My family frequented a cabin in the Catskills when I was a child. We didn’t own it, but we tried to rent the same place every year and that consistency made it start to feel like a second home. The art on the walls became familiar, we’d notice the little things like if the cabin got new plates and bowls or new utensils, and we all always slept in the same beds. The cabin was on the shore of a lake where we could catch sunnies, and we would sometimes grill them out back and eat watermelon in the evening as the sun set over the lake and bathed the sky with gorgeous reds and purples, like bloody streaks over the blackening woods.

But the cabin had a dark side too. I was terrified of the woods at night, especially when I was very young. When the sun went down and the woods began to resonate with a chorus of insect noise and the sound of roaring wind and breaking branches, I would flee to the relative safety of my bed in the back room. There I would dive under the thick blankets on the bunk beds and wait with my flashlight as I watched the last glow of daylight in the room fade into a milky blackness, thick and cloying. I knew there were monsters in the woods outside the cabin walls, stalking and slouching, with rasping breaths and shining claws scraping along fallen logs and wet earth. They were hunting for me. They would wrap those foul claws around my ankle and drag me screaming from the bed through the splintered wooden walls of the cabin, rip out my insides and leave me for dead, if I only gave them the chance.

But I was wrong about the monsters. It turns out that’s not how monsters work at all. They don’t always drag you from your bed, screaming and bleeding. They don’t always tear you apart and feast on your bones. Sometimes they are more subtle than that, and they can hurt you in ways that are worse than dying.

***

We stopped going to the cabin when I was 8, and those evening barbecues and boat rides were replaced by slammed doors and muffled shouting through the thin walls of our catalog home. I smuggled a tiny old TV out of the guest bedroom into my room so my little sister Annie and I could watch whatever we could pick up on the old antenna at whatever volume we could get the little TV to reach. I didn’t want her to hear the noise, even though I barely understood it myself at the time.

I knew my parents were fighting, but I didn’t know what about, and I didn’t know the depth of it. It never occurred to me how truly unhappy they could be, or deeply they could damage the little world we’d all built together, but some rifts can’t be fixed.

A clean break would have been better, but the divorce was brutal and bitter, and dragged on for the better part of three years. I think they thought they could keep it a secret from us, more or less, but kids know better and listen harder than you think. It’s just that when you grow up, you tend to forget that. Their venom and bile flowed throughout our house like emotional shrapnel and carved us to pieces, all while I held my little sister’s head in my lap and stroked her hair as we watched grainy cartoons on the old cathode ray, and I lied to her the whole time that it would all be okay.

God knows what they even had to fight about. We didn’t have a lot of money and didn’t even own the cabin, so there wasn’t that much to split up. I guess people just want to hurt each other sometimes.

Eventually they did divorce though, and went their separate ways. That was a blessing in the end, though it’s tough to explain that to kids at the time. And I think that my parents finally started to heal. Or that’s how it would have played out, had that been the end of it.

The judge ordered joint custody, but mom got us most of the time. Still, there were two houses now for my sister and I. Two sets of toys, and two bedrooms, neither of which felt like home. There wasn’t any yelling anymore, or if there was, we weren’t around to hear it. But there was loneliness, numbing and savage, that may have been worse. When we were with mom, it felt like she never left the phone on the kitchen wall, sneaking cigarettes and talking to anyone who would listen (anyone but us) about the raw hand life had dealt her. Dad never left the bottle, so he didn’t have much time for us either. And that was how it was for a while.

But slowly I thought I started to see some glimmers of hope. When we stayed at dad’s place, he’d make breakfast in the mornings, like he used to, and we’d eat pancakes and the kitchen smelled of his chicory coffee that made me think of old times. He started playing toys with us again. His breath wouldn’t always smell like sour smoke at bedtime. He even decided, one day, he wanted to take me back to the cabin, for some father-son time. I was ecstatic, but that’s also when all the trouble started, as if we hadn’t had enough trouble all along.

***

We left Friday mid-morning for the drive up to the cabin. It was early October so the air was cool and pleasant, and the leaves on the trees were just taking on their tints of reds and gold. I rolled my window down and breathed deep of the smell of moist wood and crisp air. My dad played music on the radio and I daydreamed to the sounds of Merle Travis fingerpicking on bright steel strings.

I woke as we pulled up the dusty road in front of the cabin, and it was mostly as I remembered it. It stood on a high knoll at the edge of the woods that sloped down to the lake behind. It might have had a new roof, and the shutters looked like they’d seen some recent repairs, but on the inside it hadn’t changed a bit. The familiar art still hung in the bathroom and bedrooms. The same board games sat underneath the coffee table. I walked slowly through the cabin while my dad unloaded the car, and traced my hand along the old wooden logs that made up the cabin walls, thinking of all the good memories that were forged here, that I knew would never come again. I felt my cheeks flush grief as sadness welled up inside of me, but then my dad came out of the kitchen with a smile on his face and two lemonades, and I was in paradise once more.

That first day at the cabin was as good as any I remembered. We sat in the woods by the lake and watched egrets dive across the water. We grilled burgers behind the cabin and my dad asked me about school and what I was learning, how my friends were doing, what I was excited for. I had thought he’d lost interest. We played board games by the fire inside as afternoon faded into evening and I savored the smell of smoke and pine needles. It was the last time I ever remember being happy.

Because then the night came, and I was terrified of the woods at night. I tried not to be. After all, I was eleven then, and eleven year olds shouldn’t be scared of the dark, but I couldn’t shake the fear of the place, or the fear that something was just deeply wrong. My dad tucked me into the bed in the back bedroom beneath thick comforters, and sat on the side of the mattress while he rubbed my back.

“I’ll be right on the other side of the wall, big guy. Just shout if you need anything.”

I nodded, and he stood up and walked to the door. He turned to me one last time as he shut off the light and said, “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m sorry about everything these last few years and how it’s all turned out. But we’re moving now. Things are going to get better. I love you, son.” And he flipped the switch. I’m now convinced those were the last words my dad ever said to me.

I woke, knowing I was being watched. I couldn’t see the eyes in the blackness of the room, but I could feel them. They could see me through the walls of the cabin like they were looking through shredded silk, the old wood offered no protection. I tried to pull the covers over my head but I couldn’t move. Everything was just so heavy. That’s when I saw the lump in my blankets, a bump about the size of a bowling ball, moving ever so slowly towards me. No, it wasn’t in my blankets, it was at the end of the bed, then on it. Not a lump, a head, attached to a body, foul and grasping. Cream colored, deformed, all gangly limbs and rough hair, it lifted its head and grinned at me with something like a mouth, like a child would cut, jagged, into construction paper with safety scissors. Its teeth were dripping blood and ichor as it smiled with fierce and cruel eyes, gray, pale and lifeless. Its gaping maw was blacker than the night outside, a pool even the moonlight couldn’t brighten, that sucked in even hope of escape.

Then the pain hit, like I’d slammed every piece of my body in a car door all at once. Like a thousand firecrackers going off inside my bones. Like I was being skinned alive. That was my blood dripping from its mouth. I couldn’t move because I had no legs or arms to escape with. It was eating me.

I woke myself with my scream, for real this time. My scream echoed throughout the cabin and the surrounding woods. My sheets were drenched with sweat. Surely my dad heard that. I looked around the room, searching for any sign of the pallid beast but I was alone. The room was silent except for the shriek of the blood roaring through my veins. It quieted down as my pulse slowed. Then I heard a crashing sound of metal on metal, and all was silent again. I sat for what must have been ten minutes waiting for my dad to come, but he never did. Eventually I gathered my courage and slipped out of bed.

The wood floorboards were cold on my feet and the air was brisk, like someone left a window open. I inched up to the bedroom door and peeked out. The cabin looked dark and quiet, only lit by the light my dad left on over the kitchen sink. But it was cold, and I felt a breeze from the hallway leading to the back door. I walked out into the living room and peered around the corner, and saw the back door ajar, with the curtains covering the window blowing in the cold breeze.

“Dad?” I tried to call out, but it came out little more than a whisper. “Dad, is that you?” There was no response. I slowly walked down the hall until I was at the threshold and looked out the door. I saw the moonlight glinting off the lake through the wall of trees. The sky was clear and the stars vibrant. Out here you could even see wisps of the milky way on clear nights. The trees swayed slowly in the breeze. All looked peaceful, but something was wrong. It was still so quiet. There should have been crickets. There should have been the cracking branches as animals moved through the trees. There was nothing.

I reached back inside and fumbled for the lightswitch that controlled the back floodlights and flicked them on. Warm yellow light bathed the back of the cabin. My eyes adjusted slowly and I looked around. When I saw it, my blood froze in my veins like shattered glass.

The cabin had a dumpster behind it. That’s where we would load up our garbage at the end of the trip for the owner to take it away. The dumpster was metal, with an old metal lid. That must have been the clanging sound I heard. The lid was closed, but there was something sticking out of it. My eleven year old brain didn’t understand it, but I’ve revisited that night many times, and I know what I saw. It was a foot, attached to a leg that had suffered a compound fracture. The glistening white bone contrasted with the oozing blood that dripped down the side of the dumpster. Flies were already beginning to circulate. That foot was wearing my dad’s boot.

I froze for a moment, then sucked in air and tried to scream, but nothing came out. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and my dad was behind me. “It’s okay, son. You’re dreaming. None of this is real” he said, calmly. I fainted into his arms.

***

I awoke in the bedroom of the cabin the next morning with a start, and immediately put my back to the wall of the room. Dusty light was streaming in through the windows, casting odd shadows. It was hot too, the day had already shaken off the night’s chill. It had to be late morning. What the hell had happened? I wasn’t any the worse for wear, but something was scratching at my bare feed. I threw the comforter off my bed and saw the bottom sheet littered with small sticks and leaves. So I had been outside.

Dad.

My heart began to race again as I dove out of bed and rushed for the door. I had to check the dumpster to see if it was all real. But as soon as I left the room, I saw my dad sitting on the couch in the family room. He was facing away from me, so I could only see the back of his head. He had the TV on. There was a plate of food sitting on the table behind him. I forgot all about the dumpster.

“Dad? Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine, son. You were out of sorts last night. I made breakfast.” He made no effort to turn to me. I wandered up to the table and looked at the plate of food. Cold, runny eggs, barely cooked, and two pieces of mostly raw bacon. My stomach lurched.

“Uh, no thanks dad, I’m not hungry.”

He said nothing. I sat in the chair at an angle from the TV where I could see his face. He looked like he always had. I stole a glance down at his legs. He was intact, boots and all.

“Umm, dad, last night…” I trailed off as he slowly and deliberately moved his head to meet my gaze. The rest of his body sat absolutely still. “You had a nightmare last night. Nothing to worry about. How are you feeling now?” His voice was monotone, and a little slurred. I looked over at the coffee table and saw an empty breakfast plate and a familiar black-labeled bottle, a third empty.

“Yeah, just a nightmare,” I muttered, “nothing to worry about.” But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. And it wasn’t just the bottle, I’d lived with my dad for a while when he was drinking and I hated that, but something else felt wrong, something deeper. But I couldn’t say what it was, I couldn’t put it into words. We sat in silence for a moment while he watched the muted tv.

“So what’s the plan today, dad?” I finally asked.

“Maybe we should just take it easy. You probably need your rest.”

And that’s what we did. Or, what he did, rather. I sat for a few moments with him in silence while he watched the tv on low volume. Then I stood up and wandered over to the cabinets where the board games were. I took a puzzle to the kitchen table and tinkered with it. He sat and watched the silent tv.

Eventually I left the puzzle there and got up and wandered around the cabin. I was watching him the whole time out of the corner of my eye. It didn’t even seem like he moved an inch. I felt a constant growing sense of dread as the minutes inched forward.

Eventually I wandered out the back door of the cabin. There was the dumpster, right where it always was, under the overhanging upstairs deck against the cabin’s back wall. It was buzzing with flies and smeared with dark stains, but they looked old and dry, at least I think they were. I cautiously inched over and lifted up the metal lid. It was completely empty. I turned and watched the woods for a moment. I could see the light glinting off the water below. Birdsong rang through the crowns of the trees and the wind was soft and gentle. It should have been a wonderful day, if it wasn’t for what was happening inside. I went back into the cabin.

Dad was still sitting there on the couch. It didn’t look like he’d moved at all. The dread was profound and washed over me in cascading waves. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. I ran back to the room at the back of the cabin. I was the most scared I’d ever been, and I couldn’t even put into words why without sounding crazy. Why wasn’t he more concerned? Why wouldn’t he check on me?

Twice more over the course of a few hours I would peek out of the door and see him there on the couch. One time I think he did turn his head to look back at me, but I ducked back into the room and slammed the door. Or maybe I imagined it. I leaped back into my bed and ducked under the covers, and started to cry.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, someone shook me awake. I looked up and dad was staring down at me. No smile, seemingly no emotion at all.

“Come on, son,” he said. “We’re going home. I know today was weird. I don’t think this is a good time for a trip here.”

I just nodded and got my things. What he said should have been comforting, but the way he said it left a pit in my stomach. It was emotionless and dead, not the dad that I’d been playing board games and laughing with not even 24 hours ago.

The ride home in the car was horrible. He left the radio on, but didn’t say another word. His eyes didn’t leave the road. He barely even moved.

Mercifully, he was taking me right to mom’s house to be with my sister. When the car pulled up, I practically dove out of the passenger seat. “By dad,” I muttered as I stumbled towards the house door. But for a moment, I stopped and looked back. I think his head turned towards me, in the same way it did at the cabin, pivoting on his neck while the rest of his body stood absolutely still. He smiled a strange, wide, toothy smile, and in his eyes, I swear I saw this sheen of lifeless gray that chilled my blood. Then he was gone.

I ran right inside and shut the door behind me.

“Huh, back early and didn’t even walk you to the door. Typical…” mom was watching from the windows. “Well I hope you had fun, honey. Are you hungry?”

I shook my head.

“Alright then, go get some rest. Your sister is already in bed.”

I nodded and headed to my room, collapsing on my head. My head swam with nightmares and monsters, grinning faces, the broken leg sticking out of the dumpster, and my dad’s face, with his eyes cold and dead.

***

I was happy beyond words to see my mom and sister the next morning, even though mom was still her crabby, frustrated self, still wallowing in victimhood, and my sister was as quiet and withdrawn as ever. It was still miles better than what I’d endured at the cabin. But I still felt a lingering dread because I knew I would have to see my dad again soon, and I’d be taking my sister with me. The nightmare at the cabin seemed so raw, and so difficult to explain.

The next time I saw dad was when mom dropped us off at his house the next Friday night. My sister and I walked tentatively up the steps to his house. I was nervous because I had no idea what I might find when we opened that door. I think my sister was just nervous all the time. The divorce had been hard on her.

We reached the front door and found it unlocked and ajar, and let ourselves in. “Hi guys, come on in. Dinner is on the kitchen table.” Dad’s voice wafted in from the TV room and my gut lurched. It was that same voice, emotionless and cold. We dropped our bags and headed to the table. “Dinner” seemed to be half a leftover pizza and a pot of peas that hadn’t been heated up.

“Wait here,” I told Annie, “I’m gonna check on dad.” She sat down and tore off a piece of cold pizza.

I found dad in the TV room, sitting in front of the screen just like at the cabin. The table in front of him was strewn with cups and empty bottles. But here the tv was tuned to static.

“Dad? Just wanted to say hi. I’m gonna take Annie to bed soon, okay? I think she’s pretty tired.”

His head pivoted to look at me. And he smiled that wide, awful, smile, with those sick, gray eyes. “Whatever you say, son.”

I ran back to the kitchen. Annie couldn’t know what was going on, but if we were going to get through this weekend, we were going to have to keep our distance from dad. Or from… my mind raced back to the night behind the cabin, the buzzing of the flies, the stench of waste and iron, the image of the broken foot sticking out of the dumpster. Or from whatever that was in the TV room. I didn’t know if that was dad anymore at all. I sat next to Annie and started to rub her back comfortingly before she shrugged me off.

“It’s all going to be okay,” I muttered. We ate the cold pizza in the quiet of the dim kitchen.

***

But it wasn’t okay, I would learn that soon enough. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. We weathered that weekend. We mostly kept away from “dad”, and neither he nor Annie seemed to mind too much. It’s not like he was moving around much anyway. He did get us to school that week, and pick us up, though he was often late. There was food, of sorts, though none of it appetizing and sometimes mostly raw.

I don’t know if Annie understood it or saw what I saw, but she kept to herself and we stayed away from dad in the house. Often he would sit, motionless, in the TV room, sometimes watching shows on low volume. Sometimes watching static. When he would move he would slouch around the house aimlessly. We did our best to avoid him.

I could barely sleep when I was in that house. I always kept one eye open on the door. I imagined “dad” coming through, none the mindless automaton he was now, but gnawing, pallid beast of my dreams, shedding his dad suit and ripping the skin from my bones.

I lost weight, and my hair started to fall out. We ate and slept well enough at mom’s house, but my body couldn’t cope with the stress.

One day, I had a meltdown at school and was taken to the counselor’s office. I ended up telling her the story, sobbing in the uncomfortable wooden, school-issue chair.

“Oh honey,” she said, “it sounds like he’s not coping well. I know the divorce was a hard time, but I’m sure your daddy loves you.” She offered me a tissue. “Has he ever… you know… done anything to you or sister?”

I looked up and thought about it. I shook my head. “No, he hasn’t hit us if that’s what you mean. It’s just… scary.”

She nodded. “Listen, I’ll talk to him. But it’ll get better honey. Divorce is hard on grownups too.”

But it didn’t get better. And here’s what I didn’t tell her. Sometimes, when I was feeling brave, I would walk the house at night. Sometimes I wouldn’t find “dad” in the house at all. But one time I found him in the kitchen.

He was standing in the middle of the kitchen, not doing anything. Just standing, alone, looking at nothing. His arms were outstretched, his mouth gaping open. Slowly, he turned his head to look at me. The rest of his body stayed still. His eyes were that sick, lifeless gray of the crawling beast from the cabin. They glowed with a putrid light. His mouth looked like it was dripping with blood. And he smiled. He smiled wider and wider until it looked like his mouth might tear right open. And he spoke to me, in that numb, dull voice, the same as ever. He said, “It’s okay, son. You’re dreaming. None of this is real.”

I woke up later, in my bed, dripping with sweat, and I cried.

***

We lived like that for more than a year. At mom’s house we were at least well fed and mom was present enough. Though she was still so angry. I could hear it in the way she talked with her friends, in the way she lived her day to day life. Like an injustice was done and this isn’t how she saw things working out. Anything we told her about dad just became ammo for her venting sessions, which more often than not consisted of me watching Annie while she went out with her girlfriends.

“Dad’s” house on the other hand, grew worse and worse. Lightbulbs would burn out and he wouldn’t replace them. Leaks in the ceiling would go untended. “Dad” lost weight and his hair thinned. He started to look like he was wasting away. And every time we went over, there he was, sitting in silence in the TV room.

Sometimes I thought I should call the police, or social services, or something. But would anyone trust a kid? Maybe they would just tell me divorce is hard on grownups. Maybe they would take Annie and put her somewhere worse.

At least “dad” could be mostly avoided if we tried to be self-sufficient. Until one day he couldn’t.

We hitched a ride to “dad’s” house after school. He couldn’t (or wouldn’t?) pick us up that day, and it was pouring rain in thick, violent sheets. Even just running from the car to the door, we got drenched. Annie was in a bad mood. I was in my usual state of low key terror about being in that house.

Annie needed a note signed for school, so she marched right into the TV room where dad was sitting and yanked out the note.

“Here, sign this.” She dropped in right in front of him.

“Stop yelling.” He said, in that monotone voice, with those glazed, dead eyes.

“Sign it now.” She said again, louder this time.

“I said, stop yelling.”

“Or what? You’ll do what? You never do anything but sit in here and watch TV!” She threw the note in his face.

He slowly stood up.

“Oh, what now?” She continued, “You can’t even make a proper dinner. You can’t even leave the house. You can’t even look at me! Now I see why mom left you. You can’t do anything. At least she…”

The blow caught her completely off guard. It wasn’t just that he had hit her. That was shocking enough. But the force of the blow was incredible. Annie left her feet and flew into the fireplace surround, shaking the wall. She looked up at me with panic in her eyes and blood dripping from her mouth. There was a blood smear on the fireplace bricks where her head hit the wall. She started sobbing.

“Dad” just reached down and picked us both up. I know he was a grown man, and we were kids, but even then, he shouldn’t have been that strong. One in each hand, he carried us to my room and tossed us both into the room like he was tossing bean bags full of sand. We hit the ground and Annie groaned in pain.

“We’ll talk about this tomorrow,” he said. He looked down and met my eyes with those grim, gray eyes and their putrid glow. “Just take it easy. You need your rest.” And he pushed the door shut. We heard the click of the latch.

I huddled on the floor with Annie for what must have been hours while she sobbed in my arms. I knew I had to get her out of here. I don’t know how I’d lived under the roof with whatever that was for so long, whatever that thing was that killed my dad and left his dismembered body in a dumpster. But I had to get Annie out of here.

I held her a little longer until I saw the horizon start to glow out of the bedroom window. Annie had fallen asleep on my lap, but I knew the monster could be back at any time, and I had to get Annie to mom’s. As quietly as possible, I lowered the screens out of the bedroom windows and put on my shoes and jacket. I draped Annie’s jacket over her as well and put on her shoes while she slept. When it was time, I woke her up.

“Annie, Annie,” as she stirred, I put my finger over my lips in a gesture to be quiet. “We’re getting out of here, just stay with me.”

I lowered her out the window first, then quietly followed. As soon as we were out of the house, I scooped Annie back up and ran for the nearest road. I dashed into the road as a sedan swerved around us, laying on its horn. The driver got out with a stern look on his face, but as soon as he saw us, he ran right over.

“Are you kids okay? What happened?”

“Please,” I gestured at Annie, “can you just drive us to my mom’s house? We need help.” I gave him the address and we piled into the sedan. Soon we were pulling up to the house.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” The driver asked again. “Can I call the police?”

“We’ll be okay now, I promise.” I feigned a smile, and we limped up the steps. Mom was in the kitchen making coffee when we stumbled in. She turned and saw us and gasped. “Annie! Are you okay?” She rushed over and looked at Annie, and then at me. “Matt, what happened?”

“It’s dad…” was about all I could choke out before I heard the car door. I looked out the bay window and saw “dad’s” car parked in front of the house. I watched his emaciated, lanky form, slowly rise out of the car.

“Quick,” mom got us to our feet and pushed us towards our rooms. “Lock the doors. And don’t open for anyone but me.” We obliged.

We sat on my bed and I held Annie, telling her it was going to be okay, just like old times. I heard the door open, then I heard yelling. There was a crash, then some rustling, then silence.

It felt like an hour passed. The silence was occasionally broken by scraping and dragging sounds. I heard a door open and close a few times. Then the silence returned. Eventually there was a knock on the door. “You can come out now, it’s safe.” That was mom’s voice but… something wasn’t right. It was monotone, smooth and cold as fresh ice.

I eased over to the door and opened it. Mom was standing there, looking down at me. Her hands were dripping with blood. I looked down at it, then back up at her.

“Oh it’s nothing,” she said, “I just cut myself. Everything is fine now.” That voice… something was wrong.

“Dad won’t be around anymore, you don’t have to worry about him,” she said, “I sent him away.”

“What happened to him?” That was Annie’s meek whisper from behind me.

“Gone,” said mom. “Yes, gone now. Everything is fine. Just take it easy now.” She looked down at me and, I swear on my life, she smiled and her eyes flickered a pale gray. “You need your rest.”

***

It was decided we would live with mom full time now. I’m sure that would have been the case anyway, after the incident where dad attacked Annie, but it was all the more necessary because no one had any idea where dad was. Mom said that he never came by that day and us kids came over on our own and that was that. Of course, I know different, but who could I even argue with?

The authorities assumed he skipped town and mom was awarded full custody. Mom should have been happy to have us all to herself, even if that meant more work for her and more things to complain about to her drinking circle. But she was just kind of ambivalent. Of course it wasn’t mom anymore, I was smart enough to know that now. I knew it the moment I walked into the family room and saw her sitting there in silence in front of a tv tuned to a dead channel, motionless and still.

I knew it the moment I looked in the backyard and saw the patch of freshly dug and filled earth. I knew that if I dug up that patch it’s not dad’s remains that I would find there. I saw those remains in a dumpster behind a mountain cabin, I have no idea where they are now. It wasn’t him buried in our backyard.

I knew it whenever that thing pretending to be my mom would give me that wide, sick smile, too wide for its face, like it knows I know, and knows there’s nothing I can do.

And I know it because I still dream of it when I sleep sometimes, what it looks like when it crawls out of the woods, before it replaces someone, all pallid and deformed, clawing and crawling, jagged mouth full of violent hate.

I tried to tell the counselor at school at some point, naive though that may be. She told me to go easy on my mom. She told me she’s been through a lot. Her ex-husband split town, leaving her with extra responsibilities. And even without that, divorce is hard on grownups too.

But I know better.

It drove me crazy living with that thing while trying to protect Annie. Eventually Annie wouldn’t even let me protect her. She pulled away, and became withdrawn. She would sneak out to go drinking with friends. She would stumble home in a daze from harder things. “Mom” wouldn’t care. “Mom” would just sit with a bottle in front of a dead TV watching dancing snow and listening to the static hum. I realized I couldn’t do it anymore, so I ran away from home as soon as I was old enough to think I could make it on my own.

I managed to fall in with some day laborers who didn’t ask too many questions and took me in as part of their crew. Eventually I built a life for myself, far away from home. “Mom” never sent the police looking for me. Why would it? But the thing I feel the worst about is leaving Annie there with that thing. I later found out Annie died in a car accident, or so they say. But I bet that’s not the real story, and the real story, the real horror that happened to her? That’s on me, for leaving.

***

But that’s all in the past. I’m telling this story, because I wanted to tell you about monsters. And the thing about the monsters is that you can’t always run away from them, because that’s not how they work. They don’t always try to hunt you down and tear you limb from limb. Sometimes they play other games and they hurt you in ways that are worse than dying.

Recently I was living outside of Dallas with my fiance, Laura. We weren’t always happy, but happy more often than not I think, which is pretty good given the emotional baggage I brought to the table. She knew I didn’t talk about my family and was willing to let that go. “We don’t need the past,” she’d say, “just our future.” I liked that. I thought it was sweet. We lived in a small second floor apartment in a suburban development and had a pretty good thing going. I was working for a local contractor, and she was a waitress at the diner down the road.

One day we had a big fight. It was about a lot of things. Money (we never had enough), kids (she wanted ’em, I certainly never thought I could bring kids into this world), you know, the usual stuff. It got pretty bad, but we’d get through it. I knew we would. I knew my Laura. She stormed out afterwards, she was pretty pissed. She and I both said some things I think we wish we hadn’t said. At least I wish I could take mine back, but she hurt me pretty bad. It wasn’t like her to say those things. She didn’t get home until really late. It had to be, she wasn’t home when I finally went to bed, and I stayed up really, really late waiting for her.

I found her the next morning when I woke up. I was exhausted, but I wanted to make things right. She was different though. She was cold, quiet. I busied myself around the house, but when I turned the corner, I saw her in the kitchen just standing there. Staring off into space, aimless. Her eyes were vacant, gray. Her expression was empty.

“Hey babe,” I leaned in the kitchen door. “Not now, honey,” she said, her voice monotone. I flinched and the hairs on my arms stood on end. I knew that voice. Then she pivoted her head and looked at me, her body so still, so quiet. “You look exhausted anyway,” she said, “Why don’t you take it easy. You need your rest.” And she forced a smile, too wide, too stretched. Ear to ear. That wide smile. Those empty eyes.

My blood raged in my veins and my vision blurred. I rushed to my room and fell into bed. I couldn’t sleep though. I heard her leave for work. I had to plan what I would do. But I knew how they worked. I knew it would stay there, and suck that body and house dry before moving on to another. I knew it would follow me. It must have already and it would do it again, so I headed into work to get my tools.

***

I’m driving west now, through the high deserts. To a small town in Nevada, maybe? Maybe all the way to the coast. All I brought was a duffel full of clothes, a case of water, and the battery powered #12 rivet gun and sawzall I borrowed from the construction site. It’s enough to get me through and keep me safe.

There’s good news and bad. The good news is that I’m free again and it can’t follow me. I’ve left yet another life behind. They may find me again, they did once after all, more of them might come. But it will take them time, and I’ll keep a low profile. They can take everything else from me, but I’m still here, and I’m still me, no matter how many bodies they take. And I’ll keep running. I’ll run to the ends of the earth.

The bad news is that they look the same as us on the inside, I know that now. So there will never be any proof, not unless I catch one before it turns. I can’t reveal them to the world because the world won’t believe me. But of course it’s not easy like that. There are no easy answers, and no easy escape, and the path to the truth may still be worse than dying.

Sometimes I think back to that quaint little cabin in the Catskills, and a crisp evening with a boy playing board games with his dad, laughing and happy. I wish I could go back there. I wish I could stop the monster from taking him that night and dumping his ruined body in a beat-up metal dumpster. I wish I could rebuild what was lost and drink hot chocolate and have Christmases and Birthdays and cookouts and sleepovers and watch movies with my dad under a blanket on the couch. I wish I could go back and be a kid who loved his parents and was loved by them. I wish I could undo it all. I wish I could turn back time and make the monsters disappear.

But, of course, I can’t. Because that’s not how monsters work. That’s not how monsters work at all.

Jerry is thirty and looks fifty. Unshaven, without a bath in weeks, his hair filled with lice. His eyes, sunken far back into his skull; he weaves his way in and out of the city streets in search of scarred food to keep himself alive to meet another morning.

At one time, Jerry had a family, a well-paying corporate position and all the other attributes a man would ever want.

On a day Jerry can’t remember, his world fell away from him. The pressure of Corporate America got to him before he knew what hit him. He turned to alcohol, drinking away his problems and ended up swallowing his pride and puking it up in one of many dark alleys to become his new home.

Sometimes, Jerry would sit on a cobblestone corner and listen in his head as the computer’s whir; listen in his head to the instruction of the day’s business agenda and start talking to himself about what he has to accomplish before quitting time.

Other times, Jerry would walk through the city park, or walk along the tall oak, pine trees, and watch children play. He would stand in the park’s shadows, watching, as if seeing his own children play; and would smile a drunken smile through rotting, broken teeth.

Late at night, in the frigid months of Winter’s Father, Jerry would huddle between cans of rotting garbage and nestle his head against concrete pilings, falling asleep, dreaming how he once curled his head next to the smell of fresh amber and soft, red hair, as well as the laughter of twin girls playing in the back yard. All the memories go away in daylight hours with the help of a fifth of whiskey or a cheap bottle of wine.

When the Mother of Summer rages, the permeated sweat that festers his body, and charges him with a fever; he wanders aimlessly, never knowing where he is, or why he is.

It was one of many summer nights that found Jerry curled in a twisted mash of flesh down by the river; dead, in his own twisted way. No longer a man, no longer a person; only a number for the city to deal with.

… and the night moved on

Here name is June, barely fifty, but to look at her closely, you would have known that once upon another time, she had to have been a real looker; but time, lived by her daily shopping on the streets, foraging through remnants left behind by the neighborhood, has a way of changing people. A pair of tattered gloves, an old scarf, a woolen sweater moth-eaten over time, and shoes that don’t match and slightly too big, and an old gray woolen skirt streaked with age, is her attire.

Today, like all her yesterdays, she shops for new clothes as she loves wearing something different every day. As she walks, her gray skirt billows away from her somewhat lean frame and its bottom meets the top of her one brown and one red sock. June doesn’t care. She loves color.

She eats what she can find that has been freshly discarded by local’s restaurants when possible. She has scruples to a point. She would say, “Never eat yesterday’s food today. You could get sick as a dog.”

In her daily travels, she would fall back into a relapse and remember the old days. The days when her husband came home from work every day. The days when she would bake peanut butter cookies for her boys when they came home from school. She would remember the picnics shared and the many nights the boys would get sick and she would take care of their needs.

She remembered a time when her husband and the boys decided to go to the supermarket one afternoon because she was ill. She remembered being told there was a terrible accident; that her family were broadsided by a truck and killed.

She would shake her head at that point, squeeze the memory from her mind and she would tell herself it was a story she read somewhere, that she never had a family.

When her day was over, she would take her shopping bag of goodies, drag her feet behind her as she headed home. It would take her sometimes four or five hours because if she lived elsewhere than where she lives now, most certainly the bluecoats would arrest her. The very thought of being locked away makes her shiver.

Two hours beyond dusk, June would find herself staring at the skyline of the city’s early night lights. “Such a waste of money to keep them on all night,” she would say.

She looks at her house covered by several layers of tarp to keep out the rain and keep her home, made from cardboard, dry.

Inside, several layers of old carpet cover her floor she found lying around a large dumpster behind a carpet outlet on one of her many shopping trips.

Behind her home, there is a large hole she uses as a latrine, and a few feet away from there, is another hole she uses as a cooking pit.

Tonight, sleep will find her as it does every night. Inside, sitting crossed-legged, holding two dolls, rocking them back and forth, singing a lullaby.

… and the night moves on

Jack is seventeen. Jack is a fine son, a good student and very popular with the girls in his school because of his looks.

Jack has parents who are community oriented, “Pillars of society,” say the neighbors. “Jack is a fine young man,” say the neighbors.

Jack isn’t who they think he is.

When the sun disappears from the large blue ceiling, the night finds Jack on the other side of town at a party, just like other parties he has been to; so why should this one be any different?

The crowd is mixed with colors of both sexes and the booze is plentiful, so are the drugs.

Jack is an addict, and has been ever since he was thirteen, but that wasn’t so bad. At seventeen, Jack’s habit has taken over the rational side of his life.

Lately, he’s been skipping classes, forging school reports, forging his parent’s signature for teachers at school. Jack still has a calculating mind, but his brain cells are slowly dissolving.

Jack started with the pills. The red ones, the yellow ones, the blue ones. Other times he would get prescription pills from a friend’s source and pop those as well. Jack would follow it with a little alcohol and before the night was over, he would not only be drunk, but high as the sun at noontime.

On this particular night, the booze flowed, and drugs oozed out at him. Jack popped a pill here, a pill there, before the announcement that some primo Mary Jane from below the border had arrived along with a kilo of cocaine.

Before long, the room is filled with the sweet odor of smoke and heads are buzzing as people begin laughing at things that aren’t funny, and Jack is one of those people.

Jack hits on a girl a year younger than himself and they walk into one of four bedrooms at the party. Twenty minutes pass before the girl screams and others run to where the screams were heard.

As people rush inside the bedroom, they see the frightened girl staring at Jack.

Jack is standing on a ledge of a second-floor balcony window, naked as the night, arms outstretched, feet together and his head staring straight to the stars filtering the night around him.

He heard the commotion behind him, begging him to come down. He shook his head, no. Jack knows that once he jumps to his death, the bad side will be gone, and the good side will live on.

Jack started shaking in the cold sweat that blocked the pores in his body. Below him could be heard the crashing waves as they rushed upward on the jagged rocks below. Jack pushed off and away.

On his way down, Jack never screamed. He smiled with one final thought before he smashed into the rocks below.

He wondered if his mother would still bake him a birthday cake tomorrow.

… and the night swallowed him and moved on

Her name is Melinda, and she is in trouble.

She ran away from a broken home, run by a father who was never home very much, and a mother who cheated on her husband, forcing Melinda to do all the work. If she didn’t, she would be punished, mostly with whippings. Melinda couldn’t take the abuse any longer, and after saving what money she could, she bought a bus ticket to the big city. It was in the city she decided she would begin her life, her new life.

Melinda wasn’t off the bus ten minutes before a young man, well dressed, came over to her making conversation. Starved by all this freshness in her life, Melinda fell into the man’s trap. He talked her into spending a few weeks in his motel room. “It’ll help you save money,” he said. “Nothing will happen,” he said smiling. Melinda believed him.

Inside the motel room, the nice young man turned into a regular Mr. Hyde. He ripped Melinda’s blouse from her body, slapped her face, and shoved her body to the bed and raped her. When he was finished, he redressed, took what money she had and left her on the bed; her face a massive series of bruises building, her arms filled with the same, her virginity shattered, and she was alone. For the briefest of moments, Melinda felt as if she were home again.

Melinda slowly came around to the way the real world operates. After her injuries healed, after she formulated a plan of survival, she found a job. Not a regular job, but it was still one of independence, working the streets at night. But Melinda never became your average hooker.

She would take her johns for a spin and her fee was high, and it would always end the same way.

Melinda always insisted the johns buy a motel room someplace outside the city. Once in the room, Melinda would pull from her purse a knife and she would use it on every man who touched her behind closed doors. When she was finished, she would shower away the blood, redress, replaced the knife back into her small purse, and leave unnoticed.

By her third month, Melinda found out she was pregnant. She made up her mind to give up the baby to a foster home. She knew she couldn’t take care of a baby on her own, not with what she was doing.

Bye the ninth month the baby came and with all the months that came and went, over a hundred men were murdered. She always took great pains to cover her tracks, but the law catches up to you eventually.

Melinda had looked at the small face of her child, a girl, and suddenly all the hatred and anger she had been feeling disappeared. She didn’t want to give her daughter away. She wanted a real job and raise her child better than she was taken care of, but the law wouldn’t let her and now she’s in trouble.

As much as she wanted to take care of her daughter, Melinda knew it was only a matter of time before the police came for her.

She asked the lady across the hall to watch her baby for a short period of time. The lady, your typical grandmotherly type, smiled and said yes.

Melinda went back inside her apartment, walked to the bedroom dresser, and pulled out a gun she bought a long time ago. It was loaded.

She walked to the patio window and looked seven stories below and watched as tiny orbs of light streaks from cars went in all directions. All the sounds from below reached up to her. The shouting of angry men, laughter from a distant corner, horns blaring, tires screeching and brakes whining, and people dying.

Another sound that approached her building was the sirens of red and blue lights from police cars. Melinda knew they were coming for her. She didn’t invest in a police scanner for nothing.

She closed her eyes, and in the dream held within her mind, she could see the police taking the elevator to the seventh floor. She could see the doors close behind them as they got on and she watched the doors close behind them as they got off. She could feel them approaching her door and ringing her doorbell.

Melinda opened her eyes wide in fear, not for herself but for her daughter. Melinda knew she wouldn’t be able to take care of her. Melinda prayed as the trigger was ever gently pulled back. Melinda prayed a good family would take her daughter in and treat her as one of their own.

The short muzzle of steel weighed heavily in her mouth.

The doorbell rang.

Melinda never heard the deafening roar of the bullet.

… and the night, like all the ones to have passed, with those yet to be, has claimed its share of the burden of life for one night.

… a message from the night

Step right up, try your luck and see if you can survive.

The next time you are walking, wherever that may be, listen to the branches sway, listen to the gentle bending in the wind; or is it someone following you?

When you walk down a dark street to get to your car and you pass under a dimly lit streetlight and see your shadow for a fleeting second; or is that the shadow belonging to someone directly behind you?

The night holds many unexplained mysteries. When you are surrounded by the hours of nightfall, be careful not to become one of the unexplained, one of the forgotten, one of the lonely; one of the frightened.

… and don’t say it can’t happen to you because it can. I know it can. You see, the night follows you everywhere, even when you sleep.

You can run, but you cannot hide.

I’m watching.

“Sir, I said I wanted water, please,” I mumbled, looking at the waiter, who was giving me a broad smile. He was holding a glass with inky black liquid and presented it to me like it was some kind of award.

It took him a couple seconds to respond. “Yes, of course. My bad. I’ll bring you some water right away.” I could barely hear him under the thundering rain that was pounding against the restaurant window. Placing the glass next to my plate, he spun around and strutted back to the chef’s office. I didn’t know how anyone could even mess up that badly on an order for water, but whatever.

Amber, my sister, laughed. “I dare you to drink all of that!”

I stared at it, shivering. I had gone to this restaurant with Amber because my parents thought we would be fine on our own. Amber was ten, but I was thirteen and could look after her. Now, I was getting uneasy. The restaurant was full of seats—none of which were occupied. Even the waiter had seemed creepy. He had wispy dark gray hair with a few white streaks and a wrinkled face, with a smile revealing yellow teeth that looked a little too friendly. Looking at the swirling pitch-black liquid, I wished I hadn’t come.

“So? Go ahead! Are you scared of a little grape juice?” She stuck her tongue out and made a mock-scared face.

That’s no grape juice, I thought. It wasn’t wine, either. There was no reddish tint to it at the edge, just pure black. Not wanting to make a fool of myself in front of my younger sister, whose blue eyes were staring at me expectantly, I rolled my eyes and brought the glass to my lips, taking the tiniest sip possible.

As I put the glass down, the waiter appeared again with normal water.

“Thank you, sir,” I mumbled as he set it down by my plate. I wrinkled my nose as I smelled something burnt. Looking up, I saw him holding a cigarette to his lips. Is that even allowed in a restaurant? Even Amber looked wary.

“Now, what can I get you two to eat?” he asked, smiling. I glanced at Amber. She figdetted with her hair tie and avoided his gaze.

“Um, we just came to get drinks, that’s all. We’ll be on our way now. Thank you, sir,” I said quickly, not wanting to be there a second longer. Giving him the money, we rushed out of the building.

It was pouring outside. The wind picked up, blowing Amber’s soaked, long, autumn-brown hair into my face. The raindrops blurred my thin glasses and I shivered in the frigid rain. Despite the weather, I was relieved to be out of that creepy restaurant. My relief didn’t last long, because I smelled something burnt and Amber suddenly let out an ear-splitting scream.

“LOOK OU—”

And that was when everything went black.

***

I stretched farther back against the couch and fumbled around for the remote. Grasping it, I clicked the TV on and turned it to the news channel.

“How’s it going?” Amber popped into the room.

“Okay, I guess.” I rubbed the back of my head, groaning as my hands reached the bruise. It was better than yesterday, at least.

“Are you still up for a bike ride?” I winced. Two weeks ago, I had fallen off a bike and hit my head really hard, and it still hurt. At least, I think I did. I didn’t really remember it, but Amber told me I had. All I remembered was a burnt smell and thundering rain.

Normally, I would say no, but Amber wasn’t the kind of person that took no for an answer. She would just keep pushing until I agreed. Plus, I didn’t want it to look like I was scared in front of someone who was three years younger than me.

“Sure,” I muttered, my voice echoing against the walls.

Sighing, I got up and walked with Amber into the garage. We got on our bikes and went outside.

Pedaling as fast as I could, I raced against Amber, the wind whipping my blonde hair into my face. A few trees whizzed by as I pedaled harder.

“Wait! I’m tired!” Amber called from behind me.

Reluctantly, I slowed down to a stop and turned to her. “Do you want to go back?” Wait, what? Why was my voice echoing? I glanced around. There were no hills or trees in sight—we lived in the vast plains of Vermont. There was nothing that could cause an echo. “Do you hear that?”

“No,” she said, gazing at me curiously. Why didn’t her voice echo?

“Okay then.” Maybe I was just imagining it. As I moved my hands to turn the bike around, something stopped me. My hands wouldn’t go farther apart from each other. I yanked my hands outwards, but it was like some invisible rope was tied around my hands. “Let’s get back to the house quickly,” I mumbled to Amber, noticing that she moved her hands freely. What was going on?

Shaking my head, I biked back home, all my excitement gone. Eventually, we reached the garage and I put my bike away. As I was walking into the living room, a voice came from my ear.

“Hello, Elizabeth.”

I screamed and spun around, only to find no one there. Fear seemed to grip my lungs and strangle them as I stood frozen in place, horrified. Who was speaking? My heart pounded in my chest and my ears were roaring. And then I realized the voice had echoed.

“Who—who’s there?”

“Only me.” Suddenly, I realized the voice was vaguely familiar. Where have I heard that? I spun around desperately, trying to find the source of the voice, but I couldn’t. “Calm down. Look at me. What do you see?”

A burnt smell touched my nose. I recognized it, too. Where had I smelled that? An image flashed into my head. An image of inky black liquid and rain battering against a window, cigarette smoke fogging up the view. I could faintly remember my head throbbing with pain, but that had happened when I fell off a bike, hadn’t it? Not somewhere with cigarettes and black liquid...right? I tried to remember where I had seen it, but the more I thought about it, the more it seemed to slip away, like trying to remember a far away dream. Pushing the thought away, I squinted my eyes and tried to look at where the voice was coming from. “I see...nothing. It’s just my house. What do you want from me?!”

“Your house? Hm, I see.” Was that glee in his voice?

“But...who are you?!” I cried, grabbing the closest thing to me and flinging it in the direction of the voice. It passed through the air as if nothing was there. But if nothing was there, then what was I hearing?

“Elizabeth. Calm down.” The voice was closer now. All of a sudden, something grabbed my arm, twisting it behind my back.

“Amber!” I screamed, but there was no response. Struggling against whatever was attacking me, I screamed and thrashed. “Help!”

I heard a chuckle, and the thing released me. That didn’t stop me from screaming and running around, trying to find Amber and get away from whatever had grabbed me.

Epilogue

The old man chuckled to himself as he leaned forward in his chair to look at the security camera better. Amused, he sat back and lit his cigar again as he watched the girl continue to scream. Her tied-up hands were pounding on the white brick walls of the asylum. She clawed at her scarred face and yanked her blonde hair, still screaming. The man smiled as he remembered his triumph from two weeks ago. Images of inky black liquid flashed through his mind as he remembered his long years of work, until he had finally done it on that rainy night. For two weeks, he had been monitoring her, making sure everything went as he had hoped. He had confirmed it a few minutes before, when he spoke to her. He had finally done it, after ten long years. Watching in amusement as the girl continued to shriek, he let out a puff of smoke.

The human mind is so easy to fool…

This story is based on the Reedsy.com prompt "Write a story where a local takes a newcomer under their wing (https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/)."

"Nice to meet you Dash, I'm Slayne. Glad to have you joining us at House of Torment."

"Thanks Slayne, I still can't believe I'm working here. This place is always on the national lists for top haunted houses, and I actually made the cut!"

"Yeah, the owner says you have potential. Stick with me and I'll show you the ropes friend. First things first, let's get checked in."

Dash followed Slayne into the haunt and proceeded up the stairs into the green room. There they met with Sonya, who would be his direct manager as an actor.

"Good to see you again Dash. I trust Slayne is taking care of you?"

"Yeah, thanks so much Sonya! I'm pretty nervous, so pairing us newbies with folks that know what they're doing makes me feel better!"

"Appreciate the vote of confidence Dash, but even us vets are always learning too. It's a changing industry, so even someone like me that has done this for 10 years isn't done developing skills yet."

"Slayne's right, there's always room to grow." Sonya nodded approvingly. "Do your best, take care of yourself, and be willing to learn, and you'll be a permanent part of this place!"

"Sounds great, I'll give it all I've got!" Dash replied enthusiastically. "OK, what do we do first Slayne?"

"We confirm our scene tonight with Sonya. So where are you putting us tonight?"

"The graveyard scene is a good one to start with." Sonya said kindly. "Lots of hiding places, alternate methods for scaring guests. I know you've handled that one a number of times Slayne. Why don't you two head down there and practice once you've finished with costumes and makeup? We still have an hour and a half before we open, so there's time."

"Will do Sonya, thanks!" Slayne said cheerfully, following up with a curtsy. "Let's go talk to the costume manager and get suited up Dash!"

The pair headed to a large closet where Costume Manager Changella awaited them. The young woman also echoed the same uplifting persona as Sonya and Slayne.

"Hi Slayne, always good to see you back. And you must be one of our new recruits.... it's Dash, right?"

"Yeah, that's me!" Dash gushed, turning slightly red. "Nice to meet you Changella!"

"The pleasure is all mine Dash. So where does Sonya have you gentlemen in the house tonight?"

"Graveyard." Slayne replied with a grin.

"Ooooh, nice! That's a great one to start with! Alright, I will get you two some raggedy outfits, and then you guys can head into the makeup line to become zombified. I'm excited for you Dash, the graveyard was one of my first scenes too, it's a really fun one!"

"Looking forward to it, just like I'm looking forward to working with you too Changella!"

Dash and Slayne brought their costumes back into the green room and changed into them. Then they headed for the makeup line to give their faces and arms the appearance of zombies.

"Being polite goes a long way in the haunt community, so keep that up." Slayne complimented. "Everyone here wants the new blood to succeed, as you guys will have to keep the tradition going once us older folks can't do it anymore."

"Hopefully that won't be for a while. This place wouldn't be the same without you legends in it!"

"Well, I never have been called a legend before, but I appreciate it. Thanks Dash."

*****

Once makeup was done, Dash and Slayne looked like true members of the undead. The duo then went to the graveyard scene to prepare for the thrill seekers that would soon fill the house. A maze of realistic tombstones filled the room, along with a couple of well made trees. A dim light that simulated moonlight would make it a challenge for customers to navigate, although the actors often adjusted to the mostly dark rooms quickly.

"So we still have a good 45 minutes until we open, so let's see what you brought with you for essentials tonight." Slayne said while gesturing at the plastic grocery bag that Dash was carrying.

"Oh yeah, sure!" Dash said excitedly as he pulled a small cola bottle out of his bag, along with four king size chocolate candy bars.

"Ummmm Dash, you do remember what is said in the handbook about being prepared, right?"

"I skimmed through it quickly to be honest, this is what gets me through my normal work days in the office. Why, are these things not good?"

"Definitely not ideal." Slayne said with a hint of annoyance that he struggled to hide. "Water should be your drink of choice. This place gets really hot, and you need to stay hydrated. You can fill the cola bottle with water from the break room later at least, but that bottle isn't very big. You should have brought a gallon sized container for water. Then there's the issue with protein."

"Candy bars have protein, don't they?"

"A small amount, but not enough for the work we'll be doing all season. You really should have brought some energy bars, or some kind of protein snack like peanuts or edamame. Tell me this, what have you eaten today?"

"A bunch of donuts, some french fries, a big bowl of mac and cheese, fried cheese sticks, and a bunch of cookies. Why, is that going to be a problem?"

"Ummmmmm yeah, that could be. But it's ok, you're learning. Maybe some of the other vets left some stuff in the breakroom. I'll check before we start. But first, let's practice some acting strategies. Pick a spot to hide, and I'll walk in pretending to be a guest. See if you can scare me newbie!"

Slayne left the scene while Dash hid behind the tree prop. Slayne walked back in and began passing the tree when Dash popped his head out from behind the tree.

"Boooooooo!"

"OK, good timing, but you must have missed that part in the training videos that we were emailed."

"We got training videos in our email? Crap, I'm really bad at checking my email.... sorry man!"

"It's ok." Slayne said, using his own acting skills to hide his frustration. "Boo is a no go for dialogue. Let me go back and you can try something else."

Slayne left the scene and walked back to the tree, when Dash popped out at him again.

"Get out!"

"Um yeah, we don't say that one either. Let's try this one more time. Make something up based on this scene."

Slayne let Dash reset, then approached him once more.

"Hey dude! Spooky night in the graveyard, eh?"

"Um yeah..... you should probably watch a training video. Pull up your email on your phone and watch the "acting tips for pop scares" one. I'll check the break room and see if I can find some water and protein. I'll be back in ten Dash."

*****

Slayne began navigating the dark hallways behind the scenes when he ran into a fellow zombie character.

"Hey Slayne! How's the new guy doing?"

"Not so good Raul. The kid has heart, but didn't prepare with the materials we were all given. His dialogue is weak, he didn't eat a good meal beforehand, and he didn't even bring water with him. The kid will pass out within two hours tops."

"That's a bummer. Another one for the Shredder Room eh? At least his blood can be used by the makeup crew, and whatever else is left of him can be salvaged for props."

"Yeah, but I kind of like the kid. I think I may try and mentor him some more to save him from being shredded. I mean, the poor guy is a dead man anyway, just like all of us are."

"Oh I know that all too well Slayne. I was working my first night getting scares, then everyone was suddenly gone. The break room was gone, the green room was gone, the emergency exits were gone. All I could do was starve to death, then get revived as a living corpse, my lot now permanently working as a scare actor to avoid the shredder myself."

"Yeah Raul, they take the loyalty clause to a new level here. But the boss wants only the best actors, and traps us here to keep his talent."

"He really covered his bases with this place Slayne, with those perfect doppelgangers of us he sent out to not let anyone know we're missing. I know my copy has come through the haunt with my wife frequently.... I scare them extra good out of spite every time I see them. The boss does have the perfect haunt setup here though. Escaping from this place is impossible. It's either act, or disappear for good."

"Yeah.... I thought I lived for the haunt life brother, never thought I would die for it. But now I'm going to check the break room and see if there's some water and protein I can grab for Dash. I would much rather he become one of us than become parts for props."

"You're a good guy Slayne. If I'm going to be stuck in a haunt season forever, at least I get to do so with you...."

Raul's opening night can be read here: https://theprose.com/post/441660/where-s-the-breakroom

The End?

Butler, Housekeeper and Goundskeeper glanced stoically at the broken body of Resident Artist sprawled at the base of the observatory tower. "Well, we'll have to find another. Who this time?" She vibrated, eyes transfixed on nothing, unbreathing. Then with a shuddered she said "A writer."

Butler tilted his head. "Not a poet I hope?" They all felt the vibration, heard the silent, toneless voice. Never Again.

They all remembered and never spoke of the incident at the brick wall that enveloped Eldwood. It was better to forget. "Well, let's begin preparations for the feast. Housekeeper, get a short list of writers. They can give readings between courses. Cook will need to put in an order. Groundkeeper, see that the east garden is prepared for champagne and music. Oh, and find someone to deal with this." Butler gestured at the ill fated Singer, half forgotten save for the gathering summer flies.

Mr. Alexis Howard received a gold embossed invitation in May. He hated to admit it, (he was an artist after all, and above the shallow frippery and fetes of the aristocrats) but his hand trembled slightly as he broke the wax. The parties and feasts at Eldwood Estate were famous for their opulence. They were infrequent and only the cream of society was ever invited. He nearly fainted upon reading the included card inviting him to a short work to read as part of the evenings entertainment. He sent his acceptance without hesitation.

Two maids were polishing the silver in preparation for the feast, every utensil would shine. “This is the third Artist since I’ve been here. Remember the painter what hung himself from the grand staircase? Why get a new one if they’re so much bother?” Maid Younger gabbed.

"I think its something to do with needing all the pieces.” Maid Elder mused as though to herself. “like a clock missing a tooth won’t keep time right. A clock without a cog wont work at all. I think you and me is teeth, maybe, and the Artists a cog. The Eldwood needs one." This insightful remark should have stayed unsaid. They both grew stiff for a moment, then resumed their task glassy eyed and silent. Empty.

Mr. Howard spent the first hour of the party in a daze of witty banter, champagne and violin. It wasn’t until sitting down to the feast that everything came into sharp focus. The wafting aromas of delicate soup and light fresh bread seemed to ground him, and he ate with polite gusto. There were several writers present to read a selection between each of the ten courses. The soup was followed by a man who shared a fiction of life at sea. Steamed fresh muscles in a butter wine sauce with a murder mystery. Roasted root vegetables with red wine glaze and a scathingly steamy romance. Every dish was perfection, every conversation pleasant and engaging. And every guest attentive when the writers gave their recital. There was no host present, but there seemed no need for one, everything progressed like a ballet.

Mr. Howard presented a philosophical comedy about a city man’s misadventures in the country after a fabulous dish of quail in plum sauce. As he sat down to polite applause, the conversation around him was suddenly muffled and his vision blurred. He found himself thinking uncomfortably over his life and work. It felt like he was being questioned by a stranger and he was compelled to answer. His vision darkened, and his ears rang. Mr. Howard was about to cry out, when and aromatic dish of fish and wild mushrooms was placed before him. Everything came back into focus. He shook himself. Nerves. Startled, he barely heard the next reader, but the sense of dread faded with each sip of vintage wine. He had a spirited conversation with the gentleman next to him about free will and the role of writers and artists.

After fresh strawberries in clotted cream and an odd tale of ancient sea monster gods Mr. Howard had quite forgotten his episode. But at the final desert course his vision went black. He felt his mind invaded and was helpless to it. It worked backwards through his life, dissecting him into bits of memory until it found those earliest: loyalty, friendship, obedience. Something flashed, adhered, and with shocking pain in his head, he snapped back. The room was empty, all evidence of the decadent feast gone. Butler and Housekeeper were the only ones in the room other than himself.

“Mr. Howard. Welcome to Eldwood Estate.” The whole manor resonated, jingling the china on the table. Welcome.

Mr. Howard uttered an incoherent shriek and heard laughter rattle in his mind. Butler ignored him. “You have been selected to be Eldwood’s Resident Artist. You will stay here, write, and present at events. You will have comfortable room and board, but may never leave. You are to do as your told; you wont really have a choice.” The Writer felt the truth of this in the mans flat words. It was there in that thing that had latched itself to the deep part of his brain. “But you can choose to be content.”

Writer ran for the door, but it slammed shut in his face and locked. The large windows also locked. “Please don’t try to leave" Butler’s voice was emotionless.

In desperation Writer grabbed a chair, intending to smash the glass. And froze, chair raised above him. His head seared with pain. Images flashed in his head of a man running, toward the brick wall, fingers brushing brick, the man imploding. Then exploding. There was nothing but agony. Do Not Try To Leave.

Over the weeks and months the thing in his head kept him dull, telling him to write, to feast, drink and be content. It was present everywhere, the whole house resonated with it. But occasionally, in waking nightmares, he would catch wafts of life before, and one day, perhaps soon, it would be too much.