here and now, I leapt from the plush mattress, snatching the revolver I had set upon the nightstand.  I didn’t break my gaze from the haunting shadow beyond the window until I reached the door, throwing it open, and springing from my room.  

I felt the textured grip of my gun trembling in my hand with the sight of only the vacant, second floor landing before me.  Cutting my head from one side to the other, seeing no trace of anyone or anything, other than the occasional vehicle drifting by the hotel, I felt almost disconnected from my body.  

As I turned to head back into my temporary living quarters, taking one last glance at where I was certain someone had stood, glaring in at me–that’s when I noticed the footprints.  Crouching down and running a finger across the blackened shape of two, slender, bare feet.  I could smell the smoke embedded into the sooty residue on my finger, before I registered what it was.  

With a quick jaunt back to my nightstand to grab my phone, and a sheet of paper, I snapped three shots of the prints, as well as the ash upon my fingertips.  I would often see strange things upon reawakening, with one part of my mind still honed in on whatever dream I had been entertaining.  I needed proof that this was no hallucination.  

Before heading back in and locking my door for the night, I brushed some of the ashy substance onto the paper sheet, folding it up for safe keeping.  With no friends on the police department here, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to convince anyone to run some tests on it.  But something told me to hold onto it–that itching in my mind convinced me of that fact.  

Once I lay back down again, after slipping my pistol beneath the pillow to my left, I kept stealing glances at the window.  With how erratic my thoughts had been when I attempted to pass out before, I knew it would be a far less simple task to drift away now.

Fortunately, I had remembered to bring my over the counter sleeping pills, which had become my go to remedy for those sleepless nights, when an investigation cluttered my thoughts.  Granted, this one was far more potent than the average adultery case, but I hoped that doubling my regular dosage would get the job done.  

I didn’t even realize I had indeed dozed back off, until my alarm brought me back to the waking world.  Well, somewhat, anyway.  Between the interrupted sleep, and unwelcome visitor, prior to knocking back the meds, I almost felt hungover.  

With my head so loopy, I chose to fall out for a few more hours, hopeful to have as clear a mind as possible, before facing my father.  I knew he would prey on any weakness he saw in me, avoiding the questions to which I needed answers, as much as humanly possible.  

It was a little past two in the afternoon, when I blinked my eyes back open.  I was still a bit dazed, but I knew I couldn’t afford to waste the day–not with so much weighing on me.  I had to get this out of the way.  I had to face my father, if I hoped to clear the clutter, and get my instincts back on track.  

My stomach was in knots as I drove the all too familiar roads to the house in which I grew up.  Having not eaten much the previous day, and my appetite still having not returned enough to even attempt breakfast, the anticipation of seeing my old man only aggravated my churning gut all the more.  

I just sat in my car, parked in front of my long since abandoned home, attempting to motivate myself to move.  I didn’t so much as glance at the house–just gazed, blankly through the windshield, my weary mind attempting to organize the erratic thoughts.  

When my pensive daze was interrupted by such an aggressive pounding on my driver’s side window, I thought the glass would shatter.  I felt my blood flow stop cold with the sight of my father glaring down at me.  

He didn’t speak, only continued to stare on with that all too familiar resentment in his eyes.  As I unclasped my seatbelt, took a deep breath, and prepared to get out of my car, he turned his back to me, strolling toward the open front door of his home.  

While I reluctantly followed a ways behind him, he cut his eyes over his shoulder–I assume, to be certain I was coming along.  He didn’t exactly invite me in, as he crossed the threshold, but he left the door open for me.  

I felt my legs attempt to give out beneath me, the musty scent of the old place slapping me across the face even harder than the bitter nostalgia, as I walked in.  I just stood in the doorway for a moment, placing a hand against the frame to stabilize my involuntary swaying.  

“Close the door!” he called out in a clearly pissed off tone.  

After regulating my spinning head, to a point, I continued on to the dining room, keeping my eyes fixed on the ratty carpet.  Whether it was being in my dad’s presence, or the vision of the house in which I had not stepped foot for years that had my heart racing so bad, I thought it best to maintain a bit of tunnel vision for a time.  

“Heard you was back,” he said, pulling two beers from the fridge, “didn’t figure you’d come to visit or nothin’.”

“I heard about Jacob,” I said, as my old man took his usual spot at the table, sliding one of the bottles toward me, “I had to come check it out.” 

“Gently’ll find who done it…ain’t no need in you…”

“Gently can barely track down his fucking car in the parking lot.”

“You’ll watch your mouth, when you’re in this house, boy,” he said, glaring up at me with contempt.  

He was never a fan of swearing–claimed it was against God’s commandments, and all that good stuff.  Even when I was forced to read his precious Bible, when I was a kid, I can’t say I ever found the part that said, ‘Thou shalt not say ‘fuck’ a lot’, but I was skimming, at best.  

“You don’t get to tell me what I can and cannot say anymore,” I replied, coldly, “but I’ll try to control my potty mouth.” 

He just gave a heavy sigh, before chugging down half of the chilled beer in his hand.  

“What’d you come here for? Whatcha think I can give you that the police can’t?” 

“They won’t give me anything.  Besides, you know…well…you knew Jacob better than anyone.  Did he have any enemies?” 

“Enemies!?” he belted with a condescending laugh, “you ain’t in the big city, boy.  Ain’t no one got enemies ’round these parts.  Besides…I don’t know Housley like I used to.” 

“Pushed him away too, huh?” I said, more than asked.  

“What’s that s’pose to mean?” he said, slamming his bottle on the table, “I didn’t never push you, one way or the other! You…”

“Seriously!? All you did was push me! After Mom left, you…”

“What in the name of Pete did you ever know ‘bout yer momma!?”

“What did…? She was the only one who actually wanted me in this house! I knew her better than you ever let me get to know you! All you showed me was contempt!” 

“Your mom hit the road when you was still in diapers! Yeah, I’d catch you playin’ house, like a lil girl–pretendin’ she didn’t up and leave us, but I ain’t never even showed you a picture of her!” 

“You are fucking delusional!” I scoffed, “if it wasn’t for her, I would’ve grown up to be the same ignorant, goddamn prick…” 

I don’t even know when he got to his feet, but when his hand smacked across my face, I could barely form a rational thought.  

“You ain’t gonna blaspheme in MY house!” 

My mind suddenly flooded with such an erratic collage of imagery, I felt my body flop to the chair beside me.  

“There ya go, bein’ a lil sissy again.  I didn’t even hit you that hard, and you’re actin’ like you’re dyin’!” 

It was like that hit realigned the gears which had been shifted in my mind, the fog that hid away excerpts from my past dissipating, while I fought to regain my focus.  

“You live in a fantasy world–always have! Your momma was the same way.  That’s how I knowed you was just the same as her.  That you was as corrupt as her.  That you was as unclean as her…” 

I blinked my eyes, battling to hone in on the world around me, rather than the imagery panning across the surface of my mind.  I glanced at my old man, who was only inches from my face, still raging on.  

While I looked at his reddening skin and hateful gaze, my mind’s eye revealed a seemingly endless stream of this very expression from my youth.  I jerked my head to the side as I felt him strike me again–not in the present, but the much smaller and far more defenseless child I once was.  

I cut my eyes to the stove, to see the spiderwebbed cracks across the glass door, upon which he had rammed my head when I was just a boy.  I pushed my old man away from me, while he still screamed at me through gritted teeth.  

Staggering to the living room, I saw the splits in the drywall, against which he had pushed me, the chip on the coffee table, that earned me sixteen stitches across the back of my scalp, and the door frame he had snapped my forearm against.  

It was all coming back–everything my trauma had hidden from me.  I suddenly and vividly recalled every single beating.  Every wound he had inflicted.  Every scar I had never questioned before.  And every single thread, sewn into the tapestry of my hatred for the son of a bitch who raised me.  

With my mind, still in chaos, and my old man, still following behind, yelling at me, I was on him before I registered it.  He finally shut his mouth, as his whole body trembled beneath my grip as I snatched him by the collar, ramming his back to the same wall against which he had slammed me, splitting the drywall all the more.  

I couldn’t even form words as I glared into his suddenly horror-stricken eyes, but I didn’t need them.  He could see the truth reflected in my gaze.  He could see that I remembered everything he had put me through.  

“You put me through hell,” I said, matter of factly, when I relocated my ability to speak.  

“I…I was tryin’ to save you…” 

“Save me!? I was a child!”

“You was her child…” 

“I was yours too…” 

“Ain’t no part of me in you,” he said, spitting with words.  

I rammed him harder against the wall, battling my urge to thrust my fist through his face and into the sheetrock.  He coughed, his legs buckling beneath him, but I wouldn’t let him drop.  

“Is this why she left? Did you beat her too?” 

“I never…I couldn’t…”

She had protected me from him, or at least attempted to–I realized that now.  That was until she left, of course, which only made me feel all the more betrayed.  She left me to be tormented.  While I can fully understand why she would bail on him, why wouldn’t she take me with her!?

I finally released my grip, allowing the bastard to fall to the carpet.  I backed away, still trembling from head to toe, while he shivered on the floor, staring, wide eyed back at me.  

“You’d better be glad that she made me better than you.  That she taught me, better than you,” I said, lowering myself to the floor across from him.  

“She didn’t make you nothin’, boy…you never knew her! You ain’t never seen her face, ye hear me?”

“I remember her face…I remember her love…I remember that she was the only person in this house who made me feel wanted.” 

“You need help, son,” he said, with a heavy exhale, and strangely compassionate voice, “she left when you was six months old…ain’t no way you ever even met her…”

“Bullshit…she tucked me in every single night, until she left.  She would sing me to sleep, when you left me in tears.  She would tend to the wounds that you inflicted.  I remember it all now.  You can’t…”

“It ain’t…true…” 

“Okay.  You say she left when I was a baby.  Whatever.  But I know she was with me, even if she snuck into the house when you were passed out drunk.  Before you ran her off for good, anyway.”

“You don’t understand…you need help, boy…” 

“No, you don’t understand! She was the only thing that kept me going, back then! You’re a fucking monster! She actually…”

“She’s…dead! She died before you lost your first tooth!” he screamed, tears spilling down his face.  

“Bullshit! I know that…” 

“She was a troubled girl, son.  I…I tried to help her, but she just pushed me away…I know I was hard on you…I…I’m sorry…but I didn’t want you to…”

“What did you do to her? I said, getting back to my feet.  

“I didn’t do nothin’, son…she…she killed herself.  They found her body in the woods.  She hung herself out there, where no one could stop her.  She…had problems, kid.  She was disturbed in ways that I didn’t know how to fix, but…but, I tried.  Lord knows, I tried.”

There was a sincerity on his face I had never seen before.  It looked as though his heart was shattering, as he trembled before me.  But, I knew she had been in my life–that she was a significant part of my childhood.  I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what he was saying.  

“Tell me…tell me everything,” I said, reaching a hand to the broken man on the floor, helping him back to his feet.  

He glanced at the deep split in the wall, and back to me, shaking his head, before leading me back to the dining room.  Grabbing another beer from the fridge, he gave a nod to the chair opposing him.  I took my spot, wrapping my trembling fingers around the bottle awaiting me.  

My father glared at the drink in his hand, as if seeking advice from the brown, tinted glass.  I didn’t speak, only stared at his tilted head, granting him some moments to gather his bearings.  Maybe ten minutes passed by, before he began to talk.  

“Your momma wasn’t never like other folks.  S’pose that’s what drawed me to her, back then.  There was somethin’ about her that just cast a spell on anyone that met her.  Hell, I reckon I was head over heels from that first glance.”

He chuckled, softly, with an expression I had never seen.  It was both happy and sad, but kind and compassionate.  I didn’t even know his face was capable of anything other than rage and bitterness.  

“When you was born, I ain’t never seen no one look at anyone, the way she looked at you.  I kinda hate to admit it, but I was a bit jealous.  The love in her eyes for you, was so far beyond anythin’ she’d ever showed me.  S’pose I sorta resented you for that.  Didn’t realize it at the time, though.” 

He wouldn’t look up from his bottle, even when tipping it to his lips.  I could see the shame on his face, though.  

“We started fightin’ a lot, over them first months of your life, and I just knowed she was gonna leave me.  The bond between the two of you was more intense than anythin’ I’d ever knowed.  Every night, she’d sit beside your crib, fallin’ asleep beside you, leavin’ me alone in the bed.”

“One mornin’, right outta the blue.  I woke up, and she was just gone! Didn’t leave a note.  Didn’t even take her things with her.  At first, I figured she’d just run into town for a spell, but she never come back.  Days went by, and she just…she just didn’t come home.” 

“I looked for her.  Filled out a missin’ persons report, and damn near lost my mind over weeks of searchin’.  But couldn’t never turn nothin’ up.  That was until some months later, when some hikers found her decomposin’ body, strung up to that tree branch.” 

Tears were spilling down his face, as he continued his staring match with his beer.  I almost wanted to feel bad for him–to get up and hold him, to ease his heavy heart.  But I couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t telling me everything.  

“I’m sorry I took it out on you,” he said, finally cutting his watering eyes to mine, “I knowed it wasn’t your fault, but I was hurtin’.  I was angry…so damned angry! I saw so much of her in you…the way you acted.  The things that you’d say and do…that look in yer eyes…” 

The borderline swearing caught me more off guard than the seemingly endless river of tears.  I started to get to my feet, my mind battling to find a way to forgive him for the hell he put me through.  But, before I had the chance to weigh my doubts about his words, with the sudden ache in my chest, a knock at the door put an end to this brief moment of bonding with my old man.  

He smeared the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes, as he got up from his chair, glancing at me momentarily with an expression I couldn’t quite read.  I just stayed where I was, while he approached the door, still attempting to calm my trembling extremities.  

At first, I assumed it was likely to just be a neighbor, or someone from his church–visitors who would be neither my business, nor my concern.  But, when I heard the familiar, shaky voice of sheriff Gently, I suddenly felt inspired to keep my breathing shallow, to make out what was being said.  

“There’s been another fire, Dale,” the sheriff said in a harried voice.  

There was some whispering, before the door closed, the voices growing much more muffled and hard to make out.  I crept closer to the door, but still couldn’t make out any details about who, or where this blaze had consumed.  

Something that seems quite clear about this; though–the death of Jacob Housley was certainly no accident, though I already suspected that much.  Between how shaken Gently seemed, as well as the sudden need for secrecy between him and my old man, I knew that they both knew more than they were letting on.  

As I heard the doorknob jiggle, likely from fingers wrapping around it, I hastily returned to my place at the table.  I started fidgeting with my phone, and sipping from my beer, to play the part of one not concerned with the conversation I wasn’t meant to bear witness to.  

When my father returned, looking shaken and pale, he didn’t give me a chance to ask any more questions.  

“I have to head out for a spell.  Best for you to go,” he said, dismissively, not so much as making eye contact.  

I just looked at him, still reeling from the things we discussed about my mother, the memories I had locked away, as well as curious as to the nature of this most recent fire.  

“Come over tomorrow,” he said, finally gazing into my eyes, his welling up again, “we’ll talk more…if you want.”

Whether that was due to the things we still had to discuss, or what the sheriff told him, I couldn’t read.  But I chose not to dig for answers.  Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t still going to seek them out.  

Gently was still standing outside when I left, completely ignoring me as I walked past him.  As I hopped into my car, I could feel the eyes of both the sheriff and my father glaring at me–likely to ensure I was indeed leaving, before they headed out.  

Though I planned to follow them, I had to make them believe I was washing my hands of this.  They surely wouldn’t hit the road until I was well out of view.  Having no idea which direction they would be going, I would have to both get out of their sight, and remain close enough to pursue them.  

This was one of those circumstances in which I would have to fully rely on my instincts.  Sure, I could park off to the side of the road and wait for them to pass by, but if they were going in the opposite direction, I would be shit out of luck.  And I was pretty damn certain they would be following the path opposing the one I took, as I eased back onto the road.  

After I took that first left, securing myself out of their direct line of sight, I pulled into the old gas station, just past the old neighborhood.  I neither filled my tank, nor did I gaze out at the road.  I just closed my eyes, with my hands still gripped around the steering wheel.  

The traffic passing by was sporadic, but I wasn’t distracted by the cars coming and going–not when I allowed my mind’s eye to enter its bloodhound stage.  Though I had only heard the sheriff’s truck once or twice, it had a very distinctive rumble.  Distinct enough for me to know it had not passed by the gas station.  

While it had only been maybe five or ten minutes since I left the old house behind, I knew they wouldn’t waste much time after I was out of the way.  As I suspected, this had to mean they had gone the other way.  

My eyes blinking back open, I hit the gas, heading back in the direction from which I had come.  Sure enough, there was no trace of Gently’s truck, or anyone lingering in my old front yard.  This was when I really needed to be on my toes.  

I didn’t hesitate as I continued on through my old man’s neighborhood, nor did I allow myself to take a second guess when I took the right at the first stop sign.  When I neared another fork ahead, again, I didn’t give myself a chance to make a choice, just followed whichever way my steering wheel veered.  

Though I didn’t want to earn any unwanted attention, I sped faster than I normally would on these roads.  Yes, even after all these years, navigating the old town was still deeply embedded in my muscle memory.  But I wasn’t trying to get pulled over by some deputy do-right either.  

Still, I had to catch up with those I was tracking, and I had no doubt they would likely be abusing the speed limit themselves.  When I saw the shadow of a vehicle ahead of me in the distance, highlighted by the aura of the setting sun, I knew I had located my target, even if I couldn’t make out the slightest detail, just yet.  

With that, I slowed down a little.  Not much.  Just enough to match the course they were setting.  I couldn’t allow them to make out which vehicle was behind them either, though I was sure they would have no reason to suspect that I had found them.  

For a good fifteen minutes, I followed behind, matching each turn they took, losing sight of them for only moments at a time.  When they finally pulled over, next to the treeline of the woods near the city limits, I eased over, finding a spot to nestle my car behind the brush.  

Though it appeared that any firefighters or ambulances had already vacated the area, light plumes of smoke still drifted from the trees.  Even traveling on foot now, attempting to keep my steps as silent as possible through the dried leaves scattered across the forest floor, this gave me a definite course to follow.  

I can’t quite say how long I had been traversing between and around the trees, when the erratic voices met my ears.  But when I passed through some of the scorched brush to see the charred remains of a crumbling cabin, I dropped to the ground to avoid the gaze of the two who stood before it.  

Between the water still dripping from the structure and the wind brushing the surrounding leaves, I still couldn’t make out what they were saying.  The sheriff appeared to be falling apart, almost as much as the scorched frame of what was left of a house.  

My father looked to be attempting to calm him down, while clearly shaken himself.  As he gripped Gently by the shoulders, slapping him across the face, I grew aware of another sound off in the distance.  

While the only remaining evidence of the blaze that consumed the small cabin, was the dissipating smoke, drifting from the charred wooden planks.  I could swear I heard the crackling of fire somewhere else nearby.  

With the two I followed out here having seemingly shifted from shocked to angered, pointing fingers at one another, while raising their voices, I understood that I couldn’t advance my investigation until they had moved on.  Not with the ambient noises around me muffling even their rage filled words.  

I edged back a little, making sure that my movements wouldn’t grab their attention, though they appeared quite singularly focused on their argument at the time.  Once I felt I was far enough away to move more freely, I followed in pursuit of the crackling sounds.  

With the sun having gone down, it was no easy task traversing the forest, though the moon above did make things a little more clear.  Still, every time I felt like I was nearing that unsettling sound, it seemed to move further out.  

I had been clumsily stalking through the dense woods for maybe a good twenty minutes or so, when I noticed the flickering illumination ahead.  I quickened my pace, worried that both the sound and the glow would move further out by the time I could reach them, but that wasn’t entirely the case.  

When I pushed through the denser woods, passing into a wide clearing, both the crackling and the illumination just stopped.  The moonlight shone as a spotlight on a charred circle in the dead center of the clearing, with a lone, wide, but skeletal tree looming over it.  

A long, thick branch protruded from the tree, directly above where the ground looked to have been set aflame, and I found my extremities trembling from the sight.  My whole body was shivering as I approached the eerie patch of scorched land, my heart racing all of a sudden.  

As I stood there, my gaze shifting from the forest floor, to the skeletal tree, I felt tears begin to trickle down my face.  I couldn’t convince myself to move, like I was strangely paralyzed by the sights before me.  That was until I heard the rustling and harried voices behind me.  

My frantic mind colliding back with the reality around me, I practically sprinted to the nearest bushes, leaping into them in hopes of not being discovered.  When I saw a very frazzled Daryl Gently emerging from the trees I had passed through only moments ago, my thoughts were so scattered, I didn’t even realize what was different about him at first.  

It wasn’t until the next individual followed behind him, when I felt my breath catch in my throat.  Jacob Housley looked almost just as I remembered him from my youth, though his movements were erratic, and his face pale and strangely horrified.  

Both of the men were talking over the other, panicked and frenzied voices that overlapped in a way I couldn’t make out a word.  They kept looking back to where they had entered, when three more people pushed through the trees.  Two of which caused me to audibly gasp, clutching at my mouth.  

A woman, in a long, sleek, black dress, with her wrists bound by duct tape, and a burlap sack over her head, was clutched by the grasp of two other men.  One–a tall, but slender man, with a ratty, brown beard and a feathered mullet.  And the other…my father.  But not the man I had followed out here.  Not the man who had been worn down by life and years of alcoholism.  

I barely remember this version of him–a large and muscled man, with fine, blonde hair and a neatly trimmed goatee.  I hesitantly got to my feet, understanding that the events I was witnessing were not actually taking place before me–not exactly, anyway.  

I moved in closer, as they pushed the screaming woman to the charred patch of ground, my skin trembling as though the temperature had plummeted.  My body shook all the more violently, when my old man pulled the sack away, revealing the tear filled eyes of the one who always found a way to make me smile, when life got too heavy.  

“Why!” she cried out, shuffling herself to her knees, begging for a reason for this assault.  

Any more words she could offer were cut short, when my old man’s boot met her face, toppling her back to the ground.  He gave a nod to the trembling Gently, who pulled the pack from his back, tossing it to Housley.  

“You sure about this, man?” Jacob said, his words as shaky and strained as my mother’s.  

“I…I saw her…” my father said, his voice cracking as tears trickled down his face, “I saw her tryin’ to conjure the devil in my son’s bedroom…” 

“NO!” my mother screamed, “you don’t understand!” 

“I don’t understand!?” he barked, “I don’t understand that you was makin’ incantations by his crib!? That you was circlin’ a pentagram and lightin’ candles!?” 

“It was a spell of protection! To keep him safe!” she bargained, but he wouldn’t hear it.  

“You heard her!” he said, darting his eyes between the others, “you heard her admit it! That she was doin’ spells!”

Housley just gazed at her, shaking his head from side to side.  Gently pulled his crucifix necklace from around his neck, kissing it, and gripping it tightly.  The other guy just muttered under his breath, walking back to my father.  

“Thou shalt not…” my father stuttered, pulling the coiled rope from the backpack, “thou shalt not suffer…a witch…to live…” 

My mother screamed all the more as the three men held her in place, while my old man slung the rope across the thick tree branch.  She gazed into his eyes, as he pulled the noose around her neck, no longer battling against those who still held her down.  

She would not break his stare, even when all four of them grabbed the rope, pulling her up by the neck, and tying it around the trunk.  She didn’t writhe when the oxygen was restricted to her lungs, nor did her expression reflect any hatred…only the pain of one betrayed, so grievously.  

Part of me wanted to run to her–to pull her free of her bindings, and the rope that steadily choked the life from her.  But I knew these events were nothing I had control over–not now.  I only fell to my knees, sobbing upon the dead leaves, while the four men squirted my mother down with lighter fluid.  

They each lit their own match, tossing them at her from a distance safe from the blaze, as it began to consume her.  They watched on still, even as they backed away.  She still didn’t scream.  She didn’t beg.  She still did not break her gaze from her husband, even after her eyeballs leaked from their sockets.  Even when the rope snapped, leaving her burning on the forest floor.  

I glared contemptuously into the eyes of this memory of my father–a memory that was not mine, but one I would never forget.  I still wouldn’t tear my eyes from his, until he and his now panicking mob fled back through the trees, leaving me alone with the crackling fire to my back.  

I can’t say how long I lingered there, kneeling on the ground with my expression somber, and tears still trickling down my face.  When I finally got back to my feet, reluctantly turning to the flames consuming the ghost of my mother, she was no longer lying on the forest floor.  

Standing there before me, the vibrant, flickering, orange glow of her eyes, gazing into mine.  Her hair was nothing but flame, almost being tossed by the gentle breeze, the blaze coursing across her arms, and down her back and legs.  

The expression on the face, unchanged from the loving smile I would look upon as my youthful eyes drifted away, was so kind.  She didn’t speak–only outstretched her arm, gesturing for me to approach her.  

There was no hesitation in my steps, as I paced toward her, the flames retracting as I drew near, leaving only her pale skin, and the blackened, soot-lined flesh from her shins to her feet.  I threw my arms around her, while she returned my embrace, both of us shedding tears over the years and memories of which my father had robbed us.  

After a time, she pulled back, her palm tenderly encasing my cheek.  I saw fragments–flickers of days gone by, revealing more about the craft my mother had practiced in life, and my father’s reaction when he discovered who his wife truly was.  

She never used her gifts to harm, only to help those she cared for.  While she had performed some rituals for her husband’s benefit–health, success, peace of mind, he clearly could not differentiate such things.  All he could fathom in his closed, little mind, was that she must be in league with the devil himself.  

I somehow recalled the day she returned to me, after the night her husband left her smoldering in these very woods.  To me–a toddler, with no concept of even the average, day to day world around me, I only saw the woman who gave birth to me.  The one who adored me, like no other.  

As the years passed, I grew more aware of how I would always know she would arrive, when that glow flickered outside my bedroom window.  Though her skin was unnaturally pale, and her eyes that vibrant orange, these aspects of her never seemed unusual or out of place to me.  

Her dark hair defied gravity, always blown by absent wind.  Her dress was blackened and charred, as were her bare feet and legs, but all I ever registered was the love she expressed.  

It’s strange, though.  Even though I remember her sending me to sleep with exhilarating tales of fantastical adventures, when I was a kid, it would seem that she no longer had the ability to speak.  Not out loud, anyway.  

I saw one last vision, playing across my mind’s eyes–that of an older man, wearing a long robe, and a large crucifix around his neck, who my old man invited into his home.  

While my father had cursed the craft of his wife, he apparently had no problem with the ritual this man performed in his house–the one that prevented my mother from ever entering again.  

Whether or not he denied that I could have met the woman who gave birth to me.  It would seem that he was well aware that something uninvited had entered.  Something he found a way to deny entry.  

As my mom backed away from me, the flames reemerging, and surrounding her once more, I heard her whispering directly into my thoughts.  

“I love you too, mom,” I replied to her unspoken words.  

Once more, after she faded from before me, I found myself alone, staring at that charred patch of ground.  I felt the rage coursing through my veins, as I began to walk back in the direction from which I had come.  But I did not keep my movements stealthy this time.  

Daryl and my old man were still bantering back and forth, when I pushed through the trees, surrounding the still smoking cabin.  They both stopped talking the second they saw me, with Gently uttering threats, and reaching for his gun.  

My father did not say a word, only gazed into my hate-filled eyes, his lower lip quivering slightly.  Whether he could see in my expression, that I knew what they had done–what he had done, so many years ago.  Or he was just caught off guard by my sudden arrival, I’m not entirely certain.  

When I pushed past the sheriff, even his words stopped short when my fist met my dad’s jaw, dropping him to the ground.  He just glared up at me, with shock and guilt in equal measures, etched upon his now swelling face.  

I didn’t linger.  I didn’t stay to have a chat, or ask questions to which I already knew the answer.  I just continued walking back to my car, speeding away from those damned woods, and the two who would be facing my mother’s justice soon enough.  

Though I had no reason to continue this investigation anymore, the hour was late by the time I reached my hotel room.  With the day’s revelations bearing down on my body and mind, I was beyond exhausted.  

I felt filthy, worn down, and broken.  My mind was reeling, while my heart ached for the life I could have had, and the one who was stolen from me.  But, I knew these were things I couldn’t change.  Not anymore.  

I just turned on the television in an attempt to distract my weary thoughts, passing out within seconds after dropping onto the fairly cozy bed.  

Though I hadn’t paid much attention to the time when I nodded off, I still felt groggy and barely coherent when my ringing phone awoke me, early the following morning.  

“Daryl’s dead,” my old man said, his voice trembling, “the station burned down last night…he was alone…everyone else had gone home…He…he didn’t have a chance.”

“And?” I replied, coldly.  

I can’t say I had ever cared for the sheriff.  But, after what I had learned about the night my mother ‘left’, I sure as hell wasn’t about to shed any tears over this.  

“Reckon…reckon I’ll be next…”

“Likely so.” I said, matter of factly.  

“Would you…um…can you come by the house…one last time?” 

“I have no reason to ever see you again, old man.  Besides, I’m headed back home today.” 

“Please, son…please, just let me explain…” 

“Explain? Are you fucking serious!? Explain why you murdered my mother–your wife!? Why you treated me like a goddamn demon in your house?” 

“Please…just…just consider it a dying man’s last request…just…”

I hung up on him before he had the chance to attempt to guilt trip me over his own sins.  Yes, there were answers I still didn’t have–chapters of the story of which I was still unaware.  But I had nothing left to give.  Not to him.  

Some days after returning to my home in the city, I received word about my childhood home having burnt to its foundation.  Whether my mother had indeed found a way to enter, after all these years, or perhaps, he had granted her entry, to finally account for his sins, I can’t say.  

Maybe she didn’t have to step inside, setting the blaze from the exterior, but it doesn’t really matter.  Justice, it would seem, has finally been served.  If nothing else, I would imagine the series of mysterious deaths which haunted my old stomping ground should likely be over now.  

I took one last trip out that way, a couple of months after the dust settled, and life returned to normal, or whatever would qualify as such.  I didn’t go into town, though.  I had friends whom I would catch up with another day, but not this one.  

It didn’t take me any effort to find that clearing in the woods again, regardless of the fact I had only visited that area once before.  I knelt down beside where that no longer charred spot, beneath the ancient tree, had already begun to sprout new life.  

Respecting her craft, after spending a good deal of time over the previous months researching it, I asked the old tree for permission, before carving into its bark.  My mom never had a tombstone, nor any record of her death.  But I hoped that the inscription I left behind would serve as a reminder that she lived.  

‘Here lies the final resting place of Mary Elizabeth Lancaster–my beloved mother, and friend to mother earth.  As above, so below.  As within, so without.  As the universe, so the soul.  I love you, mom.  Rest well, and in peace.’

The mouse had just begun to drift off when a loud bang from downstairs made it jump.

Mice tend to become accustomed to certain routines.  This particular mouse was no exception.

The day would begin with scavenging for food.  After the rumbling of its belly was satisfied, it would find a warm quiet place to nap.  Upon awakening it would explore the nooks and crannies of the house at a leisurely pace before once again sleeping.  It would then be time to locate dinner.  A well-deserved slumber would cap things off.

The mouse had been forced to turn in a bit later than usual on this particular night.  It had taken a while for it to acquire its supper.  The cat had lingered by its food bowl, and the mouse had needed to wait for the much larger animal to leave before scampering into the kitchen to collect a leftover piece of kibble.

Because of this, the mouse was very tired and wanted nothing more than to curl up in the nest it had carefully constructed in the wall insulation and pass out for the evening.  Its stomach was full, and the rain pattering against the roof was soothing.  It put its head back down with a sigh and closed its eyes.

It opened them again when a scream pierced the quiet.  The scream was high-pitched, and it lingered for a few moments before fading away.  The mouse raised its head and flicked its ears.  It couldn’t be sure, but it believed that the yelling had come from the woman, the one the other humans called Teri.

The mouse had never had much use for names.  It had noticed the humans were seemingly obsessed with them, however.  The three humans that shared the house with it all had names: the man was James, the woman was Teri, and the boy was Tyler.  The cat, that dreadful cat, was called Allen.

The humans had even given a name to the mouse.  It had gone into the man and woman’s bedroom one night when they were in the process of mating (although their mating was much different from the way the mouse mated, the sounds had made it clear what was happening).  They had noticed it, and instead of yelling and screaming, the woman had laughed.

“Well, I guess we’ll have to start calling you Randy, you little voyeur,” the woman had said, and both she and the man had laughed.

The mouse hadn’t understood what was so funny.

The mouse stood up and walked over to a small hole in the wall.  It sniffed the air a few times to make sure that the cat wasn’t nearby before poking its head out.  The bedroom beyond the hole was dark, but thanks to the small night light plugged in on the opposite wall the mouse could just make out the sheets and blanket moving as the boy slept.

The mouse glanced back at its nest, but its curiosity had been piqued.  It would not be able to sleep until that curiosity was satisfied.  It hurried over to the bedroom door and, after performing another scent test, pushed itself through the small gap between the door and carpet.

The upstairs hallway was even darker than the bedroom had been.  The mouse moved slowly, making sure of every footfall until it reached the top of the stairs.

The stairs were too tall for the mouse to descend in such poor lighting, but it knew of a different way down.  A section of the baseboard located directly next to the top step had come loose, and using its nose the mouse was able to move it just enough to force its body behind it and into another tiny hole in the wall.

It was pitch black inside the wall, but the mouse had used this hidden passage enough times to know exactly where to go.  It followed the wooden boards as they sloped downward. The incline flattened out and it felt cold rock underneath its feet as it reached the bottom.  It turned to its right and felt along the wall with its nose until a soft gust of wind blew across it.  The mouse pushed its way through the narrow opening and into the house’s entryway.

Noises were coming from the living room.  The mouse hurried through the doorway and immediately darted under the plush couch that was just inside.

The humans seemed nice enough.  They had never put out traps or poisons even though they had spotted the mouse on many occasions.  They all had such very large feet, however.  There was always a chance of being accidentally stepped on when they were nearby.

And, of course, there was always the cat.

“He just came out of nowhere,” the woman was saying, her voice unsteady.

“You’re sure that it was a person you hit?” the man asked quietly.  “Not, I don’t know, a deer or something.”

“It was a man,” she replied firmly.  “I saw him in the lights.  I saw his face right before… before the car…  He looked terrified.  He just ran right out…”

“Honey, I need you to stay calm here, okay?  Did you call the police?”

“No.  I tried, but my cell phone isn’t getting any reception.  The storm…”

There was a short pause.  “Mine isn’t, either,” the man eventually said.  “I knew we should have kept the landline.”

“What am I going to do?” the woman asked frantically.  “What if he’s hurt?  What if he’s dead?  Oh God, I was so scared that I didn’t stop to check.  Why didn’t I stop?”

The woman began to sob.  The man spoke softly to her in comforting tones, but his reassurances didn’t seem to be working.  A shadow passed in front of the thin cloth that skirted the couch.

“Where are you going?” the woman demanded.

“I’m going to try to find the guy,” the man told her calmly.  “Like you said, he might be hurt.”

“We can wait for the phones to come back up,” she pleaded with him.  “Please don’t go.”

“Hon, I know you’re scared.  I’m scared, too.  If he’s…  If he’s hurt, he’ll need help fast.  Not a lot of people use these old roads.  He might not be seen by anyone before it’s too late.”

“Okay,” the woman relented grudgingly.

The mouse heard the front door open, and the sound of the rain grew louder.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” the man promised.  “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

There was a dull thud as the door closed.  The woman began to weep again.

***

By the time the front door opened again, the mouse had returned to its nest upstairs and fallen asleep.  It was a restless sleep, and it jerked fully awake as the vibration ran through the wall.  It struggled its way out of the insulation and returned to the bedroom.

The hair on its back was standing upright.  It listened closely while sniffing the air rapidly.

Something was wrong, but it didn’t know what that something was.

The mouse hesitated before squirming under the door.  It crossed the distance to the stairs and peered down into the entryway.

The front door was open, and rain was splattering against the wood floor.  A man was standing just inside.  He was roughly the same height and build of the man who lived in the house.  The smell was different, though.  The man who lived in the house smelled like soap and sweat and cologne.  The man who stood in the doorway now smelled like dirt and mold and rot.

The rotten man wasn’t moving.  He simply stood there, oblivious to the water dripping off of him.  The darkness of the entryway and the light from the front porch behind him made him seem like a featureless black specter.  It could see that he was holding something in one hand, but it was impossible to tell what the object was.

The mouse glanced around.  It felt exposed as it huddled all alone at the top of the stairs.  It wanted to obey its instinct to run and hide.  Yet it remained rooted to the spot, staring down at the rotten man while wringing its front feet nervously.

The mouse wondered where the woman was.  It had left her crying in the living room, but it couldn’t hear her anymore.  Something inside of the mouse told it that it was important to find her.

It went behind the broken baseboard and hurried down the slope just as it had earlier.  Within seconds it reached the house’s lower level.  It shivered in the dark.

Just on the other side of the wall was the rotten man.  It could smell his stench with every breath it took.  It was afraid of that smell.

The mouse slowly and cautiously pushed its way through the opening.  The mouse flinched as a water droplet struck it just below the ear.  Directly in front of it was the rotten man’s shoes.  They were covered in thick mud, darker than any mud the mouse had ever seen. Fragments of what looked like bone were stuck in the sludge.

The mouse ducked its head down and ran as fast as it could into the living room before darting under the couch.  It panted heavily as it regained its breath.  It strained its ears to try to hear if the rotten man was following it, but the only sound was the rain drumming on the floor.

It crept forward as quietly as it could.  When it reached the couch skirt, it stuck its head out and looked back towards the entryway.

The rotten man hadn’t moved.

The mouse emerged from under the couch.  With one last glance back at the rotten man it went further into the living room.

The woman didn’t seem to be there.  She wasn’t in the soft white chair, the one with the footrest that startled the mouse every time it was extended.  She wasn’t sitting on the bench that was tucked neatly under the piano, and she wasn’t seated at the small play table that she and the boy often played blocks on.  She wasn’t by the old grandfather clock near the doorway.

The mouse lifted its nose and sniffed.  It could smell the woman’s scent on the still air.  She was somewhere nearby, but it couldn’t see her.

It turned around and jumped in surprise.  The woman was lying on the couch that it had just crawled out from under.  She lying on her stomach as she slept.

The woman was much shorter than the man who lived in the house.  Her entire body could lay flat on the cushions.  The tall couch armrest was blocking her from the view of the rotten man in the entryway.

There was a noise somewhere else on the first floor.  It was so quiet that it almost went unnoticed even by the mouse’s sharp ears.  The rotten man must have heard it, however, as he started to move towards it.

His left leg didn’t bend properly, and it caused him to walk with a noticeable limp.  He lumbered forward in the direction of the kitchen.

Just as he was about to pass the stairs, he dropped the object that he was holding.  He didn’t seem to notice as he disappeared from view.

The mouse hurried into the entryway just in time to see the rotten man go through the kitchen doorway and out of sight.  It still hadn’t been able to get a good look at him.

It turned its attention to the dropped item lying on the floor.  It was a wallet, the leather old and cracked.  The mouse sniffed the air as it approached.

The wallet had landed open.  The mouse put its front feet on it and tilted its head.  Inside a plastic sleeve was a picture of the man, the woman and the boy that lived in the house.

There was a loud hissing noise in the kitchen.  It only lasted for a moment before abruptly cutting off.

The mouse sat still as its ears strained to hear anything.  There was only the rain.

Hesitantly, the mouse crept over to the kitchen doorway.  The light above the stove was on as it always was at night.  It didn’t do much to push away the darkness, but it was enough that the mouse could see a distorted shadow stretched across the wall.

The mouse peeked around the corner of the doorway.  The rotten man was standing with his back to it.  He was as still as he had been in the entryway, and he was staring at the wall without making a sound.

The mouse could see him better now that there was light.  He wore a flannel shirt and jeans, and a pair of heavy work boots adorned his feet.  The shirt and jeans were torn in many places.  Like the boots the rest of his clothes were covered in dark mud and a number of unidentifiable splotches.

The hair on the back of the rotten man’s head had a number of spots where patches were missing.  The hair that remained was matted down from the storm.

The skin on his head and hands was wrinkled and loose, as if it was slipping off of the bone.  It was covered in cuts and sores that had formed brownish green scabs.

The mouse pulled its eyes away from the rotten man and looked down at the kitchen floor.  Lying on the linoleum, its neck bent back so far that the top of the head touched the spine, was the cat.

The ceiling creaked.  The rotten man raised his head to look up at it.  The mouse had heard the sound before: the boards on the boy’s bedroom floor were groaning under the weight of the bed as he rolled over.

The rotten man turned and started back towards the entryway, the boot of his good leg stamping down heavily on the lifeless cat.

The mouse bolted across the wood floor and under the couch in the living room.  It had seen a brief flash of the rotten man’s face before it had run.  One eye missing from the socket.  Half his jaw torn off and hanging down, exposing the thick blackish tongue inside his mouth.  Parts of his skull poking through tears in the skin.

The mouse shook uncontrollably.

It listened as the footsteps grew closer.  They stopped for just a moment before there was a soft thump.  It was soon followed by another.  The rotten man was ascending the stairs.

Its heart thumping in its chest, the mouse looked out from under the couch skirt.  The rotten man was already out of view.  It listened as the footsteps continued up the stairs towards the second floor.

The mouse came out from under the couch and returned to the entryway, keeping its head turned towards the stairs.  It stepped in something wet and gummy, and it looked down.  It had touched some of the mud that had dropped off the encrusted boots.

It sniffed at the mud.  There was another scent mixed with it.  The sickeningly sweet and somewhat metallic odor of blood.

It turned its attention back to the stairs.  It could just barely make out a silhouette in the darkness.  The rotten man was halfway to the top.  One of his hands was gripping the handrail as it continued upward.  The leg that didn’t work properly was being dragged up each step.  He moved at a slow but constant pace, and he would soon reach the top.

The woman coughed loudly.

The rotten man stopped moving.  The mouse looked over at the couch and saw the woman’s head raise up above the arm for a moment before falling back down below.  She sighed, and everything was still once again.  She had adjusted her position in her sleep.

The step the rotten man was standing on groaned as he turned around on it and started back down the stairs.

Knowing that the rotten man was going to the living room, the mouse hurried over to the safety of an umbrella stand near the door.  It listened as he came closer and closer.  One foot would press into each step as his weight came down on it, and the other would drag across the carpet before banging down next to the first one.  This pattern was repeated over and over, neither slowing down nor speeding up.

The first foot struck the wood at the bottom of the stairs.  The mouse peered around the corner of the umbrella stand and watched as the rotten man turned to enter the living room.

He came to the couch and stopped.  He lowered his head and simply stood there for what seemed like an eternity.

It had started to rain even harder, and the wind had picked up.  A series of drops blew through the open front door and splattered on the floor next to the mouse, splashing it with cold water.  It barely noticed as it kept its eyes locked on him.

The rotten man reached down over the arm of the couch.

The woman’s legs immediately rose up.  They kicked wildly in the air as she struggled.  The rotten man ignored them as he continued to hunch over the side of the couch.

The woman somehow managed to escape his grasp and roll onto the floor.  Even from this distance, the mouse could see purple bruising around her neck.  She opened her mouth to scream, but only a weak wheezing came out.  She scrambled on her hands and feet further into the living room, the rotten man pursuing her.  They went beyond the view of the doorway, and the mouse could no longer see them.

It didn’t dare leave its hiding spot.

There was a crash.  The shadows of the two people appeared on the wall directly through the living room doorway.  The small lamp on the end table had been knocked over.

The rotten man’s shadow was unmoving, its arms outstretched.  The woman’s shadow was violently thrashing, the hair whipping around as she tried to once again break free from his grip.  The rotten man turned slightly.  There was a thud followed by a series of jingles as he threw her against the piano.  The woman’s shadow stopped moving.

The shadows stayed locked together as the minutes ticked away on the grandfather clock.  The mouse cowered behind the umbrella stand, unable to look away.  Its body had gone still, and its head was lying flat on the floor.  Its ears and whiskers drooped.  It was barely breathing.

When the shadows finally moved, the woman’s shadow dropped down below the lamp’s light.  There was a muffled noise as something struck the living room’s soft carpet.  Two fingers poked out from the bottom of the doorway, slightly curled upward as if they were reaching for something that couldn’t be seen.  As the mouse watched, tiny droplets of blood formed at the tips of the fingers and fell the short distance to the floor.

The rotten man came around the corner and once again returned to the entryway.  He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and stared off into nothingness.  There was a new stain on his clothing, one that had not yet had time to dry.

He turned his head to look up the stairs towards the second floor.  The mouse did the same, and for a few minutes they both searched the darkness with their eyes.

The rotten man placed his hand on the railing and put the foot of his working leg on the first step.

Thunder rumbled in the distance.  The rotten man turned slightly to look over his shoulder and out the front door.  The rain was coming down even harder now.  A steady stream of water was pouring down off the porch roof a few feet beyond the egress.  The mouse couldn’t see anything beyond the sheet of rain.

With a final glance up at the second floor, the rotten man removed his foot from the stairs and turned all the way around.  He limped across the wooden floor, his footsteps echoing in the quiet house.  He crossed the threshold and disappeared back out into the night.

The mouse slowly came out from its hiding spot, its eyes never leaving the open door.  It moved to the center of the entryway and sat up on its hind legs as it searched for the rotten man’s scent.  Traces of the smell were all around it.  It defiled every room in the house that he had been in, clinging to the rooms as a reminder of his presence.  There was nothing wafting in through the front door but the smells of rain and ozone.

The rotten man was gone.

“Mom?” the boy called down the stairs.