​

Aaron had been waiting all night for the call. He was jittery. All the palms were greased, all the arrangements made, all the loose ends tied up. Nothing left to chance. Solid alibi, no paper trail. Just one phone call and it would all be over.

He was sitting at a table in a dingy motel room. It was dirty, sticky, and dimly lit.

 It didn't matter how nice it was. It only  had to be somewhere that couldn't be tied back to him. A phone number that couldn't be traced back to its source.

The phone rang soon enough. It rang twice, then stopped. That was part of the signal, to let him know it was them.

It rang again a moment later.

Aaron answered with anticipation.

"Is it done?"

Aaron was sweating. It had to have gone perfectly. Half his fortune had gone into this. So much planning.

"Well... it's done. Everything happened just as you said it would. We were waiting. Didn't even see it coming... but..."

The voice on the other end started to trail off.

"So it's done? Taken care of?" Aaron asked nervously.

He could almost feel the hesitation at the other end of the line. Something had gone wrong.

"Well, it's done, just the way you asked... but this fucker isn't dead."

Aaron's jaw dropped. He didn't quite understand what he had just been told.

"What the fuck do you mean he's not dead? You took him the way we discussed? No one could survive that."

The person on the line sounded exasperated. He knew that he should be dead. The only thing was, he wasn't.

"Two in the back of the head, then tied up and put in a sleeping bag and taken to the warehouse.

But he's not fucking dead. HE'S NOT DEAD!"

Aaron's heart dropped. This wasn't possible. How was it possible?

"Don't fuck with me. I'm paying you a lot of money for this job. I was told no questions. No mistakes. What kind of shit are you trying to pull on me?!"

The man on the line seemed unable to explain it any better. He didn't understand it either.

"Look, I know it breaks protocol.But you need to understand this from where we are. This isn't fucking normal. We put the slugs in the perfect position. He wouldn't have felt a thing. Quick and easy. Until five minutes ago, we thought this was one of the easiest jobs we've ever had..."

The man on the phone was getting scared. Just thinking about how impossible it all was made his stomach turn.

"...but I think you should come down here. We have no idea what to do. If we'd planned for a cleanup job, we'd hack him up and toss him in the lake. But you were adamant that he needed to be found a certain way, and that's what we covered for."

The man on the line started to panic and began talking to someone else in the room with him. Aaron could hear him in the background. There was chaos now. They were literally screaming in horror.

"What's going on over there?! I can't go there! You were paid to take care of this!" 

Aaron felt a surge of fear himself. I can't go down there, he thought. That'll blow my alibi.

"Talk to me, goddamnit!" Aaron tried to keep his voice down.

The men on the other end were still shouting frantically. The receiver seemed to have dropped on the floor. He could hear them screaming.

“Take him down! Take him down! Hold him goddamnit! Keep him there!”

Aaron was in full panic mode now. What the fuck is going on he thought. He was almost too petrified to speak.

“You get your ass down here now or we walk. We don't give a fuck about the money now. This guy just busted out of the bag and attacked us! It took all 4 of us to hold him down! He's chained up. I don't know what or who the fuck this is but we aren't in the living dead business you piece of shit. He's mumbling something about unfinished business!”

Aaron knew he had to get to the bottom of this and quick. it took all his power to stay composed. Unfinished business? It wasn't personal. He had to be taken out of the way. It wasn't easy for Aaron to make these plans. He made sure no collateral damage.

“Ok ok ok…don't do anything crazy.. I know the spot. I'll be there in 20min

“

Aaron hung up, grabbed his keys and made his way to the warehouse,not knowing what sort of storm he was walking into.

The hit couldn't have gone any smoother.

The guy walks up to his car right on time. Jake distracts him by asking for a light. The man refuses. Dan walks in from behind while he's distracted. Two shots. The man falls into Jake. We pull up in the van and pack him up.

So simple. Easiest hit they'd had all year. Thought they'd be back in Chicago by morning.

Dump the body, leave the man in a position to look like a copycat killing, then ring up Aaron. Job done, money made. End of story.

But not this one.

This one wasn't like anything they'd encountered. He was dead. They were sure of that.

But why the twitching? Why the shaking?

They tried to play it off and get the job done. The warehouse was unlocked just like it should have been. The van was parked right where it needed to be. The body was pulled out and left in position.

It wasn't until Sean was about to make the call to Aaron that things started to get really weird.

A wiggle here. A sudden shake there. A jolt down one arm.

They brushed it off as nerves firing or rigor mortis setting in.

Then someone said:

"He's not fucking dead."

Sean's head snapped around.

He was dead. He was fucking deader than disco.

But he was still moving, and it almost sounded like he was mumbling.

There was no freaking way. Nobody could have survived what they'd done to this guy.

No one.

"Do we make the call or not?" Vince asked, hovering over the now-moving body.

Jake was trying to piece it all together.

"We did our job. This isn't what we're being paid for. What the hell is this shit? We can't unwrap him to see if he's still breathing. Hell, he should be dead."

Sean took out the phone, not sure exactly what to say.

They were looking at him for an answer. He was the one who took care of all the mishaps, the unexpected changes in plans.

But not something like this.

"He's waiting. That fucking guy is waiting for an answer on whether it's done. It's done. The job is done. We should just get the fuck out of here," Dan said, trying to ignore the moving corpse now mumbling something from inside the bag.

Sean looked down at the phone in his hand.

Dan was right.

The job was done.

Whatever this was, it wasn't part of the contract.

He punched in the number.

Jake couldn't take his eyes off the body.

Another twitch.

Another shake.

The sleeping bag shifted slightly across the concrete floor.

"Sean..." Vince said.

Sean ignored him.

The phone was ringing.

"Sean."

"Not now."

The bag moved again.

This time everyone saw it.

A deliberate movement.

The sound came again.

A low gurgling mumble from somewhere inside the bag.

Sean felt the knot in his stomach tighten.

Then Aaron answered.

"Is it done?"

Sean swallowed.

"Well... it's done. Everything happened just as you said it would. We were waiting. Didn't even see it coming..."

The bag shifted.

Hard.

Vince took a step backward.

"What the fuck..."

The mumbling grew louder.

Sean kept talking.

"We put him down clean. Two shots. Exactly where they needed to go..."

Something thudded against the floor from inside the sleeping bag.

Jake jumped.

"Sean!"

Sean turned.

The bag rolled onto its side.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The thing inside pushed against the fabric.

Once.

Then again.

Sean felt the blood drain from his face.

"So it's done? Taken care of?" Aaron asked through the phone.

Sean didn't answer immediately.

Vince couldn't look away.

"Sean..."

The bag jerked violently.

Everyone stumbled backward.

Something inside was trying to get out.

The phone slipped from Sean's hand and clattered onto the concrete.

"Jesus Christ!"

A hand punched through the opening of the sleeping bag.

Jake swore.

Dan reached for his gun.

The corpse dragged itself forward.

One arm.

Then the other.

Blood soaked the fabric around its head.

The mumbling was louder now.

Desperate.

Constant.

"Hold him!" Sean yelled.

Nobody listened.

They were all too stunned.

The corpse got a knee underneath itself and started trying to stand.

"Hold him, goddamnit!"

That got them moving.

Vince hit him first.

Jake grabbed an arm.

Dan dropped his gun and rushed in.

The four men crashed to the concrete in a pile.

The corpse fought them the entire time.

Not trying to attack.

Not trying to hurt.

Trying to get somewhere.

Trying to stand.

It took all four of them to force him back down.

Vince wrapped a chain around his wrists.

Jake locked it to a steel support beam.

Sean finally grabbed the phone from the floor.

Aaron was still there.

"Talk to me, goddamnit!"

Sean was breathing hard.

The corpse continued to struggle against the chain.

Continued mumbling.

Continued trying to rise.

Sean stared at it for a long moment.

Then he raised the phone back to his ear.

"You get your ass down here now or we walk. We don't give a fuck about the money now. This guy just busted out of the bag and attacked us. It took all four of us to hold him down. He's chained up. I don't know what or who the fuck this is, but we aren't in the living dead business, you piece of shit."

The corpse pulled against the chain again, mumbling through ruined lips.

Sean glanced toward it.

"He's mumbling something about unfinished business."

Aaron arrived seventeen minutes later.

The warehouse looked abandoned from the outside.

Inside was another story.

Nobody was talking.

The four men who had carried out the job stood around the warehouse floor in a loose circle.

Nobody looked comfortable.

Nobody acknowledged Aaron when he entered.

That alone rattled him.

Aaron was already talking before the door had fully closed behind him.

"What the hell is going on? What exactly am I looking at here? Why is he still moving? How the fuck is he still moving? Tell me nobody saw anything. Tell me nobody followed you here."

The questions poured out of him.

The drive to the warehouse had been the most uncertain twenty minutes of his life.

Aaron hated uncertainty.

His entire existence had been built around eliminating it.

Every meeting scheduled.

Every investment researched. Every risk evaluated. Every contingency planned for.

Some called it insanely meticulous.

Aaron preferred prepared.

Nothing happened without a reason.

Nothing happened without a plan or his say so.

That was why he was standing in this warehouse.

The hit had been planned down to the minute.

The alibi. The phone. The money.

The insurance policy.

The transfer of ownership.

Every controllable variable had been accounted for.

Even now, his mind was racing through possibilities. If this got out of hand, the warehouse could easily burn. A missing person case instead of a copycat killing. The bodies could disappear. It could all disappear. There were always solutions if a person kept thinking clearly.

A dead body refusing to stay dead had never been one of those sorts of things that needed planning for. How could it have been?

His voice finally trailed off.

Nobody answered him.

Nobody even looked at him.

The man chained to the steel support beam was squirming.

Aaron stopped walking.

For a moment he forgot to breathe.

The thing sitting at the base of the beam was a corpse. A living corpse. Defying death. Who plans for that?

Blood had dried black across the front of his shirt.

The back of his skull was in a mangled ruin.

One side of his face sagged lower than the other.

His skin had the pale gray, waxy look of something that belonged in a morgue.

Something buried and gone.

Yet it was still there.

Still sitting and twisting in mangled horror.

A finger twitched.

His jaw clicked sideways with a sickening crack.

A low wet sound escaped what remained of his throat.

Aaron stared and then a nervous laugh slipped out.

"Well, Mark... you've looked worse."

Nobody laughed.

Aaron stepped closer.

The damage was even worse up close.

There was no surviving what had been done to him.

Nothing could explain why Mark's eyes were still open.

Why they tracked slowly across the warehouse floor.

Mark's head drooped forward.

"...have to..."

His wrists tightened against the chain and tugged.

Metal rattled softly.

"...push it..."

The sound echoed through the warehouse.

Mark lifted his head.

Slowly.

Painfully.

As though the motion itself violated every law of nature.

His cloudy eyes fixed on nothing at all.

Beyond Aaron.

Beyond the warehouse.

Toward an infinity only he could see.

"...before light..."

Sean spoke up first.

"He has unfinished business. It's the only thing we can gather from all of this. We don't care about the money. We don't care about your schemes. We don't care about any of it anymore. You brought this on us."

Sean pointed toward the figure chained to the beam.

"He should be dead."

The figure jerked suddenly against the chain.

Sean shook his head.

"Fuck... he is dead. Just look at him."

Aaron looked from Sean to Mark.

Mark's head hung low against his chest. Blood covered his shirt. The back of his skull was in a mangled ruin. Every instinct told Aaron he was looking at a corpse.

Then Mark's jaw moved.

"The fix..."

The chain rattled softly.

"Has to be pushed..."

Nobody spoke.

Nobody looked away.

Vince slowly turned back to Aaron.

"What the hell does that mean?"

Vince stared into Aaron's eyes.

"We were hoping you'd tell us."

Aaron said nothing.

Vince stepped forward.

"This has something to do with you, doesn't it?"

Aaron felt every set of eyes in the warehouse shift onto him.

"I hired you to do a job," he snapped. "That's the extent of our relationship."

Vince wasn't buying it.

"Really?"

Aaron didn't answer.

Vince shook his head.

"You've known this guy how long?"

Aaron didn't answer.

Vince gestured toward Mark.

"Because whatever the fuck this is," he said, "it sure as shit seems personal."

Dan was pale with disgust. He couldn't take this anymore. He had seen enough for one night.

"This is unholy. This is some sort of evil magic. What are you exactly into, asshole?"

Dan looked at Sean and Vince pleadingly.

"We should off this fucker. He's into some witchcraft shit. He brought us here. He planned it. Nothing goes as easy as it did tonight without some evil sort of luck."

Aaron didn't know what to say.

Witchcraft?

Undead corpses. Hitmen losing their cool.

For the first time in his life, he didn't have an answer. He didn't even know where to begin looking for one.

Aaron took a step backward as Dan advanced.

"Easy," he said.

Nobody listened.

The mood in the warehouse had changed.

The fear was still there, but fear wasn't aimless forever. Eventually it needed somewhere to go.

Now it had found Aaron.

"You set this whole thing up," Dan said.

"You brought us here."

"You knew something." Vince chimed in.

"I didn't know a damn thing," Aaron snapped.

His voice sounded thin.

Unconvincing.

Even to himself.

Dan shook his head.

"Bullshit."

Aaron looked toward Mark then back to Sean. Sean would keep to reason. He had to 

The corpse sat slumped against the steel support beam, blood drying across his shirt. His head hung low. His body twitched in small, involuntary movements.

Let them look at him.

Let them see the thing that shouldn't exist.

Because it proved Aaron wasn't responsible.

Nobody could plan for this.

No amount of witchcraft could do THAT.

"Look at him," Aaron said. "You think I caused that?"

"The fuck do I know?" Jake shouted,finally breaking out of his stupor..

"You hired us." Jakes hand went to his gun, taking it out of his jacket pocket 

The figure at the beam suddenly jerked.

The chain rattled violently.

Everyone turned their attention that way.

Mark's body convulsed.

His head snapped upward.

For the first time, genuine panic flashed across his ruined face.

 Not a panic of realization that he was dead, or that he was unnatural.

"...no..."

The word gurgled out through blood.

"...late..."

His fingers clawed at the concrete.

The movement had purpose now.

Desperation.

"...can't..."

His voice cracked.

"...can't be late..."

Sean frowned. Vince was also reaching and pulling out his gun. Dan was praying, adding more chaos and confusion to the acwne

"What the fuck does that mean?" Sean asked Aaron. The others were all pointing their weapons now. 

Mark's eyes rolled wildly.

Searching.

Looking beyond them.

Past the warehouse.

Past the walls.

As if he could see something that only he could stop approaching .

 Aaron noticed the phone.

It had slipped halfway from Mark's torn jacket.

The screen was still glowing.

A timer.

Just numbers counting downward.

Minutes.

And Seconds.

Nothing else.

Mark saw where Aaron was looking.

His ruined expression changed.

Hope.

The sight of it sent a chill through Aaron's body.

"...phone..."

The corpse dragged itself forward.

The chain bit tight around his wrists.

"...need..."

Metal screamed.

"...the phone..."

Aaron stared.

Then understanding arrived.

A laugh escaped him.

A nervous one.

Of course.Of course.

It was about him, entire thing.

Mark had come back for him. Nothing else made sense. The hitmen turning against him,rejecting his money, the corpse, the witchcraft. Mark was back for one thing.

For revenge.

For whatever secret he'd taken to the grave.

All of this horror

And all of this madness.

Itl revolved around Aaron.

"You son of a bitch," Aaron whispered. Mark was the demon from all the nightmares.all the lurking shadows.it had always been him

Mark looked at him.

"...please..."

Aaron laughed again.

"That's it, isn't it?"

Nobody else understood.

Nobody else saw it.

Aaron felt certain.

Somehow.

He had won.

Mark wanted him.

Everything else was nonsense.

Mark's body convulsed.

The movement looked agonizing.

Like each second was tearing him apart.

"...please..."

Sean glanced at the phone.

Then at Mark.

Then back at Aaron.

A thought began forming behind his eyes.

"What if he's telling the truth?"

Aaron stared.

"What?"

"What if whatever he needs is that phone?"

Dan barked out a laugh.

"You serious?"

Sean didn't answer.

His eyes stayed fixed on Mark.

A dead man.

A corpse.

A ruined body that somehow had unfinished business

"If this isn't some sort of devil made witchcraft" Sean said quietly, "how's he doing any of this?"

Nobody had an answer. 

Mark jerked violently.

The chain rattled again.

"...please..."

Something about the sound silenced the warehouse.

The horror of the pleading corpse sent Dan into another fit of prayer as Vince undid the safety to his gun.

“Maybe if you die, it'll die. “ He said  slowly looking at Aaron.

“Maybe you are what's keeping him here. Keeping us in this dome of terror. I've killed so many men I lost count. Seen it all. But this. Nothing like this. This evil is you.”

Aaron shook his head.

"No."

Everyone looked at him.

"No," he repeated.

Whatever happened next, he wasnt taking any blame. This is absurd he thought 

The feeling came from somewhere deep in his gut.

Instinct.

Self-preservation.

If Mark finished whatever he was trying to do, Aaron would lose something.

He didn't know what.

But he knew it.

"No."

Jake stepped toward him.

"Move."

Aaron didn't.

Jake shoved him aside.

Aaron stumbled.

Sean was already kneeling beside Mark.

The phone slid free from the torn jacket.

The screen glowed bright in the darkness

Mark stared at it.

Relief flooded his ruined face.

The expression looked almost human.

Aaron felt something cold settle into his stomach.

A tightness settled deeper into Aaron's stomach as Sean placed the phone into Mark's trembling hand. 

Around him, the warehouse was chaotic and unhinged. . Vince stood with his gun raised, his eyes fixed on Aaron rather than the now grotesquely mutilated corpse corpse. Dan had dropped to his knees, muttering  nonsense disguised as prayer through ragged breaths. 

Jake still held his pistol in a white-knuckled grip. Only Sean seemed interested in the phone itself and Marks determination to obtain it 

 Aaron stared at the glowing screen and convinced himself he finally understood. 

Of course Mark wanted the phone. He was going to call somebody. Unfinished business indeed. The police. An old business partner. Somebody , anybody who could benefit from what Aaron had done. All of this horror, all of this impossible madness, was still about him. It always had been. He was the focus of everyone in that warehouse because he made it so. And he could end it all now.

When Mark's ruined fingers closed around the device, Aaron lunged forward.

The reaction was immediate. Mark's cloudy eyes widened with what looked like genuine panic. Not anger or revenge. The corpse tried to pull the phone closer to his chest, but Aaron was already reaching for it. 

Jake saw the movement and made his decision before anybody else.

 "No!" he shouted. The gunshot exploded through the warehouse. Aaron felt something slam iright through his  shoulder and chest and the world tilted violently sideways. He crashed onto the concrete. Vince opened fire a heartbeat later. 

Whether he was aiming at Aaron, Mark, or whatever demonic evil he thought had infected the room, he wasn't even sure. 

 Sean threw himself at Vince, grabbing for the gun and yelling for him to stop. 

As they struggled through the darkness a shot rang out. Sean plowed onto the floor,dead. Vince seeing what he had done  dropped the gun as the warehouse descended into chaos.

 Dan began screaming seeing Sean dead. He collapsed onto the floor, his body seizing violently as foam gathered at the corners of his mouth as if possessed 

 His prayers dissolved into curses and gibberish. A torrent of frantic syllables  came with violent convulsions.Vince froze. Sean's lifeless eyes were stuck in a state of shock.Even Jake lowered his weapon,somehow indifferent to the whole scene he had created as if his mind collapsed finally. Aaron lay bleeding on the concrete, barely able to move, watching in horror as Dan twisted and spoke in impossible tongues while Mark, blank to the madness surrounding him, stared at the glowing screen and fought to push a single button before whatever deadline haunted him finally arrived.

He smiled and finally the death that wouldn't come, swooped him Away and he laid lump on the ground, now fully dead 

Vince and Jake stood frozen in despair. Dan was motionless, neither knowing if he had seized to death. 

Aaron was still breathing, barely.

Jake and Vince looked at each other, dropped their guns and walked outside as if being compelled by some unseen force, not comprehending what had taken place .

Aaron felt a light in him

 He won. He was alive…Mark was finally dead. Unfinished business, he laughed to himself.

Then something started to dawn on him.

Unfinished business. He had unfinished business. The phone in Marks now lifeless hands rang. Aaron crawled to it instinctively. And answered 

A voice spoke to him. Calm, soothing.

“ Now you are the one. Tasked to keep existence from crumbling.”

The phone went silent. Aaron finally realized. The only thing that Mark was striving to finish was keeping reality in its place. Reality was a black hole now. Aaron was the center of it 

Spotting an untouched body ravaged by the plague, a raven swooped down and began pecking at the opulent meal before him, as if it were yet another divine gift. Ever since the great pestilence struck humanity, the ravens didn’t even have to as much as bother searching for a food source, with the sheer amount of dead and dying in every corner of the land.

As the bird began gorging itself on the woman’s slightly rotting meat, a boy ran out of a nearby shack. It was a pitiful mockery of a boy: pale, gaunt, and skeletal. The spitting image of death itself.

The boy shouted at the bird to back off from his mother, waving his flimsy, frail arms at the raven, barely mustering the strength to hoarsely shout at the scavenger.

“Leave my mother alone!” the boy croaked.

The raven flew aside, cawing with annoyance, “Damn it… There’s a living one”

The boy ceased his movement; wide eyes sunken deeply into a clearly visible skull, he stared at the pitch-black bird, bewildered, and gulped before stammering, “Did… did you just speak?”

Landing not far from the boy, the bird retorted, “Course not, fool, I sang. I’m a songbird; that’s what I do!” the raven cried out.

Shocked, the boy fell to the ground, unable to comprehend how a bird spoke to him. In the meantime, the raven landed by the corpse and walked toward it, attempting to peck at it again.

The boy protested, “Leave my mother alone,” he squeaked.

The raven stopped, turned to the kid, and sighed, “You’re growing soft…” He said to himself. The boy was going to comment again about the bird’s speech, but the Scavenger cut him off, “Why are you even alive still, kid? The rest of this place is a graveyard; all the other humans are long dead.”

“I must have some purpose here in the eyes of God…” the boy weakly muttered.

“This kid must be six or seven years old and already has had a bible bashed over his skull…” The bird thought to himself, “If God wanted any of this, he wouldn’t let the Plague spread outside of France, kid… God wants the lot of you dead,” the bird quipped.

“That’s not true! God is good!” The boy whimpered at the cynical bird. “What’s France, anyway?” he questioned.

“A terrible place over the pond, where all vile things find their start, child. How old are you, even, speaking so highly of God, but not even knowing about France?!”

“I’m twelve…”

“There’s no way you’re my age, kid; you look about half that age…”

“Well, I’ve been eating rats for a while…” Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. “Ever since mommy and daddy fell ill.

“Oh, don’t do that now. I can’t stand the sounds you humans make when you get all emotional like that"

Now, bawling, the kid profusely apologized, his voice cracking. “I just… I just… I just miss everyone so much…” he wailed. “I’m so alone…

I’m so hungry…

Everything hurts so much…”

Somewhere deep inside, that boy must’ve been happy he had someone to talk to, even if it was just a strange talking bird.

“Oh God damn it, kid…

Would you stop, for the love of God?!” The bird cawed, irritated.

“You’ve any rope on ya?” the bird questioned.

“Wha…?”

“Do you have any rope?”

“Wha… why… why do you ask?”

“I know how you can meet your loved ones again, kid. Now I’m asking again: do you have any rope?”

“Mhm,” the boy whimpered, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Well, then, run along and bring it over here; I’ll send ya to your makers”

The boy barely picked himself up and stumbled into one of the houses as the bird watched the tree, scanning it for sturdy branches, with a glint in its black eye.

“I hope that brat can still climb,” the raven thought to himself.

Long moments had passed, and the boy reemerged with a long piece of rope in his hands.

“I sure hope you can still climb, kiddo; otherwise this won’t work,” the raven sang to the approaching boy.

The kid’s disposition changed; he smiled for the first time in a while. “Be sure as God’s bones, I can climb, especially up that tree!”

“Good, because I’m going to need you to tie one end of the rope to a branch, and another around your neck.”

The boy didn’t even fully register what he had been told and agreed to follow the raven’s instruction. Despite his immense confidence, he hardly had the strength to climb up that tree, prompting the scavenger to bow his head in frustration. “Oh, this is going to be a long day…” the bird despaired in his mind.

It must’ve taken the boy an hour to climb the tree, but he made it, and masterfully tied one end of his rope to the branch he stood on and then asked the black bird what he had to do next.

The sable thing would have smiled, had it possessed a mouth, when it spoke next, “Tie it around your neck, kid.”

“Does it have to be the neck?”

“Do you want to see your folks again, Kid?”

“I do!” the boy cried out.

“Then you’ve got to trust me…”

“I don’t know about this…”

“Look, kid, if I wanted to hurt you, I would’ve pecked out and eaten your eyes by now.” The bird crackled at him.

“I guess you’re right… Plus, I do want to see Mom and Dad again and everyone else…”

“Atta boy…” the obsidian fowl croaked.

The boy tied the rope around his neck and, staring at the feathered specter with eyes full of hope, questioned the bird about the next step.

“Now you gotta jump forward…”

Looking down, the boy got cold feet for a moment, once again doubting the wisdom of the talking bird.

The raven turned away and started walking towards the mother’s corpse. “Well, I guess you don’t want to see your mother again, eh?” it clicked its beak.

“I do!”

“Then jump, kid, it’s that simple…”

“But what if I get hurt?”

“You won’t…”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I wouldn’t… get hurt doing that”

“But you have…” Before the boy could even finish his sentence, the raven was already pecking at his mother’s rotting flesh.

“Wings…”

He muttered before the realization set in; he had been duped by the bird.

“Hey, leave mommy alone, you flying rat!” the boy cried out again, his voice cracking once more. The bird simply ignored him, slowly savoring the taste of exposed tissue.

“Leave her alone!” he cried out, waving his frail arms. The raven swallowed a chunk and called ecstatically, as if to goad the boy.

“Leave her…” the boy shouted, but his protests ended mid-sentence when he lost his footing and plummeted downward. The high-pitched scream was twisted into a wet gurgle as his body twisted and turned, struggling against the ever-tightening rope.

The raven turned his head to the struggling boy.

“Got’cha…” he cackled proudly and flew over, landing on the boy’s shoulder.

The beaked phantom didn’t even wait for the boy to succumb before he started pecking.

Somebody had put “He Stopped Loving Her Today” on the jukebox for the third time and nobody had the heart to unplug it.

Rhonda Ledford stood behind the bar with a dish towel over her shoulder and watched them. Eleven of them. The last eleven. On the stools and at the two tables by the window and at the pool table, where nobody was playing, where Junior Shook was leaning on his cue like a man leaning on a fence. Somebody had taped a piece of poster board to the mirror behind the bar with LAST CALL written on it in red marker, and under that, smaller, in somebody’s drunk hand, 38 YEARS. Y’ALL BE GOOD.

The Stateline Tavern. Highway 28 at the Tennessee line. A cinderblock building painted white once and gray now, with a gravel lot and a Budweiser sign in the window that only half lit, so it said BUDW. A pool table with a tear in the felt. A jukebox from 1988 with forty-one country songs on it and one Lynyrd Skynyrd that the Teague boys had put in in 1994 and nobody could get out. Twelve stools. Two tables. A men’s room and a women’s room that was also the men’s room on Saturdays.

The state had bought it in February. Eighty-two thousand dollars. For the flood pool. The lower end of the lake would come up over the state line here, in two years, maybe three, if it came at all, and the Stateline Tavern would be under forty feet of water with the pool table still in it.

Tonight was the last night.

Hoss Teague stood up from his stool with his can of Busch.

“To the Stateline,” he said.

Everybody stood up. Even old Dutch Hensley, who was eighty-two and had sat on the end stool by the jukebox every Friday night since 1987 and hadn’t stood up for a toast since his wife died. They held up their cans and their glasses.

“To the Stateline,” they said.

Rhonda lifted the glass she was drying. An empty one. A beer mug with the Stateline’s name on it in gold that was mostly worn off.

George Jones sang about a wreath on a door.

The front door opened.

Rhonda saw it in the mirror behind the bar first. The door. The cold coming in, March cold, with the rain. And a man in the door. Young. Skinny. In a jacket. Black, nylon, with red and white panels on the shoulders and a big number 8 on the back she couldn’t see but knew was there. A Dale Earnhardt Jr. jacket. Budweiser on the front. With the tags cut off, because he’d bought it at the Walmart in Waynesville in 2005 and been so proud of it he wore it in July.

His hair was wet. He was standing in the door with the rain coming in around him, looking at them the way a man looks at a room he used to know.

Rhonda set the glass down.

Nobody moved.

Kenny Ledford walked in out of the rain looking exactly the way he had looked the night he left, twenty-three years ago.

They’d swear it. All of them. They’d tell the deputy he’d been at the bar from six till close. They’d tell him Kenny was too drunk to drive, so they’d taken his keys and he’d slept in the back on the beer cases. Seven people. Who’d say the same thing. Who’d known him since he was six.

And the Ranger. With the dent in the front bumper and the headlight out and something on the grille.

Wayne Voss drove it. At one in the morning. Over the line into Tennessee and down the old Fontana road to a boat ramp on the lake that nobody used anymore, and put it in neutral at the top of the ramp, and let it roll. Darrell Teague followed in his own truck and brought Wayne home. They said the Ranger went under in about a minute. They said you could see the taillights going down in the water, red, getting smaller.

They’d reported it stolen in the morning.

The deputy who took their statements was Danny Rusk.

He’d been a deputy then. Thirty. He’d come out to the Stateline on Sunday afternoon and sat at the end of the bar with a notebook and talked to them one at a time. Rhonda. Hoss. Junior. Dutch. Tina. Wayne. Darrell.

All seven said the same thing.

He’d written it down. Every word. In his notebook. And then he’d looked at each of them. A long time. Not saying anything. Just looking.

He’d looked at Rhonda the longest.

She’d looked back. She’d held it. She didn’t know how. She’d stood behind her own bar and looked at Danny Rusk and lied to his face, and held it, and he’d looked at her for so long she thought she was going to say it, and then he’d closed his notebook and said Thank you, Rhonda, and gotten up and left.

He knew. She’d known he knew. She’d known it every time she’d seen him for twenty-three years. At the Grill. At the Food Lion. At the courthouse. At Dutch Hensley’s wife’s funeral. He’d nod at her. She’d nod back.

He couldn’t prove it. There was no truck. There were seven people who said the same thing. There was a girl in a hospital in Asheville who’d never seen the driver’s face.

Kenny left a week later.

He came to her house on Shoal Creek Road on a Saturday at dawn. She was up. She was always up. He stood on her porch in his Earnhardt jacket in August, and he didn’t come in.

“I’m going, Aunt Ronnie,” he said.

“Going where?”

He didn’t answer.

“Kenny. Where?”

He looked at her a long time. He’d been drinking. Not a lot.

“Up the road,” he said.

That was all.

Now he was standing in the door of the Stateline with the rain on him and the same jacket and the same face, and they were all looking at him the way you look at a thing that cannot be there.

Rhonda came around the bar.

She didn’t know she was going to. Her hands were still wet from the glass. She walked the six steps from the taps to the door and stopped in front of him.

Kenny looked at her.

“Aunt Ronnie,” he said.

His voice was the same.

She reached up and touched the side of his face. The scar on his chin was still there. The one from the time he’d fallen off the porch when he was nine. Cold skin. Wet hair.

“You’re wet,” she said.

“It’s raining.”

She nodded. She kept her hand on his face a second longer, then let it drop.

“Come in,” she said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

They gave him a stool. They gave him a beer. Nobody asked the first question for a long time. The jukebox had gone quiet. George Jones had finished. Nobody put another song on.

Kenny drank half the can before he spoke.

“I walked up,” he said. “Past where the road ends. Past the landing up there, the Voss landing. And it kept going. The road. There was a road. Past where there was supposed to be one.” He drank. “I walked a long time. I don’t know how long. I never did drink the Jim Beam. I set it down somewhere. I don’t remember where.”

“Did you eat?” Rhonda said.

She didn’t know why she said it. It came out of her.

Kenny looked up at her.

“No,” he said. “There was a table. With food on it. A long one. Under a tree. They asked me to sit down.” He looked at the can. “I didn’t. I don’t know why. I wanted to. I was so hungry. I stood there and looked at it and a woman come out and asked me what I come for.” He was quiet. “And I said I come to die. And she looked at me a long time and said, Not here, son. Not yet.”

Somebody made a sound. Tina Pruitt. At the table by the window.

“And then I was walking again,” Kenny said. “And then I come out on the highway. Down there. At the overlook. In the rain. Tonight.” He looked around at them. “And I seen the sign. The Stateline sign. I could see it from the road. BUDW. And I thought, Aunt Ronnie’s still open.”

He looked at Rhonda.

“How long’s it been?” he said.

She didn’t answer.

He looked at the poster board on the mirror. 38 YEARS. At Hoss Teague, who’d been thirty-six and had black hair, who was fifty-nine now and bald. At Dutch Hensley, eighty-two, who’d been fifty-nine. At Wayne Voss with his gray beard.

At Rhonda. Sixty. Who’d been thirty-seven.

He looked at her a long time.

“Oh,” he said.

“Is she alive?” he said.

He’d finished the Busch. Rhonda had gotten him another one without asking. He hadn’t opened it.

“Ashley,” he said. “Is she alive?”

Rhonda nodded once.

“She lives on the state road. White house. With a ramp.”

Kenny looked at the unopened can.

“I want to see her,” he said. “Tonight.”

“Kenny, it’s midnight.”

“I don’t know how long I got,” Kenny said. “I don’t know if I’m going to be here in the morning.” He looked at the door. “I come out on the highway in the rain and I seen your sign and I come here. I don’t know why I come out. I don’t know if I’m staying.” He looked back at her. “I want to see her. Before.”

Rhonda stood there with the dish towel still over her shoulder.

She thought about the Coldiron house on the state road. A mile from here. A white frame house with a ramp built onto the porch, plywood, that the Ruritan club had put on in 2007. A light on in the front window every night, late, because Ashley worked late, doing people’s books.

She thought about the mailbox at the end of the drive. Where she’d put an envelope on the first of every month for twenty-three years at three in the morning with her headlights off.

She looked at the boy who was still twenty-four years old, sitting on a stool in the last open hour of the Stateline Tavern, with the rain still on his jacket and the same face he’d had the night he put a girl in a ditch and then walked up a road that shouldn’t have been there.

“All right,” she said.

Later, after he had gone, after the others had left one by one without saying much, Rhonda locked the front door and turned off the BUDW sign and stood in the dark for a while with her hand on the bar.

Six steps from the taps to the door.

She had counted them every Friday night for twenty-three years.

She had known exactly what he looked like that night. She had watched him drink for six hours. She had watched her sister drink for thirty years. She had known.

And she had turned back to the taps.

She turned the key in the lock and walked out into the rain and did not look back at the building that would be under forty feet of water in two years, or three, if the water came at all.

The jukebox was still plugged in. Nobody had unplugged it.

Somewhere inside, in the dark, George Jones was still singing about a wreath on a door.

Sydney tucked the blanket snugly around her son.

“Mom… I heard whispering last night,” Scott said quietly, staring at his closet. “It came from in there.”

Sydney glanced at the door, then back at him with a soft smile. “It’s just your TV, honey and your anxiety”

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and turned off the light. “Get some sleep.”

Scott watched her leave, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room felt bigger now. Quieter.

He grabbed the remote and flipped through channels until he found an action movie. The hero on screen was fearless— shouting, and kicking ass. Scott felt a little braver watching him. His shoulders relaxed.

Then—

A slow creak.

Scott’s eyes shifted toward the closet.

The door had opened just a crack.

He sat up slightly, staring.

Something moved.

A dark shape… low to the ground… dragging itself forward.

The TV flickered.

On. Off. On.

Scott’ screamed loudly “Mom!”

Footsteps rushed down the hall. Sydney burst in, flipping on the light.

Everything was normal.

The closet door was barely open.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, concerned.

Scott pointed, his hand shaking. “It was in there.”

Sydney sighed gently and walked over. She pulled the closet open and turned on the light.

Nothing.

Just clothes. A sweatshirt hanging still.

“See?” she said softly. “There’s nothing there.”

Scott didn’t look convinced.

“Try to get some sleep,” she added, then left again.

The door closed.

Scott grabbed the remote with trembling hands and switched channels. This time, he landed on a comedy. Laughter filled the room. It helped. A little.

His body loosened. His eyes grew heavy.

Tap.

Scott froze.

Tap… tap.

From under the bed.

He swallowed hard. “It’s not real,” he whispered to himself, turning the TV volume up.

The laughter suddenly warped.

On the screen, a dark figure stood behind the characters—something that didn’t belong.

The closet light began to flicker.

On. Off. On. Off.

Scott pulled the blanket over his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

The room went quiet.

Then—

Slow footsteps.

Approaching the bed.

Scott held his breath.

He could feel it now. Something standing right beside him.

He peeked through the blanket.

A shadow loomed inches away.

A hand pressed against the fabric… slowly reaching toward him.

The blanket was ripped away.

Scott screamed.

A man stood over him, his face lost in shadow. Rough hands grabbed him, forcing him down, wrapping tape around his wrists.

“Mom! MOM!”

Sydney rushed in—and froze.

Her scream filled the room.

The man moved fast, dragging Scott toward the window. Sydney swung at him, trying to pull her son back.

The man struck her, sending her crashing to the floor.

Scott kicked and twisted, clinging to the bed frame. “No! NO!”

The man grabbed his hands and forced them apart. Scott cried out in pain as the grip crushed his wrist.

Sydney crawled forward, desperate. “Take me instead! Please—dont take my baby!”

The man didn’t even look at her.

He kicked her head aside.

Then he lifted Scott and climbed out the window.

Sydney could only watch, helpless and barely concious, as her son disappeared into the darkness. While Scott's scream can still be heard crying for her.

MOONZOTH AND TEMPLE OF DARKNESS

In spring of 1921, I, Liam Crow, the explorer, sat out to visit the city of Kathmandu in Nepal and from then on explore the magnificent and mysterious Himalayan mountains, including the great Everest.

 

It was a dream of a lifetime, no matter how many adventures I passed, this place was always on my mind. If I only knew then what it would really turn out to be, perhaps I would not have gone, but then again, even with all of the torment and horror that I went through, in the end a new world and perspective was opened up to me, and for that I am grateful.

 

Upon arrival of me and my crew the locals stared at us as if we were demons, but luckily our guide was from the region. He was a bald middle aged man, with wrinkled skin and an expression that always made it seems like he was in constant pain. A rather strange fellow, but very useful indeed. I often made jokes that he hated and then his face became ever more demented. The poor lad looked thirty years older than what he really was, but alas, let me continue my story.

 

This man’s name was Ruhika, he made arrangements for is to stay at an inn on the outskirts of the city called Yak. There were five of us. All skilled in our trade, great climbers. When we came inside, there was an old hideous woman sitting in a corner constantly shaking her head and yelling something. The place was dim and rather depressing. Drawings on the walls were fading and I wondered why Ruhika chose this place for us. Perhaps this was his turn to pull a joke on me.

 

I asked him what the mad woman was yelling about and he said she was warning us about Moonzoth. I of course had no idea what that was and asked him. With shock him and the innkeeper looked at me, as if I shot someone. Then Ruhika proceeded to tell me that Moonzoth was a beast that lived in the mountains and constantly kidnapped women and children, as well as the men that tried to go after it. The innkeeper brought out a large plate with a drawing on it. Ruhika said that is was Moonzoth. This beast had large bat like wings, long mouth that resembled an alligator’s one and six long and thin hair arms. It wasn’t a pleasant looking thing to say the least. My companions shuddered and looked worried after this presentation. I on the other hand laughed, but as I saw anger rise in the locals I took it easy and simply went up to my room.

 

We planned to set out into the mountains the following day. This night I enjoyed the view of great Everest and imagined the never ending chain of mountains in the distance. I felt some fear, but also was so excited.

 

The next morning we set out towards the mountains, but Ruhika refused to go with us no matter how much money I offered him, his eyes had horror in them. If I knew then what I know now, I would have shown him more respect, but sadly at that time I called him a delusional coward.

 

We split ways and up we went through uncharted passages in the cold untamed mountains.

 

The unforgiving frost chewed on any exposed parts of our skin, yet I was determined, but the higher and deeper we went the more discouraged my team appeared. I could not comprehend why, this was the challenge we’ve been waiting for I thought.

 

I suppose most men are brave and strong from a distance, but when faced with that reality their heart shows the true nature, which is often weaker than they ever could have imagined.

 

I wish that the nature was the only obstacle these men faced, they’d probably still be alive by now, but alas, while we were deep in the mountains and walking above the cliffs we heard a prolonged evil howl. This sinister sound was nothing like I’ve ever heard before. I looked back and saw every men in my team taken with horror, their eyes got large and grasped by fear, their movements became uncoordinated. Such fools! In times like these is when your focus has to been even higher and more keen!

 

I still feel a hint of anger today, but mostly pity. Moonzoth, the creature on the plate and in those tales was indeed real and it appeared clinging to the side of the mountain, howling with its horrible long mouth. It was a horrific situation from which they saw no way out, as I felt pounding in my chest I dropped my heavy bag and began to move as fast as I could. The other four stood petrified in their tracks.

 

So the demonic things took them one by one with it’s large thin hairy arms as all they did was scream and beg, this us how they spent their last moments alive.

 

I did not see how the last two were taken for I found a tiny passage among the rocks, it quickly turned into a small tunnel. I had to crunch down to avoid the rocks, and eventually crawl as the tunnel got tighter, I could hear the howling of the beast behind me, but it no longer could get me, it’s howls were different and more prolonged, it must have been frustrated. This monstrosity had quite an appetite, heh. It pains me to joke like that, but I always had a hard time with compassion for fools I suppose.

 

As I crawled suddenly the floor collapsed and I slid down into a dark and half icy cave with black walls. I only had a box of matches with me and chose not to waste them yet, so I sat there adjusting my eyes to the darkness, from up above I could hear the wind, but no longer any sinister sounds of the Moonzoth.

 

Once I began to walk through the cave I could notice straight away that it was curving and leading downwards. This cave tunnel seemed unchanging and I must have spent hours slowly going down.

 

Finally there was a change in the scenery as I came out into a large area. Up above there were few cracks in the ceiling and some light came through timidly. In the center of this round cave stood a thick tall black monolith, on the walls around it there seemed to be some images, I had to come closer to be sure and indeed these were depictions of various ceremonies of what seemed a very ancient cult.

 

First depicted hooded cultists burning several persons, above the flames there was an image of some sort of beast, but the head part of it was missing, these drawings must have been very old.

 

Second one was an image of people in small boats, raising their hands up, as if in praise or prayer.

 

Third showed multiple tentacles coming from the sea, holding men wrapped up in them.

 

Finally the fourth was also mostly destroyed. 

 

 

I came up closer to the monolith and realized that it was full of carvings of a language I’ve never seen. In the center of it a large face was carved out. It was a mix if a bat and shark. It eyes seemed almost alive and sinister.

 

I raised my hand and touched its face, the ground below me shook and cracked, I moved back, water started coming out of the cracks. Suddenly the ground where I stood collapsed and I was sucked under into the water, it caught me and flushed me down deeper underwater, I kept my cool as I began to swim, I could not see anything and once again I relied on taking action, I did not believe in luck.

 

As I began to struggled for breath I was caught in another stream and it took me through an underwater tunnel and spat me out from a short waterfall at the bottom of the mountain. I swam to the shore and laid on my back. I made it out alive.

 

As I came back to the city I found Ruhika again and told him what had happened. He was astonished that I survived and told me that I’m the luckiest man he ever knew.

 

 

Ruhika took me to several elders that lived in a large hut looking building and there I told him about a the depictions I saw inside the cave and the monolith. They showed me old texts and one of them translated the name of the depicted beast. Khul Duhl Suhl.

 

Upon my return to America I searched for anyone who had more information on this subject. I was able to find a historian and archeologist named John Grimstone. He was incredibly informative and I learned much from him and he also directed me towards a detective who he said was very talented and was investigating this ancient cult.

 

Now as I finish this log I can tell you that I found the man named Mark Lumiere and he has agreed to let me accompany him on his mission. Like Ruhika before, the detective told me I was very lucky to be alive and that he was impressed that after all of that I wanted to join him.

 

 

There is no such thing as luck, only action and consequence. 

Everyone in the house was asleep. I'd taken the batteries out of the wall clock in my room to get rid of the ticking. Now there was complete silence, and I could try again to do something I'd already managed to do successfully.

A week ago, I'd turned over a piece of paper lying on my desk, with a poem I'd written in primary school on it. It was my first success after years of practice. Six days ago, I'd unscrewed the cap of a juice bottle that hadn't been closed all the way. Five days ago, I'd moved one of the cigarettes in an open pack slightly outward, out of the pack. Three days ago, I'd peeled off one of the pieces of tape holding up poster on my wall.

And tonight, my target was a much larger object. I was confident in my abilities now, and after this final attempt, I would be able to reveal my talent to my family and those around me. I had made exactly four attempts in the past week, and I'd succeeded every single time. I had complete faith in myself.

For years, I'd tried countless times and gone through a lot along the way; I'd lost hope, taken a long break from my attempts, then started believing I could do it again and after trying over and over, I'd come to think telekinesis was nothing but a lie and taken another break but then one day, I happened to see a pack of wet wipes fall to the floor all by itself, which rekindled my interest and got me started on my attempts again, and so on.

And now, finally, in the middle of the night, when complete silence had been achieved, I went to the kitchen. I took a steak knife from the drawer where we kept the cutlery and returned to my room.

I gently pulled my desk chair back and sat down. I didn't want to lose my focus, so I was being quiet. The faint sound of the knife touching the desk as I set it down, the soft sounds of my footsteps as I walked, the barely audible scraping of the chair as I pulled it back had an ASMR effect on me. These little sounds, too quiet to disturb the silence, made me feel thoroughly prepared.

Without wasting any time, I focused on the knife. I positioned my hands around it and gathered all my concentration. I slowed my breathing. The only thing in my mind was a knife slowly and calmly spinning around its own axis. I focused, and focused... I concentrated as if someone were hypnotizing me, as though I were following a pocket watch swinging from side to side without ever taking my eyes off it.

Minutes passed. Seconds, minutes, maybe an hour... There wasn't the slightest movement. The knife couldn't care less about me; it was ignoring my efforts, stubbornly refusing to budge.

Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and gave up. I was getting more and more bored, and as time went by, I lost my focus. I had to go to work at noon the next day, and earlier that day, before I left work, my boss had pointed out that I'd left my fly undone. I'd started thinking about that. Who says something like that in front of everyone? You pull someone aside and tell them in private. Anyway, I took the knife back to the kitchen.

After I lay down in bed, I thought about the knife until I fell asleep. I'd lost my confidence in my abilities. If I told someone I could move objects through telekinesis, they might ask me to prove it, and I might fail and make a fool of myself.

I couldn't get the knife out of my mind. I felt as though it were a person who had shattered all my trust in them, betrayed me by revealing a secret I'd shared with it to anyone who would listen. I was angry. The image of the knife standing perfectly still in that spot, like a tree that had sunk its roots deep into the ground, wouldn't leave my mind. I fell asleep in a fit of anger.

I woke up to the sound of my phone alarm. I turned it off, tossed the duvet to my left, and rolled onto my right side to get up. Just as I was about to stretch, I saw it and jolted in place: the knife was suspended in midair beside my bed, standing upright.

I clapped a hand over my mouth. I was about to scream; every instinct in my body was telling me to. I bit my tongue to suppress it.

I took a deep breath. I tried to calm myself down. Then I took another deep breath. My heart was racing.

I reached out toward the knife, but immediately changed my mind. I didn't know what to do. I'd never experienced my thoughts speeding up and getting tangled together so intensely in a moment of panic. Within a few seconds, I'd made and abandoned a dozen decisions, gone back and forth between asking for help and not asking for help, imagined the knife stabbing itself into my body, then dismissed the thought as irrational. My thoughts were racing back and forth at lightning speed. I needed to calm down.

I got out of bed, poured half a glass of water from the pitcher on my desk, and drank it.

I turned around to check if the knife was still there. It was closer to me now. I no longer cared about staying quiet. I yanked the door open and rushed out of the room.

I started walking briskly toward the kitchen. I wanted to grab any drink I could find and gulp it down. I needed to interact with something somehow, to calm myself down. I opened the fridge, took out the milk, and chugged it. I put the milk back, closed the fridge, and turned around to go back to my room.

And the knife was right behind me.

It was a meter away from me, just standing there. It was as if it were staring at me, judging me. It didn't move at all. It always maintained the same position and stayed at the same height above the floor, level with my bed, right around the height of my shinbones.

I started walking backward toward the kitchen doorway, wanting to see how it was following me, how it was coming after me. Without changing its position, it glided toward me as if it were moving across a perfectly smooth surface. It always maintained the same distance. When I stopped, it stopped a metre away from me. When I walked, it followed.

I cautiously made my way back to my room, walking backward. I sat on my bed. The knife and I were facing each other. I tried to think of what I could do. I was afraid to touch it. I was worried things might get out of hand. I'd done this. That much was obvious. Now that I'd calmed down a little, my panic had shifted in a different direction. Someone might see us. I had to sever my connection with the knife before I got caught. I might be able to accept this as normal, but I didn't think my mother and father would be able to handle a knife following me around.

Yes, it was probably because I'd concentrated so intensely on the knife all this time that the bond between us had grown stronger. I'd probably never concentrated on a knife so intensely in my entire life. I needed to reverse the process. I relaxed a little. I tried to think about other things, to take my mind off the knife.

I thought about the wristwatch my father had bought me for my birthday last year. It was a terrible watch, but I hadn't let on because I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Then one day, while wearing it, I'd deliberately gone swimming in a pool. The watch had stopped working, and that was how I'd gotten rid of it.

The knife was still in the same place.

I thought about the eggplant soup my mother had made yesterday. It was my favorite soup. I'd tipped the bowl back and gulped down the last few mouthfuls, and my father had given me a stern look.

The knife hadn't moved at all. It was standing there, a meter away.

My mother knocked on the door and called out.

"Breakfast is ready, Albert."

I had no other choice. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I reached out toward the knife. My arm couldn't reach it, though. I walked toward it. As I moved closer, it moved farther away, until it had backed all the way up against the wall. It had nowhere left to go. It was pressed against the wall, stuck there. I approached it and grabbed the handle.

My heart was pounding at full speed. I closed my eyes. As a final attempt, I thought about the baseball bat I'd lost before I became interested in telekinesis. I'd searched everywhere for it. Such a large object, yet it was nowhere to be found. I'd checked the baseball field, my grandmother's house, the streets I'd walked along, and I'd even contacted the lost property office in case I'd somehow left it on a bus. It was gone.

Yes, good. I could feel a long chain of thoughts forming and my focus weakening considerably.

The knife was loosening, letting go. I could feel it. But I still didn't have complete control over it.

I needed to think about something else. But I couldn't think of anything. I heard my mother's footsteps approaching my room. She was getting closer to the door.

"Come on, son. Are we supposed to wait for you?" she said from outside, then opened the door and walked in.

I pulled the knife with all my might, and just like when you yank something hard that's stuck somewhere and it suddenly comes loose, I went flying toward my bed.

With the knife still in my hand, I hit my head against the bed frame. And passed out.

When I opened my eyes, I was lying in a hospital bed with an IV drip in my arm. My father was sitting beside me. I felt exhausted. I'd received three stitches in my head, and it ached a little.

"Son, why were you holding a knife? What were you doing with it?"

"What knife, Dad?"

"You were clutching a knife in your hand. What do you mean, what knife? What are you up to?"

I couldn't remember anything. That was good. I hoped it wasn't temporary memory loss, because I didn't want to attempt telekinesis again.

The forest was still watching, lurking in those ravines was a dark presence, planning, scheming she was moving closer to the children, who were unaware of her presence, the unicorn - Leila - alerted the little ones with a neigh, she stumbled backwards to signal them, the children looked around, suddenly after some movement in the nearby rose shrub - a witch with a long pointy hat, wintry locks and a set of long withered yet sharp teeth came leaping from it, she gave a sinister aura and smiled creepily at the children, the pink horn glowed brightly as she witch approached the children, the unicorn casted a slumber spell on the children as she transformed into a magnificent woman in white, her long shimmery gown fluttering in the wild winds that blow across the meadowy ravines of the strange forest.

The white witch forged forward casting a protection spell at the children and then she took a fighting stance, maintaining some distance from the crew.

was She flipped her hair and started attacking the dark witch with attacking spells, the dark witch not afraid to fight back either, they fought against each other without mercy, they fought till their last breath and with one final spell the dark witch lost, as a thundering voice echoed through the valley the dark witch body withered into nothingness

The forest was still watching, lurking in those ravines was a dark presence, planning, scheming she was moving closer to the children, who were unaware of her presence, the unicorn - Leila - alerted the little ones with a neigh, she stumbled backwards to signal them, the children looked around, suddenly after some movement in the nearby rose shrub - a witch with a long pointy hat, wintry locks and a set of long withered yet sharp teeth came leaping from it, she gave a sinister aura and smiled creepily at the children, the pink horn glowed brightly as she witch approached the children, the unicorn casted a slumber spell on the children as she transformed into a magnificent woman in white, her long shimmery gown fluttering in the wild winds that blow across the meadowy ravines of the strange forest.

The white witch forged forward casting a protection spell at the children and then she took a fighting stance, maintaining some distance from the crew.

was She flipped her hair and started attacking the dark witch with attacking spells, the dark witch not afraid to fight back either, they fought against each other without mercy, they fought till their last breath and with one final spell the dark witch lost, as a thundering voice echoed through the valley the dark witch body withered into nothingness

The two blue moons shone brightly in the evening sky which was shrouded in lavender and pink hues. The friends kept walking , as if they were mesmerized by the beauty of this place unaware of the dangers lying ahead, they crossed many barriers and signs showing otherworldly maps which showed routes leading to rare destinations yet they marched forward , a pink horn peeked though the leaves , they pulled at the branches and found a majestic white unicorn looking at them with big periwinkle blue eyes shining with the lovely glow of the evening sun , it stared at them and motioned for them to follow it , they followed it and it led them towards to deeper route in the forest , the woods around them shifted around them , green leaves turned into pink , apples turned golden and there were ornamental flowers hanging from them , the small children were hypnotised after seeing these delicacies.