My marriage went to shit after my son was born. I am pretty sure that I had PPD but I didnt know men could have PPD. Unfortunately for me, my ex-wife was not the woman who could have handled it. I dont even blame her, I was just a depressed husband. She lost feelings for me. One of my friend, gave me a golden advice to write a diary. Just put in everything I do for my kiddo, diaper change, feeding etc etc. It became a habit that I still have today. At the end of the day, I know what I did so I dont feel like I am failing everything.
So back to my marriage. Things started to go bad but fortunately for me, I had my eyes open. I realized that divorce was coming two years before it actually came. Our marriage was going to shit, her behavior becoming increasingly bad, sex life was gone to shit. Fortunately, I wrote everything I did for my family in my online diary so I was not gaslit into thinking it was my fault. How many men are here who are chasing the unachievable ideal their wife create out of thin air for them to be given basic decency. I realized that she was full of shit.
(Side note- During that time I found a community on the reddit that I not sure I am allowed to talk about here)
2 Years before D-Day I decided to hit the gym and went on a two year bulk. I ballooned from 155lb to 220lb in two years. My ex-wife decided to stop me from going to gym by throwing tantrums but I didnt stop.
I also loaned few thousand dollars to my friend(who gave me the advice to keep the diary) because his car crashed twice(which is true), which he was not able to pay to me few months after divorce, unfortunately I had no formal agreement with him. I also bought some gold jewelry for myself when my wife wanted to buy some for herself, but due to my bad luck I lost it. We searched all over. After my divorce was finalized, my friend cleaned his house and it was behind his refrigerator. So we got lucky.
We went to therapy, and it kinda worked. Our communication definitely improved and I definitely put in effort and she did too although not as much. I was not an idiot though, I saw the goal posts changing in almost every therapy session and I realized that there is no improving this marriage.
Then D-Day happened, wife told me she want a divorce. I had prepared for this moment for the past year, I had researched divorce laws, custody etc etc. I had thought of what I would do when she asked for divorce. At first I thought of agreeing with no emotions, it made sense but I realized that it would be me showing my hand. So instead I asked her to give me some time to process it. I left to get some fresh air and when I returned I told her that I am not sure about divorce and that we should work things through for our kid.
I think that it worked mostly in my favor, I knew that my marriage was toast and I didnt have any plans to stay in my marriage. But my doing so I was able to conceal from her that I was planning for a potential divorce all along and it kept her guard down. For two months, we worked on our marriage, we talked and talked and talked.
After that almost all interaction with my ex-wife was recorded by me and backed up on a harddrive daily. Between those two months I was able to put a divorce attorney on retainer. Then she called it quits, and mediation was a nightmare. But I was able to keep calm because we were prepared for literally everything. She tried to say that she was primary caretaker and I didnt do anything for the kid but guess who had daily notes for past 4 years about everything he did for his kid in excruciating details along with 2 years worth of her text messages corroborating those notes. I was almost guaranteed to win equal custody if things went to trial.
I dealt with daily shit about how I am bad for wanting equal custody, that kids should be with mom, that son will move around so much its not good for him and trying to goad me into fights. I didnt engage in fights that were not beneficial to me. There was no reward by winning any kind of argument from my ex-wife. So I conserved my energy.
Every interaction was recorded by me, I never responded if she was not talking to me politely. Every word spoken from my mouth was calculated because if I was recording there was a chance she was recording too. I would never know. I was sure that things will go to trial and I was ready with everything but at the last moment she agreed to half split of assets and equal custody.
During that time, I also went on a cut. By the time final agreement was signed I had visible abs. I also made a point that I will sleep 6 hours a day minimum so past 11, I just went inside my bedroom and slept no matter how much she tried to goad me into fights. I didnt compromise on sleep, I didnt compromise on food, I didnt compromise on gym. I knew that there was a possibility that I could lose in courts even if I do everything right but they can take my money, they can take my son but they will not be able to take my health, my body away from me.
Life after divorce is a breeze, dating is easy when you are ripped, there is lots of free time when kid in not with you. I spend next to nothing so money is stacking up slowly. My lessons from my divorce can be summarized as be selfish, be uncompromising on your health and well being, prepare for everything, record, make notes, control your emotions and dont open your mouth unless its advantageous to you.
Its been 8 years since my divorce. I have a new family now.

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!
~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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?

~~

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.”

~~

“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.”

~~

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

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How do you find your purpose? You create it.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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

~~

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.

~~

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.

~~

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

~~

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.’

~~

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.

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“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.”

~~

Context:The Ushmengar are a Chaos warband dedicated to Vashtorr. They were initially part of the Astral Claws, but when Huron was defeated during the Badab War, they ended up getting lost in the warp and they dedicated themselves to Vashtorr. These Space Marines in particular were some of the first Astral Claws that the Executioners slaughtered during the Badab War, and the Warband was formed by the survivors of their rampage.
In this short story, the Executioners, having just finished a Penitent Crusade, were hunting for the Ushmengar. They had managed to pinpoint them to a Mechanicum forgeworld, and the Death Speaker (Executioner's version of a Chaplain) of the chapter, an Astartes named Razel, a Librarian named Igikura, and a group of Bladeguard descended onto the planet. When they found the Chaos lord of the Ushmengar, named Kagal, this is what happened

The Chaos Space Marine cocked its head to one side, eyes boring into Razel’s. When the Death Speaker was within reach, it nodded and spread its arms wide. The Executioner swung his crozius. The fractal form of the Heretic Astartes shivered as Sharur connected with it. There was the roar of a vast furnace underscored by the shriek of overtaxed bellows, the clanking of gears and the hammering of pistons, and the Ushmengar vanished like smoke blown in the wind, leaving only a chorus of trailing screams.

After this, Razel and his men continued to go deeper into the Manufactorium and ended up fighting a bunch of Ushmengar

The Death Speaker swung his crozius, but the Chaos Space Marine dodged the attack. The strike went wide, cracking the side of the furnace. Razel punched out with his pistol and sent his opponent’s bolter flying off. Undeterred, the Ushmengar ripped off a piston hammer from a slain ogryn and arrested Razel’s downward swing. Muscles strained, his sinew coils contracted and he drove the Heretic Astartes onto one knee. The Ushmengar’s composure broke and he roared at the Death Speaker. With a burst of vigour he regained his footing and shook Razel off. Burst fire from the Executioner’s pistol stitched an arc across his helmet, which cracked, exposing his metallic face beneath. The delineation between the organic and inorganic had become blurred to the extent that they had become one and the same. Oil bled from ruined armour and unclean flesh-metal.
A storm had broken out at the end of the hall. Lightning flashed, lancing out from furnace to furnace as a rain of brimstone fell. An unholy radiance pulsed in the penumbral gloom, accompanied by the skirling of bronze horns lining the altar. The light rose out of the chancel of the command fane and drifted towards the Death Speaker and the Epistolary, who had advanced ahead to the binary-etched plaza. Within the pulsing storm was Kalag.
Molten metal was siphoned off the blast furnaces, forming fiery wheels into an armillary sphere spinning around the floating Ushmengar. The skitarii shrieked in binharic as they were lifted from the raised walkways, torn towards the eye of the churning storm. They were disassembled, their flesh withering into ash whilst their bionics melded into the spinning rings upon which bleeding eyes had formed. As Kalag moved towards Razel and Igikura, a forge-vault vast beyond imagining spread out behind him, the hellish vision overlapping the reality of the manufactorum. There was the roar of colossal furnaces, the heave and gasp of monumental bellows, and the clang of countless hammers, thudding pistons and clanking gears, underpinned by the screaming of tortured souls fuelling the forges.
Whereas Kalag’s form had been ephemeral before, a charcoal sketch jumping in and out of focus, now it was wholly corporeal. His armour was burned black, running with unclean oils and unguents. Mechadendrites writhed from between the plates like fungal growths, straining for some dire unity with the emergent daemonic mechanism. Around him were the rings of the armillary sphere, which were both armour and a mechanism to unravel reality, spinning faster until they were a blur as the warpsmith approached them
Up ahead, Igikura stood alone, defiant. The crystalline matrix of his axe blazed, focusing his power before it lanced upwards into Kalag. For a moment, the spinning rings slowed and fire raged down upon the Epistolary, enveloping the Executioner. The apotropaic sigils upon his armour shone migraine-bright as they earthed the worst effects of the warpsmith’s attack. The Librarian’s mind was in the throes of a fever dream, the backwash of the Ushmengar’s barrage bruising his soul.
Sensing his brother’s agony, Razel rose and swung, striking again. A resonant peal shivered through the armillary sphere to no discernible effect.
Kalag, whose attention had been thoroughly upon Igikura, glanced at him, his quasar-like gaze boring into Razel’s own. A high-pitched screech preceded the obliteration of Razel’s helm display. His armour felt heavier. The fibre-bundle muscles tensed and servos halted, keeping him upright. Straining, he raised his hands and took off his helmet. When he beheld the ashes of penitence streaking down Razel’s defiant face, the warpsmith sneered. ‘Lapdog of the False Emperor.’ His voice thundered like the hammer of a god striking an anvil
Razel bared his teeth in response, glistening with blood. ‘You were supposed to die at Badab.’ ‘Oh but you see, I did die. We were marooned in the immaterium after our warp drives failed. Bereft, betrayed by a rotting Imperium and an unkind god bedecked in fool’s gold. Where was Lufgt Huron then? His promises and his lies? We no longer need him, nor your carrion god. We have a new divinity to serve!’ Kalag turned towards the growing portal behind him, his arms encompassing the hellish scene and the towering daemonic figure with scythe-like wings who was looking down at the Executioners with an amused interest. ‘Behold the Arkifane! Our salvation! We will deliver this forge-temple of Mars to him!’
"Brother…" Igikura’s voice was straining with titanic effort. "I will not make it to the end." The Death Speaker growled. The Librarian forestalled him. "Spare me your protestations. I will distract him and hold the rings, but I am not strong enough to make the final blow. That falls to you. May your own Penitent Crusade be over after this."
Igikura’s mind soared in the warp like the rising sun. He burned with immaterial energies. Coruscating lightning cascaded down his limbs and flared off him in streamer arcs, with a branching spark earthing itself in the Death Speaker’s crozius. One last parting gift from brother to brother.
Razel wasted no time. With the warpsmith’s attention upon the Epistolary, his armour was free. He trudged forward, pausing only to pick up Igikura’s axe whilst hefting his crozius. Breaking into a run, he leapt upon one of the stilled rings. Razel hurled the force axe. It spun, blazing, still saturated with Igikura’s psychic might and sacrifice. The blade wedged fast into Kalag’s breastplate, tendrils of darkness slithering out of the wound. A few moments later, Razel was upon him with Sharur, imbued with a shred of the Epistolary’s empyric strength. The warpsmith raged, blocking the Death Speaker’s strike with a cog-toothed, daemonic axe. Mechadendrites speared through Razel’s armour, biting deep into his flesh. Gurgling blood, the Executioner drew the mace back and slammed it forwards, again and again, shattering his foe’s armour in a frenzy until his corrupt essence could no longer be contained. The unravelling of Kalag was like that of a collapsing star. The death throes screamed out from his unwinding body, black flame rising between the plates, his flesh unmade into ash.

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.

Hi everyone, I just want to share my experience with a shady landlord (I won’t tell you that the house I’m renting is in Saarbrücken ;)) So, I’m living in a WG: my husband and I share the same room, a friend of us (we are from the same country), and a guy (he’s a student in IT). The house we are living in is old, the floor is lifting up/ ripping (they covered the floor with a type of PVC peel and stick), some part of the floor even squeak when you walk on it (I’m a petite female with 43 kg, the floor even squeak when I walk by, so you can imagine how noisy just walking can be). The sound proofing between floor is also terrible, I hear all the time when the neighbors upstairs fight, talk, or play music. This is where the problem start. My husband and our friend (let call him V) work at a restaurant, they arrive home very late almost every night (11 pm to 2 am). V’s room is directly above this guy’s, that’s why he can hear V opening the door of his room (his room has a sliding door). This guy reported to the landlord that we had something rolling, the landlord came up a checked and let that go, because it was not our fault. But he even reported to the landlord that we were loud, we did say sorry and try to whisper to each other in the kitchen only. But the thing that pissed me off is that yesterday (at 1 am), the landlord wrote to V asking: do you understand what quiet rule in German is? (They texted in German so this is a rough translation). Yep, just one very condescending question like that. V asked politely: yes, we know about the rule and we always try to adhere to it. What’s wrong? He replied that ever since we moved in, he received reports from our neighbor that we are noisy at nigh, and he just received a report again. This was where we know either him or the neighbor was making things up: Both my husband and V were still at the restaurant, I was in my bedroom, the other was too. No one was in the kitchen or in V’s room. So V explained that we couldn’t not have make the noise. The landlord just said he did not care. What? So now we know for sure this guy is shady, he once blamed us for the fuse in the basement of the house melted because we had too much electric devices running (a desktop computer, a few lightbulbs, and a fridge, and three of us were not at home). We have installed a security watching the hallway and the kitchen to collect proof just in case he tries to kick us out for being “noisy”. And the landlord is on the downstairs neighbor’s side because they are close (V heard them calling each other by their first names). Regarding the downstairs neighbor, we encourage V to go the toilet frequently at night (to roll the door as much as possible). I hope he farts, snorts, or sneezes so loud that the neighbor wishes he was deaf. But on the other hand, would we be AH to do that?

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’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’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’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.

Well. This is my third post here. I said I'd be back with an update when I could, so here I am. 🙂
I started Mounjaro in March of last year if my memory isn't failing me completely. So I'm a bit over a year in on my journey. I'm currently at 160lbs. And I'm quite happy here. I had gotten down to a bit below 150lbs and I was scaring myself, tbh. I do not have to sort of frame or shape, imo, to carry such a low amount of weight.
And so 155-165lbs is where I shall try to hover. Giving myself some grace for bloating and bad inflammatory days etc.
I have to say, I am falling in love with myself again. I don't hide from mirrors anymore. I'm not surprised in an unpleasant way by my reflection in glass windows outside as I walk past them.
I have always loved fashion. And now I feel fashion loves me, too. 😂 I have so much fun with my new wardrobe (although some of my clothes are a bit too big already - I may just get them tailored). And... I returned to shaving my head. Something I used to love to do when I was younger. I don't feel I need to frame (read: hide) my face with hair anymore. I think I look so much better with no hair, and so many people have told me as much as well, I'm truly inclined to believe it.
I won't deep dive into the health issues on this post as I have with the others, as that's not what this is about, but I will say my a1c is mint and I'm off of all diabetic medications except Mounjaro itself. We're even considering going down to 7.5 soon, but we'll see.
My blood pressure is still on the low side most days but we're working on figuring that out. We're almost positive it's dysautonomic in nature at this point so there's not much we can do but play the balancing game. But I'm okay. Strength is up a bit and I'm able to get around more than I had been so woohoo!
As someone who has found their success with Mounjaro, I'm sure some of you may be reading this for advice, so I'll leave you with this:
Do not fight the medication. You WILL feel full very quickly, especially in the beginning. Do not force yourself to eat beyond that. Put the food away and eat more later.
You will find having several small light meals works in your favor vs a couple of heavy meals.
Your cravings will most likely change over time. Your taste buds may become more sensitive to intense flavors.
Let Mounjaro teach you how to eat. Let it guide you into listening to your body. It's been telling you this whole time what it needs. Take this learning opportunity so that even if there's a shortage, even if it disappears from the market, even if they raise the price so high it's unattainable - you have that knowledge that can never be taken from you. Knowledge is power.
I wish all of you the very best of luck on your journeys!

My brother's fiancé (29F - let's call her Lucy) (soon to be wife next month) has a very close relationship with my mum. They speak on the phone everyday, meet up all the time, and are pretty inseparable. This is a great thing for my brother of course, but my mum has never really treated me like a daughter. We've had a very emotionally and physically abusive relationship since I was young, but she seems to be so close and loving to Lucy. I (23F), still live at home with her to help her with her Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and arthritis, though we fight almost every day because she is controlling. Everytime we fight, all of the details are shared with Lucy, who then enables and encourages my mum to punish and berate me.
They both clearly get along better than my mum and I ever have, and any person I date fails in comparison to Lucy. My current girlfriend (21F) and I have been together for 3 years, yet still my mum does not fully accept her into the family. We have been told that, at the upcoming wedding, my girlfriend and I are not to show any PDA of any kind as Lucy's family are very religious. Hearing this upset my girlfriend a lot, - she will already be getting ready for the wedding alone as I am a bridesmaid, and will be sitting amongst strangers during the ceremony and not with my family.
I am terrified of my mum and even have to work up the courage to ask to spend time with my girlfriend. I recently threatened to move out, in response my mum redecorated my room and decked it out fully just to stop me from leaving. She controls the clothes I wear, the food I eat, and also refuses to give me access to my savings account. What do I do? I love my brother to pieces, but I am struggling to get excited for this wedding. This has become noticeable and both my mum and Lucy have called me ungrateful for not being more involved and honored.
My mum and I have just had an argument where I stated that I feel she would behave differently if I was dating a man. She is livid and called Lucy immediately, in which she admitted to listening in on my appointments with my therapist.
TL;DR: my mum is overly controlling and my brother's fiancé indulges this behaviour. What can I do without hurting the relationship with my brother?

To whomever this relates to/helps:
I was never protected as a child. And therefore, i grew up with this mindset of being used and disposed of. I spent 24 years of my life feeling very similar to a way a spare tire feels; it's good it's there but no one needs to actually every think about it until they need it. When someone was angry, they came and found me. When someone wanted to lash out, they came and found me. When someone needed someone to blame for everything wrong in life, they came and found me.
But my story of knowing something was wrong started when i was really young. I was a child who was desperate for a peaceful environment; desperate enough that i sought out my school counselors for relief.
I think my school counselors always knew something was going on. I was anxious, depressed, and always in there office with stories I'd make up that were adjacent to what was going on at home; but with different characters. Never specific enough to gain enough of their attention, I was always careful not to divulge too much information. My parents warned me at a young age that if i ever "told the truth" about what went on in the house that they'd take me away from them. But, strangely, it would always be followed with "and if you think it's bad here; it will be worse there."
So i stayed quiet. Every couple of years, spaced enough that it would be different counselors i'd visit, when i would break; it would be a new person who knew nothing of me or my history. The advice would always be the same, to a point where in high school, I would give them the advice they were ready to give me in a sort of angsty-angry way. I told myself that the issues that went on were my fault. If only i was smarter, if only i was skinnier, if only i was prettier; maybe then mom would unconditionally love me. Maybe then dad wouldn't use me as his punching bag when he was angry. Maybe if i was actually worth something, they would see that and stop the abuse. Unfortunately; I'm here to tell anyone with that mindset this: it will never happen. When they run out of reasons; they'll just start to hate you more consistently.
I say this all to provide context for this:
Before this phase in life; i would take this abuse on the cheek and keep going with my life. I would block it out as soon as it happened and "turned it off". I was able to do that so seamlessly. I felt like these were just "things that happen in a family".
During high school and college is when the reality of years and years of being the black sheep of an abusive narcissistic household started to take its toll. I was sexually abused by multiple boyfriends in high school, I started to use nicotine products, I started to drink recklessly, and i entered into the darkest depression i ever had in my life.
And on the outside; it looked like nothing had triggered it.
By freshman year of college, I started to become so devastatingly depressed that i lost 20 pounds, stopped showering, and couldn't function as a human being. I wanted to die. Not kill myself; i never got to suicidal ideation. But i certainly wanted to die. I would beg god to take me away every day. Even thinking about it now brings up some hard feelings.
Sophomore year of college i met my Narcissistic ex-boyfriend. Who ill name Steven for privacy purposes. Steven saw a very vulnerable and scared girl and found an opportunity within that. Steven ruined my entire life; he imprisoned me in our relationship and it got so bad that i feared for my life at the end. He stalked me, he was the scariest man ive ever encountered. But i realized something in Steven that made me have a breakthrough - Steven reminded me of home. Our ups and downs felt like home to me. That feeling scared me.
Junior year of college I was raped by a man who was 10 years older than me. And it was so traumatizing to me that i could not go to a class I had because the teacher resembled him and it would put me in fight or flight every time.
Senior year I moved out of my home after finding a job and my parents, who seemed supportive at first, completely estranged me and threw all my winter clothing out just to spite me for "leaving them".
24 years old now: I am finally escaping the situation and taking back my voice. With the help of spiritual healers, an amazing therapist, and a family of friends who truly love me; i am escaping and going no contact the second my foot hits the door. I am not afraid. I am not "someone's daughter" or "someone's sister" or the "black sheep". I am me.
I say this to tell you all: anyone who feels stuck right now in their situation. Your freedom is within you. I recommend CBT and EMDR to really hone in on that healing power. You are strong, you are one, you are infinite love. You will escape and when you do; dont ever look back.

i just wrote this so please bare with me: the context is I (Mteen) went down from my shared bunk (for the time being) with my eldest sister (Fteen) to get some food before bed. There was clothes on the side i usually go to to get off so i went i the other side. Apparently my sister was cleaning up her closet but fell asleep, there were still some clothes on the side i was getting off of so i tried to feel the area to find the one spot where j can not step on clothes. I stepped down and got my other foot down, as i was gonna go to the floor, my toe accidentally nicked and “cut “my sisters calf leading to her getting frustrated and yell at me. In good ole sibling fashion we fight for a bit but she decided that i got “too far” and started to continuously yell shut up as i was trying to reason with her
“Shut up” “Shut up” I know your gonna call me unreasonable but i do not care anymore because this has happened before (i.e. yelling at me for getting up “improperly”. Accidentally hurting her leg, etc) Yes, i do see that you as a human being can and should voice your frustrations when it comes to your own discomfort. However it has gotten to a point when you cant just accept that a person simply cannot change their mannerism. What i mean by that is that i simply have zero foot eye coordination and my brain is just thinking. I do not move carefully and i see why that is frustrating. What cannot be excused is the level of rage in ones reaction when a person simply does not know how to control their body (i.e. accidentally nicking one in their leg because THEY CANT SEE).
I can predict that your reasoning for your reaction is “how i reacted brought it up”. Wanna know why i reacted? It was because i was too frustrated with how you react to me. I know it is not what you intend to say to me but whenever you criticize the way that i get up the ladder or get down from the bunk bed, i feel inadequate in my skin. Examples being: My weight may be a factor, i was never really taught how to control my body in such a way that can satisfy a singular persons wants, i blame my own brain for not being smart and advanced enough for not knowing how to walk, talk, move, get up, get down, or simply exist (“simply exist” is another topic) And i have said these before when this issue was brought up before. But have you ever listened? No, especially now, i actually was gonna bring these up (my insecurity in my own skin) but when the words “Shut up! Shut up!” Was uttered and the hitting, i knew you wanted me to be silenced as you may not understand my insecurities.
Everyone has insecurities, i do know that and i am not disregarding yours. However, you have disregarded mine and i feel hurt.
I do not expect a response from you, and i dont want one, what i want is for you to simply have the knowledge to know that “oh, he feels that way of himself because of other factors, and my words have been one of them”
Im writing this as soon as the subject matter had happened but im not gonna send this till the next day as this may be seen as a provocation rather than a conversation. A conversation that i want to end as it has happened before.
There are many issues in this family i want to touch on, however given our situation and mindset right at the moment, that addressing these issues could lead to more of a regression and less progress rather than the opposite.
I believe that if we address these issued one by one then was can truly live together as one unit rather than a scatter of pieces and broken glass all over the floor that may never see each other again.
I truly want this family to be together as it was before, but as i see it, i now believe that this family was never unionized and together to begin with.
I do love you all dearly, especially to the one i have addressed the previous message to before. I do want to understand you.

A play by play of Yuji and Todo vs. Sukuna.
https://preview.redd.it/bd7w02pz1f1d1.png?width=1280&format=png&auto=webp&s=a23b4e0b10f5ce51e4fbaa52241871fdde89fdad
Upon punching the metal teeth of the vibraslap, Todo activates Boogie Woogie and the three of them continuously switches places.
A funny post with a visual descriptor of what’s occurring on this page.
https://preview.redd.it/3rrzyrk12f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=643ec70c1b92aecab7203543ad10a8785ff8c6a8
Todo places his hand between the metal teeth and the wooden box, ending BW with himself placed behind Sukuna. Yuji’s placed before Sukuna, who’s charging up a punch with cursed energy like he used against Gojo before. Yuji prepares jajanken.
Todo slaps the vibraslap once more!
https://preview.redd.it/wzi9f8d32f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=a8305c9324f0297bd11dd6328ff66c2374344125
Todo and Yuji swap places, with Yuji now behind Sukuna and Todo in front. Yuji punches Sukuna and Todo kicks him.
Interestingly enough, Yuji’s black flash chain ends. Also, Todo apparently helped Yuta teleport to Kenjaku and ambush him.
https://preview.redd.it/ngahtt852f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=c4db0debec54baa7736d8a2d6a755da17fd7fd44
Sukuna retreats to low ground, and Todo and Yuji take the high ground. Todo jumps before using BW.
https://preview.redd.it/s07ao8z62f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=2006dea982ef6b307eef803bd4acca5f228e0ef2
Todo switches places with Sukuna, who’s falling towards him now. Todo attempts to trap Sukuna into taking his kick, but Sukuna dodges mid-air (like Maki, similar to when they both fought mid-air).
https://preview.redd.it/7y4ul2p82f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=b89b8fdeb9a2a2836417ca86b1fea2b02012a3a5
Yuji, still above Sukuna and Todo, imbues a rock with cursed energy and throws it to their location.
https://preview.redd.it/4iln7zla2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=2b97c5ebf5cc5e76a9ba2d12b5b16290101522de
Todo switches Yuji’s place with the thrown rock, and Yuji kicks Sukuna again (another repeated attack from the Yuta fight, when Rika throws Yuji at Sukuna).
https://preview.redd.it/ch94n0bc2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=20676e57452aa72b4a1913164ac46a67a48eaeff
Yuji crashes into Sukuna, but Unclekuna recovers quickly and almost throws Yuji after grabbing him by the face!
https://preview.redd.it/9m1gl0qe2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=df641ad6d3c91056ac5e7a54dcb666b51594e2a9
Todo intervenes and forces Sukuna and Yuji to switch places before Yuji can be thrown. Todo switches Sukuna and Yuji’s positions a number of times.
Given that there’s two different angles here, and Todo’s using the vibraslap repeatedly, Gege may be trying to communicate that Yuji and Sukuna were continuously swapping places while Yuji landed punches.
That, or Yuji only hit Sukuna once, and Todo’s multiple slaps don’t take effect until next page.
https://preview.redd.it/8s569e1h2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=7707a8a8be60120fd76f31284202f4ffa1988006
Again, they continuously switch places.
https://preview.redd.it/fb3zpuki2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=7b31d795dbe2161f45a17d4a056ac93b705df32a
Yuji punches Sukuna into a pillar, and Todo switches their places again. Now Yuji’s in the rubble and Sukuna stands in front of them. Yuji and Todo run up to meet Sukuna.
https://preview.redd.it/vipvck6k2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=f5a3a4b610844a3d564fe14602ab0cea01a7799d
Sukuna remembers Yuji’s fight with Mahito and thinks Todo will fake a BW usage. Reading this feint, Sukuna goes for the same punch that always results in a Black Flash. The last panel depicts Mei Mei’s crows flying down from the sky and into the fight!
https://preview.redd.it/fwaa0xzl2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=ebfdca54606dac33ad6c5c73a4fb4ae8a305ff3b
Sukuna sees the crow just as he’s about to punch Yuji and thinks Todo swapped it onto the battlefield. Sukuna turns to kick the crow and Todo punches the vibraslap, pretending to activate BW!
Sukuna’s possible thought process here: Sukuna believes the crow was swapped onto the battlefield and believes that Todo will swap Yuji with the crow, and that’s why he kicks it.
https://preview.redd.it/qjmnwn2o2f1d1.png?width=1280&format=png&auto=webp&s=3733a361d8115fc13541fc3d23c900f3bdea18f2
Sukuna was rash and acted before properly taking the battlefield into consideration. He quickly realizes that no one had actually swapped places. He simply kicked the crow that flew down, all while leaving himself wide open for Yuji’s BF.
https://preview.redd.it/4ijxn5zp2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=9778952d4b2327ae21860d4f223533479468fa73
Yuji now goes Mortal Kombat and attempts to rip out Sukuna’s heart!!!
Very fascinating that the chapter’s end card was placed here.
https://preview.redd.it/vkdi5g8s2f1d1.png?width=1100&format=png&auto=webp&s=0dc73991fd9195582a8c62702507a7bb32c6ea9a
As if it were an extra page, Sukuna attempts to expand his domain once more. The narrator reveals that if Sukuna could actually restore his brain, he would be able to use his domain as he pleases.
Yet, after Gojo healed his brain five times in a row, he almost broke it and killed himself. Sukuna has healed his brain FIVE times now. Thrice during the domain clash with Gojo, the fourth during the battle with jjh forces, and now the fifth time against Yuji and Todo.
Sukuna’s brain has suffered an Unlimited Void as well as five forced heals. Perhaps Sukuna sees this ghost as a reminder of what nearly killed Gojo, but will now kill him? Sukuna may actually die now from brain damage and his own hubris.
Notes:

• Sukuna possesses an almost metanarrative knowledge of fights, just a cool detail.
• Gege has amazing paneling as usual.
• Todo only fought for one chapter, but why did this fight feel so long? So much happened this one chapter that it feels like three lol.

You have to believe that if you are to take anything away from this. I am not crazy. Never have been. Every great genius, I believe, says it at some point before others come to realize it for themselves. I am not crazy. All this happened, more or less.
I first saw the woman. Her eyes melted into tar, turned to smoke, and, as soot, fell on the ground as a shadow. Then came the after-effect woosh of a blade through air. Then the echo of fine steel turned tuning-fork. Somewhere along there I realized I’d forgotten to run. So I did.
A step, another step. Step and then step. After a few of those, I looked up to get a sense of what was going around. The town was burning. There came the bone-tremor of a church bell crashing down from far too high. A grain silo exploded. The seeds burst out in a cloud of smoke and then came the ignition. I pictured the grandest 4th of July I’d ever seen and imagined the fireworks, not a kilometer, but 50 yards from my face. I then realized I wasn’t imagining jack shit.
I ducked into a building as an autumn-leaf-wind of fire rushed down the street in a tidal wave. There appeared a door behind me where there had been none and then a dozen hands where there’d been maybe seven. I was dragged under the floorboards by the digging of nails then claws then teeth.
‘Say it tickles’, came a whisper by my right ear. Some old hag shouted from my left: “Lying bitch! “. “Don’t listen to her, sweetie”, replied the woman-floorboard-voice, “Say it tickles. Just trust me, they’ll let you go. I’m not her, never like her. I won’t hurt you. I wouldn’t hurt a fly” . The hag bellowed a laugh: “Lying bitch bitch bitch bitch… “.
I’d like to say I found it surprising that two shrill voices arguing was more irritating than being eaten by a house but I don’t think anyone who’s ever witnessed a proper cat-fight would believe me. Before I could take a splinter from the boards and end myself came the tickle of a feather upon my feet. It turned into rope, rope into spider web and before long I was being dragged away in the darkness.
There was this beam of light and I found myself settled down on a bed of straw. I had a moment or two to catch my breath too. I thanked the spider like so many citizens of New York before me and it gave a quick nod as it disappeared between the brick side of the house-turned barn. I almost had another moment then. But the bricks parted once again and came crashing out the boot I’d left behind. The spider web turned into a nose and then into a mouth that shouted: “Disgusting!”.
Shut the fuck up Jim. Jimbo. Whatever you call yourself. Sorry. People are loud around here before pill time and I got me a temper. I can’t just shout at some old dude so I gotta type it out. Hope you don’t mind. Back on the trakata track.
Feeling pretty ashamed, I got back on the way. Way? I know less than you do. No way. I just kept walking. The embers of the town soon started thinning around and I found myself shivering in my summer clothes. I don’t know why but I got to walking in the shade and, soon enough, I didn’t feel so cold any more.
I paused with a finger in the air and set my back against a tree. I tried my best to just take a deep breath and relax despite its bark that kept trying to give me a back-rub. I thought for a moment about, not it all, but pretty much nothing at all. And God knows those are the only times you think anything. I realized the sun was cold.
I played my fingers through the beams of light passing through the canopy and held them out over the path. A numbness settled on them in less than a minute so I pulled them back
I looked back at the town then. I saw the strange reflections the non-metal-metal roof-tiles cast back at that sun. I saw how all the buildings were sunken into the ground. I saw that I didn’t see a single window anywhere.
Finally, I saw something hanging from the cathedral’s spire, some half-kilometer high. It was frozen and a cross and on it, as with some crosses, was a man. I raised an arm and saluted myself. Then I realized I’d saluted myself. And then so did I and then I realized that I had that I had and then I realized.
At some point along those lines, I noticed that my mind had come unbound and was bouncing between my two selves. Cloudy, cloudy and cold cold cold memories were in my Jesus-self’s mind. Black holes, revelations, origins of symmetry I don’t fucking know. And somewhere, distant and distant as stars, the memory of the very moment we were living.
I saw then a man like me. He looked like you and he looked like me but somehow he did not feel the same. Always over my shoulder, looking over what I did. Always lurking at the edge, a hunger-unending. One thought, just one in its head. To be me. To be me. To be me. To come out into the light. That was the first time I met my shadow.
I didn’t cause I couldn’t but I saw it smile. Him? I don’t know if he would be mad if he heard me speaking of him like this. Him him him him. Him to the weekend. Cold fucking play man. Bio-digital jazz, man. I don’t know. I don’t know. Honestly, don’t really care. Haven’t seen him in a while. The lights in my room come from everywhere and the walls are all white so I don’t sleep which is when he finds me. I don’t care. Back to the memory.
Then I blinked and the cathedral was gone some miles away and then I blinked and it was gone all the way. I blinked. The forest had given way to jagged hills. I blinked. Still jagged hills. I blinked. Mountains to the West. I blinked. Mountains to the West. I blinked x11. Mountains to the East. Teleportation was lamer than I’d expected.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAhahahahikHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA. Sorry sorry. Don’t you also ever get the urge to just tweak the fuck out sometimes? Youre in class and you realize: “Dude, I could literally molest Ms Robinson rn before anyone had any chance to stop me”. Those thoughts are invariably dangerous but your mind thinks them anyway. Assuming that your mind likes itself, what reason can there be for their existence other than that they are good then? Anyway, excuse the digression.
So I kept doing this for a while. I don’t know if my body experienced time. No, scratch that. I know it did but I don’t know how. I had a beard grow for a few dozen eye-blinks but then it was gone. I felt a finger-nail, finger-long, scrape against my leg but a few blinks later I was missing that arm from the elbow down.
I was pretty determined to keep on doing this. I think everyone knows the feeling. When you’re a little kid and you close your eyes and you pretend to be blind for a few hours, for a little bit of fun? But then I saw the village again. I’d been going for so long that I didn’t really notice it at first but then I saw it again. And then again. I think it was my 7th time around this world that I finally got a hold of myself.
Honestly, I’d thought about this ever since I saw that scp thing. I slowly closed one eye and then another and then another. Voila! Blinking was no more. Tis but a fool’s imitation of blindness anyway. (I’ve realized similar things about sleep too).
I stepped onto the town square of cobblestone of hexagons. Inside the hexagons were triangles and between those stardust. I stared deep into those cracks and realized I was looking through. I moved back and forth and noticed the parallax of the night sky but awry. Before I knew, the floor became a wall and I was falling.
I was lucky that I had been lying down close to the ground. My chin began scraping against the stones as I fell. Then I started to spin back. I grabbed a stone but it came loose and laughed at me a toothless laugh of rock. As I spun, the sky that was a wall became a wall sky and the sky-through-floor just a floor. The gravity changed at points.
The eastern horizon blurred to a disk of sundown glow and the West a twilight lantern. I was spinning so fast I began to hear the woosh of my body cutting through air. Woosh-Woosh-Woosh-Woosh.
I felt myself pass through something. It was a neck. In my wake, I saw a woman melt into night-stuff. I tapped against my chest so my woosh became a metal clang. That finally got myself to start running. I was in a slower type of time than I was right then so I didn’t hear myself say: “Go beyond the church” but I knew I must have because I told myself and then I did, had?
Up turns to down, down to up. Life to dust and metal to rust. I understood, some time in the future that gravity in this land was a matter of taste. I must have sent back that information but time doesn’t really exist when your existence is independent from it, does it now? As I was destined, as I came to know, I had always known and just not known that I’d known. That distinction doesn’t seem legitime to me either but hey, go take it up with the authorities. God knows I tried. I calmed myself and before too long touched down ground back at the hexagon-triangle-square.
I plucked one stone and then another. At first I could only see a few stars but my eyesight grew keener and keener as the wind from across the cobblestone filled my mind. Soon enough, I could see in every stone I unplugged, a million, million stars waiting for me. High up above, I could clearly see, my soul looking back down at me. He smiled reassuringly. He took me by the hand and took me to the beginning of all time.
I saw God then. What do you do when you know everything, when you are everything? I saw then the loneliest man there ever was. All he could do, all he knew he would do would be lesser than him. No one would keep him company. I saw a good that had no reason to be. And so, he became the reason for everything. And then there was light.
I saw then the part of my soul that ran away from the brilliance of that good. That would not, could not, believe itself to be worthy of such love. A part of my soul ran away and, cast in its own shadow, became the root of all shadow-things. I watched myself become satan.
I was back at the clearing. I saw then the summer sun shining down, burning my skin. It was cold. I passed my hand in front of my eyes and saw my shadow brush its fingers against my face. I saw myself then, again. I saw a shadow touch a shadow’s hand.
Bout all I can for the day. Ever since Ethan tried to kill himself with the keyboard they’ve been little bitches about us using the computers. Of course I could tell them it was really the keyboard who started it but Ethan’s depressed so anything he does has to be about his mental condition so they won’t believe me.
But don’t worry. As I said, I am a genius. I know things no one else knows and I can prove it. Feel free to ask about your future and I’ll tell you what I’ll feel like the next time the doctors let me out of their sight. Go long on copper futures.

TW for sexual, physical, medical, emotional, and religious abuse, childhood sa, suicidal ideation, and self harm
This past week has been incredibly difficult due to that holiday so I decided it would be good for me to write a letter to my nmom to keep for myself during my healing process to get everything out and it's been very cathartic. Part of my healing journey has been sharing my (extremely personal) experience with others who understand, hence why I'm sharing this here, and maybe it'll give someone some strength knowing that I made it out after all of this. I hope everyone was kind to themselves this week and was able to treat this holiday as a holiday for themselves for surviving their nmoms!
Dear mom, Happy belated Mother’s Day. My Mother’s Day was spent being upset and anxious so I decided to write this letter. This letter is so incredibly difficult to write and even more difficult to read back to myself. Moving away from university and back home during COVID was genuinely one of the most difficult things I have done in my life simply because of all of the repressed memories that flooded back into my brain every single day I was in that house. I used to resent the pandemic for forcing me to live in an environment that made me want to harm myself every single day and die every other day, but I am now thankful for the clarity that it brought me as I don’t think I’d have the foresight that I have now.
There is a lot that I want to say. I am angry, bitter, resentful, and traumatized from things that you have done to me as a child and also as an adult. I thought for a very long time that thing were normal but thank God I now know just how truly fucked up so many of my childhood experiences were. Not a single day goes by where I don’t think about the emotional, physical, and sexual abuse that I went through. I am haunted every single day by things that you did (and some things that you didn’t do) and hope that one day I will be able to heal from what I experienced.
I grew up being close to my cousin Chloe (a year younger than me) who was obviously very bitchy, mean, and abusive. This fact isn’t something you weren’t aware of as I know a fully grown adult would be able to see how she treated and talked to me when around you and come to the obvious conclusion that I should not have been allowed to be around her. She bullied me, called me names, physically assaulted me by pushing me, pulling my hair, and sitting on me with my hands held behind my back until I couldn’t breathe, forced me to bathe in scolding hot bath water that would burn my skin, making me undress and make fun of parts of my body, and forced me to watch things that she knew would scare me. This is the same time that I started having insomnia and struggled in school due to anxiety. It’s also the same time I remember my sound sensitivity starting. Do you remember my childhood friend’s mom Amelia and how protective she was over my friend, Diana? Diana met Chloe at my 9th birthday party and Diana went over to her house for a playdate and Chloe did something to her. She physically reached over and groped Diana on the privates. I knew Amelia IMMEDIATELY prevented her daughter from ever being around Chloe again. I also knew that it's possible she mentioned this to my aunt, but I'm not positive. I know that Amelia is the type of mom to prevent Diana from reading Harry Potter because she thought it was a bad influence on her due to being “demonic”, so I wouldn’t be surprised if she made you aware of what Chloe did to Diana as she knew that I spent a lot of time around her. I doubt that what Chloe did to Diana was ever kept a secret from you. Chloe also forced me to do sexual things I didn’t want to do from roughly the ages of 8-11. One time, we were in her kitchen and she pulled out a knife and said that she was going to stab me. By then, I knew she just wanted to scare me so when I had no reaction, she put the knife away. I was terrified of what would happen if I said no to her so I went along with whatever she wanted. She would go into the bathroom and tell me to follow, would lock the door, and make me take off my clothes and let her do things to me and forced me to do the same things to her. I used to think that you had NO IDEA about this until I remember you saying the words- “you were an amazing kid and never had any problems until you got a little older. I always wondered if something happened.” Who the fuck says that to their kid???? Yeah, something DID happen and it wouldn’t have happened if you protected me!!!! You fucking idiot!!!! I remember being in our new house and taking a shower with you when I was about 8 (which was VERY inappropriate and should NEVER have happened at all) and saying something that clearly made you uncomfortable. It CLEARLY indicated something was going on. I remember the exact face you made and know that any normal, healthy adult would have done something about it and made sure nothing was happening. They would have made sure I was SAFE, and talked to me about safety, but nothing was said or done. You have failed me many times, but this one is the most painful. Not only will you need to live with the fact that you knew about my abuse and did nothing, but I will have to live with the fact that my mom knew "something happened” and didn’t care about me enough to protect me. I look at my beautiful niece Hallie, and imagine not protecting her like that and want to vomit. I cannot fathom how a mother would have the thought “I wonder if something happened to my daughter to case a massive behavioral change” and NOT DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT! You didn’t talk to me, never asked me if Chloe was doing anything, or anything at all. If I even had a minor suspicion that something was happening to Hallie, I would IMMEDIATELY do something about it because THAT IS MY JOB as an adult in her life. You failed me and deserve to know that this traumatized me and gave me PTSD. I am NOT autistic, no matter how much you WANT me to be so you can go around and gain sympathy for “having an autistic daughter” rather than owning up to the fact that you caused what “went wrong” with me.
Not only did you not help prevent me from being molested by my cousin, you also added to my sexual trauma by forcing me to use the giant egg monistat insert to treat a yeast infection when I was 11. I was ELEVEN and you had a bright idea to force a HUGE foreign object into my prepubescent body even though you were fully aware I could have easily gotten a prescription for a pill to swallow from a doctor. I was scared. I had so much pain and itching and needed a mother to hug me, tell me it’s going to be okay, or at the very least, EXPLAIN what I had and how we were going to fix it. You didn’t do any of that. You told me to lay down and proceeded to try and administer medication that is NOT meant for children 12 and under due to the physical damage it could cause. I was clearly in pain and scared, but you kept trying anyways. At any point, you could have stopped and taken me to the fucking doctor, but nope. You then got frustrated that “you couldn’t get it in” and told your 11 year old daughter to shove it inside herself. Then you left the room. I hadn’t even had a period yet, let alone know where my vagina was but you sure felt the need to yet again abandon your parental responsibilities and place them onto your kid! Miraculously, I put it in and wobbled out to lay on the couch because I was in physical pain from BOTH the infection and YOU, but because a child’s body isn’t able to properly fully insert the medication used (which once again I’ll remind you is meant for girls 13 and up), it came out and got on the couch because you didn’t give me a pad. And rather than prioritize your own daughter’s health, safety, wellbeing, and comfort, you were more upset about the stain on the couch and yelled at me. I will never forget in all of the years that I am alive how ashamed and disgusted I felt standing behind you watching you furiously scrub at the stain that I caused (actually, that YOU caused since this never should have happened in the first place!) and feeling a huge flood of guilt every time I saw that couch stain. One of the best days of my life was when we got a new couch and I never had to see that stain again.
All of this caused me to develop anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts and ideation, self harming behaviors, having out of body experiences where I dissociate, and panic attacks amongst other things. YOU caused ALL of this and you fought tooth and nail to convince me that it was MY fault for being broken. “There’s something going on with you,” and you made it your mission to never take any responsibility for any of the trauma that you caused. Not only did you ignore all signs of abuse and sexually assault me yourself, you bullied and helped a family friend Sharon bully me when I was “being mean” to (her daughter) Faith. I was treated like I was a mentally ill monster who couldn’t be trusted and always got in trouble whenever Faith shed a single tear because I was “mean to her”. Faith cried at LEAST 15x a day, and I was blamed every time she decided to say I was the reason. You allowed a monster (Sharon) to ABUSE me and had the incredibly wise idea to start passing along what shit talking you two would say about me TO ME, a 13 year old girl. I was THIRTEEN. I was A CHILD. And yet, you came crying and complaining to me about how tired you were of hearing Sharon say I was being mean to her daughter when you could have TOLD THE OTHER ADULT IN THE SITUATION TO STOP. It never was my responsibility as a child to try and make another adult stop abusing me by “behaving better.” There was nothing wrong with how I was behaving. You never once tried to help me, you always blamed anybody and everybody else for your failures. I would come and ask you for help when I was struggling and if you didn’t care, you would pawn it off to somebody else- “go talk to your older sister” “talk to your therapist about that” “I don’t know what to say except to tell you to pray about it” and when I came back saying praying didn’t magically fix my depression, you told me to pray harder. I guess you really thought it was a skill issue rather than a diagnosable health condition! No wonder I wanted to die! Hahaha! I’ll never forget the look of disgust on your face when I was sobbing hysterically and struggling to get out the words when I told you just how badly I was affected by Sharon and said how you played a role in helping her harm and abuse me. “WELL. I’m SORRY if you think I didn’t protect you enough. I know what that feels like because my parent’s took my sister’s side a few weeks ago when we were having an argument” (as FULLY GROWN 50+ YEAR OLDS arguing and bitching LIKE CHILDREN!) No, mom, it’s not the same. I was a child and not only did you not stop an abuser from harming me, you joined in. You allowed her access to me and you passed along what horrible things she said was wrong with me. “SHARON said she thinks YOU’RE BIPOLAR. Do you think you are?” “Sharon told me that you’re having AN EPISODE and are being mean to Faith! Show me your phone!” Erm? I’m thirteen? What do you expect me to do? “Well, I just don’t understand why you keep bringing this up when it happened so long ago. I just hope you can forgive her and move on.” You’re fucking disgusting. Should I go into detail about how many times I asked you to not interact with Sharon more than you needed to and you proceeded to try and force her into my life more? You KNEW how uncomfortable I was with you attending Faith’s wedding and yet, you cared more about how you looked and not only attended, but hosted both her wedding and wedding shower. I have always wondered why you never cared how I feel until I realized that you prioritize yourself and how you look to other people above anything and everyone. There is a clear pattern of behavior- - When I was 17 and you were berating me at your work for wanting to visit my friend up in Boston to see a concert together because “you just didn’t understand why I’d want to do that” and I started crying. You rolled your eyes and said “you better leave now if you don’t want my next client to see you crying because her appointment is in a few minutes.” You cared more about having your random client seeing me cry and potentially thinking you’re a bad mom than comforting me. - When I was 13 and we were saying our nightly prayer the night that I had my “therapy appointment” (aka, you and my “therapist” chastising me for writing in my diary that I was having suicidal thoughts), when you were praying you said “Dear God, please help (my name)… and… pLEASE HELP ME!!!!” Clearly, YOU were affected more than I was even though I was the one wanting to die because of you. Wow. Your life is so hard! - Telling everyone around you that I “have problems” and am “really struggling” so you can gain an ounce of sympathy. The way that your friends come up and talk to me is baffling. - Laughing about me with my friends in high school when I was out of the room- “hahaha my daughter is sooooo weird hahaha” - When I was 18 and you called my “therapist” (who did NOT get my consent before doing this and violated her ethical guidelines) after I moved out and stopped talking to you, you got her to help you write a list of “rules” to force me to stay in contact with you. They consisted of requiring me to “talk to you, dad, or my sister at least 1x/day” so you “knew that I was safe” aka, you wanted to control me even though I was an adult and not living in your house. I was perfectly safe, and yet you made me sound like I was doing drug deals in the morning, prostituting myself after lunch, and had plans to commit felonies later that night. I went to school, ate, and went back to my apartment. You had no right manipulating me into talking to you by using my therapist, dad, and sister against me. Pathetic. - Telling me to go do my runs on a strange man’s property instead of the road because it’s “safer.” Dad said that this man who I’VE NEVER MET told him that “there are bad people out there who will kidnap her and do horrible things to her, SO INSTEAD she should run on MY property!” Not sketchy or rapey at all, right? And completely dismissing me when I said that made me uncomfortable by saying “my dad knows him”? Lady, do you know any rape statistics? Clearly not, because you’d then know that only 7% of assaults are strangers while 93% are family members or acquaintances. NINETY THREE PERCENT. The amount of times that I’ve mentioned someone made me uncomfortable or had a massive affect on me as a child and you’ve replied with “Oh, well did they touch you?” People don’t have to touch me to traumatize me. You’re pathetic for thinking that.
I’m not mad at Chloe. I don’t feel any anger or ill will towards her at all. She was a child just like I was a child. She was failed more than I was failed. No child acts that way and assaults other children without learning that from somewhere. I blame her parents for what happened to her. I blame YOU for what happened to me. I vividly remember things that my aunt would say the same time this was happening about little girls and their bodies and I want to smash my head against the wall. Children are to be protected above anything and everything else, by you didn’t. Do I hate Faith and think that she’s a bad person because of what happened when we were 13? No. I fully blame you and Sharon. The amount of adults that have failed me in my life keep me up at night. I think about how different my life would be had dad been more involved and seen what was going on and taken me away from you. I am angry with him for that. I dream one day I will be able to sit down with him and tell him everything I have written about and he will hug me, support me, cry with me, and apologize for not being there more to protect me. But who knows, he might defend his child abusing, mentally ill wife and say I’m making up everything. Who knows.
Do you want to know what my sister said when I told her all of this? She apologized to me for not being 15 years older than I am so she could have raised me instead. I want you to sit here and think about how fucked up that is. My own sister wishes she could have taken me away from you so you couldn’t have abused me. I imagine the pressure she must have felt having to grow up while also raising her mother and sister and I sob for her. I’ve sobbed for me for the mental anguish and torture I experienced at your hands. I’ve even sobbed for you because I can’t imagine being even a fraction of how fucked up you are to resort to abusing and neglecting your child- a child you begged to have. A child you had trouble having and prayed for. Embarrassing.
I’m never going to have a relationship with you again. If God is willing, I will never have to interact with you ever again. Saying that phrase “if God is willing” is ironic because you forcing me to pray my problems away rather than helping me led me to not believe in him. How can I believe in something that also neglected me? I’d sit in my dark bedroom night after night praying and sobbing for him to help me. I didn’t know what was happening to me, but I felt broken and alone. I now know that I was a child praying for God to take away my PTSD, and that is not possible. My heart breaks for that child.
You’re a pathetic excuse for a mother and human being. I’m truly shocked that I survived you and your abuse. I’m surprised that I didn’t ever try to kill myself to try and get away from you because you’re a vulture that prays on innocent people. The only important people in your life are people you think will give you something or will make you look good. That’s why you refused to ever cut ties with Sharon, you knew she was sexually abused as a child and you couldn’t POSSIBLY NOT be her friend because you need her to be your “friend,” or rather, your token sexually abused as a child friend. I genuinely hope that you get better and become a normal healthy person but I won’t ever be around to see it. I hope you feel even a fraction of the pain and abandonment that I have felt my entire life. Happy Mother’s Day, but today isn’t Mother’s Day for me, it’s Daughter’s Day. Moving far away from you one month ago has truly saved my life. Instead of trying to survive, I am enjoying my life. I would have died in that house. I get to finally celebrate being away from you and celebrate myself for staying strong and fighting when I could have easily given up. You once told me “you feel like I HATE you!” to guilt me into fawning over you and telling you how much I loved you, but now you get the opposite. I DO hate you and hate how you have permanently changed me and I wish to never see you again. Instead of praying for the “God forsaken, atheist, lost, evil, liar, miserable, spiteful, hateful, disgusting, mentally ill, “autistic” daughter, pray for yourself. Pray for God’s forgiveness for emotionally, medically, physically, sexually, and religiously abusing and neglecting me. You deserve to remain in your "clueless" state of "having NO IDEA what you did wrong to make her stop talking to me!" for the rest of your life.Happy Daughter’s Day.

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Spying on a college student wasn’t exactly riveting, mostly because it was so easy! Connecting to Tav’s computer had been a breeze, and taking over the microphone on her phone wasn’t exactly hard either. Blanco had a good look at the girl’s files, checking her old writings with little to no interest, and then reading through the notes she was taking on a ‘Translation effort’ with legitimate curiosity.

The creature was sitting in the air, slowly sliding from one side of his room to the other, lit only by the lights of the many screens on its walls… all while the grin on his face was only growing wider and wider with each new discovery. So a language, hmm? Wasn’t that the thing that G and Eighty Two had been rambling about for years now? Ohhh, he couldn’t wait to tell them… or, at least, tell G about it.

He had been paid quite the hefty sum to not tell 82 a thing of what they discovered, at least for now… the fight between those two had always struck Blanco as arbitrary and stupid, but alas! It wasn’t his business, really! In fact, that fight had brought much more business to him than anything!

The phone suddenly rings. Speak of the devil! A quick check on the caller ID showed Eighty Two’s private line.

With a broken glass grin covering his otherwise smooth face, Blanco took the phone.

“Bianccio Pizzería! Thickest pizza around! How can I help you?~” Oh how he relished pissing people off.

“Shut up.” A cold, feminine voice came from the other side. Eighty Two always sounded so annoyed… “I need a service. Payment will be in advance, as per our usual accord.”

“Ohhh straight to the point huh? I like it!”

“There’s a new user in Dejima 08. Perform the usual Safety Scan. They claim to have been invited by user ‘Canned Tea’, but we know he has lied about it before.”

“Ok, let me check!” Just to cover, Blanco tapped gibberish on his keyboard while softly going ‘beep boop’ as he worked. “... Alright! Got it!”

“That was fast.”

“Tav. Real name Santino Belnades. A Bastard Mage living in Saüle, Wohl.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Actually she goes by she now!”

“Is she dangerous?” Mustafá grumbled, more annoyed than usual.

“Nah. Just a college student like many others. She’ll give up or die in a month tops.”

“...” Mustafá remained silent for a moment, ruminating. “So Canned Tea is just covering another random bastard…”

“Ahem. My pay?”

“Why is this kid like this? Can’t he realize that he’s getting them into far more trouble than it’s worth?”

“I thought you said nothing ever happens in that forum of yours. Isn’t that your main complaint?”

“That doesn’t mean nothing ‘can’ happen at any moment. If the Brotherhood finds out about this forum, they could seize all of us for questioning.” The alchemist let out a deep sigh.

“Yeah, real tragic. Pay me.”

“I wonder how this one got turned. Probably some mage’s irresponsible usage of spells…? No, Wohl has such a low magical population, and such a high conscription by the Brotherhood…”

Blanco let out the deepest of sighs, rubbing his smooth face with a hand while spinning slowly on his non-existent chair. This was exactly why he prefered working with G, that and the lack of emotions that witch had…

And people called him inhuman! Hah!

“Keep an eye on her. I will pay you right now.”

There was a loud ‘KA-CHING!’ sound coming from one of the computers in the room. Blanco sighed in relief.

“Thank you for your patronage! I will keep you updated.”

“Good.”

With that, the alchemist hung up. Blanco growled again. No one said ‘Good Bye’ these days now, did they!? Rude pricks. And bad news kept coming up! This ‘Canny’ guy was now telling her that he’ll teach her the glyph for digital security?

“Guess baby time is over.”

He’d have to work a little harder to stay hidden if Tav decided to install that on all of her devices. At least it would keep him entertained! Blanco decided to focus on preparing for when things would get more intense.

After all, he had some time. The kid was going to the library, right? There was only one book she wanted from there, and Blanco had read it several times over already.

Gato’s old scratchbook held no new knowledge for the vampire to be interested.


There is no such thing as an entire section dedicated to recipe books in Saüle University’s Library, but I manage to find that stuff in the ‘miscellany’ section. That’s where all the hobby and self-help material ends up, and even if it took me a moment to come to the conclusion, that’s where I went too.

It takes me even longer to look through every single tome I could in that section, but finally, after all my hard work… I think I have found it.

Canny was right, this is a cheap notebook. Soft covers, spiral-bound, both sides stamped with wizard hats, frogs, potion phials and many other pieces of typically ‘witchy’ imagery. Looking through the pages, it is just a bunch of cake and kuchen recipes, nothing to write home about. It is old, the pages are all yellowish and fragile, and there are stains everywhere.

Then, when I am sure no one is watching… I whispered the words.

“Jantar mantar…?”

It is instantaneous, as soon as I say the password the pages begin to change, words disappearas the ink that wrote them starts gathering in a single, dark blotch, and then begins rearranging again…

Something compels me to close the book, feeling a little embarrassed. For some reason I equated it to catching someone changing up clothes, how outrageous!

Finally, after waiting for a moment, I open it again.

The Bastard’s Guide to Magic
By Gato

Okay, that was certainly a title.

Now that I have it in my hands, I quickly close it again and add it to a pile of books I have picked up. Stuff on ancient symbology and old civilizations. With my loot in my arms, I quickly go over to the main desk and get it all sorted.

The second floor librarian smiles at me for a moment before scanning all the barcodes, giving me a week to return all the books, and then offering me a bag to carry them. I shake my head, setting it all in my backpack.

… Wow, it’s been a while since I've taken this old backpack out to Uni, huh?

“Feeling nostalgic?”

“For the times you were an actually useful member of society?”

Maybe a little bit, to be honest. I still remember when I used to come here with Patricio looking for academic books and I escaped the duties to look for something interesting to read…

“Back when you actually read as a hobby.”

Shut up, I’ve been reading more these days, I am returning to it.

Walking out of the Library, I once again avoid the gaze of any acquaintances and run straight for the streets to take another taxi back home. There aren’t that many people around today anyways, probably because of Winter Vacation.

Maybe I should send Patricio a message…

“Oh yeah? And what will you tell him? That you’re ditching formal studies for a fantasy? That magic is real and shit?”

I… thought of saying hi. That’s what friends do, right?

“When was the last time you spoke to a friend? Pepe? Vito? What about Venus?”

I flinch for a moment.

“We can fix that right now! Let’s go chat with Patricio when we get home!”

I… don’t think I will, no. The mere idea of getting in contact with him makes me a little sick from the nerves, especially considering I don’t really have an answer for what he told me before. I remain as undecided on the whole ‘career’ deal as I was that day.

With a hand I call for a passing taxi, and I have the luck of being acknowledged. You never know with the Taxists these days, it is very well known that they dislike the college students in this city.

Maybe he is hurting for money.

I sit down, tell the man where I need to go, and stop thinking about things for a moment as the car moves… only to feel my phone vibrating.

It vibrates more than once.

That means someone’s calling me.

I start sweating almost immediately, as I carefully pull the thing out. Two possibilities, it js either spam, or it is my parents.

It is my parents.

“Calm down.”

“How do you think they would feel if they knew how fucking distressed their presence make you? Do you think they would ask ‘whatever did we do wrong?’ or something like that?”

“Don’t listen. Just… remember that they’ve never meant anything bad, ok? They will accept you, regardless of your results in college.”

I gulp… and with a deep breath, I put on the mask. All trembling stops, just like that night at the planetarium… although it really pains me to compare mom and dad to the cloaks. With another deep breath, I pick up.

“Mom?”

“Ohhhhh hi there Santi! How are you today? I hope I didn’t catch you too busy!” Mom was as vital and energetic as ever. Despite her old age, she really always acts like a far younger woman. That’s admirable, at least to me.

“She will die eventually, too.”

Saints above, shut up.

“I’m fine mom! I was just returning from the library. We started vacation this week, so I was picking some stuff to read on my own.” Not technically a lie. “How are things over there in Sumpf?”

“Ohhh you know, there’s never much to tell around here. Your dad and Vito always at each other’s throats… I really hope they'll get along a bit better with time.”

“They wont. If anything, it will get worse.”

Vito will grow wiser and dad will grow older, I am sure things will get better.

“Hah, I guess some things never change… what about you? Feeling fine?”

“Oh you know me, I am fine! For now.” She laughed loudly. “And you, Santi? How do you feel?”

“Uh…”

Damn it. I hesitated. I need to give that a reason NOW.

“... Well I had a bit of a toothache before, but beyond that, all’s…” I sigh. “Okay, maybe not so good. Mom, I think I flunked my exams this time…”

“Oh my dear…” She sighed, before going back to her positive self. “Don’t torture yourself over it now. Wait for the actual grade to be announced, then torture yourself!”

“Moom!”

“I am just kidding sweetie.” She chuckled a bit. “It is fine, we all fail sometimes… really, it’s not the end of the world, I swear.”

“She’s trying to soften the blow from the fact that you’re a fucking failure.”

I shudder.

“You are doing your best, that’s all that matters.”

“Are you?”

“We are proud of you, Santi. Never forget that.” She said, probably smiling.

“They were proud. Now? They are just enduring you.”

My lips tremble, a sharp breath escapes me. No, please. I can’t cry in a damn taxi…

“...Mom.”

“Yes, dear?”

“... What if this career isn’t what I am meant to do?”

“We are not ‘meant’ to do things. The Saints put us here to try and improve ourselves, but there’s no one dictated path, dear.”

Sometimes I forget that mom is quite religious, it makes me smile a little bit.

“I know, I know. But that’s not what I meant…” I hesitate again, breathing in and out, trying to keep the panic attack at bay. “... Mom… what if this is not the career I am built for?”

“Well… you can always change, dear! It is no problem, don’t worry about the money. We can afford it, especially with your scholarship!”

I certainly lost that one with my disastrous performance here, but I don’t have the guts to tell Mom that.

“As if she didn’t know already. She’s not stupid.”

“... Thank you mom.”

“Any time, dear. If there’s ANYTHING at all that you feel like telling me, remember that I am always on your side, okay?”

“Yes mom.”

“Yeah yeah, ‘yes mom’, that means ‘shut up already, old lady’, right?” She giggled.

“Mooom!”

“Alright, alright… I hope you can come back soon, okay? We miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“She doesn’t believe you. None of them do. They think you’re cold, distant and a failure on top of all that.”

“I love you mom.”

“Love you too, Santi.”

Click.

The taxi is not moving, it hasn’t been for a while now. The old man behind the steering wheel looks at me with concern.

“We’re here… kid. If something is wrong, you gotta tell your mom. Trust me… there are many things I wish I told mine before she passed.”

“You don’t know us. You have no idea about us. Stop talking so familiarly to us and go away.”

I flinch, pushing down that response and just sighing.

“I know… thank you.”

After paying the man, I walk out of the taxi and let it go, standing in front of my apartment complex for a moment.

I really don’t want to cry today.

But I already feel some tears going down my face.

Why am I like this?

What do you guys use to design? Preferably I’d want a true 3d model with textures rather than a 2d canvas with no detail but other than investing into a PC and getting adobe illustrator I don’t see any other programs
I’m looking to focus on designing limited pieces (max 15-20) with obscure textures (in price range) and wild clothing fitment (oversized but but not baggy if that makes sense) for timed exclusive drops but also have a catalogue of simpler pieces to buy and sell in bulk rather than one off accessories
My vision is endless so it’s easy to get ahead of myself but that last thing I’d want is to just be printing a logo on a cheap blank regardless of quality
The fit and textures are more important than the brand or logo itself so how do I ensure that through a screen or text message to a manu and would I need a cut and sew supplier if the clothing calls for a rip,tear,embroidery or any other kind of actual change to the fabric,texture, or crop
Edit: I really just need to focus on designing right now though and the soft/hardware that is required, I’m ok with paying as long as it’s not a monthly or yearly arm and a leg or a $2000 pc/high end laptop. I’ve seen people use IPads but how limiting is that in terms of programs?

I've posted about a year ago regarding my then 7th month old scratching his head and hurting himself in the process. You can find the old post here: https://www.reddit.com/Parenting/comments/139ip9z/baby_wont_stop_scratching_his_head_until_it_bleads/
Recently I've had 3 different parents that have found the post and were in the same situation, inboxing for an update/solution, so I decided to make an update post in case more parents are looking for answers. Sorry I took so long. I know the despair you feel. I assure you it will get better if you persevere. This is an extremely long post, so I have bolded the several topics, in case you don't want to read everything, so they are easier to find.
To update on my son's situation: He's now 1y and 7 months. He is allergic to milk and he has a combination of cradle cap and eczema. In addition to this, he was also born with Hydronephrosis (enlarged kidneys) which means he is limited in the medication that he's allowed to take (no ipobrufren, as an example)
The Cradle Cap situation has improved by itself, mainly by just carrying on with what we were doing. We use the Frida Flake Fixer treatment and a cradle cap shampoo (Dentinox). We've also been advised not to wash his head every day, leave it 1 or 2 days (one doctor even said once a week). For the cuts, the best thing was indeed a Vaseline barrier to help the raw skin heal. Even though it definitely stinks, the healing is the most important part. I would put Vaseline on his scalp the day before a bath, do the treatment with the Frida Brush and then I would rub a Baby Scalp Oil (Colief) to soften the flakes on the day after the bath; I would put Vaseline on the scalp the next day and he would take a bath the next day, rinse and repeat, until the cuts were healed, and I could ditch the Vaseline step. If the cut was deep I would sometimes apply Sudocream only at night after a bath and the Vaseline was removed and he'd fallen asleep so he wouldn't take it off. He still slept with mittens inside his cuffed babygrow, but he always managed to get one or two fingers out, I kid you not when I say, that sometimes I would sleep holding his hand to prevent him from scratching his head when the wounds here at it's worst. All of these steps have contributed to has improved the cradle cap lot and eventually disappeared in about a month's time. He's going trough a second outbreak now, a year later, but no where near as bad as it was then, he's not scratching himself to death.
The Eczema situation. Right....... this situation has improved for a few good 7-8 months with the Aveeno Baby Dermexa Emollient Cream. I would use it 3 times a day or more to fight of dry skin. The areas where the skin folded were the worst. Arm folds, neck folds, behind the knees, there the eczema would install and spread, That could only be controlled an Hydrocortisoid Cream, 1% w/w. It did eventually disappeared save for one spot -- just behind the right knee. He developed a habit of scratching it with his left foot. But, lets put the Eczema situation on hold for a moment, while we talk about:
The Milk Allergy situation.... Oh Boy..... this is about to get very long.....
In my previous post made at the beginning of May 2023, I stated that my son had been to the A&E (a week before the post) for an allergic reaction to porridge, so he would either be allergic to Milk and/or Gluten. We were told a referral was done to our GP for a visit by an allergy team who would walk us through to process of slowly introducing allergens so that my son would hopefully be able to safely be exposed to them in the future and advised to "only feed him vegetables and fruit". We were given an "prescription" for an antihistamine to continue the treatment and to use as an SOS in case of another allergic reaction in the future. No allergy tests were done for my son at all.
We were told that, it would take a couple of weeks before we were contacted by the allergy team and to contact the GP after two weeks if we hadn't heard from them. We waited a month and nothing. At the end of May, I went to our GP to ask for updates on this situation. Imagine my shock when the GP told me that they didn't even have ANY information about my son being in the A&E. They've spent 1h contacting the hospital to get the paperwork from the A&E that SHOULD have been sent to our GP. In said paperwork, it states that the hospital would like the GP to sort out the allergy appointment. So, no allergy appointment had been made for an entire month and if I hadn't enquired about this situation, the GP would have had no clue about the need to make one because they didn't have the necessary paperwork! I was given an apology and scheduled an "assessment appointment" 2 days later. I enquired about an Antihistamine prescription, since my son was gonna start nursery in a couple of weeks when my maternity leave would end and I needed to provide a bottle for them in case of an allergic reaction, because we still didn't know what my son was allergic to.... Lo and behold, when the GP staff looks at the hospital paperwork, it was stated that no more antihistaminic was necessary, against what we were advised, as we should have one antihistamine as SOS, I had to press the GP to provide us with an prescription (which the lady was very quick to do after seeing me ready to implode regarding this absolute incompetence) so the nursery could have one antihistamine with themselves as we couldn't keep juggling our bottle back and forth with them.
The assessment appointment which basically consisted in 5 mins of asking for details about the allergic reaction, all of which was written in A&E's paperwork and only then being referred to a dietitian's team. I was given no ETA, no info about where it would be, no contact that I could call to at least be put on a waiting list in case of a cancellation, nothing. I was only asked to wait and when confronted, the practitioner admitted that this appointment COULD have been made straight in the hospital's A&E, instead of this ridiculous and time wasting bureaucratic football between the Hospital and the GP.
You might think this was the end of the miscommunication and incompetence.... Oh oh But no,.. of course not!! I waited another month of silence. At the end of June I called the hospital's appointment hotline enquiring about my son's appointment, only to be told that he doesn't have one because a referral hadn't been made yet! I was fuming!! I immediately called the GP who have assured me that a referral has been sent to the hospital's Paediatric and gave me it's referral number and they would enquire....
If you are in the UK like I am and you see that your baby/child is being ignored by your GP / Hospital and not getting the appropriate care, then do as I did and contact PALS near your area. That was the best piece of advice that I have received from people at my local breastfeeding group, and if being a mother has taught me anything, is that sometimes, you will have to be a momma bear (aka Karen to the eyes of the target) and advocate for your child. I work in retail, I despise Karens and I have no wish to be one, I am usually a pushover. But I will not allow anyone to trample on my son's health. And while I do have respect for the NHS, seeing has my brother in law works there, I know damn well, by his own words, that the main problem is not the lack of funds, but the pockets where they go and the terrible disorganization.
At that point I had enough of excuses and I made a complaint to PALS about both the GP and the Hospital. My son was almost 9months and still breastfeeding but eating mostly Vegetables and Fruit as solid food as per A&E'S guidelines, delaying his weaning and feeding development and causing stress with the nursery and our family as we didn't know what he was allergic to and couldn't move on to full meals. I flat out asked them if they were intent on my son completing an entire year of life being fed only Vegetables and Fruit besides breastmilk, and called them out because an 8 month baby should not be put on the back burner over and over again due to the incredibly poor communication between these two organizations and have his health jeopardized. I demanded a resolution ASAP and forward this to the Paediatrician as I did not trust the hospital to be able clearly communicate between their departments and whom I suspected had not been told absolutely nothing regarding all this. Two days later the allergy team specialist rang me to personally and profusely apologise and take the situation under her control and give me her allergy guidelines which I should have been given since the beginning. I was still forced to wait until early July for a allergy test - Milk was found to be the culprit.
I still thank everything that I had enough perseverance to stick with breastfeeding and never, ever, though to look at formula. I tremble to think about the consequences, Even though I'm aware that dairy free formulas exist, me being a 1st time ignorant mother, chances were I could have picked a wrong one. Fortunately I produced more than enough milk and my son had a good latch. Also because my son was not making any allergic reactions to my milk, this meant there was a higher chance that he could grow out of his allergy, as he was still getting enzymes from the dairy that I consumed. From here on, food introduction was a breeze. He's a real foodie, he loves to eat and he loves to eat with us. Adapting our diet was a bit of work, as I have IBS and my husband is diabetic so there might be some foods that will be a trigger or might not be the most ideal to someone in our family, but we managed to strike a good balance. Vegan options do help and we are having fun exploring that.
The problems then came with the nursery. After letting them know that my son was allergic to milk and other things were fine, the cases of allergic reaction in the nursery stated to increase and he started getting very bad reactions. First we suspected cross contamination, then that he might be allergic to something else, but the foods they were saying he was allergic to made absolutely no sense as he was just fine having those at home. We came to the conclusion after several events in the softplay area - that involved no food at all - that the culprit might be their cleaning products and further pressed after two different members of staff said they themselves were allergic to that product - Milton. After several bickerings between us and the nursery and us visiting our origin country for Xmas where my son ate in 4 different household and 5 different restaurant with absolutely no allergy reaction (in comparing to the then daily cases of reaction on the 3 days that he stayed at nursery), we finally convinced the nursery to change their cleaning products - they are now using Sanell. In addiction to prevent cross contamination, my son was given his own high chair, that no other child uses. Happy to say the cases of allergy are nearly non-existent now. His recent blood results also came back with amazingly good improvements, so we got the thumbs up from the Allergy Team and the Paediatrician to start the milk ladder and slowly and gradually adding milk to his diet. Currently he's in stage one and having half a teaspoon of malted milk biscuit daily with no reaction. It will probably still be able two months until he can have a full biscuit, but I can't wait to see his smile when we get to this stage - he loves taking the little piece of my hand.
Because of the back and forth with the nursery and them insisting that the allergic reaction could be due to other foods, the allergy team at the hospital was more concerned with that than his Eczema situation. We had to insist about it, since we suspected the reactions might be Eczema instead, stating that I was still waiting for the promised skin specialist appointment since end of April last year. The lead Team Speciallist, again showed her amazing professionalism and chased up the situation and we finally got our appointment jointly with her and the skin specialist in January of this year. She gave us a few products to try but said that the Eczema situation was relatively controlled. The samples that she gave were:

• Dermol 500 Lotion - we still use this for his bath as a soap substitute
  
• Adex Gel - kind like an emollient cream, it was ok-ish
  
• Cetraben Cream - didn't seem to make any difference, but can also be used as a soap substitute so we'll give it a go after Dermol is finished
  
• Zerodearm Ointment - didn't seem to make any difference, but it has a Vaseline like quality to it, so might try again
  

About a week after the appointment, my Son had an mild outbreak of Eczema on his legs. We tried several combinations of above products that seemed to temporally control the situation but didn't complete solve it. In Early March of this year the Eczema appeared in his back. He has a huge red birthmark the size of my hand on his back, so that skin is very sensitive. He started to scratch and rub his back against things and it didn't took long to break the skin. It didn't bleed but it was oozing/weeping which would make the skin get stuck to his clothes and then get raw, so no treatment was going to work on that as it would slide off with the oozing/weeping. I despaired then as I had a year ago.
So I went back to the thing that worked last time - Vaseline. This time though, it was on a place that I couldn't exactly leave uncovered. My son was about to do some blood tests so hospital had given us numb cream to put on the inside of his elbows and some clear medical film. He had this done before and I remembered that the film had been resistant enough to keep the cream in and didn't hurt his skin, so I though, maybe I could apply the same theory. So I bought some clear medical film (Tegaderm Film), put a good chunk of Vaseline on the wound and sealed it with the film. I changed this twice or three times a day, depending if he was in the nursery or not. It worked like a charm and it allowed the skin to heal. For reference, the nursery manager, whose son suffers with really bad eczema has suggested me the AproDerm Ointment which also has a Vaseline consistency to it, but my son's situation cleared up before I had to use it.
The skin specialist by then had prescribed a treatment with another hydrocortisoid cream ( Daktacort 2% 1% w/w, needs to be kept refridgerated ) and an emollient cream - Epimax Oatmeal Cream. For the other patches of Eczema (that were not in wound), I would use Daktacord, once in the morning, once in the evening, and I would use Epimax to keep the skin moisturized along the day, whenever I would change a diaper. The skin specialist told us to keep using Daktacord twice a day for a week, then drop it to once a day on the following week, and then drop it to every other day on the week after. This has worked brilliantly and it solved all Eczema patches, including the stubborn one behind his right knee, We were able to drop the Daktacord and we now only use the Epimax emollient regularly about twice a day.
Thank you if you have read everything so far, I hope you have found something that could be of use to you. Happy to answer any questions that you might have, or if you're feeling desperate like I was and just need some reassurance, just drop me message!

Specifically this bag: https://www.thule.com/en-us/backpacks/laptop-backpacks/thule-paramount-backpack-24l-_-3205011
I’m updating my old Patagonia Black Hole to something new, with preferably something:

• Easier access to the main compartment (Patagonia Black Hole is a top down style backpack, and I want either something with a middle zip or a clamshell opening)
  
• That can store boxing gloves and shoes (or at least be able to attach shoes to the outside).
  
• Lightweight and ‘sacky’ - I loved how I could pack out my Patagonia and carry it comfortably, regardless of how much is in there. It’s just accessing gear from the top compartment that made it annoying.
  
• Something as slick and streamlined looking, like the Black Hole, with some attachment points for gear.
  
• Laptop compartment that can hold a 16inch macbook pro that’s either padded or, has a false bottom.
  

Other contenders have been:

• The old model of the MR Urban Assault 24L (18L Catalyst and 26L Catalyst don’t work out for me).
  
• AER City Pro (Not bad, I can see it work out. Kind of wish there were gear points but it’s not the end of the world)
  
• Mystery Ranch Rip Ruck 24L (I’m deterred for now because people have commented they can’t fit clothes for trips very well for trips)
  
• Evergoods CPL 24L (Doesn’t have as much organization as I would like)
  

This is will show all the events with some updates to the present, so if you already know it all you don't need to read it.
OPENWORLD
The Start (1948-1989)
In 1948, the Soviet union was searching for a good island, until one day a group of fishers living at the coast of Russia, the fishers reported it to their local government, this started a small expedition of the island by Soviet scouts.
Eventually the Soviets purposed this island to be a "good" island for a possible American invasion of Alaska, Canada, Mainland USA, and maybe even some small islands in the pacific. The USSR first built a fort on a smaller island next to the large island, which they named Fort Ronograd, which is how the island got its name, then the USSR built a huge port near the fort, and made a city which was supposed to be a part of the Fort to inhabit the soilders, and their wifes, but it was later purposed as a normal city to house normal people.
In 1962, a U2 spy plane heading to main land Russia, from Alaska discovered a large island with a lot of activity, this was not normal as the USA never found any islands there, and confirmed that the Soviets were inhabiting a new island, the United States feared another missile crisis, so for now the Air Force and the CIA kept shut.
Meanwhile the Soviets did some tomfoolery ( Kafala System ) , and started putting Nuclear Weapons to the island. Then they build another city ( Sochronia City ) to house the incoming immigrants going into the island, multiple other settlements were also made ( Village ), then the Soviets made a quarry so people can be employed, and a Nuclear Energy Facility for once again employement.
So now the Soviets were like " Holy Moly, we can actually make this island effective, so they made a large Broadcasting station on the highest point on the island, to contact the Kremlin much more easily.
In 1966 Global Defense Alliance was formed for the manufacturing of clothing.
So the USA was like panicking right now, as they found out that the USSR had put nuclear weapons on the island, and where in range of Alaska, and Washington State, due to this president Nixon ordered a naval blockade by a Aircraft Carrier near the island, for an attempt to stop shipments going to the island. Right now the Soviets were pissed, so they were like " USA we will take our nukes away, but you guys stop a naval blockade on our supplies ", then the USA was like " Alright fine, but only unless we can still patrol the island, to ensure you guys don't bring nukes ", then the USSR was like " Yeah sure- " and then the Americans were like " Oh yeah, and we have to search all your ships ".
The deal was signed by both sides, and we lived happily ever af-
Uh oh, it looks like the Soviet Union collapsed, oh what a shame.
In 1989 Apex Precision was formed as a clothing producer.
The uprising (1990- 2013)
After the USSR collapsed, the new Russian government took over, and they were the problem
You see, a lot of the people living there, were soilders recruited by the USSR, and they were like, " Uh uh, you guys are not controlling us, we will remain communist ", so what happened is that these soilders created a group, to attempt to liberate themselves.
in the year 1992, a PMC was formed called Non-Tactical.
Meet the POD, a terrorist group originating from Sacramento, California. This organization is made up of agents, that were either fired from their jobs, went rogue, or just didn't like their country, These agents were from intelligence agencies like , the CIA, MI6, and much more.
So the RLF caught the attention of the POD, and they were like " RLF do you guys want independence? " and they were like " Hell yes ", and the POD was like " We can help you guys"
Eventually the RLF made a deal with the POD that they will supply, and help them revolt against Russia.
But secretly, the POD were using the RLF, because they had a plan to make a nuke filled with chemical agents (ICBM) , and then launch it to New York, because the island was just in range, and this is because the Soviets left behind multiple silos, that were abandoned.
Enter the year 2000, and that is the year when the Russians built a manmade island, that was a designated Airport, and Military Airbase. Before that everything was either supplied with boats, or small aircraft landing on airfields.
In the year 2004, multiple attacks were done, as other terror attacks, Russian Forces have put up with this and declared Martial Law in Ronograd, which saw Russian Army Personnel patrolling Ronograd, and its multiple cities.
In 2013, a large attack made by the RLF, and POD was seen on the FOB, which caused the base to fall to POD and RLF hands, Russian Forces retreated, and contacted the Aircraft Carrier which they almost never contacted.
A group of Russian Spetznaz stationed on the island, and Navy SEALS from the Aircraft Carrier were formed, and called themselves the " Shadow Warriors ", these volunteers were put on the legendary Operation Shadow Raid, and took the FOB back from the RLF, and POD.
Later a UN conference was held in Prague, Czech Republic, the conference ended in the making of a coalition named Platinum Five, which was a Task Force, built up of multiple armies around the world, and some Special Forces.
After these events, in 2023 a bunker was found with a possible silo, which was found from enemy intel.
The Bad Ending:
The Bad ending resulted in the launch of the ICBM.
The Good Ending:
The Good ending resulted in the ICBM being disarmed.
Raid/Ranked Mode:
Its pretty self-explanatory, the country of your choice takes down a POD outpost in the Middle-East.
Multiplayer:
A fight between POD and Platinum Five forces fighting around the world.