For real, it comes with a heavy heart to see the Canucks lose in game seven like that. To think that they went the distance in round two without their top goalie (or even backup), and then lost their top goal scorer to boot. If you rewind and get a healthy Demko and Boesser, there is no universe where we aren't facing off.
That team is going to be a monster in the next few years and it was such a great feeling for them to put pride back into their uniform after the dark days, and all the other shit. I hate the consolation verbiage of "looking scary* but Vancouver fits it so well. Geez, those guys couldn't catch a break in the playoffs and my heart wants them to do well so badly.
And now that we're here. We can be allies for a brief window before we eventually have to battle one another for the supremacy of the West. I am so happy that the Stars can offer Canuck fans an opportunity for REVENGE. Together, with our relatively small subreddit of fans, and your world-renouned meme game, we can cheer against the endless circle jerk of Mcdavid hype we are about to see. Yes I want the cup to go back to Canada, but I want you to bring it there first.
Really looking forward to the series against Edmonton and I hope to see more Vancouver fans here! Y'all are welcome to this safe space.

Hello...again. I'm still crusading with everything that has helped me live (mostly) Chiari symptom free for many years, and the next idea I want to share is uncomfortable. It won't feel good to read but if you think it doesn't relate to you I promise you--it relates to everyone and anyone who has a chronic condition or is sick in any way.
Little info about me:
Type 1 Chiari, 20mm. Diagnosed 2016; surgery was offered but not taken. My primary symptom was/occasionally is debilitating head pain from strain/pressure.
Links to my previous posts on the subject:
Living Well With Chiari - Without Surgery
Take a Life Inventory
Reducing Triggers
Improving Overall Health
Now...
Don’t hate me for asking, but…what do you get out of being sick?
No one consciously likes being sick. No one longs for the skull-splitting pain that can accompany a Chiari malformation. No one relishes dizzy spells and nausea and eye sensitivity and poor coordination or the other twenty dozen symptoms that our doctors may or may not take seriously, that there may or may not be treatment for, and that may or may not rule our lives BUT with every illness there is always some kind of advantage.
At my worst, Chiari was the BEST at getting me out of things. Excruciating pain excused me from everything. Family gatherings, friend parties, work events…cleaning the house, taking care of myself, or doing anything other than watching TV and drinking wine. I didn’t have to do SHIT. Because I couldn’t. And the Chiari was permission to give no fucks what anyone else wanted or needed or how they felt about my withdrawal from life. It was the ultimate get-out-of-jail-free card.
I mean, I was miserable…but I was basking in that misery.
I was in so much pain I couldn’t think about how to live better. I couldn’t worry about such things as my weight or the future of my writing or how filthy my floors were. I was barely living. And it was awful.
It was also a way out.

i was a sick person.

To my core, that was me: SICK. I didn’t realize how bad it was until my husband—who never gets a cold—complained of a virus and my internal dialogue went something like this: What? He thinks he’s sick? What a laugh! He’s not sick. NOBODY is sick like me.
I owned illness above all else. I hated it, but it was MINE. Every coughing fit, every spike of head pain, every wall I stumbled into, every night I cried myself to sleep. Being sick was who I became.
And I would never get well until I stopped being a sick person.
The Chiari had its sneaky tendrils snaked into every facet of my life, like we were woven together in a most elaborate tapestry of illness and pain. To begin healing, I had to untether from it. I had to separate myself from every Chiari strand until every fiber of my being was free.
If it sounds metaphorical, it’s not. It’s literal and simple (though seldom easy). Every time Chiari became a thought or an excuse, that was my cue to change the dialogue. For example, when I was contemplating changing jobs, I remembered my brief stint as a bartender in 2011 and immediately my brain said: I can’t do that anymore; what if I have a coughing fit behind the bar? Limiting beliefs running rampant in my brain needed to get shut down and rewritten into something more supportive, like: I would love to work with animals or in nature. That’s the kind of job I should be looking for!
In that kind of rewrite, I’m not denying that I might encounter pain or discomfort, but I’m choosing not to let pain or discomfort be the focus or run the show. Instead of looking at what I don’t want to experience, I’m putting my attention on the things that I do.
More than changing my thoughts, I had to stop using Chiari as an excuse to get out of living…and everything else…which meant showing up one minute at a time in all the places that I used to avoid, being present with all the people and situations the Chiari had shielded me from.

if i wanted to live without its pain, i also had to live without its protection.

Now, it’s true that there are plenty of legitimate physical limitations that accompany illnesses, Chiari included, but the problem comes when you talk yourself out of anything and everything because of them. I could get out of bed, I just chose not to. I could show up in life, I just chose not to. I could write a book or clean my house or have a kid…I just chose not to.
Or, rather, the Chiari chose for me.
Pandering to Chiari’s whims wasn’t limited to thoughts. It was in every decision I made, every choice to live small, every act to hide and shut down. It was in the purse that I carried (will it fit a water bottle to stave off a coughing fit?), the places that I went (can’t go there, the air in that store is guaranteed to tickle my lungs), the way I spent my time (I can’t visit those friends…I’ll have too much fun and want to laugh and laughing hurts so my head so much), and plans for the future (how can I have children when I can’t even take care of myself?).
Untethering from Chiari took work. And it’s still ongoing. Most of the ways that I have used Chiari to limit myself have been eradicated. My life, as a result, looks vastly different than it did in 2016 at the height of the pain. Today I’m a stay at home mom with a son, I have energy, I take Zumba classes, I write every day, my fiction has been produced by podcasts, I spend time outdoors every day, I laugh (sometimes it still hurts), I go into stores (sometimes) without bottles of water, I don’t drink wine every night (I don’t need to), and I’m free from the anxiety and depression that was once as crippling as the head pain that I only seldom experience. I am living.
If there’s one strand that I haven’t untethered from yet, it’s the fear around getting sick. I am terrified of being around sick people. I can’t even blame COVID, though it certainly contributed to the anxiety. I don’t know if I’ll ever be comfortable with someone coughing in my vicinity, knowing how bad it will hurt my head if I catch whatever they’re hacking up, and I don’t know if it’s necessarily a bad thing to keep my distance when I know someone is sick (I mean, shouldn’t we be doing that anyway?) but I’m trying to be less afraid. Or, at least, I’m trying to be less of a jerk about it when that fear takes over and people don’t understand why their cold is literally my kryptonite.
What I don’t do is use Chiari as an excuse to get out of living. I show up every day in every way and life keeps getting better. Bigger. Chiari Free.

"We're your mates." Mates? Six mates? How could it be?! "Wait a minute... you said all of you. That's not how mates work. Fated mates are two people, not an entire harem." I hissed as I shook my head. "This conversation is ridiculous because it's not real." Silence filled the space between us for several long seconds. "You really want us to leave?" My stomach twisted at his words. We just met, and yet he sounded devastated as he asked the question. I silently cursed myself for causing the change I heard. If I was a better person, I would say something else. "Yes." "Fine, we'll leave, but only on one condition. Buss each one of us. Then, if you feel nothing, we'll walk out of here without protest." ———————— I would die in this very spot, and no one would have a clue. Six hours... I'd been trapped under this pile of random things for six hours. My hips and back ached from how long I'd been stuck in this exact position. I'd tried everything I could think of, but the massive pile of unknown stuff never moved. Something heavy had landed on my back, keeping me pinned face down on scattered newspapers and the occasional book. How did I know there were books when I couldn't see them? Because of the sharp corners stabbing into me. If that level of depressing suckage wasn't enough, I had to pee. My bladder hurt... felt like it was about to burst. Because of course, the first time I decided to drink spirits, I'd end up faced and trapped under a pile of a hoarder's treasure. To relieve some of the pressure off my cheek, I dug my shoulder into the newspaper floor and tilted my head until my forehead pressed against the mess underneath me. The small amount of relief I felt from the change of position was enough to stop me from going insane. For now. Ding dong. "You've got to be shitting me." I grumbled into the ancient newspapers. Someone at the door wouldn't matter. I couldn't get off the floor... erm, pile of stuff that acted as a floor, to answer the door. Whoever was on the other side would eventually think someone wasn't home and leave. And so would my only chance at being rescued. "Ha." I couldn't stop the sarcastic laugh from escaping. Even if they did come in, whoever they were wouldn't want to sign up for this insanity. I didn't even want to deal with this nightmare my life had become. Thanks mom. Ding dong. Ding dong. Who rang the doorbell multiple times? Seriously, just go away and let me die. Sure, I would be in the hall of shame for dumb ways to go, but I'd already accepted my fate. Not only would I die in one of the most embarrassing ways in history, I'd go with the dullest life experiences. Why? Because I'd always done what I was supposed to do... every single expectation my parents had, I jumped at the chance to please them. I was an idiot. A boring, lame, not once destined to save the world, sheltered little girl that grew in an inexperienced woman. My life was pathetic. "Parker, are you okay?" The deep voice sent shivers through me. I imagined this unknown man growling in my ear. Then my senses came back to me. While I was on the verge of being crushed to death, someone had broken into my house. Great, just what I needed. Good luck mister robber. If you can find anything valuable, then you deserved it. The logical side of my brain caught up to current events. First thing, a robber wouldn't call out my name as he broke into my house. Second, I didn't know anyone with a voice so delicious... uh, I meant distinct. Yeah. Should I respond or hope they gave up and left? My mother would have insisted I remain silent. Her voice slid through my memory. "Men were a distraction to a woman's career." I rolled my eyes at the phrase she'd said throughout my childhood and even after I'd moved out on my own. If I was going to leave this world, it would be after doing something ridiculous. I'd call the man with the delicious voice over, then I could die from embarrassment. "I'm over here!" What I'd intended to be a shout came out more as a breathy moan. I barely had room to breathe. It seemed shouting was impossible. A burning hot pain shot through my neck as I tried to turn my head to see the footsteps that approached. Nope, that wasn't going to happen. My mysterious, silver tongued hero or burglar's looks would have to remain a mystery just a bit longer. "Over here!" Just like last time, his voice made me shudder. With a voice like that, the man had to be hot. I hoped he had a beard... and tattoos. Not only would it make my mother roll in her grave, I'd always loved looking at burly, tatted up, bearded guys. Add in hair that was long enough to pull and I couldn't think of a good reason to ever leave the house. The crushing weight finally lifted off me. I sucked in a deep breath, then immediately regretted it as I choked on the oxygen. My lungs seized as the rush of air shocked them. Hands grabbed my arms and shoulders, then the world tilted as they lifted me to my feet. I bent over and grabbed my knees as my equilibrium spun. Hands patted my back, helping me calm. Actually, there were more than two hands. I counted enough to equal three people. When I got my breathing under control, I dared follow the black boots that stood at the top of my vision. My gaze slid up, taking in black cargo pants that rode low on a pair of hips. Further up, a black tactical vest contained... bottles of cleaning solution. What the heck? The moment I went full vertical, my balance tilted again. I stepped back to catch myself. In front of me stood a massive man, the kind I had to look up to just to catch a view of his chin... his bearded chin. My fingers itched with the need to touch it. I didn't. It would be weird to stroke a hot stranger's beard. Wouldn't it? I shook my head. Of course it would be weird. I turned, taking in the four men and one woman standing all around me. The sound of newspapers sliding preceding my right foot slid out from underneath me. The giant of a man caught me before I fell on my hips in front of everyone. They all wore similar black tactical gear with cleaning supplies. Colorful bottles of solution, a duster, a roll of trash bags, and... was that a broom and a mop with shoulder straps? Who were these people? "Parker, are you okay?" The deliciously deep voice asked from behind me. After a few tries, I accepted the fact that I was speechless. My brain nudged at me, telling me I'd missed a crucial detail. Every brain cell misfired as I looked them over again. Correction, five of them wore black tactical gear. Every single one of them was drop dead gorgeous, and it made me feel out of place. One of the guys stood off to the side with his arms crossed over his chest. I blinked. No, that couldn't be right. I blinked again, but the sight stayed the same. A man stood taller than those closest to him. Peeking over his crossed arms was a ruffled white fabric with black lace woven through it and tied in a bow. There was even a small scattering of chest hair sticking over the edge. The hem of the skirt ended well above his knee, revealing a tattoo that covered his entire right thigh. My gaze traveled up to his face. A plush black beard contrasted with the skimpy maid's outfit he wore. "I..." Words failed me again. I gestured to the man whose outfit didn't fit the others. He rolled his eyes as he tightened his grip on his arms. "They thought it would be funny to prank me. Did you know, not only did they buy this ridiculous outfit, they stole the rest of my clothes, so I'd have to wear this?" "Uh, no. I don't even know who all of you are." For whatever reason, it hadn't dawned on me that all these incredibly attractive people were standing in my house. Like inside, where they could take in the horror of what my mother left me to inherit. Mortification slammed into me. They'd seen the awful mess. "You all need to leave." "Parker?" The burly man's voice from behind me caught my attention. He waited until I turned around to continue. "You don't remember asking us to come here, do you?" Ice slid down my spine. I'd been pretty drunk last night, but since I'd never had spirits before and I'd decided to take shots of everything in my mother's 'social hour' cabinet, I wasn't even surprised I'd woken up with a hangover. "How much did you have to drink last night?" "Seeing how I'm awake now, apparently not enough. Who are you, and how do you know me?" The man bared his teeth at me, making a sound that I could only describe as a hiss. "Never again. From now on, if you need something, you ask us." I dismissed him with a wave of my hand. "Why would I ask you anything?" "Because we're your mates." Hard stop. Mates? A giddy feeling in my belly told me he didn't mean a friend. I held a finger up for him to give me a minute. A sharp pain slid through my abdomen, reminding me I had yet to relieve myself after my drunken night of mistakes. One of the other men spoke up. "I know it's a lot to take in, and you're probably really confused, but we are all your fated mates." I'd read enough werewolf romance novels to know what they meant, and they were dead wrong. Shifters weren't real. "Yeah mate, tell us what you need, and we'll get it for you." "I need to pee." And with that, I stomped out to the nearest bathroom and locked myself inside. Why wouldn't the ground open and swallow me whole? I sat on the bathroom floor with my back propped against the wall and hugged my legs to my chest as I rested my forehead on my knees. Not only had people witnessed the horror I lived in, but they had to be the hottest people in the world. Even the woman had made me look twice and left me shoving a deeper desire I refuse to even consider right now. Knock, knock. "Parker?" It was the giant of a man's voice. Why couldn't they leave so I could be alone? "Go away." I heard sounds on the other side of the door that sounded like he'd sat on the floor. "Come out and talk to us." I pressed my forehead against my knee harder, trying to ignore the giant bearded intercourse god. "Or, just talk to me. We're worried about you." My chest seized as I forced myself to take a deep breath. Irrational anger surged inside of me. Why didn't they understand I didn't want them here? "You don't even know me." The sound of his deep chuckle sent a warm wave of desire through me. Stupid hormones. "Twenty-four hours ago, I would have agreed with you. After last night, I feel like I know you on a level most others never will." What did I do last night? I still couldn't remember what I'd done. I swore to myself I'd never drink again. "It was all lies." "Why are you trying to push us away? What would be so wrong with letting someone in to help for once?" Memories of my parents’ fighting came back to me. It was my tenth birthday. When my dad found out my mom bought a cake for my birthday, he'd attacked her. Everything was a blur until he'd pinned her against the wall. She held a knife to his crotch and threatened him. He'd left and never returned that day. My mind shut down, preventing me from thinking about it any longer. "Because I can't afford to pay you and no one does anything out of the kindness of their heart." I couldn't keep the sarcastic tone out of my voice as I said it. "Parker, you're missing a vital part of this dynamic." Silently, I chanted over and over for him to not use the word mates again. It couldn't be real. Paranormal romance novels weren't real... neither were shifters nor the perfect person walking into my life and devoting themselves to me. That was a fairytale, not reality. "Mates. Just to see a smile cross your lips, I'd clean this entire property. Throw in the others, and we'd do anything to see you happy." He tapped something on the door. "I can scent your annoyance through the door." "Wait a minute... you said all of you. That's not how mates work. Fated mates are two people, not an entire harem." I hissed as I shook my head. "This conversation is ridiculous because it's not real." Silence filled the space between us for several long seconds. "You really want us to leave?" My stomach twisted at his words. We just met, and yet he sounded devastated as he asked the question. I silently cursed myself for causing the change I heard. If I was a better person, I would say something else. "Yes." "Fine, we'll leave, but only on one condition. Buss each one of us. Then, if you feel nothing, we'll walk out of here without protest." I banged my head on my knee. That wouldn't work. They weren't even in the room with me and I already felt things. No way could I buss even one of them without having a reaction. "No." "Is that because you already know what I'm saying is true, or are you just being stubborn?" Before I could think about why he had said it, I jumped up and threw the door open to glare at him. "Are you always a jerk?" The confidence disappeared as I looked up into his eyes. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it closed behind me, pushing me against him in the process. His gaze locked on mine as he lowered his head until we were almost bussing. "Never, but I'm not above riling you up to help give you the boost you need to confront a situation with confidence." Now that he was so close, I couldn't remember why I'd locked myself in the bathroom. Everything around us disappeared except the door his hard body pressed me against. His free hand caressed my cheek. "Can you genuinely tell me you don't feel the bond trying to form between us?" I clamped my jaw closed. If I didn't admit it out loud, then it wasn't real, but he was right. I could feel a... connection to him and the others. It didn't make sense, and I might not want it, but was most definitely there. His lips brushed against mine ever so slightly, sending a wave of fire through me. I gripped the straps of his black tactical vest to pull him closer, but he didn't budge. He chuckled as he moved from my lips to my ear. "Mate, if I buss you, I won't stop until you're mine. It might not be today or tomorrow, but I will claim you and make you mine." "And if I say we're not mates?" "Your mouth might lie, but your body and soul can't." I heard him inhale deep at my neck. "I can smell your need to claim me. It fills my senses until it's all I can think about. I've just found you and already you've consumed my entire world." It was bizarre, but I completely understood what he meant. Somewhere deep down inside of me, the idea of kicking out even one of them left me feeling raw. Six mates... and one of them was a woman. I'd known I was attracted to both genders from a young age, but I'd always locked that part of me away. My mom flipped at the idea of me dating a single man. I couldn't even fathom how hard she was rolling over in her grave at having six lovers. It was so much to process. "Come on, let's go back to the others." His voice pulled me back to reality. "Not yet." Suddenly, I didn't want to move. When I felt his body pull back, I gripped his vest tighter. My gut twisted as I decided to throw a lifetime of caution out the window. "buss me." He growled deep in his chest as his hands slid down my sides until he cupped my hips. A squeal of surprise escaped me as he lifted me up, then held me against his chest as he pressed me against the door. "You're mine... ours." Then his buss consumed me, mind, body, and soul. It felt as if our life forces bonded together. The mere thought of letting go of this man became too much. It was in that moment I realized I'd screwed up. I'd never be able to give him up, or the others, without ripping my own heart from my chest. I regretted so much in my life. What was one more? I sank my hands into his hair, gripping it at the roots, and tilted his head back. Our buss broke. A smug satisfaction slid through me when I realized he was breathing as hard as I was, but I wasn't done throwing out stupid rules my mother had forced on me. I pulled his head until I'd exposed his neck. The edge of a tribal tattoo peeked out under his shirt. I trailed the tip of my tongue along the dark lines, then bussed a trail along his neck. He moved until only one hand cupped my hips. His other hand caressed the back of my neck, urging me to do whatever I wanted to him. I tightened my legs around his waist, lifting myself higher as my busses moved along the edge of his beard. "That is hot." Another man's voice made it through my lusty fog. "Yeah, can't wait until it's my turn." Someone else said. I pulled back and realized my five other mates were watching us make out. All of them had a hunger in their eyes I'd never seen before...

I want to thank Meatcanyon and Wendigoon for starting Creepcast. I've played around with writing horror, and here is my first short story. I will post it for free in a few other places to see what people think. Please enjoy!
A Hike to Remember
By R.L. Oclen
Chapter 1
A woman sits with hastily pulled-up fire-red hair in the waiting room of the state patrol station. The procedurally sterile off-white walls and decade-old magazines do little for comfort. With her head hanging low, her shoulders pushing forward, and her boots rapidly tapping on the floor, something has to give.
"Please just let her be okay." The woman growls as a pair of officers come in from the field. The officers' demeanors quickly change when they see the familiar face.
"Tabitha, did Officer Nichols call you?" one of the state patrol officers asked sympathetically.
"Yes, he asked me to come in and pick up a few things," Tabitha said, shooting back a muted look.
" I'll let them know you're here." The officer said, nodding to Tabitha as they passed the security door. Tabitha leaned back against the hard plastic chair, staring blankly into the fluorescent light. She had done this dance in the macabre repeatedly over the past month. The last image of her younger sister, Lisa, still burned in her mind. Tabitha had always been protective over her younger sister after their parents died. A pang of guilt shoots through her chest as she thinks about her and Lisa's argument.
"Tabitha Hymm, Officer Nichols is ready for you."
"Okay," she stood up, shaking off her guilt, and followed the officer back. The familiar surroundings of the state patrol station blurred as Tabitha stared forward. She followed the officer as they came to a rustic wooden office door, which was embossed with "Officer Nichols."
The escorting officer turns the old brass door knob. "Sir, I have Tabitha Hymm here." A grizzled West Virginia Highway State Patrol veteran sits behind the desk and nods. The escorting officer steps aside, pushing the door open as Tabitha pushes past him and slumps in the awaiting chair like so many times before. An uncomfortable relationship had formed between the two, born out of necessity and duty.
"Cup of coffee?"
"No thanks. Let's just cut to the chase. You don't have anything new?"
The worn laugh lines and Officer Nichols's face flattens. His eyebrows contour sympathetically as he shakes his head.
"Tabitha, I don't have anything else new for you. I wanted to give you the clothes returned from the lab." Her face darkened at the same response she had heard many times.
"As we discussed two weeks ago, there is nothing new and no signs of struggle or foul play," Officer Nichols said while placing a box marked evidence on the table and sliding it forward. Tabitha began to weep at the realization of Lisa's clothes in front of her. In a coordinated queue, Officer Nichols brought out a box of tissues. Reluctantly, Tabitha took a few moments to unblur her vision.
"How does someone stop their car in the middle of the Remington West Virginia State Park, lock it, and then walk into the woods?" Officer Nichols clasped his hands together and sighed at her worn question.
"Tabitha, I wish I had an answer for why your sister stopped her car in the woods and simply walked off. We're still going through her cell phone, but no signs exist that anyone forced her. On that Tuesday morning, she pulled over to the side of the road, secured her car, and walked away." Officer Nichols said empathetically.
Tabitha became stoic at the same explanation she had heard many times before. " So what next?"
"You should go back to Ohio, and I'll contact you as soon as I have more information." She winced at Officer Nichols's words. Reality began to pull at her that bills and work wouldn't wait much longer.
"If I leave, she's gone for good."
" You staying won't bring her back." Officer Nichols said sympathetically.
" So is that it? She's just gone?"
" Tabitha, I'll be honest with you. In cases like this… when people do things like this. Recovery is harder in the spring due to the weather and the animals. You know her mental condition better than I do. I can't explain why she did what she did. But until I find a solution, a suicide note, some intention, or body. She's not here. Tabitha, I'm-"
" Don't you fucking say sorry!" Tabitha stood up, screaming at Officer Nichols, throwing the plastic chair backward against the wall. " I should just look for myself."
"No!" Officer Nichols said momentarily, gripping the desk as his face hardened, then relaxed. Tabitha was caught off guard by Officer Nichols, who was normally composed. "Tabitha, I know this is unbearable. I've sat on this side of the desk and had these conversations. Trust me; I need you to be safe if I need your help later."
Tabitha nods, knowing Officer Nichols is right. She reaches down, picks up the evidence box of her sister's belongings, and leaves.
" Tabitha, if you're heading home, don't stop your car; just keep driving." Tabitha stops to look at Officer Nichols, feeling an eeriness to his words.
" Goodbye, Officer Nichols," Tabitha said as she closed the rustic wooden door behind her. She counted the tiles as she exited the West Virginia State Patrol Station. Placing her sister's belongings carefully in the back seat of her Jeep, Tabitha then sat momentarily behind the steering wheel, staring at the emblem. The familiar numbness washed over Tabitha as she pushed the start button. She pulled onto the highway, driving to the motel that had been home for the last month or so. Muted pop music accented the drive back as her mind raced with questions. Once inside the two-and-a-half-star motel room, Tabitha sat her sister's belongings on the corner table, crumbled onto the bed, and cried.
***
Tabitha wiped the steam from the slightly spotted mirror above the bathroom sink. The hot water from the shower felt good and loosened some of the stress from her body. Looking back at her, Tabitha's face was framed by damp curls around her shoulders. Her face marked the stress of the past month. Frowning, she examined the bags under her eyes; sleep had to come tonight. Walking into the living area, She changed into her favorite gym shorts and oversized sleep shirt. The alarm on her phone flashed "7:00 am," so she could drive home five hours after breakfast.
Tabitha hated feeling comfortable in this once strange room, but falling asleep was getting easier now. Her eyes closed slowly as the ceiling fan droned evenly. At first, nothing came in her dreams, but she let her guard down and slipped further into sleep.
As she dreamed of floating overhead like a bird of prey, Tabitha soared over the vast Remington National Park. The high noon sun bore down on the crisp woods, perfectly contrasting sky and forest. The heat of the sun felt good on her feathers. Distant cries rang out through the dream-like forest, catching her attention. Tabitha tilted her wings toward the screams, feeling a sense of familiar curiosity.
She now recognized the sobs and cries for help as she flew closer, her sharp eyes locked on her sister leaning against a large oak tree. She glided overhead without care, examining the situation below. Lisa clung to the tree, her eyes darting back and forth, scanning upwards. Lisa's face reflected desperation, looking for help in any direction. Tabitha lazily circles Lisa several times before perching on a sturdy branch higher in one of the oak trees. She watched Lisa intently with hunger. She bellowed deeply, hearing the unnatural sound she made, catching Lisa's eyes. Lisa's expression changed; she became calm, almost uncaring, as she stared back at Tabitha's form. Hunger grew exponentially in Tabitha as she spread her large wings. Her large eyes gaze down at Lisa before diving straight for her sister.
Tabitha jolts awake to the alarm on her phone flashing "7:23 AM." She breathes in sharply, shaking off the last horrible thoughts from the reoccurring nightmare. The strange details become more vivid each time. The lingering memories of folk stories her mother told sat in the back of her mind. In those stories, the dead would reach out in dreams as a matter of warning. Leaning back on the headboard, she searched for the advice her psychologist gave her. During their last session, Dr. Ryland explained dreams are a form of self-actualization of guilt. He told Tabitha that it was natural to feel responsible when losing a loved one in this manner.
Tabitha grumbled, lightly running her hands through her red hair; she pushed everything to the back of her mind. "Get it together!" She grumbled to herself. She pushed herself off the bed and got ready to leave. It was going to be a long trip home, and the only thing she could do now was leave things in the authorities' hands. Packing up was pretty easy since she only cycled through the outfits she brought. The local laundromat must have made a small fortune off her. Tabitha took one last look at the box of Lisa's belongings before throwing them in her duffle bag. She was thankful she didn't have to spend another night in this room.
***
Tabitha sat behind the wheel, waiting for the 90's model minivan to finish their order so she could grab a breakfast burrito on the way out. Considering the situation, the Deer Stop Family Restaurant did have a good breakfast. Finally, pulling up to the 70-style drive-in board, Tabitha rolled off the order she had been accustomed to. " I'll take a large iced tea with the double breakfast burrito meal and hash browns, please."
" Would you like some happy hot sauce with that?"
" That's fine, and a few ketchup packets as well."
" Your total is $8.79. Please pull around."
She pulled around to her window, flashed her debit card, got the receipt, and waited for her food. Luckily, the young woman serving her wasn't very talkative in the morning. The last thing she wanted was a conversation about the weather or meaningless small talk.
" Here's your large iced tea and breakfast meal. Ketchup and happy hot sauce are inside."
" Thanks," Tabitha said while mustering her best fake smile. The woman only smiled and nodded as the service window automatically closed. She pulled into the parking lot and dug into breakfast. Turning the radio to the weather, Tabitha sat back and enjoyed her meal. The local DJ read through the headlines, making nonpartisan comments about politics and grumbling about improving the economy. Tabitha powered through the updates of the "out-of-state woman" who'd gone missing. It was nice that the local radio station gave Lisa's name, description, and a missing person's number for sightings or leads. Tabitha even interviewed with the local news and radio stations, hoping it would bring Lisa home. But she soon found all it brought was a sorrowful look from the locals as she interacted with them in her day-to-day life.
Finishing the last of her hash browns, Lisa wadded up everything in the paper bag and threw it in the back seat. The 9 AM weather report said it was nothing but clear skies and sun the rest of the week. Tabitha flipped the radio over to the greatest hit station, pulled out of the parking lot, and began her trip home. She memorized the roads, every bend and turn in the early weeks as she frantically looked for Lisa. There's something hypnotic about the trees: the way they flow together. The trees' green tops and the oak trees' wide trunks were a relaxing view. Tabitha enjoyed the lazy s-curves of the road, bending and winding around the hills and the trees. The occasional farmhouse or field dotted the sides of the road as she made her way to the main highway.
The blur of a semi-truck snapped Tabitha's attention as she pulled up to the mouth of the highway. She had four and a half hours ahead of her, which would be a long ride. Tabitha pulled onto the highway and picked up speed, noting sparse traffic. She relaxed into her seat, letting her gaze gloss over the blur of green foliage. Without warning, Tabitha caught a large shadow from the corner of her left eye. When she registered the black feathery form, Tabitha tensed up and slammed on the brakes as it swooped across the vehicle's hood. Quickly, she pulled the car safely off the road. She couldn't determine exactly what it was, but it was bigger than any bird she'd seen. It was a bird, right? Tabitha turned off her Jeep and grabbed the keys and cell phone. Standing before the Jeep, she looked over the grill to see if she made contact with the entity.
Bewildered, she scanned the tree line, spotting something in the distance. Sitting in the clearing of the large oak forest was an enormous black owl. It stared intently at Tabitha with bright, shiny yellow eyes. She pushed the lock button on her keys, causing the jeep to beep securely. She turned, looking across the open field, an enormous black owl perched in the upper branches of an old oak tree. Each step she took away from the road piqued her curiosity. Soon, Tabitha stood in the middle of the open field, staring intently into the eyes of the enormous owl.
The horn of a passing semi-truck blared, pulling Tabitha's attention away from the mysterious large creature. She looked back and saw that she had walked farther away from the Jeep than she had thought. She glanced back to the forest line only to see the enormous owl was deeper into the woods than before. She narrowed her vision to find the two large, bright yellow eyes staring back. Had it moved? The day's stress, care, and worry suddenly poured out of Tabitha. It was replaced by only curiosity and overbearing tranquility. She warmly smiled for the first time in months as her feet pulled her further into the woods.
Chapter 2
The tug of gravity pulls Tabitha to her senses as her body reacts, falling forward. Her arms thrust forward, bracing for impact. Water rushes around her face as she struggles to get her bearings. Quickly, Tabitha pushed herself up in the ankle-high stream she fell in. The haze slowly clears from her mind as she stares at the muddy water. The dull ache throbs up her legs. Tabitha can smell the sweat from her clothes. Her face contorted in panic as she quickly stood up in the water, looking for her cell. Thankfully, the device was still in her pocket, dry and unscathed.
"One o'clock. How can that be?" Tabitha says, slowly looking up from the screen to see the vast, dense West Virginia forest encompassing her view. She shakes her head back and forth with disbelief. A smile gently spreads across her face, with the last bit of tranquility leaving her body. How did I get out here? Her breathing becomes faster as her pulse begins to quicken. I'm in the forest. I'm all alone—just like Lisa!
"NO, NO, NO, NO! THIS FUCKING CAN'T BE HAPPENING TO ME!" Tabitha screams into the void of trees. Her eyes well up with tears as she crumbles to her knees, gripping her phone tightly to her chest. Her sobs ring out through the thick oak trees. Her breath slows a little as she regains her composure. She begins to search her mind for anything. What is the last thing I can remember? The image of the black shadow crossing her vision while driving flashes into her mind.
"Okay, I got out of the Jeep, the…then what?" Tabitha says, trying to refresh her memories. She thinks her memory is not just gone; it's a black void in her mind. Complete blackness fills her mind right after remembering locking the Jeep and then turning to see the…
"Fuck I saw something. What was it!" Tabitha says, frustrated with her mind. She knew there must be a logical reason she was out here. Officer Nichols warned her not to go looking for her sister. She wasn't stupid; she just said that as a last-ditch effort to get him to do anything. Now I'm here.
"Run!" Tabitha heard Lisa's voice in her ear. Before she could turn around, she heard a loud bellowing coming from overhead. Fear shot down her back, reminding her of the nightmares she had over the past month. She shot forward full bore as something crashed to the ground behind her. Glancing back as she ran, a black mass of feathers convulsed between the broken branches of the trees. Its slick black feathers rippled across its surface as its bones crackled and flesh tore. Its body contorted and twisted from the shape of an owl to something bigger.
"Run, Tabby! Don't let it catch you!" Tabitha pushed forward, hearing Lisa's scream beside her face. Her breath burned in her chest, and she moved past the old oak trees bent over the creek bed. Her feet slammed rapidly, splashing along the side of the creek. Another loud bellow comes from behind as the trees bend and break to the force behind her. A small opening in the rocky creek bed catches her sight from the left. She dives into the crevasses, not caring where the fathoms lead. Tabitha tumbles in the pitch black, taking scrapes and sharp jabs from the rocks as she tumbles further into the void.
She finally tumbles to a stop on the sandy, wet floor of the cave. Her body aches from the sudden burst of exhaustion. The cool water running around her body from the creek is soothing despite her bumps and bruises. Pushing herself up, she scoots out of the water. Feeling her way forward, she finds a dry spot to collect herself. Quickly pushing her hand into her pocket, she finds her phone undamaged.
The sound of footsteps pushing against the creek fills the void around Tabitha as the light steps move closer to each other up the underground creekbed. She slowly removes her cell from her pocket and then shines the camera light toward the sound. A pair of scratched and bruised pale bare legs hold up a frail form in front of her in the creek. She wears the darkness as a shroud with nothing else to clothe her. Tabitha froze, not wanting to shine the light further in the pale form before her.
"Tabby, turn your light off. You need to save your battery." Tabitha turned off the light and then rushed forward, embracing Lisa—the how or why didn't matter, only the now. The pale form hugged her tightly. Tabitha felt her cold, bare skin. The darkness couldn't hide the feeling of the marks across her back and torso.
"Lisa, I'm-"
"Hush! I don't have much time. This wasn't your fault! I'm with Mom and Dad now. You have to survive, Tabby! Listen. Wait until the sun shines through the cracks, making a trail out. Follow it down the creek until you come to the opening. You'll see a large hill you hike up for a cell signal. And remember…If you can't see it… It can't hurt you. I love you-"
Tabitha stumbled forward before catching herself. The void in front of her arms was only filled by cool air. She looked up and noticed a faint glimmer of light pushing through the ceiling. She sat down, relaxing against the limestone wall of the cave, waiting for the trail of light to form.
***
After a few hours, the light shining through the cracks of the cave ceiling was bright enough to lead Tabitha to the other side. She stepped onto the creek bed, thankful for the sun hanging lower in the sky. Scanning the sky, Tabitha saw only a few clouds. The foothills of Appalachia backdropped the forest as she scanned for the hill. Her eyes found the trail leading up the steady slope of an impressive hill. The top of the hill was bare. Part of the hill must have sheared off in a landslide, leaving the top void of trees and a jagged cliff face. Tabitha started her hike up the back of the hill. She was careful to stay under the heavy canopy of the old trees, hopefully avoiding the creature's eyes.
She did her best to quiet her mind while hiking up the trail. Come on, almost to the top, then I can call 911, she replayed repeatedly in her mind. Her adrenaline made up for the lack of food since morning. She drank some water from a clean spot in the creek. She was placing her bet on rescue rather than worrying about the water.
Leaning against one of the trees, Tabitha took out her cell and measured the signal.
"Damn it, nothing!" She swore under her breath. She listened nervously and cautiously peered her head out from the tree line. Standing at the tree line, the cell phone still had a low signal. She pushed her anxiety down with a swallow and slowly stepped forward onto the bare rock. Tabitha was now out in the open. She walked with the cell phone pointed upwards, measuring the signal. Within three feet of the cliff face, her signal bar punched up to full. Tabitha began to punch in the numbers just as a pair of large yellow eyes appeared. She felt her legs become weak, and her vision blurred as the creature snared her in its gaze.
Tabitha ducked, missing the giant owl's claws as it swooped for her. She squinted her eyes shut, momentarily breaking the hold of the infernal beast as it crashed to the ground, tumbling down the path of old trees. On her hands and knees, she tucked the dialed phone back into her pocket. She heard the creature's loud bellowing, followed by the snapping of bone and flesh ripping. It was changing its shape to finish her off.
Tabitha tried to get up, but the flash of its eyes did something to her. Her legs were numb, her stomach was in knots, and she could barely put a few thoughts together.
"If you can't see it, it can't hurt you." Tabitha heard clearly in her left ear. She quickly pushed herself into a sitting position and fumbled for the key chain in her right pocket. Pulling the long chain of keys, luck charms, and keepsakes, her father's Swiss army knife dangled at the end. She slowly opened the half-inch blade. Her body wholeheartedly rejected her plan and tried to fight her. Every internal warning system sounded as her body fought against her as she brought the blade against the corner of her left eye.
She didn't know if she could do it until the creature bellowed in her direction. With one quick motion, the half-inch blade sliced across her left eye. The world dimmed and then went black on her left side. Behind her, the beast's thundering gallop was getting closer. Tabitha plunged herself into total darkness with the last bit of her strength. Her hand gripped tightly around the bloody knife as she folded forward onto the ground. She could feel herself weeping blood. She squinted, doing her best to stem the tide of blood loss.
A large feathered paw drove into Tabitha's right side, flipping her onto her back. She lay still as the hulking creature stood over her. It remained motionless, and Tabitha was confused about why it didn't move or bite her. Then she started to giggle, just a little at first. Then, laughing madly into the creature's face as it growled back at her. She could not see it; she couldn't see anything. Her mind couldn't be eaten!
The creature roared into Tabitha's face while plunging one of its sharp claws into her shoulder. Tabitha screamed in pain, slashing the knife downward. The blade hit something soft, and she ripped the blade down, rending whatever she had hit on the abomination. A bright yellow, foul-smelling liquid gushed in a torrent over Tabitha's face. She turned to cough, having swallowed a portion of it. The creature reared back, squealing in pain. Its hind leg came down hard on Tabitha's leg, snapping her tibia. She jerked her leg up, causing the creature to tumble forward and fall over the edge of the cliff side.
Tabitha heard the creature crash below at the base of the hill. A large dead tree speared the creature through its chest. Tabitha could hear the labored whines of the creature as its cries became weak and slowed. A wave of sickness hit her as she rolled over and vomited. The foul smell drenched her. She did her best to focus, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the phone. By memory, she typed in the unlock pin. She held her breath and placed her thumb where the call button should be.
She could hear the call being made then, "911. What is your emergency?"
"Please help me! A bear has attacked me, and I can't see. I think I am on a hill."
"Ok, ma'am, stay with me! Do you know where you are located?"
"No, I'm lost. Please send help."
"It's okay. Stay with me on the phone, and I'll use the cell signal to try to find you."
"I'm on top of one of the hills. I think I am lying on a bare roc-" Tabitha slipped unconscious with the cell still tightly in her hand. Her body began to tremble and convulse.
"Ma'am! Ma'am! Stay with me. I have help on the way."
Chapter 3
A young man in military fatigues frantically compiles images and reconnaissance data from his drone feed. Confirming his hunch, he commands the winged surveillance drone to make a hard left and send a live video feed. His eyes widened as he saw a large owl-shaped shadow crash onto the top of a hill. He watches in awe as the sleek black owl twists and shifts into something much larger, like a grizzly. As the drone turns, he sees a woman at the cliff's edge trying to steady yourself on her hands and knees.
He bolts up from the command module, jotting down the drone's coordinates on one of the printouts. The drab government-issued office motif for the watch station blurs in the corner of his eye as he rushes down the hallway to the watch commander's office.
"Sir, recon has eyes on AMOS! And it's feeding!" the man said, swinging the heavy wooden door open. He took the hastily compiled file and pushed it forward to the commanding officer.
An older, tanned man quickly stands, reaching for the files. His brow furls, seeing his charge is awake. "Keep eyes on it! Go Adams!" The young man nods, turning on his heel and bolting for the drone command module. As his office door slams shut from the subordinate officer, he grabs his headset and frantically dials the closest military outpost to the coordinates.
"Hello, Sergeant Klein; this is Agent Smith of Black Watch outpost 7948! Shadow is active, code Alpha, Mike, Oscar, Sierra. The coordinates and data package have been sent. A civilian is on the ground; deploy strike-and-rescue ASAP.
"We'll be up in five, Agent Smith! The line cuts as Agent Smith closes out the call on his headset and rushes to the door. The normally quiet watch station buzzes alive, with personnel flooding the central command station. The background echoes resource allocation calls, frantic typing, and the hum of cold computers warming up.
"Adams, get our eyes back on Amos!"
"Coming back around in 30 seconds." Thirty sets of eyes stare at the three giant screens, anxiously waiting for the drone feed to clear the bank of trees. The camera clears the tre top to see the giant feathered grizzly rear back slinging its massive head away from its prey. Its large yellow right eye spews bright yellow liquid all over the red-haired woman and the cliff face. The giant feathered grizzly missteps, crushing the woman's leg and causing the creature to tumble over the cliff face.
"Fuck!" Agent Smith yells in horror as he watches AMOS fall four stories, impaling a sharp, 3-meter-tall log lodged in the boulders. The command center freezes wide-eyed at the flailing dying creature on screen. Agent Smith pulls his cell out quickly and dials.
"Klein, Scrub the current request! AMOS is down! Switch to rescue and harvest now!
"What, someone took out AMOS?"
"YES! It's at the bottom of the cliff, bleeding out essence! The woman is covered in it as well. Clean as much of it off her as possible before you take her to the ER.
"Understood!"
Agent Smith, in a rage, slings his phone straight forward, connecting with Private Adams's skull. Adams flinches at the sudden impact of the hard plastic and covers his head. Agent Smith grabs the table in front of him and flips it over, sending the computer equipment crashing to the government-issued tiled floor.
"A two-year cycle gone! All that essence is gone! Now I have to wait another 24 months for AMOS to resurrect!" Agent Smith screams, causing the rest of the staff to recoil away in fear.
"Jones!" Agent Smith says sternly, turning to a petite woman on his left. She stares at him, pleading.
"Yes Sir?'
"Get Officer Nichols on my office line. That fuck up has some explaining. He should have told us AMOS was awake."
"Right away!" Jones quickly sits back down and begins dialing Nichols, thankful she doesn't have to deal with Agent Smith further. The command center quickly shifts gears as Agent Smith returns to his office.
***
Two Weeks later…
"Tabitha… Tabitha… This is Doctor Wilhelm. Wake up." The kind older gentleman said as they gently nudged Tabitha in her hospital bed.
"Where am I?" Tabitha asked, waking from what felt like years of sleep. She sat up, the world still pitch black, but an odd sense of the world around her seemed to hum just behind her eyes.
"You're in the hospital, dear; you scared us. Do you remember anything?" He said as he sat down on the side of her bed.
Tabitha thought for a moment the last parts after she slashed her eyes were a blur. She remembers people yelling and the sound of two or three helicopters over her. " No, it's really all just a blur."
"Well, it's probably for the best. You had some very serious injuries. The first night, we honestly didn't think you would make it. Then…" The doctor trailed off with a concerned expression, not knowing how to explain things further.
Tabitha felt his pulse quicken somehow. She didn't understand it but fully felt or sensed the doctor beside her. She sensed the two other nurses standing at the end of the bed. Her body didn't hurt. She felt great. She felt hungry.
"Doctor, you said had. What happened to my injuries?" She said calmly, trying not to startle the old doctor further.
"Well, Tabitha, it's the closest thing to a miracle I've ever seen. You had violent seizures from the minute you hit the entrance of the ER. We couldn't even set your leg. The medications we gave you had a minimal effect, and you thrashed so much that we had to restrain you. Then, the early morning check-in found you in a deep sleep. All but your eyes were completely healed. So we switched gears to support care and treated your eyes the best we could." He said, watching her reaction.
Tabitha leaned back in her bed, taking in the wild account. "Do you know how I healed so quickly?"
"What happened to you is beyond all scientific reason. A miracle is the only way the staff and I can explain it. I know you have been through a lot, but I want to check your eyes."
"Thank you for all your help, Doctor Wilhelm." She said, sitting up in bed.
"You are most welcome, dear. Now I am going to unwrap your eye-dressing. Hold still, please." he said as he reached up and pulled on the bandage tape. Tabitha felt a quick tug and felt the bandages loosen from around her head. The doctor slowly unwrapped the bandages. The doctor's brow wrinkled as he examined the two large black scabs covering Tabitha's eyes.
"Tell me if this hurts at all, ok?"
"Yes, doctor." She relaxes as the doctor's gloved fingers pass over the scab. He pushes and gently tugs at the side of one, and it starts to lift. He pulls on the scab more, and Tabitha begins to sense the light as it hits her eyelid.
"Oh, I can sense the light, Doctor Wilhelm!" She said, smiling.
"Wonderful! Nurse Allen, please hand me some saline solution. I think a little water will loosen these right up. Hold still; this may feel cold," he said as he reached for the solution. She felt the cool liquid flush over the left eye, then the right. The scabs fell away with a gentle tug from the doctor. She could see the light shine through her eyelids. She grinned widely, happy to have some form of sight left.
"Please open your eyes for me," he said as he sat back on the bed. Tabitha slowly opened her eyes. The flood of light was almost too much, causing her to squint. After a few moments, she adjusted to the fluorescent lights. Three figures began to take shape in front of her. First, the distinguished older features of Doctor Wilhelm came into view quickly, followed by the brunette and blonde younger nurses standing at the end of the bed. Suddenly, her vision snapped into place, crisp and clear.
"I can see perfectly! This is amazing! Thank you, Doctor Wilhem!" she said, turning to look directly into his eyes, but he stared back at her unmovingly.
"Doctor Wilhelm?" she said as her expression became more worried. Doctor Wilhelm just sat staring, intensely focused on her eyes. His expression was overbearingly calm. She glanced at the nurses, rigidly staring back at her with trapped, calm expressions. Doctor Wilhelm began to twitch slightly. It traveled from the base of his spine out to his limbs, finally convulsing.
"Doctor Wilhelm, are you okay?" Tabitha yelled as the doctor began to have a seizure and fell on top of her bed.
"Help Him!" She screamed at the two nurses only to see both of them crumble to the tiled floor. One of them bashed her head off the bed frame. Tabitha recoils back from Doctor Wilhelm in terror as he starts foaming at the mouth. She climbs over the bed rail and hits the tiled concrete floor with a thud. Her adrenaline surges as she bolts for the door, looking for help.
At the entrance of her hospital room, she sees another nurse leaving the adjacent room. "Please, my doctor and staff need help!" As the male nurse turns to see Tabitha, he suddenly goes stiff before collapsing into a violent seizure, spilling his cart over with him.
"What's happening!" Tabitha screams, thinking something is in the air, or everyone has come down with something. A pair of security guards round the corner, hearing the screams and commotion.
"Ma'am, are yo-" The guard freezes mid-stride as he makes eye contact with Tabitha. Both men start to convulse and topple over, thrashing violently on the hard tile.
"No, no, no, no!" Tabitha yells as she darts into the women's bathroom, a few doors up the hall. She runs in, terrified of the situation. She approaches one of the sinks, bracing herself against the cool porcelain. Her stomach turns, and she dry heaves in the sink. She steadies herself while turning on the cold water. Leaning in, she takes a drink. As she looks up, a glint of two yellow eyes catches her. Tabitha stumbles backward on reflex. Then, she sees her reflection in the mirror. Two completely bright yellow eyes stare back at Tabitha. She screams at herself in the mirror, not feeling hungry anymore.
The end.
I will

I see people having talks on this sub a lot about bjj vs wrestling and claiming “well if wrestling were better you’d see wrestlers winning ADCC”
What I think is more appropriate to say is that a pressure foundation in a good wrestling program is something that’s almost impossible to be granted from studying bjj.
In bjj, yes, you can choke out a d1 wrestler who climbed directly into your triangle choke 3x in a row. No shit. They don’t know submissions. Why are you trying to compare the sports on the metric of who would win on your own sport?
The point of comparison is usually mma, which will begin teaching submission grappling to a wrestler the moment they start taking classes. Yes, many mma gyms have traditional bjj programs, but many also have eclectic grappling classes like they may over “submission grappling” which combines other styles into it, or a coach might come from a catch wrestling background, or they might be an old school wrestler in mma that never did bjj and just learned grappling through osmosis being around the sport for so long.
A 10 year long 25 year old wrestler and a 10 year long 25 year old jiujitsu player both going to mma for 1 year will both adapt to the differences of their sports, and the foundation in wrestling will reveal the advantages very quickly, which isn’t to claim bjj doesn’t also carry its own advantage over someone who had no bjj transitioning to mma
this should not controversial so far
But what I think is ridiculous is that when you take the discussion of wrestler vs bjj as a pure style vs style discussion, it’s always circling back to ADCC this, ADCC that, or people jerking off reminiscing the time they choked out a dude who didn’t even wrestle in college who lied and claimed he’s a d1 wrestler at open mat last Saturday
That’s equally stupid to me as claiming wrestlings a better wrestling style because wrestling wins in wrestling
Why should submissions be the be all end all of grappling? Yes, in your sport it ends when you tap. But there’s also Mongolians that wrestle with no mats on the hard floor who routinely end matches by knocking their opponent out with a slam. This is illegal in bjj and is probably 5x as difficult when you’re on a soft mat and not a thin dirt surface designed to be unpleasant to land on
Not to say that the average American wrestler is necessarily game planning to slam you on your head, but if they do they’d certainly have an advantage there unless you’ve been practicing your wrestling, in which case is it fair to call yourself a “pure bjj guy” anymore? Because if the d1 wrestler had a blue belt in bjj you probably wouldn’t be calling him a pure wrestler.
There’s numerous other advantages I’ll get to here but let me summarize:

Slams

(already elaborated)

Mat awareness and generalship

In wrestling you are awarded for pushing the opponent out, either by given direct points in international styles or in American wrestling your opponent will get stalling points for frequently fleeing the mat in collegiate.
It’s no wonder wrestlers are stereotypically known for driving their opponents into the cage, because the whole point of wrestling when you can’t get a takedown is to drive your opponent to the edge of the fighting area so you limit their movement options.

Uncomfortable rides

If you think pins don’t have a place in combat, tell me you’d like to have someone cross body ride and start working turns on you on a herd surface.
In a lot of situations, if you’re on top and just stop the person from posting with their hands, they’ll have to tripod on their head, which can quickly turn to you dragging their face across the dirt in a street fight while you’re being punched and blinded by dirt and shit.
The fact that it’s not a peaceful roll with rules at open mat and it’s an actual fight means that wrestlers get to just wrestle as normal until your head is next to something hard and then shove your face into it. That’s if you want to be a dick obviously.
If you don’t want to be a dick it flows into the next one

Restraints are perfectly valid fight Enders outside of mma

This is probably my biggest point, if you work as a security guard and you need to restrain someone for 10 minutes before a cop arrives, you will probably get sued if your way of doing so is to choke them. Yes, as a trained bjj practitioner you should be able to just hold someone in side control so I’m not saying wrestling is necessarily better at this, but there’s a lot of options to restrain someone that bjj doesn’t dive deep into because you’re already in a position to submit

Its about opportunity recognition

Ultimately due to the massive variety of applications of both bjj and wrestling I think it’s more productive to say it depends on the individuals ability to recognize their sport application in the contrived situation they find themselves in then to try to argue which sport is better
But whether were talking mma or a street fight they both have pros and cons. Even in a “pure” bjj vs “pure” wrestling discussion. It only becomes pretty one sided when your point of comparison is submission grappling tournaments which were objectively not designed for collegiate wrestlers to do well in.

{Shared early on Patreon}
(This one features an appearance by characters from Stabby the One and Only.)
~~~
“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.
“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”
“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”
“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”
I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”
“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”
I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.
At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.
Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?
Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.
“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”
“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.
Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”
Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.
I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”
Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.
The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.
I stopped. “Hm.”
“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.
“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”
I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”
“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.
I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”
“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”
A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”
This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.
“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”
“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”
I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”
Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”
“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.
“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”
“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”
While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.
There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.
Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.
Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.
Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.
The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”
“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”
“What! How much water?”
“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.
I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”
There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.
“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”
“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.
“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”
“What?”
“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”
Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.
“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”
He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.
I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.
Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.
And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.
“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.
In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.
Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.
The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.
Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.
I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.
“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.
“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.
There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.
We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.
I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.
Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.
But only just.
“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.
“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”
“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”
“Mine too.”
Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.
Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”
He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.
“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.
Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”
“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”
“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.
When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.
Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”
I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”
“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”
“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”
When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.
~~~
Shared early on Patreon
Cross-posted to Tumblr and HumansAreSpaceOrcs
The book that takes place after the short stories is here
The sequel is in progress (and will include characters from the stories)

{Shared early on Patreon}
(This one features an appearance by characters from Stabby the One and Only.)
~~~
“Are you warm enough?” I asked Paint as we walked. My fingers were chilly against the box I carried, but it was small enough that I could reach to rub them together.
“Yes,” Paint said firmly. She pulled her heat shawl close, nuzzling her scaly orange face into its yellow warmth. “This is fully charged, and much better than my old one.”
“Well, no falling in the water for you today.”
“No falling in the water for me ever!” she said. “Unless the water is warm. Then it would be nice.”
I looked around at the industrial ruins that we walked through, all damp concrete and convoluted passageways. Even the sunlight on this planet felt thin. “I don’t think anything around here is warm.”
“Not yet,” Paint said with a lift of her snout. “I’m sure they’ll get things back in working order soon. That box probably holds a key heating circuit or something, and the area will become more hospitable in no time.”
I smiled at her priorities. As a coldblooded Heatseeker, she could hardly be blamed for expecting warmth to be high on the to-do list. I would have focused more on landing pad repair personally, so visiting couriers didn’t have to walk through this maze of alien architecture to reach the inhabited area, but that’s just me.
At any rate, our delivery timeline was short but so was the best route, at least according to the map on my phone. If we kept up a brisk pace, we’d get there well before the client started to grumble. And in this chill there was no reason to dawdle.
Sudden voices echoed off the walls: laughter from a few people at once. Distinctly human laughter. The locals were Frillians, so who were these?
Paint craned her neck to pinpoint the source of the voices, looking just as curious as I was. Then we walked around a corner and met a cluster of humans in blue jackets with a logo that I recognized immediately.
“Hey, it’s the crew of the good ship Hold My Beer!” I said in greeting. “How’s the droid jousting business?”
“Hello again!” said Captain Parker, flashing that bright smile set off by his dark skin. “We’re here for an outdoor tournament. Just on the way to check in now. You guys making another delivery?” The handful of other humans nodded at us.
Paint said, “Yes! It’s probably important! But we don’t know for sure. They wanted it in a hurry.”
Captain Parker pulled out a holo map of his own, and pointed down a concrete corridor. “This is definitely the fastest route that we can see. Pretty bonkers city design.” He started walking with a glance at the gray sky.
I hitched the box up and fell in step with the group. “I don’t think it was a city originally. No idea what, but these don’t look like stores or houses.”
Paint took short-legged strides beside me, offering suggestions for what these reclaimed ruins could have been, and the walk passed quickly. We’d moved on to discuss the jousting crew’s latest wins and new uniforms — those Stabby the Roomba emblems were very stylish — when we passed through an open doorway and discovered a problem.
The passage ahead of us was a deep chasm between concrete walls, open to the sky and devoid of branching passages, with a doorway at the bottom of several concrete steps. The door was closed. And the steps were filled with water.
I stopped. “Hm.”
“Aw man,” Captain Parker exclaimed, getting out his map again.
“What do we do?” asked Paint, clicking her scaly knuckles together. “This was the fast route! Our client is on a timeline!”
I thumped my chin against the box. “I knew we should have used the hoverbike.”
“You would have crashed into a wall! These walkways are far too narrow.”
“No I wouldn’t.”
A sturdy woman from the jousting crew shone a pocket flashlight into the murky water. It was all in shadow, thanks to an awning up top that seemed ironically meant to protect from the rain. Like everything else around here, it was janky and broken, but made of metal that hadn’t rusted through yet. Canvas would have been long gone.
I eyed the many cracks in the walls, with pipes and alien rebar sticking out. “I don’t suppose anyone feels like climbing over?”
“The box doesn’t have a carry strap,” Paint pointed out. “And I am not one of you climbing experts.”
A heavyset man with gray hair chuckled at that. “You’re not the only one.”
This turned into a side conversation about how Paint was under the impression that all humans were talented climbers by her standards, until Captain Parker interrupted.
“While this would be the most direct route, I see three other possibilities that shouldn’t take us in too many circles. It really is a shame, though. This one’s a nice straight shot if we could get the door open. Can you see the catch, Ruby?”
“Barely,” the woman reported. “This light is garbage. But it looks just like those other doors. Too bad we don’t have a long pole or something to work the catch with.”
I looked up. “That awning looks like it has a couple poles! I wonder if they come off.”
Paint yelped, “The water is rising!” She pointed, clutching her shawl. “It was below that step before!”
“Dang, you’re right.” Ruby stepped back. The other crewmates gestured to cracks that reached above water, which could easily be causing leaks below.
“We should go,” decided Captain Parker. “Get a head start on one of the long routes.”
“But our client!” Paint exclaimed. “They need the package in a hurry, and will tell everyone we’re unreliable!”
While everyone voiced an opinion, ranging from “Route B” to “Route C” to “rock-paper-scissors for who gets dunked in the hypothermia water,” I shoved the box at Paint. “Hold this,” I said. Then I got a running start and leapt up for a good grip on a crack in the wall.
There were plenty of footholds. Some of the metal bits sticking out were loose, but not enough to fall out. I focused on making sure each step was secure as quickly as possible, and reached the top in no time.
Thankfully it was wide enough to balance on without too much worry. That water wasn’t deep enough to land in safely, never mind the temperature.
Speaking of water, I thought with dawning horror, This is about to be bad.
Several rows away in this maze was a broken pipe the size of my torso, spewing water into a reservoir that was near to overflowing. Some of the water was leaking out through cracks in the sides already, leading to a puddle that was dripping through to make the one on our side.
The route back is in the danger zone too! Maybe if we’re fast enough, we can get to that open area over there. Or get everybody else up here. But I don’t trust this wall to stay intact if that dam fails all at once.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. It was Paint. I realized she’d probably been yelling for my attention, and I didn’t hear. There were sounds of pouring water up here, not to mention the blood rushing in my ears. I answered the phone.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Get the pole!”
“Right,” I said, hurrying along the wall. “We may not have enough time, even if I can get it free. There’s more water that could flood the area at any moment. I think somebody has to swim for the catch.”
“What! How much water?”
“Lots. Hang on.” I stuck the phone in my pocket to free both hands for the awning. Up close, it looked much rustier and ancient than below. The pole at the side was welded on. I braced my feet and gave it a good yank. That produced a metal screech and a rain of rust particles, but not much else. Pushing and pulling to work it loose let me fold the awning back so watery sunshine illuminated the door catch far below. The jousting crew shouted about it indistinctly.
I leaned against the awning, holding it back while I got my phone out. “It’s not coming loose,” I told Paint. “Tell him there’s a dam about to break, and one of his people needs to open the door.”
There was lots of indistinct shouting at that. I couldn’t make out all of the words, especially since the water sounds were increasing, thanks to a new crack the water levels had just reached. Captain Parker was shaking his head at Paint, who’d set down the box so she could hold the phone and gesture wildly. He waved at me to come down, and pointed back at the way we’d come. I shook my head and pointed at the reservoir, but he was already looking away.
“Paint!” I called into the phone. “Tell him he’s got to!”
“He wants to turn back!” Paint cried.
“Wait!” This was a dumb idea, but I’d had worse. “Paint, tell him you double dog dare him to do it.”
“What?”
“Human thing. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. Use those exact words: you double dog dare him.”
Paint didn’t answer me, lowering the phone and jabbing a finger at Captain Parker. I could just make out her words over the water.
“I double dog dare you to do it! If you don’t, you’re a coward!”
He gaped at her for a moment while his crew burst into laughter. Ruby clapped him on the shoulder. A smaller man waggled his fingers like he was offering to hold the captain’s jacket. Captain Parker looked up at me, arms spread in a clear WTF.
I held the awning back and pointed emphatically downward.
Water rushed faster out of that new crack. People were laughing below. Paint repeated the phrase like an incantation.
And Captain Parker took off his jacket, handing it to the other man.
“Yes!” I breathed in relief, leaning harder against the metal. It really wanted to fold back down. But the captain would need light to see.
In moments he’d left his jacket, shoes, and pocket valuables with the crew, and was striding forward, shaking his head. Ruby aimed her flashlight at the door, though it was pretty visible now. I pocketed my phone and crossed my fingers. With a worried glance, I sent strengthening thoughts toward the dam.
Captain Parker stuck a foot in, swore loudly, then cannonballed directly into the deep end to the approving whoops of his crew. He surfaced, gasping at the cold, then took a few good breaths and submerged, going straight for the door.
The catch didn’t turn easily. Of course it didn’t. Why would any of this be easy? I watched him struggle with it, flicking my eyes back toward the straining reservoir. Water was starting to spill over the side. The big crack was spreading.
Then something clunked below me, and the door grated aside, gushing water and a very cold human into the corridor beyond.
I yelled my own wahoo along with the crew, and left the awning to jolt back into place with another rain of rust while I hurried back down. One of the pipes almost jerked out of the wall while I was holding it. I jumped the rest of the way.
“Take the box!” Paint told me. Humans were rushing down the wet stairs. I took it just as a thunderous crack filled the air, and the ground shuddered.
“Run!” I said. We dashed down the stairs to the sound of rushing water. The wall I’d just been standing on sprouted dozens of leaks, creaking ominously.
There was still a bit of a puddle at the bottom, but Paint bravely dashed through it with her heat shawl held tight. I was right behind her with the box. The other humans were already climbing dry stairs on the other side.
We made it through the door just as the wall collapsed, sending water and debris slamming into the place we’d been standing moments before.
I don’t think I’ve ever climbed stairs faster. Two of the nearest humans hoisted Paint up, her small legs kicking in the air. Water splashed behind us, wetting one of my pant legs in a terrifying moment that made me think we’d all be washed away after all, but then we were out of range and still standing.
Everybody stood in an open courtyard, breathing hard and staring. The water rushed in every direction below us, filling more passageways than I’d thought it could. We’d reached an area of high ground with the reconstruction offices in view, all freshly painted and gold in the sunlight.
But only just.
“We’ll need another way back to the ship,” said Ruby.
“Good thing we left all our stuff behind.”
“Hey Captain, you can use my shirt to dry off with.”
“Mine too.”
Captain Parker looked a little paler than his skin tone was really meant for as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. “Thanks,” he managed, sounding like he was keeping his teeth from chattering by force of will.
Paint approached him and made an elaborate bow, which I’m pretty sure she got from some media about old Earth customs since that’s not the kind of thing her people do. “Well done, Captain Parker,” she declared. “Your honor is unquestionable; you are not a dog this day.”
He smiled while the crew laughed again. “Thank you. Your challenge was well-timed.” He stripped off his wet shirt and toweled dry with someone else’s, then rolled up his pant legs instead of taking them off.
“Do you need to borrow my heat shawl?” Paint asked tentatively.
Captain Parker frowned, shivering violently. “You’re coldblooded. Don’t you need it?”
“I’ll be okay,” Paint assured him. “You need it more right now. The air isn’t as bad as that water.”
“You’re not wrong.” He accepted it when she handed it to him, settling it over his shoulders with a deep sigh of relief.
When Paint met my eyes, I gave her a smile of approval, and she beamed. Crew members were busy making calls: to their ship, to their local contact, and who knew where else. It occurred to me that we should do the same.
Paint told me, “Everyone’s going to want to hear about this. And you’ll have to explain the details of the double dog thing; I’d never heard of that before.”
I shrugged one shoulder, still holding the box. “It’s not a big deal. More of a kid thing, honestly. I’m sure there are lots of cultures with similar stuff.”
“Not mine,” she said thoughtfully. “Blip and Blop would probably appreciate it. And Trrili would probably appreciate it too much.”
“Oh man, Trrili would be an unholy menace.” I thought of our most frightening crewmate’s love of scaring people. “Let’s not tell her about double dares.”
When the captain had his shoes back on and his jacket thrown over the heat shawl, we all moved on toward the reconstruction office, leaving a trail of water droplets and honor in our wake.
~~~
Shared early on Patreon
Cross-posted to Tumblr and HFY
The book that takes place after the short stories is here
The sequel is in progress (and will include characters from the stories)

“Local officials are calling it a “disaster of unprecedented proportion”, and a “tragic loss of life”.
"Despite investigative efforts producing only guesswork regarding the identity of who could be responsible for such an attack, confirmed casualties are already rising into the hundreds. The devastating loss of life has resulted in waves of tragedy and outrage among those affected by the disaster. Families mourn for relatives that will never come home, and crime rates have skyrocketed in the surrounding areas since the chaos first unfolded. "
"Despite the sorrow, it’s clear that the community is united by a single burning question: why wasn’t this tragedy stopped before it started? We’ll be bringing you coverage of the event live on air, as investigative efforts continue to go underway. Coming up next: A glimpse into the mind of a Tachyon apologist. Thirty-four-year-old Daniel Lloyd was arrested during a violent protest, demanding the release of Drophyd forces involved in the now mysteriously-vanished tyrant’s former attack on Kerwan - But why? All this and more right after the break. Channel 2 News”.
“Hey, would you mind turning that off, little outsider?” A metallic voice like a cheap walkie-talkie called out behind the counter. “Went through the trouble of fixing that box and all it does is shout bad news.”
“Sure thing.”
A small blue humanoid with wide eyes nodded, and swung down from the counter to flick off the radio. His workshop clothes were grimy and stained with oil, and small stubs of what would soon be horns poked out the sides of his head.
“Still, it’s nice to know what’s happening out there. Right, Rasper?” He said, turning back and jumping up to grab the top of the counter.
“You don’t need the news to see that the galaxy’s going down the drain.” The figure replied, stretching upwards to place a chunk of scrap on a high shelf.
His hunched shoulders and long neck easily identified him as a Vullard, with reptilian spines running down his back to the tip of his red, spottled tail. As was trademark with Vullards, his head was enclosed in a carefully constructed metal case equipped with vocal synthesizer, oxygen respirator, and mp3 player. The case stretched vertically like a cylinder, with two blue lenses sticking out the sides to function as eyes. A pair of flaps covered the lenses and occasionally flipped up and down to wipe off dust and debris. The bottom end of the helmet lifted up and down when he spoke to mimic a mouth. After reaching the shelf, he groaned and reached a hand to his hunched back, rubbing it sorely.
“The Agorians are running rampant, that Nefarious guy made an alliance with the Valkyries, and now there’s rumor of not just one, but TWO Lombaxes running around? The world’s going crazy, I tell ya…”
“What’s a Lombax?” The smaller figure asked.
Rasper shrugged. “Truth be told I don’t really know either, little outsider. But they’re bad news, apparently.”
The smaller figure looked back out into space. Despite having told Rasper that his name was Junpo, the Vullard wouldn’t call him anything but outsider. From what he’d heard from passing travelers, that seemed to be a social norm with Vullards.
Leaving Rasper to his work, Junpo walked out of the shack and into the grassy field beyond. Their pitstop “Sell-n-Soar” rested on a meager 30 foot wide asteroid dotted with grass, that remained positioned in space outside of orbit through some gravitational force he didn’t understand. The asteroid was wide on top with a flat grassy surface, and tapered down to a sharp point of dirt and stone at the very bottom, as if the entire space had been violently ripped from the surface of some other planetoid. On the far side of the asteroid was a landing pad and a spherical Grummelnet weapons vendor that Junpo was too young to legally operate. On the opposite side was a makeshift playground Rasper had cobbled together for him in his spare time.
The Sell-n-Soar shack stood in the center of the grassy plain, and occasionally bits and pieces of the hodge-podge structure would chip off of the building and float into space, merging with the thick rings of junk that littered the sector. Fastened to the side of the shack was a large claw, attached to a crane. The claw was hooked up to a sturdy tether system, and could be used to shoot out and grab at orbiting scrap. The shack used to have a bright neon sign stapled to the top to attract travelers, but it was shot through by a drunk Agorian speeder one night, and went careening into the depths of space.
Junpo loved sitting at the edge of the asteroid with his feet dangling over the edge, looking into the great wide plane of space beyond. The Vela sector was painted with swathes of bright lime greens and teal blues that swirled through the dense rings of junk that always orbited by. The trails of scrap seemed to collect the unwanted litter and debris from across the universe, ending up in massive streams of cold metal that twisted and curved between the planetoids of the Vela sector like immense rivers of scrap. When the rivers wound their way across the face of stars and suns, it would create thick ribbons of shadow which danced cold beams of frigid darkness across the depths of space. Junpo let out a breath to marvel at the majesty of what was just beyond their tiny little shack. It never failed to remind him of how small he was, and how large the universe could be. Out there, somewhere…
“You really think my parents are still looking for me?” Junpo asked, turning his head back to look at Rasper.
The Vullard stopped in his tracks, as the flaps over his eyes blinked rapidly.
“…They’ll come back one day, little outsider.” He said. “Now come over here, I got a job for ya.”
Junpo followed as Rasper led him into the tiny back-room of the shack. The newest harvest of scrap from the junk rivers cluttered most of the room, nearly filling it up to waist level. There was only a thin path carved through the junk to walk and catalogue the haul.
“Alright, let’s go over this again. What’s the most basic rule of scrap collection?”
“All scrap has value”. Junpo parroted in a clear voice.
“Exactly. Now look, we got scrap up to our ears out here, but it’s not as simple as collecting it and selling it again. Figuring out how to best cultivate the value of each scrap collection is the tricky part. That takes the keen eye of an experienced collector. And… that’s what I want to start teaching you, little outsider.”
Junpo blinked wide. “Really? You mean-”
“Yeah, I’ll let you in on some trade secrets. If you want any chance of getting off this rock someday instead of inheriting my shack, you’re gonna need a way of making bolts. Plus, it’ll be nice having more help with the business, my back’s been killing me.”
Junpo jumped excitedly. “When do I start?”
“Right now, if you want.” The Vullard replied, gesturing to the scrap. “The very first thing you gotta learn about scrap collection is how to sort it. When you get enough experience, you can tell its potential use and profit margin at a glance, but we’ll start slowly with what we got here, for the time being. It looks like a decent haul, so it won’t be a waste of time either.”
Rasper began to teach Junpo the difference between tools and widgets, and decommissioned devices of all kinds. He instructed him on the basics of potential value, both past and present, and who would want which scrap and why. When the little boy grew bored of the sorting, Rasper began to teach him the basics of operating the scrap tether, and Junpo became quickly enamored with shooting the massive claw out into space, pulling back potential treasures in its grip. As the hours went by, Junpo quickly lost track of time, and it was only when he heard the deep hum of a spacecraft docking at their landing pad that he realized they had been working late into the night.
“Sounds like we got a customer, little outsider. You just wait here for a minute.”
As soon as Rasper left the room, Junpo dropped the scrap and followed him out, being careful not to get swept off his feet by Rasper’s lumbering tail. The arriving vessel was sleek and sporty, with a shiny chrome exterior and a deep red under-glow along the belly and wings. As the engine whirred to a stop, two figures leap out the side. One was a large black and blue robot with red visor, wide shoulders, and massive brick-like hands. The other was a smaller reptilian humanoid with pale purple skin, dressed in a crisp business suit. His scales gleamed in the starlight, and a long sail-like fin ran down his back to his tail. The robot’s steps made the asteroid rumble underfoot, while the reptilian figure’s bright pink eyes shone hungrily, as his serrated teeth parted in a grin.
Junpo looked to Rasper and saw him frozen stock still. It appeared as if he were trying to blink, rub his back, and run away at the same time, but could instead do nothing at all.
“Little outsider, you better stay inside for a bit, alright?” He said, looking back inside the shack. When his head swiveled down to see Junpo by his side, his mouth gaped in horror.
“Rasper G. Carver, my my… It’s been a while!” The lizard said, as his serpentine tongue slid between his serrated teeth. His words were greasy and smooth. “I trust the business has been treating you well?”
“Oh… You know how it is, outsider. New haul, more work…” Rasper said, trying to subtly shoe Junpo back inside the shack. “Pretty quiet around here, since the Agorians stopped coming by.”
“Am I still considered an outsider, after all the business we’ve done together? My name is Zarnoc. Use it, please.” The lizard said. “But yes, without those bumbling muscle-bound brutes wandering about, this stretch of space is almost peaceful. Who do you have to thank for that, I wonder?”
“O-Of course, I’m eternally grateful for all that you guys’ve been doing, keeping them away and s-”
“HEY!”
Rasper was interrupted as the lizard whipped his head back with a shout to see the large robot clutching the Grummelnet vendor in one hand, shaking it upside down like a bag of candy. The vendor was shouting a ceaseless stream of profanity from its awkward position, although its insults seemed to go completely over the head of the giant sentinel.
“Get over here! You’re supposed to be intimidating!”
The robot flinched in surprise before setting the vendor back down, daintily swiping the dust off the cursing sphere’s sides before shuffling to Zarnoc. The Grummelnet vendor clamped tightly shut, muttering more curses under its breath.
“Now where was I? Ah, yes.” The lizard began, clearing his throat. “It’s been quite a lot of trouble for us to keep the Agorians out of this part of the sector, and it’s only gotten worse. From our perspective, such a transaction is purely business. We extort- I mean, bargain with you thriving settlers to hand over some of the proceeds from your operations, as a protection fee. Simple enough, right? Well, the Agorians aren’t seeing it that way. Our thriving collaborative business has been treated as an act of war by those dumb brutes, and our master has been hindered in his own business because of Agorian retaliation. Not that they could do much to Lord Vorselon anyway, but it’s definitely pricked the master’s ire. You understand what I’m saying?”
Rasper nodded, his eye-flaps blinking rapidly.
“Good. This is where we reach another point of negotiation in our fine, civilized discussion: Lord Vorselon demands an increase in tribute.”
“How much?”
Zarnoc pretended to count on his claws. “Mmm… about ten thousand bolts per month?”
“Ten thousand?!” Rasper echoed. “I don’t make ten thousand in a year, let alone a month!”
“I don’t care, and neither does Lord Vorselon. If you can’t pay up now, we’re ordered to raise this sad rock to the ground.”
“Now w-wait a minute there, outsider. Can’t you give me some time?”
“Oh, you’d rather talk with the Agorians instead? I’m sure they’d make excellent negotiators.”
“Look, I’ll give you everything I have; all the scrap I’ve got. Take it. It’s yours.”
Zarnoc laughed. “Why don’t we wrap it all up in a pretty red bow and take it to the master on a silver platter? No, there’s nothing of value here, except your bolts. Now hand them over.”
Junpo grabbed hold of Rasper’s hand, but the action caught the lizard’s notice.
“Who’s that?”
“Oh, him? He’s a, uh… Well, his parents left one day and…”
“Hmm... Another orphan, abandoned by incompetent parents who couldn’t provide any better. I understand, truly.” Zarnoc said, closing his eyes in a mock prayer. “Mine treated me no better. Now look where I am…”
“My parents didn’t abandon me!” Junpo shouted, still clutching to Rasper’s hand. “They’re coming back someday! I know it!”
Zarnoc’s mouth lit up in a wicked smile. “That’s what they all say. Trust me kid, I’ve seen it a hundred times. I’ve lived it. You’re abandoned. You’ve got nobody. You were left here to die alone.”
Junpo leapt forward, but Rasper’s usually frail arms pulled him back with shocking force. Junpo looked up to the Vullard’s metal head, but it was locked on to Zarnoc’s own face. The lizard appeared deep in thought, before his wicked eyes trained back on Junpo.
“Say, that kid’s got no attachments, and besides you there’d be no witnesses. Why don’t you hand over him this month in lieu of your payments and we’ll call it a day? He’s still young – there’s limitless potential. Lord Vorselon can brainwash him into a killer assassin, or something. Yes, that would please him very much.”
“Now hold on just one second there, outsider!” Rasper said as the large robot bent down to drag Junpo away. “I can’t let you do that! He’s under my protection!”
“Too bad. You’re under our protection.”
The large robot scooped up Junpo by the scruff of his collar and firmly swung him over its broad shoulders, knocking the breath out of his chest as he gasped for air. Rasper hobbled after him on wobbly legs, but was forced to stop and clutch his back with heaving breath.
“Rasper!” Junpo cried out as he was thrown into the cruiser.
As the door to the cruiser closed, Junpo was enveloped in blackness as bright red logistics panels popped up to illuminate the darkness. The robot gave him a light pat on the head, and Junpo heard Zarnoc cackling from the cockpit seat, out of sight.
“We’ll take the kid, and blow this scrap-heap to bits. Activate the turrets!”
As the robot stood up to flick a switch, the entire ship jerked to the left from the force of a massive impact, causing the left-hand door to peal open.
“What-”
The Vullard had shuffled back inside and aimed the scrap-tether claw directly at the cruiser, trapping it in its grip as the door tore wide open.
“You give back the little outsider and leave! Now!”
Junpo saw Rasper standing at the landing pad, and was astonished to see a bright yellow ‘Negotiator’ Missile launcher cocked over his right shoulder.
“That Vullard’s insane!” Junpo heard Zarnoc cry in disbelief as the ship’s safety alarms whirred to life.
Taking his chance, Junpo ran for the opening in the door, dodging a swipe from the massive robot to stand on top of the tether claw. The ship was hovering about fifteen feet above the landing pad, with the tether cable running to it like a tightrope. Rasper stood below the ship, with the Negotiator pointed right at it.
“Jump, little outsider! I’ll catch you!”
Junpo’s knuckles turned teal as he gripped the edge of the cruiser. The robot grabbed at his foot from behind and clenched it tightly, but at the same moment, the ship lurched to the right, sending them both tumbling out into space. For a brief moment, Junpo and the sentinel soared through space at alarming speed. Junpo kicked away at the robot before landing in Rasper’s arms. The behemoth robot’s head collided with the edge of the asteroid, tearing it clean off as the lifeless body floated into deep space. The Vullard sighed.
“This is gonna get me in all kinds of trouble, but…”
Rasper pulled the trigger, and a high velocity missile shot out with a trail of smoke. The torpedo appeared for a brief moment as a blindingly bright comet, before exploding next to the shuttle. The blast caused a deep rumbling boom and a massive shockwave to peal out through space, causing the tether hook to come undone by its very force. The ship wobbled mid-air before plummeting below the asteroid, until it eventually stabilized a distance away. Junpo thought he could still hear Zarnoc’s distant cursing as the ship retreated.
Junpo and Rasper sat still on the landing pad for several minutes, breathing heavily.
“This means we’re gonna have to move.” Rasper muttered, tossing the Negotiator into the grass. “I was just starting to like it here, too…”
“Thank you, Rasper.” Junpo said. “You saved me.”
His wide eyes paired with a massive grin as he beamed up at the Vullard, who’s troubled hunch softened at the sight.
“Anytime, little outsider.”
They sat that way a while longer, breathing heavily as they looked out into space. Rasper kept turning his head to the boy and opening his mouth, before closing it again. Eventually, he spoke.
“Look… I’m gonna be honest with you, little outsider. Your parents probably aren’t coming back. You got a whole life ahead of you; I don’t want to see you waste it waiting on some deadbeats that don’t care about you. You deserve better than that.”
Junpo’s mouth sunk in a frown as he looked into his lap.
“No, you’re right… I guess I knew that already. I just thought - maybe…”
“What’s the first rule of scrap collection?” Rasper said softly.
Junpo stared at Rasper in confusion, tears welling in his eyes.
“All scrap has value.” The Vullard said. “And even if your parents couldn’t understand that, you’re priceless in my eyes, Junpo. Now, I know I’m probably not what you imagine when you think of a father, but you can call me family anytime.”
Junpo leapt at Rasper and hugged him close.
“Thank you.”

The belligerent ursidain growled at the vulptanis behind the suddenly thin feeling screen.
The smaller administrator was merely doing their job correctly, asking for ID, confirming there were no outstanding warrants, all standard procedure. Yet there were those that no matter how many times they had to do this when changing station, they hated the process and wished to take their anger out on someone. The ursidain was one of those.
"I've done what you want! Stop wasting my time!" Bellowed the giant, spittle running down the transparent screen, the only thing separating the giant from the nervous agent. It suddenly felt as if the illusion of protection had been shattered. Good. The more the ursidain made the agent feel uncomfortable, the more likely he'd get through quicker.
"Sir, I-I..."
"Oi!" Barked a sharp voice from the side. "Step away from the screen and manage yourself." Ordered the canid in the resplendent attire of station security. The ursidain's giant head swung around to lock on to the speaker, and the new target of their aggression. It was important to keep the outrage going, to not be distracted, otherwise they'd force him through the whole slow process. The ursidain turned their body with plodding steps before swinging their arms out wide.
"I ain't done anything! And this one is wasting my time!" The ursidain gestured at the visibly relieved vulptanis behind the screen with a jerk of his head.
"Processing takes time. Step away from the screen and manage yourself. Lower your voice, now." The canid ordered, arms hung low, no weapon in sight.
"Or what? I aint afraid of you." Growled the giant.
"Or we'll interpret your actions as 'hostile' and defend the station." Replied the canid without a hint of emotion colouring his words. A bluff. Had to be.
The ursidain glanced around and saw the rest of the pack already appearing from different directions. The ursidain had dealt with canids before, they were all bluster. He was an ursidain! Largest of the bipeds! He could take anything they dished out, but that wasn't even a worry. He couldn't be intimidated. He'd done this dance countless times before. The GC was the same everywhere, they wouldn't harm a single strand of fur on his body.
"Step away from the screen and manage yourself or you will be managed. Last warning."
Unbeknownst to the ursidain, the crowd waiting for processing had already taken several steps away, but decided to take a few more, just to be safe. The ursidain was confident, no one liked having bad press and usually making a scene was enough to get ushered through, just to get the one causing an issue out of the way. This was unusual, but despite all the fearmongering of canids being the big bad of the GC, the ursidain had yet to actually see a canid in action. They wouldn't do anything to him, he was a citizen, this was just an attempt at intimidation.
"I want through! Do you know how I am?! I'm-" The ursidain, as he was talking shoved the canid in front of him against the shoulder. The immediate slash across the back of the ursidain's legs sent burning pain through him, but it wasn't enough to topple him.
He swung an arm around behind him, turning as he did, but hit nothing but air. The canid that had slashed him was scampering away, his knife-like claws bloodied.
The ursidain screwed up his face in indignant rage! How dare they even touch him! He was bleeding! He'd have their hides!
Having no intention of backing down now, the ursidain breathed in to bellow, only to feel teeth, clamp around his throat, and a weight pulling him forwards and twisting his neck at an odd angle. To the crowd, the canid that had been issuing the warnings had leapt forward the moment the giant had stopped paying attention to him and had used his own teeth to pull the giant to the ground, bracing his legs and body against the creature's wide chest before pulling and twisting. The ursidain had to follow the pull and twist or risk causing more damage to himself. He toppled forwards and was thrown to the ground with an echoing 'thud'.
The jaws that had clamped around his neck released and the ursidain was looking up at the lead canid, glaring down at him. A large paw reached up and touched against his neck and winced. Pulling the paw away, it was splattered with blood, his own.
"You are bound by station law and are to come with us. Will you comply?" Growled the canid, vicious in tone.
"I-" But the guard cut him off.
"Understand, if you are not completely cooperative, I have the authority to remove any and all threats to the station with lethal force." The canid crouched and grinned, his teeth pink with the mixture of his own saliva and the ursidain's blood.
"Please resist, I haven't killed anyone in three days, I need this." The canid bluffed loud enough for everyone to hear.
To the shocked and nervous crowd, the ursidain nodded his head and was swiftly bound and led away into a side door. A door that was not used by anyone but the security team. There was a quiet, nervous energy as the lead canid glanced back at the crowd, looking for anything or rather anyone who might also cause an issue.
It didn't matter who had an ego in that crowd, the canid would not hesitate to force them into compliance.
It was well known that the canids were the weapon held in the Galactic Community's arm. The GC's own personal cudgel. Parents told children horror stories of the canids to get them to behave and the canids did nothing to dismiss or debate these claims. Some of them were true.
It took public moments like this to remind the trillions of citizens around the galaxy that just because the day to day lives of the average citizen was without worry or blood, did not mean that the canids could not step in if they got cocky.
There was good reason the canids were interacted with at arm's length by the average person. Canids were one step away from being outright feral. Knives for fingers and an appetite for violence. The boogiemen of the GC.
== 0 ==
Melrash the canid sighed as he threw the tool belt down on the side as his home's front door slid closed and locked. It was the end of the day and it had been a long one. Three chintian smugglers, two felinoids after a decency complaint, two taurians in a bar fight and an ursidain in processing. That was the final tally of occupants of the station that Melrash had, had to physically detain. Over half had to see their own blood before reality set in.
Oddly, it was the smugglers who were the ones that had come quietly without issue. Melrash growled as he didn't trust that. He'd missed something, they'd got him away from there too quickly, he'd not sniffed around or questioned it. Tomorrow he'd-
"Mel?" Came a voice from within, perking the canid's ears up.
"I'm home." The canid called back, still not used to having someone waiting for him at home. As a canid, he had his pack, and he spent a large chunk of his time with them. Whether at work or blowing off steam. But even the pack needed time away from one another at the end of the day. This 'guest' in his home was still a new feature, but one he'd learnt to enjoy.
The tiny frail furless creature came pottering around the door frame with the gait that looked like it was about to fall over at any time. It had taken effort on Melrash's part to stop following the thing round with his paws out, ready to catch the human.
The fleshy creature wiped his hands of moisture on an oversized, to him at least, towel before putting it over the back of the sofa. The canid said nothing, then the human bee lined for Melrash.
The canid stood there, perfectly still and weathered the 'attack'.
The human looped his arms around the canid's middle and pressed himself into the canid's fur. It was so dense and the human so small that the creature partially disappeared. The canid very carefully draped his own arms and paws over the human's shoulders and gently pressed the human into himself.
He'd barely used any of his strength, but he both felt and heard the human's spine crunch and click before Melrash's eyes shot wide and he crouched down, shocking the human with the speed while he checked the frail creature for harm.
"I'm fine! Honestly, I needed to click my back, I feel looser." The human argued, batting the canid's worried hands away.
Melrash growled and glanced to the scarred flesh on the human's arms. A perfect quartet of lines, that if anyone looked too closely at, would perfectly match to the spacing of Melrash's fingers. Carelessness and hard lessons.
"I still don't understand how you aren't scared of me. Everyone else is..." Grumbled Melrash, not upset that he was feared by the masses, but almost frustrated that he hadn't been able to get the same response from Yanis. Still... as the human looped their arms around the canid's neck and pushed his face into the canid's messy mane, Melrash had to admit he enjoyed this.
"Because I know you're a friend. Always did, as soon as I met you. Maybe more than that now...?" The humans hands came up to the opposite ear and began to scratch the shorter fur there, Melrash 'hunnn'ing in response.
The human breathed the canid's scent in despite the canid knowing that Yanis was scent blind. Melrash smiled and tilted his head, sandwiching the human into his shoulder as the canid used one arm to hold the human in place and stand back up. Yanis squawked in surprise, but the canid ignored him and his wiggling in a vague notion of trying to escape.
The canid carried him without effort back into the kitchen, but not before plucking the wet towel off the back of the sofa.
"You keep telling me off for doing that." The canid growled, his whole body rumbling the human as Yanis merely guiltily laughed. The canid grinned, not the worst defence for someone's actions he'd heard today.
Melrash, along with his pack, secretly liked how the humans didn't fear the canids... it was a pleasant change...
WolvensStories
Ko-Fi
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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?

11/20/2017
Log book of Det. Ryan Snow
Case #2798: The Appalachian Murders
The past couple of days are events I pray no one else ever has to go through what Kate and I had. I had her and Mr. Raines cleared of all charges, having found the proof we all needed to end this case and find the true killer. Kate no longer has to go into witness protection and I had given the police a good enough lie to keep myself from looking insane in the eyes of my co-workers. I know no one will ever know the true story or believe it, but I’m writing it out here. It at least needs to be known written somewhere. Even if my and Kate’s eyes are the only ones that will ever read it written out and forever imprinted in our memories.
The morning Kate had run off to the mountains on her own, I had made my way to the Blackwell home where I was immediately met with Mr. Blackwell charging at me and wrapping his large hands around my neck. He was shaking me and blaming me for getting his daughter killed and not doing more to keep her safe. The police who had been called to examine the scene and read Kate’s letter had to sedate Mr. Blackwell to get him off of me, lying him down on the couch, his head resting on Mrs. Blackwell’s legs. Though the woman was distraught and begging the police to bring her daughter back, she still took the time to shoot that cold, death glare my way. The ice in my chest growing. I couldn’t tell these people that this thing had come after me to get to Kate. I knew it wouldn’t change anything. If anything they’d hate me even more for keeping it to myself.
The sheriff was there and he pulled me away from eye sight of the Blackwells, trying to tell me that this wasn’t my fault. But I couldn’t help but blame myself. I should have done everything I could to keep Kate as far from those mountains as possible.
There were no signs of a struggle in Kate’s room and the letter was definitely written in her hand writing. Her father’s rifle missing from the study, a backpack and some food and supplies gone as well. She had only grabbed one set of clothes from her drawers, showing she did indeed have plans on returning after only one night in the mountains to confront whoever or whatever the killer was.
I told the sheriff to keep any police from going up to the mountains without first allowing me to go up there first to find Kate. He of course argued, telling me that he couldn’t break protocol based on any hunches I may have had. However, I told him that I could get Kate back without her putting up much of a fight, whereas she may struggle with a group of cops who didn’t understand the situation she was in. I was close enough to this case to have built a trust with her after all. I was mentioned in her letter about ending this case for me.
It took a good hour to get the sheriff to eye the Blackwells, Mr. Blackwell beginning to stir from his sleep, and allow me to go to the mountains to find Kate. He didn’t bother to call off the search to the police that had already begun making their way to the mountains, but did radio to tell them to not try getting Kate home without first allowing me to speak to her. He then gave me twenty-four hours to find her to which I told him I’d only need at most ten.
Without telling him about the disturbing scratches on my car, I sped to the mountains, taking the same path Kate had that day she took her friends on their trip. The route, as the sun began to rise was scenic. A drive that may have been a sign of a bright future ahead with a beautiful week in the mountains of nothing but nature, was now a reddening sky of horror. I couldn’t understand how Kate felt, going down the same roads that led to her only friends’ fates to avenge them, but the feeling of guilt did weigh heavy on my chest as I saw the signs of the Appalachian Mountain trails grow bigger on the horizon. Guilt for not doing more to prove Kate was innocent, for allowing Mrs. Mayfield for getting killed right before my very eyes, and for Liam for not being lucky enough to save him.
When I finally arrived to the cabin, there didn’t seem to be any change since the first day I was called to the crime scene, the only thing out of place being Mr. Blackwell’s truck parked precariously near the cabin. The police tape was still up, the cars of Kate and Mr. Woolfe still left where they were, the tires still slashed, the door wide open from when Kate, Ms. Greymoore, and Mr. Woolfe ran out of the cabin upon Mr. Billings was killed by an unknown force. All the bodies had been found and were now being prepared by their families to be buried or cremated. Only one body of the five still roaming around to avenge each and every one of their deaths.
I called out for Kate as I made my way into the cabin. The Ouija board was still on the coffee table, the white line of where Mr. Billings had been found lying face first on the floor with his head bashed open remained on the spot. The planchette was still missing. I kept calling out for Kate as I made my way up to the attic, the door left unlocked, using my flashlight to shine down on the white outline where Mr. Steele had been found completely torn apart. To think Kate had done such a thing, I now realize made me look like a complete dumb ass for believing it.
When I couldn’t find Kate in the cabin, I made my way out the cabin, still calling for her. I called out to her, promising that she just needed to come back home with me and we could solve the murders together. I knew it was a lie and that the sheriff would immediately have her take away to some secluded place where the killer couldn’t find her, but it was all I could think of to try luring her out to meet me. Still, she never appeared.
The sun was soon beginning to set as I tried retracing the very steps Kate and Ms. Greymoore had taken to outrun the killer. I had passed the small shrine of flowers and the pictures of Mr. Woolfe where the boy had been found, his face permanently remaining nineteen forever in the photos of him with Kate and their friends. I kept going, trying my best to follow the same path to the cliff where Ms. Greymoore was found, calling for Kate along the way.
It wasn’t until I found the place Kate had buried her best friend that I found Kate. She was on her knees before the rock where she left her bloody handprint, sniffing as her head was lowered, her dad’s rifle in her hands.
“Ms. Blackwell-“ I began as I took a step toward her. I was immediately cut off as Kate jumped to her feet, raising her father’s rifle at my head. I jolted back, raising my hands up to show her I meant no harm to her. “Ms. Blackwell, it’s me, Det. Snow!”
“Detective…?” She gasped, slightly lowering the rifle, but keeping it on me. “P-Prove it!”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I… I thought I saw Sonja…” Kate breathed between tears, the rifle shaking in her hands, “it… It was wearing her face… It had her voice… How… H-How do I know you’re really Det. Snow?”
“You… Saw Sonja?” I asked as gently as I could with a terrified woman pointing a gun my way. “She spoke to you?”
“Prove you’re Det. Snow!” Kate demanded as she stilled her arms, readying the rifle as she pointed straight between my eyes.
“Alright! Alright!” I kept my hands up, backing up slightly as I tried thinking of how I could prove to her I was really me. “I… I, ah… I have… Had a brother… We went to get ice cream together once and… I dropped a dime and went to grab it… I was five… I followed it out to the road and despite how trafficked it was, I didn’t get hit. I grabbed the dime just as a truck was speeding my way and it swerved just before hitting me… Seeing how close I was to death, I dropped the dime and it rolled into the sewer. My brother called me Lucky Dime since then… Saying the dime was lost to me because it did its job in protecting me… I haven’t seen my brother since I was seven and I haven’t spoken to my parents in…” I looked at my watch. “Five years… No one else calls me Lucky Dime… Not even the people at the station know that was my nickname.”
With this, Kate lowered the rifle, her eyes softening from her furious fear to a more melancholy terror. She looked to Ms. Greymoore’s grave marker, her hand print just barely visible In the approaching darkness.
“It… It looked just… Like her…” She sniffed, “it had her voice… Why did it have her voice… Why did it look like her…?”
“Ms. Blackwell,” I soothed, relaxing now that there was no weapon in my face, “we need to head back, your parents are worried about you and the police are looking for-“
“I can’t go back yet!” She snapped at me as she spun to look at me, tears in her eyes. “That thing is still out there and will kill again unless I end it!” She held up her dad’s rifle as if to show me how she meant to “end it.” “I’m not leaving until I end that… Thing that had the balls to wear Sonja’s face and have her voice!”
“Ms. Blackwell, we will catch the killer, I promise, but right now, we need to get you home before your dad ends up killing a police officer for keeping him from looking for you.”
“I told him in my letter I’d be back tomorrow! I’m twenty-years-old, he can’t force me back home if I don’t want to! I just want to stop this thing before it-“
A howling in the distance cut Kate off. Coyote from what I could hear. If I couldn’t get Kate home, I’d have to get her somewhere safe. I turned to begin talking her down and taking her to one of the other two cabins for shelter. However, when I looked back at her, her face had turned to a bone chilling terror I’d never seen on a person before. She looked like hunted prey that had been found by its predator. She gripped her dad’s rifle to her chest tightly, her hand reaching for the trigger.
“Ms. Blackwell, it’s just a pack of coyote,” I tried telling her calmly, “let’s get to one of the other cabins and-“
“No, no, no,” She stopped me as she stepped back, looking around for where the howling was coming from, “I… Heard that same howling just before I saw Sonja! I thought it was far away, but she… She was right in front of me… She… Something was off, but it looked just like her!”
“Ms. Blackwell, you didn’t see Sonja,” I assured her, “I don’t know what you think you saw, but it wasn’t-“
“Lucky… Dime…”
I froze. My blood turned to ice. The fear on Kate’s face grew as she began backing away, her back hitting the grave marker. I spun around to see a figure in the darkness limp toward us, a scratched and garbled familiar voice coming from it.
“Lucky… Dime…” It wheezed, “You brought her… Back… Give her… To me…”
I whipped out my gun, pointing it at this thing that had his voice. I stepped back to stand directly between this thing and Kate.
“Stay back!” I demanded. “Don’t come any closer!”
“Lucky… Di-“
“Shut up! Stop calling me that! Who are you? Not another step or I’ll shoot!”
The thing stopped limping toward us, its body shuddering in place as it stared us down. I took the safety off of my Glock, ready to blow this thing’s head off if it got any closer or even dared using that voice on me again.
“Kate…” It turned its attention to Kate, a completely different voice coming from it, another male’s voice. “Kate… I’m cold…”
“J-Jasper…” Kate began to sob, “Please, stop using their voices… Please stop!”
“Kate… Kate why did… Did you leave me…?” Another male voice asked. “I… I was in so much… Pain…”
“Shut up!” Kate cried out.
“I thought we… Were friends… Kate…” A female voice. “You said you… Loved me… Why won’t… You let me have… Your warmth…?”
“I said shut up!” Kate screamed as she pointed her rifle and shooting at the creature. She had missed, but the thing still let out an ear piercing shriek as it dodged out of the way of the bullets Kate was shooting. It ran off into the darkness, but Kate kept pulling the trigger of her rifle.
“Stop!” I shouted as I snatched the barrel of her rifle, shoving it to the ground before us. “It’s gone, you scared it off, get to the cabins, I’m right here with you!”
I began shoving Kate back toward where the cabins were, the sounds of that thing screaming out in a symphony of different voices ringing out throughout the woods. I shoved Kate into the first cabin we had arrived to, Cabin #1 I could only assume as I slammed the door shut behind us. It smelled God awful, like the smell of the corpse I found on my first murder case, and it was getting darker as the sun began to sink behind the trees outside.
“Detective, it smell terrible in here!” Kate cried out, covering her mouth and nose, but the tears still falling from her eyes were still visible as they rolled down her cheeks.
I pulled her close and kept her behind me as I took my gun and flashlight out. “Stay close to me,” I ordered, leading the way through the cabin, “do not run off or use that rifle without may say so, understood?”
Kate didn’t answer, but I could feel the heat from her body following after me as I made my toward the smell. It was getting worse as we inched closer to a closet door in a hallway that connected the living room to the kitchen. The door was locked, but after a couple of kicks I was able to get the door to swing open, the smell blasting us in our faces making us gag and nearly throw up on the floor. I fumbled around the sides inside the room to find a light switch that I was able to find to the side of the entryway. A yellow light flickered on, revealing the door led to a staircase. I led the way down the creaking steps, Kate close by as she kept her mouth covered with her shirt.
Once we had made our way to the bottom, Kate dropped her dad’s rifle and let out a scream as we stared at what was waiting for us at the bottom of the steps. In a large pile at the corner of this basement room were nothing but skin and bones of humans and animals covered in maggots and flies. Some of the human bodies being small and child-like in size. The missing people who were never found after vanishing when they came to Cabin #2.
I grabbed Kate’s rifle off the floor and began pushing her back up the stairs, her screaming and sobbing all the way back up to the cabin. I slammed the door shut behind us and pushed Kate to the front door.
“We need to leave,” I had told her, trying to calm her down as we made it outside, “we need to get you home and away from here as soon as possible.”
“N-No… No!” She began fighting me, trying to escape my grasp on her. “No! That… That thing is still out there! You saw it! You can’t say you don’t believe me now! It even called you Lucky Dime! It said you brought me back!”
“I’m not saying I don’t believe you!” I shot back. “I do, I saw exactly what you saw, but it’s way too dangerous for you to be out here while you’re the one it’s after!”
“I escaped it once, I can do it again!” Kate pointed out as she struggled against me while I tried getting her into my car. “I’m not running away this time, I want to kill it!”
“God damn it, Blackwell, we’ll let the police handle it! Just because you have a weapon doesn’t make you safe or ready to handle something like… Like that… That thing!”
“It killed my friends! It wants me! I’m going straight to it so I can blow its head off! It’ll come right for me!”
“I came here to bring you back home, not let you accomplish some stupid ass revenge plot! Get in the fucking car, unless you want to end up like those bodies down that-“
“D… De… Detect… Detective…”
A scratched and moaning voice cut me off. Kate and I both froze at the sound of something approaching. I turned to see a police officer stagger toward us from the tree line. I could barely tell who he was or who he used to be, his head held low and blue uniform covered in blood.
“H… Hel… Hel… Help… Help me…" It croaked as it stumbled closer.
I held up Kate's rifle. "Stay back!" I barked. "Not another step!"
The thing that stood before us wearing the cop like a full-bodied suit stopped in place. It swayed where it stood, blood water falling from its head and down to its chest.
"It… It… It's inside… Inside me…" It breathed painfully. "I… I can't… Help… Me…" Its voice then changed to that familiar voice that made my skin crawl. "Lucky… Dime… I… I'm so… Hungry… Give her… To… Me…"
I pulled the trigger of the rifle, hitting the creature in the head, the rest of it staggering backward from the blow. Still though, it remained on its feet, turning itself to look toward us once again.
"Give… Her… To… Me…" It wheeze, blood and brain pouring from where I had shot it, it beginning to stumble toward us once again. I continued shooting, hitting it in the shoulder, the arm, the leg, the head again, but it just kept coming toward us faster, demanding I give Kate to it.
I was about ready to ram it with the rifle, having run out of bullets, when a voice off in the distance made the creature freeze just an inch before us.
"I'm here! I'm here!" It called out in an almost sing-songy way, using the voice of a little girl. "I'm here! I'm here!"
"I'm… Here…" The creature repeated as it jerked its body to look to where the voice was coming from. "I'm here… I'm here… I'm here! I'm here! I'm here!" It began shrieking in a high pitch wail. It sounded like a mixture of different voices ranging from child, to woman, to man. Keeping flat on its feet, its upper body fell forward onto its hands before speedily crawling off like a spider.
We stood in shaking silence for a moment, Kate digging her fingers into my arm while I was too numb from shock to care about the pain she was unknowingly inflicting. It wasn’t until the radio from my car buzzed to life that jolted us back to whatever reality was at this point. I scrambled to the driver’s side, swinging the door open as I fell inside to grab the intercom to respond to the voice yelling for me over the receiver.
“Det. Snow, what the hell is going on up there?” The sheriff’s scratched voice called out over the receiver when I could barely get my name out of my mouth.
“Sh-Sh-Sheriff…?” Was all I could respond with, still trying to wrap my head around what I had just seen.
“Y-Y-Yeah,” he responded in mock shudder, “what the hell is going on up there? I’ve tried radioing every man I’ve got up there and am constantly being left on red! Do I need to send back-up?”
“No!” Immediately, I returned to full reality, finally understanding the severity of the moment and putting that knowledge into my tone. “Landon, do not send any more men up here, call everyone back immediately! I don’t know what this thing is, but it’s too dangerous! Call everyone back, we’re heading back to the Blackwell house now!”
“We?” The sheriff questioned, skepticism in his voice.
“I found Ms. Blackwell, she’s here with me.”
I was met with statice before the voice of Mr. Blackwell blasted over the intercom.
“Bring my daughter home, right now, you son of a bitch!” Mr. Blackwell demanded. “You bring her home this instant before I decide to kick your teeth in!”
I opened my mouth to respond, but the radio was snatched from my hand from Kate. “I’m not coming home until I kill this thing!” She snapped into the radio. “I don’t know what it is, but I at least know I’m not crazy and that it needs to die before it kills anyone else!”
I grabbed the radio from Kate’s hand, beginning to tell her off when a agonized scream erupted from the intercom. I dropped the radio to cover my ears as Kate did, the scream piercing from my car to throughout the forest around us. The voice screaming and crying for help sounded male and it seemed to echo all around us.
“GIVE HER TO ME, YOU SON OF A BITCH!” A mix of the screaming voice and Mr. Blackwell’s hissed out after a good five minutes of screaming before the radio short-circuited and puffs of smoke flowed out.
After allowing my ears to adjust to the sudden silence, I grabbed the radio once again and tried calling for the sheriff, for the cops with us in the mountains, for anyone. When I was met with more silence, I slammed the radio back down on the holder and cursed loudly, hitting the wheel as if it were the source of all my problems.
After a moment to take some deep breaths, I told Kate to get in the car as I placed her rifle in the back seat.
“Didn’t you hear me?” she shot back. “I’m not-“
“Damn it, Blackwell, we have no idea what we’re dealing with, it can mimic peoples’ voices, and it just ran off like a fucking black widow!” I snapped, stepping out of the driver’s seat to glare down at her. “The last thing I’m doing to leaving you here alone and I’m not staying here another second until I can wrap my head around what the fuck I just saw! So, you either get yourself killed out here while I try talking you down this hero complex high, or you’re going to do what I say and get in the damn car!”
We stood in heated silence, glaring each other down before Kate huffed and stormed over to the passenger side of my car and slamming the door shut as she climbed in. I jumped in after her and began driving away from this nutty nightmare I had found myself in.
We drove down the trail back to civilization in silence, Kate staring out the window and trying to keep her tearful sniffs quiet. I had finally begun calming down and was starting to feel bad for snapping at her. She had only gone there to avenge her friends by killing that thing that had most likely killed a whole bunch of cops to find her. However, I still couldn’t just let her stay to hunt it and I didn’t want to stay out in those mountains with some kind of creature that could take the form and voice of someone I knew. I still couldn’t understand what is was I had even seen.
“Wendigo,” Kate whispered, breaking the silence in the car first. She had said it as if she had just remembered something important.
“What?”
“A Wendigo,” She repeated, turning to look to me with wide scared eyes, “that’s what that thing is! It’s a Wendigo!”
“Slow down, what’s a Wendigo?”
“It’s… Oh, just forget it! You wouldn’t believe me anyway.”
“Ms. Blackwell, I just saw a cop being used as a puppet and then run off at inhuman speed on all fours; I doubt I’m not going to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth now. What’s a Wendigo?”
Kate eyed me for a moment before releasing some of the tension from her face as she took a deep breath and began explaining to me. “They’re a Native American myth; it’s believed they’re the spirits of people who would lose themselves in the woods and would end up eating other people to satiate their hunger. I think that’s what that thing is. They can mimic the voices of people who died and use it to lure people to them, they can take the form of that person too.”
“Why does it want female hearts?” I asked, not realizing I had yet told her what my mysterious caller kept asking for when they called me.
“It… It wants my heart?” she asked shakily.
I cursed to myself before letting out a frustrated sigh. “I think this thing wants hearts, but it only wants female hearts. Why? I don’t know yet. But the only other person to be found after killing someone in those cabins was found with his partner’s heart missing to which he was blamed for taking out of her. Recently, I’ve been getting calls from some… Thing wanting me to bring you back here so it could take something from you. It would have taken Ms. Greymoore’s, but you hid her well enough that only the police could find her in time. Now, I’ve been getting calls asking for you and to get something from you.”
Kate looked to me in shock before a wave of guilt twisted her face in pain. “I… I’m so, so… So sorry, Detective!” She cried out. “I… I had… I had no idea you were being… Harassed by it! Had I known it wanted me back and was demanding you brought me here, I never… I didn’t… That’s why it said you brought me back! Oh, I’m such an idiot!” She pressed her hands to her face, grabbing at her hair between her fingers and tightening them around her eyes.
“No, no, no, stop, stop that!” I ordered, screeching the car to a halt, having to bring it to a crooked stop so I could stop her from hurting herself. I snatched her arms from her head and pinned them to her lap, tears flooding her face. “It’s my fault for not telling you sooner! I was too focused on trying to solve this case with the most efficient evidence I could, but that just kept me looking to you as a suspect. I should have stopped thinking you were the killer the moment I got that first call. There’s no way any of us could have seen… This coming… Except people who probably already believe in that kind of stuff or don’t stop to assume a more rational explanation like a cult… I’m… I’m sorry. But, I won’t let it take anything from you, not anymore. I’m going to get you home and then I’ll deal with this with the rest of the police department. You don’t have to deal with this thing anymore, it’ll be my burden from now on. You need time to finally get some rest and mourn your friends with your and their families. It’s already fucked your life up enough, I won’t let it go on making it worse.”
I stopped her before she could argue with me with a wave of my hand. “Your friends’ deaths shouldn’t be your burden to handle. I know you want to be the one who kills that thing and do right by them, but that’s not what they would want. They’d want you to remember them and continue living. They know you didn’t do it, so stop blaming yourself and stop acting like you’re the one who has to make it up to them. I will put an end to this die trying, but you need to go home and be with people who are happy you still get to live.”
Kate looked down at her hands that I kept down on her lap before nodding weakly and letting out a broken “okay.”
“Good, now let’s get you home before-“
My words were cut off when the honk of a car barreling toward us echoed through the woods. The headlights were fast approaching and I barely had time to grab the gear shift to put us back in drive as the other vehicle hit us, forcing us back and forth in one violent motion. It took me a moment to check myself to be sure I hadn’t hit my head on anything or got whiplash from the crash before I immediately returned my full attention to Kate who was kneeling over holding her head. I gently grabbed her shoulder and pulled her up to examine her head. It didn’t appear to have been busted and bleeding, but she was holding the front side of her forehead.
“Are you okay?” I asked her, prying her hand away from the spot on her forehead, seeing that it was beginning to bruise. “Can you hear me? Blink twice if you can understand me!”
“I… I’m f-fine…” she mumbled as she looked to her hand to check if there was blood on her palm, “I… I think I just… Hit… Hit the w-window…” She then blinked twice in my direction before looking to the car that had rammed us.
I turned my attention as well to the car to see it was a police van, it’s front crushed into the left of my front. I quickly jumped out my vehicle and stormed to the van, yelling at who ever was driving the van to come out and explain what the hell they were doing.
The driver’s side of the van swung open once I was near enough and a man in an orange jumpsuit climbed out, staring familiar daggers at me. The moment realization set in, my mixed emotions of confusion, frustration, and fear turned to fury.
It was Leighton Raines.
“Jesus, you really are a shitty detective.” Was all he said to me before reaching into the can and retrieving a rifle out from the passenger seat.
[END OF PART 1]
Part 6

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.

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 posted this a couple of times in replies today, but I think this is worthy of a full post. I'm not going to say what this is just yet, but this is an important list:

1. Mind reading. You assume that you know what people think without having sufficient evidence of their thoughts. “He thinks I’m a loser.”
2. Fortune-telling. You predict the future negatively: things will get worse, or there is danger ahead. “I’ll fail that exam,” or “I won’t get the job.”
3. Catastrophizing. You believe that what has happened or will happen will be so awful and unbearable that you won’t be able to stand it. “It would be terrible if I failed.”
4. Labeling. You assign global negative traits to yourself and others. “I’m undesirable,” or “He’s a rotten person.”
5. Discounting positives. You claim that the positive things you or others do are trivial. “That’s what wives are supposed to do—so it doesn’t count when she’s nice to me,” or “Those successes were easy, so they don’t matter.”
6. Negative filtering. You focus almost exclusively on the negatives and seldom notice the positives. “Look at all of the people who don’t like me.”
7. Overgeneralizing. You perceive a global pattern of negatives on the basis of a single incident. “This generally happens to me. I seem to fail at a lot of things.”
8. Dichotomous thinking. You view events or people in all-or-nothing terms. “I get rejected by everyone,” or “It was a complete waste of time.”
9. Blaming. You focus on the other person as the source of your negative feelings, and you refuse to take responsibility for changing yourself. “She’s to blame for the way I feel now,” or “My parents caused all my problems.”
10. What if? You keep asking a series of questions about “what if” something happens, and you fail to be satisfied with any of the answers. “Yeah, but what if I get anxious?,” or “What if I can’t catch my breath?”
11. Emotional reasoning. You let your feelings guide your interpretation of reality. “I feel depressed; therefore, my marriage is not working out.”
12. Inability to disconfirm. You reject any evidence or arguments that might contradict your negative thoughts. For example, when you have the thought I’m unlovable, you reject as irrelevant any evidence that people like you. Consequently, your thought cannot be refuted. “That’s not the real issue. There are deeper problems. There are other factors.”

Now, I'm going to apply it to the Doctor Who discourse on both sides of the culture war:

1. Mind reading. Russell T. Davies intends to destroy the legacy of Doctor Who; anybody complaining about the handling of diversity or the rhetoric around it isn't speaking good faith.
2. Fortune-telling. Doctor Who is failing because of low overnight numbers.
3. Catastrophizing. Russell T. Davies is going to destroy Doctor Who.
4. Labeling. Everybody who complains about the trans representation is a transphobe.
5. Discounting positives. The episode had a discussion about pronouns, so the entire thing was terrible.
6. Negative filtering. People complain about how some of part of an episode is handled, so they must hate the show
7. Overgeneralizing. Doctor Who is woke; the fanbase is full of bigots.
8. Dichotomous thinking. If Doctor Who has a non-binary character or trans character, it's because of virtue signalling; if somebody complains about representation, it's cannot be a valid criticism.
9. Blaming. The poor overnight ratings were the fault of Doctor Who being too "woke"; people aren't watching Doctor Who because they don't want diversity.
10. What if? Nothing Russell T. Davies might do with the show can save it because of wokeness.
11. Emotional reasoning. A discussion about pronouns in an episode makes me feel like I'm being shamed, so it must be there to shame me; somebody complaining about trans representation in the show makes me feel criticized, so it must be illegitimate.
12. Inability to disconfirm. It doesn’t matter how much Russell T. Davies tries to give back to the fan base, he must be trying to betray them; it doesn’t matter how many complaints about representation came from trans people, the criticism must be coming from transphobes.

So, what is this list?
This is a list of common cognitive distortions that appear in those who suffer from depression and anxiety. As an abuse survivor who has been diagnosed with anxiety, I have struggled with many of the items on this list. It's from an article in The Atlantic titled "The Coddling of the American Mind," and you can read it here: https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2015/09/the-coddling-of-the-american-mind/399356/
And I would suggest reading it - the article itself is about trigger warnings, but the same general thing has been happening in the culture war over the last few years - people have been training their minds to see the problematic first, and view everything through that lens. And, on both sides, the more time you spend consuming this material, the more it distorts your perception of reality. You may not have started off with depression or anxiety, but you end up training yourself to have the symptoms of it.
If you read a bunch of criticism of diversity and immediately conclude that it's all just bigots, that is a distortion of reality. There are some bigots out there, but there are a lot more who have been so repeatedly called racist or bigoted for criticism of badly written race-swaps or gender-swaps in beloved characters or franchises that they've developed a knee-jerk reaction against it.
Likewise, if you see the drop in overnight ratings for the latest episodes and conclude that Doctor Who is being abandoned, that is likewise a distortion of reality - the release model was changed this season in a way that would cannibalize part of the overnight, and we won't know what the true ratings are until the 7+ television and streaming figures come in (probably on Monday).
But really, if you've been following the outrage videos and the culture war on either side, you're probably seeing some of these distortions in yourself already. And, take it from an abuse survivor who has struggled with them himself, they don't make your life better.
The good news is that all you have to do is take a break from them. Stop letting the negativity live rent-free in your head. Spend that time reading a book, enjoying a hobby, rewatching your favourite episodes, etc. The longer you are away from it, the more perspective you will get, and the more you will detox from it. And believe me, it makes your life a lot better, and you start seeing them for the petty BS that they are. I can't clear all the culture war videos out of my Youtube feed, but I've gotten rid of most of them, and I watch perhaps a handful of the ones that are left. As for the rest...life is too short, and there are better things to be doing.

endtheculturewar

So, here is part 2 of my entitled employee story. We left off with discovering Sally’s retaliation of giving me trash as a Christmas gift after her latest write-up.
So, the next several weeks, I am noticing more problems, but here’s some of the highlights.

1. Ever since we had issues of the office’s checks going randomly missing, Sally had apparently decided to just stop throwing any envelope away when opening the mail. She would supposedly search the envelopes/paperwork & then keep the envelopes with the paperwork. So, instead of doing her job better, she would decide to just stop doing the job at all. After all, you can’t get in trouble for screwing it up if you aren’t doing it, right? However, this resulted in items getting left with the paperwork (which sometimes wouldn’t get touched for several weeks due to being busy) that had needed to be collected or addressed right away.
   
2. Sally’s careless mistakes continued at about the same rate (average of 2 to 3 a week). She would put deposit slips/emails with the wrong office’s report, put one office’s mail in another office’s bin, put one office’s funding papers in another office’s bin, put one office’s bills in the folder for their correspondence & vice versa, put one office’s bills in the folder for another office’s bills, put the new month’s bills in the folder without taking out the old month’s bills so they would get mixed up. I could go on & on.
   
3. Sally would still ask for help on things she shouldn’t need help on anymore, ‘cause I had helped her many times on items exactly like it in the 2 years she’s worked here. I mean, the whole point of asking for help when learning new things on a job is so you can take the input you’re given & use it to get better at the job so you don’t have to ask for help anymore. I mean, what kind of office works by their employees constantly needing to be walked through everything every day? Sally would even ask for help on things no one would need to ask for help on. For example, she asked me, “An office took a deposit to the bank without showing it on their report. How do I write that up in the letter to fax to them?” Um, exactly what you just said to me. Or another time, she asks how long she should wait before calling an office back. Well, how long do you think you should give them? Just use your good judgment. You don’t need help with that! Again, you’ve been here 2 years!
   

On Jan 26, I take the Dec bills, correspondence faxes, & timesheets out of their folders to scan them into the computer. Now, one thing the bills should always have on them are the check number used to pay for this purchase & the date it was paid. The offices themselves are supposed to write this on there, but they don’t always, which is why it is our job to write it on there if it’s missing. I had noticed when I scanned Nov’s bills around Nov 30 that a lot of Sally’s offices don’t have that info written on them. So, I explained to her what needed to be written on every bill/receipt. I now flip through the Dec & Jan bills of her offices really quick to check them. There are quite a few of them with no info written down on them. There’s strike one for noncompliance.
Another task we would do several days a week (that’s Sally’s responsibility) is to check the bank accounts online. She is to look at the bank balances & report any low balances to Greg (or me if Greg isn’t there). She is then to look at the transactions in order to see if anything looks fraudulent. Since we are a loan company, check fraud is very common for us. So, we look at the checks for anything funny-looking, & we look to see if there are any auto debits (like when you use your bank account online to pay for a bill) that would tell us if someone got hold of our bank account info.
On Jan 30, at 1:15 p.m., I asked if any of the bank balances were low (Greg was out of town for a few days). Sally said she had forgotten to check the bank accounts that morning. Weird, ‘cause you had to check the Dallas office to make sure the money we sent them had shown up. How did you get the login sheet out to look in their bank account but then forget about checking all the bank accounts? This just further cemented in my mind that she was NOT checking these bank accounts the way she should. I was 100% positive that all she does when logging into these bank accounts is checking the balances to give to Greg but then never checks the transactions. I know this ‘cause, 1) I’ve observed Sally only logging in to write down the balances & then logging back out (she had some flimsy excuse ready when I asked her about it), 2) there have been auto debits that appeared in bank accounts that we didn’t find for weeks until I happened to see it for some reason & guess what? She never pointed those out to us, & 3) Sally hadn’t bothered to check the bank account balances since Greg was out of town, so clearly she only felt the need to check the balances. There’s strike two for noncompliance.
& even more bad mistakes or decisions:

1. At the end of Jan, we discovered that Sally had mailed the employees’ W2s to the managers’ home addresses instead of to the offices to distribute to their employees!
   
2. We had an office that moved locations to right across the street, so the only thing that changed in their address was their street number (12 Main Street instead of 11 Main Street). I explained this to Sally & gave her an updated list of the office’s addresses. 3 weeks later, we get a call from that office saying that mail we send to them keeps going to their landlord’s house. I check the address labels Sally had created for herself. Sure enough, it had the wrong address on them. I go to grab the lease, & at the top is where the tenant’s new address is listed. & all the way at the bottom of the page in the paragraph titled “RENT” where it lists where to send the rent is the landlord’s home address. & that’s the address Sally had chosen to be the new office’s address on her address labels.
   
3. Sally hadn’t been faxing the offices to ask for bills/receipts that never made it to us.
   
4. I used the last towel on a roll of paper towels, so I went to the cabinets to grab another. We were out. Sally is in charge of keeping track of supplies that need ordering, so I go to Sally & say we’re completely out of paper towels, we need to order some. Sally response: “No one ever tells me when they grab the last roll so I know when to order them.” Um, excuse me, since when is it our job to tell you to do your job? It’s your responsibility to keep track of supplies. You should be checking the level of paper towels, toilet paper, Kleenex, etc., to see when you need to order them.
   

So, I knew she needed a second warning write up for carelessness cause of the numerous mistakes since the first warning write up in the middle of Dec, & I would be giving Sally a first warning write up for negligence cause of her not asking the offices for missing bills & not writing the info on the bills I had told her to do at the end of Nov. However, it was only a few days from Feb, which was the time for performance reviews. So, rather than doing a write up now & then in a week or so doing a performance review that was one of the worst performance reviews I’ve ever heard of, I decided to just do it in one fell swoop. You know, just get it all out of the way with one bad conversation, one bad day, & then both of us can hopefully put it behind us & move on.
I decided to do the performance review & write ups on Feb 5 (Monday). It went much smoother ‘cause Greg was there, so Sally couldn’t really give me lip or lash out by showing attitude & anger like she had previously.
On Feb 7 (Wednesday), I log in to get the transactions for an office who is switching banks. I wanted to get an updated list of outstanding checks so they know how many checks are left before they can close the old bank account. & what do I see? Someone had used the bank account to pay $100 on their AT&T bill. I call the office & find out it was actually them, so no fraud there. But I then ask Sally if she had seen that when checking the bank accounts. She said she didn’t remember. Obviously, I have found my proof that she is either not checking them or isn’t paying attention when she does. I have a discussion with Greg about it, & we decide I need to have a sit down with her about her not doing her job. She is sick on Thursday, so I plan to talk with her the next day she comes in.
On Feb 9 (Friday), I begin the conversation about checking the bank accounts & how important it is. I am planning to say things like, we expect you to do this job, you’ve been told multiple times to do this task, if you’re not going to do the job, then you’re welcome to go find another one, etc. But she cuts me off at the beginning with an excuse of, “Well, I didn’t know what I should be looking for, now I know.” & it broke me. She does this exact thing every time I have to have a conversation with her. She has an excuse ready to go on the tip of her tongue, always spins it around so it’s not actually her fault. It’s always, “Well, I didn’t know that, but now, I do.” & I was just done. I didn’t continue the conversation, even though I needed to, ‘cause I just broke down in tears from the stress of having to discipline her & knowing that nothing will ever come of it, but having our hands legally tied to be able to fire her right now. I cried nonstop for over 4 hours.
On Feb 12 (Monday), I sat down to continue the conversation, this time with a written statement for her to sign.
Me: You respond a lot of the time that you don’t know how to do things, which is very frustrating, ‘cause you’ve been shown multiple times how to do these tasks. It’s very inefficient & wasteful that I have to constantly check all of your work & retrain you on the same thing over & over again. This needs to change. This job is about accuracy & accountability.
Sally: You’re not giving me a chance to improve. I never hear “Good job,” from you. All I ever hear is, “You’re doing a bad job, sign this paper.” I get in trouble every time I ask for help, so I guess I’ll just follow the instructions & hope I’m doing it right.
The problems with that response:

1. You’ve worked here for 2 years, Sally. You’ve had plenty of time to improve.
   
2. The reason you never hear “Good job” is ‘cause you’re not doing a good job. How am I supposed to tell you “Good job,” but also need to give you a write up for doing a bad job? If you’re getting multiple write ups for doing a bad job, don’t you think that’s a sign that something is wrong? I mean, she thinks that managers should be telling their employees good job on everything they do right. No, you’re expected to do these tasks. We’re not going to congratulate you every time you do your basic job requirements like some toddler that needs constant positive reinforcement so they know that doing something right is a good thing! You will hear “Good job” when you are doing a really good job on something, when you go above & beyond!! I mean, do you think Greg tells me “Good job” when I’m just doing my job as expected?!! NO!!! I’ve never had a manager constantly tell me “Good job” all the time!!!! (Whew. Sorry about that. Kinda went on a crazy rant there. I’m good now.)
   
3. Here’s another example of her mentality of “if I don’t do the job, I can’t get in trouble for doing it wrong.” She’s going to stop asking for help instead of using the help I’ve given her to do better. I mean, if you’re making these mistakes when you ARE asking for help, how many more are you going to make when you stop asking for help? How does this make any logical sense?!
   

Well, here’s another chance for some malicious compliance. She claimed she didn’t know how to check the bank accounts, right? Well, my job as the manager is to make sure my employees know how to do their job. So, I need to sit down with her & train her how to check the bank accounts. Again. Even though I know she already knows how to do it. So, every time you tell me that the reason why you didn’t do a job is ‘cause you didn’t know how to do it right, well, we’re going to sit down & waste both our times & annoy you having to be retrained on something you do, in fact, know how to do.
Sally continues making careless mistakes & not doing stuff she doesn’t think she should have to do. Like answering the phones. It’s her job to answer the phones; that’s something I as the manager should be delegating to her. However, she never answers the phone unless I literally can’t. So, I had asked her to start answering the phone more. She will wait until the last possible second before answering the phone. By that time, it’s already rung twice, so I have to answer it before it goes on any longer or they hang up. One time, we were both away from our desks when the phone rang. We both went to answer it, but she was closer & got to her desk before me, put her hand on the phone, & watched me until I got to my desk before she picked it up. With a comment of, “Oh, (laughs) I didn’t want to make you walk all the way to your desk.” Well, you did, anyway, you little jerk.
On Feb 27, Sally asks for help on a report. She says that my note stating the office is over-deposited $28 on report 1 but fixed on report 2 by being $28 under-deposited didn’t work out. She says that they were never over by $28 in the first place. I take the report to look it over. Her calculator tape adding up the deposits shows the bank is in balance, but I don’t see deposit slips.
Me: Where are the deposit slips?
Sally: I haven’t gotten them yet.
Me: (trying to comprehend her logic) Then how do you have the deposit amounts added on this tape?
Sally: I got the amounts from the report.
Me: You…(my brain trying not to implode at this point) you can’t add up amounts to see if the bank has too much or too little money in it without knowing what was actually taken to the bank. The amounts on the report don’t always equal what was taken to the bank.
I log into the bank account & discover just that: the report says they took $500 to the bank, but their deposit says $528. They were indeed $28 over-deposited. I then lecture her (for the second time in a few months) on the correct way to account for the deposits at the bank, that we are only to use the dollar amounts on the bank’s deposit receipt. (The first time was her getting the deposit amount from what was written on the deposit slip instead of what the bank gave us credit for on their printed receipt. The bank had shorted us $500, & we never knew until her deposits didn’t work out when reconciling the bank statement at the end of the month. We were missing $500 for 4 weeks! It’s a miracle we didn’t overdraw the account.)
Another task that we do several days a week is checking the CFPB website. This is a government website that uses federal regulations to monitor financial institutions. It’s like the Better Business Bureau, but more official. Customers can make complaints through them, prompting an investigation to make sure we’re following the federal guidelines. We have 2 weeks to respond to a complaint before it is past due.
On Feb 29, Greg just happens to be looking at an email inbox that he never checks, ‘cause after all, we’re checking the CFPB website, so he doesn’t have to look there, right? There is a complaint in 2 of the portals that have been in there since Jan 22. He immediately marches out & tells Sally about them.
Greg: Aren’t you checking the CFPB sites?
Sally: Yeah, I am.
Really? Then how come you didn’t print this complaint off to give to Greg in the last 6 weeks? She came back from lunch to a second warning write up given by me for negligence.
On Mar 5 (Tuesday), we are working on reconciling the bank statements so we can close the month of Feb. Sally brings me a Jan bank statement for an office.
Sally: This never cleared in Feb.
I look at the bank statement. It’s an electronic deposit of $254 on Jan 31. I remember this. She had asked me at the beginning of Feb why this deposit wasn’t recorded on the office’s report. I explained that since it didn’t show up in the bank account until the last day of Jan, they might not have known about it before the end of the month & so recorded it on the first of Feb. We will wait until the first report of Feb. If it’s still not recorded, then we’ll bring that to the office’s attention. & here she is, clearly telling me she hadn’t brought it to anyone’s attention all month long.
Me: (staring at the bank statement as I try to prevent my autistic brain from exploding at her while also trying to prevent a spontaneous stroke) You didn’t keep track of this all month?
Sally: Well, I didn’t know if it was treated differently ‘cause it was OTBP (One Time Bill Pay, which is the electronic deposit). (Oh, what a shocker, she once again didn’t know how to do something.)
Me: But we talked about this. If it wasn’t on the first of the month, we needed to address it.
Sally: Okay, well, now I know that we treat this the same as other deposits. (goes nonchalantly back to her desk like it was no big deal, like she hadn’t just revealed she had once again disobeyed my detailed instructions)
Me: (seeing her flagrant disregard for the seriousness of the situation & wondering just how on earth she could once again think that not doing her job would have no consequences) This is exactly what Greg talks about over & over, about how we can’t leave errors like this to sit for weeks & weeks, that these need to be dealt with as they happen.
Sally: (still as easy-going as if she had simply used the wrong color highlighter) Okay, I’ll make note of that.
Now, I am getting really pissed off. She keeps saying, “Oh, now I know that OTBP is treated the same as everything else.” That doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know it’s treated the same! I specifically told you to take care of it if it didn’t appear on the first of Feb! It didn’t matter what kind of deposit it was! I said to tell me if it wasn’t on the first of Feb!
Now, this was right before she leaves at 3:30, so by the time I’m finished with my text conversation with Greg (‘cause he isn’t there that afternoon), she has already left. But I’m telling Greg that I have once again caught her being negligent, & she’s already had 2 written warnings about this, which means our next step is letting her go. Not to mention, her carelessness is still continuing. He said that he supports my decision to let her go. By the way, the final decision happened an hour after she left. If I had known before she left that we were indeed going to fire her, I would have done it before she left so she didn’t have to come all the way to work in the morning just to leave again.
So, on Mar 6 (Wednesday), I arrive early to work so I can be prepared. I am standing at my desk, watching her come in. This is unusual, so she frowns as she approaches me.
Me: Sally, we need to talk.
Sally: (still frowns at me)
Me: (handing her the typed up notice) We are going to read this together. “When reconciling the month of Jan, around Feb 5, it was brought to my attention that we had a deposit that hadn’t been reconciled. I gave you instructions to wait a report to see if it works out. If not, you would need to bring it to mine & the office’s attention for further instructions. This wasn’t done. It wasn’t until Mar 5 that you brought this to my attention again. You have been told many times the importance of reconciling the financials of the office. You have been warned several times of negligence. This is another example of negligence with respect to your job. All you had to do was follow my instructions. It is for this reason that it is now time to terminate your employment.”
Sally: When did you tell me to do this?
Me: (thinking, “Um, I kinda just told you when I told you do that, but, okay.”) When you showed me the Jan bank statement—
Sally: Yesterday?!
Me: You showed me the Jan bank statement a month ago when you were reconciling Jan. I told you to wait for the first of Feb & then—
Sally: You did no such thing!
Me: Yes, I did, Sally.
Sally: When does Greg get here?
Me: Around 9, like usual.
Sally: I’m calling him, ‘cause this is ridiculous. You’ve had it out for me from the very beginning.
Me: No, I haven’t.
Sally: Yeah, you have. Just like the other 2. (sets her bags at the front door, goes outside, & calls Greg)

1. How could I have had it out for you from the very beginning when we didn’t have problems for the first year & a half you worked here? If I’d had it out for you from the beginning, you wouldn’t have had a job the past 6 months. Need I remind you what Greg told you about the timesheet thing being something we fire someone for on the spot, but that Molly had gone to bat for you & gave you a second chance? Why would I have done that if I had wanted you gone from the start?
   
2. “Just like the other 2.” She’s talking about Irene (who had left in Feb 2023) & another employee (who we’ll call Phil). Phil had been fired (by Greg, by the way) for continuing to watch movies on his phone at his desk despite being told multiple times by Greg to not do that. & Irene? She wasn’t fired. She gave her 2 weeks’ notice. & we then discovered when going through the work she’s been doing as we started taking over her tasks that she didn’t just not do jobs. She would actually forge the work so she wouldn’t have to work. “A bank imbalance of $2.65? Well, I’ll just add it to the imbalance that’s been building up for who knows how many months & just label it as an over-deposit from the end of the month. That way, I don’t have to look into why the bank isn’t balancing.” But no, I had it out for them, apparently.
   
3. Does she really think that calling Greg was gonna reverse my firing her? Does she really think I would do something as drastic as writing her up or firing her without discussing it with my supervisor first? Did she really think I would do this behind his back?
   

Apparently, she did, ‘cause Greg confirmed that Sally tried telling him about all the stuff I’ve been doing to her as if he didn’t know. She hung up on him when he explained that he’s been told everything as it happens & he supports this decision.
Sally: (storming back into the office & towards her desk) I’m not signing anything.
Me: Ok.
Sally begins packing up her desk. I had known she kept a lot of personal items at the office, so I had gotten a big box or 2 out & placed them nearby for her to use to pack up her desk.
Me: We can give you a box if you need it.
Sally: I don’t need sh** from you guys.
Me: The only thing we’ll need is your office key.
Sally: You’ll get it when you get it. I’m packing my desk.
Me: Ok.
I go back to work, keeping an eye on her as she packs to make sure she doesn’t take anything she’s not supposed to or damage any company property. Sally at some point decides to use the boxes she didn’t want from us to pack up her many items. She takes both boxes to the front door where her bags are & sets them down to put the last of her things in. She picks up one box to take outside.
Sally: You are the worst manager ever. (goes out the door)
Me: (shrug)
Sally: (comes back in for the final box) Seriously, you’re the most evil person I’ve ever met. (leaves)
Really? I rank worse than the guy that beat you up? I’m worse than him?
I continued watching her to see if she’s going to come back to give up her office key. As she packed up her car, another employee had arrived (we’ll call him Randy). He had run into her on the way in & asks me if Sally quit. I explained, no, she was let go. I then see that Sally has gotten behind the wheel of her car without coming back to give us the office key.
Me: Well, I guess we’ll just change the locks.
Randy then takes it upon himself to go out to her car. He phrased it very gently by saying he wanted to spare her having to come back in to turn the key in.
Sally: I guess Molly didn’t have the balls to do it herself. (hands the key over)
& then…she was gone. Despite having to do the entire corporate office’s work all by myself & falling steadily behind little by little, I have never been more happy. I had forgotten how much I loved my job & how much I couldn’t wait to get to work. I haven’t been this stress-free in 6 months, & it feels fantastic! & the great part is, I’m not really falling as far behind as I expected to without her. Having to do 2 people’s jobs by myself is only affecting me a little. Really goes to show you how bad she was for the company & for my job when she disrupted everything that much. For example, me & her would get through maybe 5 to 6 offices’ reports between us in a single day when playing catch up after closing the previous month. One day? I caught up on 10 offices’ reports in a single day. By myself.
Oh, did I mention she smoked marijuana most days on her way to work or while on her lunch break? We could never actually prove it. But, come on, you don’t smell that strongly of marijuana on only select days if you aren’t smoking it recently. If it was leftover from the smell of your house or car, you would smell like that every day. But it was only some days she would come into work or back from lunch smelling like that. Obviously, smoking on the job. So very glad to be rid of her & her awful skunk smell. Although, I do wish her well on a new job search. I don’t wish ill on anyone, ever. But I am just glad she’s no longer my problem to deal with.
(Added 2 months after she was fired): By the way, I am actually gaining on my work. I’m not only not behind on my work, I’m actually getting it done soon enough to work on extra stuff. Also, out of the blue, we’ve started getting about 3 to 4 sales & scam calls every day since Sally left (for things like better Medicare benefits, better retirement benefits, & even one time recently where “Walgreens” was calling to ask if I still had diabetes). I’m convinced Sally signed us up for calls as retaliation. I hope they die down soon, especially as they are starting to get rude. (Our response to every one of these is “Sorry, this is a business.” This one guy responded to me with, “This is my job.” I said, “I understand this is your job, but this is a business. I am not allowed to take personal calls.” He said, “Why?” I said very slowly & firmly, “Because I’m working!” He started to say, “Can you explain to me why—” I hung up. Jerk.)

So, here is part 2 of my entitled employee story. We left off with discovering Sally’s retaliation of giving me trash as a Christmas gift after her latest write-up.
So, the next several weeks, I am noticing more problems, but here’s some of the highlights.

1. Ever since we had issues of the office’s checks going randomly missing, Sally had apparently decided to just stop throwing any envelope away when opening the mail. She would supposedly search the envelopes/paperwork & then keep the envelopes with the paperwork. So, instead of doing her job better, she would decide to just stop doing the job at all. After all, you can’t get in trouble for screwing it up if you aren’t doing it, right? However, this resulted in items getting left with the paperwork (which sometimes wouldn’t get touched for several weeks due to being busy) that had needed to be collected or addressed right away.
   
2. Sally’s careless mistakes continued at about the same rate (average of 2 to 3 a week). She would put deposit slips/emails with the wrong office’s report, put one office’s mail in another office’s bin, put one office’s funding papers in another office’s bin, put one office’s bills in the folder for their correspondence & vice versa, put one office’s bills in the folder for another office’s bills, put the new month’s bills in the folder without taking out the old month’s bills so they would get mixed up. I could go on & on.
   
3. Sally would still ask for help on things she shouldn’t need help on anymore, ‘cause I had helped her many times on items exactly like it in the 2 years she’s worked here. I mean, the whole point of asking for help when learning new things on a job is so you can take the input you’re given & use it to get better at the job so you don’t have to ask for help anymore. I mean, what kind of office works by their employees constantly needing to be walked through everything every day? Sally would even ask for help on things no one would need to ask for help on. For example, she asked me, “An office took a deposit to the bank without showing it on their report. How do I write that up in the letter to fax to them?” Um, exactly what you just said to me. Or another time, she asks how long she should wait before calling an office back. Well, how long do you think you should give them? Just use your good judgment. You don’t need help with that! Again, you’ve been here 2 years!
   

On Jan 26, I take the Dec bills, correspondence faxes, & timesheets out of their folders to scan them into the computer. Now, one thing the bills should always have on them are the check number used to pay for this purchase & the date it was paid. The offices themselves are supposed to write this on there, but they don’t always, which is why it is our job to write it on there if it’s missing. I had noticed when I scanned Nov’s bills around Nov 30 that a lot of Sally’s offices don’t have that info written on them. So, I explained to her what needed to be written on every bill/receipt. I now flip through the Dec & Jan bills of her offices really quick to check them. There are quite a few of them with no info written down on them. There’s strike one for noncompliance.
Another task we would do several days a week (that’s Sally’s responsibility) is to check the bank accounts online. She is to look at the bank balances & report any low balances to Greg (or me if Greg isn’t there). She is then to look at the transactions in order to see if anything looks fraudulent. Since we are a loan company, check fraud is very common for us. So, we look at the checks for anything funny-looking, & we look to see if there are any auto debits (like when you use your bank account online to pay for a bill) that would tell us if someone got hold of our bank account info.
On Jan 30, at 1:15 p.m., I asked if any of the bank balances were low (Greg was out of town for a few days). Sally said she had forgotten to check the bank accounts that morning. Weird, ‘cause you had to check the Dallas office to make sure the money we sent them had shown up. How did you get the login sheet out to look in their bank account but then forget about checking all the bank accounts? This just further cemented in my mind that she was NOT checking these bank accounts the way she should. I was 100% positive that all she does when logging into these bank accounts is checking the balances to give to Greg but then never checks the transactions. I know this ‘cause, 1) I’ve observed Sally only logging in to write down the balances & then logging back out (she had some flimsy excuse ready when I asked her about it), 2) there have been auto debits that appeared in bank accounts that we didn’t find for weeks until I happened to see it for some reason & guess what? She never pointed those out to us, & 3) Sally hadn’t bothered to check the bank account balances since Greg was out of town, so clearly she only felt the need to check the balances. There’s strike two for noncompliance.
& even more bad mistakes or decisions:

1. At the end of Jan, we discovered that Sally had mailed the employees’ W2s to the managers’ home addresses instead of to the offices to distribute to their employees!
   
2. We had an office that moved locations to right across the street, so the only thing that changed in their address was their street number (12 Main Street instead of 11 Main Street). I explained this to Sally & gave her an updated list of the office’s addresses. 3 weeks later, we get a call from that office saying that mail we send to them keeps going to their landlord’s house. I check the address labels Sally had created for herself. Sure enough, it had the wrong address on them. I go to grab the lease, & at the top is where the tenant’s new address is listed. & all the way at the bottom of the page in the paragraph titled “RENT” where it lists where to send the rent is the landlord’s home address. & that’s the address Sally had chosen to be the new office’s address on her address labels.
   
3. Sally hadn’t been faxing the offices to ask for bills/receipts that never made it to us.
   
4. I used the last towel on a roll of paper towels, so I went to the cabinets to grab another. We were out. Sally is in charge of keeping track of supplies that need ordering, so I go to Sally & say we’re completely out of paper towels, we need to order some. Sally response: “No one ever tells me when they grab the last roll so I know when to order them.” Um, excuse me, since when is it our job to tell you to do your job? It’s your responsibility to keep track of supplies. You should be checking the level of paper towels, toilet paper, Kleenex, etc., to see when you need to order them.
   

So, I knew she needed a second warning write up for carelessness cause of the numerous mistakes since the first warning write up in the middle of Dec, & I would be giving Sally a first warning write up for negligence cause of her not asking the offices for missing bills & not writing the info on the bills I had told her to do at the end of Nov. However, it was only a few days from Feb, which was the time for performance reviews. So, rather than doing a write up now & then in a week or so doing a performance review that was one of the worst performance reviews I’ve ever heard of, I decided to just do it in one fell swoop. You know, just get it all out of the way with one bad conversation, one bad day, & then both of us can hopefully put it behind us & move on.
I decided to do the performance review & write ups on Feb 5 (Monday). It went much smoother ‘cause Greg was there, so Sally couldn’t really give me lip or lash out by showing attitude & anger like she had previously.
On Feb 7 (Wednesday), I log in to get the transactions for an office who is switching banks. I wanted to get an updated list of outstanding checks so they know how many checks are left before they can close the old bank account. & what do I see? Someone had used the bank account to pay $100 on their AT&T bill. I call the office & find out it was actually them, so no fraud there. But I then ask Sally if she had seen that when checking the bank accounts. She said she didn’t remember. Obviously, I have found my proof that she is either not checking them or isn’t paying attention when she does. I have a discussion with Greg about it, & we decide I need to have a sit down with her about her not doing her job. She is sick on Thursday, so I plan to talk with her the next day she comes in.
On Feb 9 (Friday), I begin the conversation about checking the bank accounts & how important it is. I am planning to say things like, we expect you to do this job, you’ve been told multiple times to do this task, if you’re not going to do the job, then you’re welcome to go find another one, etc. But she cuts me off at the beginning with an excuse of, “Well, I didn’t know what I should be looking for, now I know.” & it broke me. She does this exact thing every time I have to have a conversation with her. She has an excuse ready to go on the tip of her tongue, always spins it around so it’s not actually her fault. It’s always, “Well, I didn’t know that, but now, I do.” & I was just done. I didn’t continue the conversation, even though I needed to, ‘cause I just broke down in tears from the stress of having to discipline her & knowing that nothing will ever come of it, but having our hands legally tied to be able to fire her right now. I cried nonstop for over 4 hours.
On Feb 12 (Monday), I sat down to continue the conversation, this time with a written statement for her to sign.
Me: You respond a lot of the time that you don’t know how to do things, which is very frustrating, ‘cause you’ve been shown multiple times how to do these tasks. It’s very inefficient & wasteful that I have to constantly check all of your work & retrain you on the same thing over & over again. This needs to change. This job is about accuracy & accountability.
Sally: You’re not giving me a chance to improve. I never hear “Good job,” from you. All I ever hear is, “You’re doing a bad job, sign this paper.” I get in trouble every time I ask for help, so I guess I’ll just follow the instructions & hope I’m doing it right.
The problems with that response:

1. You’ve worked here for 2 years, Sally. You’ve had plenty of time to improve.
   
2. The reason you never hear “Good job” is ‘cause you’re not doing a good job. How am I supposed to tell you “Good job,” but also need to give you a write up for doing a bad job? If you’re getting multiple write ups for doing a bad job, don’t you think that’s a sign that something is wrong? I mean, she thinks that managers should be telling their employees good job on everything they do right. No, you’re expected to do these tasks. We’re not going to congratulate you every time you do your basic job requirements like some toddler that needs constant positive reinforcement so they know that doing something right is a good thing! You will hear “Good job” when you are doing a really good job on something, when you go above & beyond!! I mean, do you think Greg tells me “Good job” when I’m just doing my job as expected?!! NO!!! I’ve never had a manager constantly tell me “Good job” all the time!!!! (Whew. Sorry about that. Kinda went on a crazy rant there. I’m good now.)
   
3. Here’s another example of her mentality of “if I don’t do the job, I can’t get in trouble for doing it wrong.” She’s going to stop asking for help instead of using the help I’ve given her to do better. I mean, if you’re making these mistakes when you ARE asking for help, how many more are you going to make when you stop asking for help? How does this make any logical sense?!
   

Well, here’s another chance for some malicious compliance. She claimed she didn’t know how to check the bank accounts, right? Well, my job as the manager is to make sure my employees know how to do their job. So, I need to sit down with her & train her how to check the bank accounts. Again. Even though I know she already knows how to do it. So, every time you tell me that the reason why you didn’t do a job is ‘cause you didn’t know how to do it right, well, we’re going to sit down & waste both our times & annoy you having to be retrained on something you do, in fact, know how to do.
Sally continues making careless mistakes & not doing stuff she doesn’t think she should have to do. Like answering the phones. It’s her job to answer the phones; that’s something I as the manager should be delegating to her. However, she never answers the phone unless I literally can’t. So, I had asked her to start answering the phone more. She will wait until the last possible second before answering the phone. By that time, it’s already rung twice, so I have to answer it before it goes on any longer or they hang up. One time, we were both away from our desks when the phone rang. We both went to answer it, but she was closer & got to her desk before me, put her hand on the phone, & watched me until I got to my desk before she picked it up. With a comment of, “Oh, (laughs) I didn’t want to make you walk all the way to your desk.” Well, you did, anyway, you little jerk.
On Feb 27, Sally asks for help on a report. She says that my note stating the office is over-deposited $28 on report 1 but fixed on report 2 by being $28 under-deposited didn’t work out. She says that they were never over by $28 in the first place. I take the report to look it over. Her calculator tape adding up the deposits shows the bank is in balance, but I don’t see deposit slips.
Me: Where are the deposit slips?
Sally: I haven’t gotten them yet.
Me: (trying to comprehend her logic) Then how do you have the deposit amounts added on this tape?
Sally: I got the amounts from the report.
Me: You…(my brain trying not to implode at this point) you can’t add up amounts to see if the bank has too much or too little money in it without knowing what was actually taken to the bank. The amounts on the report don’t always equal what was taken to the bank.
I log into the bank account & discover just that: the report says they took $500 to the bank, but their deposit says $528. They were indeed $28 over-deposited. I then lecture her (for the second time in a few months) on the correct way to account for the deposits at the bank, that we are only to use the dollar amounts on the bank’s deposit receipt. (The first time was her getting the deposit amount from what was written on the deposit slip instead of what the bank gave us credit for on their printed receipt. The bank had shorted us $500, & we never knew until her deposits didn’t work out when reconciling the bank statement at the end of the month. We were missing $500 for 4 weeks! It’s a miracle we didn’t overdraw the account.)
Another task that we do several days a week is checking the CFPB website. This is a government website that uses federal regulations to monitor financial institutions. It’s like the Better Business Bureau, but more official. Customers can make complaints through them, prompting an investigation to make sure we’re following the federal guidelines. We have 2 weeks to respond to a complaint before it is past due.
On Feb 29, Greg just happens to be looking at an email inbox that he never checks, ‘cause after all, we’re checking the CFPB website, so he doesn’t have to look there, right? There is a complaint in 2 of the portals that have been in there since Jan 22. He immediately marches out & tells Sally about them.
Greg: Aren’t you checking the CFPB sites?
Sally: Yeah, I am.
Really? Then how come you didn’t print this complaint off to give to Greg in the last 6 weeks? She came back from lunch to a second warning write up given by me for negligence.
On Mar 5 (Tuesday), we are working on reconciling the bank statements so we can close the month of Feb. Sally brings me a Jan bank statement for an office.
Sally: This never cleared in Feb.
I look at the bank statement. It’s an electronic deposit of $254 on Jan 31. I remember this. She had asked me at the beginning of Feb why this deposit wasn’t recorded on the office’s report. I explained that since it didn’t show up in the bank account until the last day of Jan, they might not have known about it before the end of the month & so recorded it on the first of Feb. We will wait until the first report of Feb. If it’s still not recorded, then we’ll bring that to the office’s attention. & here she is, clearly telling me she hadn’t brought it to anyone’s attention all month long.
Me: (staring at the bank statement as I try to prevent my autistic brain from exploding at her while also trying to prevent a spontaneous stroke) You didn’t keep track of this all month?
Sally: Well, I didn’t know if it was treated differently ‘cause it was OTBP (One Time Bill Pay, which is the electronic deposit). (Oh, what a shocker, she once again didn’t know how to do something.)
Me: But we talked about this. If it wasn’t on the first of the month, we needed to address it.
Sally: Okay, well, now I know that we treat this the same as other deposits. (goes nonchalantly back to her desk like it was no big deal, like she hadn’t just revealed she had once again disobeyed my detailed instructions)
Me: (seeing her flagrant disregard for the seriousness of the situation & wondering just how on earth she could once again think that not doing her job would have no consequences) This is exactly what Greg talks about over & over, about how we can’t leave errors like this to sit for weeks & weeks, that these need to be dealt with as they happen.
Sally: (still as easy-going as if she had simply used the wrong color highlighter) Okay, I’ll make note of that.
Now, I am getting really pissed off. She keeps saying, “Oh, now I know that OTBP is treated the same as everything else.” That doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know it’s treated the same! I specifically told you to take care of it if it didn’t appear on the first of Feb! It didn’t matter what kind of deposit it was! I said to tell me if it wasn’t on the first of Feb!
Now, this was right before she leaves at 3:30, so by the time I’m finished with my text conversation with Greg (‘cause he isn’t there that afternoon), she has already left. But I’m telling Greg that I have once again caught her being negligent, & she’s already had 2 written warnings about this, which means our next step is letting her go. Not to mention, her carelessness is still continuing. He said that he supports my decision to let her go. By the way, the final decision happened an hour after she left. If I had known before she left that we were indeed going to fire her, I would have done it before she left so she didn’t have to come all the way to work in the morning just to leave again.
So, on Mar 6 (Wednesday), I arrive early to work so I can be prepared. I am standing at my desk, watching her come in. This is unusual, so she frowns as she approaches me.
Me: Sally, we need to talk.
Sally: (still frowns at me)
Me: (handing her the typed up notice) We are going to read this together. “When reconciling the month of Jan, around Feb 5, it was brought to my attention that we had a deposit that hadn’t been reconciled. I gave you instructions to wait a report to see if it works out. If not, you would need to bring it to mine & the office’s attention for further instructions. This wasn’t done. It wasn’t until Mar 5 that you brought this to my attention again. You have been told many times the importance of reconciling the financials of the office. You have been warned several times of negligence. This is another example of negligence with respect to your job. All you had to do was follow my instructions. It is for this reason that it is now time to terminate your employment.”
Sally: When did you tell me to do this?
Me: (thinking, “Um, I kinda just told you when I told you do that, but, okay.”) When you showed me the Jan bank statement—
Sally: Yesterday?!
Me: You showed me the Jan bank statement a month ago when you were reconciling Jan. I told you to wait for the first of Feb & then—
Sally: You did no such thing!
Me: Yes, I did, Sally.
Sally: When does Greg get here?
Me: Around 9, like usual.
Sally: I’m calling him, ‘cause this is ridiculous. You’ve had it out for me from the very beginning.
Me: No, I haven’t.
Sally: Yeah, you have. Just like the other 2. (sets her bags at the front door, goes outside, & calls Greg)

1. How could I have had it out for you from the very beginning when we didn’t have problems for the first year & a half you worked here? If I’d had it out for you from the beginning, you wouldn’t have had a job the past 6 months. Need I remind you what Greg told you about the timesheet thing being something we fire someone for on the spot, but that Molly had gone to bat for you & gave you a second chance? Why would I have done that if I had wanted you gone from the start?
   
2. “Just like the other 2.” She’s talking about Irene (who had left in Feb 2023) & another employee (who we’ll call Phil). Phil had been fired (by Greg, by the way) for continuing to watch movies on his phone at his desk despite being told multiple times by Greg to not do that. & Irene? She wasn’t fired. She gave her 2 weeks’ notice. & we then discovered when going through the work she’s been doing as we started taking over her tasks that she didn’t just not do jobs. She would actually forge the work so she wouldn’t have to work. “A bank imbalance of $2.65? Well, I’ll just add it to the imbalance that’s been building up for who knows how many months & just label it as an over-deposit from the end of the month. That way, I don’t have to look into why the bank isn’t balancing.” But no, I had it out for them, apparently.
   
3. Does she really think that calling Greg was gonna reverse my firing her? Does she really think I would do something as drastic as writing her up or firing her without discussing it with my supervisor first? Did she really think I would do this behind his back?
   

Apparently, she did, ‘cause Greg confirmed that Sally tried telling him about all the stuff I’ve been doing to her as if he didn’t know. She hung up on him when he explained that he’s been told everything as it happens & he supports this decision.
Sally: (storming back into the office & towards her desk) I’m not signing anything.
Me: Ok.
Sally begins packing up her desk. I had known she kept a lot of personal items at the office, so I had gotten a big box or 2 out & placed them nearby for her to use to pack up her desk.
Me: We can give you a box if you need it.
Sally: I don’t need sh** from you guys.
Me: The only thing we’ll need is your office key.
Sally: You’ll get it when you get it. I’m packing my desk.
Me: Ok.
I go back to work, keeping an eye on her as she packs to make sure she doesn’t take anything she’s not supposed to or damage any company property. Sally at some point decides to use the boxes she didn’t want from us to pack up her many items. She takes both boxes to the front door where her bags are & sets them down to put the last of her things in. She picks up one box to take outside.
Sally: You are the worst manager ever. (goes out the door)
Me: (shrug)
Sally: (comes back in for the final box) Seriously, you’re the most evil person I’ve ever met. (leaves)
Really? I rank worse than the guy that beat you up? I’m worse than him?
I continued watching her to see if she’s going to come back to give up her office key. As she packed up her car, another employee had arrived (we’ll call him Randy). He had run into her on the way in & asks me if Sally quit. I explained, no, she was let go. I then see that Sally has gotten behind the wheel of her car without coming back to give us the office key.
Me: Well, I guess we’ll just change the locks.
Randy then takes it upon himself to go out to her car. He phrased it very gently by saying he wanted to spare her having to come back in to turn the key in.
Sally: I guess Molly didn’t have the balls to do it herself. (hands the key over)
& then…she was gone. Despite having to do the entire corporate office’s work all by myself & falling steadily behind little by little, I have never been more happy. I had forgotten how much I loved my job & how much I couldn’t wait to get to work. I haven’t been this stress-free in 6 months, & it feels fantastic! & the great part is, I’m not really falling as far behind as I expected to without her. Having to do 2 people’s jobs by myself is only affecting me a little. Really goes to show you how bad she was for the company & for my job when she disrupted everything that much. For example, me & her would get through maybe 5 to 6 offices’ reports between us in a single day when playing catch up after closing the previous month. One day? I caught up on 10 offices’ reports in a single day. By myself.
Oh, did I mention she smoked marijuana most days on her way to work or while on her lunch break? We could never actually prove it. But, come on, you don’t smell that strongly of marijuana on only select days if you aren’t smoking it recently. If it was leftover from the smell of your house or car, you would smell like that every day. But it was only some days she would come into work or back from lunch smelling like that. Obviously, smoking on the job. So very glad to be rid of her & her awful skunk smell. Although, I do wish her well on a new job search. I don’t wish ill on anyone, ever. But I am just glad she’s no longer my problem to deal with.
(Added 2 months after she was fired): By the way, I am actually gaining on my work. I’m not only not behind on my work, I’m actually getting it done soon enough to work on extra stuff. Also, out of the blue, we’ve started getting about 3 to 4 sales & scam calls every day since Sally left (for things like better Medicare benefits, better retirement benefits, & even one time recently where “Walgreens” was calling to ask if I still had diabetes). I’m convinced Sally signed us up for calls as retaliation. I hope they die down soon, especially as they are starting to get rude. (Our response to every one of these is “Sorry, this is a business.” This one guy responded to me with, “This is my job.” I said, “I understand this is your job, but this is a business. I am not allowed to take personal calls.” He said, “Why?” I said very slowly & firmly, “Because I’m working!” He started to say, “Can you explain to me why—” I hung up. Jerk.)

I met Luna on a train two years ago. I’d just escaped from a toxic relationship, so romance was the last thing on my mind, but then she sat across from me in the carriage and asked about the book I was reading. She had a copy in her bag and wanted to know if it was any good.
I'd never felt such an instant, effortless connection with anybody before. I took a chance and asked her to dinner, and by the time the waiters cleared away our desserts, I already felt comfortable being vulnerable around her. So we went on a second date. And a third. And next thing I knew, we were planning our second anniversary.
Now in all that time, she never once gave off any 'creeper' vibes. But then a few months back, I stayed the night over at her place. When she got up to use the bathroom, I grabbed her laptop off the side desk so I could catch up on some work e-mails, and the incognito tab was just sitting there. My first thought was: either she's having an affair or she's got a secret fetish.
What I found instead was a Google account with a photo album called ‘Michael’s EX’. In it, there were 427 photos of my former girlfriend turned psycho stalker, Sadie. This included shots of ‘Sadie the stalker’ with her family, screenshots of her passport—the works. On Facebook, Sadie's latest post said Moving to the Philippines, and since then she’d become a social media church mouse, so how did Luna keep her under surveillance? And how did you even get PERSONAL ID from a person halfway across the globe?
Down the hall, I heard the bathroom door swing open. Quickly I closed the laptop and pretended to be asleep until Luna planted a kiss on my lips. “Wakey wakey Bugs.”
I faked a stretch. “Morning Lola."
(At school, the other kids christened me ‘Bugs’ because of my cartoonishly large front teeth; I called Luna ‘Lola’ because of her blonde bangs and heart-shaped face.)
“How about we grab a fry for breakfast?” Her smile didn’t seem genuine, more like she was wearing a mask.
“Crap. I forgot I’m doing overtime today, I’ve gotta get to work.” With that, I shot out of there faster than a bullet train to Tokyo.
Because I didn’t wanna believe the worst about someone I cared so deeply about, I didn’t contact the police (not that anybody could’ve guessed what Luna was up to) and made excuses whenever she asked to meet, delaying the decision whether to end our relationship.
At night, I couldn’t sleep. Every time a hedge rustled outside, I’d run to the window and pull back the curtain only to discover a black cat skulking around the garden. I put this down to my previous relationship leaving me with a mountain of unresolved PTSD.
Sadie the stalker also seemed normal until we moved in together. After that she started picking fights if she caught me talking to another woman, even just distant relatives or childhood friends. The screaming matches went from weekly to nightly, only ever ending when I conceded to her every wish and gave her full access to my phone and social media accounts. I literally needed to grab my clothes into a bag and run away one night, and then I started hearing noises outside my new apartment. And although I never found any evidence, I was pretty sure she’d broken in at one point because the books on my side table were suddenly out of order one day. What hurt the most was Luna knew all this and still acted the way she did.
Right as I reached my lowest point, my close friend Gertrude called and said, “The universe is telling me you could use a sympathetic ear.”
I told her the universe didn’t know the half of it.
I’d met Gertrude—aka my surrogate mother—on a flight to London. Passing over Wales the aircraft hit heavy turbulence, and the grey-haired hippie in the seat next to mine squeezed my hand so tight that my fingers turned blue. After we levelled off, she apologized and said, “So what’s calling you to London?”
“A job.”
A few glasses of wine from the service trolley later, she blurted out, “You know your aura is strikingly similar to my husbands.”
“Uhh, thanks. Where is he now?”
“Oh, he burned to death in a house fire.”
Gertrude’s eyes started welling up. To take her mind off the subject, I said, “I lied earlier. I’m going to London because I fell in love with a Londoner.” I pulled up pictures of Sadie (back in her pre-stalker days) on my phone. “We met in Italy. She looked flustered trying to read a map book so I offered to help. Next thing I knew, we were planning a trip to this place called Orvieto.”
“Michael, I need to know how this story ends. Gimme your number.”
Since then, we’d met two or three times a year.
I laid the whole mess out over pizza. It was the first time since finding the Google account I didn’t feel hidden eyes crawling all over me.
Just as I wrapped up the story, over in the corner booth, a family burst into a chorus of happy birthday. A waiter appeared carrying a chocolate cake, capped by a giant candle that looked more like a flare. Gertrude tensed up.
“So what do you think about all this?” I asked.
She looked back at me and said, “It’s possible your reaction has been a touch on the dramatic side.”
“DRAMATIC??”
“Well consider things from Luna’s point of view. Your last relationship lasted for, what, three years? Maybe she felt threatened.”
“I don’t believe this.” I grabbed a cigarette from my pocket, but Gertrude snatched it away.
“You know how I feel about you poisoning your lungs, Michael.”
“Don’t you start. I got enough of that crap from Luna.”
Gertrude always encouraged me to work through my romantic problems. Ultimately, I decided her love of fairytale romances clouded her judgement and ghosted Luna instead. But I couldn’t escape her shadow. She always felt close. In fact, it got so bad that at a friend’s costume party several weeks later, my eyes kept compulsively scanning the crowd as if she was there in disguise, ready to pounce.
I stood off to the corner until, over the sea of heads, I spotted a beautiful stranger dressed as Jarlath the Goblin King. I took a shot of liquid courage and made a B-line towards her.
Halfway across the crowded room, beer splashed across the front of my Ziggy Stardust outfit.
“I am so sorry,” a female pirate said, patting me dry.
“Don’t worry about it.” Every time I tried circling her, she moved to cut me off.
“I am such a klutz. Why don’t you come into the kitchen so I can clean up this mess?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and steered her out of the way. “It’s fine. Trust me.”
Approaching Jarlath from behind, heart slamming against my chest, I said, “Well this is awkward. One of us is gonna have to change.”
Jennie had bright blue eyes and dimples impossible to miss. Ten minutes into our debate about David Bowie’s greatest album, I said, “You know Absolute Bowie are playing the Half Moon next week. I could take you?”
“Sorry. I’m going with my boyfriend,” she said with a sympathetic smile. From beside the buffet table, the pirate stared daggers in our direction.
“No worries,” I replied, despite the fact I was brimming with jealousy.
The next day, as I jogged off my hangover, a brown-haired lady cut across my path and we both went spinning to the ground.
“Flip, sorry.” I rushed to pull her up by the hands. “I’m like a bloody zombie lately.”
She did a doubletake. “Ziggy, right?”
There was no mistaking those eyes. “Jarlath?”
“Well, Jarlath or Jennie. Eithers fine.”
“Right. Well, sorry again. Enjoy Absolute Bowie.”
Before I could jog away, she said, “Hey, so that guy I was seeing? Turns out he’s a total prick.”
Jennie and I went for coffee. Coffee morphed into drinks. Drinks morphed into a steamy make-out session on my sofa.
But as she covered my neck in soft kisses, my stomach turned. It felt like cheating. So, I put the brakes on things and said, “I can’t do this. I’m really sorry. You’re amazing, but I just got out of a serious relationship…and…it’s just…”
“Hey, don’t worry about it.”
We agreed we’d let our connection blossom in its own time.
Jennie had a playful mystique to her. Within a handful of dates, we’d developed inside jokes and could tell what the other was thinking. But Luna’s imprint was hard to shake, to the extent I almost mixed up the two ladies’ names multiple times.
To detox, I suggested Jennie and I spend a romantic weekend in the Lake District, because after two days of hiking and kayaking my ex would no doubt be a spec in the rearview mirror.
Hours before we set off, however, Luna’s mom called. She wanted to meet and wouldn’t accept any excuses.
“Look, it’s obvious why I’m here,” she said, sitting across from me in Starbucks. “Ever since you and Luna broke up, she’s been acting…different.”
“Different? Different how?”
“I call but she hardly answers. I go over to her place but she’s never there. Now she’s telling me she needs to find herself. Says she’s moving to Australia.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup. “I need to know what happened between you two. And I don’t care if that paints anybody in a bad light. I’m just worried about my daughter is all.”
I told her about the Google account.
“Did you confront her about it?”
“Hell no. I ghosted that crazy bitc—” I cleared my throat. “I mean, I just…stopped seeing her.”
She started crying so loudly customers at nearby tables paused their conversations. I touched her forearm, promised I’d call if I remembered anything else, then set off for my romantic weekend.
But while Jennie and I enjoyed all that fresh air and pub food, a thought nagged at me. Luna adored London, so why move to Australia? It seemed so out of character. Back at our rented cottage, I was so fixated on the thought I needed a smoke, badly.
“What the hell is that?” Jennie demanded, as she stepped onto the front deck.
I glanced at my hands. “Uhh, a cigarette.”
“Michael! Don’t be sarcastic. You know how I feel about those things.”
“…Do I?”
“Uhh, well it’s the same as anybody else. Quit poisoning your lungs and put that thing out.”
“Alright alright, geeze. Sorry Luna.”
“That’s okay.”
A knot formed in my stomach as she went back inside. I’d called Jennie Luna by mistake. And she hadn’t noticed. In fact, her reaction to me smoking was identical to Luna’s—even the snappy way she said the ‘poison your lungs’ line.
I followed Jennie into the lounge, where she’d curled up on an armchair with a Colleen Hoover novel. She was hiding something. What else did she know about Luna? Maybe I could trick her into revealing some details…
From behind, I started massaging her shoulders. “Sorry for being rude before. I know what you said came from a place of love.”
“That’s okay.”
I waited until her eyes drooped shut, then said, “It really is perfect here, huh? Maybe we should stay forever.”
“Wouldn’t that be amazing?”
Her little groans of pleasure, the rhythm of her breathing, it all felt so familiar. I waited until the tension in her neck dissolved, then I pushed my lips against her ear and whispered, “So how about we take this into the bedroom…Lola.”
“Hmm. Sure thing Bugs.”
My hands froze. Jennie jumped up. “Uhh, that felt so good, why’d you stop?”
“What did you just say?”
“What did you just say?”
“I called you Lola,” I replied, my arms frozen in midair. “And you called me bugs.”
“Like the cartoon, right? I thought it’d be a cute nickname. Anyway, I’m tuckered out.” She forced a yawn. “Why don’t we get some sleep?”
As her hand laced with mine, an image of me waking up drugged and gagged and tied to the bedposts flashed before my eyes.
I said, “Sure. I just…need to use the bathroom first.”
The second the door shut behind me, I flew out of the house, climbed in my car, and sped away.
Within seconds my phone started blowing up with calls, followed by texts. Where are you going? Is everything okay?
No, I wanted to reply. I’m onto your sick little game. Whatever it is, I’m onto it.
Luna stalked my stalker, now Jennie somehow knew Luna and I’s nicknames. How? Did all women take turns drawing straws and whoever picked the short one needed to become my girlfriend?
I couldn’t go home. For all I knew, my exes would’ve been there burning effigies of me. I needed a safe place. Somewhere I could lie low until I got all this straightened out.
“Of course you can stay,” Gertrude said over the phone. “I’m out with some friends, but I’ll meet you later. If you hop the side gate there’s a spare key under the kissing gnomes out back.”
Gertrude lived in a detached house in Wembley. It took a bit of foraging to find the gnomes hidden beneath the weeds in the brown, patchy garden.
I needed to shoulder the door open. Inside, a mountain of letters and flyers had piled up on the welcome mat.
Down the hall, a huge archway connected the landing with a lounge, where a bar sat against the far wall, surrounded by upholstered sofas, a low table, and tie dye sheets strung over the filthy carpet. Everything had a real elegant vibe, despite the musty air.
I’d drained two glasses of whiskey before Gertrude arrived.
“Looks like you’ve had a rough evening.”
I said we could talk in the morning.
“Not a chance. You can’t take negative energy to bed. Come on, confession is good for the soul.”
She sat on the sofa and patted the empty seat next to her. So, with a weary sigh, I shared a tale of deranged exes.
“Crazy,” she said.
“I sure can pick ‘em, huh?”
“No, I mean you’re crazy.”
“What?”
“Think about it. What’s more likely: that your ex’s are secretly in collusion, or you’re being paranoid? Look how bloodshot your eyes are. When’s the last time you got a good night’s rest?”
She made a great point; teenagers on the street occasionally shouted ‘Bugs’ or ‘Thumper’ at me. Jennie might’ve come up with the nickname herself. I pinched the bridge of my nose, groaning.
“Look, sleep here tonight. Tomorrow we’ll brainstorm ways you can make it up to Jennie.”
I fumbled through my pockets for a cigarette.
“Really?” Gertrude said. “If you insist on poisoning your lungs, can you at least do it away from my home?”
“Well if I can’t smoke, I’m gonna need a refill.” I shook my empty glass.
On my way toward the bar, a wave of wooziness hit me. My first instinct was to blame it on the alcohol, but there was something else.
It was her reaction to the cigarette. My finger ran through the thick layer of dust along the bar’s countertop. Why was it like the place had been abandoned? Why did Gertrude always pressure me to stay with my psycho girlfriends? And how come she always reached out, as if on cue, whenever my relationships hit problems? It couldn’t be coincidence…
I poured two glasses of whiskey and carried them to the sofa. “So, you’re really against the whole smoking thing, huh?”
“Of course. It’s a filthy habit.”
“Yeah. Plus, there was that mess with your husband. House fire, right?”
“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Sure, sure.” I ignited the lighter with a roll across my trouser leg.
Gertrude grabbed a cushion and hugged it. “What are you doing?”
“Alright, cut the crap. What the hell’s going on? Have you been sending your friends to date me?”
“What are you talking about?”
I wrestled the cushion from her and held the lighter beneath it. “I want an explanation right now or I’m torching this place.”
This was an empty threat. I wasn’t some pyromaniac—I just wanted answers. Inch by inch, I raised the flame. “Last chance. Why are the women in my life acting weird?”
Gertrude grabbed for the lighter. As I swatted her wrists away, we both got scorched, and for a moment her skin went wild with spasms, a sensation I can only compare to reaching inside a bucket of wet, writhing maggots. My gaze whipped between her face and her hands, which vibrated like plucked guitar strings.
Before I could scream, she yanked me up, clamped a cold, wrinkled palm across my mouth, and forced me against the wall. I thrashed around, unable to move. For a lady old enough to collect a pension, she was crazy strong.
She waited until I ran out of breath, then said, “Michael, please. I’m not going to hurt you. Open your heart and listen.”
What else could I do?
“You were right before. I have been keeping a secret from you. The truth is, I’ve been in love with you since we met. I’d never flown before. And you were so so sweet. You started talking about this other woman, but I knew our energies were perfect for each other. And it’s like I always say, love makes us do crazy things. You can’t begrudge me that can you?”
She looked as if she expected me to respond, so I shook my head.
“But I think we’ve reached a point where our connection is so deep we can be completely transparent with one another.” She took a slow, steady breath. “Michael, all your ex’s, Luna, Sadie, Jennie. They’ve all been…well, me.”
I stared at her, confused.
She sighed. “It’ll be easier if I just show you.”
Out of nowhere her hand wriggled again, then her face tightened, as though the skin was being stretched over the bone. Wrinkles smoothed out and colour bled into her grey hair, turning it brown, and within seconds I found myself face-to-face with Jennie. Even her vintage clothes morphed into a green blouse and white slacks.
“See?” she said in Jennie’s voice, her now blue eyes locked on mine.
I screamed into the soft flesh of her palm.
“Sssh, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. Watch.”
Her entire body jerked and twitched, the muscles spasming as she shifted from Jennie to Luna. “See? Think of these as costumes”—from Luna to Sadie—"the important thing is what’s underneath. And you’ve fallen in love with what’s underneath three times. Now I’m going to let go, but I need you to promise you won’t overreact. Understand?”
On the verge of a panic attack, I nodded furiously.
The second she pulled away I made a break for the exit. The thing posing as Sadie grabbed me and hurled me backwards against the wall.
Like a disappointed teacher, she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been so patient with you, Michael. So very, very patient.”
She blocked off any hope of escape. I sidestepped around the outer edge of the room, towards the bar.
“All those years moulding you. Trying to grow you into the man I know you can be. I really thought we had it this time. For the record, I wanted to do this the easy way. But drastic times...”
I was so scared I slammed right into the cabinet and yelped. Glass bottles chattered together, and then something wet ran down the back of my shirt. It was whiskey, leaking from the overturned bottle onto the carpeted floor.
Speaking more to herself now, Gertrude said, “I’ll just have to keep you here until you love me as much as I love you. Of course, that means posing as you so nobody gets suspicious, but that’s no trouble. I’ll tell your dad you’re moving to Italy. You always loved Italy.”
Pose as me? She'd been killing my ex's and taking their place, I was just the latest in a long line. She’d keep me as a personal sugar baby if I didn’t escape, but how? She was impossibly strong, and the only thing that seemed to scare her was…
Snatching the bottle, I doused the remaining whiskey all over the carpet and furniture. As I flicked the lighter open, Sadie’s hands shot up.
“Bugs…darling…what are you doing?”
I took three slow, steady breaths. “Breaking up with you, you crazy bitch.”
I tossed the lighter forward. Within seconds flames sprung up all around us, spreading as far as the sofa. Sadie’s shoe caught fire, and as she stamped around, unintentionally fanning the blaze, her body writhed again, starting with the ankles. Fat boils climbed up every inch of exposed skin, milky white and with the consistency of frog spawn, like she’d had a killer allergic reaction to poison ivy.
She dropped to her knees, wailing like a wounded animal. This was my chance.
I made a break for the exit, giving the creature as wide a berth as possible. But as I got one foot planted in the hall something clamped tight around my ankles. My chin hit the floor, then I started sliding backwards.
I twisted onto my back. Where Sadie’s left arm should’ve been, a tentacle-like appendage stretched across the length of the room, a distance of over twenty feet. It reeled me toward her like a fish on a line. Whatever that thing was no longer looked human. It melted like an ice statue, with no bones or connective tissue inside, its lips nose and mouth becoming hideously elongated before dripping off in huge globs like melted candlewax. A fire alarm started wailing as the tentacle dragged me through the flames, scorching my arms and legs.
The loose mass of skin reached out and encased me like a mother bird sheltering its eggs.
“WHY WON’T YOU LOVE ME?” all my ex’s voices screamed at once. Whichever direction I looked, silhouettes of faces rose and fell, as if trying to burst through. Parts of them dripped inside my mouth, disgustingly warm with a bitter taste worse than Vaseline.
I put everything into clawing my way out if there. What was left of the beast had the consistency of wet clay and came apart just as easily. I tore away chunks until there was a hole large enough to squeeze through. Then, I crawled along surrounded by black smoke.
At the far side of the room I risked a glance back and saw a bumpy, uneven hand reaching out of a puddle of ooze. Soon I was crawling over the bristly welcome mat, then fumbling for the door. All I remember after that are paramedics wrestling me into an ambulance…
A specialist officer came to see me at the hospital the next morning. They’d been unable to contact the homeowner, Gertrude Huyton, and through his line of questioning I could tell they hadn’t found her ‘remains’ inside the charred house. Like the wicked witch of the West, my stalker had melted. I told the officer she said I could stay the night, and that I probably started the fire by dropping a cigarette.
“In that case, we’ll keep trying to reach her.” He walked to the curtain surronding my bed and paused. “Oh, and I almost forgot to mention, her cat is missing.”
“Her...cat?”
“Yeah. The little black one. One of the firemen pulled it out of the wreckage. The poor thing had burns over its legs but it ran off before anybody could take it to the vet.”
I swallowed a gulp and thanked him for telling me.
And now I’m still sitting here listening while nurses rush back and forth, terrified any one of them might be Gertrude…