Author: Tom Darby

It was a crisp morning that made the air feel fresh but hinted at the oncoming bite of winter. Sarah sat at the bus stop, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, watching the steady stream of cars passing.

Beside her sat a man in his mid-seventies, who appeared as bundled up as she was. He wore a blue jacket, the sleeves slightly too long for his arms, and a scarf that did not match anything.

He looked at her, and eventually, he cleared his throat. “Cold morning,” he said, his voice warm but unpolished.

“Yeah,” Sarah replied, staring at the ground. “And it’ll get colder before Spring gets here.”

There was a brief silence, a quiet moment that stretched out like an awkward lull in a conversation that neither party was sure how to steer.

“You’ve got that look,” the man said, eyes squinting at her in a way that almost seemed like concern. “Like, something’ has been weighing on you for a while.”

Sarah sighed, rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s just… my dad, you know? No one wants to help me with him anymore. He’s got dementia, and I’m the only one who does anything about it. I can’t do it all alone. I need a break, but no one even cares enough to step in.”

The man nodded, though his expression seemed more perplexed than empathetic. “That’s tough. Family’s supposed to step up in times like this. What do they say when you ask for help?”

“Nothing,” Sarah said bitterly. “It’s always ‘We’re too busy,’ or ‘He’s your dad, not ours.’ I’ve had to rearrange my whole life to take care of him. And every time I turn around, it’s like I’m the only one who cares.”

She looked up at the man beside her, expecting him to offer some understanding, maybe a word of comfort. But he just nodded again, his eyes still distant.

“Yeah, people can be selfish, can’t they? They don’t understand what it’s like to carry that kind of burden. They think it’s your responsibility. But hey, that’s life, right?”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she muttered.

The bus finally appeared in the distance, and she stood up quickly, brushing off her jeans. She turned to look at the man, fully taking in his features.

“Dad, our bus is almost here,” she said.

The man glanced back at her with confusion before he nodded and gave her a weak smile. “Yeah, honey, I think the bus is here,” he said, his voice a little foggy but still vaguely familiar.

Sarah took her father’s arm, guiding him onto the vehicle.

The DIY kit arrived in an unassuming cardboard box, slightly crumpled from its journey through the postal system. Michael found it on their front porch, weighing it in his hands.

Too light to be worth much, it felt like an afterthought, the kind of cheap trinket you’d expect at a novelty shop. And yet, Beth carried it inside like it was sacred.

“It’s for them,” she said, brushing past him with the box hugged to her chest.

For them, her parents. The word felt heavier every time she said it.

Their deaths—violent, unthinkable—had ruptured her, but she hadn’t cried since the funeral. Instead, she’d bought this.

That night, Michael found her in the guest room. She’d drawn thick black curtains over the windows, and dozens of small candles flickered along the floor.

In the center of the room sat an Ouija board, a bundle of dried herbs, and a book with brittle-looking pages. Beth worked quietly, tracing symbols on the hardwood with chalk.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Her eyes flashed up at him, sharp and urgent. “It’s just… something to help.”

Help what, he wanted to ask. Help Beth grieve? Help her let go? But something in her tone warned him against prying. He left her to it.

At first, Michael thought the seances were harmless, even therapeutic. Beth grew quieter, less volatile.

She began sleeping through the night again, or so it seemed. But then came the sounds.

Late one night, he woke to the creak of footsteps in the hallway. He rolled over, half-asleep, expecting to see Beth coming back from the kitchen.

But the footsteps didn’t stop at the bedroom door. They continued down the hall, deliberate and slow.

“Beth?” he called softly. No answer.

He got up and peeked into the guest room. Beth sat cross-legged on the floor, the flickering candlelight casting her face in eerie shadows. Her lips moved silent as if speaking to something he couldn’t see. The air in the room felt stifling.

“Beth?”

She looked up, startled, as if caught doing something shameful. “What?”

“Were you just in the hall?”

Her brow furrowed. “No. I’ve been here the whole time.”

The footsteps became a nightly occurrence, always the same: slow, deliberate pacing. Then came the watcher.

Michael woke one night with a sharp, primal certainty that he wasn’t alone. His body froze before his eyes could even focus, but when they did, he wished they hadn’t.

At the foot of the bed stood a shadow. Not a person, not exactly.

It was too tall, its edges too jagged, its presence too cold. It didn’t move, but Michael could feel its attention–heavy and unbearable–pressing down on him.

He couldn’t scream, couldn’t breathe. All he could do was lie there, paralyzed, as the thing leaned forward slightly like it was considering him.

Then it was gone.

In the morning, Beth barely reacted. “It’s just them,” she said dismissively. “Don’t be scared.”

“Beth, this isn’t normal. We need to stop this.”

“I can’t stop,” she snapped. “I won’t. They’re here, Michael. They’re here with me.”

Michael began listening outside the guest room door.

The first time, he heard whispers. Beth’s voice was unmistakable, low, and urgent. But the other voice—no, voices—weren’t human.

They didn’t exactly speak in words but in guttural sounds that churned Michael’s stomach. He burst into the room, but Beth was alone, sitting serenely among her candles.

“Who were you talking to?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “Don’t do that,” she said quietly. “Don’t interrupt. It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Beth, you’re scaring me.”

“You should be scared,” she murmured, almost to herself.

The next night, the air in the house changed. It smelled of rot, of something old and sour. Candles blew out without warning, leaving Michael alone in the dark with footsteps circling closer and closer.

Finally, he confronted Beth.

“This has to stop,” he begged. “Whatever you’ve brought here—it’s not your parents. It’s something else.”

“They’re helping me,” she said, but her voice cracked. “They promised—”

“Promised what?”

She didn’t answer, but her silence spoke volumes.

That night, Michael woke to find Beth standing over him. Her eyes weren’t her own. They were wide and dark, and her mouth twisted into a smile he’d never seen.

“Beth?” he whispered.

“No,” she said.

The thing at the foot of the bed had finally come to claim its prize.

He picked up the pencil, abandoned for nearly a month, and in the quiet of the hovel, a shelter he had found only a week before, wrote down the last chapter of a story lost in the fiery blast of two weeks ago.

Jack Serling opened his eyes to darkness, the suffocating pressure of a body bag pressing against his skin. Panic surged as he struggled against the restrictive confines, his mind foggy and disoriented.

Slowly, he became aware of the morbid reality—he was dead. The revelation was simple and horrifying, stripping away all remnants of his former existence.

“Not again,” Jack muttered, the words muffled by the bag.

He despised being dead, a state he had never chosen, and now found himself trapped in. His thoughts drifted to the team, especially Iris Beaumont, whose triple-digit IQ seemed both a gift and a curse.

She was sharp, uncompromising, and one of his least favorite people to work with. The third thing he disliked–though he kept it vague even to himself, gnawed at him constantly.

A flicker of movement caught his attention, and he realized it was Iris. Her eyes met his, filled with mutual disdain.

“Welcome back, Jack,” she said dryly, her voice echoing in the confined space. “Didn’t think you’d make it.”

Jack’s face was a grotesque mask of scars and melted flesh, proof of whatever horror had led him here.

“Cut the crap, Iris. What happened?”

Before she could respond, the world shifted, and Jack was standing in a dilapidated military base in Nevada, the air thick with tension and the lingering stench of decay. The team had to contain the spider monsters spreading like wildfire across the region, but their mission had taken an unexpected turn, leading them to this forgotten outpost.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” Iris noted, eyeing the hulking forms of the multilegged creatures creeping through the perimeter.

Jack’s mind raced, trying to piece together their current predicament. “We need to secure the perimeter and figure out what’s causing this surge. These spiders aren’t behaving like anything we’ve seen before.”

As they moved deeper into the base, they encountered Dr. Klaus Ehrenreich, a gaunt man with a thick German accent and an unsettling air of authority.

“Welcome to my domain,” Klaus greeted them, his eyes gleaming with madness and genius. “I’ve been waiting for you since 1950 when I became trapped.”

Iris exchanged a skeptical glance with Jack. “Trapped here since the 1950, you say? That’s a bold claim.”

Klaus chuckled, a hollow sound that echoed through the empty halls. “Believe what you will, but the secrets of this place are far greater than mere time can contain. The relics we seek are hidden within these walls.”

Jack’s intuition screamed that Klaus was lying. “What relics? And why the obsession with the Spear of Destiny?”

Klaus’s expression darkened. “The Spear is not just a symbol of power; it is the key to unlocking gateways beyond our comprehension. With it, we can transcend our mortal limitations.”

Meanwhile, back on Cape Cod, Miles Grayson remained behind, torn between duty and the spectral presence of Eliza, his wife—or perhaps his ex-wife. Her apparition hovered near the shoreline, her eyes filled with sorrow that mirrored his own.

“Miles, you don’t have to leave me,” she whispered, her voice a haunting melody.

Miles clenched his fists, battling the internal struggle. “I can’t stay, Eliza. There are things I need to do.”

Eliza’s form wavered, a tear slipping down her translucent cheek. “But I don’t want the Apocolypse, Miles. I just want you.”

His heart ached, but the weight of his responsibilities pressed him forward. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, turning away as the image faded.

In Nevada, tensions flared as the team delved deeper into the base’s mysteries. Jack found himself increasingly unsettled, his interactions with Klaus growing more intense.

The ghosts of former German scientists seemed to stir, their presence palpable in the cold, sterile air. “I have a plan,” Klaus announced to them, his eyes wild with conviction. “The Spear of Destiny can open a gateway to Heaven itself. Imagine the possibilities.”

Iris shook her head. “You’re playing with forces you don’t understand, Klaus. This isn’t the way.”

But Klaus was resolute. “You don’t comprehend the potential. With the gateway, we can harness divine power.”

Jack felt a strange compulsion, a connection he couldn’t explain. “What exactly are you planning?”

Klaus turned to him, a sinister smile creeping across his mutilated face. “To summon an angel, a being of pure light and power. But it will require a sacrifice.”

As the ritual commenced, the base seemed to hold its breath. The Spear of Destiny glowed with an ethereal light, and Jack felt his essence drawn into the process. The air crackled with energy, and a blinding flash enveloped the room.

When the light subsided, standing before them was an angel unlike any imagined. Its wings were a horrifying sight—flaps of Jack’s flayed skin stretched out, the flesh forming grotesque appendages that shimmered with otherworldly energy.

“I am the harbinger,” the angel intoned, its voice a blend of divine authority and human anguish. “Through Jack’s sacrifice, I have been reborn.”

Iris stepped forward, her mind racing to comprehend the abomination before her. “What have you done, Klaus?”

Klaus looked triumphant, with a hint of fear in his eyes. “We have bridged the gap between Heaven and Earth. This angel is our new beginning.”

Jack felt his consciousness slipping, the connection to his body weakening. “This isn’t heaven,” he thought, a surge of desperation coursing through him. “It’s a nightmare.”

As the angel raised its wings, the base trembled, the walls cracking under the strain of the new reality they had unleashed. The team had to choose—embrace the divine retribution Klaus had summoned or find a way to stop the catastrophe they had inadvertently set in motion.

Miles, from Rhode Island, felt the disturbance across the states. Eliza’s voice echoed in his mind once more. “Please, Miles. Don’t let him take everything.”

He knew what he had to do. Gathering his resolve, he made his way transcendentally to the site of the disturbance, the lines between reality and nightmare blurring with each step.

Back at the base, Iris confronted Klaus, the tension between them palpable. “This isn’t the way to save the world. You’ve gone too far.”

Klaus’s expression hardened. “You don’t understand the magnitude of what we’re doing. With the angel, we can reshape existence itself.”

Jack’s thoughts flickered–a last-ditch effort to intervene. “Iris, stop him. Before it’s too late.”

But his voice was fading, his connection severing as the angel’s influence took hold. Iris turned to see the monstrous wings unfurling, the creature poised to ascend into the heavens—or perhaps to bring about an entirely new form of apocalypse.

In a desperate move, Miles arrived, his presence a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. “Iris, we need to shut it down. Now.”

Together, they devised a plan to disrupt the ritual, focusing their efforts on the Spear of Destiny. As they worked to sever the connection, the angel writhed, its wings tearing through the fabric of reality.

With a final, herculean effort, they dismantled the Spear’s power, the angel dissolving into a cascade of light and shadow. The base quaked as the ghosts of the past dissipated.

Jack’s consciousness faded, a bittersweet sense of relief washing over him. “We did it,” Iris whispered, though her eyes reflected the toll it had taken.

Miles stood beside her, his hand reaching out to offer comfort. “It’s over, Jack. At least for now.”

Back at Cape Cod, Miles returned to the shoreline, Eliza’s presence no longer haunting him. “Goodbye, Eliza,” he whispered, feeling the weight of his decision lift as her form faded into the morning mist.

As the team emerged from the collapsing base, the first light of dawn breaking over the horizon, they knew their battle was far from over. The world had changed, and so had they—forever marked by the ragged wings of destiny that had flown too close to the divine.

Jack’s sacrifice and the team’s resilience had averted immediate disaster, but the questions remained. What other relics lay hidden in the shadows? What other forces sought to manipulate the fabric of reality? And most importantly, how could they navigate a world where the lines between life and death, reality and nightmare, were perpetually blurred?

As they moved forward, the lingering echoes of their ordeal reminded them that in their quest to contain the unknown, they had only scratched the surface of a much larger, more intricate existence—one where destiny was as ragged and torn as Jack’s wings.

The energy it took to write less than 15 hundred words left him exhausted, and he laid the pencil down next to the paper he had been working over. In the dim light of the room, Miles took a deep breath, then released it, the last one he would ever take as his head dropped onto the desk.

Eliza was waiting.

He stood there, looking stupid as a steer in a slaughterhouse, which made sense, considering he’d been drinking all day. The younger man, half-Asian by his look, stood poised to fight, his stance taut and ready. But no matter what he did, the older man didn’t respond, just swayed back and forth like a tumbleweed in a breeze.

Suddenly, the youngster withdrew two hatchet-like weapons, brandishing them with a wild yet practiced skill. Still, the older man, weaving like a drunk, failed to react to the threat.

Quietly, the older man, who was not drunk, was trying to figure out why the kid was so bent on fighting. Why had he produced weapons meant for killing? It didn’t make sense. After all, the older man was an unemployed stuntman waiting for a check from his last job.

Without warning, the first of the two Fu axes flew his way. The older man deflected it in a single, swift motion, sending it blade-first into the side of a nearby bookcase.

The second axe came rapidly after, and he caught it by the head. The feat caused the younger man to jump back, surprise etched on his face. When the older man took the axe by the handle, the youngster turned and ran, disappearing down the stairs and into C Street.

“What the hell?” Veronika shouted, her voice cutting through the tension.

“I have no damn clue,” the older man said, shaking his head.

“No,” she returned, “not that—the damn Bruce Lee move you just pulled.”

“Pour me another drink and I’ll tell you all about it,” he smiled, retrieving the Fu axe from the splintered bookcase.

By the end of the evening, Veronika would agree to a date, and the Asian fellow would be fifty bucks richer.

Ah, well now, let me tell you, I’ve met some curious folks in my time, but this here story I’ve laid down—it’s got the kind of peculiar characters and hijinks that could set a barroom to howling with laughter or fists flying, depending on who’s paying attention. I won’t embellish too much, but let’s dress it up in the garb of good ol’ Americana wit…

She glanced over and locked her eyes on the individual at the bar. Their shirt collar was wide enough to double as a mainsail, as wide as a street hole cover, often a feature of women’s holiday wear, and their earrings dragged along the bartop like two pink anchors. Their jeans were Lee, eighties Lee, washed to hell, and their mustache was a pushbroom ending in a baby Dali.

“It’s the mustache! Dead giveaway. I can’t believe I didn’t notice!”

“Quiet.”

“It’s the most feminine mustache I have ever seen!”

“Bob’gerald is what they go by.”

“Two masculine names for they?” she was saying this quietly or trying to. “That’s no-they name!”

“Just Bob, I think? Yes, I was served by them as Bob before.”

“The deadname is in the new name.”

Bob’gerald glared electromagnetic death beams at us, boring mostly into her, but I was in the burn radius, too.

“Are you sure it’s not just one of those two-first-names situations, like Brian Clark? Bob Hope? Ike Turner?”

“It has an apostrophe.”

“How do you know this, actually? Are you two friends?”

“Name tag,” I tapped my chest.

“They wear a name tag! Who wears a–I need another drink. Are there servers in this area? Will he–they–make me another, do you think? Their last one was a scorcher.”

“Let’s wait. Don’t go back there.”

“They better show up soon, my buzz gets bored fast.”

“Pace yourself!”

She popped two ice cubes in her mouth and crunched on them politely to indicate to me she was not about to let something go.

“I wonder where the Gerald came from.”

“Obviously Gerald Ford.”

Her laugh.

“Trans rights activist Gerald Ford!”

Okay, when she laughed, especially when she was drinking, it was this unfortunate cackle that barely fit the woman, petite with large breasts, thin-framed glasses, and hair in a sort of sexy chignon suggesting she forgot her books at the library, and do you mind if we circle back to grab them. Her cackle was befitting a witch.

“It’s from Geraldine, bitches–my nana!”

It came from the bar like the voice of a minor god, and it shut us up, and it shut up the restaurant, too. We could hear shoes squeak in the kitchen–it got so quiet.

“My apologies,” she said, often the first to break silences. “I’ll tell my friend to shut up.”

And now we could hear clogs in a hallway.

“Did the music just turn back on?”

“Was it off?”

“It was off and now it’s on. They control it from the bar! They turned it off to listen, they’re communists!”

“Shhh, no they didn’t!”

The clogs getting ever louder.

I hated to shush her.

“Ol’ Boobjob is a spy.”

“Don’t get me eighty-sixed!”

“Trying to get intel on us. We’ll show them–we’re not that intelligent.”

“I’m serious.

“It’s just, here’s what, Gerald is not a real name anymore. This guy, this gal, they set themselves up to be de facto mocked or at least looked at sideways by the likes of us, for their name alone, nothing else, admit it, just so they can retaliate.”

“They make great cocktails.”

Clogs getting louder and louder, and other clogs joined the procession.

“Depriving us of the right to laugh at our ancestors’ names!”

“Take the name tag off, you don’t work at Kinko’s!”

The clogs stopped clogging. A new server, now ours, arrived suddenly, sweaty and red-faced like a referee struck by a boxer.

“What are we having!”

“Still deciding.”

Another server joined our new server, followed by a sweaty host, too, and all three watched o’er by Bob’gerald at the bar, a phalanx of aggrieved hospitality.

“Oh, shit.”

“I have a booth in that corner over there if you’d like it.”

It sat between the hall to the bathroom and a plastic plant, or some barely alive plant that grows a leaf every two years. But we weren’t being asked to leave.

“Is that the naughty corner?”

“I have a group coming in in about twenty minutes.”

“They reserved this area.”

“If you don’t mind moving.”

“It’s a good area,” she said, “view of the bar. Lucky them, having a group.”

“It’s why it says reserved.”

She was holding a stack of RESERVED signs and had not yet laid one down, not anywhere.

“I think,” she popped in two more ice cubes while she talked, “I think I forgot I have Crone’s and I’m going to diarrhea all over the floor if we don’t leave soon, honey.”

“That’s good, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Let’s go–we’re clearly not welcome here!”

Her coat materialized when she said this, and I noticed her purse for the first time this afternoon. It was a smallish faux Gucci thing that looked like a briefcase.

She could have been grading papers at the library, papers about Renaissance dress codes and sexuality. Our server winced upon seeing the bag, not only because it was overlarge and a bit tacky but because it was befitting someone who might strike another person with it.

She stood up and did not strike, to the surprise and relief of everyone watching. Relief, until she pointed at the bar and screamed, “That man made me drink sake!”

And that, my friends, is how we became banned from the finest spam musubi joint on the Comstock, for which I still have no idea what that might be.

Virginia City seemed like a lark—a diversion on the way to Reno where Wraith, a doom metal band with a devoted but niche following, would play a gig in some dingy venue. Yet, as their rust-bitten van rolled into the town, that time had forgotten, and streets welcomed with an unsettling stillness that hummed just beneath the surface as if the land was holding its breath.

Kyle, lead singer of the band, leaned forward, squinting through his sunglasses. “Let’s stretch our legs. This place screams album cover.”

Behind him, Gus, his brother and band bassist, muttered something about needing to call their father. A lifetime of bitterness came into his voice like grit under his nails.

Their father, legendary geologist turned infamous recluse, Alan Grimstone hadn’t spoken to them in months. Yet Gus’ connection to him felt stronger here like the rocks whispered familial guilt.

They weren’t in town long before they met Dr. Lenore Hughes, the local veterinarian, who was patching up a dog outside her practice. She had the look of someone accustomed to fixing what others had broken.

Lenore knew who they were instantly—Virginia City was small, and word traveled fast. She offered them a knowing smile and a warning.

“Don’t let the town get under your skin,” she said. “Some places don’t like outsiders poking around.”

Sheriff Clay Benton was another story. Clay had been in the parking lot of one of the several bars in town, arguing with a man about a parking ticket when the band arrived.

His bloodshot eyes suggested he wasn’t exactly on the clock—or maybe he was, and that was the problem. Clay’s badge hung heavy on his shirt, but the undeniable weight seemed to press down from somewhere unseen.

Wraith didn’t plan to stay long. They certainly didn’t plan to discover the cellar.

The cellar was in the basement of a dilapidated boarding house where Kyle, Gus, and the others decided to crash for the night and where Gus heard the faint noise—metal scraping against stone—and found the trapdoor beneath a moth-eaten rug.

“You hear that?” Gus said, his voice tight.

“I hear you imagining things,” Kyle replied, though his tone betrayed his unease.

But the brothers pried it open, revealing a set of stairs carved into the earth. Their descent was lit only by the beam of a flashlight that sputtered with every step.

At the bottom, they found the room–its walls etched with strange symbols, impossibly precise, and older than anything they could imagine. In the center, a crude altar stood atop a mound of rocks slick with something dark and thick.

Kyle bent closer, his breath fogging in the chill of the space. The air seemed to hum.

“What is this?” Gus whispered.

“For you,” a voice replied.

It wasn’t Kyle’s or Gus’.

The voice belonged to a figure stepping from the shadows: a man old as the earth, wearing their father’s face.

The sheriff arrived an hour later, dragged from the haze of another pill high by Lenore’s frantic call. The veterinarian had heard screaming from the boarding house, and when she found the band’s van abandoned, she knew something was wrong.

What Clay found in the cellar turned his stomach—a scene he couldn’t fully comprehend but knew he’d have to bury.

Kyle’s body lay sprawled across the altar, his chest carved open with surgical precision. Gus was kneeling beside him, sobbing, his arms stained to the elbows in blood.

“Something’s coming,” Gus muttered, rocking back and forth. “It’s not done with us. It’s in our blood.”

Lenore had to pull Clay back up the stairs before his trembling hands reached for his revolver. The air down there—something in the air—seemed to slither into the mind and choke rational thought.

They sealed the cellar, but it didn’t stop what was already in motion.

By morning, Virginia City had turned on itself. The townsfolk claimed to hear whispers in the wind, voices from deep within the earth. Some disappeared entirely, others wandering the streets, bleeding from their eyes.

Wraith was gone, but their presence had cracked something loose—an ancient curse tied to the veins of silver that had once built the town.

Lenore, Clay, and Gus were the only ones left with any hope of stopping it. They pieced the story together: a pact made generations ago, a family’s bloodline cursed to bind something older than memory.

The thing beneath Sun Mountain was awake and hungered for its promise.

As the three descended into the mines to end the nightmare, they realized too late that they were walking into its jaws. The Grimstone had been waiting, not just for the brothers, but for anyone foolish enough to try and sever its ties.

The last thing Gus saw before the darkness swallowed them all was his father’s face, smiling, his teeth glinting like ore in the near-lightless void.

The town of Klamath hadn’t changed much in decades. The old hardware store still squeaked underfoot, and the diner on Main Street served coffee so thick it practically poured itself. But the air had grown thinner somehow–a thinness you can’t see but feel—a suffocating absence.

It started with an innocuous post. Ellen Harper, a retired teacher nearing seventy, received a notification on Gathered, a social media platform that had quietly taken over where others faltered.

The platform had a strange appeal: no ads, no algorithms pushing nonsense. Real people. Real connections. It promised something old-fashioned in the digital world.

Ellen wasn’t tech-savvy, but she’d made a profile at her daughter’s insistence. “You can keep in touch with people!” Michelle had said. “Like a virtual scrapbook.”

Ellen wasn’t sure what that meant, but after her husband passed last year, she’d been desperate for contact, any contact, that wasn’t the hum of a television in her empty living room. The notification was simple: Your friend Martha Taylor has posted a memory.

Ellen froze. Martha Taylor had been her best friend in high school.

They’d lost touch after graduation, and Martha had died in a car crash when they were twenty-two. Ellen had cried for days when she heard.

Curiosity overrode logic, and she clicked the notification.

Martha’s profile picture—a black-and-white snapshot from Senior year—smiled at her. Below: “Remember the time we ditched class for the lake? Wish we could go back.”

Ellen felt her pulse quicken. The wording was unmistakable.

That was their secret, the one they’d sworn not to tell. How could Martha have posted it?

Ellen shut her laptop, the screen’s glow imprinting on her eyes like a brand.

The next day, Ellen checked again. She hadn’t meant to, but the pull was irresistible.

Martha’s profile wasn’t the only one. Other friends from long ago—people Ellen knew had passed—were posting.

Their messages felt warm, nostalgic, and personal. And yet, something was off. They were just too perfect, like someone—or something—had cracked open Ellen’s head and scooped out memories.

She brought it up at the diner over pie and coffee with her neighbor, Ray Donaldson. “Have you seen those weird posts on Gathered?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

Ray scratched his grizzled chin. “Yeah, a few. Thought it was some AI gimmick, scraping old data to make people feel good. You know these tech companies.”

“Martha’s been dead for fifty years, Ray,” Ellen whispered the last word like saying it louder might summon something.

Ray didn’t answer right away. His fork hovered over his slice of cherry pie.

“You remember Charlie Webb? My fishing buddy?”

Ellen nodded.

“He posted last week. Said I should come visit him at the lake.” Ray’s voice faltered. “Charlie drowned in that lake. Twenty years ago.”

The platform grew darker with each passing week. The dead weren’t just posting memories anymore. They were inviting, suggesting, and calling.

Ellen couldn’t shake the sense that each post left an imprint, a faint yet visceral pull to follow where it led. And then the living began disappearing.

Michelle came to visit Ellen one weekend. She’d flown in, a rare treat, her toddler in tow. Ellen tried to warn her about the posts and the notifications.

Michelle laughed it off. “Mom, it’s just an algorithm. Some bad-taste viral marketing.”

But one night, Ellen woke to Michelle crying softly in the living room. She was cradling her phone, her face pale.

“What’s wrong?” Ellen asked.

Michelle held the phone out, trembling. On the screen was a post from her father, John Harper. “I miss you. Come see me.”

John had died five years ago, buried on a cold December day, a service Michelle herself had planned. Ellen snatched the phone away and threw it across the room.

It hit the wall with a crack, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass. But the notification sound dinged again. And again. And again.

The posts kept coming. From John. From Ellen’s long-dead friends. From neighbors who had died decades ago. The messages began appearing on every screen: televisions, digital clocks, even the smart fridge Michelle had insisted on buying Ellen for Christmas.

“We’re waiting.”

“Come back to us.”

“It’s so beautiful here.”

It wasn’t just Klamath. The news reported that Gathered had gone global, with over ten million users and hundreds of billions of posts. But something else had shifted. When people logged on, they often didn’t log off. Their accounts became active. Friends reported hearing strange noises—whispers, shuffling footsteps—before the missing person’s profile joined the chorus.

Ellen’s final notification came on a stormy November night. She hadn’t touched her computer in days, hadn’t dared. But it glowed on her desk now, the screen flashing faintly like a heartbeat.

“Martha Taylor has tagged you in a photo.”

Her hands trembled as she clicked. The image was old, but Ellen recognized it immediately: a snapshot of the lake, their secret escape.

But something new was there, just beneath the rippling water–face smiling and waiting. Ellen’s laptop shut itself down.

The house went dark. And from the kitchen, she swore she heard her husband’s voice.

“Ellen, come home.”

Quickly, I stepped off the back of my horse, my belly grumbling from too many beans at breakfast and that extra cup of coffee I probably shouldn’t have had. Couldn’t be helped now. I found a low stone wall, perfect to shield my pride from prying eyes. I dropped my reins, trusting my old horse to stay put. I settled myself down, trying to avoid squatting on my spurs—a tricky dance that any cowhand knows all too well.

Just as I got comfortable, or as much as one can get in that situation, I looked up. My blood turned to ice. There, standing at the barrier, was a large black bull. It stood still, studying me with a victimless curiosity, its dark eyes locked onto mine.

“Oh, great,” I muttered, “of all the spots in this entire range, you had to pick mine.”

The bull didn’t budge–just stared me down. I could feel the tension rising. This beast wasn’t about to give up its new-found amusement.

“Alright, big fella,” I whispered, “you just stay there and I’ll finish up quick.”

But my body wasn’t cooperating. The cold sweat on my back didn’t help. I tried to focus, tried to ignore those dark, unblinking eyes.

I could hear my horse snorting behind me, likely wondering what I had gotten us into this time.

“Stay calm, old friend,” I thought, hoping my horse’s nerves would hold steadier than mine.

The bull took a step closer, its massive head lowering, snorting a breath that I could almost feel on my skin.

“Just great,” I mumbled, “now he’s getting curious.”

I started to straighten up, figuring maybe I could ease back to my horse and get out of there without incident.

But the bull took another step, and my heart hammered in my chest, “Easy now,” I muttered, “easy…”

I managed to get to my feet, hitching up my britches while keeping my eyes on the bull the whole time.

My muscles were tense, ready to spring. I inched my way backward, feeling the rough texture of the stone wall under my hands. “Don’t rush it,” I told myself, “keep it slow and steady.”

The bull watched, its eyes never leaving mine. Finally, I reached my horse. I grabbed the reins, my hands shaking slightly. “Time to go,” I whispered to my pony, mounting up with a swift, practiced movement.

As we started away, the bull took a few more steps toward the wall but then stopped. It seemed to lose interest, turning back towards the open range.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Well, that was close,” I said aloud to my horse.

The old boy just flicked his ears as if to say he’d seen worse. I patted his neck, grateful for his steady presence.

“Let’s find another spot,” I added, nudging him into a slow trot. “And maybe next time, I’ll skip that extra cup of coffee.”

She was at the bar, leaning in like she was about to reveal the secret of life to the bartender when all she wanted was to announce that we’d ditched our bar seats for a table in the restaurant—a stunt people pull when they haven’t seen each other in, oh, thirty minutes and want to relive the reunion.

I tried to warn her. “They’ll make us pay the tab up here,” I said. “And not without a Greek chorus of grumbles. Just keep it simple.”

The bartender, engaged in a ritualistic polishing of a single glass—around and around it went, his beady eyes fixed on me as if I owed him money. Which, of course, I did.

“I was mathing the tip,” I explained to her, fumbling with my wallet.

“Mathing?” she asked, as though I’d told her I was reinventing fire.

“Yes, mathing. Ten percent times two. I’m very advanced.”

“You mean mouthing?” she said, with a smirk sharp enough to cut citrus.

“No,” I countered. “Fight, flight, or freeze—I’m a freezer. My ancestors probably stood still while wolves, sabertooths, or very motivated sloths picked them off one by one.”

She snorted, which she called laughing. “It takes a village, I guess. Somebody had to be the meat supply.”

“Thank you for that anthropological insight,” I muttered. “Anyway, mathing—it’s a thing we say at work. You know, like, ‘The math’s not mathing.’ Or, ‘My brain’s not braining.’”

“You’ve changed,” she said, which is her go-to line whenever I use a word with more than two syllables.

“I don’t think I tipped,” I admitted just a little too quickly.

“You haven’t changed,” she replied, grabbing me by the armpits like I was a misbehaving puppy. It is another one of her charming quirks—treating me like a Labrador needing retraining. I should find it more annoying, but I don’t.

“What are we going to do with you?” she said, tilting her head like I was a broken vase she couldn’t bear to throw out.

“With me? I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I haven’t seen you in half an hour, and already you’ve found the one bartender who despises you. You’re still a masochist.”
“I’m not—”

“You are,” she interrupted, letting go of my armpits only to kiss me on my forehead. “You punish yourself. It’s like a hobby. And I bet you’re going to tell me it’s because you grew up in that cult.”

“It wasn’t a cult. It was… organized.”

“Sure it was. Anyway, what are we going to do?” the woman asked like I was a shared project forgotten about until today.

“Continue drinking?”

“And where do you propose we do that? This place is too fast-paced for me. I need to slow down.”

“You’re not allowed to pace yourself?”

“Incapable,” she said, swirling her glass. “And that bartender knows it. He’s trying to get me drunk. It’s a scam to squeeze tips out of me, but I’m not drinking what he’s squeezing. You get me?”

“They,” I corrected because I enjoy living dangerously.

The valley smelled of iron and sagebrush. The first raven arrived at dawn, its black wings silent against the empty sky. By noon, they blotted out the sun.

Eve was the first to notice, though she didn’t say anything. A geologist by trade, she’d come to the reservation to study unusual magnetic fluctuations in the rocks. “Anomalies,” she’d told the tribal elders who allowed her access to the land. But they knew better.

As the sky darkened, she realized the rocks weren’t the only thing pulling.

On the other side of the valley, Thomas lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. He’d returned to the reservation after years of self-imposed exile.

A drifter, some said. A deserter, others whispered. But Thomas knew what had driven him away—it was something older.

The ravens hadn’t gathered like this since he was a boy, and his grandmother had warned him what it meant. “When the sky fills, the veil thins. And when the veil thins, they come.”

He flicked his cigarette into the dirt. He wasn’t ready for what was coming.

Abigail arrived at the edge of the valley on foot. She was a stranger here, a social worker sent to investigate reports of neglect at the rundown house of a single father and his daughter.

But when she knocked on the door, no one answered. Only the ravens did, their caws harsh and guttural, as though mocking her.

The house smelled of old wood and meat gone rancid. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, and she saw the walls. Strange symbols in the beams, painted in what she could only hope was rust.

“Hello?” she called, her voice thin and echoing.

That’s when she noticed the feathers. Hundreds of them, scattered across the floor, stuck to the ceiling, plastered in patterns she couldn’t understand.

And the silence.

Night fell quickly, unnaturally. The valley seemed to breathe, an exhale that carried whispers through the sagebrush. The ravens perched silently now, watching, waiting.

Eve stood at the rise in a hill, her equipment at her feet, forgotten. The magnetic readings had gone haywire, the instruments spinning wildly, unresponsive to her attempts to calibrate them.

But it wasn’t the readings that held her attention. It was the figures below.

In the valley, shadows moved against the light of a pale, flickering fire. Not people—not quite.

They were too tall, too thin, their limbs bending in ways human joints couldn’t. Eve stumbled backward, gasping, just as Thomas’s truck screeched to a stop behind her.

“Get in,” he barked.

Abigail emerged from the trees, her face pale, her hands shaking. “They’re here,” she whispered. “Whatever they are. I saw them.”

“We all have,” Thomas said grimly.

The fire in the valley wasn’t wood but something older, something ancient. The figures surrounded it, chanting in low, guttural tones that made Eve’s teeth ache.

Thomas clutched an old rifle, though he knew it would do no good. Abigail held a small, crumpled photograph of the little girl she was too late to save.

“They come through the veil tonight,” Thomas said. “It’s open now.”

“What are they?” Eve asked.

“Not spirits,” he said. “Not ghosts. Something worse. Something hungry.”

Abigail’s voice broke the silence. “They’re looking for us.”

The shadows in the valley stopped moving, and the chanting ceased. Slowly, impossibly, they began to look upward toward the three figures against the night sky.

“They see us,” Abigail whispered, her voice trembling.

Eve felt it before she heard it: the low hum that grew into a roar. The valley seemed to split open, the ground trembling beneath their feet. The fire leaped higher, and the shadows began to climb—not walking, not running, but slithering, twisting their way up the rock faces.

Thomas raised his rifle and fired, the sound shattering the unnatural quiet. The first shadow shrieked, a sound that pierced bone, but it didn’t stop. It only grew angrier.

“They don’t die,” Thomas muttered. “We have to close it. Close the veil.”

They ran, the shadows in pursuit. The air grew colder with every step, the sky darker.

Abigail screamed as one of the creatures grabbed at her, its fingers like steel rods, its breath foul and wet. Eve swung a heavy rock at its head, and it fell back, howling, but the others came faster now.

“They’re pulling the dead through!” Thomas yelled, pointing to the valley.

Below, more figures emerged, shambling and twisted, their forms half-rotted, their eyes empty sockets. Eve remembered the petroglyphs she’d seen carved into the rocks at the base of the cliff.

“The markings—they’re a barrier!” she yelled.

“We need to finish the pattern!” Abigail cried, fumbling with a piece of chalk in her pocket.

But the shadows were too close.

Thomas turned, rifle raised. “Go,” he said. “Finish it. I’ll hold them off.”

Eve hesitated, but Abigail grabbed her arm. “We don’t have time.”

They scrambled down the hill as Thomas fired again and again behind them. The ravens screamed overhead, circling, diving at the creatures, buying them precious seconds.

The markings were incomplete, the ancient symbols half-erased by time and weather. Eve knelt, her hands shaking, and began to draw.

Abigail whispered a prayer, though she didn’t know who or what she prayed to. Above them, Thomas’ screams echoed across the valley.

The ground opened again at the petroglyph’s completion, a blinding light pouring from the cracks. The shadows froze, shrieking, as the fire consumed them.

The veil snapped shut with a sound like thunder, and the valley fell silent. By dawn, the ravens were gone.

Eve and Abigail stood atop the hill, staring at the empty valley. There was no sign of Thomas, no sign of the fire, none of the things that had come through.

Only silence.

“He knew,” Abigail said quietly. “He always knew.”

Eve nodded.