Blog

Old Vegas is a shrine to the deranged, a gaudy cathedral of chaos where dreams slither through the gutter in neon technicolor. I touched down on Fremont Street for a few days of disjointed reverie, drawn by the glow of lights that don’t sleep, lights that lure fools, the dangerously curious, into a world that hasn’t realized it died years ago.

It isn’t the sterilized gloss of the Strip—no, this is the real Vegas. Raw. Sinful. Beautiful in its corroded way. I made my pilgrimage to Atomic Liquors, where ghosts and degenerates share the same barstool.

It is Hunter’s old haunt. Vegas’s oldest bar. Back when men sipped bourbon and watched the sky boil over with mushroom clouds from the roof like it was the goddamned Fourth of July.

I slid through the door, armed with a spade and a thirst for trouble.

Somewhere beneath this sanctuary of hooch and atomic nostalgia lay the remnants of something holy—Hunter S. Thompson’s billfold and keys, entombed in the dirt like a relic from a more glorious, unhinged age. But first, whiskey. Always whiskey.

The barkeep pours as if sensing I was on some idiotic mission. The kind that gets you jailed, killed, or immortalized in a footnote of lunacy. I wasn’t sure which I preferred, but the whiskey made the question irrelevant. The air was thick with stories, the kind you don’t write down because nobody would believe them sober.

The spade stayed in my pocket for now, a quiet reminder that every journey has its moment of excavation. I’d dig when the time was right—when the whiskey had numbed the rational part of my brain and the neon haze outside blurred into something close to divine.

Somewhere out there, Hunter was laughing. I was sure of it.

Things are just that–things. You can have them, lose them, break them, burn them.

In the grand scheme of the cosmos, they don’t mean much. They are the trinkets of a distracted species, the bobbles, the widgets that keep us entertained while the universe unfolds in its vast, indifferent splendor.

Memories, though, they are different. They are the very essence of who we are.

Each moment, each joy and sorrow, neatly cataloged in the neurons of our fragile brains. These are the tales we tell ourselves, the whispered secrets in the corridors of the mind. No one can take these from us, not even the indifferent stars.

So it goes.

Reputation is an entirely different beast. You spend your life building it, brick by careful brick, a testament to your good deeds and hard-won integrity.

Then, by one swift act of folly, all comes crashing down. One misstep, one lapse in judgment, and poof! It’s gone. Reputation is a fragile construct, held together by the thinnest of threads, easily severed by the sharp blade of scandal.

So it goes.

The universe–indifferent and vast, observes us cling to our possessions, memories, and reputations. We strive, we falter, we rebuild, all under the watchful gaze of stars that have seen it all before and will see it all again.

And so, we laugh, cry, and scream into the void. We hold onto our things, cherish our memories, and guard our reputations. Because in this dance of existence, what else can we do but try to find meaning in the chaos?

So it goes.

It began, as most winter misadventures do, with a surprise snowfall on Geiger Grade—a sight so unexpected that even the mountains seemed to raise an eyebrow in disbelief. On the winding roads, nature had taken it upon herself to introduce a bit of drama. Luckily, someone had thought ahead and spread salt water on the slopes to ease the icy grip of the curves, though one might wonder if the salt was for the road or the winter gripes of the driver.

While the business folk in Virginia City eagerly awaited a brisk holiday season, hopes high as a gambler’s stake before dealing the cards, Mother Nature had other plans. The snow, a well-timed misfortune, dampened the prospects for a hearty sales surge.

So, what did a weary traveler do to quell their disappointment? Seek comfort in the Blue Haired Cafe, where nothing says ‘holiday cheer’ like a place that sounds like it serves soup and sandwiches to the intestinally-vapored.

Minestrone was the perfect remedy for the chill—a fine for stirring the soul and breaking the ice. And then there was the chicken salad sandwich, an offering carved from a particularly spirited bird.

While the sandwich was edible, the pieces of gristle hiding within were challenging to the palatal fortitude. These were not large enough to alarm but just enough sizeable to make one contemplate the wisdom of chewing.

While strolling along the boardwalk and meeting a friend, we hugged in the spirit of the season. Our embrace on the double yellow line of the roadway was so heartfelt and enduring that it became a spectacle.

Passersby paused to witness this display of affection, and soon, a small crowd had gathered, their collective gaze fixed upon us. The traffic stilled as drivers and pedestrians alike were captivated by our unabashed display of camaraderie.

At that moment, I realized that in Virginia City, even the simplest acts can become grand performances. C Street is a stage where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.

By the time we parted ways, I was sure the traffic had backed up to Gold Hill. But I can tell you this: no honking or frustrated motorist would ever convince me that our hug was anything less than the most paramount event ever on C Street.

One might assume this would be the apex of a holiday adventure, but alas, it was merely the beginning. What came next was the true pinnacle of modern civilization—the search for a calendar. A task so mundane, yet so rife with promise for absurdity, that there was no choice but to embark on it.

Reno, that smallish burg beneath Virginia City and towering Sun Mountain, is often described as a place of wonder and woe. It is a town where one might think they could find anything—unless searching for something as simple as a calendar.

For that, I was directed to the illustrious Burning Snowball, a chain bookstore with an almost poetic name—suggesting, perhaps, that its wares would burn with the intensity of a thousand flaming winter days. Inside, the calendar section was nothing short of a tragedy. Three racks of “nothing but misarrangement,” the heap of months jumbled together like a poker hand shuffled by a tantrum-tossing toddler.

It was a scene that could have made even the most ardent lover of chaos reconsider their position. Imagine, if you will, walking into a large mall on a busy shopping day—a place loathed by many and avoided by most, except when the cruel hand of necessity forces you through the gates of consumerism, confronted with a jigsaw puzzle of merchandise, each piece begging for attention, none remotely related to the other.

But this, this mess of calendars, was no mere inconvenience; it was an exercise in human perseverance. So, dear reader, let this tale be a lesson that while searching for a calendar may seem as harmless as a snowflake, it is, in truth, an endeavor fraught with peril as an untamed chicken salad sandwich.

The desert around Virginia City was alive with dreadful tumult. Clattering weapons and chaotic shouts fractured the night, echoing against the nearby cliffs. The horde—those nameless monstrosities—was regrouping with uncanny coordination. Time had run out. Fleeing was no longer an option but a necessity.

Jake surveyed the blood-slick battlefield. The earth seemed unwilling to let them escape, slippery and treacherous beneath his boots. He wiped at his eyes, but his hands, coated in the oily, crimson residue of their slaughtered foes, could do little to clear his vision. Stumbling toward his companions, he felt the weight of their plight fully on his shoulders.

“We have to go,” he said, his voice tinged with urgency and frustration.

Mike, ever defiant, remained unmoved. “Wait,” he commanded, the word sharp and unyielding.

Jake clenched his fists, his patience fraying. “Are you mad?”

“I’m nearly blind!” Mike snapped, turning to meet Jake’s gaze. His face bore deep, weeping wounds; blood carved jagged paths down his neck, glistening in the faint light. His hair was thick with the congealed remnants of the battle.

Jake pressed on. “And wounded as well! We cannot last!” His tone softened into desperation, though he doubted it sounded less like pleading.

Mike’s expression wavered. His hand instinctively brushed over the wound on his cheek, and for a moment, his fierce demeanor faltered. Shoulders slumped, sword dipping, he looked less like the warrior Jake knew and more like a man on the verge of breaking.

But the moment was fleeting. Mike gritted his teeth, fury blazing anew in his eyes. He straightened, his body a taut wire of resolve. “Wait,” he repeated, the finality of his tone brooking no argument.

Defeated, Jake dropped down from the bloodied table where they had regrouped and gathered the others close. He draped an arm protectively around Sarah, her wiry frame trembling against his chest.

From the edges of the clearing came the drumbeat of synchronized marching. The horde was massing, their shadowy forms blotting out the gaps between the trees.

The creatures came in waves, a blend of beast and man. Some crawled on all fours, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the night, while others moved upright, their gray, scarred faces lit by a sinister intelligence. Bows and arrows gleamed in their hands.

Above, winged horrors beat their leathery appendages, their eyes glowing like molten metal. Arrows streaked through the air, whispering death as they flew, though most missed their mark—deliberately, it seemed.

“This isn’t random,” Jake muttered. “They’re holding back. They’re waiting.”

The realization chilled him. Sarah was still standing atop a battered table, tightening her grip on her sword. She remained defiantly poised, her legs braced wide like a sailor facing a storm at sea.

A change swept through the horde. The beasts snarled and pawed at the ground, their restless movements escalating into a frenzy. And then the clearing darkened.

From the depths of the sage emerged a towering monstrosity, its appearance so grotesque it seemed to bend the laws of nature.

It tore through the treeline like a locomotive, snapping branches and uprooting saplings. The creature was enormous, its crimson body rippling with muscle and encased in a sheen of bristling black fur.

Massive, spiked bangles adorned its arms, and its legs, built like tree trunks, carried it forward with the unstoppable momentum of an avalanche.

Its head, crowned with curved yellow horns, swung from side to side, the single functional eye glaring with evil intelligence. The other eye was a hollow scar, a deep fissure that ran down its face into a gaping maw filled with golden teeth.

Jake gagged at the stench rolling off the beast—the decay and sulfur mingled in a nauseating miasma. It was a walking abomination, more statue than flesh, yet horrifyingly alive.

The whip it carried gleamed with metal studs, and it lashed the air with a sound like cracking thunder. The other creatures fell silent, shrinking back as the red beast entered the clearing, their once-ravenous cries reduced to anticipatory murmurs.

Sarah did not flinch.

The beast’s whip lashed out, its studded thongs slicing through the air. Sarah evaded with a deft backflip, her lithe form twisting like a leaf on the wind. She landed lightly, her feet finding precarious purchase on the uneven table.

The creature roared, the sound shaking the very ground beneath them. It lunged, its massive claws outstretched, its whip coiled back for another strike.

Jake watched in helpless awe as Sarah advanced instead of retreating. She moved with calculated precision, ducking beneath the beast’s next attack and springing forward.

Her sword arced through the air, a glint of steel against the darkness. The blade struck true, embedding itself deep into the beast’s remaining eye.

The red monster froze.

For a moment, the clearing was eerily still. Then, a geyser of black ichor erupted from the wound, drenching Sarah as she tumbled clear.

The beast toppled, its monumental frame crashing to the ground. The impact reverberated through the clearing, crushing the lesser creatures beneath its bulk.

The horde’s cries of triumph turned to panicked shrieks. Chaos erupted as they scattered, their ranks broken, and their morale shattered.

Sarah returned to Jake’s side, her movements swift and unerring despite the gore that slicked her hair and armor. She grabbed his arm, her grip firm.

“Now we run!” she commanded.

And for once, no one argued.

The autumn wind carried the first crisp bite of the season, rustling through the park where Lawrence Clayton sat on his usual bench. At sixty-five years, he had grown accustomed to solitude, but it was a bitter familiarity he never truly welcomed.

He met Marianne Winslow one late summer afternoon when she tripped over a stray tree root while jogging. Lawrence had been the one to steady her, their eyes meeting in a fleeting moment of gratitude.

She was thirty-one, vibrant and filled with energy, with a kind smile that felt like sunlight on his weathered soul. A friendship had blossomed, unexpected but cherished, as they found common ground in their shared loneliness.

They spoke often about life, dreams, and disappointments. Marianne had recently moved to the city, leaving behind an unfulfilling relationship and searching for a fresh start.

Lawrence listened attentively, his heart aching at her stories as he confided in her. As the leaves began to turn golden, Lawrence longed for something more.

“Do you ever wish,” he began hesitantly, “that someone could just… hold you? Not in a romantic way, but just to feel close to another person?”

Marianne tilted her head, puzzled by the question. “I guess everyone feels that way sometimes,” she replied lightly, not fully grasping the depth of his words.

Days later, Marianne shared exciting news. She had met someone—a kind, ambitious man her age named Daniel. Her face lit up as she described their first date, her laughter ringing with hope. Lawrence felt his chest tighten, but he smiled and congratulated her. “He sounds wonderful,” he said warmly. “You deserve this, Marianne.”

Her joy was infectious, and Lawrence tried to share in it, though each new detail she offered chipped away at his heart. He could never tell her how he had hoped, even in the quietest corners of his mind, that she might fill the void he lived with daily—not as a lover, but as a comfort, a balm for the ache of isolation.

On a frosty December afternoon, Marianne invited Lawrence to meet Daniel. He accepted graciously, shaking the young man’s hand with all the warmth he could muster.

Watched them together, laughing and holding hands, Lawrence experienced a bittersweet sense of peace. He had no place in this picture, but he had done the right thing in encouraging her to pursue joy.

As Marianne and Daniel’s relationship flourished, Lawrence began to pull back. It was gradual—missed coffee dates, fewer texts, a friendly excuse here and there. He watched from the sidelines as Marianne’s world grew brighter, and though he was proud of her happiness, his loneliness deepened.

Lawrence returned to his house that evening and sat in his armchair, letting the silence settle around him like an old, familiar friend. Life would go on, as it always did, but the weight of loneliness remained, the one companion he could not escape.

The cabin walls seemed to close in on me, the air thick with the stench of isolation. Days had blurred into nights, and the relentless pain in my head had become my only companion. It felt like my skull was splitting apart at the sutures, each crack a reminder of my impending doom.

I stumbled to the window, my breath fogging the glass.

Outside, the world was a frozen wasteland, the heavy winter’s snow blanketing everything in a deceptive calm. The fire-like burning in my head was unbearable, each pulse of pain a cruel mockery of my existence.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I muttered, my voice barely a whisper.

The cabin fever had set in, twisting my thoughts into a tangled mess of despair and desperation. I needed relief, even if it meant braving the deadly cold outside.

I threw on my coat, the fabric rough against my fevered skin, and pushed open the door.

The icy wind hit me like a wall, but I welcomed it. Each step into the snow was a battle, my legs heavy and uncooperative. The pain in my head intensified, a searing agony that made me gasp for breath.

“Just a little further,” I urged myself, my voice lost in the howling wind.

The snow crunched underfoot in contrast to the fire raging in my skull. I could feel the cold seeping into my bones, numbing the pain ever so slightly.

I collapsed into the snow, the icy crystals biting into my skin.

The relief was immediate, the burning in my head dulled by the freezing. I closed my eyes, letting the snow envelop me, a blanket of icy comfort.

“Thank you,” I whispered to the snow, trembling.

The pain was still there, but it was distant now, a shadow of its former self. I could feel my body growing colder, the numbness spreading. It was a strange peace, a quiet acceptance of my fate.

“Is this how it ends?” I wondered, my thoughts drifting.

The snow was my savior and my executioner, offering relief even as it claimed my life. I could feel my heartbeat slowing, each thump a reminder of the life slipping away from me.

“At least the pain is gone,” I thought, a bitter smile tugging at my lips.

The world around me faded into a blur of white, the snowflakes dancing in the wind. I was alone, but I wasn’t afraid. The cold had taken away the fire and the agony that consumed me.

As the darkness closed in, I felt a strange sense of gratitude. The snow had given me the relief I desperately sought, even if it meant my end. I let out a final breath, the cold air filling my lungs one last time.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to the world, my voice lost in the silence of the snow. And then, there was nothing but the cold and the peace it brought.

Annie crawled out of the earth, the metal latch to her underground prison still smoldering, warped by the electromagnetic pulse that had erased the world above.

For five years, she had been the possession of a man who called himself Martin—a sadistic monster who delighted in tormenting her, calling it love. But the pulse had granted her what no act of will could: freedom.

Above, the world was an icebound wasteland. Snow drifted across empty hills, the silence pressing like a weight. The cold clawed at her like unseen fingers, reminding her that Martin was only one of many threats in this new world without electricity, engines, or warmth.

Miles away, Declan scanned the horizon from the porch of his cabin. A retired Marine, he had prepared for this exact kind of collapse.

But all the stockpiles in the world hadn’t saved his wife and son, lost to the EMP’s first moments of chaos. Grief had carved him hollow. Survival was muscle memory now, not meaning.

Annie and Declan’s fates collided on a frozen backroad. He found her stumbling through the snow, a skeletal figure wrapped in tatters.

Her lips were blue, her eyes vacant. Against every survival instinct honed, Declan took her in, nursing her back from the edge of death.

Annie spoke little of her past, her voice trembling when pressed. Declan didn’t push. The terror in her eyes said enough.

What mattered now was making it through the winter. Nevada was their goal—two hundred brutal miles to where Declan had an old ally and a stockpile of resources.

But Martin wasn’t finished. The EMP hadn’t just freed Annie–it released him as well. Without society’s constraints, his pursuit was unrelenting, a wolf tracking a wounded deer.

The first sign of him came at dusk., as a shadow across the snow. A whisper carried on the wind.

Declan’s instincts prickled, honed by years of combat. Annie shrank into herself, the terror she’d kept buried bubbling to the surface.

“You can’t run, Annie,” Martin’s voice taunted from the darkness one night. “You’re mine.”

Each day became a nightmare. They trekked through waist-deep snow and frozen forests, feeling Martin’s eyes.

He left behind his signature marks: gutted animals suspended in trees, cryptic words smeared in blood. His games grew deadlier, laying traps that injured and slowed them.

Declan fought to protect Annie, but doubt began to gnaw at him. She was distant, her eyes avoiding his.

Something about her silence unsettled him, as if there was a part of her story he wasn’t hearing. The final confrontation came in an abandoned mining town on the edge of Vya, Nevada, its skeletal buildings casting long shadows in the moonlight.

The pair cornered Martin’s laughter hallow as he stepped from the darkness, knife in hand.

“Did you really think you could get away from me?” Martin sneered, his grin monstrous.

The fight was vicious. Martin lunged at Annie, but Declan intercepted him. They grappled in the snow, each blow cracking like gunfire in the frigid air.

Declan finally pinned Martin and drove a jagged piece of metal through his chest. Martin coughed, blood bubbling from his lips, yet he smiled.

“You think you’ve saved her?” he rasped. “You’ve got no idea what she is.”

Annie stepped forward, her face blank, her hand shaking as she reached for Martin’s discarded knife. Declan turned to her, breathing heavily, his expression a mixture of relief and exhaustion.

“It’s over,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Annie didn’t respond. Her grip on the knife tightened, her eyes locking onto Declan’s.

“I’m free now,” she murmured, almost to herself.

Before Declan could react, she plunged the blade into his chest. His breath caught in a wet gasp, disbelief etched onto his face as he fell backward, crimson blooming across the snow.

Annie stood over him, her breaths shallow, her face eerily serene. “No one saves me, I save myself,” she whispered, her voice soft but empty.

As the snow fell heavier, she turned and walked into the wilderness, her figure swallowed by the storm. Behind her, the bodies of the two men—one who had hurt her, one who had tried to save her—lay cold and still.

In the darkness, the winter accepted her, a predator now freed, as dangerous as the world that had once held her captive.

Brady sat on the ridge, the rim of his hat tugged low against the burn of the wind. The pines bent and shifted, whispering a low hymn for the dead.

Cat tracks traced the dirt below, lines too perfect, too clean. He didn’t trust them.

Stories like this were not to be trusted. They were to soothe, to quiet restless towns and calm nervous eyes.

A mountain lion–lean and hungry. A ranger caught unawares.

Blood scattered across the leaves, dark and metallic. A story that’s anything but tidy–but as straightforward as the crack of a rifle shot.

But Brady had seen the body. He’d crouched there in the dirt, the smell of it filling his nose.

Flesh tore open, throat ruined, split like a dried creek bed. He didn’t need God whispering in his ear to know the difference between the ragged work of claws and the smooth, deliberate line of the blade.

God had nothing to say about this, anyway. He hadn’t spoken to Brady since he was a boy. Maybe not even then.

Maybe it had gone quiet when his old man quit waking up before dawn, pouring his mornings from a bottle. Or when the lights in the house went out for the last time, and the doors stayed shut.

There are no prayers for boys left in empty houses. The gods of the desert and the forest, the ones Brady had clung to later—fierce gods with soft hands and warm, laughing mouths—had never been gods.

Only women who lingered for a moment, just long enough for him to convince himself it was real. Then they left, too.

Brady forgave them for leaving. He didn’t forgive God.

God was dead, or maybe He’d never been, and it didn’t matter much either way. The world was just what it was.

Dirt, sweat, and harsh realities–ignored. It was blood soaking into the ground and stars scattered cold and sharp over the peaks at night.

Now, the valley whispered lies like the pines whispered above him. Lies to bury the blame, bury the truth.

Pin it all on the cat. Lock it away with the scent of death and the copper tang of blood.

But Brady had been around too long and seen too much. He’d seen enough killing to know when the lie was the worst and meant to last.

Since God was not there to sort it, someone else would have to. Someone who knew what steel in a man’s hand could do, who could see the difference between teeth and knives and would remember it when the sun rose. Someone who wouldn’t let the dead go without a reckoning.

His fingers brushed the revolver on his hip, and he leaned back against the rough bark of a pine. The air tasted of sap, dust, and something older and meaner.

He’d wait. He’d listen.

The valley would speak its truth soon enough. And when it did, Brady would be ready.

In a nameless saloon, I sit at the end of a bar made of stale cigarettes and regret, where the stools are ageless but worn down by the weight of countless disappointments.

The bartender knows me by face, not by name. He never bothers with names. I’m just another lost soul looking to drown in anonymity.

“No, I don’t fucking belong,” I mutter, taking a long swig from my glass. The liquor burns, but it’s a welcome pain.

The community is me, my tribe of one. I ain’t part of any group. No club calls me their member. I glance around, taking in the sad parade of drunks, all clinging to their bottles like lifelines. No, I don’t belong. Anywhere or anyplace.

“You don’t know me,” I whisper to the ghost of a smile on my lips, the irony not lost on me. “But you need me. You need to hate. You need me.”

I chuckle–a bitter sound that echoes in the emptiness. Old tried but true and failed. Can’t even belong to failure. They see me succeeding. Can’t even belong.

I think of the Father, Son, Holy Ghost. Sinning, in every way. No, I don’t belong.

The bartender refills my glass without a word. It’s a silent understanding. I don’t need to say anything in this church, the decanter where confessions flow.

Here, among the damned, the forgotten, I’m the High Priest of Lost Causes. “Here’s to another night,” I toast to no one in particular, raising my glass. “Another night of nothing.”

I drink deeply, savoring the temporary escape. No, I don’t belong. But in that bitter realization, there’s a twisted sense of freedom. I’m free from expectations, free from the chains of belonging. I’m a ghost drifting through life, and that’s fine.

With a final gulp, I set the glass down, staring into its emptiness, seeing my reflection distorted by the chalice design. A knothole. A lump on a log. One with the mahogany bar.

And as the night wears on, the bar swallows me whole, just another casualty of life’s relentless march as I drink my membership away.

The wind swept through the narrow streets of Silver City, carrying with it a biting chill. The Old School House loomed at the end of the street like a sentinel of forgotten times.

Its faded façade and high windows whispered of grandeur long since eroded. Mrs. Hartford, clutching her coat against the cold, stared up at the building and shivered.

“They’ll be here shortly,” she told herself, her breath visible. She glanced at the crumpled letter in her hand, its inked scrawl promising “a performance unlike any other.”

The children arrived shortly after, stepping off the old Bluebird bus in unison. There were twelve, all dressed in neat, old-fashioned uniforms—gray coats and long dresses that seemed plucked from another era.

Their caretaker, a tall, pale woman with hollow cheeks, introduced herself simply as Mrs. Whitlock.

“They are a talented group,” Ms. Whitlock said with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “They’ve been practicing for months. The Carol of the Bells is their specialty.”

Mrs. Hartford forced a polite smile. “I’m sure the town will be delighted.”

The children stood silently behind Ms. Whitlock, their eyes fixed on Mrs. Hartford, their gazes—too focused, too knowing. She quickly turned away and led them into the schoolhouse.

The following morning, Eliza found herself enchanted yet unnerved by the children. Their singing was flawless—each note struck with precision, their voices harmonizing.

As they sang the opening lines of Carol of the Bells, Mrs. Hartford felt a chill run down her spine.

“Hark, how the bells, sweet silver bells…”

The melody echoed through the empty hall, growing louder, though none of the children raised their voices.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Ms. Whitlock’s voice startled her. Mrs. Hartford turned to see the woman watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hartford replied, though the word felt heavy in her throat. “But it’s… haunting, in a way.”

“Music should move the soul,” Ms. Whitlock said. “Sometimes, that means unsettling it.”

As rehearsals continued, strange occurrences began to plague the schoolhouse. Mrs. Hartford often heard faint chimes at night, though no bells were anywhere in sight.

She awoke one morning to find a silver bell placed on her desk. The surface dulled yet gleaming in the dim light.

“Did one of you leave this here?” she asked the children. They shook their heads in perfect unison, their faces blank.

That evening, she dreamt of the children. In her dream, they stood in a circle around a massive bell, their faces shadowed and indistinct.

The bell tolled, its deep, resonant sound reverberating through her chest, and the children began to chant: “On, on they send, on without end…”

She woke in a cold sweat, the faint echo of the chant still lingering in her ears.

The night of the performance arrived with a fierce winter storm. Only a handful of townsfolk braved the weather to attend, their murmurs hushed as the children filed onto the makeshift stage.

Mrs. Hartford stood in the back of the hall, her unease growing as the children began to sing.

“Hark, how the bells…”

The air seemed to grow colder with each note. Shadows flickered unnaturally against the walls, stretching and twisting like living things.

“On, on they send…”

Time itself seemed to warp. The clock on the wall ticked slower, moved faster, then stopped altogether. The audience sat frozen, their eyes glazed over as though in a trance.

Mrs. Hartford stumbled backward, her breath coming in short gasps. She fled to the schoolhouse’s office, desperate to clear her head.

There, she found a dusty ledger, its pages filled with names—children who had attended the school decades ago. All marked as “missing.”

A chill ran through her as she noticed a photograph tucked between the pages. It showed a group of children standing in front of the schoolhouse.

Twelve children. The same faces she had seen every day for the past week.

Mrs. Hartford rushed back to the hall, her heart pounding. The children had reached the song’s crescendo, their voices no longer melodic but sharp and discordant, like the screeching of metal on metal.

The shadows around them solidified, forming shapes—clawed hands, twisted faces, and a massive, spectral bell that loomed over the stage. The children’s appearances shifted: their eyes glowed a fiery red, their mouths stretched into impossible grins, and their limbs jerked unnaturally like marionettes.

“They’re not children,” Mrs. Hartford whispered, the truth dawning on her.

The audience, still entranced, began to rise from their seats, drawn toward the stage as though by an invisible force.

“Ding, dong, ding, dong…”

The children laughed, their voices echoing like the tolling of bells. Mrs. Hartford screamed, her voice drowned by discordance. And as the final note rang out, the shadows engulfed the room, leaving only silence in their wake.