Adam stood by the corn silo, holding a flask. My eyes kept closing; I could barely focus on him.

"Morning, Adam."

"Jesus, Matt, you look awful. Want a drink?"

He raised his flask.

"No."

"It will help you get some sleep, man. What are you even doing at night? Playing with yourself until dawn?"

He laughed and slapped my shoulder.

"No, it's just…"

"I have a task for you. You gotta clean up the silo; the machinery is blocked."

I gripped my sleeve tight and stared at him.

He slapped my shoulder again.

"Calm down, you're not gonna get Dan'd"

"But can't somebody else do it? Why do I gotta?"

He furrowed his brows.

"I'm the senior, Matt. Now get your ass there and go do it."

I waited, not moving.

"Go!"

His voice rang in my ears. I put my head down and walked into the silo.

The inside was cold, silent. My steps echoed on the bridge. The closer I got to the ladder, the more my head spun. When my feet touched the kernels, I took a deep breath and looked around. It wasn't obvious where the blockage was, but as usual it was probably in the center. I grabbed a broom and walked over.

Then a hum echoed. The kernels moved beneath my feet. Dust filled the air. Someone started the machines.

"Wait! I'm still in."

The kernels were moving fast. My feet felt light.  I turned around and took a few steps. One foot sank. Another. 

"Help, please!"

My waist sank. My heart beat against my ribs. The kernels moved around me, pushing at my chest. I was neck-deep. My head sank under the kernels. I held my breath. I sank deeper and deeper. The kernels hissed in my ears. Then my feet felt loose, and so did my waist, my chest.

I fell hard onto the ground. It felt cold, but the ground felt firm like concrete. I looked around. The whole place was dark, as in a cave, but there were no walls, no ceiling above me, just darkness as far as I could see. The smell of dusty kernels still hung in the air.

"Hello?"

My voice echoed through the dark emptiness. It sounded like my words traveled to me and away from me at the same time. I got up and walked a few steps. They echoed in the same strange way. 

A cold tingle built in my chest. The space felt both small and large. It felt as if someone's eyes were on me. I kept looking over my shoulder. Then a noise broke through the silence. A faint snore, as if someone was trying to catch their breath, but couldn't. In the distance, a small figure lay on the ground.

"Hello? Are you okay?"

The snoring grew. His limbs twisted on the ground as if struggling. My heart sank when I saw who it was. Dan rolled on the ground, in the same clothes he'd worn when he fell into the corn that day.

Memories flashed through my mind. His screams for help. The machine's rattle. Adam's calm face as he watched him go down. All because he told the boss Adam and I were drinking on the job. The rope lay right at my feet. I stared at it while Dan screamed for help.

I ran to him. His eyes were wide with pain, his mouth filled with kernels.

"I'm sorry, Dan. I'm sorry!"

I grabbed him and rolled him onto his side. Kernels spilled from his mouth, but more were still inside. I hit his back; more spilled out, but his mouth was still full. I stuck my shaking hand into his mouth and pulled out handfuls of kernels, but his mouth filled back immediately. He turned his pleading eyes to me. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

My voice caught. Something scratched the back of my throat. I tried to cough, but nothing came out; the scratching only grew. I tried to breathe, but the air wouldn't come through. I dropped to all fours. Kernels began falling out of my mouth.

"Dan! Dan!" I woke up screaming.

I was back in the silo, half-submerged in the kernels. The mechanical machinery sounds were gone. The silo was silent.

Adam and two other workers stood atop the bridge, looking down at me. A rope was thrown before me.

"Sorry, Matt. We didn't know you were in. Adam forgot to tell us," one of them said.

Adam shrugged and looked down at me with a half-smile.

"Why were you screaming Dan's name?" Adam asked. 

He unscrewed the flask and took a long, slow sip, eyes on me.

I looked down at the ground.

"I don't know."

He smiled and nodded.

"Take the rope," one of the men said.

I grabbed it tightly. Something scratched at the back of my throat again. I coughed. A few kernels flew out.

My name is Graham. I’m 29, and I currently reside within the ‘MS-A’ block of Redmond Mixed Security Prison. The ‘MS’ stands for “maximum security”. ‘A’ means we’re in the left wing, one of two maximum security blocks within the prison. My current sentence… Is life.

10 years and some months ago, I planned a murder that I am not sure I was ever proud of. I was an addict, and my drug was the woman who my boss called his wife. I only saw her once, but it was like cupid struck me then and there.

I stalked her for months, maybe a year. I collected photos, memorized her schedule, I would find every post online she replied to, just to know more about her. This led to a one-sided love that made my mental state fall apart over ten times over, resulting in only one conclusion: I had to remove the person she was married to from the equation.

As much as I say it was planned, the actual execution fell apart. I got him, but it was sloppy. I was never going to get away.

The trial was quick, they didn’t question my mental state at all. Because obsession is obsession. A jury only sees it one way: Love can be crazy, and though my actions were horrid, they were that of a sane individual.

Time behind bars, complete isolation from the person I became hopelessly attached to, including her name. Therapy, going to groups, a lot of therapy. Talking things through, it all changed me over time. Showed me the now blatant error of my ways. I’d come to enough senses that I knew the future I had as a lifetime prisoner was bleak. Presently, I even realize I didn’t care about getting out because I feared what I may do again. 

I’d rather rot as I had been.

Only recently, maybe a few months before writing this, the administration here became more lax on me. They got me moved to one of the open-front cells, no longer was I trapped in an enclosed box with a solid metal door. And, every day, they provided a slip of paper with my breakfast, for me to ask for 1 thing a day. Surprisingly, they actually listened to me when I’d ask for things. My good behaviour over the years must have paid off… At first, it was just a book. Once I got a small collection built up, I asked for a better pillow, after that, I wanted a specific brand of toothpaste, just to check. They obliged. I started getting less weird, and more logical. Like a better bed. 

They put a new one up when I had my hour in the yard that day.

It was full-size and made of wood. The mattress eventually got changed out for a fluffier one, too. I didn’t tell anyone else on the block about it, and the person sitting across from me was in his 80s, he didn’t seem to even glance over here most days.

Well, a few days passed with me trying to get used to everything, when I got the idea to ask for a laptop with access to the internet.

Something a stalker like me shouldn’t have gotten…

They handed it over after just a week of waiting. No warm-up, no warning, the guard who got it to me didn’t even ask for me to pick what I do with it wisely. He just silently slid it inside like it was a plate of food. I didn’t know exactly what was up with the higher ups, but it gave me enough freedom to spend my days in luxury. And, I wasn’t exactly going to push things. I didn't try my luck watching porn or going to any real social media. I just watched whatever videos I found on YouTube, checked a few sites, one being here... Which I hadn’t been on in ages. That's when I eventually found this subreddit. I didn’t think of writing here at all. I've never had any scary experiences, I was planning on lurking for all eternity, really.

That was until 2 months ago. When it started.

“Hap~py birth~day to~ you~!” Sitting up, I was facing the backs of all the guards I knew. It’s the hair styles, I got familiar with them over the years. Everyone assigned to the block stood in front of my front neighbor’s cell. At that point, I could catch the scent of burning wax in the air. “Hap~py birth~day to~ you~!!” They leaned side to side, “Happy~ birthday~, dear~ Bow~ings~! Hap~py birthday~ to you~!!” they all clapped and cheered as the cell door was opened, and the one holding the cake set it down on the desk. As soon as that was done, all of those guards dropped their smiles, and their hands to their sides, turning away from the cell, going down the hall out of sight… As if nothing happened.

The two remaining guards had dropped their own soft grins, moving out on their own and locking him back up with not one more peep.

I stared at the cake across from me, ‘82’ in still lit candles sat in the center.

“What… Uh, hey? Bowings?” I let out, knowing he didn’t respond to me, “Are you gonna eat that?” I snickered to myself, imagining him just getting up and shoving his face in it, but he didn’t even flinch. I nodded, still mainly talking to myself, “Your family ask for the day to be celebrated? What, is it only once every 10 years?” I kept chuckling to myself as his eyes slowly blinked. I don’t even know how he gets his nutrients in a day.

Actually, I kind of do. He eats with his hands, usually an hour after the food shows up. Like he’s always lost in thought and snapped back to reality just to scarf something down. I almost wished to be like that.

Obviously, though, I left him alone since he wasn’t doing anything different, which eased my sudden worries. I figured whatever happened was just a one-off event. Nothing would ever come out of it, and I’d be left to relax on my new bed watching the infinite stream of videos put up online. Sure enough, it was that way for the rest of the day. I enjoyed what I could of the breakfast they handed out, got some exercise following a video, and then to my hour of yard, where I kept my body moving. When I got back to my cell, it was time for lunch, which I got down just the same as every prior day, and after settling in for the night after dinner… I finally noticed it.

The cake was all but entirely gone. Remnants of frosting sat on cardboard, which looked… Smeared. Like it was licked clean off. I couldn’t get the best look since it was so far away. Bowings himself was out like a light. As anyone would be after eating all that! I scoffed, finding it yet another weird facet of having a senile neighbor. I got to bed somewhat easy that night, and was going to just get back to the usual routine.

I woke up to soft humming. I sat up rigidly, since the cell block had been mostly silent those days. Bowings sat at his desk, his head slightly tilting to the side as his hand moved in front of him. My eyes slowly widened, then narrowed as I spoke up,

“Bowings?” His head turned towards me, his wrinkly ear facing my direction. 

“Yes?” He spoke.

My eyes went back to being wide, “You- You can talk? Are-” I stood up, going over to the bars as he turned his head back to what he was doing. “Of course I can talk! I can write, I can read! Why wouldn’t I be able to talk!?” He let out this confident, hearty laugh. His voice… It had more energy than my own grandparents!

I let out a shocked breath, “It’s not that- Are you feeling okay?” 

His head turned the other way, his left ear now facing me, “I’m feeling peachy! Never better, in fact!” He then went back to… Writing? 

“What… Are you doing?” I asked, his head turning back to the paper.

“I’m writing a birthday card!”

My eyebrow shot up at that, “For who?”

He smacked his left hand on the desk, “Don’cha know!? Toke’s day is coming up! His is the 5th of this month!!” Grumbling, he got right back to work.

I tried to shake off the feeling I had, but it was so weird, that I couldn’t help but laugh at the time, “Toke? I haven’t heard his voice in half a year! Why do you care about him?” As soon as I was done asking, I heard the sound of wood snapping. The result was the back of his pencil flying off, clattering on the floor behind him. My back pulled away a bit seeing that. My head cocked to the side as he hovered his right hand to the same direction. 

“My apologies. You got me worked up.” He then stood up, forcing the chair out beneath him. Slowly turning towards me, he had what looked like a forced, stretched and taped, or stitched up grin. The corners of his mouth were pulled taught towards his ears. His teeth and gums were left bare and exposed towards the open air. “Don’t you want to be good?” his whites clacked together loudly and repeatedly as he talked.

My own weary smile had vanished, seeing one of his eyes stop staring at me, going off to the side. Slowly, with it, his body turned, his other eye moving with it to match. He then carefully went back into his seat, lifting the broken pencil and continuing his work. “Only good people get a cake… Or is it..? The other…” 

He mumbled off to himself, before laying his head down, like all the energy he had mustered was whisked away. I watched his hand move on its own for a few seconds before the tip to the pencil broke, and he went limp.

I perked up, gingerly moving back to the bars, “Uh, hey!” Wrapping my hands around two of them, “Bowings! Are you good?” Almost on cue, guards had come in from the left, prompting me to ask, “Hey! Is he okay in there?!” The two uniforms didn’t even budge, one simply unlocked it, letting the other in first. While he brought him back to his bed, the other took up the piece of paper, reading it over. Once Bowings was back in bed, the two immediately went to go on their way. Before they could relock his cell, I yelled out once more, “Is Bowings okay!?” The guard with the note ignored me while the other spoke over the jingle of his keys. 

“Yes.” He let out, working the metal up to the hole, “Bowings will be fine.”

Turning the lock, he twisted to face his left, and went towards the exit of the block. I hardly got out, “W-wait, what the hell’s going on?” before I heard the heavy slam of a fortified door. I peeled away from the bars, not able to shake off the feeling that something was going on that I never knew about. Or, that something new had come to shake up what normalcy I had left. I didn’t like it, not one bit. I tried to get the guard delivering my food to tell me anything about it, but just asking got him to threaten to keep the meal for himself. Though it wouldn’t be a loss, the notion was enough to get me to shut up again. 

Which, seriously?

That just got me more confused. If I was good enough to get something that should be impossible for anyone in my position to receive, what was so bad that they had to keep me out of it? It involved the only person I can see, and they didn’t bother to say anything beyond ‘He’ll be okay’.

The rest of the day went by horribly, honestly. I didn’t feel like I could enjoy anything, not that I really had a great time doing my usual routine, but it was something I held onto. Now, it felt like a last-ditch attempt to take my mind off the elephant in the room. 

Night came, I went to sleep just fine, and the next day, Bowings was back to normal.

Staring off at the far wall to his left whenever he woke up, which was always before me.

Just that was good enough for me to believe that things were somewhat back to normal.

I held that fleeting feeling until midnight.

When I was awoken by repeated, forceful sounding laughter. Like someone’s lungs were being squeezed, their throat unwillingly clenched in a wheeze between breaths, and shaking violently in a release of echoing hoots and guffaws. My head snapped up, watching Bowings’ chest rise and fall, his hands flapping at his sides, like he was trying to grasp for something, anything to hold himself in place, but he just kept rolling, and patting his stomach, his voice letting out “AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAA AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA” On repeat, on repeat.

I covered my ears, barely able to muffle out the sound.

After tens of seconds, I was infuriated more than confused, bundling myself into a tight ball on the bed as his squeals kept hitting my eardrums in the faintest, but somehow incredibly clear manner. It was the only other sound that hit them, of course. Save for my rising heartbeat. After a few minutes like that, I snapped out my position, his voice refilling my mind and forcing it to race. I wanted to do anything but scream for him to shut up. Anything that would have stopped me from returning to the cruel person I once was, but I couldn’t… Just take it. It became grating after just seconds. A rubber chicken getting squeezed and squeezed never-ending. 

That’s what he was. 

“... SHUUUT THE FUCK UUUP!!!” I finally let out, my body releasing a build up of sweat that washed cool air all over me.

That just made him laugh harder.

His cords sounded like they were getting pushed to their limit, getting crackly, and distorted. His voice deepened and waned until he hacked out a cough, only to continue at a slightly weaker pace. 

“Please..! Stop fucking laughing!” My eyes, which were locked with Bowing, had eventually met his as they opened, a lasting wheeze filling the air as his smile faltered. After a second, he flicked his head back onto the pillow behind him, “AAAHHHH HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA” 

“Ah, fuck!” I bit, falling back onto my side, wrapping my pillow around my ears. It was barely enough to make him just an inaudible gust of wind.

I don’t know how, but I got to sleep that night, and didn’t quite remember it when I woke up the next morning. It did slowly come to me, though. Pulling myself out of bed very slowly, I saw Bowings laid out on the floor, his arms and legs moving as if he was making a snow angel. “What..? B-bowings??” His body kept moving as his head stiffly spoke.

“Yes, Graham?” my lip, quivering as I went to answer,

“What happened last night?”

His face slowly contorted into a familiar grin, then dropped to a pout. “I remembered something… Really funny…”

Releasing a nervous breath of air, “You… Don’t… Look like it was very funny.” His mouth contorted into an unwitting frown as his legs froze. Sitting up, his hands stopped at his sides.

“Believe me. It was hilarious.” His jaw shook as my lip did, before he turned towards me, another smile slapped on in an instant, “You know what happens to good people, right?”

I shook my head hesitantly. His smile seemed to only grow as I locked eyes with him.

“Hap~py birth~day to~ you~!”

Hit my ears not a moment later. The collective voice of the guards rang through the hall to my right. I quickly went over to the bars, ignoring Bowings as he slid over to his own with me. I tried to get a better look, but there wasn’t a single good angle to see deeper down the hall. I could only catch one of the other open-front barred cells. The occupant inside of it had a long beard which went down to his elbows. His hands were latched onto the bars, and he seemed mortified. His shifting gaze eventually landed on me, “You! You!!!” he released, his voice gruff and airy, “What did Bowings eat!?!”

I shook my head, “It was just a cake!” his mouth slammed shut, and he nervously scratched his chin, turning away out of view. “W-wait, hold on!” The singing down the halls concluded, making him go back over to the metal. We both watched as the same group of guards from before had gone down the hall. As they passed us, I couldn’t help but ask, “What are you doing that for?” One of them glanced at the others, who moved unimpeded. 

Slowly coming to a stop at my cell, she looked back at me. “The board wanted us to celebrate birthdays.” Her head turned in a snap as she followed the rest out of the block.

“Seriously, hold ON! What’s in it?” Not even a flinch! “Come on, lady! I have to know!!” I let out. And kept going, too, but she didn’t turn a single gaze towards me. With a groan, I eventually gave up, slamming my head against the bars. Just off to my right, that bearded guy showed his face again. After eyeing me up and down, he finally said,

“I’m Keenan. Who’re you?”

I pulled away just to nod, “Graham. Didn’t you hear?” He bobbed his head back, 

“Just wanted to make sure Bowings wasn’t insane now. Calling you names you aren’t.” I let out a groan, which got him to lean his hands through the bars. “We both had to deal with his laughing, you idiot! I couldn’t get a wink last night, don’t act like you’re alone here!”

With another grumble, I set my head back onto the bars, “What do you want?”

“Now you think I want something of you? Unless you have your time under lock and key, which is certainly the case in here- You have no reason to pass up an honest chat!”

Shaking my head, “What do we even have to talk about?” He tossed a hand out before speaking. 

“Got any other birthdays on this block that you know of?” ‘Of course that’s what he’d-’ I thought, before cocking my dome,

“No. Not at all. I didn’t pay attention to any of that here. Not even my own.”

He muttered, “Figures…” Before looking back at me, then off to the side, “Bowings knew one! HEY! BOWINGS!!! WHO’S NEXT?!” Having laid back on the floor, now actively scraping his arms against the concrete, Bowings released his voice into the air above him. “I only know Tokes. It came to me… Like that cake…” It slowly faltered, and seemed to grow weaker as his movements picked up in speed.

I could hear it…

The scratching of his skin had harshened enough… That a small smear of blood followed his elbows, and then down his forearm. I peeled off the bars, making Keenan ask out, “What’s he doing? What’s going on over there?!” Bowings’ arms began to snap up and down vigorously, his face just a dripping frown. The sound of skin getting peeled by rock began to get wet as it got louder. I turned my gaze away in time for the door to the block to open. In response, it was like Bowings kicked into overdrive, the sound of crunching hit the air as the guard rushed over, head turned towards Bowings’ cell.

“Fuck!” He released, bringing his radio to his mouth, “We have a code pink! I need some backup!” His jaw slammed tight as he seemed to weigh his options. Hesitantly, he took up his keys, and opened the metal door. On instinct, Bowings snapped back over towards the bed, his arms dripping with blood. His eyes flicked side to side instead of up and down, like an animal planning an escape. The guard took out his baton, “Stand down, Bowings!”

Bowings just sat there like deer in headlights. Frozen stiff.

He stayed like that for the 10 seconds needed for a duo in armor to rush into the block, and then his cell, restraining him and forcing him down. In response, he just yelled out, “I’ve been GOOD!! I’VE BEEN GOOD!!!” His arms were pressed onto his back as he was slammed onto the ground. Cuffs got worked onto his wrists as he was brought over to his bed, where his leg got cuffed to the end. I could only watch as in just 30 seconds, they had gotten him subdued and strapped down, then left. The guard who came in first just released a scoff, exiting the cell as he cracked his neck. Since breakfast hadn’t come yet, I thought he would be the one… But the sound of the block’s entrance sealing shut told me otherwise.

5 minutes later, breakfast rolled in. The guard skipped Bowings’ cell. Who… Didn’t seem to be doing very well in his new situation. He had already tried rolling himself out of the bed multiple times. Only stopped by the forced orientation of his left foot compared to where the rest of his body wanted to go. He kept tossing and turning even after the guard had left. I couldn’t stomach eating my breakfast, so I just slid it back out into the hallway.

The day went by… Pretty slow. I really had no idea how to rationalize anything that just happened. And for all I knew, things were going to get a whole hell of a lot worse. It just takes more prisoners getting more cakes. I got to my hour of yard barely holding onto a thread that things would eventually turn out for the better. The other inmates had their own outdoor hour at the same time. I could see them through the box fence of the 10 foot by 10 foot sandlot. They didn’t seem like they even knew what was happening in here. No excessive laughter or happiness. Nor upset and riot. Simply indifference. I couldn’t take it, I genuinely had to know if what was happening was… Normal, or at the very least, not completely upsetting. But nothing pointed at anything other than… Maybe the guards drugged Bowings? How did it last so long then? And, in that case, should I be worried about Toke? Whoever he was, he was at least behind the higher-security 2 inch thick metal doors deeper in the block… But that was only a partial relief.

Though I may have killed someone, I didn’t throw out all my human emotion and empathy to do it. The people on my block may be awful, I experienced that first hand when I met Laury on my first day here. The worst of the worst who was actually in the cell next to mine for a while. 

But… Are they really using them as guinea pigs? I genuinely felt awful considering any of us worth… ‘Saving’ in the softest sense of the word. At the very least… I couldn’t handle hearing everyone in that block going absolutely insane. I knew that much.

When I got back to my cell, I still really, really had no idea what to do. So, I decided to wait. I hated it, but I was going to see where things went. I’d be scared shitless, however, at the very least, getting involved was never going to happen.

The next day came and went with nothing to note.

The day after?

BANG- BANG- BANG-

Ringing out, down the hall, was a continuous, repeated bang of metal. It snapped me awake, and got me shuffling over the bars, as groggy as I was. Keenan was already waiting on his own, catching me in the corner of his vision. “Graham! That sounds like…” I nodded. The distance was exactly as far as…

“Toke. That has to be his cell.” I grumbled, which got Keenan to lean off his bars as the sound slowly came to a stop. He took in a short breath, releasing it only when the sound continued.

“Where’s the guards when you need ‘em?” he muttered, continuing to lean off them until I couldn’t see him. I sputtered my lips, slowly getting back onto my bed. A few seconds of waiting is all it took for a trio of guards to rush in, swiftly moving down the hall. Once their trampling feet stopped, we heard a cell door creak open,

“HAHA!! YOU ALL!!! HERE TO VISIT ME?!? HAHAHAHAHA WELCOME, WELCOME-” His echoing voice then ended with an abrupt, violent shake of his vocal cords. The faint sound of his body slumping to the ground was audible afterwards. Same with the following slam of solid metal. I then heard their shuffling steps come back, this time, two of them were carrying Toke’s limp body in their arms. His head was slumped over, his skull visible on his forehead, and a stream of blood dripped down the side, landing on the ground, and producing a trail to where he came from. I swallowed a nervous lump, barely able to raise my voice.

Then, Bowings did it for me. Flopping off his bed onto his now visibly infected arms, forcing his torso up to be in a somewhat uncomfortable position, “WAS HE GOOD? WAS HE BEING GOOD!?! HELLO!!?!? TELL ME!!!!!” His words fell on deaf ears as the three left the block. With a groan, he then tried to wrangle himself further off the bed, dragging it over to the bars with fervorous motion. “AWW!! COME BACK!!! PLEASE!!!” I shuddered, finally able to build up something I felt I could say,

“What’s with you? What’s this about being ‘good’ all of a sudden?” 

His eyes snapped from his side, where the exit was, to me. His frail, worried look became an instant cold one. His lips tightened together, his eyes going wide, “Being good… That’s… W-why wouldn’t you want to be good? Are you a bad person, Graham?” his voice shook and quivered, “N-no this won’t do-..”

Tilting my head, I answered him as he spoke, “I thought we’re all bad people. We’re in maximum security, Bowings.” His head just shook side-to-side, “No, no… NO! You don’t- You aren’t getting it, Graham! You- Oh, oh, you-! Ahahah! You-... You don’t get what it means- Wh-what it FEELS to be gooood…” He breathily extended the word as he fought to lift his body up on the bars. His frail, stick-like arms struggled, and eventually succeeded as he whipped his head back, “GRAAAHAHAAAMM…. YOU WANT TO BE GOOD, DON’T YOU?!” His voice climbed in a rising quiver. Before he could whip his skull into the bars, the same group of guards had found their way back in, rushing over with their hands freed once more, two had gone to the bars, smashing his fingers from the other side, while the last yelled, “Knock it off! Good prisoners stay in bed!”

Though he hit the ground hard, he still managed to roll around just right, and scramble back onto the cot. With a shake of her head, the guard who yelled revealed herself to be the same as yesterday, prompting me to ask out, “What the fuck’s going on here?” Her head whipped around,

“And you! Be quiet, Graham! You think you have special privileges because-” 

One of the other two turned towards her, slowly backing off the bars with the one next to him, “Quiet, Neagley.” With a grumble, she followed them as they left, which just got me at a loss.

I already had no clue what was happening, and the guards now keep it on such snuff?

That told me, we were now heading straight for rock-bottom…

The days from then on out had a similar pattern. Bowings, Toke, and any new prisoners who had their birthdays crop up. Each of them… They acted as if they were losing their minds just two days later. Every new cake, another prisoner on the chopping block. The nights were filled with laughter, and screams. Most of it was muffled behind metal, some of it hit the open air because of Bowings. Either-way, they quickly became restless.

The days weren’t much better. If Bowings wasn’t trying to get himself injured, it was someone else. Half the time, they had to be subdued where they were, the other half, they were dragged off to the infirmary. When they get back, it’s too early. Like one of the nurses just patched them up and sent them right on their way to their cell. It was awful. It was just a new person, the same loop of suffering, every single day. I no longer could enjoy what one good thing I had left. The laptop. The internet. It just made me sour getting on it. Even when I got headphones. Nothing provided the escape I needed. Nothing but a genuine escape would. And that wasn’t going to happen. I knew it was never going to happen.

After another month, the block had experienced 4 more birthdays. Nearly half the block was converted. Like the administration picked the two months, or the right mixture of prisoners. One that would bring the most activity. It was impossible to get a moment of silence, and quite honestly, I thought I’d go mad like the rest. If it wasn’t for Keenan, that is.

He was the one saving grace I had.

The only other sane person I could talk to.

He liked to keep things light, but I learned a lot more about him. Keenan was part of a criminal gang, they’d often only get together to plan a heist, execute it, and escape with enough winnings that they wouldn’t have to meet again for quite a while. It was a mixture of life-long friends, and their closest compatriots. They had a 99% success rate. All of their plans weren’t flawless, but what holes they had were easily managed by the group, who had decades of experience when it came to thievery. He told me about a few of their heists, how they barely got away safely. Each one was an escalation on the other, until he shared what got him caught.

It was their biggest plan yet, a casino.

Something that no person in their right mind would think to steal from, they had what they thought was the perfect idea.

They had gotten someone on the inside who was part of the security team. With their help, they would alter the footage for the night they would choose to break in, and while customers were still there, they’d get out with bags full of cash and chips. He said it was one of the plans that needed to be close to flawless. The only room for error… Was their escape. And they didn’t want that small opportunity for the cops to become a bigger one. Unfortunately, their inside man had gotten dragged out just 10 minutes before for tampering with the footage, and when the camera’s images were restored, the entire group had their death sentence signed. Only two managed to get away at first, with Keenan being one of them. He said they found him when he got recognized by the owner of a motel 12 days later. Given his story, my beliefs that most of us deserved to be here… Proved pretty true. 

I just didn’t want to see more people suffer needlessly. Especially not him…

What I’m about to tell you happened two weeks ago.

Nobody could have stopped what happened that night. Not even the guards.

This was never shared on the news, or with the general public. Nobody outside of these concrete walls knows what I saw. What I experienced.

The night that Laury, the man in the cell next to mine when I first got put in this wing… The 7’2” behemoth. With a weight I could only approximate… 300 lbs of pure muscle… Bigger than the doorway to my cell… All things I know now because I saw him for the first time that very hour.

He had broken containment.

The sound of crunching metal was impossible to ignore. It was this loud, prolonged, echoing groan. The sound became high and sharp at the end, before releasing with a sudden snap. Once a loud boom rang out in the halls, I sat up in my bed. Bowings was already awake, his head leaned off the side of the cot, resting on the ground, angled towards where the sound came from.

The sound of Laury’s feet as he moved was loud. Booming. It echoed like every other sound, his pace just made his next step layer onto it. Bounding down the hall, I heard something harsh hit metal. A following sound of something giving way then hit my ears, trailed by a stack of steps. My heart began to race as Bowings started chuckling, “He did it… He did it..! Oh, good boys always get rewarded with a good party!! Hahaaaa!!!” More doors had given way, and with it, even more feet hitting concrete. Until…

A sharp BZZZT- Left the block’s intercom.

The remaining doors unlocked. Electronics I’d only seen operate once before had kicked into motion, pulling my door open with this grind of metal against metal.

By the time the sound rested, I had moved flat against the far wall.

“Wh- hey! Back off-” a prisoner yelled, before screaming again and again for him to be let go. Joining his voice were others. One by one, more people got dragged out, which got me stuck in place. I couldn’t leave my cell, nor could I leave the block. I was trapped! In here, with a bunch of fucking loons! Forced crazy, but it’s the same regardless! Laury, I figured was mad, because of what he told me. Out of everyone here… He’s the only one I knew that was a genuine serial killer. He was proud of it, too. He gleefully told me all about it one night.

So, I was never going to leave my cell.

Even when I heard Keenan yelling for me.

Not that it made much of a difference. A pair of my fellow inmates had rounded into my one last safe place, getting hold of me before I could try to fight them off. I tugged against their grip as they forced me out. I caught another group freeing Bowings by simply breaking his thumb to free one hand, and snapping off the bottom end bar of the bed for his foot.

Once he got to a stable standing position, he let out a hearty laugh with the rest.

Turning my gaze down the hall, the others who hadn’t yet gotten a cake were all dumped into a pile. One I had to force my knees down to not join in just yet. And good thing, too, as soon as the inmates who were laid out tried to group up and solidify as one, the others simply pounced on them. It… 

It was fucking awful!

I was forced to just watch, because of what I did. Instead of- Instead-

Instead of getting torn to pieces like them! Having nails dig into my arms and legs, teeth being used to pull away my meat, hands prying at limbs with enough force to break, if not remove them, as I screamed out in pain, begging for it to stop. 

Instead of me, it was everyone else.

Everyone who didn’t receive a cake.

I tried to look away, but they wouldn’t let me. They just laughed. They kept laughing. They wouldn’t stop, the more they- The more they pulled, and pried, the more the others screamed. The louder the insane ones’ enjoyment had gotten. I fought as much as I could, but they must have gotten off on making me watch, one of them snapping their hand onto my jaw as I struggled. Keeping my face locked forwards as I saw human meat getting torn from bone.

The pile, pooling in blood, had stopped moving before the intercom above rang out.

“EVERYONE! STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING, RIGHT THIS INSTANT!”

At the voice’s command, all the chortles and snickers had stopped, the heads of those who were still moving lifted up to stare at the source of the sound.

“Now, the good prisoners will remain still, and will willingly get transferred to solitary confinement.”

The people latched onto me seemed to loosen their grip, which got me enough strength to pull away, crawling over to the worn bodies stacked on top of each other. Keenan was right on top. Parts of his scalp were missing, his right forearm was pulled off! His clothing, his body, everything was in tatters! I had barely gotten him off the others, holding his body in my arms as the enforcers came in. 

I didn’t shed a tear for him.

The sound of the guard’s guns filled the room, hard-focused on putting down Laury in stacked, repeating bangs. And once he was dealt with, as my ears rang, they pulled away the remaining 8 prisoners of that block of 20. All who had birthdays in the prior months of December and January.

When they got to the bodies, only 4 others had survived. The rest had suffered too many injuries, and simply died from shock, if not blood loss. I was taken to my cell, with the door locked behind me.

I didn’t sleep, I didn’t move, I didn’t think… I didn’t breathe, it felt. 

The next day, the paper asking for what I wanted was prefilled.

‘I want my life sentence removed.’

Reading the words, I didn’t know if I should have felt angry, thankful, disgusted, or if I should have just let out every bit of laughter I never released in the past decade. That mix of feelings remained as prison life had returned to some kind of normal. The block was filled with a new batch of ‘High-risk prisoners’ and though I didn’t meet any of them, and don’t plan to, I felt no less disdain for them than the ones I had already been with. In fact, that disdain eventually fell back on me two-fold.

I began to hate myself. 

Why?

I couldn’t save Keenan. I couldn’t even move. Sure, I would have been torn to pieces, but I’d have changed. I’m still the same awful person I was before. I caved to my own selfish needs again and didn’t even think of another human being. Our conversations were nothing short of small talk. But it was human.

Last week, they held a hearing on my future sentence. During it, I tried my best to show how much I thought I had changed before those cakes started showing up, and that was good enough. Tomorrow, I’m being moved to gen pop. I won’t have access to this laptop anymore, nor will I have a good bed to rest on. At this point? I don’t think I deserve it anyway. I’d just like to go back to living life like any other jumpsuit.

My name is Graham. I’m going to be living in the ‘GP-B’ block of Redmond Mixed Security Prison. The ‘GP’ stands for “general populous”. ‘B’ means I’ll be in the east wing, one of four general blocks within the prison. My future sentence… Will be 20 years, with parole.

I know, I know how cliche I’m telling you about something that happened at night, but this is something that changed my life forever. What I am about to tell you is grueling, completely vile and now I am a different person, but my story needs to be told. I’m going to stay anonymous and if you know me, you do not. Please read my story with all these details in mind, and know the risk. 

It all began coming straight out of high school, I had no plans of school or life in general. It was the end of summer in the north side of Florida, the heat thick and wet, everyone taking their Saturday morning while getting ready for a drive down to the beach to cool off, while I had to get ready for my first night of security training. The sun was blaring through my blinds directly hitting my eyelids. I tried to cover the sun with my hand but the sun decided to keep tormenting my sleep. I huffed a sigh and turned over on my side and groaned, as I felt my entire body come awake. I sat up in annoyance, wiped my eyes and grabbed a glass of water off my bedside table. 

“Well I might as well just start off my day” I muttered to myself. The sound of nails clacking outside my bedroom door made me stand up and throw on a pair of pants and open the door to see my loving companion Thor. 

“Morning buddy, is it too early for your dad to be up?” He whined in agreement, I gave him a scratch under his chin and waltzed into the kitchen to grab a granola bar and my canine's leash. “Come on pal, let’s go for a walk.” His excitement filled the room and I got him leashed up and walked out of my apartment that had been fully paid for by my parents, as long as I took this job. 
The day passed by fast and I still hadn’t had a wink of sleep, only becoming more annoyed as the sun set and slowly went to darkness. Thor was more than happy to have me awake with him the entire day. I hadn’t minded the time with him, but I had minded the fact that no matter what I was learning tonight it was going to be a grueling task. Once the clock turned to nine, I knew my time to nap was over and I had to start getting ready. I put on a uniform that had patches all over it reading security guard and the security company which I won’t announce to keep my anonymity. 
I grabbed my wallet and my keys, walking over to my best friend, "Alright bud, I have to go but I’ll be back in the morning, I love you Thor.” I gave his ears a good scratch, his tail wagging and his panting showed his joy and I allowed myself to step away. I walked to the door, gave my apartment a quick glance, before I closed the door and locked it. I walked down the stairs towards the door, not realizing that my downstairs neighbor was carrying her laundry that was 2 feet higher than the basket. She bumped into me, all the laundry that had previously towered over her now on the floor. 

“Shit, I’m sorry Lora. Let me help you. I reached down onto the floor to put it back in her basket. She heaved a heavy sigh. ”No, no I don’t want to be a bother, you obviously have work,” she gestured to my clothes with her hand “plus it’s my fault. My dog ate my good laundry basket, stupid thing! How does a dog even do that?” I chuckled as she reached down to pick up the rest of her clothes. “Well, I’m not sure what to tell you, but I wish you good luck on your misadventures with your furry friend.” She laughed at my remark and waved me off “Get out of here Chris, you obviously have somewhere to be. Don’t go wasting your time on little old ladies.” I rolled my eyes with a smile and walked out the front door heading into my car. 
I knew the drive to this job was thirty minutes, but it felt longer at night, like the road went on forever. It was probably my lack of sleep making it seem long. I turned on the radio to keep my eyes from falling. The cars were minimal, as were the lights, so my brights filled the road and the houses nearby. The area was rough, which didn’t shock me due to the lower cost of living, but the area itself felt like a drug den as a whole. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t even need music to stay awake around the area, but kept it on nonetheless. The GPS said I was five minutes away, but with my brights on it looked like miles away sat nothing- but places that looked like a meth addicts wet dream. I grabbed my phone while continuing to drive to make sure I put in the right address, but when I looked back up a man with what looked like blood covering his face and running down his shirt. I swerved while holding my breath, my heart trying to leap out of my chest. I missed the man thankfully, but pulled over to make sure I didn’t scare the man to death. Before I fully stepped out of the car an image of the blood on the man’s face and body, I got back in the car, closed the door, and didn’t look in my rear view mirror. Luckily the GPS had been right, and I was only a few minutes away.

The man in the road still rattled me, but I needed this job or I wouldn’t have my own place, and would have to go to college for something I didn’t want to do. I wanted to go home and cuddle Thor on the couch, and forget that this night existed at all. However, I knew I couldn’t. So I walked out of my car and walked up to the small security shack that had a big sign on the front that read SECURITY. There wasn’t much that surrounded the area, only one big building that just looked like a big version of a tin can. Everything else was road and trees, the location of it felt awkward, like they wanted the building to fit like a Tetris block in the trees. The brick security shack housed one window and not a single tree surrounding it, only the road around it. Everything felt eerie, the stars were covered from light pollution. From what light? I have no idea. There wasn’t a single sound despite the forest surrounding me. I felt like I could taste the silence, and it tasted awful but I kind of liked it. 

I walked into the security shack and a short thin man greeted me,” Hi, I’m Doug! I’ll be your trainer tonight. You must be Chris?” Although I knew he already knew my name he held his hand out for me to shake, “Nope. Never even met a Chris.” I kept my hands in my pockets and watched his body tense, his eyes flash with fear. “Oh no, I’ve never done that before, boss must’ve given me the wrong paperwork, wh-” I laughed, holding out my hand - “ I’m just messing with you dude, nice to meet you.” He relaxed and let out a deep breath and shook my hand. He walked over to the desk which was small and was underneath the only window in the shack. The room was smaller than it looked, there wasn’t a bathroom - there was a mini fridge right next to the desk, microwave on top and that pretty much completed the room. The Florida heat suffered in this shack and a/c was nowhere to be found. I felt like I was breathing in hot water that shared an air bubble from time to time, but I tried to forgive the conditions. Maybe this would be a fun job I thought. Little did I know what I was really getting myself into. 

Doug threw paperwork at me for the next three hours- signing paperwork after paperwork- video after video, and didn’t have a single funny bone in his body. This night was becoming longer and longer after every second I spent sitting and watching the most boring videos ever, on things that didn’t even exist in the area we were in. Security videos for the company in different states I had to watch, situations that would never come across me, but had to be tested on after. My frustration was noticeable, and it was thicker than the air in the room. 

Doug broke the silence after a thirty minute video followed by a questionnaire," Well, I think that was the final one. I know those are a little rough, but now comes the fun part!” I looked him up and down and his smile made me lift a brow of intrigue, ”You’re not going to kill me are you?” He rolled his eyes in annoyance and shook his head,” No. I’m not going to kill you, but you do need to stop with the jokes. This job is serious, and you have to start taking things seriously, the boss won’t handle jokesters.” I gave him a look of disdain. He stood up and waved his hand in a motion to follow him. I did, keeping it quiet because I could only think of bad things to say to him. When we stepped outside, it felt like a cool winter night despite it still being 80 degrees. 

“God it feels so nice out here, what’s up with the no a/c?” He looked at me, his face turning red, my body standing on edge waiting for a wrath I knew I didn’t deserve. “DO NOT TAKE THE LORD'S NAME IN VAIN YOU PERVERSE, INDIGNANT, SELFISH PRICK!” I stared at him in shock at his outburst. My brain failed to recognize that now Doug was a threat. He didn’t apologize nor keep his eyes on me, instead he turned around and began walking to the metal building. 

“Just get through training.” I mumbled to myself again and again until we made it into the tin can. Doug never looked back, but his angry, fast strides began to slow and his huffing and puffing grew to silence that was worse than the rage that was targeted to me earlier. 

“Okay. I’m sorry, okay? I haven’t been able to eat all day. You have no idea what I’m going through, but you can’t… you can’t just say his name like that. He’s taking care of us here, he’s going to be taking care of you here.” I nodded at his sudden break of silence and just tried to keep quiet on the matter, after my nod he continued, ”Well if we are back on track, this is the stocking center. For our patrol, we walk this for about 2 hours inside and out. You have to make sure you have a flashlight, gloves, and take a smock off the door before you patrol the inside.” I stared at him, wondering if it was a prank. I mean, a smock? Gloves? Jesus. I mean of course a flashlight makes sense, but I should have seen the signs. I should have noticed what I was getting myself into, and I should have ran. 
We walked around the stocking center for what seemed like forever, Doug pointing out the places I needed to check the most, but never mentioning once why I needed to check certain places. Dust covered the place from the roof to the floor, and the things that were being stocked, had obviously not been stocked in years. I didn’t really say much not wanting to upset Doug anymore. I just nodded along whilst following him around. While we walked around I noticed how cold it was despite the heat outside, it was as if midwestern winter was beginning to set in, but only inside the stocking center. It was almost cold enough to see your own breath, and the place wasn’t small like the guard shack. You could have fit ten guard shacks in one, and then 10 more stacked on top to go upstairs. The amount of money being wasted just for a warehouse that stored things from years ago was simply more money I would ever have in my name. 

“So, is there a reason for how cold it is, or are you trying to freeze me to death in 80 degree weather?” He glared at me, no doubt for making a joke. He sighed, turned back around and began walking towards the door to go back out,” For the perimeter of the building you will have to walk into the woods for about half a mile. There's a white string that you will hold onto the whole walk, and it will bring you to the other side of stock. Does that make sense or do I have to show you how to follow a rule again?” I grimaced at his annoyance with me. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so I tried not to take it hard. I just chalked it down to his interaction toward religion. Maybe this guy was more devoted than anyone else in the world, maybe nothing could beat the words of God to him. 
We walked back to the shack, the heat immediately hitting me and feeling sweat pierce through my skin. All I had wished for was to be back in the metal freezer that took hours to roam. 

“Well that’s pretty much all there is to it. You’ll walk that once a night, if you have to use the bathroom, you have to use the woods. You shouldn’t get any phone calls, and if you do be very cautious- the people who call here aren’t exactly mentally stable. No one besides you should enter stock unless you have granted them access, and you aren’t allowed to grant access to anyone. If you have questions, call the boss. Mary will be relieving you at six.” While he was talking he had grabbed everything that was his as he backed away to the door, he didn’t let me ask him any questions before running out the door. He hadn’t left with a lunch bag, and his car or anybody picking him up was nowhere to be seen. I watched him walk down the street I came down when arriving here. I hadn’t even been told prior it wasn’t even a full night of training. I had nothing to do, just walk around the room and look out the one singular window that looked out at the road that led to nothing but my freedom at six am.

Nothing happened the entire night, the only things I could remark on was the sweat the caked my clothes and though the air was wet my mouth was dry, and I was starving for something juicy. Mary relieved me, no words were exchanged, just a handshake and a wave goodbye. The slow night left my body tense and paranoid, but I chalked it down to my lack of sleep, which definitely played a part. On the drive I remembered I had forgotten to walk the woods, I remember being frustrated with myself, and Doug's words lingering about me not being able to follow rules. 

The music in my car wasn’t turned on, the roads were empty until I hit my city. When I reached home I walked Thor outside, begging him to be fast for my sake before bringing him back inside. I then stripped myself of all my clothes and made myself a burger for breakfast, devouring it in 4 bites. I walked into my bedroom, laid in bed and before I even thought about putting the blanket on me, my body was forced to shut down and I didn’t wake until five pm later that evening.
When I awoke I recalled the night I had prior, and remembered I would have to do it all over again. I had no idea that this night was going to completely derail my entire life and everything I had built in my tiny apartment.

For a long time, I went to bed early. It wasn’t until the strange events unfolded upon 4023 Gillman Road that I began to worry for my own safety. There was no telling what exactly happened on that dreaded night of October 31st, but whatever it was, things were never the same again.

It was cold on the night of Halloween, and it had been raining a bit prior to the trick-or-treaters’ release from their parents’ houses at 7 P.M. I was just about done getting the big bowl I had together with all of the candy I could scavenge from the cabinets. Sometimes I wouldn’t have enough candy in the bowl, so I would just throw in little consolations like an air freshener or a number two pencil. The kids weren’t exactly jumping for joy, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The sound of a knock at the door came while I was evenly dispersing some caramel chews into the mix. Making sure I paused the movie playing on the TV, I made my way to the door slowly, preparing myself for the first group of the night with a straight face.

I was dressed like Dracula. These kids were in for a treat.

Opening the door, I peered down to the doorstep to see a small child looking up at me. I hadn’t seen a costume like that before. They were wearing a long, white sheet, possibly a gown, over their entire body, but it was their disguise that threw me off. A large pumpkin, gutted inside, was carved with a permanent scowl.

“Happy Halloween, little guy,” I spoke cautiously.

No response.

Picking a few candies from the bowl, I dropped them into the small bowl perched beside their feet.

Still no response.

Reaching my hand out to the pumpkin’s stem, I attempted to touch the tip to make sure the little kid was alive in there, but suddenly, the stature collapsed to the ground.

A piece of cloth and a gutted pumpkin lay limp on the front of my porch.

“What the hell?” I questioned myself.

Tapping the pumpkin with the tip of my foot, the carcass began to roll backward off the steps of my porch and smashed open against the sidewalk.
From the shimmer of light, I noticed a small metal object that lay inside the gutted pumpkin. Kneeling down to check inside, I found a small skeleton key engraved with some type of hieroglyphics. Taking the key and walking back into my house, I made sure I locked the door behind me.

Throughout the night, there were only a few trick-or-treaters that came by my house, but I wasn’t too surprised since the neighborhood I lived in was so tiny. But it wasn’t until around 9 P.M. that things got really weird.

I had just turned on The Breakfast Club and was pouring myself a bowl of cereal when I heard two consecutive knocks at my front door. After taking a bite of cereal, of course, I eventually made my way to the door with the bowl of candy.

Quickly opening the door, I peered around to find no one in sight. Upon my doorstep, however, was a small black box with red metal hinges on the sides. In the middle of the box, though, was a small opening for a key.

A skeleton key.

Oh, what the fuck.

I grabbed the box and carried it inside the house with me. Trust me, I made sure I locked the door that time, too. This was getting way too weird.
I placed the object on the top of my kitchen counter and examined it. The hieroglyphs lining the edges of the box seemed to match up with the ones on the skeleton key that I had found earlier. So, obviously, I placed the key inside the hole, and it unlocked with utmost ease.

Carefully pulling up the top of the box, I unveiled a dark red sheet of fabric. Placing my hand upon it, I felt something hidden underneath the fabric. Moving the fabric to the side, I grasped ahold of a thin piece of metal, and it was only when I pulled the object out as a whole that I noticed it was a knife.

The knife was engraved with actual English on the blade.

“Trick-or-treat.”

Good god.

Suddenly, three knocks at my door practically shook the room. It sounded like the Hulk was waiting at my door, for God’s sake. There’s no way that could be any young kid out there. I mean, no twelve-year-old that’s out trick-or-treating for Halloween is that strong, are they? I don’t know, they could be doing some serious weight lifting. Kids nowadays are built like they’ve been paying rent since birth.

Clutching the knife in my hand, I slowly made my way towards the door. I had a sixth sense telling me there would be a huge monster waiting outside my door.

“Trick-or-treat,” I heard a creepy voice bellow from beyond.

My free hand reached for the doorknob, unlocking it, and slowly pulled it open as I took cover from behind it. I heard a slight shuffle of feet, then a shadow moving closer to the doorway. The tip of a gun became visible around the edge of the door, and that’s when I choked the handle of the knife.

I wasn’t going to die here. Not tonight.

Shoving the door against the body that was making its way into my house, I lunged forward with the tip of my knife.

Thump.

My eyes were closed.

Did I kill them?

Opening my eeyes, I gasped in horror as the face of a young child in a cowboy costume peered up at me. His mouth was agape with fear. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing either, but I looked down at my knife.

It was stuck in the wall.

The knife came down, missing him by inches, and he took off.

My husband died in a cave diving accident two weeks ago. Well, at least that’s what I thought until the night he showed up at our front door.

A billowing wave of vertigo washed over me when I first saw him. Of course, there was relief somewhere in there, but so much about his return didn’t make any sense. After all, the authorities had searched for him for days. Ultimately, it lasted a week. It was hard to reason with the idea that he had miraculously survived being stuck within the cave system for that long. There was the question of air supply, food, and managing his body temperature.

Considering it was only meant to be a cave mapping expedition his team hadn’t decked him out with a surplus of gear. Even so, they had pressed the matter of safety. In total, he was accompanied by 14 other divers. The teams were paired together in groups of three. Everyone called to the task was an experienced diver and all their equipment was inspected the day of. On paper, it wasn’t supposed to end up the way it did, but it had.

I’ve always hated this hobby of his. Nothing could ever make me understand why he couldn’t just do something else, something less perilous, but I digress.

Initially, the cavern had been mapped by a submersible, but the surveyors decided it would be best to send down volunteer divers to confirm the measurements and put guidelines on the routes. Jordan and his team were swimming through a passage when he told one of his partners he had seen something. Apparently, there was an offshoot cavern that wasn’t detected by the submersible. I can picture him now, eager to see it for himself, ready for the discovery and ever so keen to explore. Jordan was a pioneer in his own right. He loved a good adventure, loved the idea of finding something wondrous and new. It’s one of the reasons I fell in love with him, but he didn’t have to be so reckless about it.

I’m told that in his blind pursuit, he disregarded the advice of his diving partners. They say he told them he’d check it out quickly and that he’d be right back. Right back turned to a minute and then a minute became minutes and by the time it was an hour they had already called for a rescue team. Before the rescue team arrived, one of his partners went in after him, but that diver had come back explaining that further into the canal was too tight for her to fit. The rescue team persisted regardless, but sure enough, the canal was too small. They couldn’t understand how Jordan had managed to fit, because there was absolutely no trace of him elsewhere. So they attempted to look inside with a camera.

I got to see that footage myself.

There was nothing. Nothing, but a vast expanse of a suffocating void. The camera ventured around for hours, but still, there were no new clues to the whereabouts of my husband. Not a trace of his gear or rubble or anything. Not a single trace of my Jordan. He was gone. It was as if he had just vanished. A few days after that, I was left with the ultimate decision, and with a heavy heart, he was pronounced dead. We held a service by the place he loved most, his final resting place. The ocean.

I was just as hollow as the casket I tried to imagine him in. Surrounded by loved ones mourning him yet disoriented because he wasn’t actually there. That night I kept picturing him walking through the door, kissing the top of my head and telling me about the dive and everything he might’ve seen on it. But that didn’t happen. I wept and slept alone. His side of the bed felt unbearably cold. His absence left its very own cavern within our home, within me.

But then he came home.

On such an ordinary day no less. Insubstantial when compared to the hassle of funeral and estate planning that had occurred the days prior. My body was huddled into a piteous ball, rotting on the corner of the couch as I scrolled through my phone reminiscing over old videos of us together. Then, the doorbell rang. It was late, much too late for a delivery driver or the press. My thumb tapped the security app and when I saw what was on my doorbell camera I practically threw my phone. Standing in the fisheye lens frame was a figure clad in full scuba gear. It was as if I had seen a ghost. I rushed to the door, hands trembling as I turned the knob. What kind of sicko plays a prank like this, I thought. Did they view my suffering as some kind of joke? My shoulders tensed as I opened the door, but when I did, when I looked up, it was truly him. Jordan stood there, hunched over in the doorway wetsuit still dripping.

“I’m home, Dear.”

The wail that escaped me bordered on inhuman. I lurched forward into him, my body quaking with frenzied sobs. His heavy hand patted at my back before sliding down, over and over. The movement felt stiff, almost practiced. I was barely done embracing him before he pushed past me, stumbling into the foyer. He had begun to strip off his gear, peeling out of the second skin that was his wetsuit until he was completely naked. It fell to the tile with a poignant thwack.

“Oh, Dear. I am famished. Love, what’s for dinner?”

“Jordan,” my voice hushed and gravely from days of crying, “Where have you been?”

“On my dive, of course. I’m just coming back a little late.” He stumbled around looking over our walls and shelves like a kid on a field trip to the Smithsonian.

“A little late? It’s been two weeks!” He halted as I exclaimed.

The turn of his head was unsettlingly rigid as he peered back in my direction.

“Should I not have come back, Dear?”

The question floored me and instantly I was overcome with guilt. He was right. I had been provided with a miracle, something so many others could only dream of. My husband had found his way back to me and here I was fussing over the details.

“No, no, no. That’s not what I meant.” I wiped the tears from my eyes and straightened out my back, “I’m sorry, you’re right. How about you just sit down and get comfortable? As a matter of fact, I’ll whip up your favorite. How does salmon sound?”

His movement as he descended upon me was mechanical, expression flat as he approached. For some reason I froze, my body stiffening as he stood before me. I couldn’t gauge what he was about to do. Thankfully, he simply snaked his arms around me pulling me in with an unsure squeeze. His lips were upturned into a thin-lipped smile. The kind of smile you give your dentist, not your wife.

“Dear, that sounds exceptional! I cannot wait to consume this.” I was so relieved to be released from his clasp, but his scent still lingered. It was briny and smelled of damp limestone.

Without another word, he continued to peruse around our home. I walked over the trail of his gear,  making my way to the kitchen. Our fridge was empty for the most part. I found it hard to eat over the past couple of days. Thankfully, we had some frozen fillets and vegetables. I tried to keep my mind on cooking and just being grateful that my husband had returned, but something wasn’t right. I saw that video. I saw how small that canal was. Jordan was, is, a big man. Tall and well-muscled. The partner who sought him out was a five-foot-nothing woman, thin and lithe. Even she couldn’t fit through there, so how did he? And how had he gotten himself back out?

My eyes trailed him as he ventured around, picking up and putting down whatever he could get his hands on. I wanted to think he was just excited to be back. That he was just relieved to have survived that crazy ordeal. But he wasn’t acting like someone safe and sound back home. He was behaving like it was all, well, new. As if he had never seen it all before.

After I finished preparing dinner, I set the table for us. Normally, we would just eat on the sofa together with food tray stands pulled out as one of our shows for the week played on the TV. But this wasn’t a normal dinner and I didn’t feel normal and Jordan wasn’t acting normal. We sat across from one another at the table. I was in pajamas I had worn for days and he was still completely naked. Vacant eyes scanned over the food, his tongue darting out to lick the corner of his lips.

“This looks divine, Dear. Let’s dig in!” He ignored the fork and knife he was previously holding up like tuning forks. Instead, he chose to dig his hand into the fillet, greedily shoveling it down his throat.

Jordan wasn’t a stickler for table manners, but this was unusual. The more I watched him the more I realized that something was deeply off about him. His skin looked unusually tight. Maybe it was dehydration?

I picked up the water pitcher before taking his glass and filling it. The sound of the ice clinking was barely audible in comparison to the gulping erupting from his gullet. I gently slid the cup towards his side of the table. He took a pause from his meal, eyes honing in on the water. He dropped the food letting it fall from his mouth and back onto the plate, before grasping the glass and guzzling it all down with a delighted hum.

“Jordan, how was the dive?” My breaths felt uneven, but I ignored it. I tried to ignore it.

He held the glass away from his lips, face smeared with fish and ice water.

“Oh, it was splendid, Darling! A real success I’d say.”

“Really? Did you just get lost down there then? How did you find your way back?” My throat felt so dry. It was as if I was suffocating, but I knew I could breathe. I could breathe and everything was normal. But it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t.

“Dear, I was never lost. I was just looking around. That’s all!” He filled his mouth with all of the ice that sat at the bottom of the glass and began chewing it robotically then swallowing.

“Looking around? …Okay.” Something is very wrong. “Well, what did you see then?” 

The glass cracked as he bit into it.

The cup shattered as his teeth came down again and again, sharp shards slicing into the roof of his mouth, gums, and lips as he chewed it absentmindedly.

I screamed.

He had the nerve to look at me shocked, before putting it down and spitting out what fragments he could onto his plate.

“Oh my god! Oh my god!” I leapt from the table. I wanted to call an ambulance, call the police, the news, anyone.

“Oh, Dear! I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just so thirsty. I must have gotten carried away.”

“You need to go to the hospital. We need to go to the emergency room.” My words came out weaker than I intended. My hands trembled at my side as I paced back and forth.

“No, no. I am perfectly fine. Everything is fine.” The chair creaked as he stood from the table, blood still staining his lips, “I just need a good night's sleep. We can talk about all that stuff in the morning.”

My eyes were trained on my feet now, but I could hear him rummaging through the kitchen. Yet, I was still too shocked to care. Once he was finished with whatever he was doing in there, he made his way over to the couch and plucked the throw from it to drape over my shoulders and keep me still. It was decorative and usually I would’ve fussed about using it, but it was the most comforting thing he had done to me since being back.

His cold, damp hands ushered me over to the stairs when suddenly he stopped behind me. His eyes were fixed at the top of the steps, his shoulders wound up like tight springs. Perched curiously at the peak was our pretty little Persian, Luna.

“She’s missed you too. She’s been holed up under the bed since you left. She must’ve come out when she heard your voice.” I continued onward, petting Luna as I made my way to our room.

“Oh, yes. Our little Luna.” His voice seemed to lose its previous gusto. Hesitantly, he followed behind me, but when he reached for Luna she bowed her back and hissed with a ferocity entirely unlike her. Her paws rolled forward as she bolted away from him, diving into the room and under the bed. For a moment, he was frozen in place.

“Oh, geez! What a welcome, wouldn’t you say?” As though nothing happened, he continued past me and that’s when I saw what was clutched in his other hand. It was salt. He had brought up the full container of table salt.

“Jordan, why do you have that?”

“Hm, oh this? Well, I just thought I’d take a bath is all. Rest my muscles and such. Don’t mind me, Dear. You just get in bed and then I’ll be right there.”

I mindlessly nodded, but his answer only proposed more questions. My fingers weakly clutched at the throw, the beadwork uncomfortable against my skin as I sat myself down on the bed. Jordan waltzed into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, and sure enough the sound of rushing water followed soon after.

I couldn’t possibly understand why he would want to take a bath after being lost at sea. Hadn’t that been enough water? And why was he using table salt instead of Epsom? Why had Luna hissed at him with vitriol that I hadn’t even seen her offer to strangers? Luna loved Jordan.

But Jordan wasn’t acting like Jordan.

My refusal to think about it only made me want to think about it. Maybe he had hit his head down there. Whatever he went through it must have been traumatic, so it was ridiculous to expect him to just be himself right after. We could talk about it once he was done bathing. I heard the water from the spout shut off with an abrupt squeak and as though I was anticipating it my shoulders relaxed.

My back sank back into my headboard as I stared off looking over at his nightstand. It was the same as he’d left it, completely untouched. I’m sure he’d make it all make sense to me and then we could go back to the way things used to be. Maybe he’d even quit cave diving and we could do something together instead. Everything was going to be okay. That’s what I told myself as I waited for him to climb into bed. But as I started to drift off to sleep, the bed remained empty.

I was jolted awake by an abrupt yowl erupting from the hallway. My feet stumbled frantically as I rushed out of bed to inspect what was causing all of the commotion. There was nothing that could prepare me for what I saw.

Jordan’s jaw was dislodged at an unfathomable angle and Luna was halfway down his throat, her body writhing and thrashing in a feeble attempt to escape. Only the white of his eyes were visible as they were rolled back into his head. Instantly my own wailing melded into a chorus alongside Luna’s as I began to beat at my husband with the beaded throw. A thunderous growl erupted from his throat as he disgorged and released her. Luna fell to the carpet, fur sticky and flat against her body. Once she got her bearings she ran yowling the whole way in horror at the ordeal.

“What is wrong with you?! What the hell were you doing?!”

“I was just getting a good look at her, that's all. I didn’t mean to upset you, Dear.”

Bewildered. I felt completely bewildered. I couldn’t even begin to know how to respond to him.

“Oh, darn. I’ve gone and upset you again. How about I make us breakfast? Let’s get this morning started the right way.” I couldn’t stop imagining the way that his jaw unhinged like a hogfish around our Luna. The man that walked down the stairs felt like a stranger to me.

Thankfully, I was able to find Luna and she let me check her out without too much of a fuss. She was fine for the most part, just covered in spit. I don’t know. It had that smell. That funky, salty smell that's coming from Jordan. It’s so hard to describe, but it reminds me of an aquarium touch pool or the beach when the tide is low. He smelled like seawater but specifically when it was teeming with life. Like a fishbowl that needed a good cleaning.

The chair rocked under me slightly as I bounced my foot nervously; my fingers played at the stray thread of my sweater’s sleeve. The fire alarm was blaring and I could see him frantically waving the smoke away from it. I could’ve helped, but my mind was elsewhere. There were more pressing matters at hand. I had questions and I needed them answered.

After some time, Jordan came from the kitchen and presented me with a bowl. Not a plate. A bowl. Underneath the heap of runny eggs and blueberries, I could make out what I could only assume to be a pancake. His eyes gazed over me expectantly as I timidly combed through my “meal”. I took a hesitant bite from a piece of my pancake and immediately wretched at the overwhelming taste of baking soda. Across the table, Jordan was shoveling down his meal like the night before.

“Mighty fine if I do say so myself. What about you, Dear?”

“We should tell everyone you’re back. Your mother needs to be the first to know and then we’ll need to go down to the hospital so they can-”

“Let’s worry about all of that stuff later, Honey. Today can just be about us.”

“What does that even mean? I don’t think you understand, Jordan. We held a funeral. We thought you were dead. We don’t just get to pretend all of that never happened. You need a medical evaluation. Hell, maybe a psychological one. We have to go see someone-”

“NO!!!” He erupted from the table and for just a moment I am certain I saw his body swell in size. His expression remained eerily flat, but his voice. Oh god, his voice. Just a deep, guttural croak. I was frozen there as he walked up to me. He knelt down and leveled with my eyes, his hands rested on my face and they were cold. So, so cold. And finally I could see how glassy his eyes were. Milky, hollow husks.

“No, Dear. Just you and me. Just how it should be. How about we watch a movie?”

He started to swirl and blur in my vision. I held onto that image. The image of him swimming amongst my tears. His comforts just as empty as they had been the night before. Pat. Drag. Pat. Drag.

Pat.

Drag.

The day was rather uneventful. We watched a movie and caught up on chores. He didn’t talk about what happened in the cave and I didn’t ask. It was probably the most time we’ve spent together in months. We moved here for Jordan’s work and he’d been so busy ever since between that and diving. It felt nice just spending the day together, like old times. I had almost forgotten about the morning when we were just about to go to bed. Instead of going to his side of the mattress he made his way to the bathroom.

“Just gonna take a bath. I’ll be right out, Dear.” Before I could protest, he closed the door behind him.

I don’t know why I did it, but I know now that I wish I hadn’t. I waited for the faucet to stop and then I waited and waited for him to come to bed. Then I was sick of waiting. Quietly, I slipped from the covers my steps certain as I neared the bathroom door. The silver of the knob glinted against the light of the moon as it washed in through our bedroom window. Open me it said. Come see for yourself.

And I did.

Our master bathroom was dressed in lunar blue. The tiles plain mottled slate danced with the shuddering shadows of leaves in the night breeze. Little ghosts that taunted me to come closer. The drip of the tub’s spout echoed rhythmically.

Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

From the entrance, I could see the tub was full, but there was no Jordan. At least, not at the surface. I crept closer until I was standing over the bath and that’s when I saw him. Swaying about like laundry in a basin was Jordan or at least the shell of Jordan. Grey eyes gawked at me but were completely devoid of consciousness. His mouth was agape, but not a single breath was taken. He was empty, just a bag of skin that drifted aimlessly within the water, except I could see something rippling to and fro within him. I watched the mass as it traveled rolling around in his gut, then crawling through his chest and throat until I was met with a singular polychromatic eye. And then he screamed. That guttural croak of a scream. His body expanded almost instantly and suddenly he had burst to the surface.

My throat was hot with panic as I wailed. My hands grasped for anything, anyone as I flew from our bedroom and down the stairs and into the kitchen. I threw open our drawers searching for a knife and grabbed the first I could find. But my phone. Where did I leave my phone?

“Dear, don’t you know it’s rude to walk in on someone bathing?” His voice was still somewhere between Jordan’s and that thing's. As if it hadn’t completely settled yet.

I clutched the knife behind me, turning towards the stairs. He stood there, still dripping. My heart pounded hard in my chest threatening to burst out. The pressure in my head was a warning that I may soon pass out. My phone. Where did I leave my phone?

“Oh, I get it now. I know what you want.” His lips pulled back into that tight unnerving smile, “I got just what you need.”

He began to saunter down the stairs.

His shoulders shimmied and his hips began to turn and sway as he made his way over to me and the laugh that escaped me was one of unnerved horror and complete utter disbelief. I think he took it as delight.

“Honey, I’m gonna give it to you and I’m gonna give it to you good.” A flimsy tendril dragged over his eye. He strolled closer until he was just an arm's length away. My knuckles tensed as I clenched the handle of the knife still hidden at my back.

He raised a single hand, wiggling his fingers before sensually sliding it down his chest and stomach until he was over his penis. He gripped it at its base and then he began to pull. His fingers dug into the flesh, nails biting into skin and he pulled and pulled and I could see old brown blood beginning to ooze as he tried to tear away at the flesh.

Losing all the composure I had initially been able to muster I broke out into a fit of wailing. This seems to have broken his concentration as I brought the knife to the front clutching it to my chest with fear and confusion.

“Oh! Oh, geez! Dear, what’s wrong? I thought this was what you wanted!”

“Why the fuck would I want any of this?! What are you doing?!”

“Well, you came looking at me and you had the knife! I was gonna give it to you! You know, so you could-”

My knees gave out as I fell to the ground sobbing. I’m certain I was having a panic attack.

Jordan stared at me, expressionless, but his own confusion was evident.

“Let’s get you to bed, Dear.”

I don’t know why, but I didn’t fight when he helped me up. The knife fell to the tile with a cold clank and I felt so embarrassed at the version of myself I saw within the metal. Warped and barely visible but still a mess all the same.

Jordan sat me in the bed, tucking me under our duvet and draping our sofa's decorative throw over top. I lay flat on my back, staring up at our ceiling, and this time he sat on his side of the bed. His hand rested on my thigh. Pat. Drag. Pat. Drag.

“You’re not my husband are you…”

I was met with silence. My jaw clenched tight and I was just about to force myself to ask again, but then he spoke. Not aloud, but within.

No. No, I am not.

When morning came I was catatonic. I could still hear and see everything around me, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything about it. I couldn’t bring myself to speak. I couldn’t bring myself to move. I couldn’t bring myself to cry. I just didn’t want to feel. Once again, my world had been turned upside down. Only this time I didn’t know what up or down really was.
Jordan. No. Whatever puppeteered Jordan came in to check on me. It tried to get me out of bed, tried to get me to eat. But I refused. I didn’t want to play this game. Whatever it was. I just wanted my husband back. But not like this.

When night came, I had finally found the strength to get up. I had questions and I needed answers. But he was nowhere to be found. I searched everywhere in the house, including the bath. I searched under the bed, but only Luna came out. I scoured the backyard, but was met with nothing. Then finally, I knew where he would be.

The drive to the beach didn’t take long. I parked the car and stepped out, welcomed by the sound of the night tide and the light of a glorious full moon. I could see a trail of steps in the sand, going towards the shore. Standing with his back to me at the water's edge was Jordan. His hands were held pensively behind his back. He didn’t look at me as he spoke.

“I believe it’s best that I leave.”

My chest was tight. Wound up with a tsunami of emotions.

“You…You are so selfish. So that’s it? You just drag me here away from my friends away from my family and this is how it ends? I gave up everything, everything to be with you. I gave up my career. I gave up my home. I gave up myself and you think you just get to leave? What about everything we made together? What about Luna? What about me?!”

The muscles of his back flexed, but otherwise he stayed still. His silence was as palpable as the salt that lingered in the air.

“You know, when you said we should have a baby I thought that me saying we should wait until you get more time to be home would make you actually put in some effort to, I don’t know, spend more time with me? But you didn’t. Instead, you just threw yourself into more work, into more anything, just to not be with me. Why? Why do you do that? You act as if I said no, but you knew what I meant. Why am I always the one compromising Jordan? Why am I always the one giving up pieces of myself to hold onto you?”

The waves thrummed against the sand like a melancholic metronome.

“And that woman. When she told me she went after you, she was crying so hard. At first, I thought she was so sad because she thought I was mad she couldn’t find you, but then she showed up to the funeral and she was just bawling. Just absolute waterworks over my husband and I don’t even know who the hell she is. Who is that woman Jordan?”

Tears painted my face, but I wiped them. As he turned to me I knew the importance of seeing him clearly for the last time.

Not Jordan faced me. His expression remained even yet his oil-slick eyes were solemn as he spoke. His voice was as steady as the tide before us.

“In his final moments there was nothing he regretted more than traversing by my lair. Just you and him. That is how he wanted it to be. He wished for anything, anything to get to sit beside you one more time enjoying one another's presence. He did love you, Jasmine. He loved you.”

Without another word, I watched as it ripped itself out of my Jordan. It unhinged his jaw like a door, pulling itself out as his body fell to the sand, folding over itself like an empty wetsuit. The creature was a gelatinous mass of eyes and tendrils. My eyes burned as I tried to fathom its ever-shifting hues under the light of the moon. The swirling patterns screamed at me the way a diamondback’s scales yell out at a mouse.

Run away. Don’t come near me. I will kill you.

When the next tide came it took to it and into the sea it went, washed away with the brine. I flew over to Jordan, my Jordan. His body now a truly empty husk, but I held him to me and I wept. The sounds of my cries crescendoing amongst the song of the tides. The shell of my husband so empty and lifeless. But he was mine. All mine.

Beach security found me cradling Jordan’s slough. I gave the authorities quite a hard time as they tried to seize his remains for an autopsy, but in the end they succeeded. They still don’t know what to make of it and nobody believed me when I told them the truth. They’re saying I must have had a fit of trauma-induced psychosis due to the state I found his body in. My parents have since stepped in and have me seeing a grief therapist. She’s supposed to help me make sense of my feelings and surprisingly it has been helpful. That's why I’ve decided to write out my account of the ordeal. Though I’m certain she will write this off as further delusion and recommend that my psychiatrist increase my prescription dosage. But I know what I experienced and I certainly know what I saw. I still don’t understand why that thing decided to slide out from the depths and play ventriloquist with my husband’s corpse or why it then chose to trail back to our home and attempt normalcy, but what I can say is that in a way I am grateful for it.

Because, it let me get to see my Jordan one last time.

"I want y'all to give a warm welcome to our newest employee. She recently just graduated from Texas A&M, though we won't hold that against her, hook 'em horns. Everybody, meet Penelope, or as we're going to call her around here, Penny Callahan." That is how my new boss Douglas Crane introduced me to the team. I couldn't help but roll my eyes when he threw up the horns, but I didn't expect anything less from a T-sip.

Like he said, I just recently graduated from Texas A&M. I come from a long line of Aggies. My father was the last one to graduate from there and though I kept the family tradition of attending college, career-wise we went in different directions. My dad Roy recently retired from the police force as a detective. I went to college for business and eventually decided that banking is where I needed to be. I worked at the bank for only a few days when I got a call that nobody wants to receive in the middle of the night. My father had passed away, which was crazy because I had just spoken to him two nights prior while we were having a celebratory dinner, congratulating me on my new career.

My dad and I were always close because I was the only child. Growing up he always took his work home with him. For breakfast, I would have case files with my Cap'n Crunch. He was there physically, but mentally his mind was at work. However, he knew how to balance it just right. He would pick his battles. He would go to my volleyball games, but never took me to practice. He was at my high school graduation, but couldn't make my college graduation. Dad told me that since he paid for my tuition that he didn't have to attend, which I thought was fair enough. He was a bit strict, but he was always fair.

The even crazier part is how they found him — inside an abandoned chicken restaurant called Klucky's where unspeakable horrors occurred. They officially deemed him the notorious serial killer in the local area. My father was named The Shadow Strangler. My whole world was shattered in an instant.

When I received the call to identify his body at the morgue, I wanted so badly to tell them it wasn't him. But when they lifted that sheet, I could tell it was him just by the way that his hair looked. I honestly couldn't believe it. My dad was gone, and I was officially all alone.

Since he was a big piece of the police force, they didn't want to go public just yet about him being the Shadow Strangler. They wanted to conduct an investigation before they went public to the press. However, at the crime scene, they did find his fingerprints all over murder weapons that were identified as such from previous crime scenes. They also found a diary that was their smoking gun when it came to a confession. I asked for access to this diary, but was denied since they found the latest victim and him in the same building. They had him dead to rights I was told.

I made arrangements at the funeral home. He had requested to be buried next to my mother as well as my grandparents. Nobody knew about the accusations, and I sure as hell wasn't going to tell them. So he had a proper funeral with pretty much the entire police department there, as well as my boss Douglas, who was there the entire time to support me.

"Penny, I'm so sorry about your father. Take all the time you need, the bank will still be there waiting for you when you return." Douglas embraced me with a hug as we were staring at the open casket in the funeral parlor. It was warm and genuine, and he was the closest connection I've ever had to a person since my dad.

After he was buried next to Mom, Pepaw and Granny, I went home and sat on my couch for three days straight. I didn't eat, I didn't talk to anybody, and I didn't even turn the lights on. I was devastated that my father was linked to being such a monster. A part of me didn't want to believe it, but the evidence was telling me it was true. He always told me to trust the evidence. That's when I received a text from the coroner Dr. Sandra Okafor. She asked to meet me for coffee because she had something she wanted to discuss.

We met at a local coffee shop on Main Street. She was already there waiting for me, dressed very professionally with her hair up in a bun, dark-rimmed glasses, a tasteful button-up top, and an ankle-length black skirt with slingback black heels. She immediately stood up when she noticed me come through the doors and walked over to greet me. She gave me a handshake and directed me towards the table.

"Penelope, thank you so much for meeting me on such short notice. I know that emotions are still raw, but there's something that I had to share with you." As soon as she said that, a barista came by and asked me for my drink order. She was absolutely gorgeous, but I couldn't focus on her right now. "It's really no problem, Dr. Okafor, I've just been sitting in darkness for three days, not doing much. What is it that you needed to share with me?" I said to her with my eyes burning and my face puffy.

"I'm sorry to hear that, but I will keep this brief. There is a bit of an inconsistency with the report. Everything in it points to your father being the Shadow Strangler, however, I'm beginning to question that." She took a sip of her coffee before she continued. "It's my understanding that your father was in fact right-handed, correct?" I nodded my head up and down concurring. "That's what I thought. However, the wound patterns on the victims indicate that the Shadow Strangler was in fact left-handed. With such precision and execution, for a lack of a better term, somebody right-handed couldn't have possibly done it. At least that's my theory."

The gorgeous barista brought me my latte as she smiled and winked at me before walking away. I had to shake my head and once again focus on Dr. Okafor. If what she's telling me is true, this could be the evidence I needed to prove my father's innocence. It was a lead I hoped would finally give me a definitive answer. I thanked Dr. Okafor for her time as I took my coffee and headed back to my house.

Even though I drank my latte like it was water, I eventually passed out from exhaustion from not sleeping for a few days. That's when I had a weird dream. I was inside Klucky's, standing over a dead body. I looked over at the swinging kitchen door and out came my father. "Penny, this isn't what it seems. Don't trust everyone. He's still out there." He was clenching a knife in his right hand that was dripping blood in massive puddles on the floor — a recreation of the scene he'd been framed for. The dream was so surreal that I woke up in a panic. It was the middle of the night and I was starving. I looked in my pantry and of course, there was nothing to eat, so I decided that instead of ordering from DoorDash that I was going to go to Waffle House for sustenance.

I pulled up to the yellow lit building and sat myself in a corner booth. After the waiter took my order, which was an All-Star Special and coffee, I looked over and noticed Detective Briggs, Dad's old partner. He was rugged and looked like he could beat you to a pulp just by looking at you, but every time he saw me, he instantly went into teddy bear mode. He set down his fork that had a punctured waffle on it and swiftly walked over to me and sat in the opposite booth.

"Penny, it's so good to see you, sweetheart. I haven't seen you since the funeral, how are you holding up?" he said as he grabbed my hands. I had to fight back tears and wanted to tell him that my life had been a living nightmare and that I dreamt about my dad a couple of hours prior. However, all I could mutter was I was doing all right, and that I was going back to work in a couple of days. He patted my hands and apologized for the hundredth time since I've seen him this week. He then leaned in, as if to tell me a secret. "You know, I think this whole investigation is full of shit," he said as he looked around to see if anybody else was listening. "Your dad was an outstanding member of society, and one of the good cops to boot. There's no way in hell that he is the Shadow Strangler. Even on your dad's worst days, he never so much as raised his voice at a suspect."

I looked at Walt and echoed his statement. That's when it occurred to me that in my dream, Dad said don't trust everyone. I couldn't help but have a sneaking suspicion that Detective Briggs was the Shadow Strangler. I couldn't be certain, but I felt a little uneasy with the way he was looking at me. A look he had never given me before. "You know what? I just remembered I have to pay my water bill!" I said to Walt as I dropped a fifty-dollar bill on the table and left in a hurry. I felt like an idiot as I sped off out of the parking lot. As I looked through the window, Walt was still sitting there dumbfounded.

With an empty stomach, I got back home and tried to get some sleep. I didn't get much, but when I did dream, I dreamt of Dad again. The same building, the same situation. Dad was still holding the knife dripping blood over a dead body. Except he said something different to me this time. "He's still out there killing. Look at his left hand." As soon as he said that, a shadowy figure emerged behind him with a rope, and right as he was about to strangle my dad, I woke up. Armed with Dad's direction, I hoped I could finally catch this psychopath.

The next morning, I went to the old precinct to see Walt. Luckily, he was in his office and after checking in and grabbing a visitor's badge, I met with him face-to-face. He had his chair facing away from me. When he turned around and put his hands on his desk, I noticed his left hand. Walt had a huge burn on the back of his hand. I tried to play it off by asking him what happened. He looked down at it. "Oh this? After you left Waffle House to pay your water bill, the waitress came by to refill my coffee and let's just say that she missed the mug," he said as he waved his hand in the air. Once again I got an uneasy feeling as I apologized for my behavior the night before and told him that I had some errands I needed to run. I was a little more subtle this time.

I wasn't lying this time. I had full intent to get some things done before I returned to work the next day. This included putting together a thank you basket for my boss. So I went to Target and stocked up on some of his favorites. While I was there, I decided to go ahead and buy a couple of security cameras, just to be safe. I felt a little paranoid, but better safe than sorry.

That night, I once again had a dream about my dad. The same scenario played out, except I got to see my dad get strangled to death. As his limp body hit the floor, the Shadow Strangler fled the scene. After a few seconds, Dad's eyes opened. "Penny! He's going to strike again tonight. Your gut may tell you one thing, but your heart is what you need to follow." His body went limp, and my dad passed away again. I woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't breathe. It took me a few minutes to calm myself down, but I ended up just sitting there for a few hours before it was time for me to go to work.

It felt weird going back to work after being gone for so long, but the show must go on, even when a big role is vacant. I had to learn how to put makeup on again, and if I didn't pay attention, I would've walked out with one black heel and one navy heel. Luckily I caught myself before I left. I grabbed my purse and the thank you basket and drove to work. I decided to get there a little bit early so that I could give the basket to my boss. I looked in the parking lot and his Land Rover was already there.

I hopped in the elevator and pushed the button for the 12th floor, which was his entire office. The doors opened up, and I could instantly see nothing but burnt orange colors with a nasty Longhorn everywhere. The Aggie in me shuddered. I stood there with the basket in hand, but no sign of him anywhere. That's when he popped out of his private bathroom. We made eye contact as he began to speak. "Penny! I'm so glad to see you. We've missed you badly around here," he said as he walked up to me and gave me a hug. He looked down and noticed the gift basket as a grin spread across his face.

"Is that for me?" he asked with every single tooth present, and he pointed down towards the Milky Way midnight chocolate bar. However, when he pointed with his left hand, right below his thumb, I noticed a bite mark as well as bruised knuckles and a slash on the back of his hand. I looked down and gasped. We made eye contact again as he looked at me and chuckled. "The wife and I got a little too rough last night," he said as he winked at me. I responded with an awkward chuckle back. I handed him the basket and headed towards the door. As he set it down on his desk and settled in to do paperwork, he called my name. As I turned around, I noticed he was writing with his left hand. He thanked me for the basket and once again told me he was glad I was back. I just smiled and rushed out the door.

The rest of my workday was a crawl. The minutes felt like hours, and my heart rate did not go down at all. Was my boss the one my dad was telling me was the real killer? How did I not know he was left-handed? Did I blame an innocent man for being the killer? It's the absolute worst when you're asking yourself all the questions and getting no answers. I had to think of something fast. If he was going to strike again tonight, I couldn't let another person die. I was going to follow my boss and see what he was up to. I left a little early and turned on the waterworks to sell it. After that, I scoped out the parking lot and waited for my boss to leave.

Right around 5:30, he walked to his Land Rover, and I began to follow him inconspicuously. He didn't go home; he went straight to a local bar and grill. Through the window, I could see him ordering a double shot of whiskey and a T-bone steak. The entire time, I could see him scoping out a table full of young women. While he was chewing a bite of his steak, I saw him slip off his wedding ring. He put it in his pocket, swallowed his steak, and approached a girl who couldn't have been older than 20 years old.

From my perspective, it looked like he had asked her what she was drinking and bought her a round for her and her friends. One round turned into two, then three, and then the waiter brought over some mozzarella sticks. As the evening progressed, they got more and more friendly with each other. They eventually began making out at the table. I read the body language and determined that they were going back to her place. All of her friends were gone at this point, and it was just the two of them. So he walked her to his Land Rover, opened the door for her, and they began to drive off.

Right as I was about to start my car, I heard a tap at the window that scared the hell out of me. It was Walt. He hopped in the passenger seat and asked me what I was doing. I began to tell him that it sounded crazy, but my dad had come to me in a dream and told me about the Shadow Strangler. I told him that my boss was the number one suspect. As I was about to go on, he put his hand up as if to stop me and told me that he had the same dream about Dad. With no time to lose, he told me to drive and follow my boss.

As we tailed him, we arrived at an apartment complex. The front doors were shut for maintenance; a sign on the door said the back alley entrance was the only way in. They flirtatiously read the sign and strolled to the back alley. After we lost visual, I began to speak. Walt cut me off and told me to be quiet as he rolled down the window. We both heard screaming. We sprung from the car and ran towards the alley.

When we got to the back, he was on top of her and strangling the poor girl. She was kicking and flailing like a fish out of water. I told Walt to stay put as he drew his gun. I ran out of our hiding spot and got his attention. "Douglas!" I yelled at him. He stopped strangling the woman and got up to face me. "Well, well, a Penny saved is a Penny earned," he said, grinning ear-to-ear as he pulled a switchblade out of his jacket pocket. He began to approach me. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this. I was going to get you next, but this worked out perfectly. Now I can get two for one."

He got about 10 feet in front of me before Walt jumped out of his hiding spot and pointed his gun at him. "Freeze, Douglas, you motherfucker!" He did as he was told for a few seconds before he flashed another smile at me. He then bull-rushed Walt as bullets plunged into Douglas's chest. He spat up some blood and fell limp on the ground. Astonished and relieved at the same time, I embraced Walt with a hug before he ran over to check on the girl. She was alive, but unconscious. He called 911 on his phone as we waited for the paramedics.

After a while of taking questions from officers, Walt and I were both allowed to go home. I know it's a little morbid, but I slept like a rock that night. As I began dreaming, I was no longer inside an abandoned Klucky's. I was at my father's headstone. As I was looking at it, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked over and it was him. He had a proud look on his face as he smiled at me. "Baby girl, you did amazing!" As we began to hug I also began to cry. "Why are you crying?" he asked me with a concerned look on his face. "Because I'm never going to see you again," I said, as I hung my head low. He took his index finger and raised my chin. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. Thanks to you, I've been granted a new ability. I am going to see you every single night for the rest of your life. It is my job from this day forward to make your dreams come true. I've been given a gift, and I'm going to use it on you."

I couldn't help but begin to cry once more, except now they were tears of joy. I get to see my father every single night, and to me that is the sweetest dream that I could ever have. I'm not sure what he meant by making all of my dreams come true, but I could think of a few things for starters.

Dad used to say you could tell how bad a night was by how quiet the morning came. I figured he meant weather. He did not mean weather.

I found the first two does on a Tuesday, back pen, right by the stock tank. Dead, both of them, but laid out neat. Like somebody tucked them in. Two holes in each neck, about as wide as a pencil, and no blood. I spent ten minutes on my bad knee crawling around looking for it. The dirt was dry. The wool was clean. Nothing.

Wednesday it was four more.

I called Don Ignacio, who lives a mile up the road and has an opinion on everything from the price of feed to the Pope. Coyotes, he said. I said coyotes make a mess. He said, so? I said these ones didn't. He was quiet long enough that I checked my phone to see if the call dropped, and then he said he'd come by Saturday and bring his dog.

Thursday I walked out at first light and it was too quiet. I've got thirty-one head, or I did, and those goats scream at the feed truck, at me, at the sun, at their own shadows. That morning I stood in the yard and heard the windmill and a truck on the county road and nothing else.

The barn door was open. I'd latched it the night before, I always do, with a carabiner since the hook broke in July. The carabiner was lying in the dirt, still clipped shut. Whatever opened that door had ripped the whole eye screw out of the post.

I didn't go in. I stayed by the gate with Dad's shotgun and looked through the slats, and every goat I could see was standing dead still, facing the corner under the hayloft. Not eating. Not shifting. Just looking at the dark in that corner like it owed them money.

Chato pushed up against the back of my legs and I could feel him shaking through my jeans. Chato is a heeler mix who once picked up a rattlesnake by the head. I'd never seen him scared of anything.

"Vámonos," I told him, and we backed to the house, and I didn't turn around until the screen door slapped shut.

I drove to Tractor Supply that afternoon and bought a trail camera, eighty-nine ninety-nine plus tax, the kind deer hunters strap to trees. Infrared flash, motion sensor. I mounted it on the center post of the barn, aimed at the hayloft corner, and I remember feeling smart about it. Evidence. Like I was on one of those shows.

Don Ignacio came by anyway, a day early, without his dog. He said the dog wouldn't get in the truck. He stood at the fence and told me about his grandmother in Reynosa, who wouldn't say the name of the thing out loud after dark, because it listens for its name, she said. He told it like a joke and then he stopped halfway through and didn't finish.

"Lock your door, mija," he said, and went home.

I ate cereal standing up at the counter. I put the shotgun on the kitchen table, with the lights on, and sat there like I was waiting for a bus.

11:40. I know because I looked at the stove clock right when it started.

I never heard the barn door. I never heard feet. What I heard, out in the yard, was my father saying my name.

"Elena."

He's been dead two years this March. I held his hand at the hospital in McAllen. I signed the papers and picked out the box.

"Mija." Warm, tired, the exact way he used to holler across the yard when supper was ready. "Help me out here. The light's out in the barn, I can't find the switch."

It was his voice. It was his words, even, the dumb little complaint he made a hundred times. But there was breathing underneath it, long and wet and whistling, and way too slow, and no man ever had a chest that big.

Chato was under the table by then, making a noise like a rusty hinge. He wasn't barking. He was staring at the window over the sink.

"Elena." Closer. The porch now. "Open up, it's cold out here."

I watched the doorknob. Cheap brass thing, Dad put it in back in 1998. It turned a quarter inch and stopped against the bolt, and turned back, gently, like whoever was out there didn't want to be rude about it.

Then the voice cracked in half. It went high and thin and it wasn't Dad anymore, it was a kid goat, a little one, crying for its mother. Then a second one started up. Then ten, twenty, the whole herd bawling in the dark, and every single voice was coming from the same spot on the other side of that door.

That's when I got it. The goats hadn't gone quiet because they were scared. They'd gone quiet because something else was doing their screaming for them.

It was practicing. It had been listening to me my whole life.

I didn't sleep. When it got light the noise just cut off, like somebody pulled a plug, and I waited another hour anyway before I slid the bolt.

Scratches on the porch boards, four of them side by side, deep enough to put a finger in. At the bottom step, one print in the dust. Two toes pointing forward, two pointing back. Bigger than my hand.

The barn was empty. No bodies. No blood, no hair, nothing kicked over. Thirty-one goats just gone, and the straw in the pens hadn't even been disturbed. The camera was still on its post, little red light blinking away.

I pulled the card and took it to the kitchen and put it in my laptop, and my hands were doing something I didn't like.

Hundreds of pictures. Moths, mostly. Wind in the dust. Then 11:38, something at the edge of the frame. Tall, hunched, up on two legs, with arms that hung past its knees and a line of black spines down its back. The eyes lit up white in the infrared, flat and wide, and it was looking right at the lens.

11:39, closer, head tilted. The mouth hung open and went back farther than a mouth should. 11:40. 11:41, and the whole frame was one wet ridged nose and a tongue that wasn't a tongue, it was a hollow needle uncoiling out of the mouth.

11:42 was black. Somebody, something, had turned the camera, slow and careful, away from the loft and toward the house.

11:43 was the yard. The porch light. The kitchen window. And in the window, tiny and bright, me. Standing at my own sink with a shotgun in my hands and my mouth hanging open, listening to my dead father ask to come in.

It kept shooting every thirty seconds after that, right up to 6:12 in the morning, which was about five minutes before I opened the door. The last picture was the porch, very close. The doorknob. And flat against the screen, a long gray hand with too many knuckles, resting there the way you'd rest your hand on a sleeping dog.

Waiting for me to come out.

I looked up from the laptop. Out in the yard the windmill creaked once.

Then, from somewhere real close, in my voice, my exact voice, breathy and scared, something said:

"Chato. Come here, boy."

And under the kitchen table, where my dog had been all night, nothing moved.

The first thing you need to understand is that the man we found wasn't chained up. No shackles, no ropes, nothing. The gate was locked from the outside, yeah, but inside that room he could move around all he wanted. When we finally got it open, he wouldn't come out. Not wouldn't—couldn't. His body just… refused.

I spent twenty minutes crouched there talking to him like you would to a scared dog. Offered him food, water, help—anything I could think of. But his eyes kept darting past me down that empty hallway like something was gonna come charging out of the dark any second. Every time I gestured toward the door, he’d flinch back like I’d raised a hand to him.

Getting him outside was worse. When we finally carried him through the doorway, he screamed—this raw, tearing sound that didn't even seem human. One of my guys thought we’d broken his arm carrying him.

I’ve been in demolition eighteen years. I’ve pulled homeless people out of condemned buildings, cut animals out of walls, cleared rooms where you could still smell death in the air. Thought I’d seen it all.

I was wrong.

My name’s Cal Mercer. Thirty-eight, divorced. My company’s been one bad month from folding for three years straight. I’ve got a fifteen-year-old daughter named Nora who lives with her mom. I love her more than anything, but I keep letting her down.

I’m telling you this because every decision that put us in that building came down to money. I took a job I shouldn’t have, ignored things I should’ve questioned, pushed my crew into a situation none of us understood—all because I couldn’t afford to say no.

The place was an old meat-packing plant called Coldwater Packing. Shut down seventeen years ago. County acquired it after the bankruptcy and finally scrounged up the cash to tear it down.

That’s where we came in.

It wasn't a big job, but it covered payroll. Me, Sam Ortega—who’s been with me eleven years—and Tyler, a kid who started last spring. We were supposed to spend two days clearing out leftover machinery and checking the structure before demolition the following week.

We showed up a little before eight Thursday morning. It had rained overnight. The parking lot was all broken asphalt and puddles, weeds growing up through the cracks waist-high in places.

The building itself was what you’d expect: stained brick, rusted equipment, shattered windows. Somebody had taken down the main sign years ago, leaving a pale rectangle on the wall where the paint hadn't faded.

Sam looked it over while we unloaded the truck.
"Think anybody ever got murdered in here?"
"Couple million cows, probably."
"I mean people."
"Not till today. Keep asking stupid questions and we'll see."

Tyler laughed. Sam didn't. He was staring at the loading dock.
"That door looks new."

He was right. One of the big roll-up doors had been sealed with a heavy steel panel. The bolts looked newer than anything else on the building.
"County probably put it up to keep kids out."
"Then how come the front door looks like somebody kicked it in with a truck?"
"Ask the county."

He shook his head and went back to unloading.

I should've paid more attention.

Inside, most of the place had been stripped clean years ago. The main floor was this huge space with drainage channels cut into the concrete. Rusted meat hooks still hung from an overhead track.

We spent the first hour checking for structural issues and taking pictures of equipment that wasn't on the inventory.

Around nine, my phone buzzed. A text from Nora:
*You still coming Saturday?*

I'd promised to take her to some photography exhibit she wanted to see—one of the few things she still wanted to do with me.
*Of course*, I texted back.

A minute later:
*You said that last time.*

That one stung. I'd missed her school presentation two weeks before because a job ran late. Before that, I canceled dinner because one of my trucks broke down. There was always a reason.

I started typing some long excuse about work and responsibility, then deleted it.
*I'll be there. Promise.*

She sent back a thumbs-up emoji. For some reason, that felt worse than if she'd told me to go fuck myself.

I put my phone away and got back to work.

The first thing that felt off came around ten. Sam called me over to an electrical panel near the old cold storage rooms.

Most of the wiring was ancient—brittle insulation, cut conduits, empty cabinets. But one section had fresh screws holding the cover on, and a new cable ran off into a conduit along the ceiling.
"Somebody's been doing electrical work," Sam said.
"Could've been from before they closed."
He pointed at a label on the cable.
"That stuff isn't seventeen years old."

He was right. The new wiring connected to a small distribution box that wasn't on any of the original plans.
"Maybe security," I said.
"Security for what?"

I didn't have an answer.

Sam popped the box open and checked the terminals with his meter.
Then he looked at me.
"There's power."

That got my attention. The county told us specifically the building was disconnected. Live wires on a demo site aren't just unusual—they're dangerous.

I told Sam to leave it alone until we figured out where it was coming from.
He gave me that look he gets when he knows I'm cutting corners.
"You're calling somebody, right?"
"After we finish the walkthrough."
"Cal."
"I said I'll call somebody."

He held up his hands and backed off. Sam knows me too well—knows when I'm avoiding something because I'm worried about time or money.

I wasn't planning to do anything stupid. Just document it, mark it off, let the county deal with it before demolition started.

Around eleven, we reached the refrigerated storage section—six big rooms connected by a narrow service corridor. Most were empty except for some old equipment bolted to the floors.

The smell changed back there.

The rest of the building smelled like damp concrete and mold. Back here there was this faint chemical odor—like vet clinic disinfectant—and under it, something else.

Sam smelled it too.
"You smell that?"
"Yeah."
"Smells like animals."

I stopped walking. He was right. That unmistakable barn smell—old bedding, urine, something warm and sour.

We checked the nearest room—empty except for some scattered insulation. The next had collapsed shelving.

The third room was where we found the wall.

At first glance it was just a concrete-block partition at the back of the room, partly covered by crumbling insulation panels. But when Tyler pulled one of the panels away, he exposed a clean vertical seam in the mortar.
"Hey boss—this supposed to be here?"

I checked the plans on my tablet. According to the drawings, the room should've extended another eight feet.

Somebody had built a wall across it.

I tapped a few spots with my hammer. Most sounded solid, but one section near the center had this hollow resonance.

Sam ran his hand along the mortar joint.
"This has been added."
"Yeah."
"What's behind it?"
"Probably old equipment."

There was a patch near the bottom where the mortar looked newer. Tyler crouched down and scraped at it with a screwdriver.

A chunk crumbled away.
Something metallic underneath.
"Hold on," I told him.

I got my flashlight and looked closer. There was a steel frame behind the blocks.

We cleared away more loose material and uncovered what looked like the edge of a narrow door—hidden behind a false section of wall made to look like part of the original masonry.

That should've been when I stopped and called somebody.

Instead, I told Tyler to get rotary hammer drill because now this hidden door meant more paperwork more delays more costs

It took us twenty minutes to knock out enough cinderblock to see the door. Behind the masonry was a steel panel with a simple padlock on the outside. The metal wasn’t rusty; in fact, compared to everything else in the building, it looked like somebody’d been using it recently.

Sam pulled the handle. “Locked. Want me to cut it?”

I nodded.

He got the cordless grinder from our equipment cart and sliced through the lock’s hasp. When the door finally came loose, he pulled it toward us.

Warm air drifted out. That was the first thing I noticed. Not the smell—though that was stronger now—not the darkness beyond the doorway, or the faint mechanical humming coming from somewhere inside. The air was warm. We’d spent all morning in a building so cold you could see your breath in some rooms. Standing in front of that passage felt like somebody’d just turned on the heat.

“Somebody’s using this place,” Sam said.

I didn’t argue.

I shone my flashlight through the opening. The passage was narrow, painted concrete walls, low ceiling. A line of electrical conduit ran along one side; several bare bulbs hung overhead. The nearest one was lit. Beyond that, the corridor disappeared around a corner.

I made Tyler to stay by the door and call our county contact. Then I stepped inside with Sam.

People ask why we didn’t call the police right away. Looking back, I wonder the same thing. But at that point I figured we’d found an illegal grow operation or squatters using part of the abandoned facility. Maybe somebody stealing electricity, living in the back rooms. Wasn’t the first time we’d run into people occupying a building they weren’t supposed to be in.

We walked about thirty feet before the corridor opened into a rectangular room. Three large metal enclosures stood along one wall. Looked like livestock pens—heavy steel-barred fronts, each with a sliding gate that could be secured from the outside. Concrete troughs ran along the bottom of each partition. Floors covered in straw—fresh straw. Buckets were stacked beside the entrance; a long-handled brush hung from a hook; several folded blankets sat on a shelf. Somebody had swept the walkway recently.

We were staring at the enclosures when Sam said, “What the fuck?” At first I thought he was looking at what I was looking at. Then he grabbed my sleeve. “Cal—look.”

Something moved in the farthest pen.

I raised my flashlight.

A man was lying against the back wall. Naked except for a piece of cloth around his waist.

For a second I thought he was dead. He was curled up on his side, legs bent all wrong underneath him, arms hugged tight against his chest like he was holding himself together. Face buried in straw.

“Hey,” I said. “You okay?”

Nothing.

Took a step closer. “Can you hear me?”

He lifted his head.

I still can’t get his face right when I try to tell people. Forty, maybe. Hair thinning and greasy. Beard thick. Skin the color of old dishwater. Deep lines cut across his forehead and around his mouth—not age lines, but strain lines, like his face had been pressed against something hard for a long time. Old scars crosshatched his shoulders. But it was his eyes that got me. Not scared. Not relieved. Just… measuring. Like a dog that’s been kicked enough times to know the difference between a raised hand and a thrown stone.

“Fuck,” Sam whispered.

The man shuffled back into the shadows, moving on his knuckles. His knees were swollen lumps, his feet bent at angles feet shouldn’t bend. Palms like old leather.

“We’re not here to hurt you,” I said, voice low.

He looked at the ceiling. At the gate. Made a wet click in the back of his throat.

“What’s your name?”

He dropped his head.

“Do you know where you are?”

Silence.

Sam moved closer to the bars. “Cal. We need to call someone.”

“I know.”

“Right fucking now.”

He pulled out his phone. While he talked to 911, I crouched down. The man watched me from the back of the pen. Up close, I saw the band on his wrist—thick, worn leather, like something off a workhorse. A metal tag stamped 17-B.

“What’s that mean?”

He looked at his wrist. Looked back at me. Then he reached down, picked a piece of dirty straw off the floor, and put it in his mouth. Just started chewing. My stomach turned over.

Right then I figured he was disabled. Locked away by some fucked-up family. I didn’t know.

Sam came back. “Cops and ambulance are coming. Don’t move him.”

“Okay.”

“What is this, Cal?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look at his legs.”

They were bent permanent, hips jutting wrong. And when he opened his mouth again, I saw his teeth—worn flat, like he’d been chewing on rocks.

That’s when Sam’s flashlight clanged against the bars.

The sound rang through the room.

The man flinched so hard he bit his tongue. Dropped the straw. Folded into himself, face shoved into the bedding, whole body shaking. Then this sound came out of him—a high, reedy whine, like air leaking from a tire. He pulled his knees up tighter and a dark stain spread under him in the straw. Pissed himself from fear.

“Jesus, Sam.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Back up.”

Sam moved away. I kept talking soft, telling him it was okay, that no one was mad.

He didn’t look up. Just kept shaking.

That’s when I saw the bell hanging by the gate—heavy, iron, with a little wooden hammer beside it. The kind you ring for supper on a farm.

The striker was worn smooth from use, the brass darkened by a thousand greasy thumbprints. I stared at it, then back at the man cowering in the corner. That bell wasn't for calling people to dinner.

Sam looked like he might vomit. "What do we do?"

"We wait for the ambulance."

"Should we at least open the gate?"

The man was breathing through his mouth, shoulders pumping like bellows. Leaving him locked in that pen felt like leaving a dog in a hot car. "Yeah," I said. "Get the bolt cutters."

The lock gave with a sharp crack. The gate swung open.

"Come on, buddy. You can come out now."

Nothing. He stayed put, face hidden in straw.

I crouched by the opening. "Door's open. See?"

He glanced up, then buried his face again.

The granola bar from my pocket got his attention. His nostrils flared when I opened the wrapper. He moved forward a few inches on hands and knees, keeping low like an animal avoiding a kick.

I set the bar just inside the gate. He approached slowly, then lowered his face and took it with his teeth.

Sam turned away. I didn't get why until I watched him eat—crushing the food with his molars, head down, crumbs falling into the straw. When he finished, he looked up with this... hopeful expression, like maybe he'd done good.

I gave him the second bar. Same thing.

Then the water bottle. I unscrewed it, took a drink to show him. He watched my throat work, then lowered his head to the concrete and opened his mouth.

I moved the bottle closer. He followed it, mouth still open.

Sam's voice cracked. "Cal."

"He's waiting for you to pour it."

The realization hit me right in the gut. This man had never drunk from anything but a trough or a poured stream. I found a plastic container, rinsed it, filled it, set it down. He drank from the bottom like a horse at a bucket.

When he finished, he looked up at me—pleased. Almost grateful.

And Christ, that gratitude made me want to put my fist through a wall.

I still think about that moment more than any other. Not the scars or the smell or how his ankles were bent all wrong from never standing straight.

Just a grown man waiting for someone to pour water into his mouth like he was livestock at feeding time.

The ambulance took twenty-five minutes. A long time to stand around in that hallway, trying not to look at him. We’d finally gotten him out of the pen by luring him with a bottle of water, like you would with a stray animal. He wouldn’t stand. Every time I got a hand under his arm to help him up, he’d let out this choked gasp and drop back onto all fours, his knuckles scraping the concrete. His legs worked—I saw him stretch one out to hook a plastic container with his foot—but the idea of walking upright just wasn’t in him.

I kept pointing at the open door, making encouraging noises. He’d shuffle a few feet toward it on his hands and knees, stop, look back at his pen, and make this low, keening whine from the back of his throat. It was the sound of a creature who knows its safe place is being taken away. I felt like a monster, but I put the water bottle farther down the hall. He crawled to it. I moved it again. He followed.

We were almost to the main corridor when he froze. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Then he made a new sound, a deep, guttural crooning—*hmm-hmm-hmm*—like he was calling for something. He did it three times and went still, listening. The hallway was silent. He did it again, louder. When nothing answered, his whole body started to shake.

I knelt down, put a hand on his back. His skin was cold and damp. “It’s okay,” I said, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring back into the dark where we’d found him, like he was waiting for whoever was supposed to come.

By the time the paramedics showed up, he was crying silently, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks, still making that crooning noise.

There were two of them—Dennis, an older guy with a tired face, and a younger woman named Rachel. They stopped dead when they saw him. Dennis asked how we found him, if he’d said anything. We didn’t have answers.

Rachel crouched down slowly. “Hi there,” she said softly. “My name’s Rachel.” He watched her like she was a strange dog that might bite. She showed him her empty hands, then touched his arm. He flinched but held still. His pulse must have been racing because her professional mask slipped for a second when she felt it.

“Does he know his name?” she asked me.
He made the crooning sound again.
“Just that,” I said.
She nodded, but her eyes were wide as she looked at his legs, the thick pads of callus on his hands and knees.

“How long’s he been in here?”
“No idea.”
“Did you give him anything?”
“Some water. A couple granola bars.”
She shot me a look. “You fed him?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t give him anything else.”
My stomach dropped. I’d been so proud of myself.

They decided to move him toward the entrance since the stretcher wouldn’t fit. Rachel talked to him the whole time, calm and low. He followed her on his hands and knees until we reached the main room.

Then he saw the open loading bay door.
Grey light washed over the wet asphalt outside.
He went completely rigid.
Rachel reached for him. “It’s okay, we’re just going out.”
He screamed.
It wasn’t a human sound—it was raw, primal terror ripped out of him from some deep animal place inside his chest. He threw himself backward, smashing into the concrete wall. Dennis caught him before he cracked his head open.

The man thrashed like a caught bird, scrambling blindly toward the shadow under an old machine, his fingers tearing on the rough floor hard enough to leave smears of blood.

“Stop! Let him go!” I yelled.
Dennis released him.
The man curled into a tight ball against the wall, arms clamped over his head, shaking so hard I could hear his teeth chattering.

No one moved.
Sam finally said it: “He’s never been outside.”
We got him back into a corner away from the door. The paramedics started working on him again while they called for more help.

When the first cop walked in a few minutes later, I felt this stupid wave of relief—like now it was someone else’s problem.
I really thought it would be.

The first officers took their time with us, the air thick with the smell of old straw and disinfectant. Their questions were methodical, predictable. Where exactly had we found him? Who else had keys? I answered carefully, my eyes drifting to where the ambulance crew was trying to coax the man onto a stretcher. He kept twisting his head toward the pens, making that soft, guttural noise in his throat—like a calf separated from its mother.

Sam was sitting on an overturned bucket by the loading dock, the plastic water bottle trembling in his hand. I lowered myself beside him. The concrete was cold through my jeans.

“You alright?”

He shot me a look. “What do you think?”

I didn’t answer. After a minute, he said, “That fucking bell.”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t even look. Just dropped. Like his bones turned to water.”

“Conditioned,” I said.

Sam shook his head. “Who does that?”

He took a long drink, then stared at the stained floor. “You see his face when he finished those bars?”

I had. He’d looked… content. Almost blissful. Sitting in his own filth, and two granola bars made him light up.

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. “My kid—Lily—she gets that look when I bring her those fruit snack things. All bright and stupid.” His voice cracked. He wasn’t a crier. I’d seen him take a wrench to the face once and just spit blood and keep working. Now he was swiping at his eyes with the back of his wrist.

I put a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t shrug it off.

Later, an officer led me back toward the pens. The space felt emptier without him there. The straw was matted and dark in one spot. The water container lay on its side. The bell hung silent.

The officer’s flashlight cut across a gap between the last pen and the wall. “What’s back there?”

“Didn’t know anything was.”

He nudged the door open with his boot. Inside, it was almost cozy—a chair, a rug, a lamp. Like a waiting room.

Then I saw the pictures.

Dozens, maybe more, tacked up in rows. A baby on a blanket. A toddler standing, wobbly but upright. A kid with a wooden block. A teenager with soft eyes and that same birthmark by his ear.

My stomach turned.

The officer flipped open a small album on the cabinet. More photos. The boy asleep in straw. Smiling beside a trough.

Then one where he’s ten or so, beaming, clutching some carved thing. Happy. Uncomplicated.

I thought of Nora on that pony, beaming under her ridiculous helmet.

Then I saw the hand resting near the boy’s shoulder.

Too big. Fingers too long, knuckles too pronounced. The palm was nearly the width of his chest.

The officer turned the page.

Another photo: the boy asleep, curled against something massive and pale. A thick arm wrapped around him, skin loose and wrinkled like a elephant’s knee, elbow joint all wrong.

A huge hand, pale and thick-fingered, lay across the boy’s stomach. The officer’s breath hitched, then went quiet. We didn’t speak. He turned the page.

This one was older. The boy was maybe three or four, curled asleep on a blanket, his face pressed into something large and pale that filled the edge of the frame. An arm was wrapped around him—not gripping, just there. The way you hold a kid who’s fallen asleep on you. I’d done it with Nora a hundred times, her dead weight warm against my chest.

The boy’s own small hand rested on that arm. He looked peaceful. Safe.

I kept looking. The hand holding him was bigger than his whole middle. The skin was loose, creased like old leather, the knuckles thick, the nails long and blunt.

Then I saw it.

I counted the fingers.

Counted again.

Six.

Six huge fingers resting gently around a sleeping little boy.

And the boy was smiling.

If you met my father, your first thought would not be that he is a “hippie” or a conservationist.  He was a very cut-and-dry type of guy.  He was a white-collar desk jockey, with the only spice in him being the occasional beer at church gatherings.  However, he was far from mundane; he loved his wife and me above all else, with a palpable passion.  The root of this passion and devotion to his family is understandable.  

Throughout their early twenties together, Mom had several miscarriages.  Every attempt to start a family was foiled by nature’s cruelty. Years of disappointment soon led them to an era of depression.  Around this time, my Dad moved them to a new home out in the sticks.  

It was here he took up planting trees in our extremely expansive property.  It was and remained his sole passion, outside of raising his future child.  Mom always described it as “a way to get his mind off things”, aka he was depressed in the ‘90s.  

Well into their late thirties, they had me.  They always joked about how fat I was, that I had been growing in Mom well before she was pregnant, that I had been eating all the other “attempts”.  I guess it was the type of humor they needed just to cope with all they had been through, relieved at last.  In fairness, I was almost ten pounds when I was born.  Hefty.  

It was this backyard that I learned to walk, run and climb.  The spruce and pines grew alongside me, sprouting and climbing toward the sky. 

Then there was my father’s pride and joy, the oak tree.  

It rooted itself in the center of all its siblings, the first tree planted and the largest one by far.  It was a wonder in the county.  Within its short lifespan, it had developed rapidly and expansively.  Its straight, thick trunk rose over sixty feet, coated in hundreds of healthy, long branches, and sprouted heavy bushes of immense leaves every spring.  

Under this expanding canopy I spent my developmental years.  I was delighted by the tree, which in turn pleased my father.  However, it was the lone tree I was never allowed to climb.  I learned this the hard way.  

One summer, when I was eight, I decided the younger oaks and pines were no longer an efficient challenge for my climbing skills.  So, I dared the mighty oak in the center of our grand yard.  I was beyond the first several branches, easily ten-plus feet off the ground, when I heard my father burst through the back door.  I nearly fell out of the tree and clung harder to my branch when I heard my father yelling as he approached.  He had never yelled at me before.  

I came down, red-faced and ashamed.  Composing himself, my father sat me down and laid down the only LAW he ever explicitly gave: “Never, ever, climb that tree.  It is sacred.”  
And so it was to me from that day forth.  

Years rolled on.  I was soon a teenager, with little interest in the man-made forest behind my fortress of solitude.  My high school friends were always jealous of the near-infinite hijinks that I could get up to in those trees.  In classic teenager fashion, I simply shrugged and complained that there wasn't much else to do at my place.  So, before long, I began hosting friends, going as deep as we could get within the spotty forest.  

It was a prime location for potheads and drinking, and only my closest friends enjoyed the luxury of camping.  My parents were lax, to say the least.  They were in an eternal state of bliss, for all I knew, as there were few times I recall them dismissing a request or a friend of mine from the premises.  Until one Summer night, junior year.  

My secret circle of buds was camping out with me, in my private green canopy.  One of whom was a lot rowdier than normal.  One too many drinks and far too much weed.  Larson had his camping hammock tied several feet off the ground between two sturdy trees.  We all eventually followed suit, laughing all the while.  Thus, the idea sprouted, and Jim, another pal, shouted: “Wait! Let's make a canopy city! Come on, let's make all our hammocks in a circle so we can all climb to each other!”  

This retrospectively lame idea got drunken approval from everyone.  Including me.  Until I realized which tree I'd need to climb to complete the elongated ‘circular canopy city’.  I looked up at its strong, sacred limbs, anxiety sobering my senses.  The one law I shared as sacred now stared down at me.  I don’t remember who, or how many, but my stalling was rebuked by several slurred voices behind me.  I didn’t want to be the buzzkill, so I complied.  With shaking hands, I began my ascent.  

With muddy shoes, I heaved myself over the lowest branch.  My inebriation was resurging, so my balance was tardy at best.  Shooting myself upright, I reached for the next section of the tree.  I realized that I had already disappeared into the green.  Doubtful, drunken whispers were below me.  Shaking the anxiety from my head, I continued upward.  

In a blink, I found myself on the oak's crown.  Looking over the countless moon-kissed treetops.  Shouting below broke my trance.  My friends must have realized I was far beyond the spot I was to strap my hammock.  I wasn’t sure why I had kept climbing.  Perhaps the taboo was too alluring once I had indulged.  Soaking in the sight one last time, I began my descent.  About halfway down, that's when I slipped.  

I felt my mud-caked shoe slide frictionlessly from the branch below.  All of my weight shifted, and I went spiraling downward, my body smashing and cracking tree limbs as I fell.  With a thud, I hit the last shoot, which broke my fall, as my torso wrapped around it.  The shouts and concerns of my friends were drowned out by breathless gagging as I vomited up the night’s beer and liquor, while being winded at the same time.  One shout silenced all others.  Even in my state, I flinched, recognizing it immediately.  With dry eyes, I glanced up.  My dad was jogging through the treeline toward us.  

Some of my friends ran off.  Others helped me to my feet and stood by me, awaiting a stern talking-to.  I was radiating shame and embarrassment.  And its personification pooled by my feet, at the base of the tree.  

Clutching my chest, searing pain shot through me all at once.  Each weak breath was met with stabbing, icy flares.  But as my father approached, another discomfort manifested.  I felt a twinge through my heart, as if it had vibrated.  Next thing I knew, I had crumpled to the ground, gripping my chest, wheezing in pain.  Gasping, my friends cried out to my dad, uncertain of what to do.  He pushed them aside, kneeling beside me.  All while staring wide-eyed at the oak tree.  Examining it.  

It felt like every vein, every major artery, was flicked, like rubber bands, within my ribcage.  Horrified, certain I was having a heart attack, I whimpered like a child for my dad to help me.  His attention remained on the tree, scanning every broken limb and fractured sprout.  
“Dad?”  Still in the fetal position, I pulled at his shirt. “I think I need to go to the hospital.” 
He finally turned to me, his face a mixture of disappointment and relief. “No, thank God no.  The pain will pass.  The damage was minor… you're ok.  Just breathe.”  

Unable to do much else, I lay there and greedily inhaled and exhaled, begging the aching to stop.  My father, kneeling beside me, offered a comforting hand on my back as I heaved.  His calm presence was the lone salve to my suffering.  

My friends were dismissed back to their homes the next morning.  I had been carried inside and lain in bed like an ill child, where I slept deep into the next day.  Afternoon sun bled through my curtains, waking me up in time to hear my father stepping outside and marching to the back of the property.  A dull ache lingered in my torso, along with soreness from my stomach’s impact with a tree branch.  I turned over, determined to sleep the sun away.  Sleep returned, while I listened to the faint whistling of my dad outside.  

It was late into the evening when I sauntered downstairs, shame draped over me like a veil.  I spotted my dad sitting alone in the living room.  He looked up from his book and waved me over.  Cringing, I obeyed and plopped into the chair across from him.  Fully expecting an earful about ‘disrespecting his one rule’ and ‘endangering myself and my friends, I was surprised when he began with.  “I’m glad you have such loyal friends.  God knows when I was your age I didn’t have many who would stick with me when a parent busted us.”  

I nodded, still bracing for the pep talk.  
“Come on, get up.  I want to show you something.  I think you’re old enough to know.”  
I followed him to the back door, where two shovels sat at attention against the wall.  “Grab a spade.  We’ll need to dig for you to see.”  my dad said, grabbing one himself.  

I followed my father silently as he led us to the crown jewel of the woods.  Passing a few familiar spruces and pines, we halted next to the towering, sprawling oak.  A fresh wave of shame went through my aching torso after I saw the multiple broken branches.  Until I noticed the larger ones were now wrapped in bandages, like splints for a fractured arm.  The memory of my father’s whispering the afternoon prior resurfaced. “Did you do that?”  I pointed to the lowest offshoot.  

“Yes.  It’s…very important to me that this tree stay healthy.”  He replied in an almost reverent tone.  “And now, I can show you why.  Start digging at the base of the trunk.  Be very, very careful to avoid its roots.  Place the spade gently on the topsoil, and slowly use your weight to pierce the dirt.”  He demonstrated with immense care.  Then gestured to me to follow suit.  

The moon was bright that night.  It shone through the canopy, dancing like electrified diamonds on the soil.  The light, paired with my father’s ever-dimming work lamp, illuminated the delicate operation before me.  Deeper and deeper we dug, each shovel load delicately upturned.  

I was about shin-deep into the earth when I felt it.  A quake.  Soft and rhythmic.  I stood frozen while my father continued the excavation.  His process had slowed, grown more delicate.  He glanced at me.  I read his face and resumed my dig.  

Another hour passed; we were almost waist-deep now.  The rhythmic pulsing in the earth grew louder with each inch upturned. At last, my father held his hand up. “Stop.  Let me dig the last of this.”  Gladly I exited the pit.  

Standing over my father, I stared over his hunched shoulders as he worked the remainder of the job.  Suddenly, he threw the shovel and squatted, resorting to digging with his bare hands.  

All the while, I stood there, entranced by the rhythmic drum we had uncovered.  My enchantment was broken by my father.  He shot straight upright, eyes fixed down upon whatever he had just uncovered.  Eager to see, I slipped back into the pit.  My feet were met with the vibrating ground, the sound echoing like the organ of a church as it bounced off the earthen cathedral walls.  The quaking pulse had quickened, beating against the earth with systematic thuds.  

“Son,”  My father said, back still turned to me. “Look down here.”  
With timid steps, I inched over to him.  Leaning over his shoulder, I looked down with him.  

There were roots.  Thick, encasing roots.  A wooden ribcage protecting the wonder held within.  Convulsing within the mighty oak's entanglement of life, sat an immense, human heart.  

Blood-soaked dirt caked its moist membrane.  Its valves and offshoots were connected to the very roots of the tree that shielded it.  Each violent influx shook the turf it rested in.  Now exposed to the air, I could hear each beat slosh and splash the interior contents along its intended tubing, engorging them as they passed through.  

I gazed at it, my mind racing with incoherence.  My legs trembled with each pulse, sending shivers up my spine.  My father placed a hand on my shoulder, raising himself up.  “This tree is your protector and your spring of life.  Its limbs are your veins, and its trunk is your arteries.  If it suffers, you suffer.”  He sighed as he turned to my pale face. “As long as this tree lives, you live.  That was the agreement.”  

My legs nearly gave out. “Now you know.”  He said,  “I’m sorry it had to be this soon.  But you need to understand.”  He heaved himself out of the hole.  I numbly followed.  We stood together, gazing down into the open pit.  “It was the only way we could keep you.”  He continued, his solemn tone returning, “Your heart is with the earth.  Nourish the earth, and it will nourish you.”  He patted my back.  “As we have done, so must you when we’re gone.”  

A placed a hand over my chest, feeling my racing heart, while staring at the other.  My eyes widened upon realizing it.  They were in sync.  With a shudder, my hand fell limply to my side.  My father gave me space.  Stepping back, he leaned on his shovel, waiting patiently for some reaction to sprout from my features.  

Crickets and owls orchestrated their symphony through the woods.  The buried heart provided the bass to the decrepit harmony.  I stood, listening to this alien choir, my chest tightening as I watched the entombed organ quicken its pace.  Blue veins pulsating, chamberways palpitating.  I could almost feel the exact reactions from within my ribs.  

“What should I do now?”  I mumbled from numb lips.  
Reemerging under the shade of the oak tree, my father replied.  “Live as you have.  But, above all else, remain true to this earth.  And this forest.”  He patted the trunk lovingly.  “When your mother and I are gone, it's up to you to take care of yourself.  And that means this tree.”  

With that, he began gently throwing clay and turf back over the pit.  Digesting these revelations, I stood like a stock, silent and upright.  My eyes fixed on the contorting muscles being slowly reburied before me.  Stomach acid churned violently, threatening to rise up my throat.

I flinched back into time as my dad patted the last of the earth to fill the hole.  The only trace of its existence was the patch left behind amidst the green grass; like a scar after a procedure.  The ground was still again, yet I could not shake the memory of its quaking from my legs.  Like an imprint, the shadow of the heart’s beating still tremored up my spine.  

The remainder of the night is a blur.  My dad guided me back inside, to my tense mother, who clearly had been sitting in silent anxiety since we left the house.  With a loving hand, she led me upstairs to my room, where I was greeted by a TV freshly organized in the corner.  A brand new GameCube was plugged in.  Beside a collection of games and a generous bag of candy.  My mom’s love had filled the bedroom, an attempted salve to my fresh wound.  The gesture was unappreciated at the time.  I was still numbed from my experience.  I wish I had had the presence of mind to hug her.  I was her baby, still a kid in her eyes.  

My father knew better now.  We never discussed the absurd situation again.  What few soft questions I would pass across the dinner table were met with a stern silence. I suppose he wanted me to live a normal life, and this meant no explanations, no discussion of the ‘agreement’, nothing beyond a solemn stare across his lawn at the towering oak.  

I recall the remainder of that first year well enough.  Restless and lonely.  For many long nights I would lie awake, picturing my heart, pulsing in the earth within its cage of root and soil.  I would sneak out some evenings, when I knew sleep would never come.  I would stand in front of that oak tree for hours.  Staring directly at its tendrils burrowed in the dirt.  Able to picture perfectly how they crisscrossed around that solitary organ.  

Sometimes, I thought I could feel the creatures and insects slither and crawl over it.  I'd shudder at the thought of countless, cold, tickling limbs of centipedes, or clammy, moist slugging of worms invading my mind’s eye.  I could never tell whether it was all in my imagination or an accurate sensation.  

My social life was marred for a couple of months, but I rebounded eventually.  There was no more late-night camping in my backyard.  My closest friends, the ones who were there that night, understood.  Not that I wanted to camp, even if I was allowed.  The thought of my whole body lying on the ground near that tree, with the only barrier being a thin sleeping bag, haunted me.  Able to feel the earth softly drum beneath my head, ba-bump, ba-bump.  Never in my life had I been so grateful to have a second-floor bedroom.  It was my lone sanctuary from that phantom drumming.  
 
Years passed, and the sting of the revelation subsided.  The forest, although still avoided, was no longer a looming specter.  Time normalized my strange circumstance, and soon I was a young man.  College came and went, my parents aged and aged.  I retained my vitality, only growing taller and stronger.  By the time I was middle-aged, I still looked thirty.  I lived at home, worked remotely, and cared for my now-elderly parents.  The forest grew all the while.  

My father passed away in his sleep at eighty-one.  The night before, he had called me to his bedside.  A knowing look in his dull eyes.  With a raspy, ailing voice, he whispered, “Take care of it-... Take care of yourself, son.”  I nodded as he offered a final handshake before drifting off to his final rest.  

My mother soon followed, passing at eighty-three.  Our final interaction was the afternoon before.  Lying on the couch, she smiled up at me as I brought her a glass of water.  A shaky hand grasped my forearm.  “Our agreement has been a blessing,” She said. “Without you, none of this happiness I feel could exist.”  

She emptied her glass before continuing, “Your father was willing to make that agreement, no matter its cost… I as well.”  She looked up at me, smile contrasting her grave face, “We are off to uphold our end of the agreement now… Just know, not once, not a single moment in my life, did I regret it.  I love you so much, sweetheart.  Live a long and beautiful life.”  

My confusion and anxiety emanated off me.  She read this, and resumed, “Take care of that oak, and all its brothers and sisters.  Promise me you will.”
I nodded.
“Good…Good.  It was all worth it then.”  
Before I could inquire about this mystery my father never dared elaborate on, she slipped into a deep sleep.  

She passed that evening.  

I buried them both on the edge of the forest.  Inheriting the property, I felt no need to leave.  Rather, a duty to my mother had revised my perception of those woods.  I owed it to them to carry out that promise.  I never did find out what I cost them, what they sacrificed to give me life.  No books or journals in the house even hinted at it.  

My heart continues to beat amidst that soil.  Its oaken fortress grows in strength each passing year.  Despite my body's health and retained youthfulness, my mind grows old.  A melancholy has overshadowed my life.  More and more I find my thoughts wandering down a winding trail of almost hypnotizing meaninglessness, only to lead to the same location each time.  The oak tree.  

It's planted squarely in my brain, its roots pulsing deeper and deeper into my grey matter.  It's not a malicious presence, but rather a beckoning.  Almost two decades have passed since my parents departed to fulfill their debt.  And I have enjoyed the fruits of that debt, physically.  Yet, this yearning continues to enwrap my thoughts.  And like the forest I oversee, it grows.   

I am now almost ninety-four, in the body of a forty-year-old.  All of my friends have passed on.  My home stands alone amidst miles of forest, detached from the few remaining settlers in the county.  Solitude has allowed these tendrils to burrow farther, and I fear they have reached my heart, for it grows nostalgic for the earth. 
  
   This life was a gift from my parents, and the soil.  But it is ultimately mine, and I have grown tired.  All my desires have been usurped by one remaining obsession.  

I hold the very shovel my father used all those years ago.  The wind sways the immense canopy that hangs over me.  With a final, gentle push, I upturn the last of the dirt.  Staring into the pit, I gaze at my heart, watching it throb with soft, calm jumps.  

I must return this gift, and I am glad of it.  This yearning has dissipated, replaced by contentment.  As I prepare to return to the soil, my last hope is that this may reduce my parents’ debt, whatever it may be.  

May my love for them nourish this forest.  I am ready now.  Tonight shall be my final rest.

If you happen to pass by my woods, please be sure to give my parents and me a wave.  I am certain my heart will beat in gratitude within the earth.  

For reasons unknown, every year we go on a family trip to Branson, Missouri.

My brother and I have lots of fond memories from these trips growing up, but as we got older the magic of that poor-man's version of Gatlinburg, Tennessee started to lose its appeal.

But family is important and we still go, only now after the family activities are over for the day my brother, we'll call him Donnie, and I go out to the bars.

This year Donnie brought his fiancée Rachel, and one night when we were out at the bars we ran into a group of locals who we ended up making friends with.

There were three of them, we'll call them Steve, Mike, and Emily. Steve had on a Cleveland Browns jersey and my brother, being a huge fan, connected with Steve immediately. Being single in my early 20s, I was immediately attracted to the 20-something blonde who kept touching my arm as if she were trying to reassure me that I actually had a chance of sleeping with her.

We spent most of the night laughing and getting to know each other. The bar had a beer pong table so Donnie and I played a few rounds against Steve and Mike.

When the night ended it was like none of us wanted to go home, but closing time left few options to keep the party going, complicated by the fact that our new friends lived 45 minutes outside of town.

They told us they were having a party the following night (or later that same night since it was like 3 AM), and invited us to come. We agreed, the three of us looking forward to something different than another night out at the bars in downtown Branson, and exchanged numbers.

Things were normal all the next day as we hung out at the theme park with my parents. We were texting the locals and got the address. The three of us were really excited.

Later that night we said goodbye to my parents and set out.

The address was a little ways out of town, about a 45-minute drive according to the GPS. Donnie was driving, Rachel was in the passenger's seat and I was in the back.

Rachel and I picked up a couple of "road sodas" and were having a good time, teasing my brother for being the designated driver as we listened to some pregame music.

Right outside of town the road turned into a winding state highway that wove its way through the trees.

A little buzzed already, I thought it alone was creepy. The way the trees just hung over the road like arthritic claws gave me the chills.

About 30 minutes into the drive a thick fog came out of nowhere and covered the road like a blanket. We couldn't see a thing and Donnie had to slow the car to a crawl.

Cell service had gone out a few miles back, save for the GPS pings that were still guiding us to our destination, although my phone was showing our little dot gliding in parallel to the line that represented the road we were driving on.

There weren't any other cars on the road either. It was just the 3 of us in Donnie's SUV, until we came to the man standing in the middle of the road.

At first I thought it was a trash bag. After all, seeing a man in a head-to-toe white cloak, hood drawn and staring at the ground, is not something you expect to encounter in rural Missouri at 10 o'clock at night.

Donnie had been going maybe 20 miles per hour, so we had plenty of reaction time, but he must have been as shocked as I was, considering he didn't actually stop the car until we were maybe 10 feet in front of whoever it was.

I rolled down my window and leaned out of the car and yelled something like, "Hey asshole, want to get out of the road?"

No reaction.

Donnie laid on the horn.

Still no reaction, so I downed the last few dregs in my beer can, crushed it, and chucked it out of the window at the cloaked figure standing in the middle of the street.

It hit the side of his head with a metallic thunk.

No reaction.

Just as Donnie was starting to back up, the man's head snapped up like a spring-loaded bobblehead whose head someone had been pushing down and just released.

The rest of its body stayed unnaturally still as the thing stared directly at the car.

It had the body and build of a man, but it didn't look like any man I'd seen before in my entire life.

Instead of eyes, there were just 2 sunken holes like dark craters in its face. There is no reason that thing should have seen us, but it did. I knew from the way it tracked the car as we reversed that it could see us.

In place of its nose was a little slit like that of a snake, and its skin was ghostly white, the same color as its robe. It looked as if someone had poured a can of white paint all over.

Crouching down and taking a few creeping steps forward, its focus locked on to our car.

Rachel screamed as Donnie slammed his foot down on the accelerator.

The thing leapt into the air. It jumped so high and fast that I barely saw it shoot up into the fog, then I heard a loud thunk as something landed on the roof.

The driver's side window exploded, shards of glass shooting inward and spraying all over Donnie and Rachel. I didn't realize it at the time, but a stray shard of glass lodged itself in my arm.

I could hear my heart thumping in my ears, adrenaline and shock rooting me to my seat as a pale white hand shot in through the window and started fighting Donnie for the steering wheel.

Everything was chaos and my brain was having a hard time processing what was happening.

I remember trying to move, to help Donnie, and being unable to move before I realized it was my seat belt. I remember the fangs of its canines as the thing contorted its way through the window and sunk its teeth into Donnie's arm. I remember the sound of Donnie and Rachel's screams, and how cold and scaly the thing's skin felt as I tried to pull it off Donnie.

But then the car was upside down, and all I remember is blackness.

My head was killing me when I woke up. It felt like it had been split in two, and it took me a moment to take in my surroundings and connect the dots of what had happened.

I was laying in the grass and looked over to the other side of the road, where the car I had just been in was overturned and smoke filled the night air.

Wanting to call 911, I looked around for my phone and it was gone.

Rachel was gone, but I found Donnie laying in the middle of the street. He was staring up at the night sky, eyes wide open and his face frozen in a look of shock. His stare was blank and vacant, no soul behind his eyes.

Blood was everywhere. His shirt had been ripped open and where his stomach should have been was just a bloody hole in his stomach filled with a mixture of blood and guts. It looked like something had been chewing on his organs.

I don't know if I cried then or not.

It was the gunshot that brought me back to my senses. The sound cracked against the night and I heard the bullet ricochet off the ground just a few feet away from me.

Fight or flight kicked in at that point, and I chose the latter and took off into the woods. I didn't know who was shooting at me or where the thing that had attacked us was, and didn't want to find out.

I just ran into the woods, and kept running for probably over an hour, and even then I didn't stop, as much as I wanted to just collapse on the ground. The whole night I kept walking through the woods, wondering what that thing was, what had happened to Rachel, crying for her and my brother, and jumping at every little snap of a twig or rustle of leaves.

The sun was just coming up, bright and radiant as ever, as if nothing bad had happened the night before.

I made it to a gas station, covered in blood (I also still had the glass shard embedded in my arm), and the man behind the register gave me a terrified look when I asked to use his phone.

Nevertheless, he said that was fine and told me he had to run to the back office to get it.

While he did, I noticed the TV he had hanging on the wall behind the register. It was showing the news, who were reporting on a story about an overturned vehicle found on the side of the road about 30 minutes outside of Branson, and a body lying in the middle of the street.

Then my face came up on the TV, wanted as a person of interest.

I'm not sure if I made the right call or not, but the only thing I could think of was "who was going to believe me?" so I left the gas station before the man came back with the phone.

I'm writing this to you, Reddit, to profess my innocence.

Recently I saw my parents interviewed on the news. They're a part of the search parties looking for Rachel and I, and they were sobbing, telling the news that I deserved the justice coming to me.

I've thought about Steve, Mike, and Emily a lot since that night.

Sometimes when the librarians aren't looking I can sneak into the local library, and I use their computers to try to find them (and make this Reddit post). Thankfully my beard is so thick now that no one recognizes me; it probably helps that I smell terrible too, so no one wants to get too close to me either.

So far I haven't had any luck, but I did find a news article from about five years ago.

A group of cousins disappeared after meeting 3 strangers at a bar and being invited to a house party. Their car was found overturned on the side of the road about 30 miles outside of town.

They ended up finding one of the bodies, but the strange thing was it was a few days later and over five miles away. Police described it as being in a similar state to Donnie's when I'd found him in the middle of the road. They specifically said he had survived on his own for a few days, judging by the condition he was in when he'd been found.

"He looked like he had been hunted," one officer was quoted in the article.

As I'm writing this, I look up from the computer to notice 3 people enter the library, 3 people who look very familiar. I'm not sure if I should get a closer look or get out of here. Will update if I can.

I promise I’m not crazy, or hallucinating, and I don’t do drugs anymore. Havent for like a month so trust me I’m good.

This all kinda kicked off about a week ago. The route I take to college is a short 10-15 minute walk along a road. This road sucks under a freeway overpass about half way there. Usually the place is filled with trash, the occasional person too, poor bastards, but as long as you keep to yourself and move quick no one will bother ya, and even if they do they’ll rarely touch ya.

So I was a little more than scared when a bloodied hand shot out from beneath a dirty pile of cardboard and grabbed onto my leg.

I shouted and jumped away from the pile, nearly falling over the railing into the road.

“Please…” a voice pleaded weakly, “don’t leave me here to die like the rest…”

I’m not a particularly charitable person, rarely even kind, but something about the way this person spoke hurt my heart to ignore. Normally Id’ve just passed them by and let the next person or good samaritan handle it. But before I knew it I was watching myself reach for the person’s outstretched hand.

As we made contact I felt a shock course through my body, a singing stinging sensation lingered in my arm and hand as I pulled the person from beneath the cardboard.

They were in a bad way. Blood dripped from open gashes along their forehead, they wore a tattered robe covered in bloodstained gashes and slashes. Their breathing was labored and uneven. Their hair, a medley of all the colors of the rainbow, like light through a prism.

“Holy shit,” I reflexively shouted, “you need a hospital.”

I reached into my pocket for my phone before the figure stopped me.

“No, please, I only need sustenance.”

Despite its appearance, it’s voice was calm and gentle, a wavering lullaby carried on a gentle breeze.

“Susitinence? What like food? Dude you need a fucking hospital! Were you hit by a car?”

The figure smiled.

“I fell.”

“Even more of a reason to call an ambulance!”

The figure stepped closer to me. As it did so I began to notice strange things about it.

The figure appeared to be androgynous, though I fear the word itself fails to accurately describe the utter sense of distilled humanity, as if all mankind had been melted down and reforged into a single individual. Their figure was slender, lighter than air, fragile, yet sturdy. Dark caked crimson matted down their otherwise heavenly radiance.

“Please, my child, I need only sustenance and rest to restore myself.”

What was I doing here? I’m gonna be late for Econ, then professor’s gonna tear me a new asshole, and I’ll have to make up the quiz-

“Fuck it, want McDonalds?” I asked bluntly.

The figure smiled pleasantly in response, I took that as a “yes” and walked over.

Much to my surprise, and the surprise of the other patrons, the figure which had introduced themself as “Ruile”, had followed me to the store.

After a tense moment with the cashier we sat down with our meals. In a moment Ruile inhaled their Double Quarter Pounder. Truthfully I have never seen anyone nor anything devour a burger so fast in my life. If it weren’t for all the blood Id’ve assumed the patrons were all just as shocked at that display too.

“Well, good luck with your, ya know, all of this,” I said as I got up, vaguely gesturing to Ruile, “but I’m gonna go-“

Lei grabbed my arm firmly as I started to leave.

“Please, I appreciate your generosity, but I must find a place to rest.”

I recoiled once more.

I already fed this person and now they think they can just crash at my place?

“No, not your apartment,” Ruile replied.

“What the fuck?!” I exclaimed in shock, “how did you- my… How did you hear that?”

Lei looked nervous as they slumped down in their chair. The commotion drew even more attention than before. Not wanting to suffer another moment of this I made my way to the door.

Having left the McDonalds and rounding the corner to my Apartment I practically screamed when Lei stood right before me.

“Please Damien, my child,” Ruile begged, “I must rest!”

I shoved my way past them, “then go back to the cardboard pile I-“

How did they know my name? When did I-

“Damien,” Ruile started again, their words struck my soul as they called my name, “do not be afraid.”

For a moment, a brief, infinitesimal moment, my vision went white. White save for the shadow of something before me. Four pairs of massive wings that emerged from a series of concentric rings. My eyes, my head, my ears burned as I felt a warm liquid trickle down my nose and my cheeks. My ears rung with a righteous and ferocious tone of bells that threatened to shake me apart. The air was thick with the smell of fire.

Then it all slipped away, the world returned to how it was, Ruile still stood before me, but the air around them felt like it was burning.

“Do you understand now, Damien,” Ruile asked, hesitantly taking a step towards me.

I stumbled backwards and fell onto the pavement, nearly cracking my tail bone.

“W-what the hell? Are you an Angel?”

“Yes, my child,” Ruile said as they lowered to me, “please allow me this.”

I reached out my hand to Ruile, but as they grabbed my hand, another slid past and into my chest. Their slender, frail, broken hand pierced my flesh. A searing pain erupted and radiated out from my heart as their fingers dug deeper into the bone and muscle and sinew. My breath was taken from me as I greedily and desperately gulped down air that I felt escaping and searing my exposed flesh. My voice had been robbed from me as my throat became choked by a righteous heat that began to envelop my body. With each second more and more of Ruile entered my body, until all that remained was a small tuft of bloodied and broken feathers on the ground between my legs.

My lungs finally took in air as I hyper ventilated. My hands scanned my body for damage but found only scars where Lei had dug into me.

“W-where-“ I started.

In my mind I heard a distant echo that grew and grew into a powerful chorus chanting fury and temperance.

“I am here, my child. I am inside you.”

Ruile’s words came from all directions, past, present, and future.

“Get the fuck out! I didn’t give you permission!”

A bubble of joy rose up from within the depths of my soul and burst into a mix of radiant laughter and sour spite.

“I promise to repay the charity you have shown me, Damien, for you shall have my favor.”

I wasn’t much of a religious type, went to Sunday school maybe once, but when the fuck did Angels posses people?

“It is done only in times of necessity,” Ruile answered.

Right, you can read my mind.

“It is but one of many things we see.”

Ruile’s voice grew less intense as we spoke. Apparently there is an adjustment period to this sort of thing. The first few days were strange. Not that having an Angel forcibly posses you isn’t strange, but other things that happened to coincide with this were.

Firstly, my econ professor not only gave me a pass on the exam, which was extremely uncharacteristic, he gave me a C for a test I never even took. Which I’m pretty sure is like, illegal or something, not that I’m complaining.

Then it was this one loud asshole in my history class. He’d always interrupt class with the dumbest shit you’d ever hear come from someone’s mouth. Like “didn’t they fake the moon landing?” Or “I heard JFK was killed by the Lizard Cult” among other intellectual topics. Most of the class just soldiered through it, but it just so happened that the individual in question, let’s call him Ray, had a serious incident while biking out on someone’s property. Apparently people string clothes lines or wires up to deter (or decapitate) bikers and such who illegally access their property. I won’t judge any of that because I frankly don’t give a shit, but I will say I feel a bit bad about how relieved I was to hear that Ray had ran into one. He survived but the damage to his throat was pretty bad, they say he lost all ability to speak.

Again, I’m no saint, but I did feel a bit guilty at how happy I was to never hear his dumb ass speak again.

And the guilt only got worse after yesterday. The whole reason I’m even writing this in the first place.

My walk to school is fairly short as you already know, what I neglected to mention was that I do have to cross a signal-less crosswalk across a freeway onramp on the way. It’s usually tame at the times I go, but rarely I’ll run into some self important asshole who would rather almost run someone over instead of waiting the roughly five seconds it took to cross the intersection.

And every time it happened I’d sarcastically, and sometimes seriously, think to myself ‘God I hope this guy’s car explodes or something.’ And behold, a guy in some BMW comes flying down the road and nearly flattens me as I’m trying to cross. By reflex at this point I mumble my usual ‘fuck you’ and ‘hope you die’ spiel.

Moments later an explosion rocks the area. Fragments of car and god-knows-what fly past me. My eyes are drawn to the heat, and the cloud of smoke rising from the car that had nearly hit me not even five seconds prior. It hadn’t even fully made it to the top of the onramp. Right on the cusp it sat, now nothing more than a mangled, flaming wreck.

All I could do was stand there and watch. I didn’t move a muscle.

Not when the firefighters came. Not when EMS arrived and walked, not ran, walked to the wreck. Not when the police went around asking for witnesses. And certainly not when the paramedics wheeled away something on a gurney covered in a soot-stained white sheet.

So now I sit here. Typing this out, not sure what it would even accomplish. Maybe this is confessional, but these aren’t my sins are they? Maybe I’m seeking some type of absolution from all of this, maybe one of you even knows what the hell is going on. I mean I don’t expect to find a support group for people possessed by angels but like what the fuck else am I supposed to do?

I can’t keep living like this. It was fine when it was just convenient stuff like my test scores and refilling my shampoo bottle or milk. But now someone has died. Ok sure there’s nothing concrete but I mean, it’s too big of a coincidence for me to just ignore. It’s like I felt myself die a little, like I did that. I killed someone with just a thought. It hurts. It fucking hurts.

I’m scared. Why me? Oh God, why me?