Hello hello! I'm Alex and this time I'm looking to do a story set in the Star Wars galaxy. Before I dive into any discussion of potential plots I'd like first to go over some important stuff; firstly, I'm only looking to do rps with people 18 or older, for a variety of reasons. Also, I only want to do anything with people who are confident in being relatively literate. By relatively literate I mean that one has a good grasp of the English language and can be expected to right at least a few, quality, paragraphs. I've done RPs where replies are over 1000 words, but I'm totally fine if the average replies are less than that. I'm just specifying to explain my interests. For rapid fire stuff: I'm queer, my pronouns are he/they, I'm ND, and I'm a student.
Now, for the plot. To start: I'm VERY familiar with Star Wars legends and canon. I don't have too much of a plot, but I do know I want to strictly avoid playing established characters. Other than that, it's very broad. I do require playing multiple characters, because either me doing everything or just having two characters is extremely boring.
I envision the plot as, rather than following just a small group, instead playing out by using a variety of different characters in distinct scenes. As in, focused more on the ensemble element. I am fine with mains.
Note: lead with information, absolutely do not just say "hey." If you have a question do not ask to ask for a question. Include the phrase "Nerf herder."
As far as setting preferences go, I prefer the Imperial Era, but I am fine with doing something based in the Old/High Republic, or Clone Wars. If you have any characters or ideas about any setting, feel free to shoot something over.
Assuming it's the Imperial Era:
(At the end of the this section is an actual scenario. This is just me saying some potential characters).
I adore Saw Gerrera and his insurrection. The idea of playing freedom fighters against the Empire is massively appealing, especially with how broad it could get: imperial turncoats, former prisoners, Jedi, Mandalorians. Anything, really. They'd fight back against the Empire, always on the run and striking at different locations.
There's also the very important potential of playing as the Empire itself. I think playing members of the Inquisition could be really fun, or as Imperial explorers in the Navy. Or as Stormtroopers on an important mission.
And Mandalorians, of course, are fun and important. Playing as a surviving Mandalorian clan, maybe trying to make a New Mandalore by conquering a planet, or just going fully nomadic.
Or maybe the Mandalorians and Jedis instead take on the life of the frontier. Instead of fighting the Empire tooth and nail they move to some unimportant planet and settle down, perhaps making a farm.
Playing as criminals could be really neat too. Trying to work around the Empire and the rebels to carve out their own fortune.
In the first years following the proclamation of the Galactic Empire it had met its fiercest resistances, but it seemed that it only got stronger by the day. Every day hundreds more ships would be launched, every day thousands more soldiers would be deployed, every day millions more credits were raised for war. Every planet that dared to resist was violently conquered and incorporated into an ever expanding war machine, bent more on the pacification of the Galaxy than being a civilian government. Any who would've dared to resist the new state were mostly regarded to be fools. Even the Jedi, once bastions of the Republic, were either slaughtered with brutal efficiency or hunted down with ruthless intent.
Any who would survive long found themselves, in general, on the fringes or Imperial power. One such region where the Imperial power was the least felt was the Galactic Frontier. Especially in the time when the Empire was more hungry to pacify those insurgents in the Core and Mid Rim.
On the very edge of the Galactic Frontier was a near empty planet. Named Cabur, from the Mando'a for "guardian." It had been named such because in centuries past, during the Mandalorian Wars, the planet had been shelter and, in a way, a "protector" of many Mandalorians. Following the defeat of the Mandoa'ade the planet was settled by a few clans, becoming a small exclave of Mandalorians, rather far away from Mand'alor. Over time more non-Mandalorians would settle on the planet; though they only really came to outnumber Mandalorians by the time of the Clone Wars. During the Clone Wars the planet did see a spike of many refugees evading the war.
During the Clone Wars the planet very nearly saw a battle erupt around it, but the residents, wanting to avoid war, secretly sabotaged the ships of both the CIS and Republic, causing them to crash on the planet. The droids of the CIS were reprogrammed and became commonplace across the planet while the clones were mostly all evacuated away over time.
That said, the crash still never caused much of a stir in the Galaxy. The planet was mostly rural, bar the mining on the planet- it was actually rather plentiful in natural resources, and was temperamental enough to support a large population.
But even trouble would find this fringe planet. After about half a decade of evading the Empire, that cruel state eventually found them. An Imperial Star Destroyer exited hyperspace right above the planet. But it wasn't just any ISD. Onboard were two very important factions: the ISB and the Inquisitorius. The planet was believed to be harboring both anti-Imperial guerrillas and Jedi.

Throw away account because why not?
When we first started dating he loved bombed me with gifts and ALOT of letters that would say things such as I've never felt this way before, and you're amazing, and I could see this going forever, and I never knew how possessive I was till I met you. We only dated a little under 3 months at this point; I decided it would be best for us to go on a break because he wasn't following my boundaries with the love bombing and it seemed like he needed time to build up his self. We went on the break for a week during which he went on this dating app for teens and told me that it was fine he was only on there for fun. I told him at the end of the week that "I didn't think I wanted to keep dating:" and he just replied with "k". which left me feeling like I didn't get closure but I ignored that and would talk shit about the relationship with my friends (we dated in the friend group so we had the same friends (side note: they felt like he distanced himself from them when we started dating and he would get jealous when I'd make flirting jokes with them which we always made; this caused some people in the friend group to feel some type of way about him)) But I would still tell my friends not to be too harsh and give him the benefit of the doubt, and then when my friend Mike brought up that my ex had been avoiding me, him, and Danelle; my ex got upset and brought up something that made me uncomfortable. So I got pissed and didn't talk to him for like a month and a half because I was like you lashed out at me for no reason, and was aggressive towards him when I did; I thought that there was no way he wouldn't have known what he said would make me uncomfortable since every time it was brought up I talked about how it made me sad. After this though for some unknown reason, I felt like I needed him back (p.s i mentioned the teen dating app because he ended up dating some guy on there 2 weeks after we broke up). So I ended up texting him and in the text, I apologized for everything in the relationship even the stuff I didn't think I did, and told him Id like to be friends again and he said he was sorry that something he said would hurt me and that he truly didn't know it made me sad or that I would be offended and we were on good terms again. I called my friend crying cause I didn't know how I felt about my choice and my brain was saying I didn't want him back but my heart was saying I needed him. Fast forward and we are on good terms but don't talk much, later I am out of school for weeks because I get really bad depression from being heavily overwhelmed and find that a game is my safe space because I can stay home and never see the public while still feeling like I'm interacting with something. My ex is really into the game so he joined my game we have a lot of fun and it is my first human interaction in 2-3 weeks. We stayed on call playing the game for 17 hours straight that night and it became a habit for us to have all-night calls, I started feeling like he was the only one who truly got me because he understood and related to a lot of the things I was dealing with and thinking about in my depression and we start to flirt like we did when we first were dating. Finally, I returned to school and saw my other friends and unintentionally did not talk to him as much because I realized how much I missed my other friends we don't have classes together so I only saw him once during passing that day anyway. Once I got home I got on a call with my friend Danelle and she's like see you didn't need "EX" to be in public, and I was like huh I didn't realize that but I don't wanna bet on it. After this moment "EX" gets a little more distant but it's not noticeable so I don't really care, but then I go through his tik tok, and I knew at this point that he had a crush on a different girl earlier in the month, but I didn't realize that he had written paragraphs and made tik toks about how down bad he was for her just 20 days ago. This was a red flag for me since I don't see how he could've gotten over her in 20 days and I don't wanna be his second option just because she won't date him. I end up bringing it up to him casually saying oh I saw your tik tok you should go for her. And he said "Who? Sam?" and I said yes, and he said I told u before there wasn't a spark so we are just friends now. And I said how do u move on in 20 days and he said what TikTok are u talking about? So I sent it to him and he said he couldn't see it, so I was explaining where it was and he said it was probably deleted refresh your page, and I said how was it deleted if I'm looking at it? and he said refresh your page it must have been recently deleted, I said but then he wouldn't be able to see which one I'm talking about. And then he said refresh your page I just deleted it. Which threw me off because I was thinking why did you delete it? and why did you try to act like I was crazy for seeing it as if it had always been deleted? so then he ends up saying that he was 70% moved on and 20% not. So from that moment on he would not get on a call with the rest of us, at first, I was like oh it's okay; he missed the call, then I was like maybe he doesn't see the call notification so let me send a text so he'll know, and then I got so desperate that I was about to @ him when my friend Danelle got on the call and distracted me. It was hard for me because I feel like I need him in my life and to go from calling every day to never really made me desperate for him to get on a call and we go back to how it was when I was depressed. He finally got on call last night and although we stayed up a little late he was distant and not as talkative or giggly as he used to be. also after the talk about Sam, he stopped saying goodnight and sweet dreams when we got off the call and would only say gn. What are your thoughts on this, on one hand, I wanna be like fuck him I don't wanna be his second choice. And on the other hand, I really wanna go back to flirting with him and date him.
But I do feel guilty because he says that he felt like he couldn't tell our friends about our relationship. After all, the majority sided with me whenever we would have issues, so I feel bad that he didn't think he had support during the relationship. Also, decisions for me were hard in the relationship because he would give me his opinion and I'd wanna go with that and then my friends and family would say a different opinion and I would want to go with that; so I never felt like I got to make my own decision without worrying about other peoples opinions
Timeline (dated until December) (No talking until around February) (Started the late-night calls in early May)

I discovered Shera's videos quite a few years ago, and loved her humour as well as her message to level up. I started noting down all her little gems. They give me motivation, and a giggle too. I am older, in my fifties, and have been happily married for over 15 years, so I don't need her dating, sugaring, or 'get the bag' advice, but I do love her level up advice. I saw another lady share her notes, so I wanted to as well. There are tons, I've realised! I hope you enjoy them!
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How do you become the prize?

If you don’t start as the prize, then you aren’t the prize. If you don’t know if your mind that you are already the prize then you can never be the prize.

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How to be more feminine so I can be spoiled more?

It’s a lifestyle. You have to act, fake it until you make it, and create a lifestyle. The days that you don’t feel very feminine are the days that you have to use more of your masculine energy.

Remember to always have a space to come back to that is feminine, and recharge yourself with feminine energy. Create a more feminine environment, wear more feminine clothes, listen to music that is going to help your femininity instead of diminishing it.

Keep things that you like to do feminine and do feminine things. Going shopping, getting your nails or hair done, buying shoes, picking out décor for our rooms, decorating tables, going on picnics, watching girly movies.

Recharge yourself by doing some of those things. You need to be able to recharge your femininity at least once or twice a week.

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Live the type of life you want already. It may not be on the scale that you want to live it at, but it needs to be a version of it. For example, if you want to live a soft, feminine life make sure your current life reflects that: your current environment, the current way you dress, the current way you walk, talk and act.

The more you receive, the better treatment you receive, if you can get a provider who can let you live a more feminine life, a softer life, then it's just going to get better and better.

But already live the life you want to live, that way they can only improve you and they see how you treat yourself and see what you like and that’s what they are going to be giving you. Your goals will be met just by dating.

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What are some ways to keep him interested in he provides well?

Look good
Make sure you know what his interest are
Talk to him
Make sure he feels like he is the man
Look good when you are out with him
Make sure you are pretty and heads turn ‘ooh who’s he with’
His self-esteem will skyrocket when you go out with him if you look good and he’s not going to want to leave that


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Men like women to switch it up as long as it’s classy.

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Flower attract bees to them by their bright colours and they smell good. Attract men to you:

· Wear bright pretty colours
· Smell good
· Look fresh, dewy and youthful
· Look attractive

Look like the prize. Look like his fantasy. Look through his eyes: what would he like to see?

It’s not that complicated. Bring it back down to simplicity? What do men like?

Heels
Skirts
Dresses
Makeup
Long hair
Red lipstick
Baby voice
Feminine colours
Make them feel good
Give them compliments
Let them talk
Don’t talk about your boring stuff – they don’t care

Use the formula to get success with men.

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If you want to dress casual in jeans and a cute top, still wear heels, hair, full makeup. If you’re going to wear jeans, you’re going to need to wear heels.

Also think about this: what sort of man are you attracting. If you wear jeans when you meet you’re going to get taken to a jeans date. Dress for the life you want.

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Comment:
When we had a fight I cut my hair short & bangs & went shopping. He was so glad he said “you look like a different person!” The fight was forgotten & he treated me new again & took me shopping again.

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"Life is fun! (...) life is a movie, life is a stage. Get into character... "

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Men don’t care about anything else but what you look like and how you make them feel.

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If you’ve let yourself go, level yourself up to the point that their jaw will drop when they see you.

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The only limitations are the ones you believe in.

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What do rich men’s wives all have in common besides being pretty?

They’re feminine
They’re classy
They’re not loud and obnoxious
They don’t outshine their husband
They hold back and keep it together in public
They are well proportioned

Shera had a friend who was a little rachet, and she ended up marrying wealthy. She had to totally change everything about herself:

The way she dressed
The way she wore her hair
The way she spoke
The kind of shoes she wore
Her makeup
She had to change it all
How she acted around people
How she spoke to men
She had to change everything
It’s not that she changed who she was inside or her personality
It’s that she changed who she was around men
There’s a difference

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Your stock should go up after you get married, not down. If your stock is not rising after marriage you’re doing it backwards. That means still investing into yourself, your beauty, your clothing, into your stash (money, wealth and investments). If you got married and your stock plummeted, that’s your fault.

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Loving yourself means putting yourself first as a priority. Knowing your worth and value and not taking any crap from anybody because you value yourself, you love yourself. That’s all loving yourself means. And not talking down about yourself. And knowing that you deserve what you want in life.

Once you do that other people will as well – men, co- workers, your boss, parents, spouse, brother, sister, cousin, whoever. Whoever is in your life at the moment will recognise that you love yourself and that you don’t have to submit to them or that you’re not desperate for their approval. In fact they may start to be desperate for your approval. So make sure you’re putting yourself first.

Don’t be always talking about the other person and what they want or what they think. Don’t care who they are. Don’t care about other people or their spouse or the person they’re interested in. It’s not about them, it’s about you. If they can’t recognise you and they don’t like you, then you are wasting time.

If you have to sit there and be puzzled about why someone is not responding properly or why they’re not doing this or that, it means they don’t like you so just move on and stop trying to waste time worrying about it. You already know that in the back of your mind; you’re just hoping for a different outcome that there won’t be.

Make sure that when you realise you are putting other people before yourself as a priority then you’re not going to get the type of man or people attracted to you that you need. When you can get somebody in the click of a finger and they’re not used to that it means you are valuable and that they are not necessary. They are very unnecessary and therefore they feel like you have even more value because you don’t need them. You don’t need them, they need you. That’s why they seek you out. That’s why they call you, that’s why they ask you out.

Make sure you’re not getting caught up in silliness. If they’re not putting you first, you’re gone. Or you put them on ice; that means you let them figure it out and when they start acting right again then you allow them back into your life. If you’re chasing behind someone, if you’re worrying about someone who ghosts you then you’re not putting yourself first.

And that means you don’t love yourself. A lot of people were taught to act a certain way – not cocky etc – if you don’t, all people see you as is a doormat. You can let down your guards later when they are fully invested in you and aren’t going anywhere, but until that happens they are there to impress you.

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How do you fall in love with yourself when you aren’t happy with yourself?

Become happy with yourself:

· Do things that make you happy
· Look the way you need to look
· Continue to do this every day until you are happy

Only you can make you happy

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Don’t go out there lookin’ like Plain Jane. Plain Jane gets passed by with the eye.

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The key is confidence. You can learn all you want, if you don’t have confidence you can’t pull it off. The key is confidence, knowing your value, and not listening to no dusties. That’s the key, that’s the masterclass right there – be confident.

Be main character energy. Stop caring what people think. Have a goal of what you want and go for it and don’t stop until you get it. Speak positive about yourself and stop dealing with dusties. That’s just it. You do all those things and you’re going to have something. You’re going to get what you’re looking for. That’s it.

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It’s not what you look like – it’s how you make them feel.

Are you going to make them feel young again?
Are you going to make life exciting for them?
Do they enjoy being with you?
Do they like being seen out in public with you?

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Shera, on when you talk about all your feelings and prior history:

“You’re being an informant on yourself. You’re telling on yourself. You’re giving out all your secrets and revealing everything. So that’s definitely not feminine energy, because feminine energy is naturally dark. You know, it’s water, it’s the cosmos, it’s that. So when you’re revealing everything, when nothing is unknown and everything is known, now you’re masculine. Because that’s light- everything is known. So the more you say, the more you tell, the more you open up, the more masculine you become in that energy, and the less mystery and femininity and feminine allure you have, because now you’re an open book. And they have all the clues to how the story ends and how to manipulate the character.”

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“Feminine energy is naturally dark, is water, is the cosmos, is that. So, when you are revealing everything, nothing is unknown and everything is known, now you’re more masculine, because that is light, everything is known.

So the more you say, the more you tell, the more you open up, the more masculine you become in that energy, and the less mystery and femininity and feminine allure you have because now you are an open book, you’re predictable.

And they have all the clues to how the story ends and how to manipulate the character.”

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Get them to worry about you, while you worry about you.

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How do you find your purpose? You create it.

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Leveling up is actually a lot of fun when you are present and mindful about it it’s probably be the best gift you could ever give yourself as a woman.

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Stop caring what other people think and live the life you want to live. If you don’t like kissing people’s butts, don’t kiss their butt.

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A lot of women don’t realise that if you just get into your feminine, and you stick with your standards, you can get what you ask for.

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How to become detached and unbothered?

Stop caring. When you care too much, that’s when you can’t detach and be unbothered. Stop caring, become ‘take it or leave it’. That’s your attitude. You will be fine with it or without it.

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Comment:

Three years ago I was getting yelled at a public train station (which we had to take because neither of us had a car) by my dusty disgusting ex. I lived in a cheap apartment with four unsavory roomates and their boyfriends. Now I live in a luxury high rise with a conceirge and valet. All I did today was get a facial, sit by the pool and shop. I don’t have to worry about a SINGLE THING and every man in my life treats me like a queen. I’m truly breaking generational curses; my dad left my mom with four kids alone while she worked at Denny’s waitressing overnight. If it weren’t for Shera’s wisdom I don’t know where I would be today but I just give thanks every day that I saw the light. This is my one and only life so why shouldn’t I be living peacefully and bougie.

It’s crazy how fast life can chance when you realize your worth and act on it. Keep on inching further and further; the more luxurious things you do the more the rest of your life catches up. It literally started with me going to the expensive nail salon instead of the cheap one. Then I felt like I deserved more. I moved into a nicer apartment that was out of my budget at first, then a nicer car, then I started buying designer bags and now I live in an ultra-luxurious place. Small steps and the rest of your life will catch up in time. Of course look your best every day and be healthy. And do not give a second of your time to anyone who does not treat you with respect, remember if they’re not adding to your life they are taking away.

The universe somehow just opened up and rains abundance on me. The more you surround yourself with the vibrations of prosperity the more it will be drawn to you. Ella Ringrose on YouTube helped me a lot to draw in money.

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Comment:

Shera ever since I started watching you I have levelled up my life completely. I lost 50 pounds and changed my whole look to be more feminine. My husband was so motivated he started making more money and bought me a home and my dream car. He does everything I want now and he feels proud to bring me home his paycheck. I no longer work and just workout every day and focus on my children. A lot of my family members don’t understand this life but I am very happy and comfortable.

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If you give yourself away too easily, your value is low.

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10 Important Habits of a Gold Digger

1)high standards
2)high self-esteem
3)perspective
4)purpose
5)options
6)be unapologetic
7)looks
8)business plan
9) knowledge/value of money
10)stay unbothered

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‘Busy patterns that aren’t classy make you look older’. You can show how classy your clothing is by the cut, colour and pattern, not the brand or designer.

Look to magazines for style inspiration:

O magazine = for older women
Instyle = more youthful

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Comment:
Men need respect, they don’t want your love.

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Wealthy men like women who are thin, feminine, and classy, or classy/sexy.

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Classic = classy. Dress in a way that you wouldn’t look crazy in a photo in 20 years time.

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‘We’re not trying to fit in, we’re trying to stand out.’

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Comment:
Looking beautiful, adore your blouse and that classy backdrop. I have earrings very similar. I have to go out now, I’m over 60 and always look stylish heading out the door . Make up and a cute dress today. You never know who is at the coffee shop 😊

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Be cute, be feminine, don’t talk so much. Let him do the hard work.

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‘You’re not his momma stop acting like it’ video
Women will turn into their man's mother without realizing it! Then he will run.

A lot of times when a woman has been in a relationship for a long time or is married, they start acting like a mother to the man without even realising it. To avoid that, do these things:
· Totally change everything – change how you dress, put more makeup on, wear heels.
· Act ten years younger.
· Don’t be concerned about the things you used to be concerned about.
· Let everything be free and fly.
· If you once worried about dishes in the sink don’t worry about it anymore.
· Change it up.
· If he realises that you stop caring and you just put all that extra energy that you were nagging and trying to organise and keep stuff right or that you were frustrated about – if you took all that extra energy and put it back into yourself – and you stopped worrying about the house and the domestic issues and him doing this, this and that. He’s going to think, ‘Well dang, everything is out of order, now she’s dressing like this and putting on makeup and looking this way, and the dishes aren’t clean anymore, or she’s not nagging me about picking up my clothes and the room is a mess’, then either he’ll get up and do it or he’ll start turning into your father.
· You mirror what they do and they’re gonna start seeing what you are doing by you have to act that way with them.
· You stop cleaning dishes, you start leaving your stuff on the floor.
· You start dressing cute, and say you’re going out.
· You forget to do stuff, or you stop helping out because you don’t want to damage your nails or the Real Housewives is on.
· Start doing the same thing to him – he watches sport, you say, ‘Oh Housewives is on, I wanna watch it. I don’t wanna watch it later.’
· You don’t do any of this like it’s revenge, just like you joined him in not being responsible, or joined him with more relaxed rules.
· He might like it. He might be like ‘you’re so laid back, you look happy today’.
· Then he might start cleaning up more because it’s not an order.
· But as long as you’re happy and not nagging him, he’s going to do it voluntarily.

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How you act and how you make him feel will give you more power to get what you want.

· Look good
· Be more feminine
· Speak softly
· Smile
· Laugh at whatever he is saying and make him feel good about who he is
· Let him talk more than you
· Feed his ego
· Act vulnerable and he will want to do things for you, will want to please and impress you

(I added:
· Ladylike, dainty, girlish, delicate, compassionate, considerate, sympathetic, tolerant, warm-hearted, gracious
· Calm, refined and tasteful
· Agreeable, friendly, good-natured,
· Kind, moral, pleasant, delightful)

That’s how you get what you want.

Our power is in our femininity, not in our masculinity, not in being in competition with a man, but making them weak because we are giving them exactly what no-one else does and so they’re not used to it and they yield to it and want more of it and they’re going to do what you want.

Being feminine is the key to getting what you want. There is no magic formula; it’s just ‘being feminine’. Work on that and you will get what you want. Work on your baby voice. Work on asking men for things and help, feeling vulnerable around them and stroking their ego and you can pretty much get what you want, especially if you choose the right target. Don’t go up and choose someone who has a thousand options, go up and choose someone who feels lucky to be with you and who will act accordingly.

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Men don’t like jealous women. You look insecure if you show jealousy. If you feel jealous, act like you don’t care – laugh it off.

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Men don’t like to be told what to do or have someone running their life. They don’t need you to offer them suggestions – this will just make them feel like a child, emasculated and they will rebel.

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Have a hobby and have a life.
Have your own life.
Make yourself number one.

Make sure he likes you more than you like him. If he really likes you he is going to chase you and not let you go, and you don’t even have to do anything to make this happen.

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I am not a people pleaser. I live for myself not others. And that’s how you have to be to be unbothered. Be unbothered always and you will live your best life.

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I live in a fantasy world every day. That’s why I can create the world that I want.

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A dream woman is motivation for a man in every way. If you no longer motivate him, you are no longer his dream woman.

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A good actress will melt into her role.

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Instead of waiting and having regret later, make the decision now to do what’s best for you, not what’s best for the outside world and what they think. Do what’s best for you in the long run, not what’s best for you right now in this one moment which will pass. Think ahead. Right now is gone. As soon as you think about it, it’s gone.

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To be a dream woman and to be worshipped by the man you are with, you have to stay focused on you. Don’t be about him. A man’s dream woman does not mean she is all over him. She has a life. Keep a healthy distance instead of being extra clingy. That way you stay on his level. Make sure you appeal to his friends (in a classy way) too. He will see that others appreciate you and know that he has the prize.

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“Put outfits together in your mind when negative people are talking.”

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How to be unbothered?

Comments:

‘Fake it till you make it. That’s what happened with me I started to pretend that it didn’t bother me. Now I’m literally so unbothered and focused on myself.’

‘When you are showing that you’re upset or bothered, you are giving them power to know they affected you. I love everyone but I do not argue. I have trained myself not to get emotional even at my husband or family. Being this way also makes you more respected, it’s part of your charisma.’

‘Being unbothered is a choice.’

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Comment:

If you're over 35 the best ways to look young is to drink a gallon of water a day....it's good for wrinkles..and helps your makeup glide on like butter.

Eat less and eat as much green as you can (Kale, Broccoli, Spinach) so you can be as slim as possible so that you feel good in your clothes....

Work out to increase your confidence...

Dress your age....nothing worse than a woman who dresses out of her age range...makes you look like you're trying too hard...

~~

Build confidence by not accepting that you have low self-esteem. Every day improve yourself so your self-esteem gets higher and higher. Don’t wallow in it, don’t accept it. Every day tell yourself what you want:

I look good
I feel good
I’m great

Tell yourself that. Give other people compliments, and they will give you compliments. Before you know it, you’ll have high self-esteem. You have to work on it, it doesn’t come automatically. It took a long time to tear down your self-esteem, and it takes a moment to pull it back up.

Just work on it, keep moving forward. Don’t let anyone put you down again.

~~

How to keep your husband interested

· Less communication
· Less giving of information
· Spend more time apart
· Don’t get so close that he is going to want to back up
· You have to get close then back up, get close then back up again
· Look your best at all times
· Don’t smother people and they won’t try to escape you
· Have a life
· Have things to do
· Have a to-do list that does not require that person

Go out and do things. He will appreciate you more when you get back. He will wonder what you’ve been doing. He will anticipate your return.

Don’t let him conquer you. When men have conquered a woman, they will move on. If he doesn’t feel like he can ever conquer you, he will try harder. Never let him feel like he totally has you.

~~

Masculine people (men or women) tend to run to the rescue of others.

~~

Shera, on uplevelling your looks and being your best every time you step out the front door: Don’t let life pass you by. Life is short. Life is very short.

Comment on Shera’s video: My mom went through a season where she dressed up and it just made our whole family and home come alive. I remember when my mom walked into the living room all fixed up and my little cousin's eyes just lit up. He said be careful don't touch her lol. He literally went from seeing her as a plain ol’ aunt to a princess. He was so young, but he couldn't fake it; that was his instincts.

~~
· It’s not about looking young, it’s about looking good.
· If you miss an opportunity to be levelling up, you are only cheating yourself.
· Stay ready.
· Every day do something to improve yourself - hair, exercise, mindset, self-esteem
· Enjoy getting ready – be creative
· If you’re wearing makeup, go bold. Men want to see the makeup.
· Men like it when you look your best. When you’re out in public, people are judging a man’s status by the type of wife he has, how she looks. You add status to any man that you are with.
· If you are attractive, you will have a lot of friends inviting you out. They will use you to attract attention because you look good. They are going to gravitate towards you and associate you with success. Your appearance will get you further than almost anything else.

~~

When you’re trying to lure a man in, dress for that man. Men do pay attention to what you look like.

Broke men pay attention to your silhouette. They look at your body because they just want to have sex with you.

Men with money pay attention to what you wear: your clothes, your shoes, your jewellery, your shoes, your hair, everything. Are you appropriate? If he wants to take it to the next level and take you out and get to know you, start a relationship, introduce you to his friends, he isn’t just looking at your body.

~~

The better you look, the more successful he looks.

~~

Men are visual creatures. Everything men do is based on that they see. How they treat you is based on what they see.

If you go without makeup, hair not done, and dressed badly, you won’t get the same treatment even by the people who see you every day. When you look good, the people around you have a little bit more respect for you. They see you looking pulled together and to see you any other way is foreign to them.

When you are levelled up, keep this in mind, don’t backslide. When a man meets you looking good, he wants to see you like that for your entire marriage. He doesn’t want you to let yourself go.

Try hard to keep yourself up during your marriage; how you looked when you met him is how he wants to see you forever more.

Men are very visual creatures, so when they see us looking bad, it upsets them. It literally makes them clench inside a little bit because they are so affected by the visual.

You are like a Christmas tree or a beautiful ornament. It’s a pleasure to look at you and they’ll want to be around you just for that.

People may treat you badly because you didn’t keep up your looks - a man could be speaking to another woman or ignoring you.

~~

“Just act and dress like a feminine lady. You’re making them feel younger by being in their presence. Watch 1950s Hollywood movie stars to watch how those ladies acted.”

Never help a man level up as they will always put you in a maternal role and look at you as a mother figure.

How to change your mindset:
1. Tell yourself that you are no longer allowing people to make you feel bad about something – that’s your choice.
2. Decide that you want to be better, and each day take action towards being better. Your self-esteem will rise from this.
3. Surround yourself with like-minded people so you can influence and help each other.

~~

People who talk less are generally more well respected.

~~

“Look for the positive in every negative comment or situation, and you will find it every time.

Whatever your weakness is, make it your strength, to fuel you to the next level. That’s how you really level up from inside. Face your weakness head on. If someone calls you fat, flaunt it. Say, ‘So what? Yes, I eat, I haven’t seen a rib in many decades, but I’m happy. I got a lovely husband, nice house, nice car.’

Instead of being a victim about it, empower yourself with it. Your flaw can be your power. It can be your power if you take it and embrace it and stop focusing on it as an insecurity. The more you focus on something as an insecurity, the more other people will focus on it because they know it’s your weakness and that’s how you get affected. Whatever your flaw is, turn it into something that can give you more than it can take from you. If people say it’s a flaw, take it and turn it into a power.”

~~

Don’t listen to what people say; what do you think? Opposition creates interest.

~~

· Be extra feminine in the way you dress, speak, act.
· Be charming - smile, don't argue (and then do exactly what you were going to do anyway).
· Ask for help from your man - opening a jar, lifting something, reaching up high, anything - they love it. Do this three times a day. Say things like 'It's too heavy for me'. Doing this makes them feel protective of you.
· When you are offered help, accept it.
· Talk to men in a feminine baby-voice.
· Practice being feminine and flirty every day to men everywhere so that it becomes second nature. Things such as asking a man for assistance at the supermarket and smiling and saying thank you in a feminine voice.
· Use your feminine charm on everyone around you.
· Look your best, put on makeup every day, smell good, be well groomed, have nice nails.
· Speak to him as if he's a person and not a child - don't try to control him. Mothers control their children and men don't want to have sex with their mother.
· Ask for what you want, but do it in a feminine way.
· Act like the prize to be the prize.
· Be unpredictable - men will get bored of you if you are too predictable. If you are unpredictable it is exciting to them plus scares them a little too. They will wonder why you are different.
· Don't talk so much.
· Mirror how he acts to bring him closer. Say your man is a bit distant; my natural inclination is to wonder what is wrong, try and talk to him etc. That is clingy, a better way to behave is mirror that - be busy doing your own things, happy but busy and let him come looking for you when he comes out of his cave.
· Be feminine in everything you do - surround yourself with reminders of your femininity - i.e. a pink phone cover.
· Be the receiver not the giver.
· Let him think up ideas, with your subtle input.
· Hardly ever text or call him at work, unless you need him to pick up something.
· Dress up every day for no reason.
· Smile.
· Always be levelling up.
· Have a plan B.
· Don't tell him your plans for the day or where you have been - be a little mysterious and let him wonder what you've been up to.
· Keep the mystery alive with privacy - closet, bathroom etc.
· Don't do everything together.
· Have hobbies and interests of your own.
· Make him feel like a man by asking his advice, seeking help from him, not trying to tell him what to do etc.
· Keep up with new trends and the latest styles. Try new looks, buy new clothes, look cute.
· Make him feel younger by being fresh, new and exciting.
· Be excited by life and easily impressed.
· Go on vacation, go out to places.
· Do new things and turn him on to new things. Do new things in bed.
· Change your looks - look different, be different.
· Listen to the latest music.
· Keep up with the latest trends in things.
· Be an exciting adventure.
· Be happy go lucky, not a care in the world, everything is fun.
· Head up, chin up, look around, smile.
· Get all excited when you talk about little things.
· Light up when you talk to people.
· Bring a high energy.
· Wear your hair long and straight or smooth-wavy.
· Be seasonal - with your look/outfit, eating, décor.
· Reinvent yourself regularly.
· Play different characters for fun.
· Channel someone else when you go out.
· Be constantly changing and improving.
· Be a lively woman - bubbly, happy, exciting, smiling, lifts their spirits, fun to be around.
· Grab his hand and pull him along like a child.
· Be energetic and breathe life into others.
· Mirror his body language about 10-30 seconds later.
· Try new things, new looks.
· Practice your charm on waiters etc.
· Be a people watcher in different environments depending on the lifestyle you desire.
· Look from the outside in - how do people view you? How attractive are you?
· Transform yourself.
· Be his ultimate fantasy girl.
· Look good, do your makeup every day.
· Speak to your him as if he is a person and not a child.
· ‘Can you help me/lift that/get me a blanket?’ in a baby voice. Get him used to looking after you. ‘This is too heavy for me, I can’t reach it’. Do this three times a day minimum.
· Ask for what you want in a feminine way.
· Use the baby voice.
· Be extra feminine.
· Be charming – smile, don’t argue – agree (but do exactly what you want anyway).
· Ask for help from men.
· When you are offered anything, accept it.
· Talk to men in a feminine nature.
· Practice being feminine and flirty every do so that it becomes second nature to you – it will become easier with practice.
· Ask questions and smile.
· Play a bit dumb (not stupid; request their knowledge).
· Use your feminine charm on everyone around you – practice on any man to get better.
· Never get too comfortable (don’t let yourself go).
· Keep the illusion going – makeup, hair, lotion, fragrance.
· Look like you did when you first met (me: 66-67kg, long blonde hair, stylish clothes).
· Men are visual creatures and your hair is foremost – long, silky and straight.
· Have your makeup on, look cute.
· Shera’s husband treated her differently when she gained weight and then lost weight.
· Shera’s advice to a lady who gained 40 pounds and now her husband isn’t attracted to her: ‘Lose 40 pounds’.
· Still look sexy even if you’ve been together a while.
· Exfoliate your face and body.
· Have glowing, moisturised skin.
· Use highlighter on your face.
· Wear perfume, body lotion, nicely scented products.
· Wear red lipstick, eye makeup.
· Wear light, modern perfumes.
· Have simple, nice nails.
· Tell him that whatever you want is your ‘ultimate fantasy’.

~~

If you want to be married to a rich man, dress like a rich man’s wife.

~~

Be unbothered

It’s so amazing to just not care. You have no idea how much better your life gets when you stop caring. When you stop caring about stuff that’s not beneficial to you, everything blossoms, everything. Because your attention is no longer on anything negative, it’s all on you, and so you blossom.

How to keep your man chasing you? Be busy, don’t call him all the time. Have a hobby or a business and let him have to go looking for you.

~~

Did you ever feel insecure about your weight?

“No.

At any weight my mental game was tight, it was good. I could get anything I wanted, so it never really held me back. The only thing that would ever make me feel insecure about anything is… I really don’t have a lot of insecurities anymore. I had the normal insecurities of a child. But when I grew up and I understood that you could take your power from any situation, you no longer have insecurities.

If I was insecure about my weight, I wouldn’t be up here on YouTube, and if someone says something about how I look, I don’t care. I say Okay yeah and so what? I’m eating good, I’m living good. It doesn’t bother me, because that’s not what defines me. I’m gonna get paid skinny or fat. I’m gonna be happy at whatever makes me feel happiest. So it’s all about how you feel about yourself and how you value yourself. You don’t base your self-worth on what other people think about you.

And the reason why I teach people you gotta look good if you want to turn heads and make men cross the room is because if you are trying to get a date, yes, you have to be concerned with what other people find attractive. But that should not ever play a role in your own personal self-esteem.

Whatever you need to feel good at the time, tomorrow or today, that’s what you need to be doing.”

~~

The question was who can people see themselves surviving with for 5 years. The other choices are older characters, one being a white old lady and one seemingly like he’s a middle aged white vet. I do not remember the fourth. Anyway, multiple people in the comments are just talking about 1 and about how they’d have sex with her, or choosing her without explanation. It makes me ticked off how black women are so disrespected in the world, but if we’re up to be used like a piece of meat, we’re their first choice. It’s disgusting.

Some backround: I was broken up with a year ago. The relationship lasted almost three years. I’m a transdude (21), he is a cisguy (23). The breakup happened after I asked him when he would perhaps be ready to start being open about dating a transguy. We had had plenty of conversations about it. That time I just happened to ask him about telling his parents. He got very upset, and I thought it best to let him think about it without me bringing my own biases. Then the next day I got the text.
I spent those three years seeing him every day, basically the only hours without each other were when we had to be at school or work. But I was glued on him.
I had a girlfriend when I was about sixteen and dated her for 1.5-2 years. But my last relationship was the most intense, serious and symbiotic out of the two.
I can not stop thinking about him every day. I thought that after a year from the breakup I would have gotten to a point where he would not cross my mind each day. I even see dreams/nightmares with him in them. It’s very frustrating. Feels like I’m stuck and I don’t know how to get out.
So if anyone has any advice on how to make my subconscious move on, I’d be very thankful for any and all suggestions!

Hello everyone,
I'm right on the cusp of getting into battletech after admiring it for many years. I'm a long-term table-top war gamer, complex boardgame player, etc. I've played several battletech videogames over the years as well so I'm reasonably in on the lore. But before I start getting books and miniatures, I wanted to ask a few game mechanic questions to help guide what I start with.
Would it be alright to skip the beginner box and go start to the TotalWar and Armored combat set? Part of my goal is to get a a system I can get my more casual friends and family into, I'm not afraid of reading thick books, BUT if the beginner box is a good place to expose brand new people, while being a stepping stone to grow, I'm all for it. Let me ask this question another way as well, are the rules in the beginner box a different simpler set of rules OR a sub-section of the rules that continue to grow into the full game?
I see that the game uses a hex board, does the combat system work well if I use 3d terrain? What about the concepts of: Line of sight, building destruction, jump-jets, partial cover?
How does force building work in general? Can I field a clan/inner sphere mixed force: 2 Mad Dogs, 2 Cicada, 1 Deva? I assume games are balanced around total tonnage? Do most mechs exist in miniature form at the standard scale? I know that the mechs come in lots of variants and part of the draw it the loadout customization, is there a system in the rules for making a completely custom mech?
I really appreciate any answers anyone can give me, and just any general information I could use given the position I'm in. I'd like to reiterate, I don't need to be talking into getting in, I'm getting in, I just want to start in a way that is also mostly likely to get my casual gamer wife to play too without bombarding her with a bunch of rules and lore homework.

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 was 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 feel like such an idiot. Please avoid the same mistakes I did. Background is that I'm desperate for a new living situation (I'm separating from my partner) and was living out of town with my family while I figured things out.
Here's how it happened:
I found the *perfect* listing on Zillow and contacted the owner for a tour of the property on May 1. They responded saying the current tenant leaves May 15, that I can view the property after they move out, and then asked for my email for reservation and application (RED FLAG). I didn't even think twice about moving my conversation from Zillow to email at the time. I wish I hadn't.
Every communication from here on out was so professional. No spelling errors, no sob story. Just seemed like a person doing business, who had been a property manager for a long time. They sent a rental application form that asked for my SSN (RED FLAG), as well as info on my resident history and employment information. I googled the address and the listed property manager's name (Sharon Simmonds), and nothing questionable came up. I filled out the application.
I submitted the application form, was notified that it was accepted, and then was sent a lease to review and sign within 24hrs (RED FLAG). The application form looked professional and the terms made sense. I reviewed and signed.
Then I received receipt of the signed lease agreement, and was asked to proceed with the deposit to the address listed on the lease - either via wire or ACH transfer - and list the address in the wire description (RED FLAG). The bank was Navy Federal Credit Union, and that alone was enough for my stepdad to be convinced this was above-board. The NFCU affiliation didn't mean anything to me, but if my stepdad seemed so sure, that was enough for me.
I sent the funds on May 3, and after Sharon confirmed receipt, she said she'd meet me on move-in day (May 20), have a full tour of the unit, document the status of all appliances, and hand over the keys.
I followed up on May 13 to to ask about what time Sharon was available on the 20th, and she said she'd get back to me. She hasn't responded to any emails, calls, or texts since.
Last night, I looked up "Sharon Simmonds La Jolla" and found the same Zillow property listed on Vrbo. Same property manager name, same photos. I contacted the individual via Vrbo and they confirmed they hadn't posted the property on Zillow; it's exclusively a holiday rental. Here's the Vrbo listing: https://www.vrbo.com/593827
I know it was dumb. I was (am) in a complicated living situation and am dealing with personal stuff, so I unfortunately was the best target for this sort of scam. I just don't want anyone else to go through the same thing.

• Don't let professional communications or documents fool you. Especially now with the support of AI, putting together a believable application and lease is easier than ever.
• Keep your conversation on the rental platform.
• Don't give out your SSN; it isn't necessary for a rental application.
• Don't wire money without seeing the property.
• If you're out of town and can't review a property, at least have a friend meet the manager and see the location in person.

Anyway, I'm trying to move on without hating myself too much. I've reported the fraud to the police, called my bank, frozen my credit etc. Trying to do as much as I can to mitigate further damage, since I'm already assuming the $7k is completely gone.

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 was 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 met this guy 9 months ago. At the beginning he asked if I can cook, I told him I don't like cooking, but I can do it, turns out he hates cooking, although he also can cook. I assured him that in case things get serious, we'll get a solution to the problem.
Fast forward, we're seeing each other regularly, at times we spend Mo-Fr in my place, other times in his. Even though I don't like cooking, I usually cook like 2-4 times in a week, like from scratch. After some health condition that I had back in 2016, I've been cooking since 2019. All my health problems got better like 90% so I've sticked to it, even though I don't enjoy cooking that much.
Since we spend so much time together, I just cooked like usual, not thinking much of it, only that instead of 1 person meal, I add more ingredients to cater for 2. So after 1 month I realise how tiring all this gets. When I was alone, sometimes I'd just fix something quick that took me 15-20 mins and I'd be good. Since we're now 2, I've always made real dishes which need longer preparation and cleaning up afterwords.
After 1 month, realising how tired I get, I ask him to help me in the kitchen, as in to be cooking 1-2 times a week, he comes up with excuses how he work long hrs and is tired when he gets home. Mind you, we both work 40 hrs a week, plus I take some weekend jobs, to save extra. In a month I work 2 Saturdays and 1 Sunday, all half a day. I try negotiating with him that I'm also tired when I come home, but still stand in the kitchen for 1 hr to prepare us something. What annoys me is that when I'm home earlier, I cook, when he's home earlier, he'll be sitting on computer playing games with his feet on the table, waiting for me.
So one day we come to a conclusion that he'll be cooking over the weekend at least for me to get some rest. 4 weeks go by, and all the weekends he doesn't cook. One weekend I came home after visiting a friend. He thought I was going to jump straight into the kitchen like I've always done, but I didn't. Instead of fixing us something, he goes and makes himself a sandwich, continues to eat it right next to me, without even asking if I was hungry. This is someone, I've always cooked for, even made lunch to take to job when I was making mine. After that I had enough and knew nothing is going to change. I just told him this is not going to work for us and pack all my stuff and go back to my apartment. He crawls back saying how sorry he was, is going to make an effort blablabla.
Also note that I'm the one paying for groceries. He pays child support and is left with not much, no big deal for me, coz he promises that when we move together, I won't be paying rent and we'll have some money left. I can still have a good life without my weekend jobs, but I still keep them because I'm saving up to buy my appartment.
2 months goes by, and he always bombarding my phone with sweet nothings, which I don't give in to. I talk to my sister about it and she says I could have given him more time, that my standards are too high and I should give him another chance and more time. I grudgingly agree to this because in general he's a good man and my family likes him. So I set a date and we met end of January.
At the beginning he really is engaged, does stuff, and with time he just realises how tiresome it gets. Always angry when it's his turn in the kitchen, even though I'm always there helping with peelings and cutting.
Since yesterday I caught some virus and been down. This morning, he made himself some coffee and croissants and never asked me if I'd like to have something. At around 13.30 in the afternoon I stood up to make myself something to eat, then he joins me in the kitchen and help. While eating, he sees something is not right and asks what's wrong. Is it not common sense to help your bf/gf when they are sick? Because I remember being single and cooking for myself when sick. Now in a relationship, still cooking, but now for 2 people. I'm I overreacting or expecting too much? Because I remember 3 weeks ago he woke up with headache, and before I went jogging, I brought him some coffee and omelette and sandwich in bed, just so that he can have a rest.
Right now I feel lost in this relationship, we argue about little things, I feel like I'm carrying a burden. When it comes to organising fun stuff to do, it's always me. He doesn't have friends or hobbies except computer games and gym. I feel like he a velcro bf. When I'm away he'll be bombarding my WhatsApp with emojies when he has nothing to do, says he misses me. Feels like I have a small child left at home.
ATM I can't see myself living like this. He said he want a kid, see myself doing most of the parenting because he can't even make small decisions on how many sandwiches he should pack when we're going hiking. Or what to put in the sandwiches. How to cut the onions, or which programme for the laundry, even though he has been single for some time. SMH...
Now tell me reddit, WIBTA if I leave him? Are my standards to high? Is this how a normal family functions?

Enhancing Google Sheets with Dynamic Email Features Using AppScript

Google Sheets has evolved beyond a mere spreadsheet tool, becoming a versatile platform for automating and streamlining various tasks, including email communication. The integration of AppScript, a powerful scripting language designed for Google's ecosystem, opens up possibilities for creating dynamic, automated email systems directly within Google Sheets. This capability allows users to send personalized email notifications, updates, or reminders based on the data stored in their sheets. By leveraging AppScript, individuals and organizations can significantly improve their workflow efficiency, ensuring that important information is communicated promptly and accurately.
The process of setting up a dynamic email reference involves scripting within the Google Sheets environment, utilizing AppScript to fetch data from cells and use it to populate email content. This approach not only automates the email sending process but also tailors the message according to specific criteria or triggers defined by the user. Whether it's sending out mass emails for a marketing campaign, dispatching personalized client updates, or automating internal notifications, the flexibility and power of AppScript with Google Sheets offer a scalable solution to meet diverse email communication needs.

Command	Description
MailApp.sendEmail()	Sends an email from the script
SpreadsheetApp.getActiveSpreadsheet()	Gets the current active spreadsheet
getSheetByName()	Accesses a specific sheet within the spreadsheet by name
getRange()	Gets the range of cells specified in the sheet
getValues()	Retrieves the values from the specified range

Exploring Dynamic Email Automation with Google Sheets and AppScript

Google Sheets and AppScript together provide a powerful combination for automating various tasks, including the dynamic sending of emails based on spreadsheet data. This functionality is particularly useful for businesses and organizations that require regular communication with clients, employees, or members based on updated spreadsheet information. For example, a marketing team can automate the sending of personalized promotional emails to a list of subscribers directly from a Google Sheet containing subscriber information and email content. Similarly, HR departments can utilize this setup to send out automated updates or notifications to employees. The beauty of using Google Sheets for these tasks lies in its accessibility and ease of use, allowing for real-time updates to email lists and content without the need for complex database software.
The technical aspect of setting up such an email automation system involves writing custom scripts using Google AppScript, a Javascript-based language that interacts with Google Apps. This script can be tailored to trigger emails when certain conditions are met, such as the addition of a new row with a subscriber's information or updates to existing rows. The script reads the specified range in the Google Sheet, extracts the necessary data (such as email addresses and message content), and uses the MailApp service to send out the emails. This approach not only streamlines the process of sending out large volumes of personalized emails but also introduces a level of customization and flexibility that traditional email marketing tools may lack. By integrating Google Sheets with AppScript, users can create a highly efficient, automated email system that can adapt to various needs and scenarios.

Automating Email Notifications with Google Sheets and AppScript

Google AppScript Code Example

const sheet = SpreadsheetApp.getActiveSpreadsheet().getSheetByName("Emails"); const range = sheet.getRange("A2:B"); const data = range.getValues(); data.forEach(function(row) { MailApp.sendEmail(row[0], "Your Subject Here", row[1]); }); 

Exploring Dynamic Email Automation with Google Sheets and AppScript

At the core of automating email communications through Google Sheets lies the powerful Google AppScript, a scripting platform that allows for the creation of custom functions and automation within the Google Workspace environment. This integration enables users to transform their spreadsheets into dynamic tools capable of sending personalized, data-driven emails automatically. By utilizing AppScript, users can effectively harness the data within their Google Sheets to initiate email campaigns, send out timely notifications, or even distribute personalized messages to a targeted audience based on specific conditions or triggers identified within their spreadsheet data.
The practical applications of this are vast, ranging from businesses that need to automate customer communications, educators sending course updates to students, to event organizers distributing tailored information to attendees. The process involves writing a script that interacts with both the spreadsheet data and the email service, dynamically generating and sending emails based on the content of the spreadsheet. This not only saves time but also introduces a level of personalization and efficiency that manual processes cannot match. The ability to automate these processes within Google Sheets using AppScript significantly enhances productivity, allowing users to focus on more strategic tasks while the system manages routine communications.

FAQs on Automating Emails with Google Sheets and AppScript

1. Question: Can I send emails to multiple recipients using Google Sheets and AppScript?
2. Answer: Yes, you can send emails to multiple recipients by iterating over a range of cells containing email addresses and using the MailApp.sendEmail() function within a loop.
3. Question: How do I personalize the email content using data from Google Sheets?
4. Answer: You can personalize emails by fetching data from the spreadsheet using getValues() method and dynamically inserting this data into the email body or subject line in your AppScript code.
5. Question: Is it possible to schedule email sending with AppScript?
6. Answer: Yes, by using AppScript's time-driven triggers, you can schedule your scripts to run at specific intervals, thereby automating the email sending process based on your preferred schedule.
7. Question: Can I attach files from Google Drive to the emails sent through AppScript?
8. Answer: Absolutely, AppScript allows you to attach files from Google Drive by using the DriveApp service to fetch the file and include it as an attachment in your MailApp.sendEmail() call.
9. Question: How can I ensure my email automation script runs smoothly?
10. Answer: To ensure smooth operation, regularly review your script's execution logs, test your email functionalities thoroughly, and stay within Google's quota limits for email sending to avoid disruptions.
11. Question: Are there any limits to sending emails through AppScript?
12. Answer: Yes, Google imposes daily quota limits on the number of emails you can send through AppScript, which varies depending on your Google Workspace account type.
13. Question: Can I use HTML content in emails sent via AppScript?
14. Answer: Yes, the MailApp.sendEmail() function supports HTML content, allowing you to create rich, formatted email messages.
15. Question: How do I handle errors in my email sending script?
16. Answer: Implement try-catch blocks within your script to manage errors gracefully and log or alert any issues encountered during execution.
17. Question: Can I track if an email was successfully sent using AppScript?
18. Answer: While AppScript doesn't directly provide email tracking capabilities, you can log the execution and success of email sending operations, or use email marketing tools in conjunction with your script for advanced tracking.

Expanding AppScript Capabilities in Google Sheets

Google Sheets and AppScript synergize to offer a powerful platform for automating email communications, enabling users to send customized messages based on spreadsheet data. This integration allows for the dynamic generation of email content, addressing specific recipient needs or actions. For instance, users can automate feedback requests post-event, send out personalized product updates, or manage periodic newsletters. The ability to dynamically reference email addresses and content from a spreadsheet ensures that messages are both relevant and timely, catering to a wide range of applications from marketing to project management.
Moreover, this approach democratizes the ability to create complex email automation systems, requiring no specialized software beyond the Google Suite. It encourages a more efficient workflow by reducing manual input and potential for error, ensuring that communications are consistently aligned with the latest data. Additionally, it opens up avenues for integrating with other Google services, further expanding its utility and versatility in automating tasks and enhancing productivity within organizations.

Common Questions on Dynamic Email Automation with AppScript

1. Question: Can AppScript send emails to a list from Google Sheets?
2. Answer: Yes, AppScript can iterate over a range in Google Sheets to send personalized emails to each address listed.
3. Question: How does one customize the email content with AppScript?
4. Answer: Email content can be customized by fetching data from spreadsheet cells and using it to populate the email body or subject dynamically.
5. Question: Is it possible to schedule emails using AppScript?
6. Answer: Yes, by utilizing Google Apps Script's time-driven triggers, emails can be scheduled to send at specific intervals.
7. Question: Can AppScript attach files from Google Drive to emails?
8. Answer: Yes, AppScript can attach files from Google Drive to emails by accessing the DriveApp service.
9. Question: How can one handle errors in email automation scripts?
10. Answer: Error handling can be implemented using try-catch blocks to manage exceptions and ensure the script continues to run smoothly.

Unlocking Advanced Communication Strategies with AppScript

Implementing dynamic email functionality through Google Sheets and AppScript represents a significant leap forward in how businesses and individuals can manage their communications. By leveraging data directly from spreadsheets to inform and personalize emails, users can create more impactful, timely, and relevant email campaigns. This not only improves engagement rates but also streamlines operational workflows, reducing the manual effort required in managing large-scale email communications. Whether it's for marketing, customer feedback, or internal notifications, the combination of Google Sheets and AppScript offers a flexible, powerful toolset to automate and enhance email-based communications. With the added benefits of customization and integration with the broader Google ecosystem, users can efficiently scale their efforts to meet their specific needs, marking a pivotal step towards more intelligent and responsive communication strategies.
https://www.tempmail.us.com/en/appscript/implementing-dynamic-email-functionality-in-google-sheets-with-appscript

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 was 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 (22F) had my baby (1F) last year. At 21 weeks she had 2 heart defects, needed to be born 300 miles away at a specific hospital and would need heart surgery within 2 weeks.
I suffered a severe PPH, 2.2litres and my baby was taken to NICU without even getting to see her. The only photo from delivery has wires over her and a mask on her face. I couldn't hold her until the next day.
We spent 4 weeks hospital with emergency surgery at 1 week, keyhole surgery at 2 weeks followed by a stroke due to a complication. We were another week in the children's ward 100 miles from home.
We made weekly 200miles round trips for blood tests once home and were messed about a lot by varying consultants and doctors.
We were then told in October that the main surgery would be before Christmas
I was diagnosed with Postpartum Depression, and have suspected PTSD due to the trauma of everything. So lot of tough feelings and triggers especially relating to pregnancy/birth/newborns etc
A girl I work with (M) was pregnant. It was difficult hearing about her due to my high risk pregnancy and her having a healthy one and it escalated the further on she got and the more we dealt with. My mental health was deteriorating as everything came up e.g all the normal moments we missed and the surgeries and nicu etc
I removed M from Facebook but couldn't stop checking her page to see if she'd had her baby when it hit around her due date.
When I saw M had her baby I took an overdose of lorazpam and ended in A&E
I left my work group chat and blocked her on Facebook. Seeing her posts just brought up everything we'd suffered while she didn't have too and seeing her being happy she got her baby so many days early (mine was born at 39wks and had emergency surgery on her due date) and believing her baby gave her purpose. Meanwhile I had no connection, no feelings to my baby and struggled with thoughts of harming her due to my PPD.
A while later I got a message from my manager (S) who's also very good friends with this M . S said she'd had been over seeing M and M said she'd tried to find me on Facebook to message but couldn't and that if I needed anything to message her
S then told my mum (a seasonal member of staff who was off work at this time) that M was upset I'd removed her off Facebook and didn't understand what she'd done.
I hadn't spoken to M or S about it, M didn't know what she'd did but I just blocked her.
AITA for doing it?
Tl;Dr NICU baby needed surgery then constant issues afterwards lead to PPD and PTSD. Pregnancy/birth/newborns became a trigger due to our experiences and I had to block a coworker who just had her baby as it was too hard to see but she's upset about it.

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 was 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.

The Highs: We'd smile and flirt with each other while watching movies, tell jokes, make each other laugh, be respectful, i didnt have to walk on egg shells, talking to her was rejuvenating and not absolutely draining, compliment each other, she'd tell me how I was her biggest pillar of support, etc.
The Lows: Heres some of the things she'd say to me: "I was never sexually attracted to you" , "Do XYZ or I will start saying things to hurt you" , if I didnt want to do something: "go die" , when i started enforcing boundaries (thanks to my therapist nudging me to do so): "I dont give a shit about your boundries" or "fuck you", "its 50/50 if I wake up and i like you today", "I dont want to be with someone who suffered abuse as a child since it fucks them up" (lol, you guys can guess what her childhood was like), "its your fault for being here and its your fault being hurt by the things I say" and so on. I can easily list many other instances like these off the top of my head. There was everything short of physical violence and threats of suicide.
This my first relationship (t'was about a year long), but I feel like the highs should be the minimum baseline for what a healthy long term relationship should be like. My therapist also said that the highs being the normal/minimum is a hallmark of abusive relationships. I know that couples do have arguments and disputes, but I dont think it should be this bad. And typically it'd be a few days of the "highs" followed by a few days of the "lows" although once I've familiarized myself a bit with this sub & cluster B traits, I could clearly see her go from the highs to the lows within the span of an hour at times.
I'm at 2 months since I've decided to go no contact, and I am a little sad that I am happier without her, but overall I genuinely do feel much healthier and am in a happier mindset. And if someone asked me 3 months ago if it were possible for me to feel a shred of happiness without her, I would've 100% said no. Absolutely not. But, I guess that's not the case.

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I am a 17F my mom 39, I went to prom the other day. I had my professional photos taken still haven’t got them back yet. When I was finishing getting them done the dude said he would send some for me to post still didn’t post them. I asked my mom and aunt to not post the pictures they took because I wanted to post my pictures first when I first got them. My mom made a joke that She will do what she wants because I can’t whoop her. I felt some type of way about it but didn’t say anything because I thought I was being sensitive about it. Prom ends I posted a TikTok of my prom transition. I woke up the next day something told me to go on Facebook I went to her page and she made a post the night before saying “Aye!!!!! Just wait til she says I can post these pictures!!!!” I looked and she already posted the pictures she took and made me her profile picture. I cried because the night before she asked me 3 times if she could post I said no I would like to post first but didn’t ask me if it would be okay if she could now. I know I might of been over dramatic about it but I felt like she did exactly what I said not to do. I didn’t say anything to her because my mom is very argumentative and makes everything about her when I say something and then drags it out so I just shut down. I talked to my cousin she said I wasn’t wrong and how I just need to talk to her. I pointed out how she was just going to make it about her and say she paid for everything so she has the right to do what she wants and then drag it out. This morning when we got home from the grocery store, I said she made me feel a way because she posted my pictures and didn’t say anything to me, also the comment she made towards me about how I can’t whoop her. She said how she didn’t even post the professional pictures she posted her own pictures that she took in HER phone, then how she paid for everything so she has the right and do as she pleases. She said it was a joke and how she wasn’t going to apologize because she’s tired of apologizing and how everybody else gets to post their kids. How I posted a tiktok so she thought it was okay. I could see where the miscommunication came in place but I felt like the planning of my whole prom was about her the only thing I picked out was my dress and nails. She made everything else about her then showed my dress to everyone when I didn’t want everyone to see yet. It’s like I understand that she was excited about prom but I wasn’t because she made it all about herself, with my corsage she made it I specifically said I wanted an all white flowers she said well I like this pink and then proceeded to grab everything I said I didn’t want. I didn’t get the ribbons I wanted, it was no ribbons in my corsage at all to the point where I just forget it do what you want to do. Then after I said something about the prom pictures she said the only reason I even felt some way because I wanted to control everything and she doesn’t care. So, AITA for saying My Mom shouldn’t have posted my prom pictures before I did?

My mom thinks she is the most innocent creature in the world, and my dad is a narcissist who I don't talk to much. They got separated, and my dad got custody of my sister and me. He didn't want to raise us, but my uncle and grandpa made him take us home. He didn't really raise us; my uncle and aunt did. My grandpa, sister, uncle, and I all live in the same house, which is common in Southeast Asia.
Let's talk about my mom, Susan. She cheated on my dad, Jake, with her friend. When Jake found out, he begged Susan not to leave him. He even threatened to harm himself and made us beg her to stay too. We didn’t say anything, so he threatened to kick us out of school and make us work as waiters. He said mean things about us, claiming we weren’t his kids, and he cried and screamed at all of us (my grandpa, uncle, aunt, sister, and me). My uncle sent him to therapy every week, but I think he was faking it. He cried without shedding a single tear, more like a child begging for candy.
This all started during summer break and continued when school resumed. I couldn’t focus on my studies and failed my exams. I was usually smart, so my teacher asked if something had happened. I lied and said everything was okay.
After the divorce, Susan took us to stay temporarily with her sister and nephew. Her sister accused us of being happy that our parents' marriage broke up, asking if we thought we could live happily while Susan suffered. Surprisingly, I didn't care because I didn't love them; they weren't good parents. They were abusive, but I didn't say anything and just listened to her lecture.
Susan acted like the victim, pretending to be a sweet, innocent girl. Her sister lectured us about how our parents' divorce would lead to us living on the streets and begging for money.
We went to court, and Jake won custody. He said we couldn't meet Susan anymore, and I didn't care. After a month or two of not seeing us, Susan connected with us on social media, saying she missed us and was lonely. We felt sad and visited her every month. She seemed nice, and we thought she had changed. But when we got busy and didn't visit for a month, she told her relatives we weren’t talking to her. We sometimes video call her when no one is home and sneak out once a month to see her.
Today, my uncle from Susan's side messaged my sister, saying we should talk to our mom. I don’t know how many relatives she has told that we aren’t talking to her. Now, I think I should block her on social media and never go to her and her boyfriend’s home again.
So, AITA for not visiting my mom often after my parents' divorce?
I am 16 and eng is my second so my English grammar might not be good.

This will be a long one as I'm still incredible confused as to what I should do.
I'm (24F) 5 months into my first serious relationship with my partner (30M) and I've noticed a pattern that's really hurting my feelings and making me doubt my future plans with him. My boyfriend works as a Chef and are very rarely home earlier than 11pm each workday. I am well aware that working in a kitchen means having long days (I met him when I was a waitress) and I accept the amount of hours he have to put into it, I knew what I was walking into, when it comes to his Job, he also knows that, as we have talked about it (hes getting a promotion in fall so then i will see him even less and theres a high probability i will have to move across the country or to a different country next summer for my education). I also knew that my boyfriend have a long time friend which I would have to accept like a package deal if I wanted a relationship with him, I just had no idea it would be as extreme as it is. His friend (lets call him Joe 28M) is the type of person that takes rejections personal, has barely any situational awareness and doesn't understand the need for privacy in a relationship. He's used to being in a relationship himself, however as I'm my boyfriends first partner in 11years, Joe have never seen my boyfriend in a relationship before and are used to being prioritized after work. Joe and his girlfriend broke up 4 months ago, and he have moved into the city where both my boyfriend and I live separately. He now lives 7min walking distance from my boyfriend, so there's plenty of opportunities for them to see each other when I'm not around. Now we get to the part that's bothering me. A month ago I was at my boyfriends place for a week, every single day he got home from work at around 10:30-11:30pm, he gave me a quick hug and kisses and then asked if it was okay if he went down to Joe's. In the beginning it didn't bother me as I believe friendships are still important even if you're dating someone so I said it was okay. Where I messed up was when he asked me the third day in a row and I let him go even when I could feel it hurt me, I was just so scared to be seen as the villian as I wish Joe will see me as a good partner for my boyfriend. During the forth day my period is hitting me hard and my hormones and cravings are all over the place. I ask him if he could bring some snacks home and he is kind enough to do it. I greet him at the door like usual, more excited as my cravings can be fulfilled and because I was looking forward to spend time with him. He then asks if it's okay if he goes out drinking with Joe and a friend. He literally watches my excitement disappear and tears welling up as he waits for an answer (he comments on it). He mentions that when he got the message from Joe that he knew I would be disappointed (I still don't understand why he didn't just decline the invitation and stay home if he knew that) because there was a third party involved this time, I again couldn't make myself say no to him even though my heart was hurting. Through all these days not once was he home before 3am, the last day he was home at 4:45am. The fifth day (his off day and mine) was reserved for me and had been for 2 weeks. I went to school at 9am to practice for my exam and were there for way longer than usual because I was hurt and trying to control my emotions before returning to him. I also secretly wished that he would wake up and ask where I was, but that didn't happen as he was still asleep when I returned at 2pm. He woke up and asked me if I was mad, I sad no but that I was irritated and hurt. We tried to talk it out but he got defensive even though I admitted I messed up by not saying no when he asked. I asked if i should just leave and decided to go home after asking multiple times with no productive response from him, I felt we needed time apart to cool down and think things through. I contacted him in the afternoon to apologize for my reaction to the situation however I also said that I wouldn't apologize for my words as I meant what I said to him. I first got a text from him 4 days later, after I had contacted him again the day before to find a day we could talk things through and fix things. The day after his text we talk and promises each other that I will do my utmost best to say no when I can feel I need to, and he will priorities spending time with me when I'm at his apartment.
Fast forward to this week, it happened again. I'm the type to always ask permission to sleep over as it's not my home, my boyfriend said there was no need to as he always expects me to sleepover. Friday the 10th we were out shopping when his mom calls (so we could finally meet each other) and they start planning after his schedule without even considering if I have other plans, luckily enough they chose Monday instead of Friday the 17th. The day after the shopping trip Joe was hospitalized for appendicitis and needed a ride home and wasn't allowed to be alone for the first 24 hours. He also needed his medicine through a needle for 7 days which he needed someone else to do to him as he couldnt make himself, that's fair enough.. My boyfriend had to sleep at Joe's and that was the right thing to do as it was an emergency, I also expected him to sleep over the second day as I take no chances when it comes to people's health. Third day My boyfriend and I are meeting his mom so Joe have to find another to poke him, he found someone with experience to do it. Tuesday he contacts me to give him his medicine as my boyfriend is working and he doesn't trust the two friends at his apartment to do it. Alright I go and do it, we end up talking about my boyfriend and i mention that i want a a little alone time with the man i love...his response "We can do things together, thats what we did when I was in a relationship" apparently he didnt understand me and i didnt want to start an argument when his 2 friends was still there...my boyfriend joins us later and we go home at around 1am. Wednesday my Boyfriend goes to give the medicine after work, that's okay but he is first home at 3am. Thursday I join them as I'm tired of not having time with my boyfriend. Joe gets the medicine and suddenly have this idea that he and my boyfriend needs to drive out of city to visit a friend and deliver some things in the middle of the night and it can't wait (Joe aren't allowed to drive when his medicated). When we get to the car I ask if it's something that will take a long time as I'm contemplating joining them or going to my boyfriends place, Boyfriend says it's probably best I just go home to his. Again he's first home around 3am as both he and Joe fell asleep at Joe's.... Friday the 17th, Boyfriend finally has a day off and so do I, we have plans to have dinner with my mom in the evening which he agreed to 3 days prior. There's no food in the fridge so he goes grocery shopping, when he comes back Joe is with him, I didn't even get a warning so I could decide if I wanted to be there or not, I get that it's his apartment however I find it disrespectful that I don't even get a text or something. Boyfriend makes the food and while we eat he suddenly invites Joe to a concert where chill and romantic music gets played, which he also invited me to months prior, like a date...Joe suddenly asks when we think we will be home from my mom's (mind you I have told my boyfriend two times both this day and Thursday, that Joe needs to find another to poke him that day) I answer and say I don't know the earliest will probably be 10pm. My boyfriend answers and says " Oh no problem! If it's 10pm we have plenty of time to get home so I can do it, you make it sound like we will be there late."....like..I don't...seriously?! I feel like he doesn't want to priorities our relationship. When we're done eating I do the dishes as he made the food and they just leave, I finish up and go to a friend's as I am incredible hurt and needs someone to listen to as I'm again in the midst of my period and don't know if I'm being irrational or if I need to be concerned. I told my boyfriend that we leave at 5pm at the latest, he calls me at 4:15 to hear where I am, I tell him and he says that he expected me to be home when he got there. I of course seem off when I get to his place and he asks me if we need to talk. I simply reply that it's not a conversation we should take today. Whole car ride is silent, when we get to my mom's, everything seems fine and we are acting lovingly towards each other as we don't wan't to worry my family. At 11:20pm on the way home he asks if I wanna talk about it now, I again decline and tells him that it's not a conversation I wanna have while I'm on my period as my hormones are all over the place, I'm sensitive and take things personal and that -in my opinion- doesn't make a good fundamental platform to have a productive conversation. He continuesly asks and I give him the same answer again and again even telling him that I need time to think things through as I want to make sure I'm not being irrational. I pack my bags when we get to his (I'm visiting my dad so I need the stuff) and he drives me home. When we're in front of my door he gives me a lecture about how communication is important and if I won't tell him what's bothering me our relationship won't last, he even said that he thinks my friends have said something to make me like this, I told him I needed to see them and he said "thats okay, I'm with Joe"...I know that's the problem, we never just have time for ourselves....I was SO close to giving him a passive aggressive answer however I also know that won't help the situation.
The fact that both Joe and my boyfriend are together every day for hours on end when they are well aware that I'm home alone in my boyfriend's apartment, I find incredible disrespectful towards me and my free time. If I wanted to be alone I would be in my own apartment, I told him that when when we had or first argument a month ago. I feel like I'm being taken for granted, the fact that he just expects me to be at his place whenever he decides to be there, or makes plans without consulting me - especially if I'm involved in the plans- are disrespectful and unkind. He often tells me that he loves me and I'm sure he does...just not the way I need him to. I need quality time just him and I, no friends, no family just us for my love tank to be refilled..I've had none of that during this week I even told him that I needed more love and attention because of my period and its like he didn't listen and take it seriously. Yes he takes me out to dinner and makes homemade food, I appreciate it and to help him out I sometimes cleans his apartment and does the laundry as he barely have any off days to do it. However I find it hard to appreciate when we're eating out as Joe is often thirdwheeling...I've even asked my boyfriend what I need to do to make him feel appreciated and loved as I've told him my love language but I don't know his, I didn't really get an answer.. All the frustrations about this week I will talk to him about this Tuesday, if he can't be with me physically for a week I need him to at least write me each 48 hours as I'm tired of always being the one initiating conversations. I of course will also set boundaries and tell him how much quality time I need to feel loved and safe. If this is how things are gonna go every time I'm at his for a week or more, I don't feel comfortable by the thought of moving in together, we've talked about marriage and kids for the future but if these weeks are any indication for how it will be like living with him, it won't happen...I love him, I truly do and thats why this situation hurt me so much, thats why i try so hard to make him feel loved and to fix things...but I also have too much self respect to accept this behavior from him and his friend. If he don't want to priorities our relationship after his Job, we won't have a healthy relationship where both parties are happy. We both have traumas from past relationships and parents, which of course doesn't make things easier, however in my opinion it is no excuse to neglect each other's needs.
I'm sorry for the rambling, and I appreciate if you've read this far. I could use an outside perspective on our situation as friends and family often times have a biased opinion.
Thanks for reading
TLDR I feel underappriciated in my relationship and wonder if I'm asking for too much from him