You can call me Andrew, and if that name seems familiar, you have one hell of a memory.
A few years ago I showed you guys a few insights into my day job, working for the one organization that tries to keep a handle on the things that go bump in the night. I’d say I did a pretty good job at showing you how to survive anything, almost anyway.
But, then, things got, bad. Something massive enough to have caught even my bosses off guard hit like a reality shaking cyclone.
One day I’ll get back to talking about the impending apocalypse, but at the moment, there isn’t a whole lot, you, I or anyone can do about that.
So let’s go back, way back, and talk about how I got involved in events that alter the course of reality in the first place. Let’s talk about the kinds of things that are going on right now, in every dark corner of every country on earth.
I can’t save everyone, I understand that now. But maybe, I can help you guys survive just a little bit longer.
I’m 17, lanky, wearing a sleeveless white t-shirt, and faded, patched jeans. My hair hangs in my face as I roll a cigarette.
The hand roll pops and sparks as I light it with a worn, dented zippo. I take a sip of beer, some off-brand my uncle gets by the pallet from Canada.
The pickup beside us in the clearing is a decade old, made some time in the 70’s, the last time the barely-rock blaring from it was popular.
My uncle tosses an empty can deep into the forest, his faded camo jacket bulging with booze, smokes, and a couple boxes of ammo for when we get bored.
His real name is Jacob Myer, but everyone I know just calls him Pockets. Always seems to have whatever is needed on hand.
He’s a big man, tall and with a gut that is big enough to need it’s own introduction.
“Well, guess it’s time to get down to business then. “ He says, taking a seat at the rusted, vine overgrown picnic table we’ve been using as an impromptu bar since ten in the morning.
It’s a dark summer night in Michigan, the halogen glare from the pickup’s headlights letting us mix drinks, load guns and avoid the pain in the ass of getting a fire going.
“I was wondering when you’d get to the favor you wanted to ask.” I say, laughing. I finish the last half of my beer and open another.
Pockets sits down, smoothing his uneven, grey beard.
“I’m not asking you for shit kid.
We just have to have a talk. “ I don’t like his tone, too serious, too sudden.
“Had that talk about 8 years ago. “ I laugh at my own joke.
The old man sighs, annoyed.
“Broken head, you mind paying attention here?” Pockets chides me.
I give him a look, I know the old man would leave me spitting teeth, but I don’t care.
“Don’t fucking call me that. “ I growl.
“Got your attention though, didn’t it?
How much have you picked up about the family business? “ My uncle brings out a yellowed glass bottle of clearly homemade booze.
I’m a bit uncomfortable, if you haven’t picked up on things by now, my family isn’t exactly, nuclear. Explosive at times, for sure, but far from model citizens.
You know the type of folks I’m talking about, in your town there’s a family that’s known for having a reserved cell in the drunk tank. That every shopkeeper watches when they come in, that every cop looks at for just a little bit longer.
Folks have reasons for acting crazy, and a lot of the time, the reason is, they are God-Damned crazy. No sane man makes a career out of living in a tin shack, shoplifting and running a HAM radio conspiracy news network.
So, I’ve just learned to accept the fact that my crazy-ass relatives say some crazy-ass things when they are in mid bender.
“Jesus Christ, another night of the family business. I drink with you because you don’t talk about that shit, Pockets. Don’t break that streak. “ Is my reply to the old man.
He downs a belt of the hooch and offers the bottle to me. I try to refuse, but it wasn’t a request. The liquor is foul, strong, and for some reason, thick.
“Anyone talking about it isn’t involved in it.
Good to know folks are keeping a shit lid on things though, even in the God-Damned family .
All said and done, what you’ve heard is half bullshit. We don’t have a family business, think of this more like being in one of those families full of pigs. Just because you’re in the family doesn’t mean you get to be a cop, just makes it a hell of a lot easier, if you are inclined to try. “ I’m thrown off balance by the old guy’s tone. Usually at this point someone is piss themselves drunk, and talking in hushed whispers about wendigo or some other b-movie horse shit. Pockets sounds like he is trying to sell a car with a fucked up engine.
“I’ve got a joint I’ve been holding out on you. How about we just smoke that, and save the hoodoo for next time your hanging out with uncle Steve. “ I plead.
“Uncle Steve is a fucking idiot who can’t run a thirty minute mile unless there is a gram of coke at the other end.
You kid, you’ve got the thing, that chutzpah. Same as me.
You’re going to want tonight to be all about the what. But it isn’t. You will never understand what this means until you see it for yourself. So right now, what, it doesn’t matter.
Tonight is about where. It’s about where you want to find yourself when things get dangerous. You in for a little danger? “ The old man’s offer hangs in the air.
“And if I said yes? “ I reply.
I didn’t know it at the time, in fact I half thought the drunk old prick was just setting up a Snipe hunt, but I’d just accepted my first and only job offer.
One of the ironic things about my situation is that, due to lack of use, my Sunday best, is actually in pretty good shape. If not a little tight.
The fact that I’m wearing it, at 7 pm in the parking lot of a church I’ve never went to, is the confusing part.
“Okay, we drove 2 hours for the gag, you got me, Pockets, can we go home now? “ I say, trying in vain to find some room in the old suit.
“Boy, you are not worth 2 hours for a joke. “ My uncle says, handing me an envelope as parents begin to drop off kids, most around 10 to 13.
“What’s this, and what the hell are we doing here? “ I say, attempting to light a cigarette, Pockets slaps it out of my hand.
“Stop with the dirty country for one night, okay? You’re trying not to attract suspicion.
That, is something you’re going to open once the sun comes up.
And I’m dropping you off. You on the other hand, are going to do exactly what is expected. Watch those kids for some kind of church sleepover, until the egg hunt in the morning. “ Pockets tries to seem collected, but I notice an edge, a nervous energy.
The church is a small place, looks more like a nice house than a place of worship. And it’s out in what can accurately be described as the middle of nowhere. Around back is a small wooden playground, and the front is decorated, appropriately enough for this time of year, in Easter themed decorations of both the cheap and home made variety.
“If this is a joke, I’m not seeing a punchline, and if I’m believing you, this shit just isn’t making sense. “ I contemplate leaving as I inspect the envelope.
Pockets grins, the old man seeming almost proud.
“You’re getting it.
The paranormal, people got the wrong idea. It isn’t vampires and werewolves, it’s not things folks have a handle on. If it was, then it wouldn’t be the paranormal.
It’s things you don’t understand, it’s things that are beyond your reasoning. It’s layers of tragedy, ritual, and breaks in the fabric of reality, converging to create creatures, events, and forces that could fuck things up well beyond our world.
So yeah, you’re going in blind, and when you see what’s there, it’s going to make even less sense. We ain’t the Ghostbusters, the Winchesters or Buffy the God-Damned vampire slayer. Our last name sure as hell ain’t Van Helsing, the job some of us have a knack for, it’s not fighting, it’s fixing. “ I’m drawn into the old man’s speech, and he can tell, I get the sense he’s loving this, he punches me in the arm, grinning, “ That being said, wouldn’t be a job for a Myer if there wasn’t some scrapping involved. “
It’s 9pm and I’m staring out at an open field, having a smoke, hopefully far enough away from the handful of other counsellors and twenty or so kids as not to cause an annoying conversation.
“ He has to be fucking with me. “ I say to myself.
It’s been hours, fucking endless minutes of Jesus themed camp songs and episodes of terrible Christian kids animation. I’m playing along well enough, but I’m beyond the point of asking myself what the hell I’m doing, and venturing into hitchhiking back home territory.
“Hey dude, looks like you’ve picked up a bit of a habit there. “ I hear from behind me.
I cringe, the man is twenty something, and looks as straight laced and square as his sweater vest and brown dress pants would imply.
His name is Peter, he’s in his late twenties, and one of the defacto leaders of this yearly tradition. Nice enough guy, I’m sure, but not really my people.
I flick the nearly finished smoke into the field and turn around. The crew cut sporting man smiles.
“No worries guy, not here to crawl up your butt about it. Just thought maybe you’d want some company, I haven’t seen you around here before.
Sam says you’re his nephew? “ Peter asks.
It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about my uncle.
I light up another smoke, and notice the distain in Peter’s eyes.
“Yep. “ I say, trying to respond enough not to seem weird, but not so much as this guy keeps talking.
“ Good lad. “ Peter says awkwardly, I notice the other half of the adult supervision, Maria, standing at the door watching us, “ Well, whenever You’re ready, we’ll need some help with the egg dying. “
I watch him walk back, he has a short, animated conversation with Maria, and they go back inside.
I sit in a small kitchenette with the other 6 ‘youth leaders’, folks around 18-20 making a few extra bucks wrangling sugar addled, holiday hyped kids.
On my right at the cheap card table sit two brothers. Brick shit house country boys, not twins, but I’ll be Damned if they are any more than 9 months apart. Tim and Shawn, we talk football and not much else, the guys seem to know pigskin and corn, and that’s about it.
Theodore, a dark skinned Italian guy, is half successfully trying to chat up Tracy, a native girl in dress pants, and a shockingly green button up shirt. This cringeworthy display, unfortunately is directly in my line of sight
The last two people in the kitchen are Rob and Jennifer, Rob has too much of an Opie vibe to him for me to take seriously, Jenn is a blond girl with lingering teenage acne, and as they tell everyone, at every given opportunity, they are both “ Just Friends”.
It’s stupid, most of these people have a few years on me, but they feel, younger. I have a hard time connecting.
A game of poker starts to brew and once I see quarters being tossed on the table, it piques my interest. Snipe hunt or not, I see an opportunity to make a little cash. It’s nearing midnight and both the kids and the supervision are sleeping soundly.
Four hands in and I notice Rob seems to have done this before. The guy is keeping pace with me, and I aim to change that.
My secret weapon is a flask of half crown Royal half homemade moonshine. I smile and offer.
There’s a moment of hushed silence, I get the sense they know each other, and it’s confirmed as I see conversations happening between the half dozen without so much as a word.
“Why the heck not! “ Rob says. It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.
But I manage, and pass the ginger barely-adult the booze.
After a sip and a joke I excuse myself to go take a piss, purposely leaving the flask behind.
The door to the kitchen closes and instantly, something seems off. I can’t quite place it, but it sits, festering at the back of my mind as I walk down the hallway to find the washroom.
Before I manage that , I understand.
Through the large window at the end of the hallway, looking out onto the playground, I’m seeing daylight. About a quarter of the hallway, light up like the crack of dawn.
I try to make some sense of it, there is no way a few hands of cards lasted 7 hours, and if it did, this wouldn’t have been the first piss I’ve needed to take. I look to my watch, as I’d expect, 12:45 am.
I think I see something move outside the window, but I can’t make out what it is. Likely nothing more than the mounting sense of panic and fear the soft daylight is causing.
It takes me longer than I’d like to admit, but eventually I manage to stuff down the sense of wrong, and fear, and remember something.
I hold the envelope like a damaged grenade, as if it’s contents themselves could cause harm. The sudden, horrific understanding that I’m not just being goofed on, that the things that go bump in the night exist, gives the folded sheets of paper weight beyond their composition.
2 sheets, one full of a cramped, old man’s scrawl. The other, grid paper, blueprints of this church, with a dotted, damn near, jovial line snaking through, punctuated by 3 egg shaped markers.
“Tonight you either learn to follow orders you won’t understand, or understand you aren’t cut out for this shit.
If you feel like picking option 2, take off your shoes, go out the east exit, and meet me at the diner in Adrian. Of course if you do, a lot of these folks don’t make it out.
This is what happens when things converge, a ‘situation’ for lack of a better term.
You take a place where reality is thin, then you have a damn fool build a place of worship on it. It attracts the worst kind of heretic. Someone out for blood with a hate-on for God.
He spills blood, and he does it for purpose, stamping the event onto the fabric of reality like a rancher’s brand. Every year this scar on the face of time and space gets a little worse, plays out with a little more violence, a little less tether to the rules of nature.
And no one remembers, because, you see, reality itself is the ultimate fixer. When things go beyond what should be, everything around it simply rejects it like a bad organ. Folks didn’t die, they simply never existed in the first place.
The bosses, they remember though, they see all the irregularities in the fabric of reality, all the tiny holes that could lead to rips and tears, and they send their tailors to mend them.
Follow the trail, I’ve left you more than enough thread and needles to sow this shirt, if you catch my drift.”
I read the note over and over, not knowing if I understand it and it scares me shitless, or if it isn’t making any sense at all.
“What the heck? “ I hear Rob say, words more than a little slurred.
I almost jump out of my skin at the interruption.
“How long you been gone Andy? “ he says, looking from the window to his watch, amazed.
The first point on the map is the office closest to the window, I grab Rob by the arm and pull him with me.
The door is locked, but not in any way that matters. I twist the handle until the mechanism gives out, Rob protesting and questioning the entire time.
“Bobby, I have no time to explain things I don’t understand to someone I don’t know. So either help me find something Easter themed in this office, or I’m going to break your jaw.
And I want to be real specific, I don’t mean that as a euphemism. I mean I’ll do it, so your friends in the kitchen have to spend the rest of the time trying to patch you up, which keeps them out of my way. “ There is no venom or rage in my statement, and the look of shock on Rob’s face tells me he understands.
“So like, a basket or something? “ The half drunk 20 something says.
“Something like that.” I say beginning to go through the cheap desk in the middle of the office.
“And this has to do with the fact it’s daylight outside. “ Rob replies, pawing through a small garbage can.
“Yep, real short road from midnight sun in Michigan to bad shit going down. “ I say, trying to condense the situation.
A noise, from the hallway, it stops as suddenly as I do.
I look into a coffee mug, suspiciously full. A weighted yellow plastic egg sits inside, covered by tepid, old coffee.
Before I can open it, I see the source of the noise.
Whoever it is, is as silent as death. They make it into the room without Rob or myself noticing.
Even stranger is the threadbare, dust ridden, Easter themed Bugs Bunny costume they were wearing. Green and yellow wicker basket slung over one shoulder.
The person is six foot at least, thin as hell though, the costume hangs from them Ike clothes on a rack.
It presses a yellowing plastic keypad on the side of it’s oversized, mascot like head.
“What’s up Doc? “ the speaker, deep within the headgear is muffled, the audio quality is terrible, filled with static and harsh popping noises.
They grab Rob in an instant, one hand holding the young man by the neck lifting him off the ground, effortlessly. The costumed person’s thumb digs it’s way into Rob’s mouth, prying it open.
The freak in the costume rummages through it’s basket, bringing out a bloomed, thumb sized chocolate, it’s original shape impossible to guess.
Rob, all things considered should be able to get out of the situation, hell, should be able to knock the shit out of some beanpole wearing a rented costume, Mayberry build aside. But nothing the guy does can even cause a reaction.
Rob lands some solid kicks, one even connecting with the costumed person’s chin, but not so much as a flinch.
Fear makes opening the egg feel like defusing a bomb. I hear Rob choking, struggling, but finally I manage to pop the top off of the cheap plastic.
I look to rob and the thing holding him, and I see them.
A dozen, whispy, translucent things. Their eyes, dim yellow orbs, their grey masses, nearly formless, give the suggestion of children. They hover and swarm around the thing in the suit.
Whatever it is drops Rob by the time the top of the egg hits the ground, it stares at what’s in my hand. A tiny, pill bottle, label yellowed and illegible.
The things around it harshly whisper, but it’s attention is all mine.
I hear some murmuring behind the mask, male, “ It was candy, just, candy. “ he says.
The things body language is erratic, confused, I’d love to say it seems scared, but that might be a bit hopeful.
It’s a standoff. Tense moments go by, but with a movement quick enough I don’t track it, the thing is gone.
I rush over to Rob, deep purple bruises forming on his neck.
Kid has some balls, he gets to his feet, “We need to get everyone out of here. “ he says, before spitting a tooth onto the floor. Tears stain his face, pain in his eyes, but he’s determined.
We burst into the kitchen, the rest of the counselors having an animated, inebriated conversation.
“Rob, chocolate? Little old, but still good“ Jennifer says, she takes a minute to notice the young guy’s injuries, “What happened? “
I see the package, opened on the table.
“Please don’t tell me you ate any of these? “ I say picking the dated looking box up and tossing it in the trash.
“What’s it to you? “ Jennifer says, defensively.
I’m at a loss as to how to explain things, so I walk over to the window, intending to raise the blinds and show the group the unnatural light.
A small hand grabs my arm and spins me around.
“What the hell did you do to Rob? “ Jennifer accuses.
I feel the situation going south, and have no idea how to fix it. I’ve never been much of a leader, and I’ve got sweet fuck all in common with the rest of these people.
Then I see it, just a flash of yellow in Jennifer’s eyes.
I pull out the bottle of pills, brandishing them like a cross. This causes 2 reactions.
The first is confusion from the people I know are in the kitchen. The second is Peter spinning me around, a look of righteous indignation on his face.
“ Knew there was something wrong with you, drugs? In a church? “ He says, snatching the bottle from my hand.
I’ve had enough, I’m not the kind of guy who’s adept with subterfuge.
My plan is to knock Peter on his ass, and drag the rest of the people out if I have to.
What happens is the guy blocks my punch like it was nothing, and hits me with a straight right that has me on my knees.
“State Christian league boxing champ kid. “ Peter says, grabbing the back of my shirt and shoving me out the door making threats of police involvement.
He’s saying something about “ The kids today” when suddenly I can’t feel his grip.
When I look behind me, I see the thing in the rabbit suit standing beside Peter, one gloved hand on his shoulder. The pastor screams, but no noise makes it past the daylight.
Rob, Tim and Tracy come out of the kitchen, an argument starts from inside.
The rabbit watches us, not moving in the slightest.
Peter begins to, break, parts of him snapping and splitering. With every burst of gore and twisted bone the man wails, but we hear nothing.
The sight makes me feel so small, so afraid. The creature in front of me has power I can’t understand.
“Get in the gym, get Maria, and the kids, and try and leave, east exit if you can get there. “ I scream.
The three tear themselves away from the spectacle of Peter’s death. That thing in the costume raises one hand, waving, as Peter folds in half, hip bones shattered like cheap plates.
The daylight seems to be moving faster now, I begin frantically rummaging through the small public washroom, the site of the next marker.
I know how pockets thinks, and when I see the small slit in the wall for disposing razors (the guy was a sucker for Weird trivia like this, once I saw the outdated disposal, I knew he’d use it.) I know what I’m looking for is inside.
Loud noises from the kitchen, I ignore them and rip off the olive green metal cover.
I snake my hand inside the wall, feeling the odd jagged edge of ancient shaving supplies, heart pounding, knowing the thing behind me is getting closer by the second.
I feel the plastic and inside is a small, tea candle, with metal wire twisted around it. I smile, feeling almost like I’m getting the hang of things.
The wire lets the candle hang an inch or so below the fire sprinkler above me. I light the wick.
After a couple of seconds a shrill alarm sounds, I run from the washroom, looking to try and get the rest of the counselors before making a run for it.
The rabbit is closer, still standing, the pile of pulp and bone that was Peter lays beside it like disregarded luggage.
The sprinklers kick on, and instantly I smell something.
Whitewash.
The thin paint substitute begins to coat the floors, walls, and more importantly, the windows.
As the light begins to dim, I see something happen to the rabbit. It begins to take a muted, almost flicker appearance.
The kitchen is a crime scene.
Jennifer is standing, eyes weeping yellow tears, broken fingers, gashes, and all manner of wounds covering her. The whitewash dripping down her turns the girl into a nightmare mockery of a porcelain doll.
At her feet are the broken corpses of the others.
“Should have just ate the chocolate. “ Jennifer says, her voice phlegmatic and baritone.
I’m sprinting toward the double doors of the gym faster than I thought possible. I hear the limping stride of Jennifer behind me.
Rob and Tim open the doors, slamming them shut behind me.
Through the mesh reinforced windows of the gym door I see the Rabbit swipe his hand, the window, silently exploding outwards.
The gym is a chaotic mess, kids crying, Tracy and Maria try to herd them with minimal success.
This isn’t a horror movie, it’s a God-Damned war zone. Jennifer throws herself against the doors, straining the makeshift barricades in front. Rob and Tim are throwing questions at me I can’t answer, and it’s all I can do to try and figure out where the hell my uncle put the last piece of this fucked up puzzle.
I find it, macabre as it may be.
Bones, judging by the rotted dress around them, I’m guessing an older lady. Strangely in tact, though stripped of flesh.
They sit on a medical gurney tucked under a small stage. I wheel it out, and notice the other item on the stainless steel table.
A 5 pound iron sledge hammer.
Things click. For the first time, I get what Pockets meant when he talked about “ The thing”.
“Rob, Tracy, get ready to open those doors.
Tim, you grab the thing that killed your brother.
From there on out, I got this. “ I’m a little less confidant that I let on, but it doesn’t show.
The thing controlling Jennifer’s body doesn’t have much to work with by the time it gets in the gym. Tim barely manages to restrain it.
My first swing misses, breaking Tim’s thumb. But the guy holds strong, and doesn’t blink as the second caves in the skull of the corpse.
The whitewash, it was meant to show me this thing can leave the light, it just shouldn’t. And while I don’t know the specifics, that must mean the bones are something it wants.
It’s a couple feet outside of the door, haloed by it’s unnatural light. It shakes with rage as I wheel the screeching cart in front of me.
“Who is this? Love of your life? Sister? The one you didn’t mean to kill?
Please don’t tell me it was your mom. Fuck me man, only thing more pathetic than a serial killer, is a copycat serial killer. “ I taunt, I’m swinging the hammer menacingly over the bones, the entity looks like it wants to jump, but something is holding it back.
“Fuck it, I’m dying tonight anyway, might as well get this done while I’m still safe. “ I mock, turning a skeletal hand into so much dust.
All it has to do is wait me out, but this thing, it isn’t some perfect killer. It’s a lunatic given power and torment in equal measure.
It steps out of the light, and as it does, it loses, something. It moves slowly at first, as if it’s in pain. Tim sees the opportunity, and tries to rush the thing.
The rabbits backhanded blow breaks Tim’s neck, he’s dead before his spinning body hits the floor.
The skull on the table shatters under the hammer, the entity lopes toward me gaining speed.
For those wondering, there was nothing special about the hammer, but when it connects with the rabbits incoming fist, it turns it to pulp all the same.
It’s strong, but it’s slow, and what’s in the suit is nothing more than flesh and bone now.
That was the cocky, fucking 17 year old brain thought that got me stabbed in the stomach with a jagged forearm.
Blood pours down from the wound as I begin to back up, in shock. It’s a couple inches deep at least.
Before I can get my bearings I’m hoisted into the air. Staring down at the entity, the creature rearing back it’s jagged stump for a killing blow.
Rob jumps on the thing’s arm, it lowers just enough for me to get my footing. Just enough for me to have one shot at this.
It’s a backhanded blow, one that tears a quarter of the facemask away. Below it is lumpen, oozing flesh filling the oversized head.
It begins to back away, to try and get back to the light, realizing it’s mistake.
I throw the hammer, there’s a snap, as the things spine breaks.
Stubbornly, it keeps trying to go forward, dragging itself along with one arm. I pick up the hammer and sever the appendage.
My stomach feels like it’s on fire, I kneel by the thing, starting to see spots. Half blind from blood loss and pain I strike, again and again.
I got out of there, and of course, got patched up.
It was a few years more of Pocket’s lessons before I ever got to talk to ‘ The bosses’, but that night was the first step on my journey, my first step to understanding what is out there, and how to survive it.
Thought I’d update all of you, think of it as a Part 2
https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/s/l7zW2qNHoL