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Measuring Disparities

To evaluate the shift in voting patterns between Early Voting and Election Day:

• • Define the Hypothesis:
  • Null Hypothesis (H0H_0H0​): The differences in voting patterns are due to natural variance.
  • Alternative Hypothesis (HaH_aHa​): External manipulation creates differences in voting patterns.
  • Quantify Observed Ratios:
  • By denoting the percentage of Republican opposition to Ranked-Choice Voting during:
    • Early Voting as PE=80%P_E = 80\%PE​=80%,
    • Election Day Voting as PD=55%P_D = 55\%PD​=55%.
  • The magnitude of the shift is: ΔP=PE−PD=80%−55%=25%.\Delta P = P_E – P_D = 80\% – 55\% = 25\%.ΔP=PE​−PD​=80%−55%=25%.
  • Conduct Statistical Testing: Using a large sample size (e.g., N=10,000N = 10,000N=10,000), a z-test or chi-square test can determine whether this shift is statistically significant or within normal bounds.

Visualization:

Graphically present the Early and Election Day voting patterns:

1. Bar charts for each voting period.
2. Overlaying voter turnout data to correlate any demographic shifts.
3. Assess Likelihood of Manipulation:

To assess whether manipulation is likely:

• Compare voting patterns with historical data.
• Identify similar shifts in unrelated races to rule out systemic factors unrelated to Ranked-Choice Voting.

Enhanced Explanation of Algorithmic Manipulation

1. Define the Alleged Equation:

By formalizing the claim that an algorithm altered the results. Suppose the vote totals (TTT) for each candidate in precinct iii are derived using a manipulated equation:

Ti=Vi⋅f(Di),T_i = V_i \cdot f(D_i),Ti​=Vi​⋅f(Di​), where:

• ViV_iVi​: Verified votes in precinct iii,
• f(Di)f(D_i)f(Di​): Algorithmic adjustment function based on demographic data (DiD_iDi​).

For example, f(Di)f(D_i)f(Di​) might amplify or suppress votes based on party registration.

1. Test the Hypothesis:

• Simulate Results Without Adjustment: Reconstruct precinct-level results using verified data (e.g., paper ballots). Compare reconstructed totals to the reported results.
• Identify Patterns of Bias: Evaluate whether deviations systematically favor a particular outcome. For instance, applying linear regression to see if certain precincts show statistically improbable shifts.

1. Validate with Graphs:
2. Plot vote ratios (logarithmic scale) for Early Voting, Election Day, and Mail-in ballots across precincts.
3. Highlight “parallel movement” anomalies that deviate from expected random noise.

Addressing Broader Concerns About Election Integrity

1. Observability and Verifiability:

• Use a mathematical definition of observability and verifiability in elections:
  • Observable System: Results are derived directly from human-auditable processes.
  • Verifiable System: Results matched to physical evidence (e.g., paper ballots) in real time.

1. System Transparency:

• Conduct an entropy analysis to measure randomness in the vote distribution. Non-random patterns could indicate tampering.

1. Alternative Hypotheses:

• Account for natural factors:
  • Early voters often differ demographically from Election Day voters (e.g., age, party enthusiasm).
  • Address whether shifts align with turnout data.

Following the 2024 General Election in Nevada, a dramatic and statistically puzzling shift in Republican voting patterns between Early Voting and Election Day has ignited fierce debate and legal challenges. At the heart of the controversy are the results of State Questions Three and Six, addressing Ranked-Choice Voting and abortion rights, respectively, display anomalies so striking they are evidence of potential electoral manipulation.

A 25-Point Shift

The most glaring anomaly arises from the voting on State Question Three, which proposed Ranked-Choice Voting. During Early Voting, Republican opposition to the measure was overwhelming, with 80 percent voting against it. On Election Day, however, this resistance dropped sharply, with only 55 percent of Republicans opposing the measure.

This 25-percentage-point shift (ΔP=80%−55%=25%\Delta P = 80\% – 55\% = 25\%ΔP=80%−55%=25%) is significant. In raw terms, if 10,000 Republican voters participated in each voting period, the change would represent 2,500 voters switching positions—a shift large enough to alter the trajectory of the election. Statistical analysis, such as a chi-square test, indicates this level of variation exceeds what might naturally occur due to random voter behavior or demographic changes.

Election officials and analysts are questioning how such a pronounced change could occur within a consistent voter base, particularly when historical patterns suggest Republicans voting early and on Election Day tend to align their preferences.

Algorithm Allegations

There are claims that an algorithm manipulated vote totals to favor specific outcomes. Legal filings allege that the results in Clark and Washoe Counties have seen the influence of a formula altering vote tallies based on demographic data. The proposed equation takes the form: Ti=Vi⋅f(Di), T_i = V_i \cdot f(D_i), Ti​=Vi​⋅f(Di​), where TiT_iTi​ represents the final tally for precinct iii, ViV_iVi​ is the verified vote count, and f(Di)f(D_i)f(Di​) is a factor purportedly derived from precinct demographics.

The prosecution argues that this adjustment function resulted in systematic shifts favoring outcomes, particularly on contentious issues like abortion and Ranked-Choice Voting. To bolster these claims, the legal team has presented graphs showing “parallel movement” in vote ratios across different ballot types—patterns they argue are statistically improbable under normal conditions.

Observability and Trust

Beyond specific allegations of vote manipulation, critics are raising questions about the integrity of modern election systems. A central issue is the lack of transparency in digital elections, where software calculates results but remains opaque to the public and election officials.

Legal experts have pointed out that Nevada’s reliance on electronic voting machines and proprietary software, such as those provided by Dominion Voting Systems, leaves elections “unobservable” and “unverifiable.” Observability, they argue, would require that humans be able to directly audit the digital process—a standard that current systems do not meet. Similarly, verifiability requires matching digital outputs to physical ballots in real time–a process unavailable under existing protocols.

What Comes Next?

The court now faces the challenge of determining whether the observed voting patterns constitute sufficient probable cause to investigate further. If the allegations of algorithmic interference are validated, the ramifications could be far-reaching, potentially leading to a re-evaluation of Nevada’s election infrastructure and even the results of the 2024 General Election.

The math suggests statistical improbability and raises serious questions about the integrity of the voting process:

Improbable Shifts in Voting Patterns

The 25-percentage-point change in Republican opposition to Ranked-Choice Voting (80%80\%80% during Early Voting versus 55%55\%55% on Election Day) is highly unusual. If both voting groups represent similar demographic and political profiles, such a dramatic shift is unlikely to occur naturally.

Statistically, voter behavior follows predictable trends, especially within well-defined groups like party affiliations. Significant deviations from these patterns are typically because of changes in external factors, such as events or scandals, or errors or manipulation in the counting process.

Parallel Vote Movement Across Counties

The analysis revealed a suspicious uniformity in the voting patterns across Clark and Washoe Counties. Graphs depicting logarithmic vote ratios for different ballot types (Early Voting, Election Day, Mail-in) showed nearly identical trends.

Statistically, such parallel movement is improbable without centralized coordination. For two independent populations to display matching trends over multiple variables (such as ballot type and party affiliation) requires either:

• Coordinated voter behavior, which is unlikely across large, decentralized populations.
• Manipulation of the vote totals via an algorithm.

The parallelism thus strengthens the argument for artificial interference rather than natural voter dynamics.

Evidence of Algorithmic Manipulation

The prosecution’s argument includes a formula they claim is used to alter vote totals. This formula allegedly adjusted tallies based on demographic data from precincts:

Ti=Vi⋅f(Di),T_i = V_i \cdot f(D_i),Ti​=Vi​⋅f(Di​),

Where TiT_iTi​ is the altered total, ViV_iVi​ is the initial vote count, and f(Di)f(D_i)f(Di​) is a precinct-specific factor.

If this equation is applied systematically, it will produce the kind of uniform patterns observed in the data. The math does not directly “prove” manipulation but provides a plausible mechanism explaining the statistical anomalies.

Lack of Randomness in Vote Distributions

Elections should show natural variability within reasonable limits. Statistical tests, such as chi-square tests or Benford’s Law analyses, can identify patterns inconsistent with genuine data.

In this case, the consistency of voting shifts and the alignment between counties are too precise to be attributed to chance. For example:

• A random variation in voter turnout or preferences between Early and Election Day voting would produce more scattered results, not the uniformity observed.
• The exactness of shifts between ballot types suggests external interference rather than organic voter behavior.

What the Math Ultimately Proves

The math does not directly prove voter fraud or manipulation; it provides instead strong circumstantial evidence of abnormalities that warrant further investigation. The unlikelihood of such precise and coordinated shifts suggests the possible use of an algorithm or artificial means to manipulate vote counts.

The legal implications hinge on whether this statistical evidence, combined with other findings, convinces the court of probable cause to investigate or invalidate the election results.

Compelled by forces beyond my comprehension, I must recount the most chilling episode of my earthly existence—a tale that even now sets my heart to quaking and my pen trembling as it scratches out these words. It was a winter’s eve, cruel in its desolation, the snow descending in a muffled pall, smothering the city like a shroud. Yet, within my chambers, the air was stifling, thick with the acrid smoke of a dying fire.

Elias Renshaw, whose name curdles my blood even to inscribe, was my neighbor then, though I scarcely dared call him so. He was a man whose face, with its sunken hollows and ever-pursed lips, seemed carved not by nature but by some miserly artisan intent on capturing the visage of human neglect. He lived alone, though not for lack of society—for he eschewed society.

Generous to a fault, it was said, yet his charity bore no trace of tenderness. It was as though some invisible whip lashed him into acts of kindness he loathed to perform.

Upon the eve of Christmas, my fateful encounter with Renshaw began. From my window, I espied him trudging through the snow, his shoulders hunched against the elements, though no wind stirred.

He bore in his hands a package wrapped in coarse brown paper, his gait unsteady. It was not the errand that caught my attention but the peculiar flicker of candlelight that trailed him—a wavering illumination as though some unseen lantern swayed above his head.

“Renshaw!” I called, throwing open the sash.

He turned, his eyes meeting mine for but a moment. How can I describe their gleam?

It was not the sparkle of recognition but a baleful glint, as though his gaze pierced my soul and found it wanting. He made no reply but turned and disappeared into the swirling snow.

Unease settled upon me like a weight, and I resolved to think no more of the matter. Hours passed, and as the clock struck midnight, I was startled by a knock at my door—a knock that reverberated through my bones as though the hand that delivered it had struck not wood but the very fabric of my being.

I opened the door to find Renshaw standing there, his figure stooped, his face pale as the snow clinging to his shoulders. In his hands, he clutched a bundle wrapped in a tattered blanket.

“I require your help,” he said, his voice low, trembling.

He crossed the threshold without waiting for my reply and deposited the bundle upon the hearth. To my horror, the blanket unfurled to reveal a mass of crimson—a heap of clothes, torn and soaked with blood, their fibers stiff with the chill of death. My breath caught as the stench of iron filled the room.

“Renshaw, what have you done?” I demanded, but his only reply was a terrible groan, low and guttural, as though his very soul sought escape from his mortal frame.

“I gave,” he whispered, “I gave and gave, but still, it is not enough. The world takes, and it takes, and it demands more.” His eyes darted toward the bundle. “It follows me, you see. It will not let me rest.”

Before I could reply, a sound like the tolling of distant bells filled the room—low and mournful, a lament that seemed to emanate not from outside but from within the very walls. Shadows danced upon the plaster, grotesque and elongated, and from within the bundle, there came a movement—a faint, tremulous stirring.

The bloody heap shifted, and from it came a sight that defies description. A mass of flesh–pulsating and glistening, its surface riddled with veins that throbbed in time with the tolling bells. It was a heart, grotesquely large, and though severed, it beat with a terrible vitality.

Renshaw fell to his knees, clutching at his chest. “Do you see it?” he gasped. “It is mine, yet it is not! I tore it from myself, but still, it follows! It hungers!” His cries were drowned by the heart’s pulsing, now a rhythm that shook the floorboards.

As I watched in terror, the heart began to expand, its veins bursting forth with sprays of dark, viscous fluid that stained the hearth and walls. The room filled with an oppressive heat, and the air grew thick, choking. Renshaw collapsed, his body convulsing as the heart loomed over him, its flesh quivering with an intelligence.

And then, as though some unseen force commanded it, the heart rose into the air, hovering above Renshaw’s lifeless form. It turned toward me—yes, turned, though it had no eyes, no features—and in that moment, I felt its gaze pierce my soul.

“You, too, shall bleed,” it intoned, though its voice came not from sound but from within my mind.

When I awoke, the room was silent. Renshaw’s body was gone, as was the terrible heart.

Yet the bloodstains remained, dark and lasting, etched into the very stone of the hearth. No fire would burn there again, and no visitor crossed my threshold without remarking on the chill that was my home, no matter how the summer sun burned overhead.

No one saw Renshaw again, though whispers of his fate lingered. Some claimed he fled the town, consumed by madness. Others spoke of a figure glimpsed in the shadows, a man clutching a bleeding heart that dripped endlessly upon the snow.

And as for me, I am not the man I once was. The memory of that night festers within me, a wound that will not heal. For in the silence of the night, I hear it still—the relentless beating of a heart, growing louder, closer, and I know that one day, it will find me.

The day was yellow and dry, the sun hanging in the sky like a drunk in a doorway. She stumbled into the liquor store, the bell on the door chocking out a tired jingle.

“A bottle of vodka,” she said. Her voice was paper-thin, the kind you ball up and throw away.

The shop owner—some old guy with a face like a squeezed lemon—eyed her over the counter. “You ought to cut back, you know,” he said, like he cared, like it mattered.

She did not bother with a reply as she slid her cash across the counter and took the bottle, cool and heavy in hand. Out on the street, the city was still dying in its slow, miserable way.

Broken buildings leaned against each other like bums sharing a cigarette. The air smelled like asphalt and bitterness. Her bench was where it always was, sagging under the weight of too many years and souls trying to escape their heads.

She dropped onto it, unscrewed the cap, and tipped the vodka back. It was fire and gasoline, but she kept drinking because what else was there?

The memories came like they always did—uninvited, sharp-edged. Memories of faces and voices and laughter that once were hers.

She felt the tears start, hot and stupid, falling onto the weeds poking up between the cracks in the concrete. She swiped at her face, embarrassed, even though no one was looking.

No one ever was.

A butterfly flitted past, its wings twitching like a nervous dancer. It did not care about her or her mess of a life. Nothing did.

Peace was here, sure, but not the kind wanted. It was the kind that sneaks in after losing everything else.

I watched it all unfold from my fifth-floor hotel room, peering down onto the quiet street below. At first, I thought nothing of it—a lone old-looking woman in a wheelchair, inching her way down the sidewalk. She was slow and careful, maneuvering around a “Do Not Park” sign as if she had all the time in the world.

A well-dressed man appeared below, striding along the street, looking polished and put together. He noticed her struggling and paused, then called, “Ma’am, do you need help?”

His voice carried up to my window, the way voices echo at night. He stepped into the street, eyes fixed on her. “I can help you,” he called again, kindness lacing his voice.

Then everything changed.

Before he could reach her, the woman sprang from her chair with a speed that froze me. She crossed the distance between them in three bounding steps and shoved him back against the hotel wall, a guttural, animalistic growl tearing through the night. She wasn’t screaming words—just rage and hunger, it seemed.

From above, I could see her now clearly. The frail, elderly form was gone, replaced by something pale and gray, skin pulled too tight over bones that barely looked human. Blood smeared across her face and her hands; she crouched, almost crawling, her limbs contorted. She moved toward the shadows behind the “Do Not Park” sign and vanished into the darkness like she was a part of it.

Now, police cars are everywhere—sirens, flashing lights, men and women scouring the scene for clues, for the man, for anything that makes sense. But I’m up here, still staring down, lights on, unable to sleep because before it vanished and became one with the shadow, it looked up at me.

Am I next?

Last night, the missus insisted we watch Titanic once again. That fine tale of love, loss, and financial irresponsibility that only Thurston Howell III could appreciate.

The tragedy of the grand ship is one thing–the actions of our heroine, Rose, who, in the ultimate act of questionable emotional decision-making, chooses to throw away a $250 million necklace—a pendant so valuable it could have single-handedly funded the dreams of a hundred impoverished families or at least ensured her grandkids could attend college.

Let us set aside, for a moment, that Rose’s primary attachment to this necklace stems from a brief, fleeting romance with Jack–an unemployed artist who, though charming and spirited, was probably the last to one would have trusted with anything of great value. After all, when you have spent your life sketching portraits and riding in third-class, throwing away priceless family heirlooms seems like the next logical step in your emotional recovery.

Meanwhile, back in the land of the living, her husband, a man who worked diligently throughout his life to ensure Rose and their children lived in the lap of luxury, watched as she made her big decision. It is hard to imagine he would be cheering her on from the afterlife.

“Ah yes, darling, please throw away the one thing of immense worth that could secure our grandchildren’s futures. Jack would’ve approved.”

This man, who worked hard to provide a comfortable life, might have appreciated some acknowledgment in the form of –I don’t know–financial stability? Additionally, a pendant her granddaughter could have used—the woman who dedicated years to caring for Rose in her later years.

But no, Rose, in an act that would have made even the most famous philanthropists of the early 20th century reconsider their entire life’s work, decided that Jack—a man she had known for only a week—was more deserving of her symbolic tribute.

I will say it, without fear of contradiction: Rose, with her sparkling eyes and emotional whims, is the true villain of Titanic. The real iceberg was not the one that sank the ship; it was the cold-hearted decision to squander wealth for a memory that was not even that impressive.

The world could have done without Rose’s sentimental follies. Perhaps if she had made a better financial decision, she wouldn’t have had to throw a necklace into the ocean.

But who needs to make sense when you have a sea of emotion and a tide of poor decisions to ride out?

While busy patching a fence, a thunderstorm snuck over the mountains like a midnight cattle rustler. Seeing those dark clouds rolling in, I hightailed it away from the barbed wire, hobbled my horse, and squatted down on the balls of my feet like I was using a trench latrine.

Now, holding that pose is about as comfortable as roosting on a cactus, and my spurs were sinking into the mud forming around me. Tempted to take them off, I figured, why risk it? After about twenty minutes of waiting, the storm finally moved off, and I felt pretty safe—seeing as lightning usually strikes ahead of the storm, not behind.

Well, usually.

As I finished splicing the wires together, I caught a flash out of the corner of my eye. And if you see lightning without hearing it, it’s so close it’s practically kissing you.

The next thing I know, I’m ten feet back from the fence, flopping around like a trout in a skillet, legs numb as fence posts. Mid-flop, I noticed my horse jerking around like he’d stepped into a hornet’s nest.

When I flopped over his way, we somehow moved toward each other. I glanced down and saw my boots flying up, still attached to my feet—thank goodness for small favors.

Finally, my horse got up, stumbled, and then sprang with a hop that landed him with his right feet on one side of the fence and his left feet on the other. That got him going, and he took off like he had rockets strapped to his backside, galloping home at a speed I’d never seen him hit before, dragging half the fence with him.

Once I managed to get myself upright, it struck me just how precarious a fix I was in. Living alone, if I didn’t make it back to the ranch, there wouldn’t be anyone looking for me.

My only lifeline was the radio phone, which worked about as often as a groundhog in winter. So, if no one heard from me for a spell, they’d figure it was the usual.

Finally, I got to my feet, and with my horse long gone, I started the three-mile limp back. I began laughing, imagining some poor soul driving by, taking one look at me in my sorry shape—foaming at the mouth, shaking like a broken windmill, dragging one leg, hunched over like Quasimodo—and speeding past, probably spraying me with mud for good measure.

When I finally staggered close enough to see the house, the radio phone worked when I called my Hondo to tell him I was lightning-struck.

His response was classic nonchalance, “You’re not going to the doctor, are you?”

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”

In the year of our Lord 1577, the hamlets of Bungay and Blythburgh lay wrapped in a suffocating stillness, the air taut with the charge of a storm yet to break. In both villages, the faithful crowded into their sanctuaries—stone walls meant to shelter the soul but holding the weight of unspoken sins.

The Church of St. Mary in Bungay was thick with incense and whispers, the rasp of Reverend Harrow’s voice rising and falling like the tide. He was a man who cloaked himself in scripture, yet his eyes betrayed him: sharp, hungry, and cunning.

He held dominion over the villagers with velvet cruelty, their confessions twisted into levers of control. Tonight, as he preached about the strength of faith against worldly storms, a tremor ghosted through his tone as if feeling the storm’s claws scratching at the horizon.

In Blythburgh’s Holy Trinity Church, Reverend Blythe commanded his flock with a thunderous fervor. His sermons dripped with fire and judgment, his words sharp as knives wielded against those he deemed unworthy.

Behind his pulpit, however, Blythe was a creature of cowardice, his bluster a mask for his smallness. Outside the church, the storm growled low and close, its breath rattling the oaken doors. The congregation shuddered but stayed put, eyes fixed on Blythe and the apocalyptic warnings he spat like venom.

Among both congregations were souls steeped in their darknesses. Faces familiar but rotted hearts, like Margaret the midwife, her hands capable of mercy but practiced in betrayal, carried secrets of broken lives hidden behind her sweet-smelling herbs.

Eleanor, the widow whose tongue sharpened the guillotine of gossip, wove ruin into the fabric of every tale she spread. Edward, a farmer who wielded his power like a cudgel, ground his workers into dust beneath their unyielding fields.

Each was torn from life, exposed for what they were, by the Black Shuck.

The storm broke over Bungay with a ferocity that felt almost alive. Lightning tore across the sky, bathing the church interior in a skeletal glow.

The heavy iron bell swung wildly, clangs drowned by a guttural howl. The doors exploded open, and there it stood—the Black Shuck, its enormous frame outlined in the doorway. Its fur shimmered with wetness, its eyes burning like twin coals pulled from the fires of a forge.

Harrow stumbled mid-sentence, his booming cadence guttering into silence. A single whimper escaped from somewhere in the pews, swallowed immediately by the Black Shuck’s growl.

It stepped into the nave, claws clicking on the stone floor, leaving trails of steam where water hissed from its pelt. The beast’s gaze landed on Harrow, and in that instant, the world seemed to pause. Harrow gasped as if struck, his lips quivering with words that would not come.

“You,” the Shuck’s voice was not a voice but a pressure, a weight in the minds of all who heard it. “Judgment is here.”

Harrow fell to his knees, his righteous cloak tearing from him in invisible strips. In a single bound, the Shuck was upon him. The scream that followed was short, choked, and final.

In Blythburgh, the storm hit with the same savage rage. The air inside Holy Trinity Church felt charged, vibrating with something beyond the storm.

As Blythe paused to draw breath, the church doors splintered inward, the Black Shuck stalking in, rain pooling around its paws. Unlike in Bungay, there was no time for silence.

Screams filled the air, prayers tumbling from lips as Blythe shrieked, “Away, demon!” His hand grasped the heavy cross above the altar, but the Shuck’s gaze pinned him in place.

With a final, terrifying leap, the Shuck’s claws found Blythe’s chest. The blow sent him sprawling, the cross clattering from his hands. He lay unmoving, his sins bleeding into the floorboards as if the storm itself had claimed him.

By dawn, the storm had passed, but the scars left were not merely weathered wood and torn shingles. The villagers of Bungay and Blythburgh emerged to find their churches marked. The Black Shuck’s claw marks etched deep into the doors and walls served as a warning or perhaps a promise.

The tales spread quickly. In some mouths, the Shuck became an avenger, a force sent by heaven to strip away the disguises of the wicked. In others, it was a devil, a beast that had feasted on the flesh of holy men to sow fear. But as weeks turned to months, the stories diverged further.

Young Eliza, who had endured years of Harrow’s predation in Bungay, found her voice. She stood before her neighbors, her small frame unyielding as she told of his abuses. Her courage lit a flame in others, and for the first time in years, the village began to speak openly, unearthing what had long festered.

In Blythburgh, the Shuck’s mark was twisted into an emblem of fear as those with power and sin to hide sowed rumors, branding it as a servant of hell. Fear choked the air like smoke, stifling those who might have spoken out. The corrupt buried their guilt beneath layers of superstition, ensuring the Shuck became not a symbol of justice but a specter to keep villagers silent and subservient.

Yet, in the quiet spaces between whispers lingered the memory of its eyes. They burned not with malice but with the terrible clarity of truth. It was not the Shuck that sowed terror but the reflection of oneself in its gaze—a reflection none could turn away from without trembling.

And somewhere in the shadows, on storm-torn nights when the wind carries the scent of rain and wrath–the Black Shuck still walks.

In the quiet of his front porch, 447 years later, the world still felt small under the sprawling infinity of the night sky. For Jordan, life was simple, its rhythm unbroken by the larger mysteries of existence–until the stars betrayed him.

As Jordan stood on the edge of his porch, gazing up at the constellations he had known since childhood, they seemed to shimmer strangely, a trick of the eye as a shadow rushed him from the dark. Then they twisted, their pattern unraveling into grotesque, writhing shapes.

A chill crept through Jordan as the silence of the night deepened, thickening into something oppressive, like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. He was suddenly lightheaded and on the verge of collapsing.

A sudden burst of light flooded the space around him, searing and blinding. It was brilliant, radiant, and yet offered no comfort. When it faded, it left him unable to see.

Out of the darkness, a shadow emerged: a massive black dog, its fur darker than the void between the stars. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural, iridescent light, their gaze piercing and unrelenting.

It stopped several paces away, staring at him. Jordan’s instinct was to run, but he couldn’t. His body was frozen, not by fear but by something worse—a force that rooted him to the spot.

St. Michael, the Archangel, descended from the heavens with a blazing sword. His presence felt alien, his perfection too vast and otherworldly to comprehend.

“Something ancient has stirred,” Michael said, his voice resonating as though it emanated from the stars. “A force that predates this world—and it hungers.”

His eyes met Jordan’s, and the weight of his gaze was unbearable. “The Black Shuck and I stand against it, but your fate intertwines with ours. You must help.”

The ground trembled, and above, the stars folded inward, collapsing into a singular, writhing point. A portal tore open in the fabric of reality.

From its gaping maw emerged the entity: an incomprehensible horror. Its writhing forms defied description, its geometries shifting in ways that made Jordan’s stomach churn. Colors that should not exist burned in his vision, and when its gaze fell upon him, his thoughts splintered, reforming into jagged, unrecognizable pieces.

“Look away!” Michael commanded, but Jordan couldn’t.

The Black Shuck growled, stepping closer to the portal, its luminous eyes blazing. Despite the terror, its presence steadied Jordan—just enough to move. But the dread remained, deep and primal, as though consuming his existence.

“Follow me,” Michael said, his sword raised, stepping into the portal. The Black Shuck followed without hesitation, glancing back at Jordan as if to say: You are part of this now.

With trembling resolve, Jordan stepped through.

On the other side of the portal lay a realm that defied all reason. The ground beneath Jordan’s feet pulsed, alive and unsettling, with veins that glowed faintly.

The air reeked of rot, sharp and metallic, while the sky churned with impossible colors that bled into one another. Shadows moved in the corners of Jordan’s vision, flickering and vanishing when he turned to look.

Scattered across the alien landscape were towering monoliths, each etched with symbols that seemed ancient and wrong. Jordan couldn’t understand them, but he felt their meaning—a warning, perhaps, or cries for help lost to time.

Venturing further, guided by Michael and Shuck, a narrative began to unfold. Fragments of forgotten lore hinted at beings older than creation, locked in an eternal, unknowable struggle. This entity was one of them—a prisoner now seeking release.

Reality bent and twisted the further Jordan went. The ground sometimes stretched into the sky, and his companions blurred, their forms flickering between the familiar and the grotesque.

Michael’s radiant light dimmed, faltering with each step, and for the first time, Jordan saw shadows pooling at the feet of the Archangel. The Black Shuck moved closer to him, its growls low and guttural, its form shifting in ways that made Jordan question whether it was an ally—or another extension of the darkness.

The whispers began softly, barely audible. But they grew louder as they pressed onward, filling Jordan’s ears with voices he recognized: the long-dead, the long-lost, all calling his name.

“This place is not real,” Michael said, his voice firm but lacking its earlier certainty. His eyes held something Jordan had not seen before–doubt.

At the center, the entity loomed—a vast, incomprehensible mass of writhing tendrils and endless voids. It stretched across the horizon, its presence suffocating.

Jordan felt it seeing him—not his form, but everything: his memories, fears, his failures. Its voice spoke, not in words but in emotions that crushed his mind with terror, despair, and the weight of eternity.

Michael raised his sword, his light blazing one final time, forcing the shadows back. The Black Shuck howled, launching itself at the tendrils, tearing through them with spectral jaws.

But the entity absorbed their attacks, its mass rippling as it pulled them into its endless void. “End it,” Michael cried, his voice breaking. “You must destroy the heart.”

Jordan looked for the heart, but there was none—only an infinite emptiness staring back at him.

Michael was gone. The Black Shuck lingered.

“Raining?” Jordan muttered. It seemed far too dry for that.

Jordan woke, lying on the porch on his back. The night sky was clear and serene, as though nothing had happened.

But he knew better. The stars had shifted. They no longer formed the patterns he had known—they watched, silent and patient.

Then he heard a snort, and his face grew wet again. Slowly, he realized it was not rainfall but the licking of a large dog–and constant.

“Menga,” he said, recognizing his neighbor Rich’s Rottweiler.

“You okay, Jordan?” Rich asked.

Jordan rolled halfway over on his left side and sat up. Menga continued to lap at his face.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jordan answered. “I just need to sit here for a second or two.”

Anna, Rich’s wife, asked, “Do you need help getting up?”

“I don’t think so,” he responded.

Rich suddenly hollered, “Menga, stop, sit!”

The dog backed away from Jordan and sat down, looking him in the face. Her tail thudded on the porch behind her.

“Come here, Menga,” Anna called. The dog obeyed and went to her.

Slowly, Jordan got to his knees, using one of the pillars holding the roof as support, gained to his feet. “I’m okay, I’m just a little confused about what happened.”

“Menga got out of the backyard, and she ran you over,” Rich said. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, accidents happen,” Jordan said. “And besides, she’s still a pup, so she doesn’t know her size or strength.”

“Do you need an ambulance?” Rich continued.

“Naw,” Jordan answered, “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Rich said. “Have a goodnight.”

“You, too,” Jordan said. “And go easy on the dog. She didn’t mean to knock me down.”

As the days passed, the world around Jordan seemed thinner and less substantial. Shadows in his room stretched toward him at night.

He was confused at first when the whispers came, speaking of hunger and the fragility of the barrier he had tried to seal. He had been sure that his experience was only in his mind while unconscious, but now he was uncertain.

The worst part was his reflection. It was not his anymore.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood remained blissfully unaware of the horrors beyond the stars. But Jordan knew they were coming.

He had seen their herald and had felt their gaze. And every time Jordan looked at the night sky, he felt the stars blink, one by one, as if they were counting down, and somewhere nearby, the Black Shock stood waiting.

Sound travels well over rocks and hard-packed earth. That’s why I could hear the guy with the dirty bike. His voice carried through the still air, taunting, “Watch him get his ass stomped by those Mustangs.”

I glanced at the small herd that had formed around me. Each was a beautiful creature, coats shimmering under the Nevada sun. I no longer called them wild. I knew of many turned-out, not wanted or needed.

I moved slowly, quietly, and methodically, snapping photographs of the Mustangs. Their eyes reflected curiosity rather than fear. I wished I could tell them how much I admired them. When I heard the biker’s big mouth again, my anger rose. I imagined reaching across the narrow valley and knocking the teeth from the big mouth.

Would it make a difference? Probably not.

The horses closed in around me, sniffing and curious. It was a delicate dance of trust. Their breath was warm against my skin, their muscles tense yet relaxed. I felt a moment of peace, a connection to something ancient and wild. But the moment the two idiots on the motorbikes fired their engines, the magic shattered. The small herd bolted up the hill to the far side, opposite the bikes.

For a split second, I thought about flipping the bikers the bird. But by the time I turned around, they were already making rooster-tails in the gravel roadway. They wouldn’t understand what they’d disrupted.

Would they even care? I doubted it.

I stood there, the echo of their engines fading, feeling the weight of my solitude. The desert around me was again silent, but the moment was lost now. I had been part of something, and now it was gone. The Mustangs would return, but it would not be the same.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, and I packed up my camera, feeling the loss like a physical ache. As I walked back to my truck, I couldn’t help but think of all the moments in life that slip away before you can hold onto them.

The fragility of trust, the beauty of the wild, the stupidity of men. I looked at the horizon and mumbled, “Maybe someday they’ll understand.” But deep down, I wasn’t sure they ever would.

This old-age business is more troublesome than a rash on a summer day. Yesterday, I made a startling discovery: I need not lift a finger to upset the balance of my body’s delicate sensibilities.

No, all it takes now is the audacity to exist.

As per the usual routine, I did my best impersonation of a human being, slowly rising from the comforting embrace of a good night’s sleep. My feet, still loyal to the cause, touched the carpet with all the grace of a tired elephant.

I then turned my head—an action as innocent as a kitten’s yawn.

And yet, no sooner had I dared a glance at the alarm clock than I became acquainted with a pain so sharp on the right side of my neck that I’d swear like a rusty hinge that finally had enough. Now, in my youth, I had to twist and turn, contort my neck like a circus performer to earn such exquisite agony.

But today—it seems my body has given up any pretense of civility. I need only open my eyes to enter the kingdom of discomfort, and that blessed torment stays with me into this moment.

Lord knows I didn’t sign up for this when I signed on for the years. If I had, I’d have demanded a refund before I jumped from that speeding train.