Decorative wall hangings kitchen fork spoon

I woke up to the soft hum of the city filtering through my bedroom window, the first light of dawn casting a gentle glow over my room. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the remnants of sleep slipping away. As I stretched and yawned, a strange sensation washed over me, like an invisible veil being lifted from my mind. I shrugged it off as morning grogginess and stumbled to the kitchen for my usual dose of caffeine.
As I brewed my coffee, my neighbor Mrs. Rodriguez’s voice echoed in my head, "I hope he stops his noisy workouts so early. Some of us like to sleep in." I froze, coffee pot in hand, staring at the wall separating our apartments. I hadn't heard her speak out loud. In fact, I hadn't heard anything but the steady drip of the coffee maker. My heart raced. Was I hearing her thoughts?
I shook my head, trying to dispel the absurdity. As I poured my coffee, I heard another voice, this time my own, musing about how absurd it all was. My mind spun. Could I really be reading minds? I decided to test it out. I grabbed my phone and texted my best friend, Mia, asking if she wanted to meet for breakfast.
As I walked to the café, the city felt different, alive with an undercurrent of silent conversations. I heard snippets of thoughts as people passed by, random musings, worries, and joys. It was overwhelming and fascinating. I focused on breathing, trying to filter out the noise. When I arrived, Mia was already at a table, her fingers tapping on her phone. As I approached, I heard her thinking about what to order, debating between pancakes and an omelet.
"Go for the pancakes," I said, sliding into the seat across from her. She looked up, surprised.
"How did you know?" she asked, eyebrows raised.
"Lucky guess," I replied, though I couldn't hide my grin.
Throughout breakfast, I practiced tuning into Mia’s thoughts. I could hear her thinking about her upcoming presentation at work and wondering if her outfit looked okay. The experience was surreal. It was like watching a movie with subtitles, except the subtitles were people’s innermost thoughts. I had to tell Mia, but how would she react? I decided to give her a demonstration instead.
"Can you keep a secret?" I asked, leaning in. She nodded, curiosity piqued. "I think I can read minds."
She laughed, but I could see a flicker of doubt in her eyes. "Prove it."
I concentrated, picking up on her thoughts. "You're worried about the presentation for the new marketing campaign and think your blue dress would have been a better choice this morning."
Her eyes widened, fork clattering to her plate. "How did you...?"
"I don’t know," I admitted. "I just woke up with this ability."
We spent the next hour testing my new skill. Mia thought of numbers, images, random facts, and I repeated them back to her accurately. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. What could I do with this power? What should I do?
As I walked home, I pondered the implications. I could help people, understand them better, maybe even predict and prevent conflicts. But there was a darker side, too. The potential for invasion of privacy, manipulation, the ethical dilemmas were staggering.
My phone buzzed, jolting me from my thoughts. It was a message from my boss, asking if I could come in for an impromptu meeting. As I entered the office building, I couldn’t help but listen to the thoughts around me. Stress, ambition, secrets—it was all laid bare.
My boss greeted me with a firm handshake, his thoughts surprisingly mundane: a grocery list for dinner, a mental note to pick up his dry cleaning. But as we sat down to discuss my latest project, I heard a darker thread—he was planning to cut my department’s budget significantly.
My mind raced. How could I use this information? Should I confront him? No, that would be too obvious. Instead, I steered the conversation towards the importance of our work, highlighting successes and future plans. By the end of the meeting, I had subtly changed his mind, buying my team more time.
That evening, as I reflected on the day, the weight of my new ability settled on me. The potential for good was immense, but so was the risk of harm. I knew I had to be careful, to use this gift wisely. I would start by helping those closest to me, like Mia, and see where this strange journey would lead.
In the days that followed, I found myself in a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, navigating the complexities of human minds. I became a confidant, a secret keeper, a silent guardian. And through it all, I discovered that the greatest challenge wasn't hearing people's thoughts—it was choosing which ones to act upon, and which ones to let go.

I believed in fairies as a kid. More than believed in them. I think something terrible happened to me, and I've just buried it until now.
Call me a typical emotion-bottling man, but I have never considered therapy. No matter what I went through, no matter how many times I thought to myself, verbatim, that I should talk to someone about this, I just never thought of it as an option. It simply wasn't on my roster. It was just one of those things that existed on a separate plane of existence than I was living in, never to cross paths or interact lest the universe collapse in on itself.
I have no problem with therapy, don't get me wrong. It isn't like I don't understand the overall appeal. I have plenty of friends who swear by it, swear it has helped them tremendously, including my wife. It just wasn't ever something I thought was in my cards.
"I just never really thought about it," I told Alice one evening, when she had brought the topic up once again after dinner.
There was a serene sense of peace wafting through the entire house that day, and I was feeling content. It was a Sunday, and swimming season, so we had dropped Emmie off that morning at the public pool for practice and gone straight to our favorite breakfast place. The rest of the day was filled with all the conversation that had built up over the week, all the topics we couldn't fully dig into with each other while babysitting our eight year old, and lounging, all crammed in between sporadic bursts of housework and paperwork we had to catch up on. It was the perfect day, in my humble opinion. It was a lovely moment of peace in the midst of a chaotic life, as is life with kids. And now the sounds of Mario Kart drifted in from the living room, Emmie's squeals cutting through the cheery music every now and then, causing Alice and I to share small smiles of acknowledgement.
Oh, to be a child again. Still a little drenched from a post-swimming shower, full of chili, eyes glowing with the reflection of a television screen.
"Well, maybe you should." My wife was scooping leftover chili into a Tupperware with a ladle. Her hair had been tied up like it was every day after dinner, as if she planned to run a marathon rather than do the cleaning up. She wasn't looking at me, dialed into the task at hand.
It's crazy how some parts of my memory could be so good, and others nonexistent.
I reached over from where I stood before the dishwasher, sliding my arm around her waist. She gave me a look, like, what?
"I just don't think it's for me, babe," I muttered, resting my mouth on her shoulder as if I was trying to skip her ears and speak right through her skin. "You know those things make me uncomfortable sometimes."
She let out a half groan, half sigh, setting down the container and the ladle and turning to face me, draping her arms over my shoulders.
"Everything makes you uncomfortable, John."
I smiled, letting my hands fall to her hips. I knew her frustrated act was just that, an act, at least for the most part.
"It's good for you," she continued pointedly, reaching up to tap her pointer finger against my forehead as I swayed her back and forth to a nonexistent tune. "Like medicine. And I know for a fact there are some things you need to work through."
I feigned offense. "You think I'm some kind of nut job?"
"Everyone needs therapy," she snarled, pulling out of my arms, but she didn't resist when I reached out and drew her back in. "Not just nut jobs."
And that was how most of those conversations went. Some got a little more heated, ending with a lightly slammed door (so as not to wake our daughter) and a whisper-shout of "this is why you need therapy!"
I feel I'm making it sound bad, but it wasn't. Even our more serious fights never quite felt like fights. They felt like playing. We were like two cats, biting and tackling and swishing our tails, but never baring our teeth to hiss. I never felt genuine, full-bodied anger towards her, and I knew she felt the same. It sounds sappy, but we were just very in love. I sometimes felt that we had never actually left the honeymoon phase.
I'm also making it sound like that conversation was incredibly common, and it wasn't. It came up maybe once every few months. I knew she was just looking out for me. She knew me better than anyone.
We had met through mutual friends, and we had initially bonded over our terrible childhoods. We both had moms who were out of the picture, and over emotional, over compensating dads, although this manifested in vastly different ways. Alice's mother left her father for a D-list rockstar type, following him on his state wide tour. She would sometimes send Alice letters or postcards from the road, although her dad wouldn't always let her keep them if they seemed to be stained with blood or seemed to have made contact with any strange white powders.
Her dad coped with anger. He never laid a hand on her, but his shouting and the sounds of glass bottles smashing against the walls kept her up almost every night. During the days he'd take her out, buy her things, go mini golfing and bowling and to the movies. Anything to seem more fun than her mother.
My mother passed away on my seventh birthday. She was driving home from work, which was at a law firm half an hour away from our house, when it began to rain. She was texting my dad her ETA when she ran a red light and a semi truck T-boned her, completely obliterating her car.
After that, everything changed. My seventh birthday could've been my twenty-first. At night it was the worst. I remember sitting with my dad as he cried, curled up in a sobbing ball on the filthy living room carpet, whimpering like a kicked puppy. He would scream and wail so loud the walls shook. He would say, over and over as if I wasn't hearing him, sometimes mumbling and sometimes shrieking, "She was cut in half. I'm sorry sir, she's gone. No, there's no chance she survived, she was completely cut in half."
The days were almost worse. During the day, when he could decrease the helpless wails into weeping at the very least, his attention turned to me. He tried to get something out of me, almost silently begging me to break down with him. Every other second it was, "How are you feeling, son? Do you understand what's happening? You poor thing, you must be devastated, your mommy is gone... Don't you want to cry?"
But I couldn't indulge, and I didn't want to. I had to wash the sheets, because he'd pissed them again, and I didn't want him to sleep in it and smell like pee when he took me to school the next day. I had to vacuum the carpet, so the next time he curled up on it and begged God to take him too, when he finally stood up, his cheek wouldn't be caked in crumbs and dust.
I don't know if I ever truly mourned. My mother's death was more like an absence, as if someone had taken a pair of scissors and carved a chunk out of my side, or snipped off a limb. I could still feel her, I could still talk to her, but all I got back was a deep ache and a crushing silence.
I hated how people reacted when I told them my mom was dead, and had been since I was a little boy. I hated the looks on their faces when they asked how she died, and when I told them. How their mouths fell open dumbly and their eyebrows twisted and contorted in sympathetic horror. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know," they said, as if there was vomit rising in their throats, and I wanted to say, "Well, you fucking asked, didn't you?"
Alice never reacted like that. In fact, she never really even asked me what happened. We were on our second date, nursing beers while leaning against the pool table a a dingy speakeasy, when she told me about her own mom. It was the first time in a long time I actually felt like the conversation was open, like I could respond and she would listen and care, but not too much. Not an uncomfortable amount. When I told her about my parents she didn't say anything, and her pretty face didn't contort. She leaned over the corner of the pool table and kissed me on the cheek, took my hand.
The day she found out she was pregnant, we promised each other to be better, to not let our child ever have to grieve alone or feel the very specific hopeless terror that only a parent can cause.
So maybe I should have listened to her. Maybe I should have gone to therapy the first time she brought it up, the first time she told me how it had helped her get through her own terrible memories. But if I'm being honest, I didn't think I had anything to get through. I had left it in the past, I had coped so far in my own somewhat crooked way, I didn't want to dig any of that back up. I didn't want to be put back in that place where I was expected to talk, to cry, to open up. It made my skin crawl just thinking about it.
"I was always the therapist," I would say to her with a crooked grin. "And I like it that way."
Then, the dreams started.
I could tell you I don't know what triggered them, I don't know why it was now. But that wouldn't be the truth. I know exactly why I started to remember.
At first, they were brief. Nightmares that I couldn't quite recall or explain, waking up disoriented and a little sick. The rest of my day would feel strange, like I was surrounded by a thick fog. Eventually, they started to wake me up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and screaming, scaring the shit out of my wife. Once I ran to the bathroom and threw up, barely making it to the toilet. That was when the word "therapy" came up again.
It feels like I've been in a coma for twenty years, and I'm just waking up now.
It's so strange how different the world looks to a child.
I believed in fairies as a kid. Laugh it up if you want. When I turned four, my aunt brought me this book - we've all had one, I think. It was one of those huge hardcover books filled with information about something mythical, with little patches of fabric to simulate a mermaid's scales or a dragon's claw.
Mine was about fairies, and it was so real to me. My mom would sit up with me later than she probably should have, reading to me, placing my hand on the textures to feel. I wanted to know everything about them, I became obsessed, and naturally, my parents played along. They bought me toys, books... every year I had a fae themed birthday cake, and any kid who dared to giggle behind their hands weren't invited to next year's celebration.
When I was old enough to use the internet, supervised of course, I began further research. My mom helped me navigate Wikipedia first, and they had plenty of information to sustain me for a while. My interest turned from wings and magical powers to different types of fae from every corner of the earth, mushroom rings and their alleged distaste for iron. While I still wasn't very good at reading, I would just look at the pictures until she got home from work.
When my mom died, the fairy memorabilia began to amp up. My aunt bought me new books, gave them to me wrapped and tied with ribbons with tear filled eyes, and my dad brought them up whenever he thought I needed comforting and felt strong enough to leave the house. "Wanna go look in the forest for fairies, son?"
I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I began to worship the fairies. I was convinced they lived in the forest behind my house, just behind each tree I looked at, hiding from me. I would spend my weekends escaping into the woods with a bucket and a cheap pair of binoculars, positive that this time, this day, I would see one.
At night, when my dad finally passed out in his own puddle of tears and other bodily fluids, I would pray to them. I never believed in God, we weren't a particularly religious family, and besides, I had seen what good He had done for my dad thus far. But I believed in the fairies.
I asked them for help with my father. I asked them for peace. I asked them to bring her back to me.
They never answered.
Until they did.
It was a Friday. I remember now, I'm not sure how I could have forgotten. After school I had sprinted into the shade of the trees before my dad could stop me, gripping the hem of my shirt in my fist, the thin fabric bearing the weight of two handfuls of the shiniest silverware and most colorful buttons I could find in our dusty cabinets.
I had a plan that day. I was going to lure them to me.
My path began in a clearing where I thought a ring of mushrooms may have begun to grow... but even without that, it was just the perfect spot for fairies. I could picture them flitting between the trees, chirping to each other happily, picking wildflowers to weave into flower crowns.
I walked backwards all the way back to my bedroom window, dropping another item every few steps. When I got inside and looked out my window, I could see my trail of shiny things curve through the overgrown grass in our backyard and disappear into the trees.
I was so excited, I could hardly contain myself. Tonight, surely, they would come to me. They would show themselves, and they would help me. But after another few late hours of coddling my father, finally convincing him to drink some water and get in bed, I was exhausted. I completely forgot about my plan. When I got to my room I collapsed on my mattress, not even bothering to undress before I closed my eyes.
Then I heard it. The scratching.
I opened my eyes. The moonlight shining through my bedroom window casted strange shadows across my ceiling, shadows of the swaying grass and the creaking trees.
It was strangely silent, other than the sound. Usually there was lots of noise, or at the very least a few crickets, but not tonight. Tonight, I realized, I couldn't even hear the wind.
I sat up slowly, as if in a dream, and looked toward my window. I couldn't see anything out there, nothing glaringly obvious at least, that could be making that noise.
The scratching turned to a tap. Tap tap tap, like a fingernail against a glass. It had a playful air to it, like someone was saying, look over here!
I stood, rubbing my eyes, and stumbled over. The tapping stopped abruptly when I got to the window and peered outside, out to the dark yard, pitch black if not for the moon's glow. The grass didn't sway, the trees didn't creak. I frowned and unlatched the window, sliding it up above my head.
I was right, there was no wind. Not even a gust. Everything was still outside, like it was frozen. I actually started to believe it was frozen, that time had stopped completely somehow, before I saw it.
My trail of silverware and buttons. Sparkling softly in the moonlight.
Disappearing.
It began where the path met the trees, curving off where I couldn't follow it anymore. A fork disappeared right before my eyes, right on the edge. Just vanished, as if someone who was invisible had picked it up and stuffed it in a pocket very quickly.
Then another went, a spoon. Then a particularly large gold button. Whatever was taking them was doing what I had wanted, it was taking my bait, it was coming to me. And it was as if whatever had tapped at my window had wanted me to see this, wanted to show me.
But something felt very, very wrong.
This wasn't how I had pictured it. There was no twinkling, tiny winged thing at my window, winking at me before dashing back into the safety of the trees. There were no secrets being whispered in my ear, no fairy dust or promises of better things.
Something about this wasn't right. It felt like a mimicry, almost a mockery, of what I had imagined. Like something was trying to give me what I wanted, but was rusty at it.
I didn't want this anymore.
My stomach twisted and my hands shook as I pulled the window back down slowly, watching more glittery things disappear from the grass, growing closer and closer. As soon as it was closed I quickly locked it and pulled the blinds shut, turning my back to the window as if something would happen that I didn't want to see.
Nothing happened. The deafening silence continued for a few seconds as my ears strained to hear anything else happening outside. Then the wind picked up, and the sounds of crickets, muffled by my closed window, filled the night air.
I don't remember when I fell asleep that night, I just know I felt unnerved and jumpy for a while. I woke up the next morning feeling guilty. Had the fairies really come last night? Maybe they had come to talk to me, to bring me gifts, favors, and what had I done? I had closed my window on them. I felt ungrateful. Why had I even been scared? Because it was dark outside? What was I, a baby?
When I opened my window and peered outside, I gasped. The trail of silverware and buttons was completely gone, all the way up to the last one, which I had placed on my windowsill. In its place was a shoe. I didn't know what kind of shoe it was, but it looked sort of nice, fancy. I remember smiling out the window as I opened it, as if they were looking, and taking my gift.
How could I forget that night? How could I have forgotten what happened after? I feel crazy, either like I made it all up or like I've made up everything since then, like my life isn't truly my own.
I remember telling my dad. I remember saying, "Dad, the fairies came last night!" and the absent smile he gave me.
Until I showed him their gift. The shoe. Instantly his face went pale and he snatched it from my hands, staring at me as if I was something unholy.
"Where did you get this, Johnny?"
"The fairies, dad, I told you!"
He didn't respond. Just gave me another long, solemn look, before turning away from me, still holding the present I received close to his chest. I was upset, but I knew better than throwing a tantrum. That would be too much emotion anyways, too uncomfortable. Even back then, I didn't know how to handle those things.
I didn't show him their gifts after that. I didn't want to risk having them taken away. I tried not to be scared of the fairies, even though they always came at night, but I didn't go to my window when they came anymore. I read everywhere that fairies didn't particularly like to be seen, even though this one seemed to want to be. It always began with tapping, but otherwise complete silence that almost felt like it was swallowing me... and eventually the tapping would stop, the silence would pass, and I would fall asleep. In the morning there was always another gift for me, sitting on my window sill. A sparkly gold ring, the other matching shoe, a hat... I smiled when I took every one, wanting them to know I was grateful. And I would leave things for them too, little sweets or shiny things like coins or paperclips that I found on the ground at school.
Things seemed to get better with my dad for a while. He kept to himself more, he was quieter. At night he would cry softly in his room, rather than his uproarious wails that I used to have to quell so the neighbors wouldn't come knocking. During the day, he would talk to me, but more casually. He didn't ask me how I was feeling anymore, or tell me to let it out.
I hoped this was the fairies. I felt invincible, like I had a secret superpower that no one knew about. I was friends with fairies.
Then one night, everything changed.
It started with the tapping, as always. That night I was fast asleep, catching up on well earned rest since the nightly therapy sessions had ceased.
The tapping woke me. It was that loud. It was louder than usual... but it seemed like it stopped abruptly as soon as I raised my head to look.
That was different...
That night, I had left my blinds up and my window open by accident. Since that first night, even though I wasn't scared anymore, I had always closed them... but this time, I must have forgotten.
It was silent outside. It seemed darker than usual. I could almost make out something, a shape, way on the other side of the yard, but it was too dark and I was too far away to tell.
That feeling from that first night retuned. A twisting like a hand reaching into my stomach and mixing things around, a heavy feeling in my chest like someone had stolen all of the air from my room, even though the window was open. The silence seemed to crush me, bearing down on me from every angle, making my ribs hurt.
The feeling that something was very wrong.
I don't remember deciding to stand: looking back, I have no idea why I would do that in my state of fight or flight. I don't know if I consciously chose to. I don't remember walking over, but I remember getting there, my hands on the windowsill and my head poking out into the completely still night air.
There was something there. On the edge of the trees. Right where I had seen that first fork disappear into thin air. I squinted, leaning further into the darkness to try and make out what it was.
When I finally did, the outline taking shape as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I began to shake uncontrollably. I remember that I tried to scream, but no sound would come. I couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare.
Two legs stood in front of the trees, facing me. Two legs, a blood-soaked pair of slacks, no shoes on the purple, swollen feet. And a jagged, violent rip in the torso where the rest of my mother's body had been severed from its lower half.
It took me a while to realize that the legs weren't standing on their own. They began to move, jerking clumsily toward the window, like something I couldn't see was struggling to hold them up. I finally forced myself out of my trance and fell to my carpet, vomiting.
I don't remember much else about that night yet. My dad came running when I started crying, I'm sure, but he didn't see what I saw. My mom's legs were gone, or hidden. Because they weren't for him.
They were for me.
We moved after that. Before now if you had asked me why we moved so far away so suddenly, I probably would have mumbled something about the grief, and it being too hard to stay where my mother had died. But I remember why now.
It was because the next morning, when I checked my windowsill, there was a hand. My mother's hand. Purple and stiff, and missing her gold wedding ring. Reaching, fingers rested against the glass, like it was trying to get in.
Like it had been tapping.
I don't want to think about what else it might have brought, had we stayed.
That thing, whatever it was, wasn't my mother, and it wasn't a fairy. I had invited something else with all my praying, with all my naive and innocent beliefs, and with all my bottled up emotions. I had invited it, and I had let it in.
And then I had forgotten everything. Maybe I bottled that up, too.
Now I remember. Now I'm having nightmares, and waking up with that sick feeling in my gut, my eyes jumping to our closed bedroom window.
Because a week ago, my daughter woke me up very early in the morning my jumping on our bed. A week ago, she shook me awake, her eager smile stretching all the way across her face. A week ago, she told me, "Dad, the fairies came last night!"
She showed me a doll, a ballerina, with a pink tutu and beautiful long blonde hair.
And now, with all these terrible memories hitting me like cold water to the face, only one keeps me awake at night.
I asked them for help with my father. I asked them for peace. I asked them to bring her back to me.
It has granted two of my wishes, in its own twisted way. My father grew distant from me and my mother was brought back in pieces.
I'm happy now. But I don't have peace. I don't think I'll ever fully have peace, at least not with a child and a wife to try and provide for, and not with all of these memories.
So what has it come back for?

You never know the pull of a small town until you trade your entire life to live in one.
Dazzling city lights made way for grassy fields blanketed in soft sunsets, local papers filled with names I knew by heart. When the honeyed hair of the local florist came out in patches due to the stresses of life, sixty people brought steaming bowls of food to ease the ache. A singular church brought the townsfolk together, and perhaps that was the most foreign part of it all to me.
I was a kid, so I watched the entire thing unfold through the innocent lens of child, keenly watching the camaraderie of this town really peak outside the doors of that church. It didn’t look like much, a steepled dream imagined by the townsfolk of before, but it meant everything to the people. I even understood that back then, even though I didn’t quite buy the concept of a god yet.
The Sundays were a monotonous part of our week, only pedalled by my parents who desperately wanted to fit in with the town’s culture. They wore their masks well, nodding in the right places as we sat in the same pew every time, my father often discreetly checking the football scores in the sleeve of his jumper. Nothing ever happened in that tiny town, and then everything happened all at once.
It started with the miracles. Our pastor, Pastor Jon, liked to have the troubled souls of that week sitting in the front row so he could clutch their shaking hands one by one, channelling the energy of God through him in the hope that someday, hope could be brought to those lacking in it. It was a brief affair, usually just the joining of skin and a short prayer, but that Sunday was different. Rain hammered against the roof, leaving Pastor Jon’s prayers lost in the low, threatening rumble of thunder.
It meant when the sun shone through the clouds and caressed the face of a pained Wilson Brewster, it already felt a welcome intrusion.
“May your broken leg heal quickly,” Pastor Jon smiled warmly, steeling a hand on the calf of the waiting boy.
He, like me, was just a child. He didn’t feel the urgency of the situation, he was probably only grateful his throbbing leg wasn’t pulsating with pain anymore. He breathed a quiet ‘cool’ and that would have been that, had his parents not asked exactly what was cool about his leg being touched later that night. The news spread like wildfire - as per the medical centre, his parents said, Wilson Brewster no longer had a broken fibula.
There was some debate, of course. My parents mumbled in the kitchen about how clearly he’d never had a broken leg, and how odd to make him hobble around in a cast if that was the case. The sentiment was echoed tenfold, until something a little more tangible happened that changed the course of that town, and our lives, forever.
Pastor Jon didn’t mean for the glass to shatter in his hand during service, nor did he mean for a chunk of it to embed itself in his palm, gushing reams of blood racing down his arm in a bid for the floor.
“Gross!” one of the kids shouted with glee, the rest of us paling as crimson spilled from his wound. He was a deer in the headlights, utterly unprepared as we all looked on in awe. This was not how church usually went - this was quite the deviation. Several people stood to help, but they needn’t have bothered, because the divine was ready to intervene.
“Oh dear,” Pastor Jon muttered in a panic, using his bloodied hand to block the intense ray of sunlight threatening to stream through the glass into his eyes. It bathed the blood in a golden glow, and quicker than it had gone in, the chunk of glass began to slide from the wound till it smashed to the floor, exploding into a million pieces. That was not the crescendo, though, rather it was the sight of his skin tightening and knitting together - months of work in a moment - blood congealing and leaving behind nothing but memories of a wound.
“Pastor?” Mary-who-makes-the-blueberry-pies breathed, reaching out to touch him with bulging eyes. Pastor Jon could only open and close his mouth uselessly, his voice barely coming out in a whisper when he did finally speak.
“It’s a miracle,” he wheezed, and by all accounts, I suppose it seemed it was.
I was young, but I remember the bustle - the town was as I’d never seen it. The people of the church had vowed to keep it our little secret because, as Pastor Jon said, we had been given a gift and it was not appropriate to turn it into a spectacle. This gift was sporadic, though. People queued through the double doors of that church, sobbing and praying for their own slice of God, but few were to be given it. Little Laurie Lee and her dislocated jaw cleared up within the hour. Farmer Noel had a sudden epiphany about what the lottery numbers were to be.
Our town was blessed.
For two days, we marvelled. The rest of the world can have a piece later, we reasoned, but this was for us, just for now.
The church was fuller than it had ever been, people spilling out into the back and waiting with baited breath, snippets of conversations could be heard, and as they had been for the last two days, they all echoed one another.
“-a believer. I mean, Aunt Lillian said it was the light. The light closed up his wound, there and then!”
“-jaw. I saw her get hit with the cricket bat! Terrible thing, little lamb was inconsolable. And then next thing I know, she comes here and those shards are just welded back together again! Well, I told Janie-”
“-need to make the church bigger. Look at everyone! If only-”
So when Pastor Jon stood before us practically trembling with glee, it was hardly the weirdest thing that had happened all week. His voice was thick with emotion, eyes darting manically around our congregation.
“I have a message,” he breathed, and the crowd gasped at the connotation of it. I remember my father swearing, a low rumble of expletives I didn’t usually hear falling from his lips. I didn’t fully understand what this meant, but the atmosphere in that room morphed in a heartbeat.
“Tell us,” Christie Baker cried, hands clasped as tears welled in her eyes, “Oh, please tell us!”
Pastor Jon visibly shook, holding a trembling hand outstretched as if to reach us all. “He came to me last night,” a single tear raced past his cheek and made a home on his lip, “He spoke to me.”
“Praise God!” a man cried from next to me, and I shuffled closer to my father at the sudden burst of noise.
“It is… Him,” Pastor Jon uttered in a blissful exhale, sending the room bursting into chaos. Tears, cheers and prayers filled the space, but my father just clutched me tighter and my stomach churned uncomfortably. It took at least ten minutes for the room to quieten, but when it did, he had their rapt attention. “I am told that I will be His vessel. I will pass on what must be passed. We are not to spread the word, yet - only our pocket of civilization is ready. Only ours.”
You could replicate what happened a thousand times, and somebody would mess it up, sending a message of the divine to their great aunt in Auckland. But not us. That secret stayed within the confines of our town for the sixteen days hell shined upwards at us. Everybody had a thousand questions, but Pastor Jon only hushed us. “You must trust me,” he said, tone more regal than I’d ever heard it. And trust him the people did.
So on the second day when he returned to church and his eyes were dark-rimmed, nobody questioned it. He was chosen. Who knows what that does to a person’s sleep cycle? The following day when he went for his morning walk and the smile didn’t quite reach his hollow eyes, that was fine. He was a vessel, not a performer. And then that morning at church when he addressed us and kept rubbing the angry red welts on his wrists, who were we to ask questions of God’s messenger?
Nothing went terribly wrong until the baptisms. We all wanted to be part of this - even my anxious parents who signed me up to be bathed in holy water - and so we queued towards the front of the church, eager to hand ourselves over. I was second in line, right behind Mrs Awkins who had been the school nurse for the last 26 years, apparently. She was gleeful as Pastor Jon set up, speaking rhymes I barely listened to as I bounced on the balls of my feet, eager to go next. My stomach flipped at the words, knowing that my turn was only seconds away. People wouldn’t usually queue, but this was different. It was all different, now.
“I baptize you in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
I didn’t expect the awful fizzing noise the liquid made as it hit Nurse Awkins’ head, nor did I expect the guttural wail that fell from her lips as she clawed at her own scalp. Smoke billowed up from her disappearing tresses and as I was yanked backwards, I caught a glimpse of her exposed skull. Most people will go their entire lives without the smell of burning flesh lingering in their nostrils, but not me.
“I- No! That wasn’t- oh!” Pastor Jon had cried, tired eyes bulging out of his head as people leapt to their feet to assist.
It was carnage, but not carnage I witnessed for long. My mother’s grip on my arm was vice-like, her eyes swimming with terror I know still plagues her to this day. I recall my father on the walk home, murmuring to my mother in low tones I wasn’t meant to hear.
“This isn’t right, Rach’. Jesus, did you see her? That was almost our son!”
My mum’s voice was shrill, the sound of her heels clacking against the pavement not quite masking her voice. “The police will be called - we don’t even know if she’ll survive! I think I’m going to throw up.”
But she was wrong on both counts. She didn’t throw up and the police weren’t called, because we rallied together. This was bigger than us and bigger than Mrs Awkins. Sure, nobody else tried to get baptised, but this was a blip. People surmised that the almighty didn’t want her as part of his flock, that she hadn’t been a believer when it mattered. Nobody was to utter a word about it, and because church was every morning now, my parents were almost too scared not to go. As a child, I didn’t understand it, but all these years later, I think I’d have bent to the fear of the almighty as well.
But it wasn’t the almighty who knocked on the door.
It became all the clearer that morning when Pastor Jon turned up with eyes so sunken and empty that we startled at his presence.
“Pastor.. Pastor, are you feeling alright?” one of our neighbours fussed, “Will you be okay for service?”
Pastor Jon didn’t answer. It was almost as though he didn’t hear her as he dragged his feet up to the front, turning so slowly towards us that it almost felt eerie. A large, jagged and bloodied cut spanned the entire back of his neck, disappearing behind him as he eyed us all, one by one.
“He’s here,” he murmured, words that on paper, should have sent the entire church reeling with joy. But you could hear a pin drop. You could hear any soul whisper in the large room, and yet his utterance only caused goosebumps to spread across my skin as a sort of icy stillness washed over me.
“He’s… here?” a woman in the front row asked, and Pastor Jon took too long to answer. An unnatural, slow smile spread across his face as he tilted his head towards the source of the noise. He didn’t respond, instead slowly lifting his hand to his lips, letting his finger linger there for a moment. When nobody spoke, he let his mouth fall open and began to chew loudly on the finger, drawing gasps from the crowd.
“Don’t look,” my mother shimmied closer to me and lifted a trembling hand to my eyes, but I could see through the cracks in her fingers. Pastor Jon continued to sloppily chew his finger, eventually snapping his head up and inhaling sharply as he spat blood out of his mouth.
“Your bodies are so fragile,” he sneered, lifting his dripping finger to the skies, causing several people to leap from their seats and make a bolt for it. My mother was one of them, and with horror, I watched as the Pastor’s eyes scanned the room and locked onto mine, tilting his head. “Stay,” he hissed with bared, bloody teeth, and we did. Not through choice, but rather, a sickening whoosh of air that skimmed past our faces and forced us all back down.
“What’s going on?” someone shrieked, but we weren’t to know, not really.
Pastor Jon only smiled blissfully, reaching his arms outwards as if to accept us. “I’ve come to bless you all,” he whispered mockingly, fingers outstretched as the sun hit the stained glass to the left of him. But it was all wrong. Sunshine streamed in and as it hit the red of a decorated sunrise, an image which had been there years before us, the colour changed. It was only moments until the church had the appearance of being bathed in blood, shimmering red bouncing off every surface to create the illusion we were all swimming in hell.
Nobody spoke.
Those who didn’t quite make it to the doors stood frozen; we who remained in our seats cowered in the heaviest kind of fear. Red drowned us and we clutched one another, eyeing Pastor Jon as though he were a wild animal. Finally, someone dared speak.
“Where is God?” he murmured, eyes swimming. Pastor Jon’s neck snapped towards him as he licked the blood from his finger, shuddering. When he spoke, his words were cold, distant. As though they were from somewhere else entirely.
“He hasn’t been around for a while.”
There was no time for his words to punch at my stomach, because in no time at all Pastor Jon was crumpled on the floor, wailing as he regarded his chewed, bloody finger. The bone was exposed and yet nobody helped him as he looked at us pleadingly, too many eyes on him as his whimpers turned to whispers. When he spoke, we listened.
“You need to keep coming to church,” he breathed, a single, bloody tear trickling down his cheek, “It will be worse if we don’t.”
So we did.
The Sunday Fair was cancelled, and pies that had been baked to share in sunny gardens went stale and grew mould. People packed duffel bags and made for their cars, arguing fiercely with those who decided to stay. My mother and father disagreed, but their argument was far more muted.
“Please, we have to go,” my father pleaded, shaking his head as I watched from the shadows, “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck that was-”
“I can’t explain it,” her voice was shaken, quiet, “But I know it will be worse if we go. I know it. Please just trust me. Trust Jon.”
So as my father always did, he believed in my mother. Each day in church was torturous, everyone sitting rigid with fear as Pastor Jon read slowly and shakily from the bible, bruises littering his gaunt body. When the holy book in his hands would launch into flames, he’d calmly drop it into the bucket of water he’d prepared and retrieve a new one. One time, every window in the church smashed and we all winced, ducking to avoid the onslaught of glass.
Darkness watched us.
We all felt it, and I know it visited members of the flock in the shadows. I was plagued by it one particularly torturous night as I lay in bed, blanketed in darkness with the covers pulled up to my chin. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling I was being stared upon, squeezing my eyes shut as laboured, wet breaths left my body. But they weren’t my breaths.
I’d realised it straight away, that my hurried gasps for air didn’t match the gargling, strangled heaving that echoed around my head. From under the covers, I didn’t know much, but I knew one thing - the uncomfortable, heavy presence laying on my legs was my only source of comfort. Through all this, I reasoned, that if my beloved dog was with me, hell itself couldn’t come and claim me.
But I was wrong, because outside, my dog howled into the night.
Terror like that wasn’t something I’d felt before, and as my stomach bottomed out, I stopped breathing altogether. It must have sensed my fear, because those gargling breaths heaved closer and closer to my face as it dragged itself up my body, inch by inch. The smell of rot and ash burned into my nostrils, a horrific weight settling above my nose as my lungs started working again, so quickly that I would surely die then and there. If it had a face, it was twisted and pressed into mine, the thin bedcover my only source of protection.
But I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t move, so I let it pant gravelly air into my face, let it lay on top of me for hour after hour, till the birdsong indicated morning had come. All night I sobbed stifled cries, chest shaking as I squeezed my eyes shut and felt it pressing into me. Felt it hating me, felt it wanting to rip its claws into my stomach and pull out my intestines. But it didn’t. And when I awoke late the next morning - I must have passed out through fear alone - it was gone.
The rest is all a bit of a trauma-soaked blur, to be honest. I know my parents couldn’t understand why I wasn’t speaking the next day, why I barely reacted when evil finally descended that morning at church. The rest of the townsfolk screamed for their lives, ran as fast as they could, but I just stared with a hollow, broken gaze. As the rivers of blood waterfalled down between the pews, I watched Pastor Jon’s eyes grow dark as midnight, empty and soulless as he bellowed inside those four walls and called upon something worse than any of us could likely ever imagine.
I recall the fire starting, remember Pastor Jon’s slack jaw as he regarded us all so horribly, moving jaggedly towards my family with a growing demonic, gleeful grin.
“I remember you from last night,” he’d uttered darkly, but his voice came out in a thousand jarring layers and I could see hell in his eyes.
“Leave us alone!” my father tried to shield us, lifting a crucifix and wielding it towards Pastor Jon as though it would protect us. He simply laughed, an awful noise of horrific dissonance that I still sometimes hear alone in my bed at night. In complete horror, my parents could only watch as this thing wrenched the crucifix from my father’s hand, grinning as his jaw split and shattered each second he opened it impossibly wider. The sound of his bones cracking reverberated as his skin split and his mouth gaped, wide enough to drop the crucifix right into his waiting, blood-soaked mouth and swallow it, right in front of us.
When he met our gaze, his broken jaw hung limply from his face, sad morsels of skin stitching a once-good man together. Whatever blur those hours were, that, I remember.
It was an anti-climax, really, because while I expected him to descend upon us all and rip us into thousands of pieces, he simply boomed his words, jaw still hanging as his evil spoke directly into our souls.
“When I return in 20 years, it is not just your small town that will bleed.”
Pastor Jon has been missing for 20 years. I’m not sure when he started his countdown, but I awoke this morning with a dread so sickening that I’ve barely stopped emptying my stomach. If it’s over and the earth turns to rubble, I hope somebody finds this and can at least piece together why it all came to a sad, premature end. We townsfolk kept our vow of quiet for this long, but there comes a point when silence is deadly.
I think today, Pastor Jon will be found.

So, I've watched the AITA videos on YouTube all the time, so I thought I would bring a couple of my stories here. (This is a long one, so bear with me.) I tried to post this on another aita page but there were too many rules. I'm sure everyone else has a more interesting story than me. also new here don't know how the app works. so chill on me.
I (19, female) recently moved out of my apartment so I could save for a better one. So, I recently went back to my moms for a bit (40, female) with her husband (35, male). Before I even thought about coming back home, my mom always told me, "Come back home. You can have the room back. Nobody helps me with the dog or clean. We missed you so much; I've been depressed since you've been gone."
Now, before I get to the story, let me give you some background on my (16, female) sister. I'll give her a fake name. Let's call her Nya. My mom would complain about how my sister (27 female), who has custody of my sister, uses my sister's taxes for herself and my niece, and Nya never gets anything. Now, I understand her frustration, but she's a hypocrite. She asked my dad's wife if she could claim me last year. Mind you, I was 18, and if Shes complaining that my sister should've gotten her taxes, then mine should've gone to me, all $5,000 of it, but I didn't trip about it at first. Well, she got me furniture with the taxes after I told her I did not want or need any furniture in my room, so I had stuff I didn't even want when I already had stuff. She told me, "When you move, you can take it." Well, I moved to my boyfriend's mom's house for a couple of months and then got my own apartment. I went to ask if I could get my furniture, and she's going to say, "Oh. Nya sleeps in here when she visits on weekends, and it's set up to be her room." she could've kept my old furniture in storage if she was going to play in my face like that. Nya only visits 8 times out of the whole month unless it's a holiday, no school, or half a day. She could've given me my furniture. I was laying on an old mattress that came from my boyfriend's moms place and it hurt our backs. I was paying so much for rent and just to live that I couldn't afford to get a new one. I really hated Nya because she knew what she was doing. On my birthday, she got gifted more things than I did because she had an attitude. But when it was hers, I didn't get NOTHING. Imagine someone else getting more gifts than you on your own birthday. They had me pierce my own nose at 15, but Nya professionally got hers done. My nose closed up, and we've done this about 6 times, but they got her pierced twice on both sides her nose. When she'd come over, if they'd go out, she'd always ask for something, and if she didn't get her way, she wouldn't speak with my mother or her husband. Almost every time I see her, she has something new that my mom got her. She comes over and uses my mom; she doesn't even hang out with my mom when she's here unless they go out. She hides in the room. And ironically, every time I leave stuff around her, it goes missing. She would steal stuff from my mom too, and the whole time, it would be something of mine that my mom was holding onto for me. Over $300 worth of stuff she's stolen or got CAUGHT stealing. She's able to call my mom a (b word), but I was told, "You can cuss; just don't ever call me a (b word)." Like my sister basically owns her at this point. You might've already seen where this was going.
My mom called me the day I was packing, which was literally Tuesday. It's been no more than 4-5 days, and it's already been so much drama. She had an attitude like she was surprised I was coming back, but me and her spoke several times the month before about it. She swore up, down, left, and right that it was okay. Silly me for thinking my mother, of all people, could be relied on. Well, she picks me up and complains how I had too many bags (it was 5 black bags and like 5 tiny grocery bags. My boyfriend had most of the other stuff, including big furniture that he was taking with his mom because she has a house. my mom has an apartment). I'm not surprised she was complaining; it's all she does. She said she didn't know what to do with the room yet because she "didn't want to pick favorites." The craziest part was Nya herself said I can stay in here and remember that its important.
She waited till about 9 o'clock PM to tell me that I could sleep in there. Now I had several bags, and they would've cried if they were all in the living room, so I took them in the room, but by now, you can probably tell nothing pleases them. A1 complainers. Well, everything was fine at first until my older sister texted me Friday night and said, 'Mom and Nya don't know how to tell you ONCE AGAIN that they don't want you in that room. I'm not trying to start drama; I just want you to know they said you moved Nya's stuff and threw it on the floor.' This did, however, create drama. Also, what does she mean by 'AGAIN'? And I didn't throw a THING on that floor. My sister literally didn't sleep the whole time because she was so ever so sick that I was in here relaxing with my man who came to visit. So, I did text my mom how I felt, and I told her about how she gets everything, but she wants to say 'bull they say you were the princess' when I was like freaking 5, yeah. What have you really done but make me feel less than the other? So comes morning, and her husband came banging on the door telling me to unlock it (the door was already unlocked. Get a load of this guy.), and I'm GROWN; this man really came at me sideways talking about 'get the f in the living room.' Mind you, I have a past with anxiety; I will faint, and they know this. I don't like arguing. I said, 'No, I'm leaving.' Now I didn't know where I was going to go yet because my boyfriend's mom has all 6 of her kids in the house right now with no space. So I had to call my Poppop the WHOLE time my stepfather would not shut up. (Ohh, brother, this guy stinks.) My mom wouldn't stop screaming, and I got stressed and screamed to just stop, and I started crying because of course, I have anxiety and I'm overwhelmed because its 3 people yelling over something they said i could do. My chest was tight, and I was shaking. Then my mom really had the audacity to tell Nya, 'She don't want u in here because she said u stole.' I told my mom to keep that private. My sister was stealing my underwear, and I told her (funny because I literally JUST bought her some clothes and underwear). I asked her to keep it between us. Oh boy, I won't tell her NOTHING again. I forgot she got a fat mouth. Anyways, I called my grandpa, and I'm his baby, so how could he ever say no? He's the only one that ever cares for me anymore. I felt bad because my mom started crying, so I said, 'I'll be back tomorrow it's ok.' Stupid, I know. Because she didn't care when I was crying and using the inhaler trying to get air.
And might I add, my sister said 'no what did I steal. She can come say it to my face.' I wanted to knock her socks off. She literally left to go to a friend's because I was in the room after she said I could be in there. That should tell you she didn't come to hang out with mom. Everything about her makes me mad. She does stuff that I do, and she thinks I don't notice. She took my style, even my personality, and my interests. Like I'm a hello kitty girl. I wear hello kitty pants, Kuromi bookbags, and just hello kitty anything including my decor. And I paint so I have hello kitty paintings (I'm good at it too), and she happened to all of a sudden like it too. My hairstyles are unique; I do my own thing. She tries to do her hair like mine. All the TV shows and YouTubers I watch, she started all of a sudden liking. At first, it was cute; I thought she looked up to me. Until I realized she's just trying to BE ME, and she doesn't even like me. Anyways, I went to my Poppop and my Nanas, and my mom tried to guilt trip me on Facebook, and I told them everything that happened, and they agree with me that my mom is being unfair, considering I will be there for about 30 days and my sister only 8 times out of the month. I told my mother that now my sister won't be comfortable coming here because she doesn't know how to just shut up and just be a mother. My nana said it was so immature to really tell Facebook that we 'hate' her. Also, can I add that I've only been here 4 days because I went to my Poppop's last night. Then my mom had the audacity to tell me to keep the room clean when it was a mess. Then when I went to clean it, she told me to leave the stuff there. My sister didn't have it clean; it was a mess. I moved out this little fireplace and 2 blankets, and that's literally what they were mad about. Excuse me for cleaning your brown smoked out and molded walls and provided more space. Excuse me for cleaning the bedding that had cat fur all over it because I couldn't breathe. Cry a river.
so aita?

So we've got this small terraced garden, the first step of which is pretty useless. The area to the right of the stairs including a rockery is about 4m x 2m, the area to the right which is totally pointless (featuring a small decorative wall that's crumbling) is about 1.8m x 2m.
I've just been quoted £8250 to remove the entire bottom terrace to the boundary of the top lawn, with a sleeper retaining wall and steps moving to the right of the garden, then decking to cover the area and the small yard up to the level of the back kitchen door (removing the step, which would be very helpful tbh for our small dog). A large part of this is the labour because there is no way to get a digger in due to the attached garage and narrow doorway, so I guess it's wheelbarrow all the way.
It's a little more than we wanted to spend, and we were thinking to get two separate quotes, one for just removing the right hand side and just having a flat surface put down so we could add our own decking and us building a small outdoor kitchen/bbq area, and another for the whole bottom first terrace removal, and again some form of flat surface so we could choose what we wanted.
Main issue to me is any retaining walls, I've no idea how complicated it would be to dig up to these, do these typically go all the way down for example. And of course, if we dig the rockery out, how do we shore up the top lawn on that side.
Any ideas?? It does seem like we're not 100% sure what we want, and tbh that is pretty accurate!
Thanks for any advice and/or ideas!
Pics https://imgur.com/a/C1qblOw

Previous part
I stood in my doorway, frozen to the spot as Shaoni walked past me, into my house.
“Weren’t you going to invite me in?”
Shaoni cooed at me, somehow making the arbitrary question sound like a threat.
“I uh… what can I get you.”
I stammered out, automatically reverting to subservient. I know it sounds bad but when you’ve seen what I’ve seen her do you listen first, ask questions later.
“Is water alright? It’s all I’ve got since I only just moved here because… well I guess you know why already.”
I said, wanting to keep the orange juice I was currently hiding behind me in the fridge for myself.
“The visions? Yes I do know about them. It’s what drew all of you here, just like I wanted. Though you weren’t supposed to see the stage yet, none of you were.”
She said, narrowing her eyes at me, presumably because of my earlier expedition into the mine.
“Why do you keep saying “you” like there’s more than one of me?”
I asked, finally working up the confidence to question her.
“Because there is, do you really think you’re the only one I marked? Keith your a special case yes, but not that special.”
“Special case? What do you..”
“If you let me finish I’m getting to that.”
Shaoni cracked back at me, I could feel the pressure in the room rise with her temper.
“Sorry ma’am… it just slipped out.”
She seemed to find my knee-jerk formal apology amusing and the pressure in the room returned to normal.
“I offered several people the same deal I offered you, most accepted. These are the others I refer to, all of which are here or on their way here now. That’s what the dreams, visions, whatever you’d like to call them, were for.”
“So you wanted us here, all together in this one specific town, why?”
“The trials of course, if you remember you agreed to take a burden from me. I guess I would describe it more accurately as a gift but it has become a burden for me.”
“What is it?”
“Now where’s the fun in telling you now? Besides your smart enough, I’m sure you’ll figure it out on your own.”
She answered, smiling devilishly at me and sending little pin pricks of ice down my spine. I let the conversation fall silent for a bit, watching Shaoni sip absentmindedly at the glass of water I’d given her before I asked another question.
“So what exactly are these trials for?”
“I want to use them as a selection process, it separates the wheat from the chaff as the saying goes. Only one of you will take on my burden and I want to make sure its the right one.”
“Ok, that makes sense but I’ve still got one more thing. Why did you say I was special before?”
I inquired, as Shaoni got up and started to leave.
“Well, because this is all new to you, you have no idea of the forces really at play in the world, the “supernatural” is what you’d call it. You’re at a particular disadvantage because you didn’t know what you were getting into so I figured I’d help out of the kindness of my heart. In addition to that, many of those I’ve chosen came from my own followers. You are one of the few I found on my travels that accepted my deal. I believe in keeping things fair, and so I came to warn you of what’s to come.”
Shaoni told me as she walked out the door without so much as a goodbye. The storm that had been brewing outside left with her, dropping bits of cracked branches and loose leaves to the ground as she got further and further away. I finally realized I was still standing at my front door, glued in place watching her. Once I closed and locked the door I heard a shrill screech pierce the night as Shaoni shed her human appearance and took to the skies as I saw a single shiny grey feather flutter to the ground.
I didn’t get much sleep that night, I didn’t even try. After something like Shaoni waltzing into my home like she owned the place and telling me I’m about to be part of some kind of “trials”, I just gave up on sleep that night. What I was worried about more than anything was the fact that I didn’t have a choice. Sure, she had never said that out right but if she showed up to tell me the trials were starting and I said no, that wouldn’t go well. I’d probably end up like those men in Imalone, just ashes on the wind. There was something she wasn’t saying as well. Shaoni wanted to flaunt that there was some sort of reward at the end of this, that the whole process would help her select a “worthy candidate”. But the reward was also the burden I had agreed to take. If whatever it was was something she wanted to get rid of why would anyone look at it as a reward? Something just wasn’t adding up in my head so I decided not to think about it for a bit. I instead I threw on some clothes as the sun finally rose and made my way over to Bianca’s house to pick up my backpack that she still had.
“Hey there Frank. Where’s Stein I wanted to ask how that research was coming, and has anyone seen Bianca?”
I said as soon as I’d walked in the front door. Rocco was eating something out of a bowl on the counter top and shot to attention as he saw me.
“What do you just live here now?”
He remarked, whirling around to face me. Frank looked up from the paper he’d been reading at the counter and gave me a half hearted wave.
“Stein’s in the basement testing a few samples of thunderbird feathers Tuck brought in.”
“You know Tuck? The mountain that just so happens to run a bar in town, that Tuck?”
“Yes of course, he’s helped us immensely with developing a suppressant for lycanthropy.”
“I… we’ll unpack that one later I guess but I’ve got too find Bianca first, she still has something of mine. Let Stein know I’m looking for him if he comes back up.”
I told Frank as he nodded in acknowledgment and I made my way over to the stairs leading up to the second floor.
“Oh god dammit, I just got that!”
I yelled to no-one in particular as I knocked on Bianca’s bedroom door. I heard a crash behind it as Bianca came flying towards me, throwing open the door and almost smacking me in the process.
“What the hell is going on why are you here! And what did you just get?!”
She belted out at me, apparently startled by my outburst. She had a long loose t-shirt on and maybe something on underneath that, I wasn’t going to check. I must’ve turned crab red as I saw her but it didn’t stop me from telling her what I just pieced together.
“Their names, Frank and Stein, Frankenstein. They did that on purpose didn’t they? I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on that sooner!”
“What are you… oooh, OOOH! I’ve been around them how many years and I’m just picking up on that too.”
She said, sounding a little disappointed and smacking herself in the head with the palm of her hand.
“So what’re you doing here anyways Keith?”
“You still have my backpack from yesterday and I could use that back.”
“Oh sure I forgot about that, come in.”
She said holding open the door for me and causing her shirt to hike up a bit, She did not in fact have anything other than what you’d expect on under it.
“Ummm… do you maybe want to get dressed first?”
Bianca turned redder than I’d ever seen anyone get in an instant. Her eyes Immediately started glowing and she slammed the door shut, apparently just realizing she had answered the door in nothing but a T-shirt and underwear. I heard of muffled groan of embarrassment from the other side of the door and decided to leave her to it.
When I came back downstairs into the living room Frank and Stein where waiting for me on the couch. It was a sight to see, two old scientists sitting in the middle of a lavish black leather couch that wrapped the outer edge of the room. The two looked out of place, like a time traveler trying desperately to look normal in a society they knew nothing about.
“Before you guys start I’ve got to know, did you do that intentionally?”
“Did we do what, what are you talking about?”
They both asked in unison.
“The names, Frank and Stein, did you do that on purpose?”
Frank smiled at this and looked toward Stein who seemed to be fuming.
“It’s been 60 years since I’ve heard that question and no, its purely coincidental. We just so happen to share similar names with this Frankenstein”
Stein replied, actually shaking with anger. Frank on the other hand, seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. In light of this I decided to push my luck just a little further.
“Ok, but I’m still going to call Rocco Frankenstein’s monster from now on, I can’t just pass up that opportunity.”
Frank laughed at this and Stein shook his head in disappointment.
“Children, both you.”
“Oh come now Stein, even you have to admit its a little humorous.”
“I will not be compared to some fantasy doctor and their failed facsimile of life! Rocco is a proper experiment with guidelines and uses that monster from the story is just a harebrained pet project!”
Stein fumed, seemingly offended at the concept of being compared to doctor Frankenstein. After a short tirade, none of which I really want to repeat here, we got Stein calmed down. Then the two got me seated and asked a question I wasn’t expecting.
“Do you know why we decided to settle down in this town in the first place?”
The question took me by surprise, I had assumed they just ended up here for no particular reason. Like a tumble weed being blown across the desert. They were here now caught on a fence or something but I always got the sense the wind would blow them along to somewhere else eventually. I hadn’t given much thought as to why they would be here at all. My vacant stare must’ve clued them into the fact that I had no idea how to answer the question.
“Let me rephrase, do you have any idea why things like Bianca or Tuck or even us seem to be concentrated here?”
Stein asked again, a calm tone to his voice like he was explaining something to a child.
“Tuck? What does Tuck have to do with this? I get you two are supernatural researchers and Bianca is a succubus but Tuck is just a really, really string guy right?”
I shakily asked, slowly drawing a connection to what Frank said about Tuck and lycanthropy when I came in.
“Tuck is a werewolf, a repentant one but a werewolf nonetheless.”
“That… actually would check out, It would definitely explain why the guy is built like the Rock’s bigger cousin. But what exactly are you getting at?”
“This town Keith, There’s a reason it attracts people like us and the Thunderbird is a big part of that. It had been sleeping in the mines as far as Frank was able to tell, once it woke up it caused the collapse and it made a huge stir. Obviously reports came out about this massive thing coming out of the ground and talking flight but you’ll never find any of them. The government stepped in to help Eagles peak cover up its existence, if people knew about the Thunderbird there would be uproars and questions as to what else was out there, questions no-one really would’ve had answers too. Instead they buried it and tried to bury most records of this town, turning it into a haven for the supernatural, especially those who would rather be left alone.”
Stein’s lecture made sense, if the town was basically wiped off the map as far as recent information goes it would explain its small size. I really hadn’t seen anyone in town besides those people getting off the bus the day I met Tuck and a few employees at local stores I went to. But not all of them could’ve been supernatural beings right?
“So are you trying to say everyone in town is some kind of what… supernatural entity?”
“Nothing as grand as that but there’s certainly more supernatural beings than usual concentrated in this town. Even some of the normal people have ties to the supernatural here. It’s a place were people who know about these things can pass through without to much scrutiny. What’s more interesting though is the other Thunderbird sightings we were able to dig up. Almost all of them lead to a town like this, taken off the usual map with a barley visible digital presence. Tiny little nowhere places that aren’t known for much and never show up on the news. The Thunderbird seems to be making these sanctuary’s for the supernatural throughout the world. It doesn’t seem to monitor these places afterwards but they certainly never recover from the coverups after the Thunderbird makes an appearance.”
Stein continued to lecture, speaking just as much with his hands as he did with his words.
“Has she ever come back to any of these sanctuaries she’s created.”
“She!? You don’t mean the woman you saw in Imalone? I had chalked her up to a stress induced hallucination.”
I had to briefly explain to Stein that I had not in fact hallucinated the naked woman that ultimately turned out to be Shaoni, to his displeasure.
“So you saw this woman then?”
“Yeah, in the cave attached to what I’d have to guess were the mines. She even showed up at my house last night.”
“It… she, talked to you?”
“She said that there was going to be some sort of trials to see who takes on this burden of her’s. The whole thing was really unclear if I’m honest.”
“So she’s coming back then, not only that but she’s in the town or the forest right now. I don’t get to say this often but I really don’t know what’s going to happen with this Keith. Frank and I will keep an eye on what we can but we’re researchers, if she decides to pull you into these trials we won’t be much help.”
Stein said, growing concerning on his face. I don’t think seeing Stein in this state did anything to assure me. This is someone who worked on the wrong side of world war 2 and he seemed scared by the thought of what Shaoni might be up to. It was at least nice to know someone would be monitoring the situation when I got myself killed.
“I could go with him.”
An unexpected voice cut through the silence of the room, Bianca’s voice. She had wandered down from her room wearing a black leather jacket paired with a tight red shirt and ratty jeans, my ratty jeans I noticed. She had the backpack she owed me in one hand and her eyes locked on us.
“What?”
We all said, in shock of what Bianca had just offered.
“I could go, watch your back and see what’s going on with these trials. I’m familiar enough with the supernatural, not as much as Frank or Stein but I could help.”
She said with raw unfiltered confidence that was unusual for her.
“I couldn’t ask you to do that, I told you the story, you know what Shaoni is capable of.”
I bargained, hoping to keep her out of the line of fire for some reason. I knew it would probably be smarter to bring her with me if I did get forced into these trials but some protective instinct kicked in. I’d seen her barley able to keep herself together just talking about her past and shut down when someone grabbed her. I didn’t want to see her get hurt trying to look out for me. Her past obviously still effected her in a big way. Another part of me wanted to bring her with me just to see her fight against the power her past still held over her. When we were on the way to that mine yesterday she finally seemed alive. Bianca wasn’t just this this scared person living in a gilded cage with two people who took her in like a kicked puppy. Yesterday she was her own person again, if only for a little bit.
“Look I can’t stay here doing nothing forever, besides you helped me out watching the house way back when you first got into town. You didn’t hold the fact I manipulated you into it against me and you never really cared about what I was. I at least owe you this Keith, please.”
Bianca begged, I didn’t feel like she was trying to pul me one way or another this time, the choice was my own. I could also tell it was hard for her to give me a choice, her nature was to just use her power and make me agree with her. That single fact meant more to me than whatever fight was going on in my head, I nodded to tell her I agreed.
Frank and Stein weren’t particularly thrilled with the idea of Bianca watching out for me. They were worried it put her in too much danger. Despite the situation surrounding those three I could tell Frank and Stein really did care for her, or at the very least worried about her. She may not realize it but she was like a daughter to them, anyone could see that, anyone but her apparently. Or maybe she had closed herself off from the world so much to try and survive on her own that she just couldn’t bring herself to realize it anymore. I think that’s the more likely option but it begged the question. Why exactly does she keep going out of her way for me?
Bianca managed to convince them to let her keep an eye on me. Thanks in no small part to the fact that she claimed living anywhere near Rocco for prolonged periods of time was hazardous to her health. At which point almost as if on cue, Rocco shot out of a wall. Not off of it or out from around, no straight out of the wall sending plaster flying like shrapnel. Right after this we smelled the beginnings of an electrical fire. Rocco ran back into the room and jumped back through the hole in the wall with a fire extinguisher. Frank and Stein lost their minds at this point and went to find the proper equipment to deal with that. They agreed with Bianca on the spot after that one. Rocco claimed he was “trying to update the wiring in the house”, whatever that meant but you could never tell with him. Once everything had calmed down I headed over to the kitchen to make lunch for myself. I settled for a bologna and mustard sandwich and sat down to eat. As soon as I took a bite of the sandwich my phone rang with a number I didn’t expect a call from, Mom.
“Hi, what’s going on?”
“Are you ok, You never call, I just got your message.”
My mother Carla said, in that worried but angry tone only mothers can pull off.
“I’m fine mom I just wanted to let you know what was going on with me, I don’t think I ever told you I was moving and I didn’t want you to worry.”
Bianca walked into the kitchen at this point in the conversation and looked at me. I put my finger to my lips and shushed her. She just sat down across from me and took a bite out of MY sandwich.
“You didn’t, I know I don’t see you much and your fine on your own but I still worry. We were never the closest but that doesn’t mean I don’t wan to know If you’re moving halfway across the country on a whim.”
“I know mom, I know. A lot of things happened at once and it was such short notice I just… forgot.”
“I understand… just call me next time alright, and if you ever just want to talk I’m here. Just because we weren’t all that close doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear from you now and then. Anyways I have to get back to work.”
“Oh, ok Just… how’s dad doing?”
I sighed knowing the answer to my question already.
“He’s… he’s the same Keith, Love you.”
And with that Carla hung up.
Bianca eyed me with a mildly stunned look on her face. Like she just realized I was born not raised in a test tube somewhere.
“That was your mom?”
She asked, pointing at the phone in my hand and still eating the sandwich I had made for myself.
“Yes, Oh come on give me that!”
I yelled, reaching for the sandwich in her hand. She laughed and pulled it away, finishing it. She tried to speak with a mouthful of sandwich but I couldn’t make out a thing till she gave herself a minute to chew.
“I haven’t talked to my mom since the whole thing with Brooke. She never approved and that was that, I went my way and she went her’s.”
“What about your dad?”
I asked her, suddenly not as mad about her stealing my food.
“I never really knew him. Apparently he left when I was really young but that’s about all I know.”
“Is there a single question I can ask about you that won’t just leave me feeling sorry I had a moderately normal life before this? Really I just… that’s terrible.”
Bianca looked a little sullen as she thought about her family, her real family. I realized that as strange as this whole relationship with Frank and Stein was it was the closest thing she had to something stable. Hell, I might be the first real friend she’s had outside of the house in years.
“Tell you what, I’m suddenly hungry for some reason so why don’t we head down to the Eagle’s Roost and get something to eat?”
I glared at her just a little bit as I said that first part.
“It’s like 1o’clock now I don’t think Tuck opens up till 5 or so.”
“Well I’ve got a few questions for him now, besides last time I went down there early too and he was just hanging out behind the bar, didn’t seem to mind either. Wait, you know him? He didn’t really look at you when he saved us yesterday, come to think of it he barley mentioned you.”
“Yeah I’ve seen him coming in and out of the house when he helps Stein with his experiments, giving blood and tissue samples to him, that sort of thing. I don’t know why he didn’t say anything to me. Maybe cause he thought Frank and Stein didn’t know I was out there so he just didn’t want to stick his toe in that situation?”
She had to think for a second about that last part, furrowing her brow and shrugging when she couldn’t come up with anything better.
“Could be it, anyways its just one more thing I can ask him. So are you coming with me or what?”
“Yeah sure, just let me pack a few things.”
“Pack a few things? What do you mean it’s just…”
But Bianca was already running up the stairs back towards her room.

So I am not what one would call "good" at Lethal Company. My highest quota is in the 600s, I've never killed a monster above a Thumper with a shovel, I die to spiders and hoarding bugs often, and I've never played with mods.
HOWEVER, there is one niche that I personally think I do really well in: Protection. If I join a lobby, and they have a shotgun, I'm picking that up and blasting any threats in the facility. I'll often enter the room with my go-to loadout of a shotgun, a flashlight, stun grenade, and either a zap gun, another shell, a shovel, or another stun grenade. I don't pick things up, but I do transport already found items and make sure everyone else is alive.
With that short intro out of the way, it's time to explain what happened. So, I joined a lobby with two girls and one guy. I quickly got to know them, and I don't remember all the names, but the lobby host and the most important person in this tale was named TessTickles, or Tess for short.
The quota for this run was upwards of two and a half thousand. They already had a pretty good stockpile when I joined on Day 3, and I quickly told them what my "niche" was. They seemed pretty happy about this, and agreed to let me act as an enforcer of sorts. We were orbiting Artifice, and the plan was simple: We'd collect scrap, drop it outside the main entrance, and one or more people with jetpacks would fly the stuff back to the ship. If we all died, Tess would disconnect and restart the day before the flag for "new save" could be tripped. Basically, if things didn't go according to plan, we'd just save-scum.
So, day three. After two attempts, we landed a pretty good haul. If we kept this pace up, we'd easily make quota. I killed a Bracken, a nutcracker, and a Thumper with my shotgun and shovel, and managed to stun a Jester and allow my teammate to escape. Pretty good gaming on my part, at least by my standards.
Day two started with me asking if I could have one of the jetpacks, purely to try it out. I had never used a jetpack in this game before, and they understandably refused to let me have one. So, I entered Artifice on foot.
The first part of the day went well, as I stood at the main entrance and funneled scrap from upstairs to the outside while fending off anything that got close. My first near miss occurred when I walked into a kitchen to get some scrap, then heard footsteps. I waited, shotgun out, and then saw my teammate walk into the room.
Me: Hey, man.
Teammate: *says nothing and instead draws a shovel and sprints at me*
M: Wait waIT WAIT NONONO-*frantically spamming the trigger of my shotgun, forgetting about the safety*
My teammate was not, in fact, consumed by bloodlust. Instead, he sprinted right past me and whacked the mimic that had been sneaking up on me to death. I took a moment to collect myself, thanking my teammate, before picking up the scrap and taking it back to main.
Remember the safety, though.
Near the end of the day, we all gathered at main. We had a huge haul, and it would take a while to funnel back to the ship. But before that, Tess had something to do.
Tess: Hang on, guys, I gotta go feed my cat.
Me: Alright, we'll protect you.
About a minute later, we got our first monster attack.
Teammate 1: Snare flea.
T2: Alright, I got it.
Me, seeing a mimic slowly walking down the central staircase: Mimic, mimic!
T2: Keep it away from Tess!
T1: I got this. *runs at the mimic with his shovel*
Me: Aight.
*T2 kills the flea*
*Seconds later, T1 gets grabbed by the mimic after a few good whacks*
T1: Hit it! HIT IT, SOMEONE!
*I try and fail to fire my shotgun, then frantically try and get the safety off*
*General pandemonium*
T2 proceeded to get up close and personal with her own shotgun, preparing to blast the mimic. Unfortunately, it was at that exact moment that two things happened at the same time.

1. T1 got converted into a mimic.
   
2. I finally got the safety off my own shotgun and fired a shell.
   

The buckshot flew right toward the three, killing them all.
It was now just me and Tess.
And Tess was still AFK.
Me: Oh god, guys, I'm so sorry...
I assessed my situation. The items I had available were three shotguns with four ammo between them, two pro flashlights, two shovels, two jetpacks, a flashbang, a stop sign, and about eight hundred credits worth of scrap.
Oh, and a body.
Thankfully, the only threat present seemed to be a slime, which was meandering its way down the stairs. So, I considered my options. I could kite the slime until Tess got back, try and funnel the scrap back to the ship on foot...
Wait, actually, let me check outside, see how bad it is...
I left the facility and was greeted with the sight of:
1 Giant to my left, rapidly approaching.
1 Dog, also to my left, not seeing me yet.
1 Mech, off in the distance.
I quickly turned around and went back into the facility. So, that option was going to be tough. I could maybe try and get to the fire exit, which we knew the location of, but I would only be able to take one load of scrap, it would be dangerous both in and outdoors, and there was no guarantee I'd make it, I could, again, try and kite the slime and wait for Tess to come back, I could-
ticticticticticticticticPLONGGGGGG.
Well, that certainly complicates things.
That's right, a coilhead had chosen to rear its ugly head at the worst possible time. It now sat at the top of the stairs, which the slime had already descended and was creeping toward me steadily.
I now had another decision to make. If I stood still and tried to keep the coilhead from doing anything, I would risk death to the slime. If I waited for Tess, I'd have to kite both a coil and a slime, and I was not confident in my ability to do that. Besides, what was to say the slime/coil wouldn't just execute her, and then turn on me? On top of that, it was 10:30, and I had no way of knowing when Tess would be back. But I couldn't get through the facility fast enough to reach the fire exit, especially with the coil on me, and there was no way I'd survive outside...
My terrified eyes fell upon the discarded jetpack of my teammate. Picking it up revealed it had three-quarters of a tank left of fuel. With all this knowledge, I made my choice.
As the slime slowly approached, I picked up the three most valuable pieces of scrap I could find, being a gold bar, a perfume bottle, and a laser pointer. Then I equipped the jetpack, steeled myself, and spoke.
Me: Tess, I'm leaving you now. Guys, wish me luck.
With that, I went through the main entrance and out to face the night.
Two things had happened while I was gone. The mech had killed the giant, and the dog was nowhere to be seen. I didn't notice this at first, though, and fired up the jetpack.
While I had never used the jetpack before, I knew how it worked, and thought I had a pretty good idea of how to control it. I knew that it exploded if used for too long, or if you hit a wall, and I had watched Smii7y's Lethal Company videos, so I had a vague idea of what to do. I thought you simply looked in the direction you wanted to go, or something like that.
No.
That is not how the bloody jetpack works.
Instead, it behaves more like it would in real life, having no thrust direction but straight down, and you control your direction by tilting yourself with the movement keys.
I found this out literally on the fly, as I boosted straight up and then tilted forward, landing face-first back on the ground. However, I survived, and now I knew a little more. I boosted back up into the air, fiddled around a bit, and then started to get the hang of it. I drunkenly wobbled through the sky like a mosquito after consuming alchohol, but slowly flew toward the ship. I could see the lights, and the two other dogs nearby. I got closer and closer. My fuel dropped lower and lower. Despite this, I estimated I'd have EXACTLY enough to make it to the ship.
Before I explain what happened next, there's something you should know. I do not play on a traditional monitor setup, oh no. My father thought it would be a good idea to hook my PC up to a TV, which means I have a comically large monitor. However, this is... flawed. The TV doesn't have high enough resolution to show minute details, and the distance I am from the screen means I can't see those fine details either. Additionally, the screen tearing is... rather horrendous, and so Vsync is almost a requirement in every game I play. And then there's the issue of my keyboard and mouse being rather old models, and sometimes having difficulty connecting to the reciever in my PC, resulting in either seconds of input lag or no input at all.
That is exactly what happened here. I was within speaking distance of the ship, less than a second's walk away, when my keyboard inexplicably decided that enough was enough and disconnected for a second. I did not realize this until a second later, when the input finally went through after a second of me holding the S key to start hovering, flipping me COMPLETELY upside down and causing me to faceplant again, right between two dogs.
I frantically tried to take off again, but the extra time spent in the air had expended nearly every last drop of fuel in the pack. Attempting to take off used up the last few drops, which made a sound.
A very loud sound.
Me: Guys... I'm so, so sorry. I tried... I'm sorry...
And then the dogs got to me.
The instant I got back into the group voice chat, I could hear them screaming for Tess. But she wasn't back yet. I watched in sorrow as the ship doors closed, all of us dead, the ship returning to orbit, erasing all the progress we'd made.
Tess didn't return until two minutes later, and the other guy on the team explained that, in the span of two minutes, everything that could have possibly gone wrong, did go wrong. Tess, whoever you are, I'm so sorry.

Ok, so i’ve know this guy for a while (about 3 years) and i’ve basically liked him for all the time i’ve known him. About a week ago i spent a night over at his house and we were in his living room, we were watching a movie on his couch, we were pretty close but we weren’t really touching, so i decided to lay my head on his shoulder (this wasn’t our first time, we’ve always been kinda physical but like not all the time) and he put his arm around me. So we finished the movie at about 2pm if i remember correctly, so we went up to his room and before i had mentioned that i liked “The Wolf of Wall Street” movie so he suggested we watched it. For this i have to explain his room layout: so he has his bed in a corner then on the side of the bed there’s just a wall, facing that wall is his desk with a giant gaming computer with a gaming chair. So he moved the chair out of the way and took pillows and a giant teddy bear he has from his bed and put them against the wall opposite from the computer. Then i laid down against the pillows and he was in between the teddy’s legs. I put my head on his chest and he put one of his arms around me and the other like across his chest making its way over to my waist, so then i put my arm across his chest. Then he put his leg over mine and i put my other leg over his, so our legs were kinda intertwined. He kept kinda moving his hand to my hair then back to my back. Sometimes when i kinda pulled away he pulled me tighter. Sometimes when i looked up i saw his eyes kinda looking at my lips (i’m not certain he was looking at my lips but it looked like it). So we were about at the end of the movie and i had fallen asleep on him, then we stopped the movie and i slept on a separate bed from him. The next morning i woke up before him and went to have breakfast in his kitchen, then he came down and then we went back up to his room and finished the movie, i laid my head on his chest and he had his arm around me and that’s it. Later he went to his sister’s room and he was laying on the bed, then he like dapped me up and pulled me onto the bed and we were kinda talking and then he started tickling me. So i’m not sure if he’s just like that or if he likes me. We never text cause he’s not really a phone person. We do send each other instagram reels from time to time. And he’s a family friend and we only hang out in family gatherings. So in your opinion, is there a chance that he likes me? (I like this guy so much it’s crazy please help)

Moving into a new spartlens with vaulted ceiling (ceiling to kip), and i have some curtains from my current apartment, but dont know if it will look right with them, or i should hang wall decor and art/posters on wall indsted?

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DJMarz - I Need You (Nuta Cookier Remix) / Key F#m, BPM 132, 7:21, MP3 17.91 Mb
DJMarz - I Need You (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 130, 6:31, MP3 15.91 Mb
DMank - Step On (Extended Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 128, 2:51, MP3 7.15 Mb
DNKA - Party Freaks (Extended Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 124, 5:11, MP3 12.60 Mb
DNKA - Party Freaks (Radio Edit) / Key Cm, BPM 124, 2:57, MP3 7.25 Mb
DREAMRDREAMR - Escape Into (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 140, 4:49, MP3 11.80 Mb
DRITTO - GALACTICA (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 136, 3:55, MP3 9.64 Mb
DUH PROJECT - Do It Again (Extended Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 123, 5:16, MP3 12.76 Mb
DUH PROJECT - Do It Again (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 123, 4:17, MP3 10.40 Mb
DUPØUY - Austral (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 98, 6:28, MP3 15.90 Mb
DUPØUY - Kiruna (Centeno Remix) / Key F#m, BPM 144, 6:01, MP3 14.80 Mb
DUPØUY - Kiruna (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 145, 5:28, MP3 13.50 Mb
DYSLOYAL - Push It (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 127, 4:03, MP3 9.96 Mb
Domestic Technology - August Is Coming (Synth Hiacynt Remix) / Key Fm, BPM 95, 3:47, MP3 9.20 Mb
Don Jack - Campo de Girasoles (Extended Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 5:22, MP3 13.29 Mb
Don Jack - Campo de Girasoles (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 3:24, MP3 8.57 Mb
Don Tom Berlin - Nebula (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 133, 7:29, MP3 18.15 Mb
Donpairion - Take Me Higher (Extended Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 5:20, MP3 12.96 Mb
Dotdat - Dub FM (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 142, 5:53, MP3 14.16 Mb
Downside - Blacksmith (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 140, 5:19, MP3 12.97 Mb
Downside - Deception (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 140, 4:59, MP3 12.18 Mb
Downside - The Watcher (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 140, 5:12, MP3 12.70 Mb
Downside - Trade Secrets (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 140, 5:31, MP3 13.46 Mb
Drayori - Drop The Beat (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 124, 3:16, MP3 8.27 Mb
Drucal - Crab (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 139, 5:52, MP3 14.36 Mb
Drumcomplex - Puppet (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 131, 6:58, MP3 17.08 Mb
Dtrdjjoxe - Sin Titulo (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 128, 5:31, MP3 13.44 Mb
Dumage - Hygge (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 78, 2:31, MP3 6.27 Mb
Durga Amata - Another Climax (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 100, 4:14, MP3 10.49 Mb
Dylan J, NotKeller - Exxxtasis (Original mix) / Key Fm, BPM 128, 5:34, MP3 13.70 Mb
Dyson Kellerman - Vamos! (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 125, 4:12, MP3 10.25 Mb
ENZO (BR) - Lights Up The Night (Club Mix) (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 125, 6:28, MP3 15.83 Mb
ENZO (BR) - Lights Up The Night (Radio Edit) (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 125, 3:27, MP3 8.57 Mb
Eazy Mezzo - Far From Home (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 120, 8:02, MP3 19.40 Mb
Eervwall - Do It Like Me (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 128, 5:47, MP3 13.96 Mb
Eervwall - Take It High (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 128, 5:18, MP3 12.80 Mb
Einka - Bb 7200 (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 126, 8:15, MP3 19.94 Mb
Einka - La locomotive rugissante (Original Mix) / Key Db, BPM 122, 8:00, MP3 19.33 Mb
Einka - Les rails d'hier (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 122, 3:33, MP3 8.66 Mb
Einka - Trains (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 130, 8:16, MP3 19.94 Mb
Einox - Pulse Canvas (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 100, 8:15, MP3 19.93 Mb
El Muerto - Alhambra (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 120, 5:11, MP3 12.80 Mb
El Muerto - Bahia De Placer (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 120, 5:36, MP3 13.79 Mb
Electric Pill - Echoes In The Dark (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 123, 5:28, MP3 13.29 Mb
Electric Pill - Total Chance (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 120, 6:09, MP3 14.94 Mb
ElectroVibZ - House Lover (Extended Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 126, 3:51, MP3 9.38 Mb
Elektronik Kitchen Of Ideas - Pacific Island (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 125, 5:27, MP3 13.11 Mb
Elias Garcia - Athens (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 123, 6:13, MP3 15.04 Mb
Elias Garcia - Following the Signs (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 138, 6:21, MP3 15.37 Mb
Elias Garcia - Heliophysics (Original Mix) / Key G, BPM 136, 2:41, MP3 6.56 Mb
Elias Garcia - Invent (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 100, 1:45, MP3 4.31 Mb
Elias Garcia - Linear Conjunction (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 106, 5:47, MP3 13.99 Mb
Elias Garcia - Multiverse (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 138, 4:28, MP3 10.84 Mb
Elias Garcia - Ovoid (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 136, 6:14, MP3 15.10 Mb
Elias Garcia - Parasite (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 136, 6:35, MP3 15.94 Mb
Elias Garcia - The Chastening (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 139, 5:53, MP3 14.26 Mb
Elias Garcia - Time Paralysis (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 133, 5:45, MP3 13.92 Mb
Elias Garcia - Triple View (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 136, 6:35, MP3 15.94 Mb
Elias R - Eagles (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 128, 6:01, MP3 14.68 Mb
Elias R - Loma De La Cruz (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 128, 6:04, MP3 14.80 Mb
Elias R - Webcam (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 128, 6:31, MP3 15.88 Mb
Elvis Castellano - Boom Boom (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 126, 5:51, MP3 14.27 Mb
Emre K. - Escape (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 121, 5:15, MP3 12.81 Mb
Engelbert - Lynx (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 124, 5:59, MP3 14.46 Mb
EntryStars - I Remember (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 128, 3:23, MP3 8.34 Mb
Eone, M.A - i thought we were meant for eachother (Original Mix) / Key F, BPM 140, 2:10, MP3 5.68 Mb
Equalateral, George Croucher - Never Really Gone (Equalateral Extended Dub) / Key Am, BPM 126, 6:07, MP3 14.81 Mb
Equalateral, George Croucher - Never Really Gone (Equalateral Extended Mix) / Key Am, BPM 126, 6:07, MP3 14.81 Mb
Erik Bonaldy - Trumpet (Original Mix) / Key Bb, BPM 128, 4:46, MP3 11.98 Mb
Exxon - Dehumanization (Intro) (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 145, 3:38, MP3 9.12 Mb
Exxon - Desolate Overview (Original Mix) / Key F#, BPM 106, 5:30, MP3 13.63 Mb
Exxon - Future Society (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 133, 5:06, MP3 12.65 Mb
Exxon - Human Alienation (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 134, 5:24, MP3 13.38 Mb
Exxon - Serious Distopy (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 134, 4:57, MP3 12.28 Mb
Exxon - The Last Breath (Outro) (Original Mix) / Key F, BPM 132, 3:08, MP3 7.92 Mb
Exxon - The Perfect Dictatorship (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 134, 5:10, MP3 12.83 Mb
Exxon - Unestable Existence (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 106, 5:18, MP3 13.16 Mb
Eònan - The Force Is Strong (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 140, 5:43, MP3 14.10 Mb
F-Lima - Your Call (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 125, 5:07, MP3 12.85 Mb
FAVRO - Xerese (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 95, 3:10, MP3 7.68 Mb
FAVRO - Your Heart (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 154, 2:49, MP3 6.85 Mb
FCKV - Thursday Night (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 124, 6:10, MP3 15.04 Mb
FLO - Ay Papi (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 130, 2:54, MP3 7.12 Mb
FNXTA - Do It (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 127, 3:39, MP3 9.04 Mb
FNXTA - Je T'aime (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 3:11, MP3 7.89 Mb
FOSSUS, Ludwig Nylow, Tahiti Snow - Takatam Digitam (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 126, 3:35, MP3 8.98 Mb
Fabio Spzz - Rave / Lution (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 123, 7:02, MP3 16.96 Mb
Facu Baez, Braydon Terzo - 50 INCH WOOFAS (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 128, 2:56, MP3 7.32 Mb
Facu-SB - Chronology (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 125, 5:07, MP3 12.65 Mb
FaraoN, RoundTrip.Music - Angel (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 115, 4:46, MP3 11.66 Mb
Fear-E - 7.4 On The Richter (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 130, 4:56, MP3 12.06 Mb
Fear-E - Principles (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 130, 4:27, MP3 10.89 Mb
Felicie - Late Checkout (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 146, 5:18, MP3 12.98 Mb
Felipe G - Evolution (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 133, 6:01, MP3 14.55 Mb
Felipe Gordon - Do You Ever Miss Me? (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 123, 5:47, MP3 14.09 Mb
Felipe Gordon - Sander's Journey (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 119, 5:59, MP3 14.55 Mb
Felipe Nova - Alive (Extended) / Key Ebm, BPM 143, 3:50, MP3 9.80 Mb
Ferhat Albayrak - Guest List (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 93, 5:29, MP3 13.64 Mb
Ferhat Albayrak - Promo Code (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 140, 5:29, MP3 13.64 Mb
Feri, Atakan Girisgen - Dancing O.a. (Original Mix) / Key Eb, BPM 124, 6:41, MP3 16.29 Mb
Fernando Chia - Ven,ven,ven (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 133, 6:44, MP3 16.58 Mb
Fernando De Matos, ALVES (PT) - My Mind (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 134, 5:58, MP3 14.60 Mb
Ferra Black - Titan (Moreno & Prieto Remix) / Key Em, BPM 128, 6:15, MP3 15.31 Mb
Ferra Black - Titan (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 128, 5:30, MP3 13.51 Mb
Filippo Peschi, AnDe Trois - Kobra (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 138, 5:13, MP3 12.67 Mb
Filippo Peschi, AnDe Trois - Lost Unit (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 136, 5:42, MP3 13.84 Mb
First Contact - Echo (Club Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 123, 6:17, MP3 15.29 Mb
Fishfarm - Madness?Yes! (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 126, 5:42, MP3 13.84 Mb
Fishfarm - Summertime (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 127, 5:49, MP3 14.13 Mb
Flo.Von, Max Metzinger - Thinking Bout You (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 127, 4:40, MP3 11.47 Mb
Fontana - Lothargic Nights (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 128, 5:01, MP3 12.24 Mb
Fontana - Take Me Out (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 128, 3:54, MP3 9.56 Mb
Four Walls - Metamorphosis (Original Mix) / Key A, BPM 128, 6:22, MP3 15.56 Mb
Four Walls - Mind Charger (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 129, 7:09, MP3 17.44 Mb
Four Walls - Mind Charger (Pletnev Remix) / Key Cm, BPM 135, 6:42, MP3 16.34 Mb
Four Walls - Summer Nights (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 134, 6:39, MP3 16.25 Mb
Fourth Co., Chester Fields - Back to You (Fourth Co. Remix) / Key Em, BPM 128, 3:04, MP3 7.56 Mb
Frakfunk - Rubber Nightmares (Extended) / Key Dbm, BPM 126, 6:47, MP3 16.49 Mb
Frakfunk - Rubber Nightmares (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 126, 4:10, MP3 10.23 Mb
Fran Lezaun - Deutsche Sprache (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 145, 5:38, MP3 13.64 Mb
HIWK - Lights (Extended Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 150, 4:10, MP3 10.37 Mb
HIWK - Lights (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 150, 3:20, MP3 8.39 Mb
HRT3 - Tribal Tuk (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 140, 3:44, MP3 9.36 Mb
Halo - Hard Theater (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 138, 4:10, MP3 10.27 Mb
Halo Far - Closer (Extended Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 123, 4:59, MP3 12.18 Mb
Halv Drøm, Abnormal Load - Bucket featuring HALV DRØM (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 142, 5:41, MP3 14.05 Mb
Halv Drøm, Abnormal Load - One Eye featuring HALV DRØM (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 146, 5:55, MP3 14.60 Mb
Handt - Remedy (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 2:33, MP3 6.32 Mb
Hannes Matthiessen - Cargo (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 138, 7:50, MP3 19.18 Mb
Hannes Matthiessen - Synthetic (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 140, 6:02, MP3 14.86 Mb
Harley Blake - Admire Carboys Guitarists (Extended Mix) / Key G, BPM 127, 3:49, MP3 9.31 Mb
Harry Judda - Envious Eyes (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 130, 5:26, MP3 13.25 Mb
Harry Judda - Fury 161 (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 128, 4:49, MP3 11.76 Mb
Hassio (COL) - LLORONA (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 131, 7:08, MP3 17.40 Mb
Hector Rios Vnzl - DON'T STOP (Original Mix) / Key B, BPM 128, 4:38, MP3 11.20 Mb
Helang - Black Angel (Extended Mix) / Key Em, BPM 125, 6:20, MP3 15.34 Mb
Helang - No One (Extended Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 128, 5:36, MP3 13.56 Mb
Helang - Wise Devil (Extended Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 126, 5:39, MP3 13.70 Mb
Helleroid - breakwalk (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 126, 4:23, MP3 11.10 Mb
Helleroid - drumwars (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 100, 6:07, MP3 15.27 Mb
Helleroid - freedoomed (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 106, 1:59, MP3 5.33 Mb
Helleroid - intimate idm (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 98, 5:44, MP3 14.34 Mb
Helleroid, diana r - coldbrew (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 81, 6:01, MP3 15.02 Mb
Hellotrip - Unbreakable (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 130, 6:24, MP3 15.62 Mb
Hermetics - El Cordón Dorado (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 82, 7:51, MP3 19.00 Mb
Herton - Aphrodite (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 145, 6:29, MP3 15.83 Mb
Herton - Mood Operator (Original Mix) / Key Ab, BPM 144, 4:55, MP3 12.05 Mb
HiWstre - Ocean of Love (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 125, 4:37, MP3 11.36 Mb
HiWstre - Renewal (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 124, 8:31, MP3 20.74 Mb
HiWstre - Tower of Babel (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 125, 4:03, MP3 10.02 Mb
High & Dry - The Generation (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 125, 6:32, MP3 15.80 Mb
Highcontrol - Leave Everything Behind (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 134, 6:09, MP3 15.13 Mb
Hioll - Iñikaru (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 144, 5:10, MP3 12.58 Mb
Hollen - Convert (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 135, 5:48, MP3 14.07 Mb
Hollen - Timeless (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 136, 5:53, MP3 14.25 Mb
Homaag - Glued (Extended Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 124, 6:20, MP3 15.22 Mb
Homaag - Glued (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 124, 4:44, MP3 11.39 Mb
Hossan - House Healed Me (Extended Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 130, 5:01, MP3 12.38 Mb
Hossan - House Healed Me (Radio Edit) / Key Bbm, BPM 130, 3:30, MP3 8.76 Mb
Hot Disk, Xwortex - Fresh & Cool (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 120, 5:52, MP3 14.28 Mb
Humito - Monkey Puzzle (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 90, 8:02, MP3 19.44 Mb
Hunterwolf, MAVS - Parallel Horizons (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 123, 3:13, MP3 7.94 Mb
I.g.n.a., Rush Arp - Diamond (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 129, 5:51, MP3 14.36 Mb
Ian Climax - Feeling Greatful (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 115, 6:53, MP3 16.68 Mb
Ian Thaüer - Lost In The Music (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 4:33, MP3 11.20 Mb
Icarix - Just A Beat (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 126, 4:30, MP3 11.40 Mb
Icarix - Just A Beat (Radio Edit) / Key Ebm, BPM 126, 3:56, MP3 10.06 Mb
Icaro Mana - Way U Love (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 123, 6:20, MP3 15.39 Mb
Infinity Plus One, JaronX - Context is Broken (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 125, 6:18, MP3 15.21 Mb
Interesnye Oschuscheniya - Prosnutsia (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 120, 4:40, MP3 11.50 Mb
Interesnye Oschuscheniya - Sgoraya (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 120, 5:28, MP3 13.41 Mb
Interesnye Oschuscheniya - Skuchayu Po Tebe (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 120, 5:43, MP3 14.01 Mb
Interesnye Oschuscheniya - Ya Pyana (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 120, 4:44, MP3 11.65 Mb
Introtom - Gurm I (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 137, 8:33, MP3 20.68 Mb
Introtom - Raw Roll (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 134, 6:12, MP3 15.06 Mb
Iron perez - Analog Saturation (Remastered) / Key Em, BPM 100, 4:53, MP3 11.80 Mb
Iron perez - Apollo (Remastered) / Key Am, BPM 127, 6:44, MP3 16.27 Mb
Iron perez - Cóatl (Remastered) / Key A, BPM 128, 6:30, MP3 15.70 Mb
Italo Perez - Hey Dale (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 128, 5:01, MP3 12.13 Mb
Iva Dive, Arxip - Barna Fam (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 129, 5:37, MP3 13.90 Mb
Iva Dive, Arxip - My Name Is Waki (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 130, 5:00, MP3 12.42 Mb
Ivan Gennari - Eat The Beat (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 127, 5:40, MP3 13.68 Mb
Ivan Gennari - Pump It (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 127, 5:25, MP3 13.08 Mb
Ivan Soria - Sincrónico (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 136, 4:48, MP3 11.78 Mb
Ivanovich, Bruno Bona - Goodbye (Club Edit) / Key Am, BPM 126, 4:51, MP3 11.82 Mb
Ivanovich, Bruno Bona - Goodbye (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 125, 3:20, MP3 8.19 Mb
J-Lektro - Waveflow (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 125, 2:26, MP3 6.25 Mb
JAMM2 - Devil (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 150, 4:45, MP3 11.84 Mb
JESPAT - Free Your Mind (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 132, 6:33, MP3 16.03 Mb
JJ Mullor, Collab Bro - Punto A (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 136, 7:41, MP3 18.81 Mb
JJ Mullor, Collab Bro - Sarabambiche (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 136, 7:27, MP3 18.25 Mb
JOTA (ES) - Extasis (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 128, 5:02, MP3 12.15 Mb
JOTA (ES) - Extasis (Radio Edit) / Key Fm, BPM 128, 4:00, MP3 9.68 Mb
JOTA (ES) - Yaaah (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 128, 4:30, MP3 10.88 Mb
JOTA (ES) - Yaaah (Radio Edit) / Key Am, BPM 128, 3:30, MP3 8.48 Mb
Jabes uc - Wish I Didn't Miss You (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 128, 5:00, MP3 12.37 Mb
Jabes uc, Dean Shaw (UK) - Above Clouds (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 128, 6:02, MP3 14.84 Mb
Jabes uc, Percy Hoef - Frequency (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 128, 6:45, MP3 16.57 Mb
Jack De Marseille - Kalymba (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 135, 6:16, MP3 15.25 Mb
Jack De Marseille - Prima (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 71, 8:19, MP3 20.17 Mb
Jack De Marseille - Techno Bass (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 132, 4:19, MP3 10.56 Mb
Jack District - Got It (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 125, 6:13, MP3 15.38 Mb
Jack District - Sailing (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 125, 6:55, MP3 17.08 Mb
JackBastoww - Would You Get It (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 133, 4:58, MP3 12.03 Mb
Jackson Swaby, Omeria - We All Wanted (Extended Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 121, 5:09, MP3 12.62 Mb
Jackson Swaby, Omeria - We All Wanted (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 121, 3:32, MP3 8.71 Mb
Jahn Solo - Awayaska (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 128, 4:38, MP3 11.53 Mb
Jahn Solo - Traumhaft (Original Mix) / Key A, BPM 112, 4:45, MP3 11.83 Mb
Jakhira - Rendezvous With Rama (Original Mix) / Key Eb, BPM 122, 8:26, MP3 20.46 Mb
Jakhira - The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 122, 7:23, MP3 17.94 Mb
JamBeats - Crying (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 100, 2:56, MP3 7.39 Mb
James Grover, self, actually - I Don't Remember (Extended Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 122, 3:42, MP3 8.97 Mb
James Grover, self, actually - I Don't Remember (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 122, 2:33, MP3 6.24 Mb
Jamie S. - All Winner & No Spinner (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 125, 8:10, MP3 19.81 Mb
Jamie S. - Double Standards (Original Mix) / Key E, BPM 125, 7:22, MP3 17.89 Mb
Jarryd Jackson - Navy Blue (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 114, 8:27, MP3 20.79 Mb
Jarryd Jackson - Perspective (Original Mix) / Key G, BPM 116, 8:39, MP3 21.27 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Circle Life (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 126, 3:03, MP3 7.55 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Circus (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 118, 3:15, MP3 8.05 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Magic Wind (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 3:03, MP3 7.55 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Pollution (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 126, 3:03, MP3 7.55 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Pragmatic (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 2:48, MP3 6.94 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Santa Fe (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 126, 3:03, MP3 7.55 Mb
Jason Azzardo - Solution (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 3:33, MP3 8.77 Mb
Jason Fernandes - sharks above (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 128, 3:23, MP3 8.14 Mb
Jason Rivas, Me & My Videotapes - I Wanna Be Your Driver (Extended Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 117, 5:49, MP3 14.21 Mb
Jason Rivas, WOW!30K - Circles Of Love (Extended Club Mix) / Key Em, BPM 122, 4:47, MP3 11.73 Mb
Javi Borda - New Lolo (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 127, 5:25, MP3 13.21 Mb
Javier Anxiety - Monday Again (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 127, 5:02, MP3 12.28 Mb
JayLu - Move (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 128, 5:01, MP3 12.36 Mb
JayLu - People (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 129, 4:43, MP3 11.63 Mb
Jayfunk - Dark (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 108, 7:07, MP3 17.15 Mb
Jean Velit - Laguna Progressive (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 7:18, MP3 17.71 Mb
Jean Velit - Prahistorisches Universum (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 125, 9:05, MP3 22.00 Mb
Jeky Saviro - Dance Floor (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 128, 6:18, MP3 15.37 Mb
Jen, Ken Fan, George Solar - Moonbeams (feat. Ken Fan, JEN) (Original Mix) / Key Eb, BPM 120, 5:01, MP3 12.24 Mb
Jendo (IT) - On My Skin (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 127, 6:22, MP3 15.56 Mb
Jens Aelbrecht - Ancient (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 136, 6:41, MP3 16.62 Mb
Jens Aelbrecht - Time Does Not Exist (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 138, 6:28, MP3 16.11 Mb
Jerome Hill - Stealth Imp (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 128, 5:16, MP3 12.88 Mb
Jerome Hill - The Shoffler (Original Mix) / Key Ebm, BPM 130, 6:10, MP3 15.01 Mb
Jerry Spoon, Fer Soberón - Fuego y Mariposas (Jerry Spoon Remix) / Key Dm, BPM 113, 4:38, MP3 11.28 Mb
Jizz - Sweet Spot (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 130, 6:26, MP3 15.52 Mb
Jo Paciello - Just open your mind (Deep Jazz Mix) / Key Em, BPM 123, 7:33, MP3 18.25 Mb
Joachim Spieth - Shadows (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 124, 8:13, MP3 19.84 Mb
Joachim Spieth, Cauê - Alpha (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 124, 7:17, MP3 17.59 Mb
Joe Silva, Mariana Canadas - Lucky Days (Joe Silva's Intrumental) / Key Bbm, BPM 126, 4:57, MP3 12.15 Mb
Joe Silva, Mariana Canadas - Lucky Days (Joe Silva's Mix) / Key Eb, BPM 126, 6:39, MP3 16.20 Mb
John Barera - Dance Again (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 131, 6:22, MP3 15.64 Mb
John Barera - Inhale (Aftermath) (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 132, 6:18, MP3 15.50 Mb
John Barera, Mark Hurst - I Can See Through You (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 113, 6:06, MP3 15.02 Mb
John F - Around Me (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 124, 6:04, MP3 14.66 Mb
John F - Vox Drums (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 124, 5:48, MP3 14.04 Mb
John Styler - Dreamscape Odysse (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 125, 7:11, MP3 17.58 Mb
John Styler - Echoes in the Night (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 125, 7:18, MP3 17.85 Mb
John Tejada, Plaid - Bittersweet (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 128, 4:33, MP3 11.08 Mb
John Tejada, Plaid - Freeways (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 127, 3:41, MP3 9.03 Mb
Jona Jefferies - Lost In Paradise (Eddie C Remix) / Key Bbm, BPM 120, 8:28, MP3 20.64 Mb
Jona Jefferies - Lost In Paradise (Original Mix) / Key A, BPM 120, 6:59, MP3 17.06 Mb
Jonno & Gibson - Stella (Original Mix) / Key Abm, BPM 128, 7:04, MP3 17.22 Mb
Jonno & Gibson - Swans (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 130, 7:16, MP3 17.68 Mb
Jonyx, Nexus Live - 001 (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 128, 5:45, MP3 13.98 Mb
Jonyx, Nexus Live - 002 (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 130, 6:00, MP3 14.58 Mb
Jordan Dae - Lights Out (Club Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 126, 3:42, MP3 9.02 Mb
Jose Amor, Xavi Sierra - Getting Horny (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 126, 4:34, MP3 11.14 Mb
Jose Zaragoza - It's a Feeling (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 123, 6:03, MP3 14.63 Mb
Jose Zaragoza - My Anthem (Original Mix) / Key Bm, BPM 127, 6:33, MP3 15.84 Mb
Juan Ddd - Gumball (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 128, 5:53, MP3 14.40 Mb
Jule, Aumon - In My Head (Original Mix) / Key B, BPM 124, 2:39, MP3 6.80 Mb
Jules Wells - Dreamer (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 130, 7:48, MP3 18.96 Mb
Julian - Chasing Senses (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 124, 2:23, MP3 6.11 Mb
Julieta Kopp - Another Day In The Prison (Original Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 139, 5:34, MP3 13.50 Mb
Julieta Kopp - Closer To Being Burned (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 139, 6:01, MP3 14.60 Mb
Julieta Kopp - The Things You Can't Touch (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 140, 5:46, MP3 13.98 Mb
Jumphertz - Rising (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 132, 3:42, MP3 9.14 Mb
Juntaro, Space Castorz - Taka (Original Mix) / Key Am, BPM 124, 6:14, MP3 15.24 Mb
Jvckpot - Move Your Body (Extended Mix) / Key Dm, BPM 126, 4:51, MP3 12.15 Mb
JØHRN - Angy's Worlds (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 136, 5:43, MP3 14.01 Mb
JØHRN - Chronicles of a Stranger (Original Mix) / Key Fm, BPM 136, 6:07, MP3 14.97 Mb
JØHRN - Descriptive Tongues (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 108, 6:22, MP3 15.56 Mb
JØHRN - Edges of the Universe (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 135, 6:13, MP3 15.22 Mb
JØHRN - Reflections of Thought (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 136, 6:08, MP3 14.99 Mb
JØHRN - Scream in the Shadow (Original Mix) / Key Em, BPM 108, 6:35, MP3 16.10 Mb
K-Lone - Give It Up (Original Mix) / Key Cm, BPM 126, 6:37, MP3 16.12 Mb
K-Lone - Wait 4 U (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 128, 5:30, MP3 13.45 Mb
KAAP - Disco Drama Boy (Original) / Key Em, BPM 121, 9:08, MP3 21.95 Mb
KAAP - I'm Standing Right Next To You (Original) / Key Em, BPM 124, 7:00, MP3 16.83 Mb
KAAP - Jock (Original) / Key Bm, BPM 127, 6:47, MP3 16.31 Mb
KAAP - Razor (Original) / Key Bbm, BPM 132, 5:52, MP3 14.12 Mb
KAAP - Technogym (Original) / Key Ab, BPM 138, 8:14, MP3 19.80 Mb
KAAP - Transfix (Original) / Key Dm, BPM 120, 8:09, MP3 19.61 Mb
Ka Reem, Leav3l8ke - Hey Sexy Lady (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 130, 2:19, MP3 5.78 Mb
Kabay - All in (Original Mix) / Key F#m, BPM 144, 5:09, MP3 12.47 Mb
Kabay - Amnesia ([rework]) / Key F#m, BPM 142, 5:25, MP3 13.09 Mb
Kabay - Breakdown Ritual (Original Mix) / Key Gm, BPM 145, 4:55, MP3 11.89 Mb
Kabay - Dukkha (Original Mix) / Key Bbm, BPM 144, 5:23, MP3 13.04 Mb
Kabay - Melting Sensation (Original Mix) / Key Dbm, BPM 143, 4:35, MP3 11.12 Mb
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I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter is brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter is brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter is brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

I’ve always hated the smell of gun oil. It clings to everything it touches, soaking deep into the fibers of my clothes, the lining of my backpack, the coarse hair on the back of my hands. Yet here I am, kneeling on the cracked linoleum of our mudroom, a Remington .308 laid across my thighs, and the stench of gun oil sharp in my nostrils. The early morning light barely scratches at the edges of the blinds, dim and gray like the belly of a dead fish.
My dad Frank is in the kitchen, clattering around with the coffeepot and mumbling under his breath. Today we’re heading up to the woods of Northern Michigan, same as we did every year before Leah… before we lost her.
I can’t help but feel the old scars throbbing as I load bullets into the magazine. It’s been ten years since that hunting trip, the one that tore my family into before and after. Before, when Leah's laughter was a constant soundtrack to our lives; after, when every silence was filled with her absence.
We were just kids back then. I was ten, Leah was eight. It was supposed to be a typical hunting trip, one of those bonding experiences Dad was always talking about. But things went wrong. We got separated from Dad somehow. One minute we were following him, the next we were lost, the dense woods closing in around us.
Dad says when he found me, I was huddled under a fallen tree, my eyes wide, my body frozen. All I could mutter through chattering teeth was "Dogman."
It was only later, after the search parties had combed through every thicket and hollow, that they found her. What remained of Leah was barely recognizable, the evidence of a brutal mauling undeniable. The authorities concluded it was likely a bear attack, but Dad... he never accepted that explanation. He had seen the tracks, too large and oddly shaped for any bear.
As I load another round, the memory flashes, unbidden and unwelcome. Large, hairy clawed hands reaching out towards us, impossibly big, grotesque in their form. Yet, the rest of the creature eludes me, a shadow just beyond the edge of my recall, leaving me with nothing but fragmented terrors and Leah’s haunting, echoing screams. My mind blocked most of it out, a self-defense mechanism, I guess.
For years after that day, sleep was a battleground. I'd wake up in strange places—kitchen floor, backyard, even at the edge of the nearby creek. My therapist said it was my mind's way of trying to resolve the unresolved, to wander back through the woods searching for Leah. But all I found in those sleepless nights was a deeper sense of loss.
It took time, a lot of therapy, and patience I didn't know I had, but the sleepwalking did eventually stop. I guess I started to find some semblance of peace.
I have mostly moved on with my life. The fragmentary memories of that day are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but they don’t dominate my thoughts like they used to. I just finished my sophomore year at Michigan State, majoring in Environmental Science.
As for Dad, the loss of Leah broke him. He became a shell of himself. It destroyed his marriage with Mom. He blamed himself for letting us out of his sight, for not protecting Leah. His life took on a single, consuming focus: finding the creature that killed her. He read every book, every article on cryptids and unexplained phenomena. He mapped sightings, connected dots across blurry photos and shaky testimonies of the Dogman.
But as the tenth anniversary of Leah’s death approaches, Dad's obsession has grown more intense. He’s started staying up late, poring over his maps and notes, muttering to himself about patterns and cycles. He’s convinced that the dogman reappears every ten years, and this is our window of opportunity to finally hunt it down.
I’m not nearly as convinced. The whole dogman thing seems like a coping mechanism, a way for Dad to channel his guilt and grief into something tangible, something he can fight against. But I decided to tag along on this trip, partly to keep an eye on him, partly because a small part of me hopes that maybe, just maybe, we’ll find some kind of closure out there in the woods.
I finish loading the rifle and set it aside, standing up to stretch my legs. I wipe my greasy hands on an old rag, trying to get rid of the smell. The early morning light is starting to seep into the room, casting long shadows across the floor.
Dad comes out of the kitchen with two thermoses of coffee in hand. His eyes are bleary and tired.
“You ready, Ryan?” he asks, handing me a thermos, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights.
“Yeah, I’m ready,” I reply, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
We load our gear into the truck, the weight of our supplies and weapons a physical reminder of the burden we carry. The drive from Lansing across the Lower Peninsula is long and quiet, the silence between us filled with unspoken memories and unresolved grief.
—
The drive north is a blur of highway lines and the dull hum of the engine. I drift off, the landscape outside blending into a haze. In my sleep, fragments of that day with Leah replay like scattered pieces of a puzzle. I see her smile, the way she tugged at my sleeve, eager to explore. The sunlight filters through the trees in sharp, jagged streaks.
Then, the memory shifts—darker, disjointed. Leah's voice echoes, a playful laugh turning into a scream that pierces the air. The crunch of leaves underfoot as something heavy moves through the underbrush. I see a shadow, large and looming, not quite fitting the shapes of any creature I know.
Then, something darker creeps into the dream, something I’ve never allowed myself to remember clearly.
Before I can see what it is I wake up with a start as the truck jerks slightly on a rough patch of road. Dad glances over. "Bad dream?" he asks. I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, the remnants of the dream clinging to me like the cold.
"Yeah, just... thinking about Leah," I manage to say.
As we drive, Dad attempts to bridge the silence with small talk. He asks about my finals, my plans for the summer, anything to keep the conversation going. His voice carries a forced cheerfulness, but it’s clear his heart isn’t in it. I respond when necessary, my answers brief, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery.
The landscape changes as we head further north, from flat expanses to rolling hills dotted with dense patches of forest. It's beautiful country, the kind that reminds you how vast and wild Michigan can be, but today it just feels oppressive, like it’s closing in on us.
—
We finally arrive at the cabin, nestled deep in the woods, its weathered wood blending seamlessly with the surrounding trees. The place hasn't changed much since the last time I was here—a relic from another time, filled with the echoes of our past. I can still see Leah running around the porch, her laughter ringing out into the forest.
Dad parks the truck, and we step out into the crisp air. The smell of pine and damp earth fills my nostrils. We start unloading our gear, the tension between us palpable.
“Let’s get this inside,” Dad says, his voice gruff as he hefts a duffel bag onto his shoulder.
I nod, grabbing my own bag and following him to the cabin. Inside, it’s a mix of old and new—the same rustic furniture, but with new hunting gear and maps strewn across the table. Dad’s obsession is evident in every corner of the room, a constant reminder of why we’re here.
As we unpack, we exchange strained attempts at normalcy. He talks about the latest cryptid sightings he’s read about, his eyes lighting up with a fervor that both worries and saddens me.
“Did you hear about the sighting up near Alpena?” he asks, laying out his maps on the table.
“Yeah, you mentioned it,” I reply, trying to muster some enthusiasm. “Do you really think there’s something to it?”
Dad’s eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of doubt. But it’s quickly replaced by grim determination. “I have to believe it, Ryan. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
We finish unpacking, the silence between us growing heavier with each passing minute. I step outside to clear my head, the cool air a welcome relief. The sun is starting to set, casting long shadows across the clearing. I can’t shake the feeling of unease.
"You can take the upstairs room," Dad mutters. His voice is strained, trying to sound normal, but it's clear the weight of the past is heavy on him. I nod, hauling my backpack up the creaking stairs to the small bedroom that I used to share with Leah. The room feels smaller now, or maybe I've just grown too much since those innocent days.
I unpack silently, setting my things aside. The bed is stiff and cold under my touch. As I settle in, I can't help but glance at the corner where Leah and I would huddle together, whispering secrets and making plans for adventures that would never happen. I push the thoughts away, focusing on the practicalities of unpacking.
After settling in, I go back downstairs to find Dad loading up a backpack with supplies for our hunt. The intensity in his eyes is palpable, his hands moving with practiced precision. I know this routine; it's one he's perfected over countless solo trips since that fateful day.
"We'll head out early," he says, not looking up from his task. "Gotta make the most of the daylight."
I nod, though unease curls in my stomach. I'm not just worried about what we might find—or not find—out there. I'm worried about him. Each year, the obsession seems to carve him out a bit more, leaving less of the Dad I knew.
—
The morning air is sharp with the scent of pine and wet earth as Dad and I head into the deeper parts of the forest. The terrain is rugged, familiar in its untamed beauty, but there’s a tension between us that makes the landscape feel alien. Dad moves with a purposeful stride, his eyes scanning the woods around us. Every snap of a twig, every rustle in the underbrush seems to draw his attention. He’s on edge, and it puts me on edge too.
As we walk, my mind drifts back to that day ten years ago. I can almost hear Leah’s voice echoing through the trees, her high-pitched call as she darted ahead, "Catch me, Ryan!" I remember how the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows on the ground. Those memories are so vivid, so tangible, it feels like I could just turn a corner and see her there, waiting for us.
Dad suddenly stops and kneels, examining the ground. He points out a set of tracks that are too large for a deer, with an unusual gait pattern. "It’s been here, Ry. I’m telling you, it’s close," he whispers, a mixture of excitement and something darker in his voice. I nod, though I’m not sure what to believe. Part of me wants to dismiss it all as grief-fueled obsession, but another part, the part that heard Leah's scream and saw something monstrous in the woods that day, isn’t so sure.
As we continue, Dad's comments become increasingly cryptic. "You know, they say the dogman moves in cycles, drawn to certain places, certain times. Like it’s tied to the land itself," he muses, more to himself than to me. His fixation on the creature has always been intense, but now it borders on mania.
We set up a makeshift blind near a clearing where Dad insists the creature will pass. Hours drag by with little to see but the occasional bird or distant deer.
The sun rises higher in the sky, casting long, slender shadows through the dense canopy. I shift uncomfortably in my spot, the forest floor hard and unyielding beneath me. My eyes dart between the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, to break the monotony. Dad, on the other hand, remains steadfast, his gaze fixed on the treeline as if he can will the dogman into existence by sheer force of will.
A bird chirps nearby, startling me. I sigh and adjust my grip on the rifle. I glance over at Dad.
“Anything?” I ask, more out of boredom than genuine curiosity.
“Not yet,” he replies, his voice tight. “But it’s out there. I know it.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I believe him. The forest seems too quiet, too still. Maybe we’re chasing ghosts.
As the sun begins its descent, the forest is bathed in a warm, golden light. The air cools, and a breeze rustles the leaves. I shiver, more from anticipation than the cold. The long hours of sitting and waiting are starting to wear on me.
“Let’s call it a day for now,” Dad says finally, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We’ll head back to the cabin, get some rest, and try again tomorrow.”
I stand and stretch, feeling the stiffness in my muscles. We pack up our gear in silence and start the trek back to the cabin. The walk is long and quiet, the only sounds are the crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant calls of birds settling in for the night.
—
Dinner is a quiet affair, both of us lost in our thoughts. I try to make small talk, asking Dad about his plans for tomorrow, but it feels forced. We clean up in silence.
After dinner, I retreat to the small bedroom. The fatigue from the day's hike has settled into my bones, but sleep still feels like a distant hope. I lie down, staring at the ceiling, the room cloaked in darkness save for the sliver of moonlight creeping through the window. Downstairs, I hear the faint sound of Dad moving around, likely unable to sleep himself.
I drift into sleep, but it's not restful. My dreams pull me back to that fateful day in the woods. Leah's voice is clear and vibrant, her laughter echoing through the trees. She looks just as she did then—bright-eyed and full of life, her blonde hair catching the sunlight as she runs ahead of me.
"Come on, Ry! You can't catch me!" she taunts, her voice playful and teasing.
I chase after her, but the scene shifts abruptly. The sky darkens, the woods around us growing dense and foreboding. Leah's laughter fades, replaced by a chilling silence. I see her ahead, standing still, her back to me.
"Leah?" I call out, my voice trembling. She turns slowly, her eyes wide and filled with fear. "Ryan, you have to remember," she says, her voice barely a whisper. "It wasn't what you think. You need to know the truth."
Leah’s words hang in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Before I can respond, she turns and starts running again, her figure becoming a blur among the trees. Panic rises in my chest as I sprint after her, my feet pounding against the forest floor.
“Leah, wait!” I shout, desperation lacing my voice. The forest around me seems to close in, the trees towering and twisted, shadows dancing menacingly in the dim light. I push forward, trying to keep her in sight, but she’s too fast, slipping away like a wisp of smoke.
Suddenly, there’s a rustle, a flash of movement in the corner of my vision. Leah screams, a sound that pierces through the heavy silence. It happens too quickly—I can’t see what it is, only a dark blur that snatches her up.
“Leah!” I scream, my voice breaking. I stumble, falling to my knees as the forest spins around me. My heart races, and the terror is so real, so visceral, that it pulls me back to that awful day, the one that changed everything.
I jolt awake, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I sit up, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead as I try to steady my breathing. The room is still dark, the shadows cast by the moonlight seem to flicker and dance on the walls. My heart is still racing from the nightmare, the echo of Leah's scream lingering in my ears.
As I struggle to calm down, the floorboards outside my room creak. The door opens slowly, and I see the silhouette of my dad in the doorway, a Bowie knife in his hand, his posture tense.
“Dad, what the hell are you doing?” I whisper, my voice shaking.
“Shh,” he hisses, holding up a hand to silence me. “I heard something. Something moving around in the cabin. Stay quiet.”
I swallow hard, my mouth dry. I glance at the clock on the nightstand—it’s just past three in the morning. The cabin is silent, the kind of deep, oppressive silence that makes every small sound seem louder. I can’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but Dad’s expression is deadly serious.
He motions for me to get up, and I do, moving as quietly as I can. My heart is racing, a mix of lingering fear from the dream and the sudden, sharp anxiety of the present moment. Dad leads the way, stepping cautiously out of the bedroom and into the hallway, the knife held ready in front of him.
We move through the cabin, checking each room in turn. The living room is empty, the furniture casting long shadows in the dim moonlight. The kitchen is just as we left it, the plates from dinner still drying on the counter. Everything seems normal, untouched.
We finish our sweep of the cabin without finding anything amiss. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by our soft footfalls. I can see the tension in Dad’s frame, his grip on the knife unwavering. After checking the last room, we pause in the dimly lit hallway, the air thick with unspoken questions.
“There’s nothing here,” I say, my voice low. “Are you sure you heard something?”
He looks at me, his eyes searching for something in my face. “I heard growling. Deep and close. It was right outside the window.”
“Maybe it was just an animal outside, a raccoon or something?” I suggest, although the certainty in his voice makes me doubt my own reassurance.
“No, it wasn’t like that. It was different,” he insists, his voice tense.
I nod, not wanting to argue, but the seeds of worry are planted deep.
The look in his eyes sends a chill down my spine. It’s not just fear—it’s desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of chasing shadows and finding nothing. I can see the toll this hunt has taken on him, the way it’s worn him down, turned him into a man I barely recognize.
We head back to our rooms. As I lie down, my mind races with thoughts of my dad. I can’t help but wonder if he’s losing it, if the years of grief and guilt have finally pushed him over the edge.
Dad wasn’t always like this. Before Leah’s death, he was the kind of father who took us fishing, helped with homework, and told terrible jokes that made us groan and laugh at the same time. He was solid, dependable. But losing Leah changed him. The guilt twisted him into someone I barely recognize, someone driven by a need for answers, for closure, that may never come.
I try to sleep, but my thoughts keep me awake. I can hear Dad moving around downstairs, probably pacing or double-checking the locks. His paranoia has become a constant presence, and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t even know if I can help him.
—
The next morning, the sunlight filters weakly through the cabin windows, casting a pale light that does little to lift the heavy mood. I drag myself out of bed, feeling the exhaustion of another restless night. Dad is already up, hunched over his maps at the kitchen table, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
“Morning,” I mumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I pour myself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep at all?”
He shakes his head, not looking up from his notes. “Not much. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I heard last night.”
I sip my coffee, trying to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. “Maybe it was just an animal, Dad. We’re deep in the woods, after all.”
He finally looks up, his eyes intense. “Ryan, I know what I heard. It wasn’t just an animal. It was something else.”
I sigh, not wanting to argue. “Okay, fine, Dad. What’s the plan for today?”
“We’re going back out. I found some tracks yesterday, and I want to follow them. See where they lead.”
I nod, feeling a mix of apprehension and resignation. I can see how much this means to him, how desperate he is for any kind of lead. “Alright. Let’s get packed and head out.”
We spend the morning preparing, loading up our gear and double-checking our supplies. Dad is meticulous, going over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I try to match his focus, but my mind keeps drifting back to Leah and the dream I had. Her words echo in my head, cryptic and unsettling: “You need to know the truth.”
We set off into the woods, the air crisp and cool. The forest is alive with the sounds of birds and rustling leaves, but it all feels distant, like background noise to the tension between us. Dad leads the way, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the tracks he found yesterday.
As we walk, I can’t help but notice how erratically he’s acting. He mutters to himself, his eyes darting around as if expecting something to jump out at us. His grip on his rifle is tight, his knuckles white.
“Dad, are you okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He glances at me, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine. Just focused.”
He stops frequently to examine the ground or the bark of trees, pointing out marks and signs that seem meaningless to me.
“Look at this,” he says, crouching down to examine a broken branch. “See how it’s snapped? That’s not a deer or a bear. That’s something bigger. Stronger.”
I crouch next to Dad, squinting at the broken branch. To me, it just looks like a regular broken branch, the kind you see all over the forest. "I don't know, Dad. It just looks like a branch to me," I say, trying to keep my voice neutral.
Dad's eyes flicker with frustration. "You're not looking close enough. It's the way it's snapped—too clean, too deliberate. Something did this."
I nod, not wanting to argue. "Okay, sure. But even if you're right, it could be anything. A storm, another hunter..."
His expression hardens. "I know what I'm looking for. This is different."
I sigh, feeling the weight of the past and the tension between us pressing down on me. "Dad, I had a dream last night. About Leah." The words hang in the air between us, heavy and fraught with unspoken emotions.
Dad's eyes widen, and he straightens up, his entire demeanor shifting. "What kind of dream? What did you see?" His voice is urgent, almost desperate.
"It was... strange. We were in the woods, like we are now, but everything felt different. Leah was there, running ahead of me, laughing. Then she stopped and told me I needed to know the truth, that it wasn't what I thought."
Dad grabs my shoulders, his grip tight. "What else did she say? Did she tell you anything specific? Anything about the creature?"
I shake my head, feeling a chill run down my spine. "No, that was it. She just said I needed to know the truth, and then she was gone."
Dad’s grip on my shoulders tightens, and his eyes bore into mine with a mixture of desperation and hope. “Ryan, you have to try to remember. Think hard. What did the creature look like? Did you see anything else?”
I pull back slightly, uneasy with his intensity. “Dad, I told you. I don’t remember. It was just a dream. A nightmare, really. My mind’s probably just mixing things up.”
He lets go of me and runs a hand through his hair, looking frustrated and lost. “Dreams can be important. They can hold memories we’ve buried deep. Please, try to remember. This could be a sign, a clue.”
I rub my temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache. “I’ve tried, okay? I’ve tried for years to piece together what happened that day. But it’s all just fragments, like pieces of a puzzle that don’t fit. The dream… it felt real, but I don’t think it’s telling me anything new.”
Dad’s face falls, and he looks older than I’ve ever seen him. He turns away, staring into the forest as if it holds all the answers.
—
As we make our way back to the cabin, the sun begins to set, casting long shadows through the trees. The air grows colder, and I shiver, pulling my jacket tighter around me. Dad is silent, lost in his thoughts, his face drawn and haggard.
Back at the cabin, we unload our gear once again in silence. Dad disappears into his room, muttering something about going over his notes. I decide to explore the cabin, hoping to find something that might help me understand what’s going on with him.
In the attic, I find a box of old family photos and documents. As I sift through the contents, I come across a worn journal with Dad’s handwriting on the cover. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I open it, flipping through the pages.
The journal is filled with notes and sketches, detailing his obsession with the dogman. But there’s something else—entries that talk about Leah, about that day in the woods. His handwriting becomes more erratic, the words harder to read. One entry stands out, dated just a few days after Leah’s death:
“June 15, 2013 – It was supposed to be a normal trip. Keep them close, Frank, I kept telling myself. But I failed. Leah is gone, and it’s my fault. I heard her scream, saw the shadows. I tried to get to her, but… the thing, it was there. Too fast. Too strong. My hands… blood everywhere. No one will believe me. I can’t even believe myself. I have to find it. I have to protect Ryan. I have to make it right. God, what have I done?”
Before I can read further, the attic door creaks open, and Dad’s voice slices through the stillness.
“What are you doing up here?” His tone is sharp, almost panicked.
I turn to see him standing in the doorway, his face pale and his eyes wide with something between anger and fear. I clutch the journal to my chest, my mind racing. “I found this… I was just trying to understand…”
In an instant, he crosses the room and snatches the journal from my hands. His grip is tight, his knuckles white. “You had no right,” he growls, his voice trembling.
“Dad, I just wanted to know the truth!” I shout, frustration boiling over. “What really happened to Leah.”
His eyes flash with a mix of rage and anguish, and before I can react, he slaps me across the face. The force of it knocks me off balance, and I stumble backward, my cheek stinging.
For a moment, there’s a stunned silence. We both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with tension.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says finally, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to… I just…” He trails off, clutching the journal to his chest like a lifeline.
I touch my cheek, feeling the heat from the slap, and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. “Dad, what aren’t you telling me? What really happened that day?”
“Stay out of it, Ryan,” Dad growls, his eyes dark with anger. “You don’t know what you’re messing with.”
He turns and storms out of the attic. I’m left standing there, my cheek throbbing, my mind racing. What the fuck is going on? What really happened to Leah? And what is Dad so afraid of?
—
That night, I sleep with my rifle within arm's reach, more afraid of my dad than any dogman. The slap still burns on my cheek, and the look in his eyes—rage, fear, something darker—haunts me. I lie awake, listening to the creaks and groans of the old cabin, every sound amplified in the stillness. Eventually, exhaustion pulls me under, and I fall into a restless sleep.
The dream returns, vivid and unsettling. I'm back in the woods, chasing after Leah. Her laughter echoes through the trees, a haunting reminder of happier times. This time, though, I push myself harder, refusing to let her slip away.
"Ryan, catch me!" she calls, her voice playful.
"I'm coming, Leah!" I shout, my legs pumping, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
The forest around us is a twisted, shadowy maze, the trees seeming to close in on us. Leah's figure becomes clearer, her blonde hair catching the dim light filtering through the canopy. She stops suddenly, turning to face me, her eyes wide with fear.
"Leah, what is it?" I ask, my voice trembling.
"Look behind you," she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I turn slowly, dread creeping up my spine. In the shadows, I see a figure, its form indistinct and shifting. It’s not quite animal, not quite human—something in between. The sight of it sends a jolt of terror through me, and I wake up with a start, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
I’m not in my bed. The ground beneath me is cold and hard, the smell of damp earth filling my nostrils. Panic rises as I realize I’ve sleepwalked into the woods. I scramble to my feet, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The moon casts a pale glow over the surroundings, revealing what looks like a long-abandoned animal lair.
The walls are covered in giant claw marks, deep gouges in the wood and earth. The air is heavy with the scent of decay, and a chill runs through me. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.
Carefully, I start to move, my eyes scanning the ground, desperate for a familiar landmark. That's when I see them—faded scraps of fabric caught on the jagged edges of the underbrush. My steps falter, a sense of dread washing over me as I bend down to examine them. The fabric is torn, weathered by time and the elements, but unmistakably familiar. It's part of Leah's jacket—the bright pink one she wore on the day she disappeared.
As I strain to make sense of it all, a rustling sound behind me snaps my focus. My heart leaps into my throat. I spin around, my hand instinctively reaching for the rifle I don't have—because, of course, I didn't bring it in my unconscious state.
The shadowy figure that emerges from the trees is unsettlingly familiar, mirroring the menacing forms of my nightmares. But as it steps into the moonlight, I recognize the worn jacket, the weary posture. It's Dad.
"Ryan!" he calls out, his voice a mix of relief and stern concern. "I've been looking everywhere for you. What the hell are you doing out here?"
I exhale slowly, the terror ebbing away as reality sets back in. "I—I don't know, Dad. I must've sleepwalked again." My voice is shaky, my earlier dream still clinging to the edges of my consciousness.
Dad stares at me in disbelief. "You haven't sleepwalked since you were a kid, Ry. This... this isn't just a coincidence." His eyes dart around, taking in the surroundings—the eerie, claw-marked den, the unsettling quiet of the woods. "How did you even find this place?"
I shake my head, struggling to find an answer. "I don't know, Dad. I just... I woke up here." The uncertainty in my voice does nothing to ease the tension.
His eyes lock onto the tattered remains of Leah's jacket in my hands, and something inside him snaps. The color drains from his face as he stumbles a few steps backward. "This... this is where it happened," he murmurs, his voice barely a whisper. “This is where we found Leah."
“I thought you said you don’t remember anything from that night,” he says accusingly.
"I swear, Dad, I don't know anything about this place," I insist, my own heart pounding.
“It was you, wasn’t it? You’ve been hiding this from me.” His voice is frantic. “You... last night, the growling, it was you.” His voice rises, tinged with hysteria.
I step back, my pulse racing, feeling the chill of the night and the weight of his accusation. "Dad, I don't know what you're talking ab—”
"No!" he interrupts, his voice breaking as he points a trembling finger at me. "You knew, you always knew. It was you, Ryan. All these years, the evidence was right there, but I refused to see it. You were the dogman. You killed Leah!"
His words hit me like a physical blow, absurd and horrifying in their implications. "Dad, you're not making any sense. You're talking crazy! I was just a little kid! How could I–" I protest, my voice shaky.
He steps closer, his presence looming over me, the outline of his figure distorted by the shadows of the trees. "Think about it! It all makes sense now. You led us here, to this place, because you remember. Because you did it."
"Dad, stop it!" I shout, my heart pounding in my chest. "You're scaring me. You need help, professional help. This isn't you."
But he's beyond reason, his eyes wild with a haunted grief. "I have to end this," he mutters, more to himself than to me, his hand tightening around his rifle.
His finger hovers dangerously over the trigger of his rifle. My instincts kick in, and I know I have to act fast.
I lunge toward him, trying to knock the weapon away, but he's quicker than I expected. We struggle, our breaths heavy in the cold night air, the sounds of our scuffle the only noise in the otherwise silent woods. His strength surprises me, fueled by his frantic emotions. He shoves me back, and I stumble over a root, my balance lost for a crucial second. That's all he needs. He raises his rifle, his intentions clear in his wild, pained eyes.
I dive to the ground just as the shot rings out, a deafening blast that echoes ominously through the trees. The bullet whizzes past, narrowly missing me, embedding itself in the bark of an old pine. I scramble to my feet, my heart pounding in my ears, and I start running. The underbrush claws at my clothes and skin, but I push through, driven by a primal urge to survive.
"Dad, stop! It's me, Ryan!" I shout back as I dodge between the trees. Another shot breaks the silence, closer this time, sending splinters of wood flying from a nearby tree trunk. It's surreal, being hunted by my own father, a man tormented by grief and lost in his delusions.
I don't stop to look back. I can hear him crashing through the forest behind me, his heavy breaths and muttered curses carried on the wind. The terrain is rough, and I'm fueled by adrenaline, but exhaustion is setting in. I need a plan.
Ahead, I see a rocky outcrop and make a split-second decision to head for it. It offers a chance to hide, to catch my breath and maybe reason with him if he catches up. As I reach the rocks, I slip behind the largest one, my body pressed tight against the cold, damp surface. I hear his footsteps approaching, slow and cautious now.
As I press against the rock, trying to calm my racing heart, I can hear Dad's footsteps drawing closer, each step crunching ominously on the forest floor. He's methodical, deliberate, like a hunter stalking his prey.
“Come out, Ryan!” Dad’s voice is ragged, filled with a blend of fury and pain.
My heart pounds against my chest, the cold sweat on my back making me shiver against the rough surface of the rock. I know I can't just sit here; it's only a matter of time before he finds me.
Taking a deep breath, I peek around the edge of the rock, trying to gauge his position. I see him, rifle raised, scanning the area slowly. This might be my only chance to end this madness without further violence. I need to disarm him, to talk some sense into him if I can.
As quietly as I can, I move out from behind the rock, my steps careful to avoid any twigs or leaves that might betray my position. I'm almost upon him when a branch snaps under my foot—a sound so trivial yet so alarmingly loud in the quiet of the woods.
Dad whirls around, looking completely unhinged. "Ryan!" he exclaims, his rifle swinging in my direction. Panic overtakes me, and I lunge forward, my hands reaching for the gun.
We struggle, the rifle between us, our breaths heavy and erratic. "Dad, please, stop!" I plead, trying to wrestle the gun away. But he's strong, stronger than I expected.
In the chaos, the rifle goes off. The sound is deafening, a sharp echo that seems to reverberate off every tree around us. Pain explodes in my abdomen, sharp and burning, like nothing I've ever felt before. I stagger back, my hands instinctively going to the wound. The warmth of my own blood coats my fingers, stark and terrifying.
Dad drops the rifle, his eyes wide with horror. "Oh my God! What have I done?" he gasps, rushing to my side as I collapse onto the forest floor.
As the pain sears through me, a strange, overpowering energy surges within. It's wild, primal, unlike anything I've ever experienced. Looking down in horror, my hands are no longer hands but large, hairy, clawed appendages. The transformation is rapid, consuming—my vision blurs, senses heighten, and a raw, guttural growl builds in my throat.
In that moment, a flood of understanding washes over me, mingling with the horror of realization. These are the hands of the creature from my nightmares, the creature whose face I can never fully recall because, as I now understand, it is me.
What happens next feels detached, as if I'm no longer in control of my own actions, watching from a distance as my body moves on its own. I turn towards my dad, his face a mask of terror. He stumbles back, his eyes wide with the dawning realization of what his son has become.
The forest around us seems to fall silent, holding its breath as the nightmarish scene unfolds. I can hear my own growls, guttural and deep, filling the air with a sound that's both foreign and intimately familiar. The pain in my abdomen fuels a dark, violent urge, an urge that's too strong to resist.
With a ferocity that feels both alien and intrinsic, I move towards him. My dad, paralyzed by fear and shock, doesn't run. Maybe he can't. Maybe he doesn't want to.
The encounter is brutal and swift, a blur of motion and violence. My dad barely puts up a struggle, as though resigned to his fate.
Not that there is anything he can do. The creature that I’ve become is too powerful, too consumed by the wild instincts surging through me. I tear him apart, limb from bloody limb, my hands—no, my claws—rending through fabric and flesh with disgusting ease.
The sound of my dad’s screams, of tearing fabric and flesh is drowned out by the animalistic growls that echo through the trees.
When it’s all over, the red mist that had clouded my vision begins to fade, and the fierce, uncontrollable rage that drove my actions subsides. I'm left standing, my breaths heavy and erratic, in the eerie stillness of the forest. The transformation reverses as quickly as it came on, and I find myself back in my human form. My clothes are ripped to shreds, hanging off my frame in tattered remnants. At my feet lies what’s left of my dad, his body torn and unrecognizable.
I glance down at my abdomen, expecting agony, but instead find my wound miraculously healed. No sign of the gunshot remains, just a faint scar where I expected a bloody mess.
Shock sets in, a numbing disbelief mixed with a gut-wrenching realization of what I've become and what I've done. My hands, now human again, tremble as I look at them, half-expecting to see the claws that had so effortlessly ripped through flesh and bone. But there's only blood, my father's blood against my skin.
I stand there for what feels like an eternity, trapped in a nightmare of my own making.
Eventually, the shock wears thin, and a cold practicality takes hold. I need to get out of here. I need to cover my tracks, to disappear. Because who would believe this? Who would understand that I didn't choose this, that I'm not a monster by choice?
With trembling hands, I do what’s necessary. I bury my dad in a shallow grave, the physical act of digging strangely grounding. I cover him with leaves and branches, a pitiful attempt to hide the brutality of his end. I take a moment, whispering apologies into the wind, knowing full well that nothing I say can change what happened.
I leave the forest behind, my mind a whirl of dark thoughts. As I walk, the first hints of dawn brush against the horizon, the sky bleeding a soft pink. It’s hauntingly beautiful.