They put up a tall fence covered with black tarp and topped by barbed wire, surrounding Lake Colette at the center of Juniper Valley so that no one could see what they were doing. Two of the three local cop cars were stationed 24-7 at either end, one to the east and one to the west. This all went on for three days while some unknown official body did what needed to be done. Then overnight the black barbed wire fence was gone, replaced with the normal chain-link variety. A few middle school kids dared Kevin Witter to apply a pair of wire cutters and sneak in. My little half-brother knew Kevin. The kid claimed to have seen unmarked vans and a bevy of sunglasses wearing government agents with automatic weapons surrounding a team of scientists in hazmat suits, dragging the carcass of a monster out of the water. The monster had 10 legs, the skin of an alligator and the body of a squid, or the body of a shark, or matted fur or feathers or teeth. It changed per telling and it was all bullshit. I'm guessing Kevin Witter either chickened out before doing the deed or else was picked up by the cops as soon as he approached the fence. At the end of three days some early risers in Juniper Valley reported seeing three unmarked cars heading east on Skylark Road towards the highway and the Air Force Base and the Palmdale Airport. Whatever government agency was operating behind the blockade, searching the lake, they were gone without a trace by the time the sun came up, and whatever they found they weren't telling. The cops were clueless. All they told us townsfolk was that due to a bacterial infestation we were not to swim in the lake until father noticed. I will never swim in that lake again, and I hope to God they killed them all. I stayed in Juniper Valley during the summer with my father. He and my stepmother loved it there, love the isolation and the small town lifestyle. Though I would hesitate to even call Juniper Valley a town, it's an unincorporated cluster of ranch style homes planted like a pimple among the Sierra Polona Mountains. In the 90s the population of Juniper Valley and the surrounding hills was 800 and change. There was one general store in town, one gas station, one church, and one dirty little inn with a bar restaurant. Anything else one would need could be found in Palmdale, a 45-minute drive east, through miles of gridded power lines in golden flatland, dotted with silos and scrape metal. The town resembles a bowl with Lake Colette at the basin, and streets and houses arranged around the edges along the slopes of the surrounding hills. Calling Lake Colette a lake is also stretching things a little bit. It's a sag pond right on the San Andreas Fault which cuts straight through Juniper Valley. During droughts Lake Colette would drain to a glorified puddle, a mossy marsh of waist high weeds. There were quite a few rainy years during my childhood. Lake Colette would remain a proper body of water then, even in the midst of a hot dry summer. I'd look out my bedroom window at the lake, below the dim circles of light cast by the two street lamps on Skylark Road.  On moonless nights it seemed bottomless, and I felt as though it could be a kilometers deep well, a black hole. I grew up. My months in Juniper Valley became skull-crushingly boring. My dad and stepmother worked, my half-siblings attended a summer program at their school, and my friends were 70 miles away. The nearest library was almost as far, and the rabbit-eared TV picked up three channels, local access from Palmdale, the Bible Channel, and assorted infomercials. It was my step-grandmother who told me about the will fell animal sanctuary. She went to church with a lady who ran the place, a retired park ranger named Kathy. The shelter was a non-profit funded solely by donations with an all-volunteer staff. Kathy owned an acre of hillside land off Skylark Road, just west of town, a 15-minute walk from my father's house. I was 13 the first summer I volunteered at will fell, and I went back every summer after. They loved me there. By they I mean the only two staff members. Kathy, an earthly woman in her 60s who functioned as CEO, manager, accountant, and primary caretaker of the animals, and Jacques, a 27-year-old autistic man who cleaned cages and walked dogs as part of a government subsidized program. And I fell in love with the animals. There were about 60 of them, homeless dogs and unwanted cats. There were two huge kennels in Kathy's large backyard built by her sons, one for dogs and one for cats.  When pounds in Palmdale and Lancaster received animals they had no room for, they'd give them to Kathy. She'd drive her rickety old windowless van east to the highway, then come back hours later with new furry charges. Sometimes she'd even function as a poor man's dog catcher. Agencies would direct her towards residences from Juniper Valley to Acton, asking her to remove starving, nearly hairless dogs from gardens, and pull emaciated cats out from under cars. These were the highway strays, abandoned on the 14 by individuals who no longer wished to be pet owners. That first summer, I met Jane. Jane was a friend of Kathy's, a retired navy nurse who worked as an at-home caregiver and took in homeless cats. She visited Willfell at least once a week, sometimes bringing large bags of cat food. Jane was a rough lady, tanned, cinnally, wrinkly beyond her years, only ever seen wearing stained wife beaters and baggy fatigues. She never married, had no family I knew of, and seemed to prefer the company of cats to humans. Kathy considered her an asset. She'd take in 20 cats at a time, accepting responsibility when we had no more room. She owned a half acre, a few miles southwest of town, off a shabby two-lane road called Oak Tree Lane. Oak Tree Lane snakes between gray-green hills before dead-ending deep in the Angeles National Forest. Rusting mailboxes stick out of the ground like flags at the head of dirt roads, leading to remote ranches and groves and campgrounds. Jane's cottage was at the end of one of these dirt roads, in a little clearing carpeted with knee-high weeds and prickly shrubs, surrounded on three sides by gently sloping hills. She'd take me there sometimes. There were always cats everywhere, cats inside and out, cats on the sofa, cats sitting atop Jane's washer, cats sunning themselves, stocking field mice and butterflies. I'd spend hours at Jane's house with her cats, helping her clean up and clean litter boxes, cuddling kittens from the occasional litter. Jane liked me, since she obviously felt little need for human companionship. I took this as the highest of compliments. Every summer on the first day I'd see her, Jane would break out into the biggest, brightest smile that Kathy swore she reserved only for me. You're like me, Matthew, Jane would say.  That's why you love animals so much. Your standards for souls are higher than most. The earthquake hit the winter of my junior year. I remember waking in the middle of the night, roused by the thud of my precariously placed math book falling off my desk. The mild shaking lasted about three and a half seconds, then I realized I'd experienced an earthquake. My dad, his family, and Juniper Valley were hit a bit harder. Positioned on the San Andreas Fault and close to the remote epicenter, structural damage was rather extensive. The mess had been cleared up by summer, but I noticed broken sandbag barricades and new violent cracks along Skylark Road. Lake Colette looked more robust than I'd ever seen it, but was surrounded by a chain like fence. The water had taken on a greenish tinge and hosted islands of thick yellowish scum. For now it was closed to the public. Caffe's windowless van still hadn't broken down, but she was tired of driving it all over the valley, so she handed me the keys. I enjoyed it at first, rambling through golden planes until I saw the boxy developments of Palmdale, rescuing filthy, unloved creatures from the clutches of abusive owners or uncaring bureaucracy. Jane had all but disappeared. Her last nursing charge had passed away and she was rarely seen in town. Only at the general store, Caffe told me and very rarely. I think Caffe and I were the only people in Juniper Valley who noticed her absence. I missed Jane. I missed the way her face lit up when she saw me and the warm summer afternoon spent in her backyard. I called her landline once, it had been disconnected. Soon the cats started appearing. My third day back, I was sitting in Caffe's office when I received a phone call from a talkative old lady in town. There was a cat in her backyard. It had been sitting in a lower branch of her oak tree for hours. I think it's someone's pet, she said. It's too chubby to be astray. This in and of itself was not an extraordinary event. Everyone in town knew Caffe ran a shelter and wouldn't frequently call her in lieu of animal control when an unknown animal became a bother. Sometimes said animal would be a neighbor's lost pet. Other times a runaway that had wandered from Palmdale. Caffe always made an effort to find the owner. Rarely a feral abandoned highway stray would make it to Juniper Valley.  They usually had to be euthanized or died before the local vet got the chance. At first I assumed the calm, well-groomed, gray and white short hair I found in the old lady's oak tree was the former, a townie's escaped house cat. I tried to coax the thing down with a can of tuna, no dice. It wasn't remotely interested in the food. It just stared. Black, deptless eyes locked on something that wasn't me.  When I got back, the cat was gone. I never saw it again. It bothered me all night. It was like the cat had been messing with me. And it happened again and again. Homeowner after homeowner of Juniper Valley calling Will fell and asking us to remove a cat from the property. Always cats. Always different cats. I don't think I ever saw the same one twice. The homeowner always insisted he or she had never seen the animal before, and they never had collars. They always appeared well fed, if not overfed. Their fur, though not show quality, was thick and intact. It became troubling. Juniper Valley had a population of 842. It was located 45 minutes from the nearest town and surrounded on three sides by hills and forest. Everyone knew everyone else's pets and the sudden appearance of so many unaccounted four cats was mysterious to say the least. And these cats were not like any cats I'd ever seen before. They liked fresh water. I'd find them sitting in fountains and kiddie pools. They didn't seem to like the sun. They'd come out at night or else be found in some shaded dark enclosed space. They were silent. Never hissing or meowing. They were really, really good at getting in and out of places. I found one curled up in the back of a lady's car. Though she admitted she'd left the door unlocked, the physical act of opening and closing the door should have been impossible for a creature with only paws at its disposal. They were smart. Super naturally smart. At times I fell under the disturbing impression the cat was taunting me. I'd be setting up some trap or extending the net. The cat would sit there, calm and cool, watching intently. There'd be a minute in which I'd have some semblance of hope I'd finally catch the thing this time. And then the cat would dart out of my grasp or vanish the moment I turned my back. The weirdest part was, once or twice, the cat stopped before running off and looked at me. I could swear it was laughing. And they all shared the same icy, emotionless black eyes. I wished they didn't remind me so much of the empty eyes staring from the euthanized corpses I saw at Wilfell. Finally I caught one. It was early July. I was quite pleased with my cunning. I bought one of those huge plastic storage tubs from the general store, filled it with water, stuck it in the back of the van and waited for my feline quarry. A large pug-faced tabby this time. After an hour of hiding in the cab, the cat climbed down from the roof where I'd found it and into the waiting reservoir. I raced to the back, slammed the van doors, donned leather gloves and prepared for a hissing, clawing fight. But surprisingly the cat didn't struggle at all. It was fully submerged in the water, curled up on the bottom of the container like a rock. I picked it up, shoved it in a cage, dumped out the water and drove. It wasn't until I was halfway to Wilfell that I noticed the smell. Once my nine-year-old son dropped a fish stick in the back of my car and forgot about it. A humid summer week later, my car smelled just like that cat had. When we got there, the chubby cat put up about as much of a fight as it had in the van. I didn't hold it for long. Years of experience with scared animals taught me that the less time spent with claws inches from my face the better. But the short span of time the cat was in my hands was enough to make me seriously uncomfortable. It was heavy and somehow doughy. My hands sunk into its flesh like silly putty and it was cold. I left the cat in the quarantine cage in Kathy's office. We usually only use the cage for animals that were obviously ill, which the tabby was not. But there was just something wrong with this cat, like it shouldn't be mixed with others of its species. I gave it bowls of kibble and water, then sat down at the desk to fill out an application for a grant. Kathy was gone for the weekend visiting her sister in Bakersfield. Jacques was in the back cleaning out the pony stall. I couldn't concentrate, not with that cat there. I looked over my shoulder every other minute. Each time I'd see the same thing, the flat faced tabby, sitting in its water bowl, staring at me. It never blinked. It never moved. It didn't even appear to breathe. The rotting, fishy odor filled the room. Finally I cracked. I double checked the latch on the cat's cage, locked the office door and pretended to be busy feeding the dogs. I called the vet and asked if he could come by and take a look at the feline, but he said he wouldn't be able to for another week. The next morning I found the office window wide open, the quarantine cage open, and the cat gone. I wasn't disappointed. Not long after that everyone started talking about little Charlie Henderson. Charlie was 12 and had been skateboarding alone shortly before midnight in the parking lot by Lake Colette.  The way he told it, Charlie had been approached by a cat. He bent over to pet it and the cat danced away, leading him to a grove of trees behind the lake. He followed the cat, then suddenly he was attacked by a small army of cats. They jumped from the trees and emerged from the shadows, latching onto his clothing and limbs and dragging him towards a hole in the fence. If a lost car hadn't pulled into the parking lot and turned around, causing the cats to scatter and giving him time to run away, well who knows what they'd have done with him. No one believed him of course. Everyone assumed he'd been attacked by maybe one feral cat and his imagination had taken over, because cats don't corner people and jump them. That takes organization and planning, intelligence not possessed by house pets. And his story got weird too. He claimed one of the cats had stretched itself like silly putty and grew an opposable thumb. Then Jane came back. It was a cloudy afternoon and I was taking advantage of the slight cool down to deep clean the dog kennel. Kathy was gone again in Riverside watching her granddaughter play softball. I was busy scraping dried dog crap off the concrete when Jock ran out to tell me there was a lady asking for me. I wiped off my hands and went inside to find Jane staring at me from Kathy's living room. Jane had never been obsessive about her appearance, but if I hadn't known her so well, I would have assumed the gaunt, trembling figure and a stained wife beater was a homeless woman. Her hair was a frizzy matted mess of gray. Her arms and chest were striped with lacerations of varying degrees of depth in various stages of healing. And her eyes, which had once seemed to serve as a window to a rational calculating mind, now allowed a glimpse into bloodshot insanity. Jane, I said, are you okay? She didn't smile. Do you have any? She asked. I frowned. Any what? Cats, Matthew, was the curt reply. It's the cats. I need the cats. They've been wondering. I gave her what I hoped was a kind smile. Okay, Jane, I can show you the cats. But Kathy said I'm not allowed to have any of them adopted without her around. That was a lie, but I wasn't about to pass Jane custody of a pet rock, let alone a living, breathing creature. She was obviously not in the physical, emotional, or mental state to care for anything, not even herself. I walked her out to the cat kennel. As expected, a small herd of dogs ran towards Jane to sniff her and beg for attention. Then about three feet from her, the dog stopped. They sniff the air, whined, and ran off in all directions. Not a single one of them got nearer. Jane looked over the cat seriously, then sighed in disappointment. She shook her head, turned around, and paced back to Kathy's house. You haven't caught any? She said. What are you talking about? I asked. She glared, looking through me.   My cats, call me if you catch one. There's so many of them now, and they're getting bigger. With that, she walked out the door. She stopped and turned around. And Matthew? Watch the lake. I spent the rest of the day in a daze. I'd been wondering where the weird cats came from. They didn't belong to anyone in Juniper Valley, and it was hard to believe that they'd all migrated from Palmdale. Jane took in homeless cats. Maybe they were hers. I didn't know why they would have left food, water, and shelter to wander for miles along an isolated road and into a neighborhood. But it was at least a possibility. That night, following a tangled motivation I couldn't put into words, I borrowed my father's car and drove to the parking lot by Lake Colette, where Charlie Henderson had been attacked.  I obeyed Jane. I watched the lake. I hadn't sat for 10 minutes before I saw movement, a black shape creeping out of the shadows and approaching the water's edge. More movement against the clump of trees to my right. Cautiously, quietly, I opened the car door and stepped out. I shut the door gently and tiptoed towards the fence.  Its paws were inundated. It kept on going. I came closer until I was grasping the metal links of the fence, and I felt it quiver under my fingers. I looked to my right and saw them. Two more cats. Huge cats. The biggest I'd ever seen. Cats climbing down the fence like monkeys. Head first, completely vertical. One, then the other, jumped gracefully to the ground and stepped into the feeble light bleeding from the two streetlights. One was yellow, the other a tabby. The first cat was almost completely submerged. With the lightest gurgle, it ducked under the scum-covered waterline into the black hole. The light wasn't good at all. It looked as though the second and third cats had had flattened when they hit the ground, like Play-Doh thrown at a wall. And there was something about how they moved. They jiggled. Their legs bent the wrong way.  Where was the black cat? It couldn't still be underwater. Ripples in the lake. Small islands of yellow scum shifted in gentle waves. I didn't feel a breeze. There was something else in there. A cadence of nerves was triggered in my brain, forgotten but immediately recognizable like a song. I was scared of Lake Colette. Scared like I had been as a child. When the black water had seemed from my bedroom window a bottomless well. I ran to my car. I did a donut in the parking lot and sped home. The next morning was hot and bright and under the cloudless sky had all seemed ridiculous. I was letting Charlie Henderson rumors get to me. I walked past Lake Colette on my way to Wilfow. I went right up to the fence. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No cats in sight. A light breeze ruffled the water. I breathed in and gagged. It smelled like rotting fish mixed with a McDonald's dumpster. It smelled like the pug-faced tabby I'd caught. Cats don't like water. Cats don't swim. I'd spent nearly half a decade surrounded by cats. And the cats I'd been chasing around yards and spying on the night before warned cats. That smell. The way the tabby I'd caught it felt when I held it. Bloated and putty-like. Cold. Those cats didn't purr or meow. They didn't eat. Their intelligence and that stare. Those glassy corpse-like eyes that seemed to take in everything and nothing. And Jane. Her cats, she'd said. They've been wondering. They're getting bigger. Maybe she was going nuts living out there all alone in the wilds. A mile away from her nearest human neighbor, the dogs wouldn't come near her. Her own cats had been attacking her apparently. How else to explain the scratches all over? Yet still, she was desperate to have them back. I had to talk to Jane again.  But a couple from Palmdale called unexpectedly, asking if they could come by with their daughter to pick out a pet. By the time they'd selected a corgi mix and made arrangements to have the dog mutored, it was after five. It was fine. It was still light out. I locked up, grabbed the keys to the van, and made my way into the hills. My teenage bravado waned as I traveled farther and farther away from Juniper Valley. There's no defined town line, but when you reach the intersection of Skylark and Oak Tree Lane, you're essentially watching civilization shrink in your rear view mirror. I'd forgotten just how far away Jane's shack was from anything, and just how desolate and lonely the mountain road became. I didn't see a single other car the whole time. Finally, I came to the rusted blue mailbox with Jane's numbers on the side. I turned on the dirt road. When I reached the apex, I saw Jane's shack. Carefully, foot on the brake, I made my way down into the valley. It didn't look like Jane was home. There was no light coming from the windows. I pulled up closer into the driveway past the house to the carport in the back. The back door was wide open, and Jane's El Camino was there. The cats weren't. No cats lounging in piles by the stairs, none prowling around the yard. I pulled behind Jane's car, climbed out of the van, strolled into the backyard. Jane's empty property looked lovely and approaching dusk, beautiful trees reaching for the heavens, majestic furs meeting fluffy white clouds like an old West movie backdrop. She must have been hiding in the house. She must have crept up behind me because I don't remember feeling the blow. I woke up lying in cool moist dirt. I was looking at water, Lake Colette. No, I saw nothing but hills and foliage in the distance.  I sat up. My head spun. I felt blood in my hair. I was sitting on the bank of a small pond. The water was greenish and thick with algae covered in thick yellow scum. I took a breath and lurched. The smell. Rotting fish. Rotting flesh. Fast food dumpster. Stronger than I'd ever smelled it before. The water moved. Something was emerging a few feet in front of me, swimming to shore. A black cat. Paddling with uncomfortable, almost human strokes. I scrambled backwards, away from the approaching creature. It reached land and pulled itself onto the bank. It stood up. The black cat's weight shifted. Its belly bulged, its lower legs swelled, became shorter and fatter. The effect was the same as squeezing a stress ball. Instead of a creature with a skeleton and tendons and muscles, I was being approached by a thing with the consistency of jelly wearing a furry suit. I screamed and stumbled to my feet. Then I felt icy fingers curl around my neck. I struggled and instinctively horse-kicked my unseen attacker. The hand loosened and I whirled around. I was face to face with Jane. But it wasn't Jane. Her face was round and flat. Boneless.  And her eyes. The maniacal glint was gone from her eyes. So was the consciousness. So was the recognition. So was the vitality. Her pupils were so dilated her irises were no longer visible. And what had been white was now completely red. Her eyes didn't move. They were those of a corpse. Then something in the water grabbed my hand. Something cold and soft and rubber-like, slimy but very, very strong. It pulled me. It was pulling me into the water. Jane stood over me, smiling. She bent down, hands outstretched. Pudgy, bloated hands attached to rope-like arms that jiggled and curled and changed shape. What happened next is a blur. I remember clawing, kicking and screaming at the top of my lungs. And then I was running. Stumbling, lungs burning, stinging, aching, cursing the spongy, weeded ground that gave under my feet. I pushed through dry shrubs and jumped over tree branches, praying I was going in a direction that would lead me to humanity, and that the crinkling of grass behind me was only my imagination. Then I was on top of the hill, looking down at Jane's shack. And then I was in Jane's yard. I saw the van and jumped in the driver's seat, silently thanking the guardian angel that distracted me so I had left my keys in the ignition. I slammed the door. I looked up, out the windshield and into the red and black empty eyes of the thing that had been Jane. It was smiling. She always reserved a special smile for me. I turned the key and gunned it. The van jerked violently. I slammed down the brakes, kicking up dirt-like smoke. I felt a sticky moisture against my cheeks. I took a breath and barely managed to pull open the door before I projectile vomited, even thinking about that acidic, rotting seafood stench induces a nauseous tickle in the back of my throat. I'd crushed Jane under the front right tire. She'd popped. The van still ran. I drove it straight to the police station. In the parking lot I surveyed the damage. The front bumper was dented and the headlight was out. There was no blood. The mangled metal was splattered with glossy, opaque, white goo. I was almost completely honest with the sleepy-eyed desk cop. I said that Jane tried to drown me in the hills behind her home, chased me to the van, and then I ran her over. But I left out the part where her body had taken on the properties of pasta and silly putty. The cop asked, sarcastically, if I'd been doing any drugs, but radioed a car to the site. Over the next week I was questioned multiple times by the police. Their questions became increasingly bizarre, to the point where they were asking about toxic chemicals and lights in the sky, seriously, and whether I was or had ever been involved with a heavy metal band or a cult. This was the late 90s. I was chastised for driving down a lonely back road alone to approach a crazy woman, but I was never charged with a crime. The cops were cagey, but they'd found something. By the next morning, Oak Tree Lane was blocked off by the county sheriffs, and the inhabitants of the hills had been roughly evacuated with no explanation. Then came more sheriffs, then the unmarked cars, then the tall black barbed wire fence around Lake Colette. Jane's death was reported as a freak accident. I tried to forget. I holed up in my room watching happy movies on VHS until my mom came to take me back home. I went back to school. I threw myself into studying and applying for college. When I needed to, I snuck my mom's sleeping pills. Eventually, however, curiosity overwhelmed my fear. I wanted answers, so I elected to spend the following summer, my last before college, in Juniper Valley with my father. Wilfell was no more. Kathy had left the animals with a larger no-kill shelter in Acton, retired and moved to Riverside.  The chain-link fence, broken and bent, still surrounded Lake Colette, but the lake was little more than a puddle. I got a job waiting tables at a bar restaurant. I spent my nights serving burgers to bored townies, trying to strike up conversations about the strange events of the previous summer, the shadowy agents, the fence, the crazy cat lady. I was offered nothing but rumors, speculation, and good old-fashioned lies. Finally, I met a man named Aaron. He was in his 20s, chubby and socially awkward. He worked as a counselor at a camp for disabled children. He talked about dungeons and dragons a little bit too much, and his uncle was a local cop. It was a slow night.  When I asked him if he'd heard about the crazy cat lady who died last year, he played it off like a tabloid headline, but I'd noticed his eyes widen and his hands tremble. I guess I got lucky. Aaron's cop uncle apparently had a weakness for Jack Daniels in a tendency to ignore police confidentiality when drunk, and that weakness must have been genetic, because an hour later Aaron was singing like a canary.  Instead, they found what had been Jane. Pieces of her were scattered across the ground like debris. They radioed for backup, and a small posse spent the remainder of the night on a scavenger hunt for vital organs. They found skin, plenty of skin. The piece that once covered her back was folded in a torn white tank top. Her bones and organs seemed strangely melted, as though pulled from a vat of acid or digested. It was like one officer had said, Jane had been skinned from the inside, then filled with acidic goo like a water balloon. Everything was coated in a white, translucent jelly substance. The officers had taken a sample to be tested, but by the next morning it had evaporated into a powdery white stain. The big guns were called in. Sheriffs, agents from multiple government divisions, he couldn't say who exactly. The local cops had been pushed out of the investigation by that point. He had heard that upon searching Jane's property, they found an ax, multiple firearms, boxes of ammo, and 10 cat skins buried a foot and a half deep in the backyard, mostly with their heads detached and all coated in the familiar white powder. They scoured the hills behind Jane's property and they found the pond. The small pond that, according to land surveying reports, had not existed before the earthquake and the rains of the previous winter. They drained it. At the bottom they found 24 more cat skins. The insides were all gone, yet the skins were unmarred. At no point had they been cut apart or sewn together. Again, it appeared as if something had eaten or dissolved all the blood, bones, and vital organs. Except for the teeth and the eyeballs. The eyeballs were left intact to stare hauntingly into oblivion. After the discovery, they dragged Lake Colette as well. Erin didn't know what they'd found there. The citizens of Juniper Valley were urged to stay away. It's been nearly 20 years. I'm a veterinarian now. I've done some digging, spent hours and quarters of the internet where I've seen things I can't unsee and made some new friends. But I still don't have answers. I don't know what changed Jane's cats that summer. Were they infected? Possessed? I think it was something in the water. Hyper-intelligent blob-like things that had been dormant for years.  But this is all conjecture, my opinion. All those years ago, I told Erin, the chubby camp counselor, everything. He listened, eyes widening, but never doubting. The next morning, he and I took his car down Oak Tree Lane to the wrestling blue mailbox and finally the abandoned shack where I'd passed so many summer days. We hiked a mile into the hills, carrying two shovels in my father's rifle. We found the hole that had once been a pond, now a weeded ditch. We got to work. It was hard work. It was dirty work. It took a few trips. But by the end of August, we had leveled the land and completely filled the hole with dirt. I don't know what was down there, but if there's more, they're not getting out. My name is Eric Williams and I work as a political reporter in Washington, D.C. I cover Congress, the President, and whatever happens to be the trending topic of the day. I have a couple of sources that I trust and a few that I don't. But, as like what happened, I have found that my most important source of reliable information turns out to be my dog, Applejacks. Let me back up a little. About three years ago, I was heading out of my apartment building to do a follow-up on a story, when I heard a rustling in the hedges that flanked the wide-stone steps by the entry. I figured that it must be the raccoon who had been getting into the dumpster and I gave it no more thought. On my return trip at around 11 p.m., I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a low whine coming from the bushes, so I backed up and peered into the dark undergrowth till I spotted the reflection of two eyes looking back at me. They were a good three feet up from the ground, so I started to back up when I heard the unmistakable low thumping of a slowly wagging tail. Hey there, I said in a calming voice. I moved back and sat down quietly on the bottom step. You hungry, bud? Unzipping my backpack, I fist around at the bottom, but all I could find was an energy drink and an old, single-serving pack of cereal, Applejacks. I opened it and set it down on this step next to me. It took a few minutes, but then he slowly stepped out of the bushes and made his way cautiously towards the food. He was big, but I could tell he was less than a year old. He was real thin and looked like he hadn't eaten in a while. Keeping one eye on me, he gingerly sniffed the Applejacks. Then hunger must have overtaken him and he wolfed down the cereal. He flipped the bag over with his nose, checking to make sure he hadn't missed any. Then he looked up at me.  Tail wagging, he climbed onto the same step that I was on. Then he sat down, leaning against me. And that was it. We've been together ever since. I looked online, checked the papers and the local Bolton boards for a few weeks to see if anyone was looking for him. After a while, I stopped checking. Soon we settled into a routine. I took him out in the morning, then he slept for most of the day. In the evening, we went for a long walk in the park. The park we visit is sort of a dividing line between a very rich section of town and the slightly run down section where my apartment is located. It's a huge park that goes on for miles, with a small river running along the length of it. There is plenty of room for him to chase a ball or run around with other dogs, but it quickly became apparent to me that Jax didn't like the company of other dogs. He wasn't aggressive, he just completely ignored them. They would approach him, tail wagging wanting to play, but he kept his eyes on me. Along the river, there were several old stone bridges and he loved to run down them, a million miles an hour, race across, then turn around and run back to me. This ritual would be repeated at every bridge. I would stand there laughing, urgently calling him back, as if it was a life and death situation. Sometimes he was a little late with the breaks and he would plow into me, landing us both on the ground. Then, one particular Tuesday evening at the park, he crossed the bridge and stopped on a far side. He stood there looking into the woods. He glanced back, as if to tell me something. Then he headed straight for the woods. I called, but he kept going. By the time I made it across the bridge, all I could see in the distance was a man kneeling over something on the ground. So I ran. What happened? I called out. As I approached, I saw the man had tears in his eyes. There was a golden retriever on the ground in front of him, and Jax was laying with his head on top of the dog's chest. Did he hurt your dog? I asked. No, the man said. I think he saved him. My dog was having a seizure. They're usually quick to stop if I can calm him down, but this time it wouldn't stop. Not until your dog came and laid down next to him. Seemed to calm him. Will you be able to get him home? I asked. Yes, I'll carry him. We lived just over there. He pointed at a large house up on the hill. Well, I better get him home. Thank you. About a week later, the man with the golden retriever spotted us at the park. He waved and walked over with his dog. It turns out he was looking for us. It turns out his name was Gregory Williams. It turns out he was just elected to the House of Representatives. I am buying Jax a triple cheeseburger on the way home. Maybe two. Since then, Gregory and I met at the park every Tuesday and we've become good friends. The dogs played together while we talk, and once in a while he'll give me a heads up on a story. I'm always careful to keep his name out of it. Months went by and the first Tuesday in December rolled around. We met at the park as usual. While the dogs played, Gregory told me that he was leaving early for Christmas break, taking his family up to a cabin in Colorado. He invited me to come with Jax, of course. I said that sounded great, but I couldn't take that much vacation time. He told me nothing's happening in D.C. until after the holidays. Here. He reached for my phone and entered a number. That's the phone to the cabin. Get away as soon as you can. Drive up to Colorado Springs and call me. I'll direct you to the cabin. Make sure you bring Jax and anyone else you like. I mean it. Please come. My wife and kids are dying to meet the hero that saved our dog. And you. I laughed. Okay, I'll try. He looked at me, paused, then said, if you get there by the 15th of December, I'll give you the story of a lifetime. Then he nodded and walked away. His dog followed behind. I stood there silently watching him go. Back in my apartment, I poured scoops of dog food into Jax Bowl and I heated up some leftovers for myself. I had an interview tomorrow morning with Senator Susan Collins, the chairman of the Housing and Urban Development Committee. So I sat down on my computer to finalize my questions. I turned on the local news as background noise while I weren't. There had been two shootings in a robbery nearby. A 10-year-old had gotten lost and then was found safe at a local Walmart. And sky watchers may have a spectacular show in two weeks when a comet makes its closest approach on the 16th of December. Jax was sound asleep by the time I finished up and went to bed. I awoke in the morning to a soft beep of the message left on my phone. It was the Senator's secretary canceling today's meeting. I called her office to reschedule, but there was only a recorded message saying the Senator's office was closed for the holidays. With the morning off, I took Jax for a leisurely walk. Then I caught the train to the Capitol building. I walked over to the congressional offices to see if I could gather some info on an upcoming vote. The guard checked my press ID and nodded. I walked down the quiet hallway to the elevator. Stepping out on the fourth floor, I turned right and stopped. Ahead of me was a long hallway. There must have been 20 small offices. Every door was closed. Lights off. This was very odd, so I got back in the elevator. Stopping at every floor to check. The entire building was completely empty. This just doesn't happen. There are always congressional staff milling about. On my way out the door, I asked the guard what was going on. He just shrugged and said, no idea. Grabbing a coffee from a nearby street vendor, I sat down at a bench overlooking the main walkway. Taking out my phone, I called my list of political contacts one by one. Either there was no answer or a message was left saying, I'm sorry the office is closed for the holidays. The Congress was slated to work until December 21st. Votes were scheduled for each day. This just doesn't happen. I sat there thinking, vaguely aware of the tourists passing by. A family with two kids sat down on the bench next to mine. The kids were asking their dad, will we be able to see it? Yes, their dad answered. You might not even need a telescope. Suddenly, I got this vision of thousands of people gathering with binoculars, having comet themed parties. All the while, silent doom approached. Tossing my coffee into the garage, I headed for the train. I arrived home, took Jacks out for a quick walk and then sat down at my computer. What should I even look for? Impact? No, too many amateur astronomers out there. The news of a catastrophic impact would get out to the public. I spent the next week and a half achieving little to no results. Nothing in the news but excitement over the easily visible approach and comet. I even checked the conspiracy websites, but found nothing out of the ordinary. It was around 11pm when it finally occurred to me, that I should stop looking in the present and try looking into the past. I typed in the history of comets. Comets shed a lot of debris, pieces of which can slam into earth. Comets can cause an air burst, igniting entire forests. They can also produce a high altitude haze of particles. A comet is linked to the Justinian Plague in 541AD. It was the first recorded instance of the Black Plague in Europe, when cities struggled to clear the streets of the dead. There was the comet of the Black Death in 1347. During the winter of 1664, a bright comet was seen in the London sky. The great plague ravaged England for the next two years. I stopped reading and I realized that if something was coming, Washington was the last place I wanted to be. It was a quarter past midnight, the early morning of December 15th. If I threw my stuff in the car and drove straight through to Colorado Springs, with a little luck, we could make it. I looked over at Jack's. Wanna go for a ride? After uploading a number of horror stories to various places around the internet, I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of supportive emails and messages I received.  Little did I know that this new found acknowledgement of my writing would lead to a series of horrific and abhorrent events. For over a year, I received numerous messages and emails, most very positive and enjoyable, yet every few days I would also find a strange, disconnected, and fragmented piece of correspondence sitting in my inbox. Each email would consist of one random word as a subject heading, with a message itself comprised of a single phrase, normally only two words long. The email address would change each time, but it was clear from the nature of the content that the author was the same. At first, I dismissed them as the idle product of a bored worker on the internet, attempting to amuse themselves with a thought of myself reading garbled, puzzling, yet worryingly cryptic messages. As the days wore on, however, and the emails became gradually more twisted and prophetic, I began to suspect that they were of a far more sinister origin. I had posted and contributed to many websites and forums over the years, and it was not unusual to wake up each morning to 20 or 30 new emails in my inbox. I often spent my lunch break answering them, and I genuinely enjoyed the correspondence. However, the day after posting a story called The Passenger, I followed my usual routine of logging into my email account at noon, only to find one message which stood out most uncomfortably from the others. The subject heading was sufferer, and the email itself contained just two words, baby cries. I sent the message to my trash folder and thought nothing more of it. It had been a long day, and as I had been writing from dawn to dusk, I was tiring rapidly, feeling suitably ready for a good, long overdue sleep. It was around 11.30 pm, just as I started to drift into a dream that I heard a noise. It was not out of place, nor did it cause any real concern to me, coming as it did from my neighbor's house through the wall. It was the type of common sound any resident is familiar with. I smirked to myself thinking baby cries, and drifted back to sleep, sure that the child's mother or father would soon be there to comfort it, as they always were. I woke again, glancing at my mobile phone which cast an unearthly green glow around the room. Seeing that it was after three in the morning, I became agitated knowing that I had a long day out of me. Rest does not come easily on those nights when we know we must rise early. The mere thought of the necessity of a good night's sleep before the next day's work precludes any notion of sleep itself. Lying there, I listened in the darkness, to the infant next door, breaking its heart, inconsolable and distraught. Surely the parents had not let it scream for all those hours, lying there alone in blackness of night, unattended. After trying to block out the child's cries for what seemed like hours, I admitted defeat and moved to the spare room that my family and friends only stayed in, on the rare occasions when they visited. At 7.30 am, my phone alarm sounded, and after fighting the reality of another day, I reluctantly left my bed, walking slowly to the kitchen to make some coffee. From the window, I looked out onto the street below. What I saw horrified me, a police car and two ambulances parked outside of my neighbor's home. Even through my groggy, pre-caffeinated mind, the memory of that helpless child crawling in the night sprung to the floor. Immediately, I stopped what I was doing, threw on some clothes, and ran outside. I was not the only person watching, as the usual nosy residents stood at their doors, with some even out on the street, still wearing their dressing gowns idly gossiping, whipping up any number of scandalous rumors. Asking several onlookers what had happened, I was told a variety of accounts, from a child being abducted to someone having a seizure during the night.  Three police officers exited the house somberly, as a collective gasp seeped out from the mouths of the crowd of onlookers. Quickly behind, two men in sterile white clothing carried a stretcher, and on it, a body bag containing the now-deceased remains of one of my former neighbors. A few cries rang out from across the street. Those who knew them wept, while those who did not gossiped. Then another silence, followed by another stretcher, and another body bag. This time no one uttered a sound. The street was void of noise. A tangible tension spread through the air, a hanging sense of dread as all of us waited, hoping beyond hope, for no more death. Heartbreak, the last stretcher supporting a small and insignificant shroud, was carried out solemnly into the morning air, and placed carefully into the back of an ambulance. Tears were wept, and answers were demanded from the police. But I could not cope with the sight. I could not bear it. The sound of that poor infant screaming through the night, screaming for its very life rang out in my ears. The sound of a child now forever silenced. The memory was deafening. How was I supposed to know? The child had cried before as many do. I didn't know. I didn't know. I walked, dazed, back through my garden, and into the now hollow sanctuary of my house. I'm not ashamed to say that I cried, crying knowing that maybe if I had just paid attention or shown more concern than simply getting to sleep, that if I had noticed something was amiss, I could have called the police and then perhaps they would still be alive. Several hours later, two police officers arrived at my door to ask if I had seen or heard anything unusual from the night before. They said that they were not at liberty to tell me what had happened, but that any information I could give them would help immensely with their investigation. When I told them about the email I had received, they looked at each other with an obvious sense of skepticism. When I showed it to them, they asked if they could have my login details in an attempt to trace where the email came from. Of course, I gave it to them and then they left after saying that they would be in touch. As soon as they were gone, I returned to the computer screen to switch it off. I recoiled in horror at the sight of another cryptic email sitting in my inbox. The subject heading said, Fan. And the email again contained only two short words. Two words which drove fear through every part of my being. It simply read, You told. I was utterly unprepared for the events which followed. Grandpa was 97 years old when he passed away. He lived far from where his three children had settled. Grandma died when I was a small child and he ended up remarrying another woman a few years later who demanded that he move out west so that she could be nearer to her sons. She was a piece of work, was Grandma Hester. We all wondered how Grandpa could stand her. It turns out that perhaps he couldn't. We're not precisely sure when he developed dementia but it was probably years before we noticed it. He'd tell us about people he was speaking to or visiting with or a trip he'd taken. Years later, after we learned he was suffering from dementia, we'd learned that conversation, that trip or visit, never actually happened. For all we really knew, any story he told us from the last decade could be a false memory. We would have no way of knowing. Hester rarely communicated with us herself. Probably our first clue that Grandpa wasn't himself anymore happened a few weeks after he came back east to live with my parents. Most of my family had settled in one area. My wife and I lived in the south end of our city as did one set of cousins but my father and his two sisters all lived in the north within driving distance of each other. A few of my aunt's children had moved out of town and my brother had as well but there were still enough of us for Grandpa to visit with. We would often have gatherings at my parents house where Grandpa would either hold court with some story or just go to sleep. One afternoon, my daughter Brienne, who was in her late teens at the time, came in from playing with my cousin's kids and sat down at the table where Grandpa had been napping. He suddenly woke and smiled at her. Well, hello, Claudia, he said brightly. Claudia was my aunt, dad's youngest dad's youngest sister. I'm Brienne, Grandpa, said my daughter. No, said Grandpa. Almost sounding offended. You're my daughter, Claudia. Later that same month, he told my aunts and uncles the story of how he came out east after living with Hester got to be too much. I prayed to the Lord, said Grandpa. And the next thing I knew, Martin was here. Martin was my father. I remembered him driving out to the tiny cold house on a hill in Colorado to get Grandpa. He had not come due to any divine intervention. He had come because Grandpa called him in the night and pleaded with him to come get him. We all loved Grandpa but caring for him was not easy. For one thing, Grandpa had gotten it into his head that he was a young, single man with many years out of him. And the only thing missing was a young woman at his side. If he spoke for any length of time with a younger woman, he began convinced that she was in love with him and that perhaps she should be his new bride. Hester was even still alive at this point. He had forgotten her utterly. The women he made advances on included my mother, two of my cousins, and my own wife. Thankfully he couldn't do much more than talk, so it was just a matter of politely changing the subject. But it got worse when he decided he could do things like take walks on his own or try to drive my father's car. Dad and mom didn't let him go on walks by himself. But that didn't mean he didn't sneak away sometimes when dad was away and mom was in the basement. He had to use a walker to get around and simply couldn't do stairs, but refused to admit this to anyone including himself. This led to a lot of falls. He would also get confused as to where he was or where he lived. At times during his walks, he would attempt to find the old family home that he had raised my father and aunts in, despite it having been long gone since before I was born. Dad picked him up from a police station where he had been taken after some patrol officers saw him wandering around, clearly lost. The time he tried to drive my dad's car was after that. He decided that the reason he had gotten lost is because he had had to walk. He managed to get the emergency break off and rolled right down the fairly steep incline outside my parents house, crashing into a fence. The damage was minimal, but after that incident, my parents realized he needed to be in a full-time care facility. He got worse after that. My father visited him three times a week. I have no idea how often my aunts went or if they even did. I tended to only go when there was a family gathering, and increasingly I began to realize that he had no clue who I was. He'd smile and greet me as though I was someone he just met. He'd tell me about his children, describing them as little kids, and even go as far to invent a friend who was looking after them while he was in his home with all these old people. Grandpa was 93 at the time. He was much older than many of the others who lived there, but somehow they were the old people. He was not. When I say things got worse, I mean he changed. The false memories, the refusal to acknowledge that he was elderly, the attempts to chat up ladies and inability to remember that his children were grown, and that he had grandchildren and great-grandchildren, but he had never been violent before. That changed one night when dad was called to come to the facility quickly. Grandpa had wandered into the wrong room and had come out screaming, raising his walker up in the air and slamming it into the ground. He even took a few swings of people who tried to calm him down. He began accusing the staff of stealing his things. He was bellowing as loud as he could. Give them back! Give them back! I wasn't there for it, and I still have a hard time picturing it. Grandpa barely raised his voice above normal volume during the last decade of his life. When dad got there, they had gotten him into his room, and he was somewhat appeased. Somewhat. He had a can of insurer and a tube sock and almost hit my father in the head with it when he came in. He apologized. Dad was one of the few people he always recognized, and said he had been waiting for the thief to come back.  The insurer in a sock was his weapon to fend off the thief.  He hated that she had to go through that. Florence was my grandmother, the one who died when I was six. He finished by saying that Florence had gone somewhere, and when he went looking for her, they told me she was dead. One day they're gonna come looking for me, and they're gonna find me dead. That was a jolt to my father. Grandpa had never at any point before that acknowledged his mortality, his advanced age, or the fact that he'd probably know more than a handful of years left at best. Aging and death was something that happened to other people. But here he was, accepting that death was near. That wasn't the last night he mentioned the thief. He even gave the thief a name, Charlie Rosen. It was strange that he would invent a whole person, name included. He didn't even name the friend who was looking after his kids. In fact, that person ceased to exist.  He remembered her now, and was certain that she and Charlie were ganging up on him to make his life a living hell.  Dad could not have a single visit wherein Grandpa would not mention Charlie, and then the violence started up again. In one visit, Grandpa accused Dad of being Charlie and attacked him. After that, Dad's visits dropped once a week, and he didn't stay long. Once, I went with him. It was the last time I saw my grandfather alive. And I'll never forget it. Charlie was here again today. Grandpa told us as soon as we arrived. He told me I couldn't leave this room anymore. He's trapped me here. Dad, this is where you live, my father tried to explain. See, here's a picture of Mom. Why would Charlie let you keep that?  Mother had an aneurysm, said Dad. You and I decided together to unplug the machine.  No, no, it was Charlie. Grandpa's voice was not agitated. It was solid, like he knew for a fact what he was saying. He poisoned her, made something go wrong in her head. I didn't know until then, but I realized it later, after he introduced me to Hester, conned me into marrying her. He's my personal demon, that Charlie.  There is no Charlie, he said, nearly shouting. You aren't supposed to correct people who have dementia, it just confuses them more and makes them upset. But my father forgot this in that moment. Charlie is someone you made up. Mom died naturally. You met Hester at a coffee shop years after mother died, and while she was not a nice woman, she was not unfaithful to you. So please, stop talking about Charlie. Dear Lord in Heaven, said Grandpa. He got to you. He told you to say those things.  Uh, Grandpa, I said. Why don't we start a game of checkers? Usually, he loves checkers.  I couldn't have been more surprised if he'd hit me. Grandpa had never used profanity in his life. By words, he'd called them. We're only used by bad men, as far as he was concerned. Now with you, now with him. Charlie Rosen's pet demons. He comes to me every day. He talks to me about Florence. He taunts me. He reads my mind and he takes thoughts away and puts in new ones. Worse ones. He tells me about how he rapes my little ones. How he and Hester keep them half starved and chained in their basement. I can't stop him. He will go inside my mind. He's controlling me. We left after that without saying goodbye. Driving home, I almost wanted to cry.  It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. What kind of monster was this Charlie? That thought stopped me cold. For an instant, I had accepted that Charlie was real. Giving my head a shake, I resolved to think about something else. But an image of Charlie had been forming in my mind. Beginning a few months back, when Grandpa had first started talking about him, I only now realized that when Grandpa spoke of this demonic man, I was picturing him in my mind and I could see him clearly. I thought of the last time I visited Grandpa in that tiny house in the mountains of Colorado, when I was a teenager, sitting at that little round table while Hester served us some of her inedible glop. And I would see a man standing in the corner of the kitchen, watching us eat.  I thought of the wedding. I was 12 years old. I met Hester for the first time and standing a ways behind her was that same man. I remember a family gathering at the facility Grandpa was currently staying in. Didn't we pass that man in the hall once? No, no, of course not. These were just images my mind had cooked up the more Grandpa had talked about this shady character that never existed. The brain can do that. Insert false people in your memory just because you decide subconsciously to remember them. It doesn't mean you're insane.  Grandpa had invented a person who he talked about with such conviction, as though Charlie was real. So my mind had conjured up a Charlie Rosen. But there was no Charlie Rosen. Grandpa died two months later. I remember the funeral like it was yesterday. I still wake up at night in a cold sweat, remembering. Everything was normal at the start. Our whole family gathered under the same roof for the first time in years. No one was missing. The service was nice as well. The pastor who served the spiritual needs at Grandpa's facility was the officiator. Grandpa looked calm and peaceful. Whole.  I started to feel calm myself. Grandpa was where he belonged now. Where the devils of his own fever decaying brain couldn't get to him anymore. And then we drove to the cemetery. The coffin was lowered. We all sprinkled a handful of dirt on the coffin and began our walk back to the cars. And then the grave digger came out of the shadows to start shoveling the rest of the dirt. I could barely read the embroidered name tag. It looked like C Rose or C Risen or no. It couldn't be. He was a tall, gangly man with leathery skin, sharp looking bones, corded muscle, and long gray hair. And that smile. That smile that haunts my nightmares to this day. I watched as this phantom dumped shovel after shovel of dirt on my grandfather's coffin. He was laughing softly under his breath. And I have never heard such cruel laughter. Today I felt like I had to write all this down. To make sure I remember it all before things get worse. Because today my father called me to complain that Charlie was driving past his house and staring in the windows. My aunt was a con artist and she learned from the best, her father. Grandpa never made it big, but he lived for the game. Staying under the radar was probably what made sure he never got caught. Not once. He was so proud of that. Mom didn't take up the family business. She got religion instead and married a tax accountant. It's so ironic that it sounds like a joke, but it's true. Dad was always the best for helping out with math homework. Mom's more colorful relations were kept at a figurative arms length throughout my childhood, lest they'd corrupt me into following a more interesting life path. Aunt Cassie was the only one who could wiggle her way into my life. She was fully licensed as a psychologist, which made her a smidge more respectable. But Aunt Cassie used her ability to read a person in a whole different way. One probably not intended by the university who issued her degree. Aunt Cassie was a bona fide psychic. She had a shop and everything. Crystals, herbs, candles. Anything you needed to fill the mystic void in your life could be bought for a healthy markup at her little store. There was even a private room in the back that was used for readings and sentences. Because both my folks worked, I would often get dropped off at the shop where I would help Aunt Cassie out with those little shows. Anything from messing with the lights to knocking on walls. Playing with the thermostat was my idea and an effective one. Customers came to get chills down their spine, didn't they? Why not provide? Cassie helped me become the skeptic I am today. Showed me all the behind the scenes sleight of hand stuff. We'd watch daytime talk shows with magicians and mediums and Cassie would explain every step from a basic rundown of cold readings to how to spot an audience plant. After one particularly convincing episode I asked the natural question. Couldn't some of it be real? My aunt's reply was firm. The dead don't talk kiddo.  It was her conviction more than anything that made me believe her. There was only one client I ever saw my aunt refuse. He was old, bald, and stooped. He took his hat off when he came inside and twisted it in his hands as he talked. Cassie tensed up immediately when she saw him. The man claimed to have worked in the prison systems. Death row. He'd been responsible for carrying out the final punishments of the worst convicted criminals on the planet. In his old age this tormented him. Eight at his soul. He wanted Cassie to contact the souls of the ones he'd killed. So he could apologize and beg forgiveness before he joined them. My aunt threw the most epic fit. I'd never seen her so mad.  I hid under the counter with my hands over my ears until he left. Later I thought her reaction was one of fear because of the man's job. An executioner has to be a con artist's worst fear. Eventually I got found out. I wanted to put on a magic show for my folks and, stupidly, I thought I'd do a medium bit where I pretended to talk to grandpa for mom. Huge mistake.  I'd left some textbooks at the shop though so I got to run in and grab them while mom fumed in the car outside. Aunt Cassie didn't even have to ask what was wrong. She could read my face after all. I gave her a hug and a teary snot filled goodbye. She did tell me one last secret though.  I hope to whatever gods might be out there that I don't pass it on to you when I go. We didn't get to talk again for more than nine years. That's when Facebook became popular and no parental ban could help me from trying to reconnect. It was awkward. She'd had a tough go of life. To pay bills she went honest and with her business went all her zest and playful passion for life. One day I got home to a message waiting in my inbox that made my stomach drop to the floor. I love you kiddo. Remember what I told you. I dialed her number, her already crying. No answer. Didn't stop me from dialing again and again and again. And again. I was too much of a mess to tell my mom. The police did that for me though the next day. Car accident. Drug driver. The funeral was a blur. Relatives I'd never seen in the flesh packed the church. I sat between my parents in the front row and wracked my brain trying to figure out what it was my aunt wanted me to remember. We followed the hearse to the cemetery in dead silence. The priest did the last little speech and then I was left alone by her headstone still straining to remember what she had told me. Little bits of my parents' conversation floated in and out of my attention span.  Small turnout. That bothered me. The service had practically been stuffed to the rafters. I turned around to say something and finally understood. Behind my parents there was a whole host of people all standing and staring dead ahead. My parents weren't paying them the slightest attention. The priest muttered some soothing condolences and excuse himself. Walking right through the thick of the crowd without disturbing a single soul. At the head of the group looking just like the day I'd seen her last was Cassie. All the rest in peace sentiment in the world wouldn't have done her any good. Her mouth was wide wide open. And just like that I knew. I know what the family curses. I know why the dead don't talk. They're too busy screaming. Never wondered if things can just be born evil. In this enlightened age of ours concepts like good and evil are often painted as outmoded. Archaic even. According to modern thought people animals too obviously are simple products of their environment and no more responsible for their actions than a twig in a stream. But I know better. Some things are just born bad. About 10 years ago we had a German shepherd named Duchess that had a litter of puppies. Seven in all.  The seventh was a snowy white. Not a true albino.  There was never any doubt about which one we were keeping out of that litter. We named her Princess. Before the end of six months any plans we had about giving away or selling the others became a moot point. As all of the others were dead. We'd just find them at a rate of about one a month. Not mangled or anything. Just dead as if they died in their sleep. At first we thought maybe their mother. It being her first litter in all was accidentally crushing or smothering them. Later we had no doubt as to what had killed them. Within a year she came to dominate her mother. Her father. Tough old alpha that he was. And to a degree. Us too. Her parents shat away from her. When we put out their food she ate to her heart's content. Unchallenged by the other two. Once I tried to shoot her away and let the other two eat. She snarled at me.  And losing a growl so deep. That I felt it in my guts more than hurt it. After that. I left her alone too. I've often wondered if the parents of serial killers know that they have a monster in the making. I mean sure some of them are to blame for how their kids turn out. Products of messed up households with systematic abuse of all possible flavors. But then there are the ones that seem to be true aberrations. It's those families I'm curious about. Do they smile and laugh and pretend that everything's fine. I know that we sure did. We downplay the weirdness around princess. Tried to rationalize her behavior. The bizarre thing she'd do. Like killing rabbits and leaving them hung up in the bushes behind our home. Some dogs do that to show they love you. Cats too. My father would say. To them it's just bringing you food. To me it's like she was haunting us. Just like the puppies years earlier. Not one of those rabbits ever had a mark on them. Princess just like her mom and dad. Was well looked after and never heard for a meal. So it wasn't as if she was hunting for food. Her innumerable kills were always untouched. No the only thing I ever saw her eat was a kitten. We had some feral cats in the woods around our house and one mama cat had a litter in our tool shed. I returned home from school one day and headed around back to look in on them. The door to the shed was open and inside I found princess. Her jaws pink from her feast. As she devoured that last kitten. Her beautiful blue eyes never left mine. The mama we found displayed on what I'd come to think of as the rabbit bush. The tipping point came that same year when we found her sire dead. He was the best dog we ever had. That we ever will have. We woke one Saturday morning to find him in the backyard lying dead without a mark like so many rabbits before him. I can count the number of times I ever saw my father cry on one hand. That was one of them. That was also when we found out how she killed so cleanly. She strangled her prey like a jaguar. The fur at her father's neck was still wet with her saliva. We spent that morning burying that good old faithful dog and then he sent me and my mom away on some pretense. No words were spoken but there was no doubt about what he intended to do. I'm sure that there are some of you reading this that will find the notion of putting an animal down to be abominable but what other options did he have really? Take her to an animal shelter. Give her to some other family. Who could do that and go to sleep with a clear conscience? As it turned out we weren't getting any sleep that night regardless of our decision. We spent that afternoon in my uncle's house. Once when I came in from playing to get a glass of water I overheard my mom telling my uncle that she sometimes wondered if the dog was possessed or something. I had sometimes wondered the same thing. Later that evening not long before sunset we got a call from dad. Apparently the deed was done. By the time we arrived home he'd already washed up and changed clothes but there was little he could have done to hide his wounds. Even less to hide the haunted look in his eyes. Both his arms and one leg were bandaged and that was bad enough but what stuck with me all these years later was just how terrified he looked. It wasn't until I'd actually been through combat that I recognized that expression. It's how men look after they've stared death straight in the face. My father never talked about it but he drafted a friend from up the street to come help and it's from him that I get this part of the story. Princess was many things.  In that if nothing else she took after her father. Her dad Rocky was famous for letting himself into the house if it was storming out. He'd figured out how to paw open the sliding glass door out to the patio. What was really astounding is that he also had the presence of mind to close it behind him.  Disappearing into the woods dad not wanting to put this off and being in full on revenge called his friend from down the road and filled him in. So off on the hunt the two of them went. In his own words she was laying for us. If it sounds absurd to say that princess lay in ambush then I've failed at conveying just how wrong everything about her truly was.  Then she laid up beneath an overhang on the creek bank just where the path crossed it and she waited. She was on my father the instant he stepped down into the creek grabbing his leg and making him fall head first into the water. Then she went straight for his throat. My dad had already lost his rifle at this point and he grabbed her with both hands to try to fend her off wrestling with 115 pounds of teeth claws and muscle in a foot and a half of water princess savaging his arms all the while at some point he managed to work his legs up between him and the dog and kick her away from him providing his friend with a clean shot which he took catching princess through the chest. He put a second round through her head he then helped my dad back home and to the emergency room telling him he'd go back to see after princess once they got home. She can rod where she is was all my dad had to say on the subject. After they got back from the hospital our neighbor went back on his ATV to pick up princess for burial. He was a dog lover like us and it just didn't seem right to him to leave her if he'd spent as much time tiptoeing around as we had he might have felt differently. She flat wasn't there he said no blood trail nothing. He also said that after he'd been there poking around for a few minutes he noticed something else strange no birds it was dead quiet the way the woods sometimes get right before a bad storm blows in wisely he got right the hell out of there there was a storm coming all right that night duchess came pawing at the back door wanting in something she'd never once done in all the time she'd been with us and I had a dream in my dream I was playing football in the backyard with some buddies and ran over to where a bat throw had landed near rocky's grave as I reached for it princess's head shoved up out of the ground to grab my hand I woke up with a jolt and was promptly scared out of roughly 10 more years of my life by the silhouette of a German shepherd in the hallway it was duchess of course she was sitting in the hallway whining and wagging her tail nervously she was looking back towards the front of the house I walked over to her and placed my hand on her big doggy head and said what is it girl that's when I heard the distinctive sound of claws on glass something was pawing at the patio door thoroughly terrified I grabbed duchess by the collar and dragged her along with me to my parents room shutting the door behind me I was 14 I was terrified but even in that terror retreating to my parents room wasn't just for the security of mommy and daddy that's where the guns were I woke them up and told them what I'd heard dad got up and locked the bedroom door and said y'all lock yourselves in the bathroom I heard the patio door slide open if any of the rest of us had any doubts about what had just come into the house duchess sure didn't the only thing she'd ever feared in this world was her own pup a deep rumble of a growl vibrated in the floor beneath our bare feet and duchess's bladder let go as if on cue mine wasn't far from doing the same what followed was a six hour exercise in pure terror punctuated by snarling attacks on the bedroom door crashes through the rest of the house as princess found more things to break whispered prayers from my mother and litanies of curses from my father as another of his attempted forays out of the bedroom was throated we were without a phone the one on my parents nightstand was dead we'd later find the phone line to have been ripped out at the main box my mom suggested that we try to make it to the car and above and beyond everything else it was my father's response to the idea that really scared me of the three of us he was supposed to be the rational thinker but what we got instead was honey I think that's what it wants us to do as the world through the windows turned from black to gray a quiet fell over the house mom and I watched through the windows craning our heads in an attempt to get an eye on the patio door but try as we might the best we can manage was a view of most of the patio more than enough concealment for a dog to slink in or out even a big one like princess after an hour of silence my dad quietly opened the bedroom door I remember thinking what a useless gesture any attempted stealth was dog senses are so much more acute than ours that we might as well have fired a 21 gun salute dad stopped in the hallway and shoot me back to the bedroom don't come out until I say carefully he made his way through the house to the patio door we heard him shut it before he shouted back to us to stay in the bedroom till he told us to come out through the door I could hear him moving around and what seemed to be him dropping things into a garbage bag after about 30 minutes he gave us the all clear what greeted us was a disaster ripped up cushions and pillows destroyed furniture shredded papers and books all over the floor but most terrible were the smears of gore all over everything my mother wondered allowed at what she drug into the house grim faced my father didn't answer he simply turned and headed out the back to bury rocky for a second time we cleaned up as best we could while dad drove down to our neighbor's house to make all the appropriate calls after all these years I still wonder what portion of homeowners insurance covers attack by undead demon ghost dog unspoken we all wondered what the night would bring as it turned out we never got a repeat but duchess never left the house again time rolled on occasionally we'd find a new present on the rabbit bush just a friendly reminder another token of princesses abiding love about two years into college my dad called to tell me that our neighbor had passed away heart attack in his sleep the corner says said my dad but what we were both thinking was not a mark there are plenty of nights where I wonder what the last thing was to pass before that old bachelor's eyes I can guarantee you it stared right back I've seen firsthand how it feeds not long after that my folks put the house up for sale I sort of acted as go between on that deal about a week after the new owners moved in I received a call from the man of the house he wanted to know if we'd left any pets behind when we moved already fearing the answer I asked him why he asked oh me and the kids keep seeing this white shepherd in the woods pretty pretty we have been sending deliberate signals out into space since 1974 many people including some scientists like Stephen Hawking have wondered if this might be a grave mistake in an interview with the Times astronomer Martin Dominic said some say alien contact is the greatest thing we should do some think we should be very quiet and this is the last thing we should do and it may indeed be the last thing we do the dark forest theory states that if the universe is teeming with life the reason for all these years of radio silence is self-preservation that hungry hostile conquering forces glide silently past always listening and if we want to survive we need to be just another quiet little blue dot in the vastness of space Olivia and I grew up in Magdalena New Mexico it's a very small town the last census had us at 912 full-time residents we have a few restaurants and cafes and every year for a few weeks of winter tumbleweeds take over the town they can be found here and there along almost every road and sometimes if the wind is just right they will completely cover the sidewalks and colorful storefronts along the east side of main street the houses here are small and a bit rundown but the people are friendly and kind we're located in the high desert on land that is as flat as a pancake there aren't many trees to be found it's mostly low-growing desert scrub with a few pines but often the distance you can see the surrounding mountains the one thing that sets us apart is that we're just a stone's throw from the vla the very large array is a radio astronomy observatory it's a huge bank of radio telescopes set out in a gigantic y-shape in the desert the vla receives signals coming from space it listens Olivia and I have worked at the observatory every summer since we turned 15 her mom would drop us off or we'd ride our bikes we did everything from running the gift shop to sweeping the public walkways it was interesting and it was fun because we were together I've always lived here with my Aunt Vera on the outskirts of Magdalena until I went away to college last year I still come back on holidays and summer break this year in particular I've been looking forward to spending the summer working at the observatory and spending time with Olivia I have an important question to ask her and I don't mind telling you I'm a bit nervous she's going on a trip to visit family in New York with her sister Irene she's planning on leaving two days after I arrive it's just for two weeks so I'll wait until she gets back to ask her I was in my dorm room packing up my belongings and checking to see I hadn't missed anything when I got the call my aunt was in the hospital she'd had a heart attack and was stable for the moment she was the only family I had left I threw my stuff in the car and took off I can barely remember the ride Olivia was waiting for me outside the hospital and we went in together my aunt was conscious and able to talk quietly she looked very frail lying there in that cold metallic bed but we were told she would make a full recovery we stayed at the hospital until visiting hours were over then picked up some takeout and drove back to my aunt's house Olivia talked about canceling her trip but I told her not to worry I told her I could handle things here she'd been planning that visit for months I told her to go looking back now it's the thing I most regret we spent a last quiet evening together sitting and talking on the front porch and looking out across the desert at the star-filled sky the next morning I drove Olivia and her sister to the airport we said our goodbyes and I drove back to the hospital there I was surprised to find Aunt Vera sitting up by the window laughing with her best friend Lucy Meyerson I stayed for an hour then excused myself to go check in at the observatory there was little traffic and in no time I was pulling into the parking lot a plume of red dust trailing behind me I could see Leon the head maintenance man wrestling with a large terracotta planner so I rushed over to lend a hand David it's good to see you how's Vera doing he asked getting better every day they're sending her home in a week I replied with a sigh of relief that's really good to hear Leon smiled clapping me on the shoulder and I sure I'm glad you're here I could use the help Leon and I spent the afternoon digging out a couple of small dead trees and replacing them with an olive tree and some native grasses it was too hot to talk much while we were digging and hauling but on our lunch break he filled me in with the local goings on Leon told me that over the course of the last six weeks the staff had been reduced to a skeleton crew at first he thought that some of our funding had been cut so he asked Karen the office manager she said no that there hadn't been any recent cutbacks but there had been a lot of closed door meetings and phone calls back and forth between other observatories and also to Washington all of the temporary help and then sent home and after tomorrow Karen would also be working from home something's up Leon said but I don't know what maybe we found something out there I said looking upwards or maybe something's found us Leon shook his head continuing it's the damnedest idea I ever heard of sending out signals into space we don't know what's out there it's like dropping yourself in the middle of the ocean and sending out a trail of chum sharks can smell blood from a mile away and just like whatever's up there we won't hear him coming that evening I drove back to my aunt's house with Leon's words going round in my head there's something about the desert that makes you realize how small and insignificant we are after a while I got up to bring my dishes inside and down the street I could hear a soft metallic topping it was Miss Perez ringing the dinner bell for her stray cats the next day was busy I stopped at the hospital first thing in the morning then headed into work Leon in fear of losing his last extra hand kept us working hard at one project after another at home that night while warming up some leftovers I heard the creaking of the front porch steps it was Miss Perez after asking about Aunt Vera she smiled at the good news and handed me a plate of still warm chocolate chip cookies we talked for a few minutes then turning to go she asked if I had seen her cats she'd put out food for them last night but the dishes were left untouched I told her I'd keep an eye out I ate my supper on the porch as the final rays of light followed the sun below the horizon a cool breeze picked up and I must have dozed off in my chair because I woke to the pattern of quiet rain a thick layer of clouds blocked half the sky but in the distance I could still see the full moon over the mountains a quick flash of movement to my right caused me to rise from my chair and walk to the top of the steps I counted eight deer moving quickly in single file they ran across the road and headed for the mountains trailing along behind them were two dogs and a cat the following day at work I told Leon about the strange caravan I asked if he'd ever seen anything like it he paused thinking well I did hear about a study that said a lot of missing house pets can signal that something's coming that the animals can sense things like earthquakes and such ahead of time you know so they can get out of dodge later that evening sitting on the porch I listened for the usual sounds of neighborhood dogs barking but there was only silence I had a hard time falling asleep that night eventually though I dozed off I bolted full awake at 3 a.m with a feeling of abject dread my heart was pounding and it felt like the ceiling above me was pushing down with incredible weight knowing full well that I'd never get back to sleep I got up to check the house flicking the switch to the main room resulted in nothing checking the kitchen I found the light was out there too the curtains to the window over the sink were opened and I could see a dim flickering light reflecting off of the chain link fence it was coming from the street and my first thought was fire I grabbed my phone and headed out onto the porch immediately I saw sparks trailing down from the utility pole directly in front of the house thanks to the recent rain there was little chance of fire then I noticed the other utility poles were the same lined up all down the street like a row of gigantic sparklers several houses down I saw Miss Perez run down her steps and across the front lawn towards there was something laying in the street it looked like a person my first thought was a down wire no stop I yelled to her I went to step off the porch when something some kind of intuition stopped me in my tracks it was then that I noticed a low mechanical hum the air was filled with static electricity but it wasn't coming from the power lines I looked up in the distance the night sky was clear but there was a massive bank of low clouds directly overhead the clouds were dense but I thought I could see a dim pulsing of lights above them I heard Miss Perez begin to scream then the humming rose in tone and a wide swath of light swept down to the ground as soon as I touched her she dropped to the ground like a rag doll that's when I saw them skittering along in the shadows six or seven of them at least they were fast and they were coming this way backing into the house I closed the door quietly then went to the front window with no lights on I would remain unseen but I kept to the side and move slowly just in case through the half closed blinds I could see across the street to about six or seven houses down this was when I got my first clear look at them I think I stopped breathing their legs were elongated thin but muscular they moved with impressive speed on all fours but they would often pause to stand and look around their angular heads tilting like a dog looking up at its master three of them approached a house in running full force they hit the front door and it exploded inward with a crash one moved around to a side window and another moved easily up onto the rooftop perching there its head darting quickly in all directions I caught a glimpse between the houses of two people running through the darkness they must have run out their back door in a panic the thing on the roof screeched and lept down after them I heard two gunshots and then a scream and then nothing the creatures returned to their methodical siege of the next house in line and I realized then that they were most likely coming down both sides of the street that would mean that they were almost here I started moving then quietly locking the deadbolt on the front door and moving through the rooms both checking that the windows were locked and looking for a place to hide the house had no basement and only three closets both my and Aunt Vera's closets were packed to the brim so I decided to try the small closet in the living room Aunt Vera used that for guests so it was half empty I grabbed a large knife from the kitchen and moved to the closet there were a few long coats that I pulled in front of me as I moved to the back my knee struck something hard feeling around in the darkness I recognized a little wooden step ladder that's when I remembered the crawl space above the closet I felt a tiny ray of hope until I heard a hard crash at the front door they were inside slowly and carefully I slid the coats back and opened up the ladder it only had three steps so after quietly lifting the wood panel in the ceiling I pulled myself up into the dusty space above and silently put the panel back in place I didn't move then I tried to listen but I couldn't hear much above the pounding of my heart so I tried to slow my breathing I heard glass breaking and loud crashes as they tore through the house a minute later I thought I heard the scrabbling of claws on the floor of the porch then it was quiet I didn't move for 10 minutes then as silently as possible I crawled over to a small vent and looked out from there I could see a car on fire in the street the door was open and a charred human figure lay on the ground I watched the houses across the street for any faces in the windows with the slightest movement of the curtains but there was nothing and I wondered then if everyone was dead I took out my phone and tried to call Olivia there was no signal I noticed that the loud buzzing hum was moving away now it grew softer and the air was less filled with static electricity about 10 minutes later though it started moving back this way I listened to the pattern repeat three more times until exhausted I rested my head on the attic floor and slipped into unconsciousness I heard the slow familiar creaking of the rocking chair Aunt Vera sat smiling on the porch she looks so young I'm fine now she said I'm with your Uncle Jack I haven't seen him in such long time with tears in her eyes now she said I'll miss you my boy but you need to go David go now my eyes snapped open and it took me a moment to get my bearings when I came fully awake I was absolutely certain of two things my Aunt Vera was gone and I had to get out of here now lowering myself quietly down to the closet floor I did a quick check of the house empty heading for my room I grabbed two backpacks and a duffel bag I threw in clothes my camping gear flashlight a small radio and all the batteries I could find in the kitchen I got canned goods some lighters and two large knives then I set an unopened five gallon water jug next to the front door raiding the medicine cabinet I found aspirin bandages and some leftover antibiotics closing up my packs I looked around sprinting back to my room I grabbed the picture of Olivia and me that I kept in a frame on my dresser an old arrowhead sat next to it I took that as well I did one last thing too then I cinched up the packs grabbed the water jug and headed outside watchfully I moved across the street and through my neighbor's backyard then out into the low scrub towards the mountains staying low I moved as quickly as I could until I felt the air begin to charge with electricity then I hid in the bushes until I heard it once again moving away after a few hours of this I thought that I was far enough away to just keep walking whatever was above the clouds seemed to stay over the town I wondered if the same thing was happening over every city my mind kept returning to thoughts of Olivia I tried to stay positive she was smart and there were lots of hiding places in New York maybe she had just taken an early flight to surprise me maybe she was headed for home right now as the sun began to set I adjusted my bearings so I wouldn't overshoot my destination I knew where I was going I reached a small rock outcropping at the first light of dawn resting there I drank some water and then buried most of my supplies in the sand a few miles west of here was a small valley tucked away into that wall of the valley was a cliff dwelling Olivia and I had found it once when we were camping I wanted to make sure that it was empty before I carried in my supplies it took me a couple hours to find it then I stayed hidden listening after a while I climbed up the rocky ledge and looked inside it was empty there were three levels empty and silent retrieving my buried supplies I returned and set up camp inside the highest level exhausted I slept I dreamt of our camping trip 20 minutes from here we had found two very old arrowheads we'd each kept one and I dreamt of the message I'd written in black marker on the wall across from the front door Olivia when I left they were sweeping the town every 10 minutes wait until they're moving away then head for where we found on the arrowheads I'll watch for you there every day I love you David is that no I must be imagining it I mean what the hell is that anyway having just finished washing my face before bed I headed out of the bathroom and caught a glimpse of something out of place about 10 or maybe 15 feet outside my back window was a thin shape that stood out from the colorful bed of flowers to its left and the two or three acres of woods behind it at first my brain identified it as a shovel someone had dug into the ground and left upright yet there were a few problems with this that came to mind the first was that my backyard was entirely gated and I'd never had problems with trespassers before due to the height of the fence and the remote location where my property sat the second was that though there was not a soul or animal in sight my motion sensor light had been triggered near the odd objects location if someone had snuck onto my property and dug the shovel into the ground they couldn't have done it just now there would have been nowhere for them to run and lastly it wasn't just a long piece of wood that resembled a shovel not exactly at least there was a black top hat that sat curiously at the very top of the wood as I stared wide-eyed at the slant of the shovel like object and the tilt of the black hat at the very top I felt a visceral urge to vomit I barely managed to contain it have you ever spoken to a dog before and seen its head slightly tilt to the side in I assume an attempt to figure out just what the hell it is you're saying that's the feeling I got as I peered out the window and that black hat seemed to stare back and then there was darkness as the outside motion sensor light turned off and the backyard was no longer in sight okay that's enough Don I said to myself remembering to breathe and turning back to the kitchen can you guess what happened next no probably not unless you've encountered the same thing I did but then again I assume you wouldn't be able to read this if you had as I turned my back to the darkness the motion sensor light came back on at that very second and I stopped breathing again as I turned the object came into view again but this time it was a few feet closer and it was different instead of just the hat it wore something patchy and gray on its chest as well though it was almost certainly a dream I decided to call the police anyway but as I did I made another mistake I turned my back on the thing yet again reaching for the cell phone I heard the glass window shatter onto the floor I fell back against the wall immediately and turned to see the creature now inside my home standing in the circle of sharp debris this can't be happening I whispered to myself as I scanned the thing which was now only 20 or so feet away it wore a black top hat that tattered gray clothing and now two bone thin arms had seemed to sprout inside I dialed 911 and the last thing I remember was passing out later on I was able to hear a recording and my voice saying it's in the house I can't tell you much about what happened after because I don't really remember but I can tell you where I am now I call it the overlook but I'm sure it's real name something else probably some nice title that does it share to conceal just what type of lunatics it contains inside crazies like me you see I'm allowed to write one letter a week supervised of course and this time I've decided to share my life story with a lot of you well I suppose it's less my story than it's it is still here with me it watches me from the corner of my room it scurries up the walls and hangs from the ceiling it sometimes just stands there tilting its head towards me maybe it's deciding just when exactly to finish me off there's not much left for it to devour however seeing how I haven't slept in weeks and continue to lose my touch on what's left of my reality the doctors here weren't thrilled when I cut my eyelids off three or was it four days ago it was a hell of a mess but what else could I do they don't understand that every time I close my eyes it gets closer at least this way I bought myself some time at least this way you'll have some warning if he comes for you next I call him the stick man and if you see him don't look away a year before he died my grandfather told me a story he was in the way that old soldiers often are a no-nonsense upright man a few words it was the morning following my 20th birthday and he telephoned me at 9 30 on the dot requesting my presence at his home on the outskirts of Salcom approximately half an hour's drive I arrived nursing a hangover from the previous night and he offered me a cigarette when I hesitated he just laughed and told me that he knew I smoked and that he wouldn't tell my father we sat together on his porch and smoked in silence watching the waves crash against the Devonshire coast eventually he stubbed out the butt of the silk cut and produced a shoebox which he handed to me I want to tell you about the war he said his speech slow and slurred from a minor stroke he had suffered two years prior knowing how he felt on the matter he had not even congratulated me on my successful application to join the army several weeks prior I said grandpa you don't have to I need to he said open the box I obliged inside was a beret wrapped around three items a key a tubular bundle of tissue paper and something heavy an oil cloth I put the box down and picked up the key admiring the intricate brass work and unusually complex blade the only other person that knew this story was your grandma and she's gone now I won't be around forever either you know it's important people know we were silent for a couple minutes it sounds selfish but I hate when old people talk so fatalistically that said my curiosity was peaked by the grim show and tell atmosphere he lit another cigarette letting the flame of his match linger just long enough that the wood about its head had begun to curl and blacken then he check it out I joined the war too late he said all through school my friend Nick and I just wanted to be heroes when the time finally came and we were gearing up to fight the Nazis in France our damn unit was diverted where were you sent I asked he took a deep drag on the smoke Channel Islands the only part of the British Isles to be occupied by the Germans coinciding with the liberation of France we were preparing to attack the Isle of Jersey when the Jerry surrendered just a few hundred of them hold up and their rat warrants in the cliffs he paused and tapped the cigarette with a forefinger so that glowing ashes tumbled from it and were snuffed out by the wind like miniature dying stars the night after the surrender Nick and I were sitting in the pub being bought drinks by the locals when a woman burst in from the rain crying and shouting for help naturally we asked her what was wrong and she told us that her children had been taken hostage a bastard by the name of Patar Sahar he was some kind of priest that the Nazis had brought with them when they landed or so she said Nick asked where he'd taken the cans and she said that he'd stolen a robot and was on his way to a little offshoot island called Babel Rock she was sure that he was going to kill him Nick and I ran to our superiors but as soon as we mentioned Babel Rock they wanted to call for a help from the Americans and wait until light they took our rifles away and told us to forget the whole thing but I would sooner have been court-martialed than let some American GI have the glory this was our fight our war and no matter how small it was how insignificant and grand scheme of things we would fight it this was our home you know we stole a boat of our own and set out into the storm I wish I'd stopped to think about things for a second but I was young and stupid we both were grandpa put down the cigarette and unwrapped the oil cloth inside it was a large old-fashioned looking pistol with faded wooden grips Jesus Krampa I said are you allowed to have that he winked what they don't know won't hurt him was true then it's true now I wanted in cards from a yank back in London before we set out for the islands nobody knew I had it so they couldn't take it away he sat down the gun and stuck the smoke back in his mouth exhaling blue fumes of the dying sun that was slipping beneath the horizon long story short we land alone on this bleak old rock right in the middle of a storm black as the devil's eyes and so sharp and craggy that it sliced one of my boots right open along the soul there was one building on the island a wooden shack overlooking the beach it was dark not just because of the time of day you couldn't see more than five feet in front of you I remember looking up at the sky and seeing the clouds all lit up by lightning flashes from the inside like big stone lanterns the clouds were coiling around above Babel Rock and there was a hole in the very center above the house not just a hole in the clouds but in the sky itself there were no stars just like a black empty space sucking in the storm clouds as we were heading up the beach with nothing but the lightning to show us the way I swear to God it looked like the rain was falling up into that hole in the sky grandpa paused and sucked on his cigarette the tip glowed brightly and illuminated his face with a faint orange hue then he continued I booted open the door of the house waving the gun around like some madman but it was deserted we poked around and eventually came across a trapdoor under a carpet beneath the shack were stone steps coiling downwards into a handful of rooms carved into the rock itself not rooms for people though the dimensions were all wrong the corridors were really tall about nine feet high but so narrow we had to turn sideways to get through them everything was covered in weird scratchings too in the walls and on the ceiling roman numerals I think everything was quiet except for the storm outside and we were just starting to regret ever going there heroism or no when we rounded a corner and found the children he needed his brow that's a bloody sight I won't ever forget they were stood in a ring in this big oval shaped room their eyes were all rolled back so you couldn't see the pupils and they were each reading from a little book like a bible but I couldn't understand a word of what they were saying it wasn't german or latin or any language I know before I could say anything or do anything I heard a voice behind me horrible deep resounding it said halt and I turned around and there's patar this fat jerry bastard in priest roams and he's gotten a little pistol to nick's head told me to drop my gun and kick it over to him and I mean of course I did this was nick he lived two doors down from me my entire life he was my best friend being a hero is nothing when it cost you everything grandpa paused and I saw his leathery cheeks glistening wet from tears then he blew nick's brains out just like that shot him in the side of the head I lunged for him trying to grab the gun and he shot me too shattered my kneecap that's why I need this he tapped the heavy stick that he'd hobbled around on as long as I knew him then he flicked away the end of his cigarette and reopened the pack with trembling fingers it was empty I handed him my half smoked one and he nodded his thanks I passed out he said his face now lost to the rush of night when I came to his face was inches away from mine and I could feel his breath on my cheek he stank over rotting meat there was something wrong with his eyes too black black as that hole in the sky he spoke to me then he asked me in broken English if I believed in God I could barely speak the pain was too much but I nodded and he asked me if I would like to meet him I thought then that he was just threatening to kill me to send me to meet my maker so I shook my head and I think that surprised him he stood up walked away from me to the opposite wall and that's when I saw the door for the first time it was massive almost touching the ceiling about four feet wide and it was made of some kind of black rock it had carved on it an apple tree and there was a snake coiling down the trunk the snake had its head turned side onto you and instead of an eye there was a weird jagged keyhole he went to the kids chanting throughout all this and picked up a key this key off the pedestal they were gathered around grandpa gestured at the key its brass swastika head glinting beneath the glow of his cigarette patar said that he'd spent 11 years of his life secretly visiting babel rock measuring the keyhole and designing a key to fit I asked him whether he put the door there and he gave me an odd look and told me it had been there before men even walked the earth then he unlocked the door and stepped backwards speaking words in German I couldn't understand and then something started to push the door open from the other side as it opened just a crack all the candles in the room went out and we were in darkness the only light was coming from a lantern in the next room and it was just me patar and whatever was opening that door and all the while the kids were chanting and singing it opened a few inches more and a hand came through all charred and calloused but it wasn't a human hand it was small with long hooked fingertips and it coiled around the edge of the door as though it were cautious of entering the room as it did the air began to taste of seawater and sulfur and I was more scared than than I've been in my entire life I tore my eyes away dragged myself over to my 45 and turned around and shot patar in the back he mined a pistol with his hand his blood splashed across the door and wall but it also landed on that hand as soon as it came into contact with that blood it went crazy the hand tightened its grip on the door and started pushing this was solid stone about a foot thick and this thing was just shoving it open I forgot my pain then fear was giving me strength and I limped across the room and slammed my shoulder against the door I must have surprised him because I felt it give way and I heaved with every ounce of strength in my body God I was tough as a lad he sucked on the smoke the tip flaring up against the night I almost had it the door was almost closed but that hand that blasted monster of a hand still there reaching rounded me I pulled out my boot knife and I hacked one of its fingers off it howled or maybe that was just the storm above us but the hand retreated and I slammed the door closed then to my horror the door shuttered and opened a crack it was throwing its weight against it desperate to get into our world I pushed back and then I noticed the key sticking out beside my hand I forced the door closed one last time then I turned that key and threw it away from me across the room the second the key left the door the banging stopped everything was silent the kids all kind of jolted awake like sleep walkers and started crying all of us were covered in Nick's blood and guitars that finger I hacked off flared up caught fire and in seconds it was nothing but bone I went to Nick but he was long gone so I picked up the gun and went to petar instead he looked up at me and he said something in German words that echo around in my head every night I shot him again and again until there were no bullets left in my gun and he was unrecognizable and then the pain hit me again and blacked out grandpa took a final drag on his cigarette then he grounded into the ashtray we sat unmoving and unspeaking in his garden our silhouettes picked out white edged by the stars like marble statue seated in eternal vigil for the men that had sailed across the sea and never returned I gazed at him and in that half light he could almost be the fit powerfully built young man in the photographs that had adorned the walls of his house before grandma had passed away I had no idea what to think or to feel or how much of his story was true but I was enthralled by his words what happened then grandpa as he replied the clouds began to shift over the stars like curtains being drawn over a stage so that his words seemed to come from some unspecified point in the darkness and I were speaking to a ghost when I came to I heard shouting from far above commands being given boots on the stairs English voices I was sure I grabbed the gun and shoved it into my jacket I knew that if my superiors knew about it I'd be in even deeper shit than I already was then I saw nick lying there on the ground and I knew that I had to get something some proof so that other people would know that his death hadn't been in vain I grabbed the key and put it in my pocket but then I figured it's just a key could be for anything then I saw the finger the one I'd hacked off the hand of God or whatever the hell that thing was it was just a charred bone by now but it was intact so I grabbed that too as I stuck it into my pocket men burst into the room dressed like paratroopers with camo paint smeared over their faces no symbols or insignias on their uniforms either next thing I know someone's sticking a gun in my face and yelling at me to identify myself naturally I did and they talked amongst themselves for a few minutes they dragged me out of the room and onto the island itself the storm had blown itself out one of them sat with me I tried talking to him but he just straight out blanked me I guess they must have been special forces of some sort on strict orders not to talk to prisoners I think I heard gunfire from the tunnels below but I was so far above them I couldn't be sure as far as I could recall the only living things down there with a speck of boys and those kids so what they could have been shooting at I have no idea eventually a rescue boat shows up and a medic sees to my leg while some big brass guy lectures me on the importance of subtlety before I was allowed on the boat though he straight up told me that if I breathed a word of what I saw on Babel Rock to anyone my friends the townspeople anyone they'd shoot me then when I got back to Jersey my commanding officer sat me down in his office and told me that I would be retired due to my injuries and that if I kept my mouth shut I'd get a war pension from the government and I'd be comfortable for the rest of my life I asked about Nick then the man went all quiet then he told me that his next of kin would be looked after I think they got the newspapers to report him dying a hero fighting Jerry commandos or something I never read past the first few lines of that article I just kept seeing him in that cave gun to his head and eyes bleeding for me to save him so you never told anyone I asked who would you have me tell nobody would believe me with that they just think I was insulting Nick's memory trying to steal the glory from him I loved him like a brother too much to take his story away from him I'm sorry grandpa I didn't mean he laid a hand on my shoulder it's okay he struck a match and unwrapped the tissue paper inside long and angular there lay a skeletal humanoid finger far too long to be from a man and with bone hardened and pointed at the tip like a claw I gazed at it in awe in horror before whispering I'm so sorry grandpa he smiled and patted me on the shoulder then he blew out the match and I heard him gathering the three items he had showed me back into their box it was as I was unlocking my car that I heard him call to me again he was standing in the doorway lit from behind in an otherwise featureless darkness well done on getting the job be careful over there in Afghanistan I mean always rely on your judgment no matter what they tell you he closed the door I sat in my car in the dark for nearly an hour thinking about what he'd said when I got home my father was already in bed and I lay awake gazing at the dark ceiling I imagined it to be the voidest center of that storm my grandfather had seen all those years ago he left me the house in his will I retired from the army after being shot in the hip during an ambush and cabal and I was looking forward to the piece that granddad's old place on the coast would surely bring when I was moving some of his things in the attic I stumbled across the shoebox again and it was all there the gun the key the finger like the realization of some strange dream the memories of that night flooded back and I sat down and cried for the first time since his funeral I took a ferry to jersey recently and then hired a local fisherman to take me to babel rock under the sun with nothing but the laughter of seabirds in my ears and the taste of saltwater in the air it was actually a relatively peaceful place the eye of a storm there was no shack though I suppose it was probably destroyed shortly after the events of my grandfather's story I found a heavy iron hatch under which was a stairwell but that ended in a square brick room scrawled with graffiti and full of empty crisp packets when the sunset was at its apex licking at the ocean with a long orange tongue I wrapped the three items in his beret and hurled them off the cliff where the hungry frothing jaws of the sea snapped them up then I sat with a thermos of tea and imagined grandpa and Nick sitting together on a boat destined for London full of stories of heroism perhaps he believed the story best forgotten that he wasn't a hero but I believed it from me I heard the bells jingle on the door and looked up for my sweeping to say we were just getting ready to close up shop I was the only one working but my boss insisted I always use we I suppose he thought it was safer that way the old Boston neighborhood sometimes got a little dicey at night the gentleman smiled politely and nodded I'll be quick at least I'll try he said tipping his silver topped cane he was young looked to be in his late 30s well dressed with a long black leather coat he walked favoring his left leg as he perused the aisles filled with bouquets of lilies daisies incarnations he made his way towards our largest display roses of every color imaginable I was in no hurry it was Valentine's Day and my work part-time at the flower shop over the last three years had taught me that going above and beyond on this particular day could yield some extremely nice tips between the fact that my car payment was due on the 15th and after making said payment I would be left with exactly $172 in my bank account I had told my boss that I would be happy to keep the flower shop open late as a guy I knew that Valentine's Day could kind of sneak up on you and as I was not in a relationship at the moment the least I could do was assist my fellow travelers in their romantic endeavors are you looking for something particular I asked searching he paused then smiled I'll take two dozen of these he pointed towards a vase filled with dark red roses named eternity they were so dark in color that they were almost a velvety black and I would like one single white rose at the center very nice choice would you like them in a gift box or a vase I asked walking up to the counter he paused as he looked directly at me I could see a hint of sadness in his eyes the thing is I have a rather unusual request I need them delivered tonight and to my exact specifications I looked up at the clock on the wall it was just past 10 when I looked back at him he was pulling an envelope from his coat pocket there's $2,000 cash inside you can keep it for yourself off the books so to speak I glanced at the packet as he said it on the counter hesitated then asked what exactly would I be delivering he chuckled and shook his head just the flowers that's all it's the location that you may have a problem with allow me to explain many years ago I met my one true love true love I won't go into detail but for me there will be no other it became our tradition if you will on every Valentine's Day and exactly midnight I would present her with a single white rose surrounded by dark red roses pausing his voice turned grim as he continued a few years ago she was taken from me I wasn't there I would have stopped it but he paused to gather himself then went on since then every year in exactly midnight I place the flowers on her grave she is buried at the forest hills cemetery it's not far from here the main gates are locked by 11 but there is a small iron gate that is left open I always do it myself but this year he lifted the cane so will you make the delivery I was silent for a long moment I thought about my car payment and I thought about how long it would take me to earn $2,000 okay I said I'll do it but he nodded and handed me another envelope these are the instructions follow them explicitly turning away he moved slowly towards the door the bells jangled again I watched through the window as he walked across the darkened street and disappeared around a corner I busied myself closing up the shop all the while thinking about my bizarre assignment I considered letting my boss know but I wanted to keep the cash for myself so I put on my jacket pocketed both envelopes picked out the two dozen red roses plus one white and headed for my car it was cold so as I waited for my car to warm up I opened the set of instructions nothing too strange just directions to the cemetery and the location of her grave with a little hand-drawn map I was to place the roses exactly at midnight and light a candle entering forest hills cemetery into my phone I pulled out of the parking lot 20 minutes later I was parked along the street adjacent to the cemetery it was 1130 I found the small gate unlocked and walked through it opened onto a path that meandered and branched out to several other paths I referred to the hand-drawn map included with the instructions to keep from getting lost the place was vast and surrounded by woods there was a light breeze that kept the clouds moving slowly across a near full moon as I walked I thought ironically what a perfect night for a walk through an eerie cemetery after about 15 minutes I arrived at the final turnoff the marker said coves rest and it looked to be in the oldest section the stones were large and worn some had statues of angels and huge marble crosses the path the dead ended at her grave which turned out not to be a grave but a small mausoleum a little stone house with four pillars and a door with a small window a few feet in front of the door was a bench facing a stone circle with a large gray marble vase at the center sitting the flowers down on the bench I checked my phone 1155 the second I laid my eyes on the little stone house which by the way looked absolutely ancient I began to feel on edge I started to think about the nameless gentleman who paid in cash and the thought occurred to me that he was the only person on earth who knew where I was 1158 two minutes to go I could wait two minutes looking back at the mausoleum I noticed a small ledge just under the window it held a candle presumably the one I was supposed to light and what looked to be a box of matches one minute left I gathered the flowers put the white rose hastily in the center and stood at the ready because when my phone clicked over to midnight I was getting the hell out of there the wind picked up even so I thought that I heard something scurry inside the little stone house probably just rats the final second ticked by it was midnight I practically threw the roses into the urn then half ran the few steps to the door of the mausoleum with shaking hands I opened the matchbook the first one didn't light swearing now I tried another it burst into flame protecting it from the wind I let the candle the sunlight from the match had temporarily blinded me so I didn't see the woman's hand reach out from the window I felt it close like a vice around my wrist I screamed and tried to pull away but she held on her grip was like steel and it was as cold as ice the grip tightened until I felt the bones in my wrist stressed to the breaking point and I was pulled forward I was being slowly forced into the crypt first my fingers then my wrist disappeared through the window into darkness and in that black darkness I thought I saw two cold blue eyes looking back at me wildly desperate now I reached for my pocket knife snapped it open and stabbed at her hand I must have hit something because she loosened her grip pulling back with all my strength I heard a snapping sound then I landed hard on the cold ground I was up and running in a millisecond and I never stopped even when I lost the path I just kept running till I found a section of fence then I practically threw myself up and over the top it took me quite a while to find my car but I finally made it home some time has passed now and I try not to think too much about it not if I want to sleep at night but on some cold winter nights I wonder I wonder about the other people he sent as a gift on Valentine's Day's past and I wonder about the inscription above the door of the little stone house love eternal having difficulty staying awake there trying to study for some big exam finish some last minute assignment that you put off all weekend and it's now three in the morning and you are absolutely exhausted or perhaps you were in a similar state recently and are looking for help on what to do well friend I have just the prescription to ease your weary mind all you need to do is win a game setting up the game is relatively simple all you need is an hourglass a candle and a marker let me make one thing specifically clear you need an hourglass not one of those rinky dink 30 second pieces of crap you get out of a cereal box or board game before playing the game test your hourglass to make sure that it takes an hour or slightly longer to drain all of the sand from one section to the other having it take slightly longer will help but too long or too short and you'll run into complications during the game you must also be completely alone in the room while playing when you are ready to play choose any room that can be sealed simply meaning that all doorways and windows can be closed any other form of timekeeping device or alarm must be taken out of the room prior or the game will not begin the hourglass will be your only time tracking tool hence why having an accurate hourglass is important anything with an electronic display should also be removed this includes TVs cell phones computer monitors anything leaving them in the room during the game will put you at a massive disadvantage you may begin the game at 8 p.m make sure the room is sealed drawing the curtains to block any outside light then draw a simplistic hourglass shape on the back of one of your hands make sure to remember well which hand it was since you'll mostly be in the dark for this game take the candle and light it then turn off the lines and sit down on the floor with the three previously mentioned objects close together and flip the hourglass so the sand begins to fall into an empty half the only source of light should be your candle now yell something along the lines of i'm not tired and i refuse to go to sleep close your eyes to the count of 10 and open them again you won't be entirely sure but somewhere in the room you'll think you can see the shadowy outline of a man you have now begun the game and your opponent is none other than the master of sleep himself the sandman do not provoke him and don't speak to him either you've challenged him and in a way insulted him about his profession so he's not in the best of moods to say the least now comes the game your task is to stay awake as long as possible to a maximum of eight hours which will take you to four a.m every hour you must flip the hourglass to reset it and keep the game going each time you flip the hourglass you may take the marker and draw a tally mark on your arm the specifics of which arm you mark will be explained later and don't think you can just flip the hourglass eight times really quickly or just draw eight lines on your arm the hour needs to pass in order for the magic to work if you fail to flip the hourglass before the very last grain of sand falls or should you succumb to sleep you will lose during this time the sandman will be deploying as many tricks as possible to get you to fall asleep or give in see the bottom half of your hourglass at any time represents his power the more sand in it the stronger his influence will be almost immediately upon starting you'll begin to feel drowsy this is merely his presence if you can't last against this stop playing immediately during the first hour he won't do a lot he may walk around the room but he won't touch you or speak to you even if you try to talk to the being which is something you should really avoid doing there will be no response also don't move from your spot to approach him the closer you get the more drowsy you will become and if you're not near your candle he may put it out so you can go to sleep do not distract yourself during this you may easily lose track of time and forget to flip the hourglass as needed the sand man can also skew your perception of how much time has passed but he cannot affect the hourglass so keeping your focus on that is your best chance of winning side note if you try to leave the room you will find that the doors are all locked and the windows reveal nothing but an unyielding darkness as far as the eye can see me after you pass the first hour the sand man may scoff but will continue to stay in the room now he will begin to pull more from his bag of tricks he's seen that you're going to be a hard one to put down the sounds of music boxes and harps may be heard at first from a distance but will slowly grow to a level that would be audible and comforting resist the urge to close your eyes and listen your body will grow wary as you approach hour two or three depending on how the sand man is feeling that night around this point he will begin speaking to you in many voices the soft voice of a young girl the wise cackling laugh of a grandparent or perhaps even the ever-loving recognizable words of your own mother they will try to congratulate you on surviving for so long with the sand man for braving sleepless days and nights to win this game whispers of lullabies and nursery rhymes will fill your head but you know better say nothing and ignore the voices no matter how real they ma