The autumn wind howled through Greenbow, Alabama, carrying the crisp scent of dead leaves and cheap candy. It was Halloween, 1951.

Little Forrest Gump, dressed in a homemade ghost costume crafted from one of his mama’s old bedsheets, hobbled down the dirt road.

His leg braces clicked and clacked a steady rhythm. Next to him walked Jenny. She wore a simple witch’s hat she had found in a ditch, her smile bright despite the chill.

They held hands, their little plastic pumpkins bumping together.

For a few moments, the world was good.

But as they neared the edge of the woods, the ramshackle farm house belonging to Jenny’s father loomed like a rotting carcass. The heavy stench of sour mash whiskey hung in the air.

Suddenly, the front door burst open. Jenny’s father stumbled onto the porch, his eyes bloodshot, a broken glass bottle gripped tightly in his trembling hand.

"What do you think you're doing?!" he roared, his voice slurring. He locked eyes on Jenny, his face twisting into a mask of pure malice.

"Get up here, girl! And you—" he pointed the jagged glass at Forrest. "You freakish little boy. If I catch you around my property again, I’ll snap those metal legs of yours and bury you where nobody’ll ever find you. Both of you are going to learn what happens when you cross me."

Jenny whimpered, dropping her candy bucket, her tiny hand shaking violently in Forrest’s grip.

"We was just trick-or-treating, sir," Forrest said softly, his voice innocent. "Mama says Halloween is a night for candy."

"I'll give you a trick!" her father screamed, raising the bottle as he stepped off the porch.

But he never touched the grass.

The wind didn't just blow—it screamed. The sky turned from a twilight purple to a suffocating, ink-black void. The stars vanished. The temperature plummeted so fast that Jenny’s father’s breath froze into a thick cloud.

From the shadows of the twisted oak trees, three figures materialized, stepping into the dim moonlight.

They were horrors pulled from the darkest corners of human imagination.

First came a towering silhouette, thin as a splinter, wearing a pinstripe suit. His head was a massive, glowing jack-o'-lantern, its carved grin dripping with supernatural fire. The Pumpkin King stepped forward, his voice a chilling, theatrical baritone that rattled the man's teeth.

A bully in the dark, terrorizing children?" Jack Skellington purred, the flames in his eyes flaring bright orange. "How delightfully dreadful. But you don't know a thing about real fear."

Before Jenny's father could even scream, a massive, shapeless mass of burlap and rot slithered out from beneath the porch. It rose up, towering over the yard, two glowing red eyes burning through the loose stitching of its face.

The Boogeyman laughed, a sound like a thousand cockroaches crawling over dry autumn leaves.

"He smells so sweet when he's scared," Oogie Boogie hissed, his burlap flesh shifting as millions of bugs writhed beneath it. "Let's see how loud he squeals when the shadows bite back!"

Jenny’s father dropped his bottle, his knees buckling. He tried to crawl backward, but a cold, decaying hand slapped heavily onto his shoulder.

"Showtime, pal!" a manic, grating voice shrieked.

Standing right beside him was a rotting corpse in a filthy, black-and-white striped suit. Beetlejuice grinned, his teeth green with moss, his yellow eyes spinning in opposite directions. He spun his head a full 360 degrees, laughing hysterically. "You like threatening kids, huh? Well, big guy, you just stepped into the juice! Let's turn this trailer park into a real graveyard!"

The three entities closed in. The world spun into a kaleidoscopic nightmare. For what felt like an eternity, Jenny's father was subjected to a waking hell.

He watched his own skin turn to maggots; he felt the crushing weight of a thousand suffocating pumpkins; he was dragged through the neon-green, snake-infested depths of the Netherworld, all while the Pumpkin King sang a maddening melody of doom.

Forrest stood completely still, holding Jenny tightly.

To the two children, the yard was just filled with strange, swirling colorful fog and loud, spooky noises.

They couldn't see the horrors inside the man's mind.

When the fog finally cleared, the three spirits vanished into the night air with a final, echoing cackle.

Jenny's father lay face down in the dirt. He was hyperventilating, his hair completely turned snow-white, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at nothing. He began to rock back and forth, clawing at the grass, weeping and babbling incoherently about "the striped man" and "the glowing bugs."

Tears and sweat soaked his face. He shook violently, sobbing and wailing like a newborn infant, clutching his knees to his chest. The terrifying visions were burned permanently into the back of his eyelids. Every time he blinked, he saw the burning pumpkin eyes, the striped suit, and the shadows reaching for him.

He was completely, irrevocably traumatized.

He had gone completely, irreversibly insane.

The next morning, the Greenbow police arrived. They found the man still rocking in the dirt, entirely non-responsive to human speech, utterly traumatized by the cosmic terrors he had witnessed.

The state declared him violently unfit, and he was loaded into the back of a secure van, bound for Blackwood Asylum—a maximum-security facility for the criminally insane, where he would remain locked in a padded room forever, screaming at the shadows.

Because of his permanent institutionalization, he immediately lost custody of Jenny.

"And that was the best Halloween we ever had," Forrest said years later, sitting on his park bench, looking at a faded plastic pumpkin. "Jenny went to go live with her sweet old grandmother, and nobody ever tried to hurt her again.

Mama said sometimes, the monsters in the woods are actually on your side."

When her son rushed upstairs, she decided to take her time and start with the book shelf, then she looked at a random small castle art painting, then she looked at the TV (that randomly turned on) it was just a Jessica Jones or The Defenders, then she looks at the kitchen looks pretty normal, then Rolan rushed down shouts,

"Mom, you should look at this!"

He then runs back up to see his own new room. He saw his new room it was nothing but hot wheelz pictures and random cars, so the walls were nothing but blue and white, and the same thing like the living room, the TV turns on itself, it was just James Bond Goldeneye, Rolan was amazed to see his new room, but the most amazing part of all the backyard looks like a forest, it feels like paradise.

Kelly then walks upstairs just to check an extra room, which is just nothing but pink, she looks around the room, the first thing she sees a kitty calendar, her phone ringed, was nothing it was just a random notification, she swapped it away, she looks at her phone anyways and saw a photo of her friends and herself in a selfie she says it softly,

"sigh" "i know... i know,"

She swapped, saw another selfie with her friends on a shopping mall, and a porno picture of herself, wearing a white tank top in bed doing a kiss blowing pose, she gets off her phone and looks at the window, she looks and see nothing but garbage unlike her son room, at least there's a pink flower with it, then she looks down and saw a medium-small seax knife, she grabs and visualize with own hands,

"Hmmm, a knife whoever kills somebody with this is very dangerous."

then a voice appears out of nowhere,

"Why are you here?"

Kelly jumps out of fear.

It appears to be a mid-50 year old lady who seemly looks nice, she's a little fat but not too chubby, Kelly asked who is she, the old lady introduced herself, she is known as The Misheila,

"What's a Shilay?" Kelly asked quirky,

I'm the Sheilae because I am the protecters from demons,

Kelly asks a different question, "Okay, but what are you doing in here?"

The Sheilae responded, telling her it's too dangerous for her and her son, both of them might be in grave danger for even moving here, Kelly asked about what danger, she even said the house looks just fine, Sheila then said in this one demons will possess you,

"So what, I gotta be careful?" Kelly asked sarcastically,

Sheilae says Yes! You do need to be careful. Demons will possess you on hollow nights, Kelly asks with a Seax on her hand about what wepons is this as she holds it,

Sheilae says it only helps her to kill a demon, she then tells her how to use it, she even tells about a Old Demon Slayer that just died 50 years ago, goes by the name The Monanarchy.

Long ago, a hunter (or preist) used to kill a demon with a Seax knife. Unfortunately, a couple of years later, he died from the living dead, only to become immortal for eons. "So.... he became immortal... what's that mean?" Kelly stupendity asking, "he's forgotten by the demons, before the angels," said the Sheilae,

Kelly weirded out walks away from her and left the room while waving her, saying goodbye.

She walks to her sons new room, she sees the same thing like the living room, she just thinks her son already turns on the TV,

Kelly shouted from shock,

to see her son just sitting on his own bed,

Rolan shows his Mom to the window, she walks closely to the window amazed,

"Son, are you seeing this?" asked Kelly,

"YES!! I did. It looks like a forest. " Rolan being excited,

She then walks away telling him that she's going to look for something else from this house, Rolan tells his mom bye, but disappointed because he thinks she despise this view, he didn't care and continue to look.

This story took place around 2018 on California when a mother and her son just moved, The Mother goes by the name Kelly, and her 10 year old son Rolan, the two had a troubling past but forgiven it anyways, they move to a small town Pattyson,

Rolan complains bout the house, but his mom being delusional,

"Well honey, it's the best we got,"

They made a house tour from themselves (since for some reason they never even had a house tour nor never look what's inside), Kelly closed the door (was opened for 20 seconds) and her son look over closed to the front door or should called it a playroom with a tiny couch and one tall book shelf, Rolan than rushed upstairs just for him to sees his own room,

Kelly took her own time and started looking at the living room, a TV randomly turned on a random show (the show was just Jessica Jones or The Defenders a Marvel Show) Kelly ignored it and turns around looks at the Kitchen instead.

I've noticed all the writing books I follow share their stories in text. However I rarely can find myself the patience to read something unless it really grips me. I read almost every book I know I read as a audio book because despite being a good storyteller I have dyslexia and reading/writing is a pain. So most of my stories I share through audio clips. I do that because it is how I read and I am broken

[Heyo, this is my first time writing in this genre of horror and while I’m pretty proud of it, some feedback to improve and refine would be appreciated. Also mb if internal monologue styled stories aren’t welcome. First post and didn’t see anything against the rules. Enjoy!]

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The term “monster slayer” never sat well with me. Although my fellow man emblazoned it upon their sleeves and vainly championed themselves as divine guardians draped in heroism, my innards stirred like twined serpents lashing at each other’s scales whenever those words pricked my ears. My actions are not spurred by self-serving adoration for the kill, nor birthed from fearful malice masquerading as righteous retribution. It is simply what must be done if I were to draw my next breath. Be it by the golden warmth of sunlight and gentle breeze known only to free men, or from the apathetic gloom where I am tethered like a voracious, ill-tempered hound snapping at his beneficiaries.

But, to solely blame their troubles upon themselves would be disingenuous. My gentle and earnest disposition cannot veil the rot within. A relentless battle against predatory nature always kept my nerves vigilantly bulwark, and naught but a meagre crimson droplet seared my nostrils, quickened my incessant heart and taunted the unmistakeable glint of famished temperance. 

Each of them knows I have partaken in forbidden flesh, and that I would be brazen liar to say the recollection of its flavour is strictly solemn. However, what the other slayers do not know is how the carnivorous shame spears me whenever such memories tidally resurface with a vengeance. How they whisper to me as I lay amongst the stygian shadows I too dread to tread. 

Truthfully, if I were to choose my punishment for these transgressions, would rather be at the mercy of strait waistcoats, indefinite bouts of madness and caught in the violent fits of an incurably depraved lunatic. Banished to a place I could be serenade into a dreamy slumber by the howling screams and furious laughter of those who share my disturbances. Then, and only then, I may find true kinship on common grounds inaccessible to those of governed by rationale and wit. 

Alas, reality demands I call the cool stone and steely bars I may scarcely leave unimpeded my “home”. The profound exhaustion no man nor woman should endure takes calls me to rest as I tend to my wounds daily. Perhaps most troublesome is how my companions lead me by the coat collar, routinely search my face to determine if the fiend has divested my remnants, and if I shall be pitted against the sword for the slightest non-compliance. Then, when their benefactor’s body lay lifeless and auctioned off for collections of the morbid sort, they will go back to cower in fear of the chill night once more. 

Such is the fate of a monstrous slayer. 

The stalks of corn on Jeremiah Duskwood’s farm didn't look like plants anymore. In the dying, orange glare of the Halloween sunset, they looked like a million skeletal fingers clawing their way out of the dead dirt. 

The air smelled of rotten pumpkins, stagnant river water, and the dry, choking dust of a harvest left to decay. I stood at the perimeter of the field, my fingers gripping the strap of my digital camera so tightly that my knuckles turned the color of the pale moon rising over the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

I am seventeen years old, and even though my friends thought that this was just another thrilling high school dare, every instinct in my body was screaming at me to run back to the highway.

"Look at the size of this place!" Lucas said, his flashlight beam cutting through the gloom, illuminating the perimeter of the outer rows. He adjusted the collar of his denim jacket, shivering as a sudden, icy wind swept down from the hills. "You could hide an entire army in these stalks and never find them!"

"We aren't looking for an army, Lucas. We're looking for him." Nadine said, her phone already held high, its camera app open and ready. She turned back to look at me, her eyes bright with a dangerous, teenage bravado. "Come on, Eve, stop lagging behind. If we get a clear shot of the scarecrow on Halloween night, everyone at school is going to lose their minds on Monday. We’ll be legends."

"Nadine, this is a terrible idea." I muttered, my voice shaking as I looked back at the empty, two-lane road that we had left behind. "It’s trespassing on the oldest property in the county. My parents told me stories about this place. People don't just go missing here; people avoid this entire side of Duskwood for a reason."

"Your parents are superstitious, just like everyone else in this dynamic little ghost town." Oscar chimed in, tossing a small rock into the darkness of the corn. A dull, muffled thud echoed back, followed by the dry rustle of corn silk. "Jeremiah Duskwood has been dead for over a hundred and fifty years. What's he going to do, haunt us with a hoe?"

Everyone in our town knew the name, Jeremiah Duskwood. He was one of the original founders who mapped out the valley in the early nineteenth century.

To the casual historian, he was a philanthropist who built the first grist mill, funded the town hall, and saved Duskwood from a devastating famine in the 1840s; but the older families—the ones who remembered the dark blood in the soil—knew a different story. 

They believed that Jeremiah was a master of high witchcraft, a man who had made a pact with an ancient, subterranean entity to ensure that his crops always grew, no matter the weather.

 In fact, many people believed that he was the one who originally unleashed all of the evil in Duskwood—the curses, the missing persons, the anomalous horrors—as a calculated, twisted way of coercing the town into relying on his protection and his resources forever.

The secret journals of the town council recorded that in October of 1856, a group of frantic, terrified townspeople finally uncovered his basement altar. They hunted him down like an animal, chasing him into the absolute center of his massive cornfield. They executed him right there, hanging him from a makeshift wooden gallows constructed directly next to his prized, towering scarecrow. 

According to the legend, Jeremiah’s spirit never left the property. It was believed that his black soul had crawled inside that very scarecrow, waiting for the veil between the living and the dead to wear thin enough for him to finish what he started.

"I’m with Eve." Lucas admitted, his flashlight flickering slightly in the damp air. "The atmosphere here is completely wrong. Let's just go back to the car."

"Oh, don't be a coward, Lucas." Nadine scoffed, grabbing my arm and pulling me forward over the property line. "Five minutes. We find the center of the field, we take the picture, and we leave. I'm not going back without proof."

Under the weight of Nadine's intense peer pressure, my resolve shattered. We stepped off the safety of the gravel shoulder and plunged directly into the first row of corn.

The transition was instantaneous and terrifying. The moment that the dry stalks closed around us, the distant sound of highway traffic died completely. 

The air grew rapidly colder, our breath turning into thick, white plumes of vapor that drifted through the leaves like tiny ghosts. The corn grew to an unnatural height—nearly ten feet tall—completely blocking out the horizon and the fading twilight, leaving us in a claustrophobic maze of green and brown.

Owen led the way, using his phone's flashlight to guide us down a narrow, muddy path that seemed to wind aimlessly deeper into the interior. 

"The old legend says that the execution happened at the exact center, where the four main drainage ditches meet." Owen muttered, his earlier confidence sounding a bit more strained now.

We walked for what felt like miles, the rustling of the leaves above us sounding horribly like a thousand tiny, whispering voices mocking our intrusion. Every time that a stalk brushed against my shoulder, I jumped, expecting a withered, straw-filled hand to wrap around my throat.

"Look!" Nadine breathed suddenly, stopping so fast that Owen nearly collided with her.

The narrow path suddenly opened up into a massive, perfectly circular clearing in the absolute center of the field. The dirt here was different—it wasn't the rich, brown loam of the outer rows, but a dark, greasy black that smelled faintly of copper and sulfur.

Right in the center of the clearing stood the scarecrow.

It was far larger than any normal agricultural decoy. It stood nearly eight feet tall on a crude, cross-shaped wooden frame made of rough-hewn oak. The body was stuffed with dark, rotting straw that protruded from the tears of a tattered, colonial-era wool coat—the exact type of clothing a wealthy founder would have worn in the 1850s. Its hands were made of sharpened, rusted iron pitchfork tines tied to the wooden sleeves with thick hemp rope. 

However, the head was the most horrifying part. It was a heavy burlap sack, stained with grease and age, with a mouth and two wide, hollow eyes crudely slashed into the fabric with a knife.

"Oh my god." Lucas whispered, backing away until his jacket hit the wall of corn stalks behind him. "That thing is hideous. Look at the face."

"It's perfect." Nadine whispered, a manic grin spreading across her face. She raised her phone, aligning the lens with the monstrous entity in the center of the clearing. "Get ready to smile, Jeremiah."

The phone’s flash went off.

The sudden, blinding burst of white light illuminated every single stitch of the burlap face, casting a long, monstrous shadow across the dirt; but the instant that the light faded, the silence of the cornfield was broken by a sound that made my heart stop.

SNAP.

The heavy oak beam supporting the scarecrow’s weight splintered cleanly in half.

The eight-foot monstrosity didn't fall to the ground. Instead, its wooden spine straightened with a series of loud, unnatural cracks that sounded like a barrage of small firearms. The crude, slashed mouth of the burlap sack stretched open, revealing a hollow, absolute blackness inside, and a sound erupted from its chest—a deep, rhythmic, rattling hiss that sounded like thousands of angry locusts trapped inside a box.

"Run!" I shrieked, dropping my digital camera into the mud.

Unfortunately, it was already too late. The scarecrow didn't lumber or stumble; it leaped forward with a terrifying, spider-like agility, its long wooden limbs moving in a blur of impossible physics.

Before Oscar could even turn around, the scarecrow materialized directly in front of him. The rusted iron pitchfork tines of its right hand shot forward, driving deeply into Oscar's chest with a sickening, wet crunch. The force of the blow lifted him completely off his feet. He let out a brief, strangled gasp before the entity hurled his lifeless body into the corn stalks like a discarded rag doll.

"Oscar!" Nadine shrieked, her phone slipping from her hands and shattering on the ground.

The scarecrow turned its hollow burlap gaze toward her, its head tilting at an unnatural, ninety-degree angle. With a sudden, sweeping motion of its left arm, it swung the jagged wooden beam of its frame. The heavy oak struck Lucas directly across the side of his head, the impact killing him instantly before he even hit the dirt.

"Eve, help me!" Nadine sobbed, her legs giving out from pure, unadulterated terror as she collapsed into the mud.

I tried to reach out for her, to drag her toward the exit path, but the scarecrow was a force of absolute, unshakeable malice. It stepped over Lucas's body, its heavy straw-filled boots crunching into the earth. It raised its rusted iron hand and drove the tines directly into Nadine’s back. Her screams stopped in an instant, replaced by the awful, rhythmic rattling hiss of the entity celebrating its kill.

Three of my best friends were dead in less than thirty seconds.
Paralyzed by a primal survival instinct, I didn't look back. I spun on my heel and bolted down the first path I saw, tearing through the sharp, dry leaves of the corn stalks. 

The leaves sliced into my face and hands, drawing thin lines of blood, but I didn't care about the pain. Behind me, I could hear the constant, terrifying sound of the scarecrow pursuing me—the heavy, rhythmic thud-crunch of its wooden legs snapping the corn stalks as it ran, accompanied by that ceaseless, buzzing locust hiss.

I ran blindly, completely losing my sense of direction in the claustrophobic maze, until the stalks suddenly gave way once more.
Emerging from the inner rows was an ancient, dilapidated structure sat right in the interior of the field. It was a two-story colonial farmhouse, its dark timbers completely blackened by time and weather. 

The reason why Jeremiah Duskwood’s home was built deep inside the cornfield rather than near the main road was immediately obvious to anyone who knew his history: he wanted his private sanctum to be completely insulated from the prying eyes of the townspeople, allowing him to practice his forbidden rituals in total secrecy, surrounded by a living wall of ten-foot corn.

The front door hung slightly ajar. I scrambled up the rotting porch steps, threw my weight against the heavy wood, and slammed the door shut behind me, shoving a heavy, iron-bound oak latch into place just as something slammed violently against the exterior with a concussive force that shook dust from the ceiling beams.

The interior of the house was pitch black, smelling of centuries of dust, dry rot, and old parchment. I stood in the grand foyer, my chest heaving as I listened to the scarecrow tearing at the exterior wood of the front door, its rusted pitchfork hands scratching against the oak like rats.

Knowing that the door wouldn't hold forever, I ran deeper into the house, looking for a weapon or a hiding place. I entered a large, circular room that must have been Jeremiah's private study. In the center of the room sat a massive stone altar, surrounded by faded, geometric lines carved directly into the floorboards. Atop the altar lay a massive, leather-bound tome covered in a thick layer of dust.

Curiosity overpowering my fear, I turned on the small flashlight keychain on my house keys and shone the beam onto the pages. It was a book of high witchcraft, filled with archaic, elegant calligraphy and disturbing anatomical diagrams.

As my eyes scanned the final entries, dated October 1856, a cold, paralyzing realization washed over me. The urban legends hadn't just been stories; they were a documented record of a horrific, successful ritual.

The final page detailed a spell called The Transmigration of the Black Soul. Before the townspeople could hang him, Jeremiah had deliberately allowed them to trap him next to his scarecrow. Using a horrific sacrificial incantation, he had bindingly transferred his own consciousness and life essence into the fabric of the scarecrow at the exact moment that his physical body died. The spell text was explicit: to break the wooden frame and walk as flesh once more, the vessel must harvest the vitality of four living souls upon the night when the veil is thinnest.

Four people. He needed four victims on Halloween night to achieve total resurrection.

He had already killed Nadine, Oscar, and Lucas. Three souls. I was the fourth variable. I was the final sacrifice that he needed to become human again.

CRASH.

The front door of the house finally gave way, splintering into a million pieces under the monster's supernatural strength. The heavy, rhythmic thud-crunch of its wooden legs began to move down the hallway toward the study, accompanied by a louder, more frantic locust hiss.

Panicking, my eyes swept across the altar, looking for any way to disrupt the spell. At the bottom of the page, written in a frantic, trembling script, was a postscript note from Jeremiah’s apprentice:

“Should the central hearth of the sanctum be purified by flame before the fourth harvest is finalized, the vessel shall be permanently bound to the earth, unable to move or shift.”

The central hearth. I looked across the room and saw a massive, stone fireplace filled with ancient, dry tinder and old scrolls.

The scarecrow entered the study, its eight-foot form blotting out the doorway. Its hollow burlap eyes ignited with a fierce, malevolent crimson fire as it saw me standing by the altar. It raised its rusted pitchfork hands, preparing to leap across the room to finalize the ledger.

With a final, desperate scream of survival, I flicked the small plastic lighter which I kept in my pocket for emergencies and threw it directly into the dry tinder of the stone fireplace.

The ancient wood and parchment caught instantly. A massive, roaring explosion of bright, orange flames erupted inside the hearth, sending a wave of intense, blistering heat radiating through the room.

The instant that the fire ignited, the scarecrow let out a piercing, agonizing shriek—a sound that was no longer a locust hiss, but the unmistakable, cultured scream of an old man. The crimson fire in its burlap eyes flickered violently, and its joints locked into place with a series of loud, rigid snaps. 

It froze mid-stride, its long wooden arms suspended in the air, its body completely paralyzed as the purification of the hearth permanently severed its connection to the supernatural energy of the field.

It was immobile. It was just a harmless, oversized decoration once more.

I collapsed to the floor, sobbing hysterically from pure exhaustion and relief. My hands shaking, I pulled my phone from my pocket—and to my absolute shock, now that the supernatural aura of the entity was suppressed, I finally had a single bar of cell service. I immediately dialed 911, screaming my location into the receiver before collapsing against the stone altar, staring at the frozen monstrosity across the room.

Within twenty minutes, the flashing red and blue lights of a state police cruiser cut through the outer perimeter of the cornfield. A gruff, reassuring officer named Deputy Norton broke through the back door of the house, his flashlight drawing sweeping arcs through the dust as he found me huddled by the fireplace.

"It’s okay, kid, you’re safe now." Norton said, his face softening with pity as he saw my tear-streaked face and the thin lines of blood on my hands. He looked at the frozen, eight-foot scarecrow in the center of the room, shaking his head. "What a sick joke. Some pranksters left a display here. Come on, let's get you home to your folks."

He escorted me out of the decaying farmhouse, walking me back down the narrow path toward the main road. The corn stalks seemed quiet now, their menacing whispers replaced by the normal, empty rustle of an autumn breeze. We reached the shoulder of the highway, where his police cruiser sat idling, its spotlight casting a long, clean beam over the asphalt.

"Sit in the back, and clear your head." Norton said, opening the rear door for me. "I need to radio the station to get a cleanup crew out here for your friends' bodies. I'll drive you home right after."

I climbed into the back seat, wrapping a heavy wool blanket around my shoulders, my eyes closed as the tears finally began to dry on my cheeks. I had survived. I had beaten the legend of Jeremiah Duskwood.

Norton shut the rear door, walked around to the driver’s side, and climbed behind the wheel. The heavy engine roared to life, and the cruiser slowly began to pull away from the gravel shoulder, its headlights aligning with the long, empty stretch of highway leading back toward the center of Duskwood.

"Thank you, Deputy Norton." I whispered, leaning my head against the cold glass of the window. "I thought that I was going to die out there."

The driver didn't answer.

I frowned, looking up at the rearview mirror to catch his expression. The interior of the car was completely dark, but as the cruiser passed beneath the last streetlamp near the property line, the amber light illuminated the driver’s silhouette.

The neat, blue uniform of Deputy Norton was covered in a fresh, dark smear of crimson blood across the chest. The officer’s hat was pinned perfectly into place, but as the man behind the wheel slowly turned his head to look back at me, the breath completely died in my throat.

It wasn't Deputy Norton.

The skin on his face was pale, smooth, and entirely human, but his features were sharp, archaic, and aristocratic—the exact face of the wealthy founder from the 1850s oil painting in the town hall. His eyes weren't human; they were two wide, unblinking spheres of polished, glassy onyx that caught the ambient dashboard light, reflecting a cold, knowing smirk back at me.

Jeremiah Duskwood had achieved his final harvest. The scarecrow had killed Deputy Norton while I was walking to the car, completing the requirement of the fourth soul before the purification of the hearth could fully destroy his anchor. The entity was flesh once more.

Before I could scream, and before I could claw at the locked handles of the police cruiser, the man behind the wheel turned the steering wheel sharply to the right.

The car didn't accelerate down the safe, open highway leading toward my home. Instead, the heavy tires crunched back onto the gravel, smashing through the wooden perimeter fence, and drove the vehicle directly back into the blinding, towering rows of the dark cornfield, leaving the light behind forever.

The End.

The heat in Lowell Grove, Florida, doesn’t just sit on your skin.

It presses into you like a damp, suffocating weight. Out here, the humidity makes the air feel thick enough to choke on, carrying the stagnant scent of swampland, rotting palmettos, and old secrets. However, the air isn’t the only thing that suffocates me anymore. It’s the eyes.

Every single time that I step outside my aunt Jessica’s house, the eyes find me. They track me from front porches, from behind the cash registers at the gas station, and through the rearview mirrors of passing pickup trucks.

They look at me as if I’m a ticking time bomb. As if I’m a monster wearing a human mask.
Everyone in Lowell Grove treats me like a freak now. I can’t blame them, I suppose. It’s hard to look at someone when you know exactly whose blood is pumping through their veins. They look at my face and they don't see Sadie Ross, the quiet girl who used to read paperbacks in the back of the library. They see him. They see the man who tore this town apart.

Two years ago, when I was fourteen years old, I didn’t warrant a second glance from anyone. I was a textbook shy bookworm. I spent my weekends hidden behind thick fantasy novels, trying to disappear into worlds where the monsters were easily defeated by magic swords. 

I wore oversized sweaters to hide my frame, I kept my head down in the hallways of Lowell Grove High School, and I let my parents, Bob and Muriel, do all of the talking for me. Back then, my biggest worry was whether I’d pass my chemistry exam or if I’d ever muster up the courage to speak to the boy who sat next to me in my homeroom class.

Then came Halloween night. The night that fractured my life into a permanent "before" and "after” picture.

To understand what happened, you have to understand Hugo Brennan. If you had asked anyone in Lowell Grove before that night who Hugo was, they would have smiled. He was a solid, dependable, fiercely friendly pillar of our community. He ran the local hardware store, volunteered at the annual autumn festival, and always helped the elderly neighbors clear their yards after a tropical storm. 

Hugo had this deep, booming laugh that made you feel instantly safe. He was the kind of man who always knew exactly what kind of tool that you needed, exactly how to fix a broken hinge, and exactly how to hide a rot so deep and psychopathic that it defied human comprehension. He was a master manipulator, wearing a smile for decades while a ravenous, violent void grew inside of his chest.

When Halloween arrived two years ago, Hugo finally let the mask slip. Or rather, he traded his human mask for a different one.

When the sun went down, he dressed entirely in heavy, void-like black tactical gear, and over his face, he wore a scary, polished red chrome mask. The mask was terrifyingly smooth, devoid of any human expression, reflecting the streetlights in a distorted, bloody crimson smear. 

Later, during the investigation, the police found his journals, explaining the twisted logic behind his choice of costume. Hugo believed that the town of Lowell Grove was stagnant, rotting from its own hypocrisy. The red chrome was meant to act as a literal mirror. He wanted his victims' last sight to be their own terrified faces reflected in the blood-red veneer of their executioner. He wanted them to see their own fear, warped and magnified, right before he took their lives. It was his twisted way of forcing the town to look at its own hidden ugliness.

Hugo's killing spree was systematic and ruthless. He moved through the foggy, humid night like a shadow, taking life after life with a heavy, custom-forged hunting machete. By midnight, he had slaughtered nine people. He killed the teenagers parked out by the old pier; he killed the elderly couple who lived at the end of our street; he even killed a deputy who pulled him over, leaving the cruiser's red lights flashing against his metallic mask.

Then, Hugo came to my house.

I remember the smell of iron and copper filling our living room. I remember the sound of the front door splintering open. My dad, Bob, tried to fight him off. He grabbed a heavy brass lamp, but Hugo was a mountain of a man, driven by a manic, unstoppable frenzy. I watched from the stairs, paralyzed by a fear so profound that I couldn't even scream, as Hugo cut my father down. Bob died trying to protect us, his blood pooling on the hardwood floor that we had waxed just days before.

Then Hugo dragged my mother, Muriel, into the center of the room by her hair. I scrambled down the stairs, weeping, begging for him to stop. I was wearing my Halloween costume—a white dress and a pair of feather-and-wire angel wings which I had spent a week crafting. I must have looked pathetic, a trembling, fragile angel trapped in a house of slaughter.

Hugo stopped. He didn't strike my mother down immediately. Instead, he reached up with his gloved hand and tilted the red chrome mask upward, just enough to reveal his eyes and his mouth. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and gleaming with a sickening, possessive pride.

"Look at her, Muriel." Hugo whispered, his voice incredibly calm, completely devoid of the booming friendliness that he used to fake at the hardware store. "Look at our beautiful girl."

I froze. My brain couldn't process the words. My mother was weeping. Her face was pale, and her chest was heaving. Hugo gripped her jaw tightly, forcing her to look up at him.

"Tell her, Muriel!" Hugo commanded. "Tell her why I'm doing this! Tell her why I came home!"

There, in the bleeding heart of our destroyed home, the truth poured out like venom. Through choked sobs, my mother confessed everything. Fourteen years ago, long before I was born, she had felt trapped in a passionless marriage with Bob. She had turned to the charming, helpful Hugo Brennan. They had a brief, intense affair. When my mother realized that she was pregnant, she panicked. 

My mother knew that Hugo was different—she had glimpsed flashes of his terrifying possessivity and volatile anger even back then. She broke off the affair, returned to Bob, and raised me as Bob’s daughter, keeping the secret buried deep in her chest to protect me from the shadow of Hugo's true nature.

Hugo had discovered the truth only months prior to Halloween. When he confronted my mother in secret, demanding to be a part of my life, demanding that she leave Bob and give him his daughter. My mother utterly rejected him. She threatened to go to the police, to expose him, and to take me away forever.

That rejection was the catalyst. It shattered the delicate, carefully constructed dam holding back his lifelong psychopathic urges. If he couldn't have his family, and if the town was going to keep his bloodline from him, he would tear the town to pieces. He would cleanse Lowell Grove in a river of red chrome reflections. He killed my mother right there because she dared to keep his own flesh and blood away from him.

"You're mine, Sadie!" Hugo said, turning those wild, bloodshot eyes toward me as my mother's body fell limp. "You carry my fire! We're going to leave this pathetic town together!"

Hugo dropped my mother and stepped toward me, raising the heavy, blood-slicked blade. He would have killed me too. I saw it in his eyes—the sudden, erratic realization that if I didn't come willingly, he would rather destroy his creation than leave it behind. He lunged at me, the red mask gleaming under the ceiling light.

Unfortunately, the shy bookworm died in that exact second. A raw, primal survival instinct exploded within me. As he swung the machete, I ducked beneath his massive arm, the wire edges of my angel wings scraping against his tactical vest. He overextended, stumbling slightly on the blood-slicked floor. I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I grabbed a heavy, iron fire poker from the hearth next to me and swung it with every ounce of terror and adrenaline coursing through my veins.

The heavy iron struck the side of his knee with a sickening crack. Hugo roared in pain, dropping to one knee. Before he could recover, I lunged forward, grabbing the hilt of his own dropped machete from the floor. As he threw his head back, his red chrome mask reflecting my own blood-spattered, angelic white dress, I drove the blade forward.

I killed him. I killed my own father in self-defense, burying the steel deep into his chest until the light finally left his monstrous eyes.

When the police arrived, they found me sitting on the front porch, covered in the blood of my parents and my killer, my white feather wings stained a horrific, deep crimson.

In the aftermath, the trauma didn't leave. It settled into my bones. I moved in with my Aunt Lilly, my mother’s sister, into a small house on the edge of Lowell Grove. The media caught wind of the story, and because of the gruesome irony of my costume, the press and the local townspeople gave me a nickname: "The Angel of Lowell Grove." They painted me as a symbol of pure innocence overcoming absolute evil. To some of them, I was a tragic hero.

However, heroes don't stay heroes for long in a town built on grief.

The plot twist of my existence didn't stay hidden in the ruins of my living room. The truth eventually clawed its way into the light, and that is exactly how the townspeople found out that I am Hugo’s daughter. When the FBI and state investigators processed the crime scene, they recovered the red chrome mask, the weapons, and Hugo’s personal vehicle.

Inside the glove compartment of his truck was a sealed manila envelope. Inside that envelope was a private DNA paternity test that Hugo had secretly conducted months prior, using a discarded hairbrush of mine he had stolen from our porch, compared against his own DNA profile. The match was an undeniable 99.9%.

Hugo had left a final, digital contingency plan on his home computer. He had recorded a manifesto detailing his motives, explicitly naming Muriel, exposing the affair, and proclaiming me as his biological daughter and the sole heir to his legacy. When the prosecution finalized the closed investigation files, a local journalist leaked the unredacted documents and the video manifesto to the public.

Overnight, the narrative flipped. The "Angel of Lowell Grove" was rewritten in the minds of the townspeople.

Now, the grieving families of the nine people whom Hugo slaughtered don't look at me and see the girl who stopped the monster. They look at me and see the monster’s legacy. They see the genetic blueprint of the man who tore their families apart.
 
They look at my eyes, my jawline, the way that I walk, searching for a trace of Hugo’s psychopathic fire. They treat me like a freak because they know that I carry the DNA of a serial killer. They fear that the blood of the red chrome butcher will one day wake up inside of me.

Sometimes, when I look at my own reflection in the mirror, watching the shadows shift in my dark eyes…I wonder…if they're right.

The End.

From Egypt - A different take on the Pharaoh's Curse.
I'm Tamer, from Egypt. My debut translated horror novel THE VALLEY KEEPS COUNT asks: What if the boy-king was never buried to be honored, but sacrificed to be a living plug on the wound of the world?
No jump scares. Slow, atmospheric dread, 1920s archaeology, and the terror of being forgotten. If you love atmospheric horror, I hope you'll give it a look

Guess what just went public? My Halloween featured story! It's about some killer animatronics inside Home Depot. If you haven't read it yet, head over to our site. As always, if you enjoy what I do, you can support me by becoming a paying member of our Patreon or check out my pinned posts. I am trying to get one more holiday story out before November, so be on the lookout for that. I hope you have an awesome Halloween and happy reading.

https://shadowboxarchives.com/2026/10/25/stay-away-from-the-holiday-displays-%f0%9f%8e%83featured-story%f0%9f%8e%83/

Three years after the world collapsed—with the dead walking and infected birds hunting from the skies—one man is running a post-apocalyptic hotel in style. Welcome to The OutBreak Resort, a twisted survival horror packed with dark British humor and tension.

If you like fast-paced horror-comedy, grab your free Kindle copy on Amazon today: The OutBreak Resort: Our true intent is all for your delight (An Outbreak Story): Amazon.co.uk: Congerton, Mr Lee David: 9798264167263: Books

From Egypt - A different take on the Pharaoh's Curse. I'm Tamer, from Egypt. My debut translated horror novel THE VALLEY KEEPS COUNT asks: What if the boy-king was never buried to be honored, but sacrificed to be a living plug on the wound of the world? No jump scares. Slow, atmospheric dread, 1920s archaeology, and the terror of being forgotten. If you love atmospheric horror, I hope you'll give it a look

Parkside Inn was a small Bed and Breakfast hotel in the town I live in. It was barely twenty-three rooms in total. I had passed it many times, as it sat in the heart of the city. Its location was its strong point. Across from the hotel was a big park, the one that gave it its name. Cafes and restaurants ringed the park, keeping the area busy. And there, amidst the families and the children playing under the trees, stood this colossus of concrete and steel.  

Eventually I started noticing something strange. Anytime I passed by the hotel, it always seemed abandoned. The lights were dimmed, if not off. The sliding glass doors of the entrance carried a heavy layer of dust. With my friend group we hang out in that park and in all the years that I hung out there, I never saw any guest arriving or departing. Or any employees, now that I think of it.  

I never really cared what was going on with that hotel. Not my business, not my job. It was just another one of the oddities of our city. But the curiosity lingered in the back of my mind. And, one day, I came across the ad online. 

Night auditor wanted for Three-Star Hotel in the city center. Experience is welcome but not required. Good use of computers and Internet navigation is mandatory. Send your CV to the following email address. 

I just so happened to be between jobs at the time and decided, why not? I have nothing lined up anyway. I had a desk job previously so what difference would it make? Also, it would be a good opportunity to use the free time of the night shift to write more, something that I’ve neglected lately. Unfortunately, “aspiring author” is not a profession that pays your rent. So, I sent my CV to the email address given and forgot about it. I kept on searching for a job until, two days later, I received a call. 

The voice that spoke to me was that of a man, if I had to make a guess. It sounded like it was made with a computer program, synthetic. It kept the same tone and volume for the whole duration of the call. After it asked me a few general questions, we arranged for an interview the next day. Not in the hotel, but at the main offices of the company. In an apartment building hidden in a small street at the city center. 

I didn’t even know that part of town existed. Away from the crowds and noise of the city, you can find neighborhoods almost completely abandoned. Whole apartment blocks in disarray, ruins from a time long gone. Only homeless people or drug addicts live on those houses. As I walked the streets, with the feeling that I was being pranked getting stronger, I found the building. It looked completely out of place, an elegant construction with modern design. Its gray exterior was a complete contrast to the surrounding building, that had the hue of moldy and faded bricks. Inside was a huge lobby, with the logo of the company above the reception desk:  

Adytum Inc.    

I didn’t know what that meant. Eventually I would search up the meaning and find out what it meant. And it would make way more sense then. At that moment I just walked towards the receptionist, that stared at me wide eyed. She was young, barely twenty years old. 

“Hi, my name is Jake Sunday. I’m here for my interview. I have an appointment for the position of night auditor.” She didn’t speak. She stared at me for ten seconds straight without speaking. Color was drained from her face, like she had seen a ghost. Slowly, she moved her head to look at the door, where I came from, and then back at me. I spoke again nervously. 

“My appointment is for 10:00 o’clock. With Mr. ..” I looked at the name I wrote down during the phone call. “Sollertia. He must be expecting me.” 

At the sound of the name the receptionist snapped out of... whatever had happened to her.  

“Erm.. Yes of course, give me a second, please.” She pressed some buttons on her computer and after a few seconds she nodded. 

“Ok, I found it Mr. Sunday. You are a few minutes early. Please, take a seat while I inform Mr. Sollertia. We’ll call you when he’s ready.” She pointed towards a sitting area deeper inside the building, seats bolted directly on the walls of a long corridor. I took a seat and waited. I didn’t hear the receptionist calling anyone or informing anyone that I had arrived. I decided to wait for five minutes, as it was just 09:45 at the time. As I was waiting, I went through the things I had with me to make sure I hadn’t left anything at home. I was looking at the printed copy of my CV when I felt someone looking at me. I looked around to notice someone sitting across from me. A man in his forties, black hair cut short with gray spreading steadily from his sideburns upwards. Clean shaven, his skin shining on the cold fluorescent light. His smile widened even more when I noticed him.  

“You must be Jake.” I recognized the voice immediately. It was the same voice as the one on the phone. Monotonous, hypnotizing. “My name is Sollertia. This is how you will refer to me from now on.” I tried my hardest not to show how startled I was. One second ago, I was alone. When did he appear there? I played what I saw coming again and again in my brain and that man was definitely not there. 

 “I read your CV ..” said Mr. Sollertia without breaking eye contact.  

“.. and you’re exactly what we’re looking for. Dedicated and hard working. We only need to learn one thing: Can you be discreet?” 

The question sounded a little weird, so I had to clarify. 

“I’m sorry, what do you mean by discreet?” 

“You see, Mr. Sunday. Can I call you Mr. Sunday?” I nodded. “Great. You see we have a very selective group of guests. They are guests, by the way, not clients. NEVER clients.” A heavy emphasis on never. I nodded again. “Not anyone can stay at our hotel, you see. Reservations are made only through our system. The, the guests come to our hotels, they stay and we do not ask questions. And everyone is happy. If they have some requests, no matter how strange, we try to accommodate them. Within reason, of course. Does all this sound ok to you?” I nodded, not really understanding what it all meant. I just wanted to leave, go home. There was this bad feeling in my gut, something was off. This whole situation was off. I saw movement on my right, at the end of the sitting area corridor. I turned. A man dressed in a pressed suit walked down the vertical corridor. His trousers were torn at the ends, his feet exposed and seemingly drenched in blood. His walking was difficult, dragging his right leg. Leaving a red trail behind him. Across the ceiling.   

I started breathing fast. I felt like I was choking. The building felt like it was bearing down on me, its pressure crushing me. I had to get out. Get out fast! 

“You saw him, didn’t you?” Sollertia’s voice was cold, a hidden dose of excitement lurked underneath his robotic tone. He looked at me and nodded, like he understood what I was going through.  

I stared straight into Mr. Sollertia’s gray eyes. Words were stuck in my throat. I rose to my feet and pointed towards the end of the corridor. When I looked back, there was nothing there. No man walking, no blood. Just a pristine white ceiling. 

Mr. Sollertia rose slowly and walked towards me. He held out his hand to me for a handshake. 

“I believe you’ll be a great addition to our team. We can offer you 50% more than the average salary plus benefits. It’s quite a significant sum. If you agree now, we can start your training tomorrow. What do you say?” 

The money was really good. A broke twenty-year-old could only dream of that kind of money. Momentarily, I didn’t think of what had just happened. The only thing on my mind was the money. I raised my hand and squeezed Mr. Sollertia’s. His hand was warm and oily, like the exposure to heat caused his skin to melt. He grinned and nodded in approval.  

“Very good. We’ll get the paperwork ready for you. Tomorrow, you go to the Parkside Inn and find Lucas. Tell him I sent you.” He let go of my hand. A wave of nausea overwhelmed me as I felt my palm covered in what felt like wax. I fought the urge to wipe it on my shirt. I walked slowly towards the exit, happy that I left this place behind. As I exited the building, I took a last glance at the receptionist. She looked at me with a defeated expression on her face. She moved her head from side to side, mouthing a few words silently. 

“Don’t do it.” 

I should have listened.  

PART 1 HERE

They sent me home the next morning and Mike volunteered to drive me.  It was good to get out of there and I didn’t envy Lenny who was going to have to stay there for a few more weeks.  They wheeled me by to see him and we had a good little visit.

“Don’t be stealing my look, man,”  he said, tapping the wheel of the chair I was in.  “Nah, you can have that one.  I’m going super fancy.  Might get me a Tesla.”

“I don’t think they make those,”  I said as we all shared a genuine laugh.

“Well they better, because I’m coming for it.”

“I’m gonna take Mark home and I’ll be back in a bit.”  Mike told him as he extended his fist for a bump.  But Lenny just shook his head.

“Nah, man, come back tomorrow,”  Lenny flashed a salacious smile.  “You're killing my game with these nurses.  I might get three sponge baths without your pretty face to distract them.”

That was Lenny, always the clown.  We told him goodbye, took the elevator down, and left the hospital.  When we climbed into the car Mike had borrowed, he turned to me.  “They took your post down last night.”

“Well that’s great.  There goes all my fame and fortune.”

“I think you’ll be alright.”  Mike said as he started the car.  “It might be nice to not be so famous for a while.  Better for your health.”

“I’ll drink to that.”  I was genuinely happy for the first time in a while.  “Milkshakes?”

Mike agreed and we headed across town to our favorite place, Missy’s.  On the way there we took the interstate.  He wove in and out of traffic like the amateur NASCAR driver he always thought he was.  I had become used to his driving long ago so it didn’t really bother me anymore.  He was telling me about a couple of interns who got caught making out in the supply room the day before when the radio suddenly turned on, blasting loud guitar from every speaker.  I reached to turn it off but it didn’t work.  I looked at him.

“Did you hit a button on the wheel?”  I shouted over the loud music.

  
He shook his head and tried several of them but nothing happened.  I considered pulling a fuse but there was no way we could do that at seventy-five miles an hour.  It was so loud in the car that we could barely hear each other.  I nodded at him when he gestured at the exit sign ahead.  A moment later I saw a silvery flash as something shot past us on the right.  The next thing I knew Mike’s arm was across me, pushing me back into the seat as we were struck from behind.  The car began to spin out of control.

“The bra—”  Mike shouted as the car flipped, rolling over the guardrail and off the road.  I don’t know how many times it turned over but Mike’s arm remained there for several of them before it went limp and fell away.  We eventually crashed hard into something, a tree I think, and finally came to a stop.  Both of us were hanging upside down and Mike wasn’t moving.  I reached over to shake him but he didn’t respond.  

I popped the seatbelt and fell down hard, battering my still-healing head.  I didn’t worry about that at the time though.  Mike was all I could think about.  It was clear that he had struck his skull on something when we rolled. There was a deep laceration across his forehead and his head hung loosely on his neck, wobbling freely when I shook him.  I could also see that he wasn’t breathing.  I didn’t dare release his seatbelt for fear of making it worse, even though I feared that it was already the worst.

I started screaming for help then, hoping someone would hear.  Anyone.  Someone had to have seen the wreck.  I found his phone lying beside me and used his finger to unlock it.  My trembling fingers left streaks of blood across his screen as I managed to dial 911.  It didn’t dial, though, and the phone just powered down.  I did hear footsteps and could see that three people were climbing down the embankment.

“Hold on, Mike.  Help’s coming.”  
  
A moment later I was pulled out of the car by two sets of strong hands.  I tried to speak but one of them sprayed a stream of chemical fire directly into my face. The pepper spray sealed my eyes almost immediately and I could barely breathe as I was dragged away.  I couldn’t tell you how far they carried me or in what direction.  All I really know is that eventually I was thrown into the back of a van and someone dumped a gallon of soapy water over my face.  I could taste the soap and the relief was gradual, but it was real.  As my senses slowly returned to me I heard a man’s voice speaking from the front of the vehicle.

“It took a long time to get you here, Mark.  I wouldn’t want the pepper spray to spoil it.  Take a minute to get your bearings and we’ll talk.”  I heard something tap.  “Let’s go.”

I felt the van start moving then.  Slowly I started to regain clear vision and I saw that there were three of them in the van with me.   A woman was sitting on the floor beside the side doors.  She had short blond hair and severe features.  It was like her face only contained cheekbones.  The driver was a tall, bearded man with a heavy tan and tattoo sleeves on both arms.  He wore a bandana over a black bandana tied over his greasy black hair and a pair of reflective sunglasses.  The third sat in the passenger seat and he was busy tinkering with the silver drone in his lap.  He was haggard-looking, like sleep was a long-forgotten acquaintance.  He wore a hooded sweatshirt that hid most of his features.

The woman slid another gallon of water over to me.  “For your face.  I wouldn’t drink it.”
 
I only nodded and poured some into my cupped hand.  I began to scrub my face with it, ignoring the irritation.  I had seen enough episodes of Hot Ones to understand how capsaicin worked.  Before long, I was soaked from the waist up, but I was mostly okay again.  As I washed I listened to the conversation up front.

“You and her don’t wait for me,”  the man in the passenger seat said.  “I won’t be long, but what I’m doing has nothing to do with the cause.”

“Harry won’t like that,” the driver replied stoically.  “You know he’s countin’ on ya.”

“Harry can go fuck himself.  Like I give a shit what he likes.  He owes me and he knows it.  Besides, it’s far enough along now that he doesn’t really need me anyway.”

“Whatever you say, man.  I just work here.”

They didn’t talk much after that and nothing they said was overly important.  I kept expecting the man in the passenger seat to say something to me but he never did.  He didn’t even look at me.  We drove for nearly an hour, leaving the city behind for open country as we headed east.  Eventually we turned off onto an old gravel pasture road.  A quarter mile later, we stopped in front of an old barn.  The remains of a burned down house sat in the distance.

The two men got out and the side doors opened behind the blonde woman.  She climbed out and turned back to address me.  “Do you need to be dragged again or are you willing to walk?”

“I can walk,”  I said, and I saw skepticism in her eyes.  “I won’t try anything.”  

The big man had joined her and they shared a laugh at my expense.  “He won’t try nothin’,”  He mocked me in his roaring, rumbling voice.   “He’s just a little pussy.”

“Climb out,”  she ordered and I complied.  The woman led me towards the barn and the big man followed close behind us, whistling an old television theme I couldn’t place as we walked.  The doors were cracked open and she pointed at them, her right hand falling to the gun at her side.  “Go on, he’s waiting on you and I’ve got shit to do.”

I walked past her and between the open doors of the barn.  When they slammed shut behind me I turned to face them, but the voice of the passenger yanked me back around.  He was sitting on a table in the middle of the dimly lit space. A gym bag sat next to him, and I saw coils of rope sticking out of it.  He dropped his hood and smiled at me as he slid a pistol out of the front pocket of his sweatshirt..

“Hey, Mark,”  he pointed the gun at me.  “How you been?”

I raised my hands and he laughed.  I could tell that he was enjoying it.  There was something about him, something I couldn’t place.  “What is this?  Who are you?”

“Makes sense,” he sneered as he hopped down from the table.  He took the rope from the bag and walked over to me.  Behind me I heard the distant sound of the van driving away.  “I can understand why you forgot me.  People like you never remember the lives they destroyed.”

“I really don’t know, man,”  I pleaded with him.  “I don’t remember destroying any lives.  I was a big nerd back in the day.”

“Didn’t stop you from sharing videos, though, did it?”  He watched the recognition hit me, his grin widening as my face went completely numb.  “Yep, good ol’ Stroke My Own.  That’s what y’all called me, right?”

“Jesus, Malone?”  I stared at him, trying to see the kid I had barely known in the features of the man in front of me.  Was I Frankenstein and he the monster?  If so, it was all my fault.  Lenny and Mike were my fault.  All over a stupid video, and two dumb kids with smart phones.  “Why go through all of this?  If you were going to kill me, why didn’t you just do it?”

“Because you deserved more than that, amigo.”  His smile showed me just how unhinged he had become.  “Remember that, third period, Mrs. Perales.  Huge tuckin’ fitties.”

When he started laughing I went for the gun but he was ready for me.  He smacked me hard with it across the face and I fell back against the barn doors.  As I collided with them, one came open and I went rolling out into the yard.  I scrambled to my feet and ran as quick as I could towards the treeline.  I heard the gun go off and I felt a bullet clip my shoulder, nearly knocking me down.  I started zig-zagging through the open pasture as more shots cracked past my ears, but I finally made it into the safety of the trees.

I ran until I couldn’t hear him behind me anymore and then I ran a little farther.  He shot a few times into the woods but must have decided that wasting the ammunition wasn’t worth it.  When I finally stopped running I crouched behind a wide tree and waited for my breath and heartbeat to calm down and let me hear again.  My shoulder stung but it was little more than a scratch.  Honestly, my face hurt a lot worse from where he had smacked me with the pistol.  I was fairly alright, all things considered, but I was still being chased by a crazy man with a gun.  Oh, and it was mostly all my fault.

All of it came down to something careless I did as a kid and I never had the sack to own up to it.  I had even told the story to other people—Mike and Lenny, Laine—but I always left that part out.  It was no wonder that Malone had gone to those lengths to repay me.  It was a little poetic really; I ruined his life so he ruined mine.  I sympathized completely, but I wasn’t willing to die for it.

I felt like I had pretty good bearings of where the road was, so I started walking back in that direction, traveling at a diagonal away from the barn.  I ran for a while, so it was taking a long time to get back out.  Every sound I heard sent me diving for a tree, sure that he had caught up with me.

With all that had happened it was still only about midday.  It seemed like it should have been night by then.  I was pretty thirsty and idly thought about the milkshakes Mike and I never got to get.  That track of thought led back to guilt so I buried it and my thirst, leaving them both for later consideration.  None of that could do me any good anyway.

The cicadas were loud in the woods.  Their incessant buzzing made me want to grind my teeth.  “My kingdom for a bag of earplugs,” I thought as I sighed at the futility of it all.  It was pretty hopeless.  If he caught me he’d kill me.  He’d never take a chance of letting me escape again.  If I got away he’d find me and continue doing what he had been, or worse.  

I wanted to scream at those damn bugs.  Their stupid mating call was aggravating the hell out of me.  I actually turned to look for them, feeling like a real idiot for doing so, but what I saw shrank me in place.  The silver drone was hovering twenty feet away, and its camera was pointed straight at me.  

“Bye, Mark,”  I heard him say from behind me, and I dove away out of sheer instinct right before he fired.  The bullet hit the tree I had placed between us and as I crouched behind it I listened for movement.  His voice came from the same general direction as before.  “This is pointless, man.  You know I’ve got you.  You know you deserve it.  Why don’t you come out like a man and take what's coming to you?”

“Why though?”  I yelled back at him.  “I mean, yeah, I ruined your life.  I was young and stupid but I did it and I don’t deny it.  But you’ve ruined mine now, so I think we’re even.”

“You think?”  I heard him laugh from somewhere closer.  I was going to have to move soon.  “That’s pretty funny.  Maybe you should have thought back then.  Maybe neither of us would be here if you had.”

The gun fired twice.  The first shot hit the tree and the second one buried itself in the side of my left thigh.  I cried in pain.  I knew I couldn’t run, so I said a silent prayer and waited for the darkness to come.  Instead I heard a click and then another one.  He cursed and threw the gun at me but it hit the tree instead.  I had a slim chance now but it was better than no chance.  

He was standing in the clearing behind me, so I hopped towards him on my good leg, not daring to risk putting any weight on the other one.  He was holding his phone and he smiled at me as the loud buzzsaw roar of the drone shot right at me.  I fell forward and felt its blades rip the back of my shirt.  He backed away giggling gleefully as he prepared another volley.

He sent it at me over and over and I was soon covered in multiple cuts and lacerations, mostly on my arms.  The whole time he did it he cackled and mocked me.   He screamed “Death by a thousand cuts,” and doubled over with laughter.

I pushed off my one good leg as he bent double, ignoring the screaming white-hot pain in my thigh.  The drone was right above me, so I leapt and grabbed it.  He stood up immediately, working the controls and shredding my arm in the process, but my momentum couldn’t be stopped by a few more cuts.  I fell right on top of him, driving those crazy spinning blades right into his face.  As we landed I bore down on it, crushing the drone into him.  When he stopped fighting I toppled off of him, and screamed when I landed on my mangled arm.  

I wrapped it tight with the remains of my shirt.  It wasn’t exactly gushing blood but I couldn’t tell how serious it was.  I knelt beside him, tossing away bits and pieces of his broken drone.  His face was a mangled ruin, and its one remaining eye was locked on me.  Both of his hands were at his throat, trying to hold it together while the last of his blood ran out on the forest floor.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  It was overdue.  “I hate that it came to this.  I hate that you let what I did drive you to this.  It was wrong of me and I want you to know that I know that.  I always have.”

“I do… don’t, f-forgive you.”  His dying breath rattled in his chest like a wet, angry bird in a sack.  There was no peace in his death.  He fought it with the same ferocity he had directed at me.  When it was over, I shut his eyes and took the phone from his limp fingers.  I dialed the numbers and waited to be free of him. 

I’m still waiting.

END

Trata sobre un protagonista de un pueblo o ciudad pequeña, se convierte en asesino y mata a sus bulling y la chica que le gusta en el bosque al ser testigo. Encuentra un pasatiempo en matar o algo así, busca víctimas de su pueblo o ciudad. Luego se muda a una ciudad ms grande y encuentra un trabajo de mecánico o parecido como fachada porque sigue matando, pero regresa a su pueblo debido al asesinato de sus padres y siguiendo las pistas encuentra al culpable no se si hay o en otra ciudad, la cosa es que es un moje no me acuerdo y lo mata. También hizo volverse loca a su vecina religiosa y la hizo suicidarse. El último capitulo que leí es cuando al cometer un crimen es visto en el callejón por un pasiente de un hospital psiquiátrico creo. Así que finge estar loco pra ingresar y encontrarlo. La novela o historia es narrada en el diario del protagonista ¿Saben donde encontrar esta historia?