Lost woods botw | | Lost Woods

Hi everyone! I'm new here, and very hopeful that y'all might be able to help me! I'm trying to find the name of a book I read when I was a teenager. I really liked the book, but let a friend borrow it after I read it, and never seen it again. Unfortunately, I've lost the title, author, and most details over the years. I'll do my best to describe it below. Any help will be appreciated!
A teen girl ends up pregnant. She hides her pregnancy from her parents with baggy clothes, excuses for this symptom or that, and limited interactions with them. If I remember correctly, she ends up having the baby in the woods or has a stillborn, but either way, ends up burying the baby near a specific tree. Fast forward to her adult years, she's married and has kids (I think). Some weird stuff starts to happen. She starts seeing a baby, but the baby has really sharp teeth. Then, the next time she sees the baby, it's grown wayore than it should've. The baby eventually grows into a little girl with sharp teeth. The story ends with the woman fighting the girl and killing her. But, when the husband and kids get home, they find the woman dead, and no sign of the girl with sharp teeth.
I know this isn't the best description, but it is literally all I can remember... and even that much is very hazy. If anyone knows what I'm talking about, though, I would be so, so, so happy! I really want to buy the book or look for it at thrift stores/yard sales for it. So again, any help will be appreciated! Thank all y'all in advance! :)

The day seemed like it would be ordinary until the aeronautical community’s most sought after document showed up on my doorstep.
It came wrapped in brown kraft paper tied off with twine, and the exterior packaging had no return address nor any indication of a postage stamp. It was as though it had been simply bundled up and dropped into my wall-mounted mailbox by a random passerby.
No part of me was willing to surrender the strange parcel without opening it first. Regardless of who its contents truly belonged to, my eyes would be the first to see it. I removed the twine and then dug a thumb under a fold in the packaging paper before clawing it away to expose a brown tan notebook circa 1900. It was full grain buffalo leather with a crisscross of cord for the spine and a thick hand cut string keeping it sealed shut.
When I undid the string, the pages that had been gripped tight by the leather fanned out gently then returned to their original position, my eyes landing on the front page. It was without a printer’s mark and read in big handwritten type: “THE DIARY AND RECORD OF HENRY H. HELGELAND.”
I knew in that instant the package was in the hands of who it was rightfully sent out for. Not just because I’d recently lost my job as an associate at our city’s art museum but because of a separate, much deeper connection to the diary’s author.
Perhaps it’s in my best interests to turn it over to the National Archives, or the US Arctic Research Commission, or maybe even the U.S. Capitol Visitor Center, but at the risk of seeing it blue-penciled to death, I’ve elected to instead share it here and now.
The world needs to know what happened.
---
Henry H. Helgeland — my great grandfather — was a severe looking man with a walrus mustache and a bone to pick with anyone who ever doubted him. He was born in Oakland, California in 1871 and was, by all available accounts relayed to me, well-behaved and well-liked. His father worked a lucrative job in the shipping industry, transporting timber between San Francisco and the Central Valley. Two years into Henry’s life, his mother would contract a fatal case of diphtheria and die shortly thereafter; when he was old enough to understand what had happened, Henry “yearn[ed] fervently for a reunion to mend [his] great anguish and sorrow.”
Near the turn of the 20th century, Henry attended Stanford University’s Department of Mechanical Engineering, where he learned everything from thermodynamics to machine design. But it was a lecture about polar transportation that would ultimately kindle his interest in a separate enterprise: arctic exploration. Indeed, the race to the North Pole was well underway, with naval officers, geologists, and aeronauts around the globe vying for the chance to make history. My great grandfather, like many of his peers, propounded the theory that he, and he alone, would be the first to reach the Great White North.
In 1895, Henry graduated with a Bachelor of Science degree in mechanical engineering and sought to expand the member list of the so called Ascension Society, a student organization he’d assembled to aid engineering graduates with materials science. Many of its constituents had engaged in research projects and experimental setups to hone their craft of mechanical systems, but in time, however, the venture would instead prove a hotspot for investors and philanthropists. Donations averaging up to $5,000 helped fund and promote the fantastic ambitions of my great grandfather. So long as the Ascension Society was gracing him with their support, he’d be the first to reach the North Pole.
In early 1898, armed with enough capital, Henry used the proceeds to purchase the materials required for the balloon.
---
A notable circus at the forefront of traveling attractions in the early twentieth century was The Fielding Troupe. With its impressive lineup of talent — from fire eaters and aerialists to equestrians and strongmen — the ensemble drew crowds from nearly every town in western America during its historic run. Its wide reach would ultimately reel in many notable faces, including my great grandfather.
Prior to a performance in Oakland, the Fielding Troupe led a procession through the town around Stanford University, announcing their arrival with a parade of wagons, floats, and animals. The strategy, as it were, was to drum up as much publicity and fanfare as possible. Evidently it worked, as a healthy fraction of the faculty and student body at Stanford made the trip over to Oakland in order to see the troupe in action.
Surrounding their arena with two hundred feet of heavy duty tent canvas, the troupe put on a show for the ages the night Henry was in attendance, with extravagant acrobatics, trained animal performances, and a special appearance from Curtis the Clown. Following a skillful display of juggling and good natured audience ribbing, Curtis’s master stroke was an intricate stunt involving balloons and wire flying. Firstly, he would inflate several multi-colored balloons and tie them off with string, securing them firmly in his grip. They served as a flashy distraction from the piece of flexible metal snaking out from the harness he had concealed under his equally flashy costume. Then, with a whisper of strength, a couple stagehands hoisted the balloon-carrying clown thirty feet into the air to make it appear as though he was levitating by virtue of the balloons alone. A separate performer — a marksman — showed off his sharpshooting skills with a Winchester model rifle and gunned down the balloons, exploding each one as the stagehands loosened their hold on Curtis’s harness until he was eased to the ground.
Henry watched the routine with eager delight. Seeing Curtis the Clown float above a hundred or so onlookers helped stir within him a plan. The ceiling of the Big Top Tent where Curtis had concluded his ascent represented more than the centerpiece of a traveling circus.
“Ascendancy,” Henry muttered to his wife Ruth. “This is how we get to the top of the world.”
---
The spherical vessel measured sixty-five feet in diameter, with a capacity of over 200,000 cubic feet. Its construction was overseen by Henry and a couple french engineers who installed in its gondola three berths and ample ballast to keep it stable. The gondola, a carefully constructed assemblage of wicker and chestnut wood, was built as such to bar any interference to the magnetic instruments of the explorers. Keeping it shielded against severe weather conditions was a varnished silk calotte and a vaselined net composed of over four-hundred hemp cords. A bamboo pole was attached bellow the carrying ring to attach the side sails and, perhaps most notably, the balloon was fitted with hemp and cocoa nut fiber guide ropes to help steer and maintain a consistent altitude.
After two years of exhaustive construction, work on the balloon was completed in 1900. Henry named it Ascension, after the society that funded its creation.
---
What follows are several selected passages lifted directly from Henry’s memorandum, transcribed by me. The first entry reads:
“At nine o'clock on the forenoon, May 5, 1900, under the auspices of the Ascension Society, we embarked from the 71st parallel on our quest of the Pole. Our great journey sets off from Point Barrow, Alaska following a grueling adventure aboard the steamer Sursum. I, Henry Helgeland, travel forth, accompanied by Charles Ringvold, esteemed navigator, and Edward Meyer, long celebrated physician, into the arctic wilderness. Together, our efforts will generate a most formidable team and an unwavering spirit. We will ascend.”
Indeed, the SS Sursum disembarked from a port in San Francisco in mid May of that year; it offered easy access to the Pacific Ocean and sailed through the Bering Strait, covering over 3,000 nautical miles before reaching Point Barrow on July 2.
When the balloon took off, carried by a fierce north east wind, it was to a thunderous applause from those that had come to bear witness to the bold endeavor. Among them were crew members of the SS Sursum, high ranking associates of the Ascension Society, and carpenters tasked with helping the balloon reach its initial phase of liftoff.
As it elevated to 300 hundred feet and passed around an onlooking whaler, Henry was reported to have shouted: “To the top of the world, hurrah!”
---
36 hours would elapse before a second entry was made.
“July 4, 1900, Lat. 77° 48' N, Long. 143° 4' W. We are soaring at a height of 600 feet above the Earth's surface, traveling at a speed of approximately seven kilometers per hour. Our morale remains similarly aloft. Charles relayed to me that, God willing, we anticipate reaching the pole in roughly 800 miles. Beyond the drag ropes lending their ballast to our journey, optimism is our guiding force. We will ascend.”
Turbulent air currents had a different plan in mind, however.
“July 5, 1900, Lat. 80° 8' N, Long. 138° 37' W. Alas! Our aerial journey came to an abrupt halt yestereve on the 80th parallel. We voyaged as many as 500 miles before a forceful downdraft spun our vehicle on its vertical axle and compelled it into a sharp descent; we had lost what we estimate to be just over 100 cubic feet of gas.
“Edward suffered severe injuries during the initial impact and claims his vertebrae have been shattered, leaving him immobile. We’re at the mercy of the floe on which we now rest, at the mercy of the Polar Sea. Should we face the specter of death, we shall meet it with unwavering honor. We will ascend.”
---
“July 6, 1900. We find ourselves solitary in the barren expanse, accompanied only by bergs, ice-fields, and majestic glaciers. Our rations encompass a container’s worth of hardtack, enough salted beef for approximately one week, canned stew, dried apricots, some chocolate bars, and seven bottles of ale.
“Edward’s outlook remains grim; he suspects he’ll never walk again. In witness of his current state, I’m beginning to share in such apprehensions. Edward, whom we have reposed on on of our sledges, fears that the opportunity to make known the great love he holds for his mistress Rebecca is one he’ll never be granted. ‘You shall be reunited at once,’ I assured him. ‘Our journey to triumph will not be thwarted by minor inconveniences.’
“We’ve plotted the course to our next destination: that being Herschel Island, located off the coast of Canada in the Beaufort Sea. Charles — who shares in Edward’s dismay — estimates a three month footslog spanning just under one thousand miles is in store for us, perhaps more given Edward’s ailment. I am determined to see this mission to its completion, yet survival remains a paramount desire. Who’s to recount our extraordinary journey should we fail?
“While establishing our encampment and scouting the local flora of the area for additional sources of sustenance, I happened upon a plant of an unknown species. Half a meter tall, bulbous tubers, and thin roots terminating in clusters of white flowers; intuition suggests this is a water hemlock, which precludes it from edibility. Nevertheless, I shall regard this finding as one of great fortune. A portent of divine value. We will ascend.”
---
Two days later, gold prospectors off the Alaskan coast at Nome beach were in the process of emptying their sluice boxes when from the sky flew a carrier pigeon directly to their mining site. It bore a label with the inscription “Helgeland” and contained the following dispatch:
“July 7, 1900. First dog watch. Three southerly traveling carrier-pigeons were sent off at approximately 7 h. 40 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, the following among them. This is Rear Admiral Charles Ringvold of the United States Navy and the Helgeland Balloon Expedition of 1900. Our hopes of reaching the pole have been reduced to naught. Assistance urgently needed. Our destinies have hitherto been unknown, and now my fears have been actualized. GO IN TERROR OF HENRY HELGELAND. He is not who he proclaims to be. I volunteered for a man of honorable stature and venturesome drive. The man before me betrays neither.”
The remainder of the message was a hasty scrawl, decrypted only by the best in linguistics and modern codebreaking.
“UNASSISTED WE WILL PERISH HELPED WE WILL PERSEVERE PLEASE GOD HELP US HENRY WILL KILL US ALL DO NOT BELIEVE WHAT HE PROCLAIMS.”
The communication was immediately passed off to the Smithsonian Institution, where word fell within the earshot of Ascension Society proponents and additional members of the US Navy. A follow-up expedition — a rescue team led by Captain S. P. Matthews — was put together at once with the authorization of the Secretary of War.
Months later, after a congressional bill introduced to secure grant funding for arctic exploration — and thereby a rescue mission for Helgeland’s lost expedition — was successfully passed, the USS Greenwich departed from the San Francisco Naval Shipyard with a crew of thirty boatswains, medics, and deck officers among others.
What they would ultimately uncover puzzled them all.
---
“July 7, 1900. The team has fractured. We are without our provisions and without the morale that has served us thusly.
“Charles and I set upon the pursuit and capture of a walrus, a most strenuous task in the Arctic Circle. Furnished with a Winchester model .40-82, the sport skews in our favor but we are in no short supply of peril. These are one ton beasts with the strength of a hundred strongmen as they stave the ice, and yet it is not them I should have feared.
“’I can’t allow you to proceed further.’ I heard the click clack racket of the Winchester as Charles chambered a round and raised the rifle, training its twenty inch barrel toward my back after I had volunteered — quite ignorantly — to take the vanguard.
“’Charles?’ I managed between clattering teeth.
“’You’re a man of bold stature. An honorable man at that. But not honorable enough to die for. And that’s it, Henry. I will not die for you.’
“’You speak out of distress, not rationality.’
“’I’m as rational as one permits when I say we won’t all make it to Canada. You can’t expect us to sledge Edward for the next month and retain our strength. Our sanities.” I could hear him gulp, ‘our lives.’
“’You’re not who you say you are.’ I realized in that moment. ‘Not even an ensign would renounce his own crew. Who are you really, Charles?’
“His credentials were a farce; a clever scheme to scrape through the expedition’s vetting process. He was no navy-man nor expert nor navigator and if you piled his life’s accomplishments on top of one another, they’d be equal to that of a cretin.
“’Doesn’t matter any more, Henry.’
“’Then why haven’t you shot me?’
“I sensed beyond his terror a hint of reluctance and felt within him the trepidation of an amateur. The man had never wielded a firearm in his life and wouldn’t start hence.
“’In Your infinite mercy, hear my prayer. In Your boundless grace, grant me Your forgiveness,’ he muttered below his breath. I could’ve believed he’d have squeezed the trigger if not for the unexpected convulsion that suddenly brought him to his knees. Befallen by the strange attack, Charles unhanded the Winchester and collapsed to the ice in the midst of a crippling seizure. And in a matter of moments, he had succumbed to death.
“With some activated charcoal or perhaps an emetic, he could have eluded such a painful demise. I stepped over to look upon his body, his pupils dilated to the size of dimes. Reviewing the immediate symptoms, intuition tells me he’s become the latest victim of hemlock poisoning, the kind of amateur mistake I’d expect from someone such as Charles. Ideal timing, if I may speak candidly.
“Hope remains alive. I will ascend.”
---
Investigators with the crew of S. P. Matthews found everything except answers.
It took them all of three months to zero in on the campsite left behind by Helgeland’s expedition. Any prospect of finding the balloon itself was dropped by the wayside to preserve manpower and time.
The camp was discovered on the 79th parallel, not in any particular state of disarray but with enough evidence to suggest conflict had broken out between the members. Edward was discovered in a tent with the rest of the rations and a bullet hole stamped in the side of his head. There was no telling how long he’d been dead for.
Forty-five meters away from the camp, buried under a stalagmitic gathering of ice and snow, was the body of Charles Ringvold. A followup inquiry would prove my great grandfather’s claims that he was a fraud, but like Charles himself, the truth is buried deep under the surface. Edward and Charles are commemorated for their failed — albeit honorable — efforts in the face of great opposition.
The body of my great grandfather, however, was never found. Theories thus abound in the saga of Henry H. Helgeland and we are no more the wiser now than we were a century ago. He is remembered for murdering his men in cold blood, deserting them, and then yielding to the elements somewhere in the frozen hell of the arctic. The carrier-pigeon message sent by Charles corroborated the apparent facts.
But I know the truth. Because only I have the answers.
“July 8, 1900. All that remains is me, for everyone else has vanished. Edward and I regaled each other with stories of our mistresses as night fell upon our place in the arctic wasteland. Rebecca, Edward’s beloved, works as an expert seamstress in San Francisco and will no doubt be devastated when news of his fate reaches her. But the great memories they shared together, I assured him, will serve her well in the years to come.
“‘You shall be reunited at once,’ I whispered to him once more before executing the dying man with the Winchester. It is my turn to face whatever awaits me on the ice.
“My great anguish and sorrow have been mended.
“Ruth is calling to me now. Our son promptly requires our presence.
“I shall go to them."
The fruitless search for my great grandfather peaked at last with the unearthing of a path of footprints snaking away from the tent where Edward’s body lay. Investigators followed them for approximately ten meters before they abruptly ceased. Captain Matthews is quoted as saying: “it was as though the walker had simply floated away.”
And indeed, it was our family that won in the end, for my great grandfather received exactly what he wanted. The final, undated entry of his diary is comprised of but three simple words:
“I have ascended.”

I recently came across a post about an expat who participated in a night wedding. After reading the accounts I began to do research on my own. Not because I believe in any of that stuff. I'm a magician after all. Illusion is my bread and butter. And I can detect trickery better than most. Which in my line of work has its benefits. But old traditions are the best places to pick up new techniques. Old ways that are new to others that delight and even scare people. Because, if I can make them afraid. Make them look away. For even a second. I can pull off some astounding magic.
My gig at the cruise line was coming to an end as we neared the port of Shanghai. And for my last several shows, where I'd normally start to include my greatest tricks in order to leave a lasting impression. I developed a new act that I called "The Sneaky Bride", it involved a mannequin in a wedding dress, a beautiful train, veil, flowers on the ground - the whole nine yards some would say. The trick was that the bride would sneak bites as my assistants who are dressed as servers pass by with their trays.
I begin the trick by placing a mannequin center stage for all to see so that they know it's a dummy. I show them there are no holes, and the entire thing is solid. Then we dress it up and set the stage for a wedding. And with a bit of lighting, another assistant switches places with the mannequin and is being fed under the veil. We later changed it to more slight of hand techniques as the assistant complained she wasn't able to chew fast enough as the items of course have to get larger and larger for comedic effect as the guests were wowed by the disappearing act as the fake wedding progressed.
At the end we even invited the unmarried men up to the stage and then threw out a fake bouquet, and watched them clamber over each other in good fun to catch it. The act was an instant hit and had the crowd roaring every night. Which was why I decided to take a firsthand look at the original, and see if there were any other staging techniques I could learn from this old tradition.
With some help from Bing and its ChatGPT features I was able to get a relatively good idea of where it was practiced. So I booked the next flight out to begin my quest for a real night wedding.
Upon arrival at my hotel, I asked the concierge for information about the local practice.
"Yes. I know of this one. We practice it often for children who were taken too early."
"But they are all scams?"
The concierge smiled, "In most cases the pouches mean no harm, and they're simply for families who want to provide peace for themselves and to complete a lasting tradition. Sometimes the dowries are quite lucrative as well, and it is the families who are scammed by those who go and collect these ghost wives as concubines. We call it a blue procession for the trail of ghosts the husband leaves behind wherever he goes." He leans in, "But between you and me? They're mostly all scams."
I laughed, and I can't stress this next part enough, tip your concierge! Which I did. "Thank you, and also. Do you know where I could get a good start on finding more information about these ghost dowries? Or even find one of these pouches myself?"
"The temple down this first street to the left, about half a kilometer, would be a good place to start. But finding a pouch is a bit more difficult as they pop up sporadically. However, if traditions are to be believed it is the pouch who chooses the spouse."
I thanked him again and began to make my way through the early morning rush toward the temple. The streets were lined with open markets full of food from local farmers, which were common in the morning in this part of the world. They would disappear before the afternoon and then return again to sell wares at night when it was cooler. It made the city feel as if it were breathing as the locals rose and ebbed outside with day and night.
On my way, I searched the ground and around alleys for loose pouches. But I had no such luck by the time I arrived at the temple. Large red pillars that were thicker than any tree I've personally had the pleasure of meeting held up the high ceiling. Inside, the locals were already starting to disperse as the work hours were amongst us. Which left me nearly alone in this temple at about 8:00 in the morning.
A monk or priest was kneeling on a mat in front of a wooden shrine, throwing pieces of wood in the shape of dumplings on the floor. I waited patiently for him to finish. Taking in the sights and the delicate features of the temple. When he rose I approached him.
"You don't speak English by any chance do you?"
He smiled.
"What about the middle tongue?" I asked in Mandarin.
"Oh," he seemed surprised. "Yes. How may I be of assistance?"
"What were you doing just now?"
He held out his hand and showed me two red wooden pieces that were, with closer inspection, in the shape of moons. "Jiaobei," he told me. "We use these to seek divine guidance."
"How does it work?"
The monk shows me the two sides, one was smooth and flat, the other side rounded. "You ask a question and then throw it on the ground. One block flat and one block round, means yes. Both blocks showing round means no. Or depending on the question. Anger from the Gods. Or crying in sadness as it is commonly known. And finally, both blocks showing flat means laughter. Which could mean a number of things." He hands them to me, "You throw it three times to get a better answer."
"I'm guessing if it's the same all three times, the answer is definitive?"
The monk nodded.
"Will I..."
"Ah ah ah, in silence."
I didn't want my first question to be too convoluted or difficult. So I kept it simple and asked if I was a good magician. Then I threw the Jiaobei on the floor. It clattered and rolled on its rounded back, showing two flat sides.
The monk smiled.
"That usually happens the first time anyone tries Jiaobei. But in my experience, it generally means you asked a pure question."
"What happens if I didn't ask a pure question and it came back as angry?"
"The gods will remember it. They will remember you."
"No bad first impression then huh," I whispered under my breath. "Okay. Do I need to throw it two more times or can I ask a different question?"
"You may ask a different question or throw it twice more."
"What is my name?" I threw it on the floor. And to my surprise, as the ends are pointed and difficult to balance, one of the damn things stood tall and erect.
The monk bowed to the pieces. "Truly you have been picked by the gods to be answered. Lijiao or a standing answer like this is uncommonly rare. The gods generally choose to laugh at a nonsensical question. And often get angry if you throw it two more times. And rarely do they ever answer ones asked aloud."
I bent forward, skeptical, though a temple this was, at how the thing worked. In my head I could only think that the switchboard guy was quick on his feet. But looking around I couldn't find any cameras. Though in this day an age, they're made smaller than a fly. So it was difficult to tell. I picked up the pieces, feeling for any sense of magnetism, but there were none.
I asked one last question before I left that day. I asked their gods, would I find the real deal? And I threw it on the ground three times. All three times it came up yes. But for two months I scoured the city, and the country side. And I did chance upon several pouches. Some were obviously scams as I watched each bag carefully before approaching. Especially noticeable are the ones in the city which would be laying on the sidewalk, filled with bills for people passing by. But I observed that if a local went to go pick it up, two or three men from around the corner would come and threaten him to put it back. But if a foreigner picked it up, an old man or woman would come and start calling them son before leading them away.
There were of course others that were genuinely following tradition. I chanced upon several of them and was married several times. But each one was playful almost. And performed by their parents in the day. Leaving me with several small bags of pocket change, a good dinner, as I went on my way.
During one of these fake night weddings I even saw a child playfully munching on a corn cob in the corner under one of the tables as I fed the effigy they constructed of my fake bride. Which was when I think I decided to call it quits. Believing that I'd never find the real deal. Although I did learn a lot as tradition can be translated by me into performance. Which helped me ground 'The Sneaky Bride' act further. All in all, this was time well spent.
My visa was coming to an end and I had mostly been enjoying the sights, the city, and their way of life. When on one the last day, as I was leaving from a faraway eatery that the concierge had recommended, that I saw a red pouch made of silk with a thick yarn around its throat, stuffed full of money. I looked around and didn't see a single person there, nothing except flat farmland and water gullies for miles.
Odd, I thought to myself, as it looked truly abandoned.
For a second I played with the idea of picking it up. Wondering if somehow a relative of the deceased would pop up magically next to me and I could change the world of magic by studying their technique. But I didn't want to spend my few hours chasing ghosts. I wanted to enjoy my time. So I kept walking.
I got back to the city and spent the remainder of my day eating and drinking, meeting new friends at the bar, newfound lads who I invited a hundred times to visit me in Melbourne one day. Who all agreed that if fate ever brought us back together we would drink until the sun rose. So yeah, I was fairly drunk when I got back to my hotel room, and didn't believe what I saw when I opened the door. It was a red pouch sitting on my coffee table.
"Someone's trying to play a trick on me," I mused. "They must have heard me talking at the bar." I circled the table studying the pouch. Any magician worth his smoke, likes a good bag. So there was no doubt to me that this was the same one I saw earlier. Which made me start putting two and two together. "It must be the concierge. He's the one who sent me out that far." I laughed and picked up the bag, even though I knew the rules. I opened it and thumbed through the bills. "It's much more than what I tipped him. Much more." Curious, I wondered what he would have done if I didn't return this to him. It must have been quite a few months worth of wages. I threw the bag up in the air and caught it as if I were juggling before I tossed it on my nightstand. "I'm going to let him sweat for a little bit and pretend I didn't find it tomorrow as I check out," I mused as I went to go take a shower.
I opened the door and felt the words stick to the roof of my mouth as the bag appeared on the counter next to the sink. I shot a glance back to the nightstand and indeed the bag I had just thrown on there was missing.
"This is a good fucking trick. That, or I'm drunker than I thought." I started questioning did I somehow fall asleep beforehand? Or walked into the bathroom and put it there as I mused my little scheme of making the concierge nervous at the lost pouch? Had I somehow in my drunken state done something without realizing it? No. That couldn't be it. I touched my chest to check my heart rate and put my fingers on my face. A bit flushed, but heart rate adequate. I was fine for the most part. Just drunk.
I looked at the pouch on the counter, and peered gingerly into the bathroom as if I've never stepped foot in one, before deciding to grab the bag and close the door. "Okay," I said loudly. "Whoever's doing this. Come on out." Of course no one appeared, not that I expected them to because the credo I lived by is that a good magician never reveals his trick.
"Okay, let's see how good you guys really are," I mused. Going over to my closet and placed the pouch on the shelf. Closing the door. Then I went back to the bathroom and opened the door. It was empty. I checked the nightstand drawer, mpty. I looked all over, and it was still mty. I breathed a sigh and went over to the closet door, "I guess you're just a bag after all." Except when I looked inside. MT. I couldn't find the bag behind any other nook or cranny. I know, I checked them all. And they were all .
I stumbled backwards and looked around, glancing at the ceiling corners in case someone had crawled up there. And even looked under the bed. But there was no one else here. I felt my chest tighten as I tried to make sense of what was happening. "Its got to be the walls I reasoned." And so for the next half hour I scoured the entire room with my hands, pushing, pressing, pulling anywhere and everywhere I could. Using all my years of experience to figure out what was going on. But there was nothing.
I couldn't stay in that room another minute so I rushed outside and nearly stepped on it! The bag! It was right at the foot of my doorstep.
My mind tried to wrap around how that was possible, "It's got to be a dupe. They've got more than one bag. I've been had, that has to be it. And the furniture inside, they have secret compartments. God, they really put a lot of effort into this," I laughed. "I have to know how this trick is done." So I opened the pouch and pulled out the note inside.
The notes generally contained their name, their current would-be age (she was 20 this year, older than most), what time they were born (8:07), a picture if they had one (she did), and how old they when they died (5). If the deceased were a bit older, perhaps a tidbit from their family is included about their personality. But most importantly, it always contained their address.
I looked at my watch, it was late and my flight was in the morning but perhaps I could still make it. So I gathered the rest of my things, my luggage, the mannequin for my act, and other bag of tricks in case I needed to go to the airport right after. "Come on," I yelled out loud to my pranksters. "Let's go see what other tricks you have up your sleeve."
I went down to the lobby and had the front desk call me a cab. I looked around for the concierge but he was nowhere to be found. So I left a note for him. And then left.
The cab drove until the city faded away. We were practically on the other side of the island by the time its tires skipped to a stop. I got out and knocked on the giant half circle doors of the address. I noticed that we were deep in the countryside. There were hardly any lights dotting the night.
I knocked several more times before I heard shuffling behind the door. And then it opened. An old man stood in front of me in his drawers.
"What do you want," he asked angrily. "Do you know what time it is?"
"I'm sorry for disturbing you at such a late hour. But," I pulled out the pouch. And his eyes widened up.
"Meju-eh. You're back." He looked at me up and down. "What are you supposed to be," he asked but then shook his head. "No, no. Come in. Come in, please."
"I don't have much time," I told him. "I have to leave in the morning."
"Sit, sit." He ushered me to a chair in the courtyard.
I placed the bag on the table next to it, "I have a flight in the morning, so if we're going to do this. We have to do it now."
Instead of fighting me, he nodded, "Yes. I agree. I don't have much time either. And Meju-eh is older than most ghost brides. The bull demon might not let her through his gets if she gets any older. And then she'll be a husbandless spinster for eternity." He ushered around, "We don't have many living relatives either. So it shouldn't be too troublesome to hurry this along." He called into the house and a young woman came out, "This is my granddaughter. Ah-ahn. Meju-eh's older sister. They were close as children."
Ah-ahn was quite beautiful. I almost couldn't take my eyes off of her.
"Go and start preparations and rouse anyone you can get a hold of. We must have the wedding tonight. Even if it isn't grand as I would like."
"Will we make it in time," I asked. "It's a lot of work for one person. Perhaps I could help?"
The old man nodded, "That's a good idea. But forgive me, I must retire for now. Or else have no energy for the wedding." He turned to his granddaughter, "Fetch me when the preparations are ready." As he left us alone in the courtyard.
"What can I do," I asked her.
"We're going to need flowers for decoration."
I pulled a rose out from behind her ear, "I happen to have a case of these on hand at all times." I put the flower in her hair.
She smiled, "Thank you."
"What else?"
"Um, we already have tables for family gatherings. There should be enough food in the freezers that we can just heat up. I need to call my aunt to come help. And wake up some of the kids. Also...we kind of need a statue of some sort, as a stand-in for my sister."
"Statue? I think I have just the thing."
Hours went by and it was the dead of the night, but watching all the people bustling around the courtyard, the kids in excited whispers, you'd never guess that all of us should have been sleeping. Soon the tables were set, the food was hot, even the decorations were strung, and I had procured my mannequin from my luggage and a few of the menfolk were putting it together inside the main living room.
Several times I found myself laughing and having a good time with the others, although chasing that hen made me look quite ridiculous, and several times I bumped into Ah-ahn and we would talk and exchange a few words. In the beginning she talked mostly about her sister. How she was troublesome as a child. Always hiding things. I told her about the pouch appearing and disappearing in my hotel. And we both had a good laugh. Eventually we talked about ourselves. I learned she wanted to get away from here, "To see the world," she told me. The more we talked the closer we got. I could feel it. Soon we were bumping into each other just to feel our bodies touch. But before anything else transpired the wedding preparations were complete.
The old man was retrieved from his bedroom and everyone gathered outside in the courtyard, looking into the main living room. There was a wooden shrine in the back of the room and the mannequin had been traditionally dressed. From an old box the grandfather retrieved several personal items that belonged to Meju. And I was then asked to enter the living room.
The grandfather said a few words, and then gave us his blessing. Ah-ahn handed me a bowl of sticky rice ball soup. I had been through this process before and knew what to do. I ate one of the pink balls and then went to go feed my new bride.
Now I've traveled with this mannequin for some time. Seen it at a dozen of my own shows. Slept with it in the room. Knew that it was in fact a dummy for all intents and purposes. However, as I started moving my spoon toward it. I swear I saw it's chest rise as if it were breathing.
I couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol ebbing away from earlier or a trick of the light. But even its shoulders looked softer than usual. My hand started shaking as it got closer to her mouth. It was like watching an out of body experience as the spoon inched under her veil. And then the CRUNCH. It scared the fucking shit out of me. I looked around hoping to see some kid in the corner playing a dumb joke. But there were none. And I didn't believe what I was seeing even as the veil started moving as her jaws chewed the sticky material back and forth.
"No way," I shook. "There's just no way." My hand was so close to the veil. "Oh God. Please. I have to know how this is done." I ripped off the veil.
Meju looked very much like her picture. But older. And then older. And older. As if her face was starting to rot away as it contorted. People behind me screamed. The lightbulbs we had strung popped. Kids were running around and the grandfather fell to the floor clutching his heart.
I backed away, the spoon clattering to the ground as I watched the mannequin crick and crack as its arms and legs bent in a tangled mess until it was walking on all fours!
The thing grabbed the bent down to the grandfather and started chewing!
I turned around and saw the other guests were piling out of the courtyard. The tables were upturned and only the dim crescent light of the moon bore down on us. Everyone was screaming trying to get out. I ran and bumped into Ah-ahn. She whirled terrified and then realized it was me. She yelled, "You never! Look at the bride before it's time!"
"I'm so sorry! I didn't know. I thought it was a trick!"
She grabbed her face, her nails leaving streaks behind as she clawed at her skin, "Now she's going to kill every living blood relative. And then you." Ah-ahn laughed manically. "She's going to torture you!"
The people kept pushing around us until we got separated. Her final words still ringing in my ears as I took to the dirt road outside and started running. I ran for nearly a mile before I spotted a cab sitting outside of someone's house. I banged on their door and then begged them to take me to the airport. Throwing at them all the money from the dowry.
When I arrived at the airport I hurried through the TSA. Relieved at the lights and normal looking people. I boarded my flight. Tapping my foot nervously the entire time, staring out the small squarish window as we prepared to take off. The sun was starting to rise as the engine roared. I took one last look at the island as we flew away. Still trying to catch my breath at what I had just caused.
My mind was reeling as I heard two knocking noises, they sounded oddly familiar, and for a second I thought that Meju had finished with her family and had somehow come boarded. But then I realized the noise was coming from my carry-on. I reached inside and pulled out two red shaped crescents that the Monk at the temple had given to me. And I realized that if I ever needed any form of divine guidance this was it.
So right there in the tiny aisle. I asked the gods if I had escaped and threw the Jiaobei.
No.
I asked the gods if I would be safe.
No.
I asked them would Meju kill me.
Both flat.
Both flat.
Both flat.
s

"Be not solitary, be not idle." I've been trying to figure out a way to travel a world in hopes that something out there will kill me and believe that I can manage at least something, so explore what I can while in Search of Lost Time. If I find all those books, or if my money runs out, I'll book it to Antarctica and freeze. But then my body wont be found in time for my organs to be harvested and potentially save a life and all my money will be gone and I can't give any of it to my brother. I don't like him but he could use all the help he can get so I wrote it down that he will get the money. But I'm too much of a coward to pick a day to do it here and even then I doubt that I will do it where I wont survive and my organs will be taken out. I want to suffocate on helium in the woods btu I don't know if that will work so maybe just drive off a bridge in a river and drown but again, my organs will be too fucked to be a use to anyone. But at least my brother will get more money out of me. But everything seems to suggest that I should take the world on on my own, "He who conquers the Earth will win the stars" but if I do that then I will have nothing left to offer the people that need something.
Rant of a self obsessed coward.

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Shelter Woods now is a map that have it's own linked achievement and makes it very difficult to get into since it's realm have 5 different maps associated. Each offering is a 20% chance if not competing with other realm offering. Also, with the new map rotation mechanic, things get even worse. Even with an offering after getting the wright map, the game itself makes it less unlikelly to return you there on the next couple games because of the rotation. Not mentioning how it's even more unlikely to get there with all 41 maps in the list of possibilities.
The ammount of offerings you end up getting to burn just to try getting into this map is too unbearable. I myself burned so many that I lost count and have no one left just to maybe got to the map about 3 or 4 times with one of those, and getting the killer to disconnec when the gen is reapaired, or to see someone else getting the gen done on my face wile I'm on a hook after I had done 90% of it before getting spotted.
I know that's not a problem itself, just a very big unconvenient for those trying to get the achievement. But I find that it's very frustrating just trying to go for it with all those not so easy or direct steps to follow that may not even get you to the right one. Playing the map and not getting the gennerator done is acceptable because it's the game logic, but not been able to go direct to the map itself is insane!
Honestly, my personal opinion is that each map that has an associated achievement should have it's own offering, not just this one, independent to it's realm. It would make some players life (myself included) less frustrating and not be so upset with the game for losing a single match, since who knows when you will be able to return to that map again.
That's why I find it a problem for just this one occasion since there is no other realm with that many options of destination with an associated achievement for just a specific map.

Thanks for readding.

I was inspired by XP to level 3’s series on if the Lord of the Rings was DnD to write this post. Originally I was going to go through each volume writing it as if it was a DnD campaign, but I thought that that was a lot of work, so I decided to instead write a post about if each character was a DnD character.
Something to note: I’m very new to DnD and I haven’t had much experience playing it, so if something sounds off to you or you think something should’ve been done differently, that’s probably why. Also, I tried my best to give everyone races that made sense to me, but not everyone got that treatment (I couldn’t come up with anything for Pyrrah)
Okay, let’s begin:

Ruby Rose

Tabaxi Ranger

Ruby Rose’s player is someone who cares a lot about combat and not a lot about role play and character development. Regardless, she still tried to make her character interesting, but she unfortunately kept everything on her character sheet and lost it. She tried to recreate it several times, but it always got lost. Eventually the DM said that he’d write it down and keep it, but he never bothered writing some important details down, like how she multi-classed into Artificer and that’s how she had her cool blade-gun hybrid. The only things he kept were the fact that she has a dead mom and that her and Yang were teammates in a former adventuring party and considered themselves to be like sisters, but the DM tends to not lean into the latter thing as much.
He eventually realized that Ruby isn’t all that interested and has her gain some magical eye powers which only activate when the DM gives the players an impossible situation to escape out of, though he tends to make sure Ruby’s player doesn’t abuse it too much.

Weiss Schnee

High Elf Sorcerer

Weiss’s player is the opposite of Ruby’s, in that she loves role playing but hates combat. She wanted her character to be deep and thought provoking, and even conspired with Blake’s player to write a story centered around racism and prejudice, but when it came time to touch on those subjects in game, the DM was kinda shocked by what he heard and quietly asked Weiss’s player to drop that part of her character. Despite protests, Weiss’s player agreed but then asked what her character should be and the DM said he’d handle it, but he fumbled it and now she has a generic evil rich dad as her foil which she hated because she wanted her relationship with her dad to be complex. However, she stuck with it because she’s really good friends with everyone at the table and doesn’t want to hurt them.
Weiss’s player does everything she can to avoid combat because it’s the one thing in the game she isn’t good at. She’s had some experience with DnD and always rolls bad rolls in combat, so she tries her best to avoid it, but the DM still put her in combat anyways. She tries to compensate for her lack of bad combat by giving Weiss good stats and really good combat spells, but it still doesn’t help and she always ends up unconscious and making death saving throws.

Blake Beladonna

Drow Rogue

Blake’s player is someone who likes both role playing and combat and is pretty good at both. She made her character alongside Weiss’s player and wanted their stories to mirror each other, but while the DM told Weiss’s player to change her character, he has a soft spot for Blake’s player and told her she didn’t have to change anything, which lead to her story being incredibly confusing and weird since her side is the only one getting explored. Luckily everyone at the table said how uncomfortable the story made them feel, so the DM eventually had that dropped as well which meant that now there were some important plot threads left unresolved in the game.
However, one thing the DM is insistent upon, due to the fact that Blake’s player and Yang’s player are his favorites, is that their characters are in love with each other. He constantly comments on any and all interactions they’re involved with saying that there’s chemistry there, and while it made both players uncomfortable, eventually they both gave in mostly because Yang thought it might be interesting. This didn’t really sit well with Blake’s player though, as she wanted her and her boyfriend’s characters to end up together (more on that later), but she doesn’t want to make enemies with anyone at the table.

Yang Xiao Long

Human Barbarian/Monk

Yang’s player is someone who loves combat and isn’t really all that interested in role playing. In fact, she has so little interest in it that the DM wrote her backstory for her, which consists of her mom abandoning her as a baby and her and Ruby’s characters being almost like sisters. She isn’t really interested in developing her character though, and whenever it comes time for the story to focus on her, she goes “well I just want to get back to Ruby because the story is about her”. This makes the DM kinda upset, but he really likes the player and how well she does with combat, so he doesn’t care all that much.
The DM also insisted that her and Blake’s characters are in love, and while she wasn’t really on board with it, she eventually realized that avoiding all the DM’s attempts to develop her character was getting on his nerves, so she said okay and now her and Blake’s characters are in a relationship.

Jaune Arc

Human Paladin

Jaune’s player is the DM’s younger brother who found out about the game they were playing and really wanted to be a part of it. The DM and the rest of the table didn’t really like him being there and didn’t want to include him at first, but the DM’s girlfriend, whom everyone at the table loves (more on her later), has a soft spot for the brother and insisted he be a part of the game. She even had her character be his in game teacher so she can teach him both in game and out of it.
Jaune’s player, being the youngest and newest player, constantly tries to make the story about him much to the dismay of everyone at the table, but the DM’s girlfriend constantly reassures him to take it easy on his brother since it’s his first game. He also either rolls nat 1’s or nat 20’s with rarely anything in between.

Pyrrah Nikos

Half-Elf Fighter

Pyrrah is played by the DM’s girlfriend. She’s really good friends with Weiss’s player and kinda wrote her backstory to reflect hers, but despite being his girlfriend the DM never really did anything with it, mostly because she insists on focusing on Jaune to the point where everyone else suspects that her character is in love with his. As a result, her character doesn’t get that much development. However, she does see a lot of combat, because combat is the one thing that Pyrrah’s player excels at. Eventually, she does sacrifice herself in order to make Jaune’s character more interesting in a moment that made everyone at the table cry.

Sun Wukong

Wood Elf Monk

Sun’s player is Blake’s players boyfriend. Originally he made a different character named Adam Tauros the Drow barbarian, but he really wanted to play a Monk so after his and Blake’s first session he asked the DM if he could choose a different character and said that Adam could be rewritten as an enemy NPC if the DM wanted, which he did. He made his character a foil to Blake because he wanted an “opposites attract” story with his girlfriend’s character which she was on board with, but the DM really wanted Blake and Yang to be together, so he told Sun’s player to stop. Sun protested this and still kept going with it, but the DM kept insisting that he stop, and after some heated arguing, Sun’s player decided to give up and eventually left the game, much to the dismay of his girlfriend. But she kept playing because her boyfriend told her to not let him ruin her fun.

Penny Polendia

Changeling Artificer

Penny is another character made by the DM’s girlfriend. One day while on her way to a session, she realized that she forgot Pyrrah’s character sheet and rather than make a new one for her (and since the brother wasn’t there) she decided to make an entirely new character, and she ended up loving her character so much that when given the option to resurrect either Pyrrah or Penny, she chose Penny. She made her backstory all about how she was kind of ashamed of being a Changeling and was trying her best to hide in human society and learning to accept herself, but towards the end of her run the table kinda butchered it by turning her into a human via a magic item. This didn’t sit well with the DM’s girlfriend, and she requested that Penny be killed off in the next session by Jaune.
Much like Pyrrah, Penny is insanely good at combat, and does insane amounts of damage to her enemies, but she doesn’t do so well in role playing, constantly failing persuasion and deception rolls.
** That’s all for now** thanks for reading all the way through. Let me know what you guys think and if you guys want me to write more RWBY characters as DnD characters (I was originally going to include Ren and Nora here, but I felt like they should be NPC’s that tag along) or if there are certain moments in the show that you guys want me to write out as if it were a DnD thing, because that honestly sounds kinda fun to do.
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I suddenly had the thought while I was greened out of my mind. What if the secret stones are fragments of the triforce? I know it sounds crazy but hear me out. These stones have a secret power that enhance the user’s ability, either power they already had or power they have yet to unlock. My main points are this: Zelda’s sudden use of Time Powers (think of the last time she had time powers). Zelda has seemingly had access to time powers over several games, most notable Ocarina of Time. And the most notable use of these powers? After she comes in contact with the Triforce. Ganondorf, or “Demon King Ganondorf”. Previously, Ganondorf did not have the power to summon monsters or was a demon before coming into contact with the triforce. He was a Gerudo Leader, but with the triforce he has unlocked these powers. This is most notable in OoT and the Fallen Hero Timeline. He suddenly gets these powers again with the secret stones? It’s hard to believe that the secret stone enhanced his powers to such an extent that even the other sages could not defeat him. Unless of course he already had a previous connection to the stone… a connection that say… would go back a millenia of reincarnations (this is assuming the theory that botw and totk are so far into the future that the previous games separate timelines merge once more). And of course this goes without saying the connection to Demise and his curse and hatred. Also there is enough in the triforce to make all the secret stones. I counted 12 including Zelda’s time paradox stone (due to her traveling to the past with Rauru’s stone). In total it is the 4 sages’ stones, Mineru’s stone, Rauru’s stone, Sonia’s Stone (which Ganon acquires after killing her), Zelda’s Stone, and you may be thinking where are the other 3? The 3 dragons in Hyrule. Mineru says that you become an immortal dragon by ingesting a stone, suggesting that Naydra, Farosh, and Dinraal might have been non dragons previously. Assuming so, they are the other secret stones. I think these dragons must have been Zonai that ingested the stones. But most of all, I think there are more fragments lost to the ancient civilization of the Zonai.
A bit of a stretch, I know, but what do you guys think?

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Both Zelda and link was training all their life for something and failed At it horribly Zelda lost her mother figure I’m not sure if this is cannon but I’m pretty sure from daruk’s diary link saw him as a brother or father figure And they both lost that in breath of the wild link sacrificed his life for Zelda who saves him and puts him to sleep so he can recover and wakes up to Zelda Tears of the kingdom Zelda sacrificed her self for link and wakes up to link and was saved by link Zelda lost both rauru and Sonia who she was growing to love and see as perennial figures and that’s really traumatic and be thinking link was dead and that’s my fault until she got the sword Link lost his arm which that it’s self is extremely traumatic even if there’s a replacement it’s not the same and link was so close to catching her but failed and thinking that Zelda is a dragon because of me They both spent most of their childhood training and still failed It’s so sad they been though hell together
and people was complaining that link not as goofy and funny as he was in botw I also wanted to say that link has emotion his eye shape tells you how he feels there’s a post on it

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Chapter 6 - From the Ashes
Winrow, Vanstead Dukedom of Augustein, Year 991
She remembered the sounds of screaming. That day came to her in flashes of disjointed images and sensations. In one moment, there was the usual constant chill of the facility, and then in the next there was a burning heat spiraling outwards, climbing up the walls and dying the grey into red.
She remembered twisting shadows and contorted figures. Those magicians, distant and immoveable figures for so much of her life, collapsed to their knees and choked on smoke.
She remembered smaller figures writhing in the flames. A hand crushed beneath debris reaching towards her. A smoking corpse she couldn’t recognize.
She still wondered, sometimes, lying on the cot and staring up at the wooden ceiling, if it had been Tom or Ben. She would focus on the little details of the figure, laboring over the smoking limbs and the exact hunch of the shoulders. She never did know for certain.
She supposed it didn’t matter in the end.
—
Joan inhaled, tightening and loosening her grip on the tray of food she was carrying with her. Once she was done mentally preparing herself, she pushed back her shoulders, gripped the door handle, and turned it.
The door opened with a loud creak. Joan had decided to leave it unoiled on purpose; Amara never responded to knocks, so the least she could do was give a very obvious advance warning when she entered the room.
Joan plastered on a large smile, ignoring the numbness that had been growing on one side of her face, and stepped over to the figure seated on the bed. Amara didn’t even turn, her eyes fixed on the open window and the flowing curtains. It was a bright day, the towering white clouds drifting peacefully across a vast expanse of blue. The sight was particularly welcome after a week of non stop rain.
“Good morning,” Joan said in her most cheery voice. She set the tray down on a small table placed beside the cot. Slowly, Amara turned her head to stare at her. Joan swallowed.
Ever since Amara had woken up, she’d barely spoken or even acknowledged her surroundings. All her movements were dulled, as though she was wading through water, and Joan had yet to see any true reaction from her.
Even when she’d first quietly explained what had happened, that the building was gone and that there weren’t any other survivors, Amara had just listened quietly, perfectly still and unmoving. When Joan had finished speaking, all she’d said was, “Can I see the ruins?”
Joan hadn’t known how to respond to that. Part of her suspected she still hadn’t fully processed what had happened and seeing the destroyed building might provide closure, but she also had to be honest and tell Amara that she was in no condition to move. Amara hadn’t responded to that, but she would still ask, every now and then. Those were the only times she would speak without first being prompted. Besides that, she only ever answered in short, clipped sentences, never referring to Joan by name and never saying more than necessary.
When Joan had confided in Leila, the watchman had made a sympathetic noise and shaken her head. “Poor thing must be in shock,” she’d said.
It was the most obvious explanation and the one Joan had immediately jumped to as well. And yet, the longer she spent around her patient, the more she started to wonder if that initial assessment was wrong.
Despite how dulled her movements seemed and how little she spoke, Amara’s eyes never had the same look to them. Even when she stared off into the distance, there was a constant sharpness there, a hardness that seemed at odds with the rest of her behavior.
Even now, seated on the hospital cot, Amara studied her with that same uncanny perceptiveness, a gaze that always made Joan feel like she was being judged. She forced her own eyes to remain steady instead of darting away like her first instinct was. She briefly considered how absurd it was for her, a former Rose, to be intimidated by an injured patient who was probably half her age and barely old enough to no longer qualify as a “girl.”
Joan cleared her throat, the sound seeming to echo in the pervasive silence.
“How are you today?”
A silent stare was her only answer. Joan suppressed the urge to sigh, instead keeping her smile plastered on. She nodded at the tray of food and stood again.
“Well, if you need anything, I’ll be right there doing work.”
Some time after Amara had woken up, Joan had gotten some neighbors to help her move a table into the patient room so that she could keep an eye on her while working. Amara hadn’t voiced any complaints about it, and it made Joan a little less uneasy, so she’d stuck with the system.
Joan settled down in her seat, squinting down at the stack of letters. She didn’t start reading, however, until she heard the familiar clink of silverware as Amara finally ate. Her shoulders slumped in relief, and she leaned over the table and began to work, ignoring the sensation of eyes on her back as she did so.
—
“You’re healing well,” Joan commented as she carefully inspected an unwrapped wound. She was sure to move slowly and with deliberate gestures, not missing the way Amara’s eyes followed her hands whenever she checked her injuries.
As Joan moved on to the next bandage, she once again considered how lucky Amara was to have survived the explosion. Though she hadn’t seen the building collapse herself, a few of the onlookers had told her that it was sudden and violent. “What do you think happened?” one of them had asked. Joan had told him that she didn’t know. Truthfully she suspected it had been an experiment gone wrong, but she hadn’t wanted to reveal Amara’s secret. As far as the other villagers were concerned, the building was just a lone orphanage that had suffered an unfortunate accident.
“Can I see the ruins?”
Joan frowned. “Not yet,” she said slowly. “Not until all your bones are healed.”
When she looked up again, Amara had turned her head away and was staring at the sky again. Joan sighed and continued the check up.
—
A knock sounded from down the hallway. Joan set down the shirt she was patching and stood with a frown.
“I’ll be right back,” she said before rising and hurrying to the door.
When she opened it, she found not another patient, but Leila still in her watchman uniform. She blinked at the woman, eyes briefly darting over to the basket she was carrying, then back up.
“Leila, it’s good to see you. What’re you doing here?”
“I was patrolling around the area and thought I’d stop by. Here.” She raised her hand and passed the basket over. Joan took it and peered down at its contents. Inside, she found various ripe fruits, some bright flowers that Leila must’ve gotten fresh from the florist, and a small pouch that, when opened, contained an array of glinting coins. Joan’s eyes widened.
“Leila, you didn’t have to—”
“They’re from the watchmen,” the other woman interrupted. She smiled. “I told them I was stopping by and they pooled together some money to help out.”
A warm feeling rose in Joan’s chest. She swallowed, carefully closing the pouch again and setting it back inside the basket beside a bright yellow blossom. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Please tell them thank you for me.”
Leila reached out a gloved hand and patted her shoulder. “After all the times you’ve had to heal us, this is the least we could do,” she joked. She glanced behind Joan at the hallway and lowered her voice. “Speaking of which, how’s she doing?”
“She’s healing well,” Joan said. “I estimate she’ll be able to walk around within the month.”
“You really do work miracles.” Leila shook her head and stepped back. “I ought to get back on patrol. Remember, if you ever need anything, you can ask me.” With a wave, the woman turned around and walked away.
Joan watched her retreating back, shaking her head with fondness before moving to close the door. Basket carefully balanced in her hands, Joan made her way back down the hallway and to the patient room.
“I’m sorry about that, Amara,” she said as she stepped through the doorway. “Leila visited and—”
Joan’s voice cut off.
The cot where Amara usually sat was empty, the wrinkled sheets haphazardly pulled aside. Joan’s eyes darted frantically around the room, landing on her desk table, where her sewing box was overturned, its contents spilled across the table, chair, and wooden ground. Fabric strips, threads, pins, cushions of needles.
And there, a few feet away from the desk, she could just barely make out the top of a head poking out from behind the bed.
The basket fell to the floor.
“No no no—”
Joan didn’t think, immediately sprinting towards the back of the room, cursing herself for being so stupid. Am I too late?
“Amara!” Joan called, stumbling as she leapt onto the cot and peered over in dread, her heart pounding against her ribcage.
There, seated on the ground with her back supported by the bed, sat Amara. She turned her head to face her, and Joan saw that in one hand she held a gleaming pair of scissors and in the other, a thick bundle of wavy hair that lay half scattered across the ground, blown around by the wind billowing into the room.
“You’re back,” Amara observed. Her gaze was as sharp and perceptive as ever.
Joan’s eyes rapidly scanned her, but there were no new injuries to make note of. The only change was her hair, which had been cropped short so that it sat in an uneven line below her chin.
All at once, the tension bled away and Joan slumped down.
“You cut your hair,” she said weakly. Her head throbbed, and she absentmindedly rubbed at it.
“Yeah.”
Joan released a long breath and slowly straightened. She closed her eyes for a moment, calming her rapid heart rate. When she spoke, she forced her voice to remain as still and calm as possible, though she couldn’t entirely mask the slight tremor in her voice.
“Amara, the next time you want to cut your hair or—or do anything, please tell me first. Please.”
Amara stared at her, quiet for a long time. She shifted her position, and for the first time since she’d woken up, something in her eyes changed.
“Okay,” she said.
—
It was a windy day. Joan shivered and pulled her cloak closer, but she didn’t remove her gaze from the figure walking just beside her.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Joan asked. Amara just nodded, not even turning to look her way, and Joan sighed and shook her head. She faced forward as well, eyes following the dirt path and remembering the last time she’d walked along it.
The closer they got to the ruins, the more Joan’s unease grew.
Amara had continued to heal at a rapid pace, and when she’d first started being able to walk around on her own, she constantly did so, moving with a silent, steady determination. The end result of that persistence had led them to their current situation, on the road to the ruins, Amara with only a few bandages left on her skin and walking by herself, albeit a bit slowly, and Joan, whose eyes kept darting over, watching for any reaction.
As far as she could tell, there were none. Amara moved with remarkable calm, shoulders relaxed and eyes steady.
Joan exhaled and kept walking. Ever since the scissors incident, as Joan had dubbed it in her head, Amara had started speaking more. She was still mostly quiet, but she seemed a little more engaged, more interested in her surroundings. She’d even requested Joan teach her how to read, after Joan had given her a tour of her little home and shown her the library. When Amara was sitting there quietly, listening as Joan taught her basic letters and spelling, Joan could almost tell herself that she was just an ordinary, curious young woman if not for the array of scars on her skin. Joan had tried to heal them, but form magic couldn’t alter colors, and so the marks still lingered.
That near normalcy, however, was where the doubts had begun. Initially she’d assumed Amara wanted to see the ruins to give her closure so that she could move on, but what if it had the opposite effect? Joan wasn’t a fool, she knew Amara’s behavior was in no way normal. She had to be repressing things, or perhaps the truth hadn’t really settled yet. What if seeing the ruins caused her to break down?
The longer they walked, the more the doubts grew. Joan quickly became lost in her thoughts, so much so that she didn’t immediately notice when they stopped walking
“Which way?”
Joan blinked and looked up, seeing that they’d reached a familiar fork in the road. Her heart sank and she swallowed. “Left,” she said, voice hoarse. She cleared her throat. “It… it’s just past that hill.”
Amara nodded and turned without hesitation, slowly making her way up the slight incline in a steady rhythm. Another breeze blew past them, carrying scattered tree leaves with it. Joan watched Amara reach the hill top and begin descending until she’d disappeared from view.
Joan stared at the path, limbs suddenly heavy. She tightened her grip on her cloak.
“Get it together,” she muttered. There was no reason for her to be so nervous, she told herself. It was absurd, after all the things she’d already seen throughout her life. But Amara had an uncanny ability to make her feel like a lost child again, someone completely out of her depth.
Joan waited a little longer, listening for any sounds, but there were none besides the wind and rustling flora surrounding them. And so, after a deep breath, Joan lowered her head and made her way over the hill.
When she looked up again, the ruins were in sight. She slowed her pace as she approached.
Where once a simple sturdy grey building had stood, there now lay a pile of debris. Only the bottom sections of the buildings remained standing, jutting out from the ground like broken blades. Charred, splintered wood lay strewn about the grass, and large chunks of shattered stone formed crude boulders.
Surrounding the ruins, colorful blossoms grew in bright patches. Originally someone had suggested burying the bodies—at least the ones they’d been able to recover—there. But Joan had shuddered at the thought of forcing the experiment victims to rest eternally near the broken facility, so she’d requested they move them to Winrow’s graveyard instead. Thankfully people hadn’t questioned her, though the move in the burial site hadn’t stopped people from planting flowers around the area as a memorial.
Joan’s eyes scanned the ruins, finally landing on a single figure standing just in front of the collapsed building. Slowly, Joan approached until she was a few feet away, her footsteps crunching as she stepped over debris.
Amara’s back was turned to her. She didn’t move, simply standing there staring at the destruction before her. The wind blew her now short wavy hair against her neck, and her cloak billowed. The movement caught Joan’s eye, and she caught a glimpse of Amara’s hands hanging at her sides, balled into tight fists that shook barely perceptibly.
Joan opened her mouth and closed it, not knowing what to say. Hesitant, she took another step forward.
And then, all at once, the trembling stopped. Slowly, Amara’s fingers loosened, uncurling themselves until they hung limply at her sides. She raised her head, lifting her face towards the deep blue sky. Joan saw her whole body breathe as another wind blew past them, as though she was trying to fill her lungs with as much air as possible.
A few seconds passed, and Amara’s shoulders fell as she exhaled. Her head lowered back down to eye level, and slowly, she turned around.
Strands of hair lay strewn haphazardly against her face, mussed and twisted by the wind. Her posture was perfectly relaxed and casual, not a trace of tension in sight. The scars running up her arms seemed almost to move in the shifting shadows cast by her cloak. Her sharp eyes, a bright green that gleamed in the sunlight, were piercing.
But what caught Joan’s attention the most was her smile. It was bright, unreadable, and utterly unfamiliar.
“Joan,” Amara said, voice calm. “Let’s go back.”

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Royal Road Patreon

Hey all, it’s me Frank Jones again. I wrote that post a while ago about why you shouldn’t be a paranormal investigator and a lot of you liked it. Since settling into my hideaway in the mountains, life has become quiet and I thought about checking in. The plague hit us like nothing and now that everyone is wanting to travel again, I thought to say hi. I want to say thanks to all of you who commented and gave me those weird pointy thingies this social media does. Some of you even figured out my post office box address and sent me letters. I appreciate it (and don’t do it again).
The common strain among your posts was wanting to know if I had ever encountered other things as an auditor. Of course I have but I have been reluctant to tell you because I don’t want to shine some sort of light on all of it or make it sound like some romantic adventure. It’s “pissing yourself” fear all wrapped up in a waking nightmare with a side of gory terror. I am one of the few who actually made it to retirement…if that’s what you could call this life I’m living now.
But, I have nothing else to do really. Carl only visits once in a while when he’s passing through and I cannot risk any other sort of company knowing I’ve pissed off a lot of people…and things. So, I’m back on this internet board and sharing. So many are curious, I thought maybe another story can scare you all straight. This was the first time complacency almost got me and another killed.
This story takes place somewhere in the 90s in a small New England town. It was one of those places nestled along the banks of a serene river, historic brick buildings line the winding streets, their facades adorned with weathered signs that hint at the town's seafaring heritage. A place where everything smelled like either the ocean or decaying fish. I’m not going to specifically name the town to protect the young lady that may still be living there but in the heart of the town, there’s a renowned drawbridge which stands as a testament to the place’s affinity for water. Its ancient mechanisms creak and groan when allowing vessels to pass through the calm waterway. It also had some of the best outdoor markets I had a chance to stop and check out.
I didn’t pass through this part of the country that often as my boss preferred me to do the long hauls across the country but there was a dead haul nobody wanted.I took it cause I wanted a change of scenery. I was already working as an auditor and part of a loose alliance of others who investigated and dealt with any weird things. I actually had a few monsters under my belt. I honestly had the foolhardy idea that I could handle anything out there. God, I was an idiot.
The supernatural never crossed my mind until that evening, stopping to fuel up my red 1992 Peterbilt 379 and paying for the gas with the attendant and restocking up on those beef jerky sticks and coffee.
That was when I noticed her. She was a young woman about in her mid 30s looking like one of the corporate types with the short hair cut and business suit. I would have not paid her any mind if it wasn’t for the touch of apprehension on her face as she talked on one of those new fangled bright yellow Nokia cellphones. Soft strands of chestnut hair framed her face, their gentle sway moving as she glanced around while talking on the phone. As I observed her, I couldn't help but notice the way her fingers trembled slightly, when trying to get money out of her pocket. I’ve seen that type of fear before. So, like a creep, I eavesdropped on her call.
“Yes, it happened again,” she had said as the nickels finally made it to the counter to pay for her snacks. “I could have sworn there was something outside the window near the edge of the forest….no, of course the security cameras didn’t pick up anything. They’re cheap. Ronald was a skinflint when it came to things like this. Hope he’s rotting in hell wherever he is.”
My mind began to drift away, more annoyed I couldn’t get a move on it. It sounded like a problem for the police and if anything, I was gonna tell her that. It was what she said next that made me stop and brought back the reality of the world.
“Yeah. like nine or ten feet tall. I’m thinking kids are playing around with scarecrows or something. Won’t come from the edge of the forest and when I check, I can see foot impressions and stuff. I already put in a call to the cops. They found nothing.“
“Did it sway a bit and its eyes seem to glint like a cats or owl?” I asked without thinking.
The look I got from both her and the gas attendant made me realize what I had done. Well, too late now.
“I’ll call you back,” she said quickly, eyeing me as she hung up the phone and slipped it back into her purse.
“You need me to walk you to your car, ma’am?” the attendant asked, staring at me.
Of course, I forgot that The Truck Stop Killer had only been arrested a few years before.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, quickly gathering her stuff and making for the door. I slapped the one hundred and seventy bucks on the counter to pay for my diesel guzzler ignoring the change and followed her out but making sure to not move in a way that caused the teenager in the station to call the cops.
“Ma’am,” I called out to her and she turned to me while hurrying up her pace.
“I’ve got pepper spray. Stay away from me.”
“The thing in the woods. You could have sworn you smelled fresh dirt like mulch and it seemed to sway back and forth like it could not keep its balance.” I threw it out there in desperation.
She froze and turned to look at me. Eying me up and down as I kept my distance and angled to head towards my truck.
“How do you know?”
“I…uh…dealt with something like that before. On a job in Canada.”
“Who are you?” she asked, looking at my faded shirt and company logo. “A trucker?”
“I moonlight as a problem solver. Like an auditor of sorts.”
“Who is it?” she demanded, eyes still affixed to me and hand in her purse.
“Better question is ‘what is it?’,” I answered.
I have learned to pick up on the contempt and disbelief from people who hadn’t seen what I have. I was already being dismissed as a whack job.
“You have tracks on your porch you have written off as animals, especially if you own a dog. If you did own a dog, it’s missing. Cops told you it ran away. You got a garden?”
“Yes,” the certainty had started to leave her voice. “A walled garden.”
“And anytime you’re in there, you feel like you’re being watched.”
At that, her hand came out of her purse empty and she approached me with the fear I had seen in her eyes now on her face.
“How did you know?”
“I’d rather not explain out here,” I said sheepishly running my hand through my sandy brown hair that only started getting flecks of gray. “But you got a…pest problem.”
“And you can do something about it? I’ve had exterminators, cops, nature lovers…even a priest.”
“None of those won’t do you any good and I don’t want to scare ya but it’s more active which is not a good sign.”
For a few moments, I could see the indecision in her eyes. The desperate want to dismiss me as a lunatic but whatever she had heard or seen won over.
“Fine. You can follow me to the house.”
“Mind if I hitch a ride?”
The woman started but then looked at my truck. “Promise. I mean you no harm. I really think you’re in danger.”
That was when I found her name was Isabelle Walker.
We left my truck in long-term parking after she told the attendant that I was a long lost relative and that’s why the change of demeanor. I don’t know if he believed her but at that point, I don’t think he cared. I left my truck with its metallic frame standing tall and proud amidst the rows of other vehicles.
I did not realize how desperate this woman was until we got going on the road. I had loaded myself in the passenger seat after pulling out my military backpack from the war which I also used for my auditing services and tried to look as harmless as a man of my stature could.
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, her focus was on the lonely road, those beautiful eyes darting to me anytime I shifted my weight. I didn’t want to scare her so it was her that spoke first.
“What is it?”
“I really don’t know but the people in my profession call it a Bone Walker.”
The nose crinkled in disbelief.
“Halloween is not for a few more months, Mister…”
“Jones. Frank Jones.”
The James Bond reference caused her to snort in amusement.
“I don’t know what to tell ya, ma’am, except I’ve dealt with some pretty scary things out there. Normally I’m never this forward as most people try to call the cops on me or dismiss me as a lunatic. I mean, I could be a lunatic but I know what I’ve seen.”
“And that is…?”
“You know. Ghosts, vampires, werewolves. They’re real. They’re not common but real nevertheless.”
“Really?”
There was still the disbelief in Isabelle’s voice but I grew to ignore things like this.
“Sure. I mean, think of all the things you experienced and be open to alternate answers.”
Isabelle was quiet for a few minutes and then sighed. “Either you are telling the truth or you're the biggest liar and I’m a fool that’s not going to live through this night.”
“I promise,” I tried to reassure her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
After a few more minutes and off the main highway, we approached her home. The large house stood resolute amidst the dense, ancient forest, its weathered exterior a testament to the passing of time. It was a grand structure, its imposing presence commanding attention. The sprawling estate exuded an air of mystery and faded grandeur, as if it held stories whispered through generations.
As we pulled in, the main house loomed before me, its facade adorned with intricate woodwork and worn stone. Ivy crept along the walls, weaving an emerald tapestry that hinted at the passage of years. The windows, framed by elegant yet slightly cracked panes, stared out into the world with a mixture of curiosity and melancholy.
To the side, a large shed stood detached from the main house, its weathered boards echoing tales of forgotten tools and lost endeavors. The wooden structure sagged under the weight of time, its roof covered in a patchwork quilt of moss. Inside, shadows danced amidst remnants of a bygone era, rusty equipment and dusty shelves attesting to the once-bustling activity that had long since ceased.
Not far from the shed, a family cemetery nestled amongst the ancient trees. Tombstones, adorned with intricate carvings and weathered inscriptions, dotted the landscape. The hallowed ground exuded a solemn tranquility, as if time stood still in reverence for those who rested eternally in its embrace. Wisps of fog clung to the grassy knolls, lending an ethereal quality to the sacred space.
At the far end of the property, an old walled garden stood as a testament to the house's former splendor. Once vibrant and lush, the garden now appeared overgrown and untamed. Stone paths meandered through a sea of tangled foliage, leading to hidden nooks and forgotten corners. Dilapidated stone benches, adorned with intricate carvings, sat scattered throughout the garden, silent witnesses to a time when laughter and conversation filled the air.
As I stood amidst the silence of the forest, the house, shed, cemetery, and walled garden formed a tapestry of history and mystery. They were a testament to the ebb and flow of life, the remnants of a bygone era that clung to the present. Within their weathered walls, secrets whispered and memories danced, waiting to be discovered by those who dared to venture into their enigmatic embrace.
“Great place to be haunted, huh?” she said with sarcasm. “My ex left it to me in the divorce. Was only going to be here long enough to sell it but no one wants it and my job wants me to move to this state anyway.”
“Where are you originally from?”
“California.”
“So, this is definitely a change of scenery for you,”
Isabelle only hummed back at me as she fumbled for her keys in the dying light of evening. I pulled my backpack closer to me as my eyes scanned the treeline where the shadows had begun to deepen. Nothing stood out against the silhouettes of ancient trees which was a good sign. I wasn’t too late.
Stepping through the weathered front door, I entered the interior of the old house, greeted by a mix of nostalgia and faded elegance. The air carried a hint of mustiness, a reminder of the countless years the house had to have witnessed. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the stained-glass windows, I could make out the clash between old decor and the modern furniture Isabelle had bought.
The foyer, adorned with a worn, threadbare rug. The walls, once adorned with portraits and intricate wallpaper, now bore the markings of time's passage. The wooden banister of the grand staircase, polished with use, creaked softly under my touch as we made our way towards the living room.
Moving further into the house, I found myself in a spacious living room. Large, ornate windows which would have allowed slivers of daylight to filter through the heavy velvet curtains. The walls were adorned with faded wallpaper. An aged fireplace, its stone mantle adorned with trinkets and old photographs, served as the heart of the room.
“You want some coffee?” Isabelle asked, throwing her keys on to the coffee table. I sat down on her couch and dropped my backpack on it with a clunk.
“Sure.”
“Sugar?”
“A lot.”
The kitchen light clicked on and I heard her moving about setting up the coffee pot. The adrenalin was now pumping through me as my mind raced. I’m not going to go into a lot of detail on what a Bone Walker is but it’s a creature that usually haunts the western coast. It being so far out east was strange. I pulled out my old gun bag and unrolled it. My Stevens Model 520-30 “Trench” shotgun was the first thing I reached for as I popped open the internal pouch holding he high flash shells I was glad I packed. It was the startled sound from Isabelle that made me quickly look up.
She stood there with my coffee, eyes locked on the shotgun in my hand. I slowly held up one of the cartridges I was planning to load.
“Flash powder shotgun shells. No load. Just makes a loud noise and a bright white light. What we’re facing lives in the shadows and hates light…normally,” I had heard stories that they could strike in the day but it was extremely rare. She didn’t need to know that.
“Oh,” was her quiet response. “Do…do I need a gun?”
“You know how to use one?”
“No.”
“Then it’ll do more harm than good. You got any flashlights?”
Isabelle nodded mutely, the gravity of the situation sinking in at the array of weapons and items in my pack laid out in front of her.
“Go get them.”
While she was gone, I quickly unloaded the silver bullets out of my Makarov pistol (a gift from a Viet Cong officer and a story for another time) and placed normal 9mm rounds in the clip. I had it holstered under my jacket with the two back up clips when she returned with three cheap flashlights.
“One in your hand and one in your pocket.”
“Why?”
“In case you drop the one you are holding.”
The woman obeyed silently.
As night fell quickly around us, I slung my shotgun over my shoulder and with Isabelle close, we made our way upstairs. There were tell tale signs I needed to check as the only advantage I had over this thing was the fact it stuck to a pattern. If it was at the stage I thought it was, there would be signs.
“Which room is yours?” I asked.
Isabelle pointed to a door down the hallway across from a large window. Approaching it, I quickly shined my flashlight at the mahogany door frame. It was the glint that caught my eye. Deep gouges in the wood.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“Claw marks,” I responded. There was no use sugar coating anything now.
“This thing was in my house?” Isabelle said horrified.
“For the last few weeks now,” I said, my nose picking up the faint odor of dirt and mud.
“Why didn’t it attack me then?”
“It wasn’t time.”
“What?”
Talking was going to be the only thing to keep her focused. I had felt the world shift a bit as night fell and I needed her not to panic.
“Bone Walkers are ritualistic creatures. They are very choosy over their prey. It can take a month or two before they move in. That’s why they are so hard to catch.”
“Criteria? Like what?”
“We don’t know.”
That was the honest truth. The only reason we knew their existence and patterns was thanks to blind luck and people surviving their encounters. I showed my light around looking for other signs. Discolored stains in the corners where shadows would naturally form, healthy moss and mold that shouldn’t be there. I found a patch around her bed. She did not notice and I did not want to tell her that it probably stood over her through the night watching her sleep. The sooner I buried this thing, the better.
“Frank!”
There was a trill of terror in Isabelle’s voice and I immediately looked to where she was. The woman was standing by her bedroom window staring out at something. I quickly moved and spotted what she saw. In the forest, at the edge of the shadow cast by the moonlight was an almost, imperceptible form. It stood nine feet, hunched over like a broken scarecrow, its owl like eyes staring back at us.
“Shit,” I muttered. Thank god we had turned on the lights as we went.
It was the flash of light and the crack of thunder that heralded the arrival of the storm. The lights of this old houses flickered which caused my belly to flop a few times. My brain was on fire as I glanced back from the lightbulb to where the creature was and found it had vanished.
“Where did it go?”
I did not have time to explain as another crack of lightning caused the lights to dim. I grabbed Isabelle roughly by the arm and yanked her back down the hallway towards the living room where I had left my stuff. We barely made it to the living room when the lights dimmed low. I grasped the glow sticks out of the bag, cracked a handful and scattered them about, their bright yellow light beginning to glow. The power then went out bathing us only in the eerie glow of the emergency lighting.
As we waited in breathless anticipation, the storm struck, its wrath manifesting in torrential rain. The mansion seemed to respond, succumbing to a power outage that plunged us into an abyss of blackness only moments before.
A trill of terror coursed through me. I knew this Bone Walker thrived in darkness, using it as a cloak to conceal its malevolence. We auditors were not sure if it actually teleported or it preferred to move in pitch darkness. I just knew that the black was our biggest threat.
For a few moments, we could only hear the ragged breathing of the two of us being drowned out by the pounding rain against shingle and glass. Isabelle had wound her hand into my jacket pocket and was gripping it tightly, I could feel her shaking with terror. I kept my shotgun gripped tightly in my hand listening for the tell tale sound of its arrival.
It was the movement out of the corner of my eye and the fact her grip got tighter on my jacket. I swiftly turned on my high-powered flashlight as I spun around and the brilliant beam pierced the obscure corner of the room. No matter what I had read or seen before did not prepare me for what I saw.
It stood there in the corner, its eight foot height engulfing that section of the house. My eyes strained as it appeared the thing was struggling to stay in focus. Its arms were too long for its body, spindly and almost to the floor while the legs appeared backwards giving it a strange forward leaning look. It wore a hunter’s long coat and trousers but through the rips and tears I could make out something squirming and moving underneath. The air filled with the stench of decaying plants and diseased vegetation. Its face was covered with what looked like the remnants of a cheap bandanna but its owl-like eyes gleaned back with malevolence.
Isabelle whimpered, her fear palpable in the room and the Bone Walker lunged toward us. Even though my fear was ripping through me like an unstoppable train, I had the sense to pull the trigger of my shotgun aimed in its direction. The flash and resounding roar painted the entire room in a brilliant black and white shadow causing every corner and edge to appear thick and vivid. The creature screamed and fell to the side into the shadow not illuminated by the weapon’s fire.
Isabelle had thrown herself on the couch and was huddled there, trembling with terror, while I moved quickly to crack a few more glow sticks and toss them into the dark corners of the room. In one, I saw its foot recoil back into the kitchen where it was darker than night itself. This was quicker than I had anticipated. The plans I had been formulating on the drive were no longer viable. I wanted to lure it to where I controlled the battlefield but that was not an option anymore. This had become a cat and mouse game and I knew this was with a predator I could not even hope to understand and had years to hone.
Out of the kitchen again this thing charged forward, relentless in its pursuit, it was trying to find a way around my light barrier which only appeared to slow it down. With shaking hands, I fired several more rounds, each blast forcing the creature to retreat and the girl to scream in terror. As soon as it retreated to a dark part of the house, I turned to where the woman of the house had been. To my horror, Isabelle's fear had gotten the best of her. In that moment of panic, she darted from the safety of the light, towards the hallway and the door outside.
“Isabelle! Stop!” I yelled trying to command her back with my voice but I doubted she heard me. Between the abject horror and the relentless rain, she was going to take her chance. A chance I knew she did not have.
I only took a step when I sensed it. The musty smell of an organic landfill overwhelmed me as the form silently darted past me, its long arm clobbering me up the side of the head. The world spun as pain burst through my brain. I felt the world tilt and fall heavily to the ground, flashlight and shotgun falling away.
As I slipped in and out of consciousness, I knew I was a sitting duck for this thing. There was no way for me to stop it from ripping me to shreds like some of the corpses I had seen. As I blinked, I came to my senses and realized I was alone. How long I had actually been on the ground, I did not know.
I sat up, my head pounding and I could see the door hanging open, the wind slamming the door on its hinges and the rain soaking the hallway floor. Struggling, I found my flashlight and gun and pulled myself together.
There was a slim chance that Isabelle was still alive. I had to think. Where would it go? I ran all the stories I could think of and then it hit me. The garden. The walled garden.
I charged into the rain-soaked night. I sprinted toward the enclosed garden at the edge of the property. As I grew closer, I saw that the rusted door was open and hope flickered in my soul. As I came to a stop, I brought my flashlight up again with my shotgun and saw it.
This creature stood there in the middle of the overgrown garden, its massive clawed hand wrapped around Isabelle’s chest and holding her up. Out from under its bandanna mask, putrid vines had appeared and led up to Isabelle’s face where they were forcing their way down her throat and up her nose. I could see the wide terror in her eyes as vines were snaking their way around her waist and I did not want to think about what they were planning to do.
I brought up the shotgun again and fired. Knowing that I had distance, the flash of light caught the creature by surprise. It shrieked as it fell back. Trying desperately not to release its prey. I did not hesitate to grab the machete at my side and hack at its arm until Isabelle fell down free of it.
It’s claw swiped at me striking me on the leg and easily tearing through my pants leaving bloody lacerations but I put the weapon point blank and fired another round. I do not know if it was the flash, the combination of the creature, or that the almighty above was looking out for me, but the creature caught ablaze from the spark.
It fell back swinging wildly as the fire spread unnaturally fast catching the plants around it on fire. Within a matter of seconds, the walled garden had become ablaze with the bone walker in the center. As I ripped the vines out of Isabelle’s mouth and dragged her towards the door, I looked up to see those owl-like eyes looking at me with such abject hatred that the look stick with me today.
I honestly don’t know how we survived. I had helped Isabelle to her porch and we both passed out against our will from the sheer terror and exhaustion. We were awoken by the sound of a siren. The lights had come back on sometime in our sleep and the rain had drifted off to a comforting drizzle. The fire was still raging in the garden but contained by the ancient walls. At least two fire trucks, an ambulance and cops were flying up the private road towards us.
This entire hunt had been ill-planned and stupid. I knew it. As the cops approached with their hand on their pistols, I knew that I had allowed my own ego to get in the way. I should have taken Isabelle somewhere else until I had done a proper reconnaissance. I shouldn’t have taken her home where it was waiting. And now, the cops were looking at two thoroughly soaked humans, one a trucker with a wound and a gun and a young lady in distress. I was pretty sure I was going to go to jail.
“Isabelle?” One of the cops and his voice caused her to sit up, relief washing over her.
“Derek!” she wailed. “We were attacked! In the garden!”
Another two cops that had arrived had taken off in that direction while Derek helped the girl up and took her towards the ambulance. The other cop with a comically large mustache looked at me with keen eyes, his hand still on his pistol, sergeant stripes glowing in the light.
“Attacked?”
“Yeah,” I said, sitting up slowly and keeping my hand away from the shotgun and trying not to show the one under my jacket. “Someone came after Mrs. Walker. They were in the garden.”
The cop watched me closely but there seemed to be a recognition in his eyes.
“You by any chance Frank Jones?”
My heart jumped and I must have looked startled as the cop’s face broke into a smile. To my relief, his hand fell away from his holstered sidearm.
“I’ll take that for a yes. My guess is you don’t remember me. Clay Wilson. Santa Fe PD, about six years ago. You helped my partner with a...problem. Nellie Nelson?”
I knew the name but the face escaped me.
“She told me you helped her audit a police union building.”
“Ah, yes,” I said, remembering dealing with the wraith and the twinge in my right arm from it’s bite.
The cop looked towards the fire that was slowly being put out by the fire fighters.
“Any chance this will be one of your audits?”
“Yeah.”
He seemed to think for a few minutes and then nodded.
“Then I think you need to grab that shotgun of yours and hitch a ride with me before too many people ask questions. Whatcha think?”
I nodded. I was not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. I collected my stuff quickly from the living room and made my way back out where he was waiting. As I limped with the cop to his car, I looked towards Isabelle who was being held by the other. She gave me a look of thankfulness as the cop looked at his partner with confusion.
“Her brother’s got her,” Clay said, opening the back door for me. I was not gonna argue or fight. If he took me to jail or not.
And that was it. My leg was not as bad off as I thought and wrapped it in the back of the police car. Clay only asked where I wanted to go and he took me back to my truck. With that time, I was back on the road with that small town in the rear view mirror.
I never did find out what happened to Isabelle after that, if another creature came looking for her or if she had a chance to live in peace. I just knew that we both barely made it out alive and that was due to my own stupidity. I was furious with myself for weeks after that and told myself I wouldn’t put another person in jeopardy like that again. At least, despite my idiocy, another life was saved and another monster was put in the ground...I hoped. I never did find out if they found a body.

https://preview.redd.it/xbbmvwk05y2b1.jpg?width=1280&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=116c1a4c80219604524cc4a321c8086cdb93a5a7
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I tend to go camping a few times between May and October. I've been as far north as Acadia National Park and as south as the Great Smoky Mountains. Like everyone else who has ever been camping, I've been caught in rainstorms where the tent advertised as weatherproof starts leaking at the seams. Then the wildlife-- bears outside my tent rummaging for food, then leaving as the scent leads them to a backpack strung to a far-reaching branch high up a tree. Despite the uneasiness these scenarios create, it's part of what makes camping special: exposure to the wilderness. This vulnerability has never bothered me much-- that is, until recently.
I packed my backpack the night before with everything I'd need for a 7.5 mile there and back hike. I woke up to a call from my buddy who would be joining me, saying he caught a stomach bug and couldn't make it. I was bummed to hear it, but I've been solo camping a dozen times before. I had a protein bar to curb my appetite until I got to a diner in a small town by the edge of the national forest I would be going to. I've been once before and couldn't get enough of their blueberry pancakes. For a town named Sandwich, you know they know food. I accounted for Memorial Day traffic and gave myself plenty of time to leave, and in fact, arrived at the diner before my ETA. A weather-tattered missing child flyer was posted on the entry door. A 14-year-old girl, last seen in November, walking home from the bus stop. It noted, "a hundred yards from her home."
I sat at the counter and by my second coffee, was talking Red Sox with a local beside me. Looking better than last season, we both agreed. We talked about Bogaerts leaving and traded stories of Fenway. "I'd take my kids down to see them when they were younger..." He paused. "Well, Becca goes to games sometimes. She goes to college in Boston now." He seemed like he was going to go on, but got lost in his thoughts. I tried lightening things up and asked him what he thought of Devers' batting. "I don't want to talk about baseball anymore." The food was great and I stayed for another cup of coffee, but the atmosphere was heavy. I'm sure losing a child with no sense of closure will rattle a small town.
My car almost bottomed out on the road to the trailhead. Rocks bulged from the ground as I navigated the narrow passage with a steep drop to my right. The sign to the trail was up ahead. No other cars were parked. Though it was a holiday weekend, as the sign explained, this is a seldom used trail. "Be mindful and be safe." The first mile is a relaxing stroll that eventually comes up to a pond with a beaver dam stretching across. The ground becomes extraordinarily soft here. There's a meadow up ahead where I took a break and enjoyed the view of nearby Algonquin Mountain. A mile further, the woods become dense. Here, a sign reads, "The following portion of this trail is poorly marked. The route can be treacherous. Proceed with caution." Though I wasn't far from the lean-to I'd be camping at, there were portions where I questioned whether I was on the trail at all. I looked at my map, then at my compass. I felt assured and kept walking. I was right-- I came to the brook that crosses the trail. A fresh moose print in the mud. I clapped to let my presence be known. As I gained elevation, the trail became exceedingly narrow. To my left were boulders; to my right was a hundred-foot drop. There were steps carved into the dirt ahead. I took a moment to self-assure my balance and continued. The elevation plateaued and just ahead I could see the lean-to.
While gathering wood for a fire, I found some wintergreen that would be great for making tea. With the campfire crackling and my tea beside me, I opened a collection of Hermann Hesse fairytales I brought. I could still hear the stream faint in the distance. The middle of the forest is peacefully noisy. The whistles of songbirds, the caws of crows, the breeze through the trees. At the risk of sounding pretentious, it's like a symphony. The forest gets darker sooner than town, and by now the sun was largely blocked by trees. Baked beans simmer in my camping pot and are gone soon after. I lie in my sleeping bag under the lean-to without much on my mind. Then, the bellow of a moose echoed off the trees. I listened intently for footsteps, but the sound had probably traveled from a mile away. As the hours passed, I extinguished the fire and continued reading stories with my book light until I fell asleep.
A call from the woods woke me. I figured it was another moose. It's not unheard of for them to be roaming around at night. Then, it called again. This time as I listened more closely, something was off. It had an almost human quality to it, like a hunter's call. I couldn't tell where it was coming from, but it didn't sound close. Several minutes of quiet passed, then again. This time right outside my camp, followed by footsteps. Moose sound like big animals on all four-- these steps were bipedal. One after the other through the brush. A branch snapped and I shot up and grabbed my flashlight. I called out "Hello?" in case it may have been a hiker. I checked my watch. 1:00 AM. Shining my flashlight in the direction I heard it, there was nothing. Ten minutes went by as I listened for more footsteps. Whatever it was I figured must still be in the area. I took my bear spray from my backpack pouch and with my flashlight in the other hand, searched the perimeter of camp. I didn't find anything and went back to the lean-to. I turned on my LED lantern and lie quietly, unable to fall back asleep. I checked my watch again: 2:15 AM. Then another noise, this time hooting. Animals, I told myself. It could be an owl, but again I had my hand on the bear spray. Another hoot, followed by a cackle. Then the footsteps. "Who's there!?" I called out. A cackle responded. Suddenly, from the direction of the noises, a flashlight was shined on me. Out of fear, I sprayed the bear spray toward the light, but whatever-- whoever it was didn't retreat. The flashlight turned off, followed by human laughter. I shined my flashlight towards it and it did stand on two legs, but its proportions were off-- its thin legs seemed too tall for its body. Its eyes reflected the light like a cat's as it receded back into the darkness.
I would hear its demented calls throughout that night, never sure whether or not it was near or far. I'm not sure whether it was human, animal, or something entirely different. I wish my friend was able to make the trip, because sometimes, like this very moment, as I type these words, it's hard to believe them. But it wasn't a dream, as I never fell back asleep that night. The moment the sun rose enough to see, I hit the trail. And with each ambiguous path, and each carved cliffside footstep, the sights and sounds of the night rattled through my mind. My car was a sanctuary-- still the only one parked by the trailhead. When I think about the town that lines that forest, the same heavy feeling that surrounded me in the diner hits. I hope that child is found, but I know something more than a bear or moose lurks in those woods. I hope it's not human, but I shudder to think what else it could be.

(Background: Rank amateur who reads about linguistics sometimes. I don't know if this is exactly appropriate but this seems like a community that might appreciate it.)
In another post, the relationship of Haitian Creole to French came up, and the point that it's sometimes incorrectly assumed to be a mere dialect of French. I mentioned my experience that reading Creole is particularly interesting as a native English speaker with conversational French, as I can frequently recognize a noun by reading it out loud, i.e. using roughly English phonetics reveals the French cognate. (Example: Ayisyen kreyol->"eye-ee-syen cray-ole"=oh wait, like haïtien and créole, so it's Haitian Creole.) Because it's a multi-step process where I don't get it until I hear myself say it, it often has a fun little thrill of recognition. However, trying to read any further, it becomes clear that the grammar and syntax aren't even slightly Romance, and I'm utterly lost. So, for fun, I pulled up the Lord's Prayer and tried to see what I could make of it, with liberal assistance from Google Translate:
Papa nou ki nan sièl la, --OK, decent start. "Papa" is a freebie in any language, and qui and ciel are easy enough. Though it's already a warning sign that the order of possessives is different, and I wouldn't speculate on exactly what nan and la are doing here. [Looked it up: Even knowing full well that la is an article in French, the fact that it FOLLOWS the noun is throwing me for a serious loop.]
Nou mandé pou yo toujou réspékté non ou. --I can see nous demande and toujours respecter. Otherwise, the syntax seems unexpectedly closer to English, so I'm getting the vibe a British sailor docked in Port-au-Prince shortly after a double rum tot, and is struggling to speak politely with the few dozen French words he remembers from school.
Vi-n tabli gouvènman ou, --...what just happened? OK, établir and gouvernement I got, but what is that hyphen doing and what is on either side of it? [Looked it up, apparently hyphens/apostrophes have been removed in modern spelling reforms, so vi-n is one word? I guess I could see viens établi gouvernement as a similarly-archaic construction to "kingdom come," which in fairness is gibberish in modern English.]
pou yo fè volonté ou so latè, --Puzzled for a bit, Haitian Creole Wikipedia's page on latè was kind enough to give me a big blue satellite picture of la terre, felt dumb there. Lait and latté were both false friends. I'm fully appreciating how much dead wood Creole sheds from French orthography.
tankou yo fè-l nan sièl la. --What? I cannot get past the false friend of tankou, which I think is the last thing our Limey midshipman mumbles as someone offers him a cot to sleep it off. I know what this line should mean but I'm hitting a wall. [Looked it up: apparently tankou is from autant comme and is the "like" preposition. Also finally looked up yo which can be "they/them" or an article? I'm completely out of my depth.]
Manjé nou bézouin an, ban nou-l jòdi-a. --Forget it, "eat us need (something)," I'm crushing this. Also, I guess the Sabbath is on Thursday in Haiti because of the time difference. [Looked it up, jòdi is not from jeudi but rather aujourd'hui, now with 60% less letters! Cut that dead wood.]
Padonnin tout mal nou fè, --"Pardonin'" tout mal nous fait? No, that's what LOUISIANA Creole should sound like. I can totally see this as a joke "under construction" sign on a bathroom at the courthouse in Baton Rouge.
minm jan nou padonnin moun ki fè nou mal. --Umm...minm is même? Something about how reflexive verbs and prepositions work in Creole? How is knowing the meaning of the text STILL not enough? [Looked it up, and still confused.]
Pa kité nou nan pozision pou-n tonbé nan tantasion, --Another one where I can't recognize it until I read it out loud and hear myself saying "pas quitté," so I guess this is "don't leave us in the position to tomber into temptation?"
min, délivré nou anba Satan.
-Well, you don't want to be en bas Satan, that's for sure.
[Paské, sé pou ou tout otorité, tout pouvoua
--Still couldn't guess that parce que from paské, and while tout autorite and pouvoir are clearly consistent with omnipotence the grammar is beyond be.
ak tout louanj, dépi tout tan ak pou tout tan.] --If my French was better or I wasn't a heathen, I might have known louanger was "to praise/glorify." Must have spent more time in cafés than églises. Depuis I got, but Tan=temps is a reach, I'm learning that nasal pronunciation helps. Looked up ak whose etymology is hilariously listed as coming from French avec, Wolof ak, "or both," which I believe covers most of the possibilities for a West African-French creole.
Amèn.
--You pranksters, this is clearly a SEMITIC creole :P

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So having played botw I knew how much easier horses made exploration and travel. So, the first thing I did after leaving Lookout Landing was catch a horse. Shortly afterwards I ran into my first stable and was delighted to find all my old horses loaded into the game and ready to go. Of course I still registered and used my new horse because I didn't have the horse god yet and didn't want them to die.
Now I've since discovered Epona is in the game if you have botw. But it seems that because I registered a horse when I arrived at the stable, it decided not to give me that prompt and as a result Epona has been lost to me forever. Talking to the stable people now is useless as it gives the normal "want to take out a horse" prompt.
Is there any way to still get her without using an amibo?

Honestly? I have no idea how to start this one. In fact, I don't even know if I should post this, period. My parents brought me my phone a couple hours ago, and scrolling through YouTube and Reddit doesn't do much to take my mind off of things. I might as well write my heart out, right? Maybe somebody out there can find my story helpful, insightful, thoughtful... I dunno. Anyways, I might as well get writing before another couple officers walk in, looking for some details that they missed the last time I told them about what happened on June 3rd.
This part isn't exactly central to the story per se, but I'd like to just honor my buds, say what I thought about them before I forget. These guys, to me, were like a second family. The type of guys you'd call to help get rid off a body, the type of guys who would follow you anywhere. I've known them since I transferred in 4th grade. Only pair of dudes that would give me the time of day in the entire school, Andy and Gabriel. Andy was a sort of short and skinny guy, but he'd talk so much you'd swear he was six inches taller than he was. He'd always go on like he was God's greatest gift on Earth, especially when it came to sports. He'd yell Kobe and miss a rebound, or tell us to call him Messi and miss every goal. Your typical jokester. We didn't start off as friends either. It was around the fourth time
in the Office for fighting that I got wise, looked over at him, glanced at his bruised eye, then felt my own jaw. "Hey, we good? I got my licks-" I paused to scratch my cheek for effect- "and you definitely got yours..." Andy just looked me up and down once, checked himself, grinned like a Hyena and that was that. I met Gabriel through Andy. He was the only one of us you could call a popular kid. He's good at Baseball, really friggin' athletic, tall, built like a milk truck, and kind. Super kind. Like you could just ask him for a french fry, or a slice of bacon off his burger or something and he'd just do it. Didn't expect anything back. Didn't say anything. He'd glance up and just give you whatever you needed, no BS. We were walking back to Gabe's house after a party at a Junior's house, some slacker that wears a bunch of fake bling to school and takes "bathroom breaks" to vape in the stall. Some dude destined to be handing you a Big Mac in a couple years, you know? Not exactly the shining example of morality, not that I would know. Anyways, I really only showed up to shoot the shit with my buds and for some "apple juice" in those plastic red cups. I was going to bounce when I figured out this dude who was hosting the party, Mr. "I'm too cool for school", didn't have anything that could get me plastered. As it turns out, Gabriel wasn't feeling the party either, and Andy was "having no luck with the ladies", (Giggity,) so we all decided to nab a couple of waters and cookies for the road and stepped out into a warm summer evening. (Seriously, Andy gives me pedo vibes sometimes)
It wasn't exactly dark when we left the house. It was that perfect time of night where there was red, orange and purple reflecting off of the clouds in the sky. I snapped a photo 'cause I'm that kinda guy, and we started walking. This neighborhood was one of those aging 60's neighborhoods with all of the one story buildings, rusty chain-link fences, crack houses, senior citizens, that sort of stuff. Perfectly square blocks and blocks of houses with the peeling paint, broken sidewalks, barking dogs, you get the picture. If you were to think of the neighborhood from the top down, it would be like a big square with about three streets of depth inwards, with a big forest in the middle. Inconveniently, the party was in the western corner, while Gabe's house was down a slope, on the exact opposite side, the east side of the neighborhood. Basically a big pain in the posterior. Now just to be clear, we couldn't call Gabriel's mom for a pickup because of the nature of the party, and we weren't really feeling like taking the shortcut path through the woods at night, so we took the long way around. about a quarter of the way down, like 10-15 minutes into the walk, the lights lining the street flicked on. Now, that didn't bother us too much, because Gabe's casa was su casa, or whatever. In short, we had spent a lot of time walking around here before. Anyways, when the lights turned on they sort of dazzled my eyes, and a whole thing happened with me and the sidewalk called tripping. I went down and cut up my hands real nice and both of the guys turned around to help me up. It took them a second to spot me, because the lights lining the street were spaced in such a way that they would have a sort of staggered area of effect when they turned on. I had happened to trip right in one of the dark spots, so like I said, it took them a second to get me off of the ground. I got up, and did that thing you do when your hands hurt after a fall and you smack them together and rub them against your pants.
"You good?" asked Andy.
"Yeah yeah, I'm fine," I said, still slapping my thighs.
I looked up and saw somebody standing underneath the closest streetlamp. They were positioned in such a way that they faced the road from the lip of the sidewalk they stood on, with their head cocked slightly way from us and down, like they were staring intently at a bug or something in the road.
they guys must have seen me gazing off into the distance and they turned around to stare with me. the figure was around 20 feet away, right underneath the halo of light that the streetlamp made. they were wearing an old ice cream coat and uniform, like something out of the 60's. The folded cap on their head at a jaunty angle, a shock of slicked back golden hair just underneath it.
"Whaaaaat theeeee fuuuuuuck..?" I whisper to no one in particular.
When did he get there?
We had started walking towards the man, transfixed, and stopped just outside of the light's reach. He looked gaunt, sickly, almost. His mouth was pulled into a thin customer service sort of smile. the uniform he wore was a bit dirty, with a twig or two hanging from his pants like he had been running through the forest or something. that something on the ground seemed to be pretty interesting to him, so we all turned to try to sot what was capturing his attention. Looking back, I should have known right there. Have you ever seen someone doing or wearing or saying something that had compelled you to stare at them? Like a junkie downtown or some dude wearing a sign saying the end is nigh? And do you remember how you tried not to stare but kept that person in your peripheral vision, because they were interesting or suspicious or whatever? That's exactly what this guy was doing. He was looking at us. We never even noticed. Anyways, we hadn't seen anything on the ground so we looked back at this dude. BOOM! Instant time-out. Somewhere in that quick glance when we weren't paying attention, his head snaps up and locks us with this piercing stare. Now my heart's going a mile a minute. Fight or flight's kicked in and I tense up. my hands come up and I'm making fists. Meanwhile, the rational, thinking part of me is analyzing this guy. He hasn't broken that unnerving, artificial customer service smile. in fact, it looks almost wider, almost hungry. that's not the worst part. there's blood on his left thigh, black now after so much time. His eyes. I'm going to remember those eyes 'till the day I die. Even at night, his pupils were a darker black than anything in the world had any right to be. All consuming, omnipotent, soul-seeing eyes. The killing intent radiating from this thing was overpowering. Time-in.
"Jesus Christ!" Gabe barks.
It's the first time I've heard him swear. Andy's transfixed.
"What's the game plan?" I say, surprising myself with the icy calm in my own voice.
Andy's practically talking to himself. "I-I think we should-" he swallows audibly- "go around?"
The light creates an invisible barrier between us and the man-thing. we shuffle along the edges of each streetlight's effect. The neighborhood goes silent, save for a slight breeze along my back. every time i glance towards the ground to make sure I stay out of the light, he seems to get closer. of course he doesn't in actuality, because every time I look up in fear, he's still standing there, right there on the curb. We finally make it around that first light and turn around to face the second one. He's right there. Right on the border. that invisible line that separated the living from the dead.
Andy falls backwards. His arm falls into the light and instantly it's upon him. it's nails have turned into long, wicked claws. They rip into his upper arm and shoulder. It managed to nick his artery before we pull him out of the light. Andy is screaming bloody murder and I take off my shirt and tie it around the worst around the worst of his wounds. An uncaring, cold part of me surveys the damage and notes that Andy is unlikely to live more than an hour without emergency care. I hate that part of me. I hate how in that time of crisis, I could come to terms with one of my best friends dying to a freak on the street. Did it even matter? those years of friendship, now that I look back? That's one of the reasons I'm writing this story I guess. This story is me caring, right? The fact that I'm writing this shows I care, right? Anyways, in that instant I know we're screwed. there's no way we can get Andy back to Gabriel's house in time if we have to deal with this thing. The Ice-Cream Man surveyed his work as Gabe tried calling his mom for the fourth time. Andy had stopped screaming and passed out. I ended up holding his hand, staring up at this monster. It seemed to enjoy hurting us, enjoy it's handiwork. I grimaced and turned to Gabriel.
"Time to go, dude." Gabe looked up at me, still holding his buzzing cellphone to his ear. there was desperation and shock in his eyes, and I guess it was the same for me too. "We've got to go."
I made it clear this wasn't a conversation to be having.
It's sort of an open secret that I'm the thug of the school. At least, that's what everyone else thinks. It's not like I'll try to rob you or anything, but everyone knows that time I bent a kid's knee backwards. I didn't get into major trouble because of it, due to the fact there was a recording showing three guys ganging up on me, hurting me. I didn't have to make that kid a cripple, but I did. I got beaten for a year and a half, by those same three guys, and it all came out at once. I wanted to hurt him, and I did. but when you do that to someone, no matter how justified, people treat you different. especially when they're the same people who watched me get punched, and kicked, and hit, and put down. In a heartbeat, I was an untouchable. No more social life. No girlfriend, or anything like that. So, my only friends on this earth were Andy and Gabe. Blah blah blah, I'm sure you don't care about the sob story screw-up called my life. Anyways, the important part is that Gabe knew my business voice when I spoke.
"Okay, here's the idea." I glanced over to Mr. Freak. "We're going to take the forest path. It doesn't have any lights, so we'll be fine. if we move fast on the downhills, we can make it to your Mom's house and go to the hospital before..." I spared a glance to looked at Andy's face. he looked like he was sleeping. I felt around for his pulse.
He was still alive, thank God.
Gabe looked like he wanted to say something, and I knew exactly what he wanted to say. We were going to cross that bridge when we came to it.
We had, like I said, been around the block before. we made it to the trailhead, with that thing following us all of the way. jumping from streetlight to streetlight. The streetlight that would normally light the signpost and path into the forest was out, and it had been for years. That wasn't the issue. The issue was that the exit, the exit that was a short jog away from Gabe's house, had been replaced just last summer. we both knew that it was very likely that someone wouldn't make it. Gabe hoisted Andy into a fireman's carry, and we started our descent down the hill in silence. I made a sparing glance backwards, and there the Ice-Cream Man stood waiting.
It was hard keeping track of which trail we were on and where to turn in the pitch dark. It was around 10:00 now, and Andy seemed to get worse as time went on. We almost got lost a couple times, and we had to double back every now and again too. Gabriel and I said nothing as we went downhill. We said nothing when we saw the trail outlet at the bottom of the hill. We said nothing when the Ice-Cream Man appeared right underneath the lamppost. The sign read; "Rubicon Valley River Loop: 1.1 mi". We came right up to that invisible border again.
"I'll go first."
"Will you? We both know-"
"Shut the hell up and listen to me."
Gabriel. He was good at Baseball, really friggin' athletic, tall, built like a milk truck, and kind. Super kind. Like you could just ask him for a french fry, or a slice of bacon off his burger or something and he'd just do it. Even if there was a deadly monster chasing you, with his Mom's house just a short jog away. Even if you were willing to fight it instead, even if it didn't make sense for him to stay behind. Even if he knew you wouldn't want to keep living without him and Andy. Didn't expect anything back. Didn't say anything. Even though I'm writing this story just 6 hours later, I can't remember for the life of me how I got across that halo of light without him right behind me. Gabe's Mom flew down the porch when I rounded the corner of the cul-de-sac. I bet she was wondering why we were home so late, why Gabriel wasn't with us, why I was staying clear of the streetlights.
I remember her asking me where her niño was.
When I woke up in the hospital, the police asked me where the wolves attacked us. I didn't correct them. What was the point? I assume they knew what was actually out there. After all, wolves bite and tear. It was just a line for the news stations. Turns out I was raked across the back by a wolf too. The doctors told me I was very lucky. They said if Gabe's Mom was a second slower getting us to the ER, I would have ended up like Andy. I feel cold. I haven't been crying. Do I even care? I feel like I'm a horrible person. I hope that I'm allowed to go to their funerals, pay my respects. My Dad has a Machete hidden under the bed. That Ice-Cream Man better be counting every second he has left, because I'm going to do more than bend his knee backwards next June 3rd.

I had always found stories of ghosts and people’s re-telling of their own personal supernatural events amusing. Honestly, The Exquisite Trinket Extravaganza was filled with a lot of weirdos and strange people who wanted to tell me their stories. I’d politely listen as I rang up their purchases and then promptly forget.
Oh, yeah. I work at one of those indoor flea-markets. Those places where it’s a giant warehouse and there are rows of cubbies and shelves where vendors can hang their crap and hawk their wares. A lot of our vendors are only on premise for a few hours a day but each has their own unique sticker code and my job was to ring them all up by their vendor numbers so they all got paid at the end of the week. It was a boring job but it paid well.
It was closing time at the old flea-market and it was always a somber affair. The dusty aisles echoed with the fading footsteps of weary customers either leaving or getting the last minute deal run up, and the vendors who were still there were hurriedly packed up their wares, eager to escape the encroaching darkness. Many of the customers and vendors reminded me of cockroaches on how quickly they scurried away and abandoned this place. It was during one such evening that I found myself alone, a lingering customer lost in the maze of forgotten treasures. I normally tried not to be the last one here as my boss liked to lock up but I had to go back three times to check on a price at the far end of the warehouse for a customer who decided they didn’t want it in the end. I had put the cracked vase back in its spot when I realized that the place had gotten eerily quiet.
The air hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and musty fabrics, creating an otherworldly ambiance I had never really noticed before. The flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the chipped linoleum floor, making the forgotten trinkets appear like macabre relics of a bygone era. Unease crept through me, but I dismissed it as exhaustion. There was nothing here that I hadn’t seen a million times before.
As I made my way toward the exit to find my boss and tell her I was done, the hollow sound of my footsteps resonated throughout the cavernous space. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant creaking of doors and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows. It appeared a wind storm was building up. Something common in the Nevada deserts. A chill ran down my spine again, and I quickened my pace in a mixture of confusion and irritation. Why was I freaking out so bad?
Just as I reached the last row to then make a dash for the office, a glimmer in the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned to face the source, my gaze falling upon a peculiar artifact—a tarnished pocket watch just hanging with a bunch of other junk I had seen before. Its ornate engravings seemed to come alive in the dim light, whispering tales of forgotten souls. I had passed this point many times but had never seen something like this before. Curiosity overwhelmed me like I had never experienced before and before I stopped to think about it, I reached out for it.
The moment my fingertips brushed the cold metal, a wave of icy air washed over me, sending shivers through me as if I was dumped into the arctic ocean. The world around me seemed to blur, and when my vision cleared, I found myself standing in front of the same aisle but everything had taken on a newer look. The other thing that I realized was that I was not alone. There was a bustle of noise from shoppers around me and I started in surprise as something brushed up against me.
I turned to tell whoever it was that we were closed but I lost the ability to speak. There were shoppers alright, shifting through dusty books, examining shipped plate ware that deserved to be trashed but these...things…were not human. It was like looking at something out of focus. I knew they were dressed but they seemed to shimmer and shift, the only feature that I could make out was the fact that their eyes glimmered like brilliant stars.
Confusion gripped me as I searched for familiar faces among the crowd, but the sea of strangers offered no solace. Panic surged through me as some part of my brain realized that these were not human.
I fell back and tried to skirt my way around these things that had not seemed to have noticed me. I made my way through the crowded aisles to where the office should have been but found it was just a blank wall. My heart racing and my breath shallow. The noise of the market faded into a distant hum, replaced by the sound of my own thundering heartbeat. Every step felt heavy, as if an invisible force were pushing me down, guiding me toward an unknown destination.
As I turned a corner in my desperate quest to escape, a figure materialized in front of me—a ghostly apparition, pale and translucent. I could not tell if it was male or female. Its eyes gleamed with an otherworldly light, fixated on me with an intensity that sent shivers coursing through my veins. Unlike the other “shoppers”, this one was looking right at me. Its presence was suffocating and its energy palpable and suffused with an overwhelming sense of malevolence.
Fear consumed me, paralyzing my body as the apparition drew closer, its gaze never wavering. I tried to retreat, but my legs refused to obey. A cold sweat dripped down my forehead as I desperately sought an escape, my mind clouded with terror. The ghost's unearthly presence seemed to seep into my very being, stripping away my sanity.
“You do not belong here,” it sang in an off-key tune but I never saw its mouth move nor its eyes turn away from me.
“You do not belong here.”
My brain finally kicked in and I jumped to the side, luckily under a standing rack of winter coats and army-crawled my way into another aisle. I rolled out into the neighboring row and popped up startling some of the parishioners from hell. They seemed to only notice me in an oblique way that one would notice an ant on a sidewalk.
“You do not belong here.”
I turned from where I was crouching to see the ghostly guardian float around the corner with determination, her eyes never breaking from me as it swerved between the shoppers.
I began to sprint as fast as my legs could take me down the hall dodging the others also. I felt the feeling of wanting to vomit and the world turning itself upside every time I got too close to one of them. Still, that thing was on my tail saying the same thing with arm outstretched.
“You do not belong here.”
“I know!” I screamed back at it in terror.
I kept weaving through the aisles and the rows dodging this relentless hunter as I desperately tried to find the exit. This warehouse seemed to have no way out nor could I seem to get closer to the walls I could see down the aisles. All the while it was only a few steps behind me. Twice it almost grabbed me and I felt an icy pull that scared me worse. I knew that if it got to me, things would be bad for me. I tripped and fell landing into a pile of coats that smelled like dead animals. I smelled from their places on the highway and could feel the thing behind me.
“You do not belong here,” it sang only a foot away from me. In my mind's eye I could see it reaching for me, to grab me and do horrible things to me for being where I should not be.
It was when a power grip on my wrist wrenched me forward deeper into the clothes that I felt the icy shift of the world around me. My eyes popped open and I found myself staring into a pair of gray ones of the owner of the Exquisite Trinket Extravaganza. Harriet Powell was a heavy set woman but it was not fat. I had seen her lift furniture and move things that would have made my scrawny arms buckle. Anytime I offered to help, she just gave me a mocking laugh and did it without me.
I jerked my head around looking side to side for the monster that was chasing me but found myself alone in the flea-market. The watch was gripped by it’s chain tightly in my hand and Harriet had her hand fastened tightly on my wrist.
“Harry,” she said firmly, causing my panicked expression to come back to her. “Give me the watch.”
“What?” I said speaking. My voice came out as if I hadn’t spoken in years.
“Give me the watch, Harry,” she said again firmly.
With great effort, I forced my fingers open and the chain slipped through my fingers. With the other hand, Harriet caught it and whisked it into her gray vest emblazoned with the logo of the place. She led me dumbly to her office where she wrote something and stuffed it in my pocket and took me to my car.
I sat there for an hour not able to move or speak before I drove home on autopilot. The first inklings of what had happened only came to me when I woke up in my bed still dressed.
The paper that Harriet had stuffed in my pocket was a check for my pay plus two weeks. It appears that I have been fired from the Exquisite Trinket Extravaganza which was not a problem with me. I would have quit when my senses came back to me.
I did want to go back and demand an explanation for everything that happened but when I saw the building, I could not bring myself to pull into the parking lot.
So, that’s my story. I’ve already packed up to leave and I’m posting this before my internet is shut down. I plan to move as far away from this town as I can. Even the thought of seeing that building again keeps me up at night. Maybe at my new place, I can finally sleep again.
I don’t think it’s healthy not being able to sleep for an entire week.

Why did they add all this awesome music from all these different franchises but Lost Woods from Zelda Ocarina Of Time just isn’t there? Is it there and I just can’t find it? Is it included in one of the dlc packs? Very confused please help