Imagine you were bored and sitting in your living room alone. Well in this house in a room where a plant stood near an archway. The walls are dusty blue and the floor of wood planks.
A person stood in the middle of that quiet room—blue jeans, a white shirt, and a brown-and-tan flannel hung loose over their frame. Their hair was light brown, just brushing their neck, soft at the ends like it hadn’t seen a comb in a while.
They were on the couch. Or something like it. Fabric under them, light across the floor, the quiet hum of an unremarkable day.
Then they were falling.
No sound. No warning. The sky rushed past in a blur of white and blue, cloud-thick and endless. Wind tangled their clothes, but the body didn’t twist or scream. There was no scream.
When they hit the ground, it didn’t break them. No pain. Just the weight of landing, a thud, a stillness. Concrete beneath. Dirt in the cracks. Grass pushing through.
Their chest moved fast. Up. Down. Again. A quick rhythm, too shallow to be steady. Their head turned side to side, sharp. Searching. Chest still rising, too fast.
A hand reached up to their head, fingers splayed across their temple, then their cheek. The breathing began to slow. They pinched the soft skin of their arm—hesitant, like it might pop and reveal a dream underneath. It didn’t.
Again, they looked around. Slower this time.
The city had gone quiet long before they’d arrived. Buildings stood in slouching rows, worn down and peeled open by time. Concrete towers with windows hollowed out, their glass veins shattered. Ivy curled up their sides like fingers climbing a throat. Trees split through old roads. Cars were half-swallowed by roots. Dust slept thick across signs and doorways, and rubble sat where walls used to be.
The land felt wrong. Tilted in some invisible way, like the world’s balance had shifted when no one was watching.
They pulled a phone from their pocket. White case, a tabby cat sticker curled at one edge. The screen glowed—bright, too normal for this place.
2:34 PM April 8th, 2025
They looked up. The sun was nearly overhead, caught in a haze. No birds. No wind. Just the hush of a world that should’ve been gone a long time ago.
Without thinking, they walked to the nearest wall.
Their hand brushed against the brick—cool, rough. The wall stood tall, but there was something brittle about it. Like it could crumble if leaned on the wrong way. Cracks ran through the mortar like veins.
They looked around again. Nature was in everything. Through everything. Vines climbed signs, grass split the pavement. In the right light, the skyline almost looked like New York—but it was hard to say. Harder to believe.
A corner store caught their eye. Dust coated the glass doors, thick enough to blur the shelves inside. The doors looked ready to fall off.
They pulled one open. It groaned on its hinges.
Rot hit them immediately—sweet, wet, and thick. Inside, metal shelves were knocked over, and cardboard displays had collapsed in on themselves. Chip bags were puffed and green with mold. The freezers sat dead and half-swallowed by vines, their doors slightly open, revealing shapes best left unexamined.
Lights overhead were dark. The meat display was a graveyard of old packaging and decay, overtaken by moss and creeping ivy.
They stepped carefully through the aisles, broken glass crunching underfoot. Near the back, they found a few canned goods that looked intact—labels faded, but unbroken. They turned their head, scanning again, before spotting a pile of plastic bags near the register.
They walked over, pulled one free, and tucked the cans inside.
From their pocket, the phone appeared again. White case. Tabby cat sticker.
The lock screen blinked at them.
They entered the code: 2004.
The phone unlocked... but the screen was empty. A blank field of white.
They frowned—if they could frown. Turned the phone off. Turned it back on. The screen lit up. No signal. Wi-Fi: 0 bars. No cellular.
They turned it off again. Slipped it back into their pocket.
And stepped out into the quiet.
Their head tilted down the road.
No wind. No sound. Just streets lined with cars that had long since stopped going anywhere, and buildings buried in ivy and silence. There was no life. Not even birds.
They had no idea what to do next.
They walked down the empty street, footsteps soft against the cracked pavement.
A green road sign leaned against a twisted pole. Faded white letters read:
Parsons Blvd.
Their head tilted. Recognition flickered somewhere beneath the silence.
They were in New York.
Further down the block, a storefront came into view.
Punto Rojo Bakery – Queens The windows were dust-choked, the sign sun-bleached and half-covered in ivy.
Near it, a row of metal hoops: a bike rack. Beside that, a darkened Laundromat.
They stepped inside.
The air was heavy and warm. No hum of electricity. The machines sat still—metal shells filled with dry rot and forgotten clothes. Vines slipped through the cracks in the floor, curling around table legs and chairs.
They moved slow, checking the corners. A few shirts, a hoodie, a pair of jeans—folded in half like someone had left them moments ago. They stuffed the clothes into the bag, over the canned food.
A slip of color caught their eye. A newspaper, half-tucked under a bench, edges curled.
They turned their head toward it. Stepped closer.
The headline, faded but legible:
"New York Nuke Plant Falls" The date: May 1st, 2017
Their head turned toward the door.
They stepped outside again, back to the sidewalk, the quiet world unchanged.
The bike at the rack was gray and dusty, but intact. Tires flat, chain rusted—but not broken.
They scanned the street. Looking.
Then—an alley. A narrow cut between buildings. A ladder clung to the side of a wall, iron rungs still holding.
They climbed.
On the roof, rubble waited. Broken bricks, old rebar, shattered tile. A city peeled open by time.
And something else.
A guitar. Coated in dust. Left against an air vent like someone meant to come back for it.
They picked it up. Light. Wood dry, but the strings were still there. On the back, in thick black strokes—ink or paint:
オメガ
Omega.
They turned it over once, then slung it over their shoulder.
At the edge of the roof, they found a loose chunk of wall—heavy but moveable.
They leaned into it, pushed. The stone tumbled, crashing down toward the bike rack.
Metal screamed as it struck.
The rack bent inward. A support snapped free.
The bike fell.
But it wasn’t hit.
They climbed back down the building and walked to the bike.
One hand spun the front wheel—it turned smooth, no resistance. A quiet little gift.
They mounted it and began pedaling down the road. Asphalt cracked and buckled beneath the tires. Weeds tugged at the spokes, but the path still moved forward.
Sutphin Boulevard. Then a left onto 146th Street.
The city had stopped breathing years ago, but something about this road felt... stiller. Like it was holding its breath.
They slowed. Their head turned.
To the left: a parking lot, mostly empty. At the far end, a trailer. Weathered, dull with age, paint peeling like bark. But intact. Sheltered. Maybe safe.
They rolled toward it.
At the steps, they leaned the bike gently against the trailer’s side. Walked up. Tried the door.
It wasn’t locked. Just swollen with time. They had to push hard before it gave way with a low scrape and a soft thump.
Inside—it was still.
Dust curled in the air. The windows were half-blocked by vines on the outside, dimming the light to a soft gray. Everything smelled like age.
A pull-out couch sat near the back wall. A kitchenette took up the far corner: small stove, microwave, and a little fridge tucked beside the sink. None of it hummed. No lights. No power.
They checked the drawers. Empty.
Still, it felt like something. A beginning.
They unpacked.
The canned food went into the cupboard above the stove. The bundle of clothes folded neatly beside the couch. They opened another cupboard—and found a blanket. Old. Thin. Covered in dust. But whole.
They shook it out and let it drape across the pull-out bed.
The trailer had a lock. One that clicked into place.
And that was enough.
For now, they had shelter. A door that could close. A roof to keep the sky out.
They didn’t know if they were alone.
But this would do.
They stepped outside.
The air had cooled. The sun, once pinned high in the sky, now slid toward the horizon. Not west—at least, not where it should be. It drifted northward, low and amber behind the buildings.
They watched it quietly.
Directions didn’t seem to matter anymore.
At the edge of a building, just beyond a narrow green strip, a water tower stood tall against the sky. Rust clung to its legs. It hadn’t been used in years, maybe longer. But it would matter eventually.
Water always did.
They walked around the small parking lot—just a patch of cracked stone walls.
Along the base of a brick wall, something soft moved in the breeze.
Daffodils.
Their color caught the light—yellow as the last warm hours of day.
They bent, picked one gently, and turned it side then to side.
Not for any reason.
Just... because.
They returned to the trailer and closed the door behind them.
On the bed, the guitar waited.
They picked it up, sat down, and strummed—slow at first. Then, with certainty. The notes were soft and raw, a worn echo of something once heard.
The song was Both Sides Now, arranged by Steve Pulvers. The melody hung in the air like memory.
They played.
And kept playing.
Until, quietly, a single tear dropped onto the blanket. Then another. And another.
The guitar didn’t stop. But the tears didn’t either.
They weren’t just lost.
They wanted to go home.
As night crept in, shadows filled the corners. The window vines became black lace against the dim.
They knew better than to sleep. Not the first night. Not in a place like this.
But their eyes betrayed them.
Heavy. Slow.
The guitar slipped from their lap and rested beside them. They lay back.
And slept.
Nothing felt wrong. No danger in the dark.
But in the morning, the world hadn’t changed.
Still empty. Still quiet.
Still not home.
Morning came. The light rose from the west.
It shouldn’t have.
But it did.
They stepped out into the cooler air, their shoulder held the guitar. Mounted the bike. Tires hummed gently across cracked pavement.
They turned onto Hillside Avenue.
The city stirred quietly around them—not with people, but with wind, vines, and dust that shifted in the morning light.
They passed a faded sign:
Legacy Car Rental.
Beyond it, a crumbling car wash, the brush rollers sagging and soft with moss. Then up the stretch toward Hillside Bridge, and over. No cars, no sounds. Just the slow creak of the bike frame under weight.
Past J & J Tailors, its windows shattered and displays left in mid-motion. A beer shop, overrun with ivy that grew through the door and out the broken registers.
Then Kew Gardens Road.
To the right: the edge of a cemetery. Stone markers tilted under the strain of roots and time. Nothing moved among them.
They kept going.
Plant life choked every inch of the sidewalk now—ivy in the cracks, saplings sprouting from sewer grates. It smelled green, wet, and old.d
They spotted a torn backpack on the ground near a rusted bench, half-hidden beneath ferns. Without hesitation, they stopped, picked it up, and rode back.
At the trailer, they unzipped it.
Inside: textbooks.
Math and science, marked 2019.
A pencil pouch with a few dull ends and one broken tip.
A notepad.
A phone, long dead.
They placed the notepad next to the stove.
Wrote:
Day 1
The books offered no help. Just equations and chapters. The bag, now empty, would do better repurposed.
Then: hunger.
They grabbed a can from the cupboard. Wrestled with it. The opener slipped a few times before metal gave way. Inside: corn.
Cold.
But edible.
Later, they took 146th Street all the way down. Past Jamaica Avenue, beyond the park overtaken by tangled roots and still ponds, then down into Archer Avenue.
Ahead—Jamaica Train Station.
It looked like a greenhouse made from ruin. Dust filmed every surface. Ivy spilled over from every wall and column. Trees grew in places they never belonged.
Inside, it was worse.
No trains.
Just silence.
Old bags littered the floor, abandoned in mid-motion. Forgotten lives curled up under years of green.
They walked through it slowly. Not searching. Just absorbing.
The city was vanishing under nature’s weight.
And they were still here.
They moved quietly between ruins, scavenging with practiced hands.
Backpacks left behind. Purses, tote bags. Most were hollow now—ripped notebooks, chewed pens, crumpled fast food wrappers. They took what still mattered: the books. The facts. Even if they didn’t know why.
Then, from somewhere above—
Metal scraped.
Slow. Drawn out.
Too heavy for wind.
Too alive for peace.
They jumped.
Their chest lifted fast, shallow breaths stuttering. They turned in every direction, nothing but stone and overgrowth in view. No movement.
Just echoes.
Maybe a rusted pipe.
Maybe.
They left. Went back to the trailer. Locked the door. Played nothing that night.
The rhythm had become ritual.
They visited a medical office off Cedarcroft Road—its windows cracked like veins, its pill bottles scattered and emptied.
They stopped at a library near 89th Avenue, now a jungle of torn pages and silence.
They passed the Hillside Hotel Queens, but didn’t go in. The glass was wrong. The shadows heavier than they should be.
They avoided it.
But now—they needed water.
The tower they had seen that first day still stood in memory, out past 87th Drive. Far, but reachable. So they slung the bag, hoisted the guitar, and pedaled down forgotten streets.
As they rode, they strummed.
Not a full song.
Just chords.
A sound for no one but themselves.
The tower was still upright. Rust curling down its legs. The basin dented. A shadow of collapse. But standing.
They slowed the bike to a stop.
And then—
From the side of a building, where the wall had broken inward and green spilled out,
something moved.
Something stepped out.
Long. Thin. Wrong.
Its skin clung tight to brown bones, patches of coarse fur marking its hips and chest. Its arms and legs moved like they had too many joints and not enough flesh. Fingers splayed too far. Its ears were long, impossibly so, sharp as broken blades.
And its head—normal in shape, almost human—but wrong. No eyes. No nose. Only a mouth. The lower jaw split down the middle, left and right sections moving independently. Two rows of teeth filled it, glinting white in the dim light, with four massive fangs—two on each side of the split—jutting outward. No lips; the mouth seemed carved directly from the lower half of its face.
It turned. Saw them.
The music stopped.
They froze—chests rising fast. No words. No screams. Just stillness, every part of their bodies locked in fear.
The thing tilted its head. Not curious. Just… tracking.
Then it stepped forward.
Their breath came shallow, fast. Chest rising and falling. They didn’t move—not right away.
The creature paused too. Its head twitched unnaturally, as if tuning into a signal no human could hear. Its split mouth opened slightly, teeth catching the dim light, waiting.
They crouched slowly. Quiet.
Fingers found a rock—smooth, cold.
The creature didn’t react.
They stood, raised a hand, and gave a small wave.
Still nothing.
No eyes. No face.
Maybe it couldn’t see.
They tossed the rock—left of where they stood.
It bounced on the concrete.
Clack.
The head snapped to the sound. Fast. Inhuman.
One step in that direction.
Another rock. Flat, this time.
They skipped it down the road.
Tap. Tap. Clack.
The creature bolted.
Faster than thought.
Gone from one place to the next like a bad cut in a dream.
It crouched over the rock, picked it up. Sniffed. Dropped it.
Not alive. Not food.
They moved.
To the building under the water tower. The ladder was rusted, coated in vines, half-lost to the wall. They climbed anyway, fingers tight on metal, dust flaking off onto their sleeves.
At the top, the tower leaned.
It wouldn’t fall on its own. But maybe it didn’t need to.
They reached into their pocket and pulled out the phone. White case. Cat sticker.
They climbed back down, slow. Planted the phone on the road beneath the tower’s shadow.
A timer. Set.
They moved back, quiet as crickets near a predator.
Then the ring.
High and sharp. Electronic. Too loud for this world.
The thing turned.
It didn’t hesitate.
It tore across the street, hands scraping pavement, too fast again. It lunged at the sound.
And then—
They pushed.
The tower groaned.
Metal bent.
Everything leaned.
Then it fell.
Crushing steel, splitting wood, a scream of rust and dust and impact.
The street shuddered.
When it was over, there was no sign the thing had ever stood. Only black blood spreading like oil beneath twisted metal.
The phone was gone.
They stayed still for a moment.
Watching. Listening.
Then turned.
Their first kill.
No smile.
No sound.
Only breath.
And the wind.
They came down the building, careful on the steps coated in dust and rust.
No sound but the wind. The blood didn’t move. The floor near the fallen tower shimmered wet, but the black stuff sat apart from it, as if even water didn’t want to touch it.
They rested the guitar against the metal, strings quiet.
No more songs outside.
Not in front of them.
They kept walking.
Farther now.
More than they had gone before.
84th Drive.
The world looked like it always did now—swallowed by green, held in vines, buried under time. Dust on glass. Leaves in doorways. Nature forgetting people were ever here.
But then—
A building.
Whole. Clean.
The church.
No vines. No moss.
Not a single crack in the windows.
It looked like it had been swept just yesterday.
They stepped closer.
No sound. No motion.
They pushed the door.
It opened easily.
Inside was still.
Still in a way that didn’t feel abandoned—just waiting.
Chairs lined up in perfect rows. Light filtered in through clean glass.
Books sat on every seat. Black covers. Gold lettering.
They picked one up. Bible.
They sat where it had rested.
Hands came together.
Fingers laced over leather.
Their head bowed.
No sound left their mouth.
No breathing.
No words.
But maybe—
Maybe something. A sound. Barely there.
A whisper of a voice without shape or age.
"Lord..."
Another pause.
Silence.
Then again, faint.
"Help."
That was all.
They stayed like that for a while.
The world outside didn't knock. Nothing moved.
They stood again, took the Bible, and left.
The church behind them still looked untouched.
But now the dust on their shoulders looked heavier.
They stepped out of the church.
Lighter. Not healed—but something had been soothed.
The air felt easier. Or maybe they just stood straighter.
They headed east, legs taking them without plan, back to the street called 84th Drive.
Sherry Plaza stood near the corner.
But it wasn’t a plaza anymore.
The windows had been replaced with boards. A handwritten sign, mostly faded, read:
"Home."
Inside—beds. Cots. Stacked high. Rusted and tangled.
Plants crept between the springs and across the floor.
Desks overturned. A large freezer in the back.
The ceiling above sagged open like a cracked skull, beams and wires drooping through.
They walked toward the freezer.
Put their head inside.
Meat.
What used to be meat.
Deer bodies—half-buried in moss and time.
Antlers coated in mold.
Spines exposed.
The cold room no longer cold.
But a breeze moved. Soft. Wrong.
It wasn’t temperature.
It was a feeling.
Guilt.
They backed up—then froze.
Behind them, in the open, stood something tall. Something shaped like a man, but not.
Coated in black fur. Towering. Still.
Eyes yellow. Teeth—sharp, white. Barely parted.
A cat—but not. A beast standing like a man.
No breath.
No step.
No sound.
It took one step forward.
They stepped back. The freezer door touched their shoulder.
Another step.
Closer.
They clutched the Bible tighter, its spine pressing into their chest.
The book opened as their hands shook.
Psalm 91.
Their eyes dropped to verse 4.
“He will cover you with his pinions, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness is a shield and bunker.”
Another step.
The beast lifted its arm—long, clawed.
They didn’t flinch.
They moved.
Low. Fast. Ducking under its swing.
No noise—just motion.
They were out of the freezer.
They slammed the door shut.
No lock.
Desks. Rubble. A twisted metal frame—anything to block the door.
They dragged it all. Piled it. Stacked it.
Inside, no sound came.
Not a bang.
Not a growl.
Not a breath.
Just silence.
They stood panting, but no breath was heard.
Their eyes stayed on the door.
The Bible, still in their hands.
Verse 4 still open.
They didn’t know what that thing was.
But they knew it didn’t like something.
And they were still alive.
They left Sherry Plaza with their breath short.
Not fear—exhaustion. A kind of silent burning in the lungs.
Their legs moved, but slow. Their hands trembled, but steady enough to hold the guitar.
The trailer was waiting.
Still.
Silent.
Familiar.
They lay on the pull-out bed, hands limp at their sides. The guitar sat beside them like a quiet companion.
They didn’t play it.
Didn’t touch it.
Just stared at the ceiling until the darkness took over.
Morning. A sliver of sun rose behind thick clouds.
They stood.
They moved with purpose. A new idea forming—not big, not brilliant. Just possible.
The trailer wasn’t bound to the lot. They could move it.
They didn’t need to stay still anymore.
They unhooked the support. Pulled out broken planks and old bricks holding it in place.
They scoured the street nearby, finding old metal panels from fences or cars—flat enough to slide under.
With careful lifting and angling, they created a path beneath the trailer’s front.
Then the bike. Tied to the hitch using torn cords and old ratchet straps.
It worked.
Slow. Painfully slow. But it moved.
They took the streets, avoiding anything too narrow or steep.
Past parks, ruins, skeletons of stores.
No monsters. Just heat and silence and dragging wheels.
They reached Belt Parkway by sundown.
Just beside it, tucked like a forgotten memory, sat Harbor Motor Inn.
Rotten on the outside. But useful.
A hole in the back wall. Wide enough for the trailer to block—nearly.
There was still a gap at the bottom, but it was manageable.
They backed the trailer up to the inn, securing it in place with more rubble and old fence poles.
Then they explored.
The inn was mostly empty.
Vines curled across the carpets.
Wallpaper peeled.
But inside the storage room: canned food. A small stash.
On a shelf above—bottled water. Dusty, warm, but not cloudy.
They took it all to the trailer.
Set the cans on the small shelf.
Put the bottles near the mini sink.
They sat on the edge of the bed.
Not safe. Not secure.
But better.
The guitar sat nearby. Still untouched.
They spent the night in the trailer.
The wind knocked once or twice, but nothing more came.
Morning arrived—not loud, not golden, but dull and gray like tired eyes opening.
They stepped out with the guitar on their back and quiet in their chest.
The world hadn’t ended again in the night. That was enough.
Target sat nearby, taken by the same green hush that claimed the rest of the world.
Nature had built its own aisles, its own displays. Vines curled through the front doors.
They pushed their way in.
Inside, the air was still.
Shelves had collapsed in slow defeat.
Carts were rusted over and wrapped in ivy.
What wasn’t rotted had been faded into silence.
They walked carefully, slow between the dead shelves. Their shoes touched fallen boxes, dusty cans, shattered displays.
Then—
a flicker in the edge of their vision.
Mannequins.
Tall. White.
Some dressed in old boy’s clothes—wrinkled button-ups, one missing a sleeve.
Their heads leaned at slight angles.
Their arms hung stiff at their sides.
But—
They caught sight of it in a mirror aisle-end.
Not white.
Not still.
The mannequin’s reflection showed black, oily skin, shifting like it wasn’t attached, like it was alive and uncertain of its shape.
They turned sharply.
In the real world, the mannequin was still pale and still and plastic.
But then—
It moved.
Just a step.
It walked—not robotic, not stiff.
Like a person.
Like it had weight.
Like it had thought.
They backed away.
Another glance at the mirror: the black figure walked smoother.
Closer.
They looked again at the mannequin in front of them: white again, but walking.
Their breath stilled. Their chest didn’t rise, didn’t fall.
The silence was a weight pressing on them.
They stepped back again and their back hit a shelf—metal clattered.
Something fell.
A belt.
They didn’t think. They just moved.
Hand wrapped around the leather like they’d done it a thousand times.
The mannequin came closer.
They didn’t blink.
Didn’t breathe loud.
Didn’t speak.
They stood straighter.
Lifted their chin just a little.
Tilted their head at the mannequin, like returning a question that hadn’t been asked.
The figure in the mirror stopped.
Its skin rippled.
The real mannequin froze again—still plastic, still empty, still not.
The two of them stood there, eye to eyeless eye.
And then—nothing moved.
They both stood still.
No clock ticked. No air stirred. Just them.
And it.
Then, the mannequin stepped again.
They gasped sharp but silent. Their hands moved before thought did.
The belt in hand snapped forward—wrapped tight around the mannequin’s legs, tied in a way it was never meant to be tied.
Then, they backed away.
Three steps. Four. Five.
The mannequin moved—hobbled—its stride stunted.
But then it bent, slow and smooth, hands pulling at the belt until it slipped free like it had been barely there at all.
The mannequin stood again, tall and still.
Its head creaked sideways—just slightly—then turned toward them.
They didn’t breathe.
Their eyes darted to the floor. A few rocks.
Small. Nothing dangerous. But something.
They bent, grabbed one, threw it fast.
It hit the mannequin’s torso.
Nothing.
Another.
Its arm.
Still nothing.
Then, the mirror.
In the glass: black-skinned reflection. Alive.
Not a mannequin—a creature.
And in the center of its smooth face—just above where the nose should be—was an eye.
One, blank, white eye.
No iris. No color. Just pale void staring through everything.
They threw the last rock.
It flew—clumsy, desperate—but true.
It struck the center of the mannequin’s face.
The mannequin recoiled.
Stepped back.
Hands snapped up, covering the face.
They didn’t waste it.
They ran.
Through overgrowth, through cracked glass, through the echo of breath in their own chest.
Out the doors. Out into the parking lot.
They turned.
The mannequin stood at the threshold, just where the broken vines met tile.
It hadn’t left the store.
It didn’t move.
It only watched.
And so did they.
The two of them, one plastic, one not, stood across time and pavement and watched one another.
Neither blinked.
Neither moved.
The air had the weight of waiting.
And still,they never saw the mannequin step.
But it had.
Once.
And maybe again.
They moved away from the store.
The mannequin still stood, unmoving in its jungle of broken retail, but they didn’t look back.
They didn’t need to.
The air behind them said enough.
They made their way across the parking lot, toward the TD Bank just out beyond the ruins of the Target.
Nothing stirred but light and dust. The glass doors were cracked, but still standing.
Everything still looked like a place the world forgot—except for the sky.
It was empty. No clouds.
Just blue.
But not still.
A part of it moved.
Only slightly. As if something up there was trying too hard not to be seen.
They didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t say anything.
Didn’t even fully believe what they saw.
But this world had made it clear—belief didn’t change the rules.
Only made them harder to face.
They turned back toward the trailer. Toward the harbor motor inn.
Toward home, as much as that word still had meaning.
But they didn’t make it.
Before they got close, before their steps could slow or their thoughts catch up, it came.
From the sky.
A shape fell, not fast, not slow, but final.
Color of the sky.
Like the air had grown a body.
Its head was shaped like a human’s, but wrong. No face. No hair.
Just a smooth surface and an open hole where a mouth might have been—only lined with pikes—sharp, curving, spiraled inward like the trap it was.
The top half of the thing was clear. Shoulders. Arms.
But no legs.
The rest just faded into nothing, like fog, like unfinished thought.
And claws.
Its fingers weren’t fingers at all—claws bent like broken metal. It came down, and the sky split with it.
The inn’s back wall shattered. The trailer—gone.
Torn away like a page in wind.
Their guitar hit the ground.
Didn’t break.
They stood there.
Frozen.
Not out of fear—but out of not knowing if what they saw even happened.
The creature was gone—ripped itself back into the sky like it had never been.
Only the cratered wall and the vanished trailer said otherwise.
They looked up.
Nothing.
Just blue.
They stood there, chest tight. No breath. No movement.
Just the ache of something that didn’t make sense.
Didn’t wait.
Didn’t even care.
The sky held no clouds.
Just the memory of what had come from it.
And the thought:
How long until it comes back?
It didn’t hit all at once.
But when it did—
Sweat. cold, sharp. Falling down their face like the weight of what just happened had finally found a way in.
Their frame stiffened—then folded, all at once, under the crushing panic.
They grabbed the guitar.
Not because it made sense, but because maybe—just maybe—it had more plot armor than they did.
Then they ran.
Hard. Fast. Faster than they thought was possible.
Down 24th Ave.
On to Cropsey Ave.
Buildings cracked. Rumbled.
Walls peeled open like old books.
The world felt like it was breaking behind them.
Because it was.
The sky wasn’t just above anymore.
It was chasing.
Not a beast.
Not quite.
But the sky itself. Shifting. Stalking.
Hard to see. Easy to feel.
Hunting.
They didn’t stop.
They couldn’t.
Until—
Bensonhurst Park.
Grass torn. Trees cracked by time.
And in the center of it all:
A circle.
Not drawn. Not painted.
Just... there.
A line in the grass—twenty feet across—perfect, unnatural.
And in the dead center, a sword.
Not old. Not rusted.
Not forgotten.
Like it was waiting.
The blade—mirror bright, untouched by the years.
The hilt—silver, with a cold gleam, heavy with something more than metal.
The guard—thick, solid, built like it knew how to take a hit and give one back.
They crossed the line.
And that’s when the sky monster stopped.
Like it had hit a wall made of fear.
No sound.
No breath.
No more falling buildings.
It just—
left.
Gone like a shadow at night.
But they didn’t turn to the sword.
Not yet.
Because something else was there.
Something worse.
The kind of feeling that doesn't knock, just enters. Like death dressed in metal.
They didn’t need to look.
They felt it.
A thump.
A step.
Armor. Heavy. Intentional.
Knight.
But not a savior.
Not a statue.
Not a friend.
They stood there.
Back still to the sword.
To whatever had stepped out of nothing behind them.
And in that moment, their heart didn’t race.
It sank.
Like it knew exactly what kind of chapter this was.
Before they faced the knight,
they looked down.
The gray shoes they always wore—
a little more battered now.
Edges frayed.
Dust caked.
The kind of wear that spoke of long roads and longer silences.
But then—
light.
A sword.
White. Glowing. Resting at their feet like it had always been there.
Like it knew they'd need it.
They didn’t ask questions.
They looked over their shoulder.
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
The Knight.
Dark gray silver.
Built like fear. Armor bulking at the thighs and shoulders—edges jagged like they'd been carved from ruins.
The chest puffed forward, not proud, but imposing.
And the helmet—sharp crowned, with points that circled the forehead like war itself had declared royalty.
There was a hole where the face should’ve been.
But there was nothing inside.
Just darkness.
Not shadow.
Not void.
Just… absence.
The knight’s hand moved.
Smooth. Controlled.
Power wrapped in silence.
It gripped the sword stabbed into the earth—
and pulled.
The blade rose with a scream of dirt and a burst of dying leaves.
No struggle.
No strain.
Just pure, final strength.
They picked up the white sword.
Felt it pulse.
They didn’t charge.
Didn’t roar.
Didn’t speak.
They just stepped forward.
Closer. Sword to sword.
Life to death.
They swung.
The knight met them.
Blade to blade.
Metal screamed.
Every strike pulled strength from their bones.
Every clash drained something unseen.
But they kept swinging.
Because they had to.
But the knight?
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t stagger.
Didn’t bleed.
Just moved like time itself.
They fought harder.
Faster.
The white sword flashed in arcs of desperation.
They weren’t trained.
But they weren’t unskilled.
The blade danced like it remembered something they didn’t.
But then—
the cut.
Sharp.
Fast.
Final.
From the jaw, across the cheek, up past the eye—
and to the top of the forehead.
Blood.
Hot.
Thick.
Relentless.
They dropped.
Not dead.
But down.
The sword fell beside them.
Still glowing.
Still white.
The knight stood over them.
Unmoving.
Like judgment.
Like the end of something that never began right.
They couldn’t see the knight’s face.
But maybe the knight couldn’t see theirs either.
Because no one does.
And yet there they were, face to… something.
Breathing shallow.
Bleeding deep.
The sword still within reach.
But barely.
The knight came closer.
One step.
Then another.
The sound of armored feet pressing down like finality.
They didn’t breathe fast.
They didn’t flinch.
Pain wasn’t pain yet.
Not really.
Just warmth.
Just pressure.
Just something that might mean the end.
They saw it then—
the guitar.
Thrown near them.
Wooden, worn.
Somehow untouched.
But not the Bible.
Gone.
The sky above stirred—
not with clouds,
but with something else.
A motion, subtle and wrong.
The sky beast was there,
hidden but watching.
Waiting.
For them to run.
Or fall.
Or both.
Blade or teeth.
They took one long sigh.
Maybe the last one they’d ever take.
Then they moved.
They grabbed the guitar.
Not as a weapon.
But as a thread.
A thing still theirs in a world that kept taking.
They ran.
Bay 28th Street. Then Bay 26th.
Their steps uneven.
Their body faltering.
But they didn’t fall again.
Not yet.
They stopped.
Turned.
No knight.
No sky beast.
But something else.
Worse.
It stood in the middle of the street—
small. Human-shaped. But off.
Skin dark brown, almost red.
Slick like clay.
Its head too large for the thin frame it stood on.
A single huge eye blinked slow from the center of its face.
A long, wide smile carved beneath it.
Tiny horns curved out like question marks made of bone.
It moved its lips.
Soundless.
Then it spoke.
Loud.
“Why.”
Just one word.
But it shook the street.
It made them stagger.
They covered their eyes from the sound.
Their eye—
the right one still open.
The left now closed from pain.
Blood still falling.
One tear ran alongside it.
They whispered something.
Just a word.
Maybe a prayer.
But it wasn’t for us to hear.
And we don’t.
The creature blinked again,
tilted its head,
and screamed the word again:
“WHY.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was an attack.
They dropped to their knees.
Covered their ears.
Gritted their teeth.
Then they looked up—
And saw the rest.
Dozens.
Scores.
More.
Small shapes.
Eyes and smiles and horns and limbs.
Maybe sixty.
Maybe more.
Too many.
And all of them
staring.
The eye monsters began to move.
Small steps, twitching.
Like their bodies were puppets, and the strings were made of static.
Then—
a voice.
Soft. Warm.
A woman’s voice.
It cut through the noise like silk through wind.
“Away.”
They turned, vision blurred through the blood and their one good eye.
From a nearby house—
she stepped out.
A girl, maybe early twenties.
Hair like black glass in moonlight.
Crop top. Fingerless gloves up to the elbow.
Jeans and boots and a belt all soaked in shadow.
Even her iris was black—like ink that never dried.
A single black hoop earring swung gently from one ear.
She walked straight to them.
Unafraid. Her hand touched their shoulder, light but grounding.
Then her voice again, calm and clear:
“Be gone.”
The eye monsters didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t speak.
Until she raised a hand.
One of the creatures rose with it.
Flailing in the air, silent but panicked.
She closed her fist.
The thing burst into black blood.
A splatter—
Then a drift of dust.
Like it was never real.
That’s when the rest ran.
No screams. No threats.
Just gone.
She knelt by their side.
Eyes still black.
Expression unreadable, but her voice soft again:
“Are you okay, darling?”
Their lips didn’t move.
Their eye—just the right one—closed.
The blood still fell.
Too much.
Sleep wasn’t a choice.
It was a flood.
A collapse of the body.
And they gave in.
They didn’t know if they were safe.
Didn’t know who she was.
Didn’t know what those things were.
But they did know one thing:
They couldn’t stay here.
This world wasn’t home.
And in sleep, maybe dream, maybe death,
a thought floated.
“Did I ever have control?
Was I ever the one making the choices?
Or was I always just being moved?”
The question didn’t echo.
It just was.
But then, in the dark space of unconsciousness,
something clearer than fear,
something older than pain,
rose in their chest:
“Be strong and courageous.
Do not fear or be in dread of them,
for it is the Lord your God who goes with you.
He will not leave you or forsake you.”
—Deuteronomy 31:6
Even in sleep, the words burned like light behind the eyelids.
Maybe not enough to save them.
But enough to carry them a little farther.
They woke in a storm.
Not outside—
inside.
Their breath came fast.
Sweat clung to their neck.
Hands clenched like fists were all they knew.
But in front of them—
Alyssa.
Calm.
Kneeling.
Her hands already tending to the wound just beneath their eye.
The left one—the one the knight had marked.
She didn’t startle.
Didn’t retreat.
She placed a hand gently on their shoulder,
pressing them back against the soft, fabric-scented couch.
“Shh… You’re okay,”
she said, voice like breath on velvet.
“I am Alyssa.
I mean no harm.
I only want what is best for you.”
They looked around.
Only one eye—
the right—was clear.
And it saw a home.
Not a ruin, not a shelter, not a husk—
But a home.
Clean walls.
Smooth floors.
The kind of house you pass by and think: someone just moved in.
They blinked once.
The air was warm.
Alyssa, still gently wiping away at the closed wound, asked:
“What is your name, dear?”
They spoke.
But we heard no sound.
Their mouth moved, just barely.
Alyssa smiled, as if she had heard every syllable:
“Your name is beautiful.”
She rose with a grace that didn’t disturb the room.
Took something from the counter.
A mirror.
She knelt again, holding it out to them.
They took it.
Slowly.
Looked in.
We don’t see their face.
We never see their face.
But what they saw—
Their right eye: unseen.
Still theirs.
Still a secret to us.
But the left—
Changed.
A light blue now.
Iris faded.
Pupil dim like a dying lantern.
The skin from jaw to forehead, across that left side—
a deeper tone than the rest.
Not wrong. Not broken.
But different.
The cut had healed.
But it never hid.
They looked to Alyssa.
Said something.
Soft.
Again, we don’t hear it.
But her reply came like it had always been waiting:
“You’re safe with me.
And no look you take will make you ugly.”
They didn’t answer.
They hugged her.
Arms wrapping around the woman in black—
a stranger
who didn’t feel strange.
Alyssa hugged them back.
Not tight.
Not loose.
Just right.
In that moment,
there was no beast in the sky,
no knight on the ground,
no eye in the shadows.
Just breath.
And warmth.
But even then, even still—
a thought crept through the calm:
Was this peace earned?
Or simply handed to them?
Was this quiet real,
or just a silence between the thunder?
They didn’t know.
But they held onto Alyssa anyway.
Because sometimes
you have to believe in the feeling,
even when the facts haven’t caught up yet.
After the hug,
Alyssa led them down a hallway painted in warm creams and quiet shadows.
She opened a door to a room large enough to feel borrowed from a castle—
a king’s bed in the center,
a desk by the window,
a closet with gilded handles,
and a bathroom with walls like steam had never touched them.
“It’s late,”
Alyssa said, her voice always halfway to a whisper.
“You clean up, I’ll make food for you.
Then you do whatever you want.”
Then she was gone.
Not far, just out.
They stepped into the bathroom,
steam rising like memory as they showered—
water running pink for a moment
before it ran clear.
They dried.
Dressed in the same clothes—
battered gray shoes and all.
They walked to the living room,
drawn by scent.
On the table:
pork chops with honey. Set for two.
They sat with Alyssa.
They ate.
And nothing hunted them.
Nothing screamed.
Nothing bled.
It was peace.
But peace, in a world like this,
has its own weight.
Its own suspicion.
After the plates were cleared,
Alyssa went to wash the dishes,
but they followed, helping her even when she gently waved them off.
They spoke.
We didn’t hear it.
But Alyssa replied:
“I’m a monster like the rest,
but I mean no harm,
and I want what’s best.”
Her words weren’t rehearsed.
They were worn in, like shoes.
“I can pull things out of the air,” she said later,
“but it takes energy.”
More days passed.
We’re not told how many.
Enough for routine to form like moss on stone.
They spent time with Alyssa,
talking without sound—
and hearing answers that mattered.
Was she like a mother?
Maybe.
Maybe more.
Maybe something you can’t label when the world’s broken.
A bond grew between them,
something not quite describable but undeniably present.
One evening,
Alyssa stood behind them, hands gentle.
She helped tie their hair back—
part of it resting at the nape of their neck,
the rest knotted at the back of the head, clean and collected.
They never left the house entirely.
Not into the city,
not back into the open world of monsters and glass-eyed knights.
But they did open the front door.
They tended the plants along the porch rail—
green things with red stems and gold flowers.
They watered them.
Spoke to them, maybe.
Or just listened.
The peace here didn’t feel like a lie.
It felt like a fragile, honest thing
that someone had chosen to believe in
before it could break.
But belief doesn’t stop things from breaking.
Still—
for now—
they were safe.
And that was enough.
One day, they tried to leave.
Not to escape,
not to run—
they weren’t foolish like that.
Not anymore.
But they wanted to walk,
just a little past the yard,
just down the street.
And Alyssa stopped them.
Not with force—
not even with a command.
Just a hand on their shoulder,
and eyes that said
please don’t.
“Just walking away could mean death,” she said.
“This world isn’t kind. Not even a little.”
It wasn’t about control.
It was about care.
The kind of care that sounds like fear.
Later, they tried an experiment.
Alyssa pulled something from the air—
a small floating light,
like a moth carved from starstuff.
But when it floated past the front door,
five feet out,
it stopped.
Hung in the air, frozen.
No pulse,
no drift.
They touched it.
It turned to ash in the wind.
Alyssa shook her head.
“The house keeps what I make.
It doesn’t want the world to have it.”
They didn’t try again.
In the days that followed,
they asked Alyssa questions—
about the world,
about how she came here.
And though we never hear their voice,
we hear her answers:
“I don’t know how this world came to be,” she said.
“Or how I came to be in it.
But I knew early on—
I wasn’t going to kill like the others.”
It was a good home.
Maybe the last one left.
But still—
they felt the weight of unfinished things.
The ache of battles survived,
but not understood.
So they trained.
In their room—the one with the king’s bed—
they practiced.
A wooden sword.
a thick training manual with yellowed pages.
They struck the air,
again and again.
Not graceful, not perfect.
but getting closer.
On the desk:
Notes, and drawings,
a record of everything they’d faced.
Each monster had its own page:
- The Cat — drawn mid-leap,
labeled Cat’rue.
- The White Hearing One —
sketched with soundlines swirling from its head,
named Hearing Wreath.
- The Mannequin —
with a mirror behind it,
the reflected shape filled in entirely black.
Just called Mannequin.
- The Eye Creature —
big-headed, smiling,
labeled Eyefull.
- The Sky Beast —
a shape like dread given form,
marked Sky Arc.
- And The Knight —
armor and shadows,
drawn from memory and wound,
titled simply Champion.
They were preparing.
Not for revenge.
Not even for survival.
But for the choice.
To not be helpless,
not again.
Were they training out of anger?
Grief?
Determination?
Who knows.
But the wood clacked against air like it was striking something real.
And every swing
was a quiet promise
to stand when the world rose against them again.
Alyssa was resting.
She had spent the day pulling things from the air—
books, curtains, warm things, good things.
It left her tired.
Worn.
She said goodnight with a soft voice,
retreated to her room,
and didn’t ask questions.
That was when they left.
Not to disappear.
Not to escape.
But because there was something they needed
that peace couldn’t give them.
They made their way down Bath Avenue,
past half-eaten signs and buckled concrete,
to the old police station.
The world had forgotten this place—
vines strangled the windows,
the steps cracked under their weight.
Inside, it was worse.
Worse in the way things are when you realize
nobody will ever clean them again.
They moved slow.
Shelves, desks, lockers.
Dust and leaves.
But there were cans.
Food.
Real food, not conjured or made of magic.
They didn’t need it—
Alyssa made five-star meals out of air like it was nothing.
But still…
They took the cans.
Not out of hunger.
Out of preparation.
They moved deeper.
Then they heard something fall.
Clatter.
Not loud, but wrong.
They dropped to the floor.
Slid under a desk.
Peered out just enough to see:
A figure.
Small.
Garden gnome small.
A white pointed hat,
a brown jacket,
a beard white as old ash.
Eyes green and mean.
It moved quick.
Quicker than it should.
It snatched up anything that glinted—
a coin, a shard of a badge, a keyring.
There was a hole—
just big enough for the thing to vanish into.
And vanish it did, eventually.
Crawled in, carrying a gun magazine like a prize.
They waited.
Carefully stood.
Turned toward the exit—
Grunt.
They spun.
Too late.
The gnome was leaping,
mouth wide and full of needles.
It clamped down—
not on skin,
but sleeve.
The flannel’s brown-and-tan arm caught in those tiny fangs.
They ripped the arm from the sleeve,
leaving the gnome tearing into it like it was meat.
It chewed through fabric like a dog starved for weeks.
Then it got to the shoulder—
And they struck.
Their other hand grabbed it—
foul and fast—
and hurled it across the room.
It hit the wall.
Bounced.
Landed.
Stood.
Fourteen feet away and already crouching low to pounce again.
They didn’t run.
They stepped back.
Set down one of the cans.
Just gently.
Then walked away, slow.
Behind them, the gnome stood still,
using a long black nail to pick its teeth.
When they turned once more,
the can was gone.
Just—gone.
They didn’t look back again.
They walked home.
Back to the house.
Back where Alyssa still rested,
unaware.
They didn’t wake her.
Didn’t say a word.
And the sleeve—
ripped, shredded,
gone.
They didn’t mind the cold.
The mirror said what words wouldn’t.
Left eye: light blue, faded like winter glass.
A scar ran from jaw to brow—deep, healed, but loud in silence.
The rest of their face?
We don’t know.
We never will.
Their hair was tied back,
some strands falling against their neck.
Others pulled into that quiet knot at the back of their head.
In the kitchen, Alyssa cooked.
You could hear it.
Soft sounds.
Frying pans and comfort.
Days passed.
They kept count.
Scratched it into the back of the desk drawer, under loose paper.
29.
That’s how many.
Almost a month.
Almost enough time to forget that monsters had teeth and sky had hunger.
That day,
they were at the front of the house,
tending to the plants with Alyssa.
Sunlight on the scar,
the right sleeve still gone.
Left eye still strange.
It was quiet—
the kind of quiet that feels earned.
Then Alyssa’s smile died.
She looked up.
Eyes turned blacker than black.
“Get inside,” she said.
They froze.
The sky was shifting.
Not clouds—
but a pull, a twist, a ripple.
Like something massive turning over under a blanket of light.
“Go, now!” she snapped.
They ran.
Fast.
But no sound came.
Not wind, not footstep.
The world went silent
as if afraid to make a noise.
Inside, the house changed.
It wasn’t slow.
One blink—
and it was gone.
The warmth.
The smell of clean air and conjured comfort.
In its place:
Rot.
Walls split with vines.
Black leaves pulsed like lungs.
Wood cracked and wept moisture.
Everything turned wrong.
And Alyssa?
Gone.
There wasn’t blood.
There didn’t need to be.
They knew.
Sky Arc had taken her.
Their name for it, anyway.
The monster in the clouds.
The shifting god-thing that never stopped watching.
They stood in the middle of the broken room.
Right eye hidden.
Left eye dulled.
One tear fell from the right eye—
and we don’t know what that eye looks like.
We’re not supposed to.
Their breath slowed.
Not shaky.
Not loud.
Just slower.
Just still.
They stepped outside.
The house behind them—
once clean, once safe—
was now nothing but a corpse of its former shape.
The vines grew like veins.
The windows bled dust.
Even the air tasted like ash.
Above, the sky only looked like sky.
That was the worst part.
No shape, no face, no claw reaching down—
just sky.
The one thing that wasn’t trying to kill them had been taken.
No, not taken.
Killed.
She didn’t run.
Didn’t scream.
Alyssa faced the thing.
And now she was gone.
They thought about the meals.
The slow mornings.
The voice that didn’t demand, only offered.
Alyssa hadn’t tried to own them—
she just cared.
Like a mother.
Or something even harder to name.
It didn’t matter what they were—
boy, girl, neither, both—
when someone looks at you like you’re worth keeping around just for existing,
it cuts deeper when they’re gone.
Their knees found the dirt without permission.
The world had spoken:
"You get nothing that stays."
Their finger dug through the soil,
and they wrote it slowly,
letter by letter:
“Do not love the world or the things in the world.
If anyone loves the world,
the love of the Father is not in him.”
Was that grief?
Maybe.
Was it anger dressed in scripture?
Maybe that too.
Maybe it was just the only words they had.
But before they could rise—
he came.
A figure.
Walking like he didn’t understand how legs worked.
Three feet tall.
All white, no detail.
Like skin made of candle wax.
No clothing, but no features either.
Just a smooth body,
drawn like someone gave up halfway through.
His face was something else:
two black lines streaked across from eye to ear,
top and bottom,
like bruises painted with ink.
Red eyes.
Slit pupils.
Hair like tar—slick, black, and flat.
He raised a hand toward them.
His voice?
Like gravel swallowed wrong.
“What's this, what's this, what's this, who be you?”
It wasn’t a question in the human way.
It was a song with no melody,
just scraping sound and curiosity.
They jumped back—
reflex,
like the monster might lunge.
But the thing didn’t move like a predator.
It just tilted its head,
as if disappointed they expected danger.
Then came that voice again,
scraping down the bones of sound itself:
“I’m not a killer, I’m a brat, no need to fear—till I am near!”
Each syllable was a curse against calm.
Even the air around it seemed wrong,
like someone chewing glass behind your eyes.
They didn’t respond.
They stood.
They walked.
But the thing followed.
Side by side.
Its walk was... wrong.
Knees bending outward, inward, sideways like hinges from a broken puppet.
Hips clunked.
Hands cracked when they swung, like branches under frost.
It wasn’t human.
Not even close.
As they moved forward, the thing rasped again—
its voice worse than before,
the sound of forks scraping plates under a smoker’s laugh.
“What’s your name, buddy?”
Silence.
So it kept going.
A roll call of strangers, saints, and maybe someone it ate.
“Whit? Fred? Rose? Scarlet? Matthew? Mark? Luke? John? Yuki? Lucy? Gwen?”
Still no answer.
But they spoke,
finally.
We never heard what they said.
Only saw the shape of lips,
the shift in breath,
the tiniest turn of the head.
The creature stopped just a moment,
as if tasting it.
Then grinned too wide.
“I like that name. Could be a boy, a girl, or just an it like me!”
The voice sounded like it had been dug up.
They didn’t flinch.
Just kept walking.
The Target store loomed in the distance—
its sign faded,
one letter half-hanging by rust.
“Why to the Target store we go?”
It asked,
as if the words meant something to it.
As if anything did.
They said nothing.
But at the door of the Target,
there was no mannequin this time.
No reflection waiting behind glass.
No cracked-neck sentinel to chase them inside.
Just stillness.
And whatever came next.
The doors groaned open,
and they stepped into the Target.
No alarms.
Just the whine of air that forgot what sound was.
Mannequins lined the entryway—
limbs angled wrong,
eyes painted but seeing.
They didn’t look.
Wouldn’t look.
But the monster did.
He stared at them,
his head tilting with each stiff plastic grin.
“Creepy girls with no words, creepy boys with no faces,”
he hummed,
“what a lovely collection of nothings.”
They kept walking.
By the fire exit, a rust-freckled axe hung in the vines.
A fire axe,
aged like forgotten warnings
They pulled it free—
muscles strained,
metal moaned like it remembered blood.
The monster leaned in too close.
“Planning now, killing now?”
They didn’t answer.
Just swung the axe once—
a wide arc near his neck.
He ducked back,
hands flailing like string puppets.
“You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”
rasped his voice,
“What was it what was it what was it!”
They said nothing.
Just hoisted the axe to their shoulder
like it belonged there.
They moved.
Oil cans.
A working lighter.
Fire,
born of old shelves and lucky wiring.
“Fiiiiireeeeee,”
the monster sang,
“what plan do ya have with that?”
He didn’t get an answer.
The park was where they went.
Where the ground still held a circle,
carved and crusted like it bled black.
The sword still in the dirt.
No knight in sight.
But it was still his.
The monster crept up behind them,
not dancing now.
His words came thinner,
more honest in their tremble.
“You’re crazy... no one fights that thing.”
They turned their head to him.
Just enough.
Then turned back to the field.
They weren’t going to fight today.
But they were planning it.
And maybe the knight would feel that.
Fire,
axe,
and silence.
They never needed to speak to us.
The Jamaica Train Station slept
like everything else in this world—
rotted, rusted,
and only half-forgotten.
They walked the platform slow,
boots echoing across concrete cracked by roots.
Beside them, the monster
shoved trash onto the train tracks with glee.
“Heh! Down you go! Down you go!”
A suitcase burst open on impact.
Inside, a notebook.
Blank pages and a pen.
They picked it up.
Wrote something.
Just one line.
We don’t see what it says.
They tuck it back in the bag, zip it shut.
“What was that for?”
the monster croaked, watching them.
They said something.
No sound—
just lips moving, face unreadable.
The monster rolled his eyes so hard
you’d think they might fall out.
“Mystery mystery mystery. You’re just full of 'em, huh?”
They moved on.
Metal clanged somewhere below.
The monster flinched.
He was all bark and no bone.
“Scrap off!” he barked,
more afraid than angry.
But they were already peering over the edge.
And there it was.
In the open space where tracks once mattered—
a thing,
tall as a bus, wide as memory,
built from rusted train rails,
bolted plates,
spikes where symmetry forgot itself.
But through the gaps in the metal—
flesh.
Thin. Brown. Breathing.
Alive.
They didn’t pause.
Took the axe from their shoulder.
Popped open the oil can.
Let it coat the blade like a second skin.
The monster hissed.
“Wait! That axe is steel! It’ll stick to him! That’s his skin! You touch him with that—”
They looked back.
One eye, pale as the moon,
stared at the monster like he was already wrong.
Then they turned to the metal hulk again.
And the world held its breath.
They held the axe like it was more than metal.
A torch. A choice.
The lighter flicked.
A small spark
kissed the edge of the oil-soaked blade.
Whoosh.
The axe was now flame incarnate,
a burning smile in a world without warmth.
They didn’t wait.
No speech,
no grand motion.
Just
strike into the hollow of the metal hulk—
right where the brown skin peeked through iron ribs.
But it didn’t cut. The axe stuck.
Like a magnet to its truth.
“Its body sticks to metal! As metal sticks to it!”
the monster croaked, voice screeching like a fork in a garbage disposal.
But that was the plan.
They let go.
The flaming axe
stayed inside the beast.
It groaned—
not a scream,
but a sound like burning wood under pressure.
The fire flickered inside
but it needed more.
They cracked open another oil can.
Tossed it like a prayer.
Oil danced into the gaps—
into cracks and seams,
into the hollow of its ribs,
and down its spine.
The flame caught.
Fed.
It roared.
Chunks of rusted rail flew from its frame—
flung with desperate fury.
And what was left?
Not iron.
Not steel.
Just skin.
Dry as sunburnt paper.
Brown. Wrinkled.
Eyes empty.
They stepped back,
watching it burn,
watching it flail.
Behind them, the monster—
their sidekick in all but name—
tilted its head.
They asked it something,
words we’ll never hear.
But it answered with glee,
like someone naming a bad pet.
“He likes junk, so I call him Junkie. Metal sticks to him, makes him slow. But like that? All skin? He’s fast.”
They turned just in time
to see Junkie bolt.
One moment on one track,
the next on another,
zigzagging like madness with feet.
The fire clung,
but it dimmed.
“Let’s leave.”
the gravel-throated monster said, for once not singing his words.
So they walked.
Away from burning steel.
Away from echoing screeches.
Away from the station where motion once lived.
Only ghosts ride these trains now.
The sun was folding itself into the horizon,
turning the sky the color of bruised fruit.
They walked.
Past houses strangled by vines,
windows open like mouths frozen in their final scream.
Each door wore dust like a second skin.
No lights. No life.
Only the crunch of their steps,
and the slink-creak twitch of the creature beside them.
When they reached the Target parking lot,
they saw two forgotten kings of grease and paper crowns:
Five frys in a bag and
Winny’s.
Both buildings wore time like rusted armor.
Vines wrapped around drive-thru menus,
But the Winny’s still stood.
A squat little castle of former comfort.
So they entered.
“This one has more rot! Good rot! Safe rot!”
the monster chirped,
voice filled with the sound of swallowed staples and shattered bells.
They made camp—
underneath a crooked table,
beside a ketchup machine that had nothing left to give.
As the last light from outside dimmed,
they sat.
No fire this time.
Just the fading glow of red neon above the window
still reading:
Fresh. Never Frozen.
They spoke.
But we didn’t hear.
We only heard him.
“You’ve named every monster you’ve met so far, what is it—what is it—what is it you name me?”
he croaked, leaning so close his face bent the air.
They replied—silent words.
And the monster
howled with joy.
“Inconvenience? I like—I like! That is me! I am Inconvenience!”
he sang, voice like gravel trying to spell a word.
More words exchanged.
Their half—lost to us.
His half—clear, bitter, bleeding.
“I am weak of weak. Monsters hunger. Hunt each other. Eat. Me? I’m easy snack. But the black blood? They don’t burn it. So I come back. Over and over. I get eaten. Then I grow. Then they eat. Again. Again.”
They asked something.
We don’t know what.
But it made him laugh.
“You didn’t what? You didn’t burn it? That’s why it will be back! You have to burn the black—that stops the reform. Gone. Like ash in wind. Some monsters don’t bleed black, no! Sprites maybe. But the ones who do—if you don’t burn it... they always come back.”
His voice lowered.
Softer now.
A cough of a sound.
“You’re learning. Dangerous. Like fire in the wrong place.”
The neon light buzzed above them,
and a cold wind pushed through the shattered drive-thru window.
No more words.
Just the night.
And monsters that maybe knew too much.
Night hadn’t come yet, but it was clawing at the sky.
The monster—Inconvenience—jerked upright like a puppet with a sudden pull. He croaked out in a rasp that cut the air.
“I meant no harm on day, just there to bug, but now the night comes, you need to run!”
No moment wasted. No questions. This world didn’t hand out second chances. It handed out endings.
Dusk fell like a warning, slow and cruel.
Inconvenience began to change.
He grew—bones stretched longer, spine twisting, teeth now like glass shards, hair draining its black to a weathered gray. His crooked form snapped upward, limbs too thin, too many.
They ran.
Old buildings passed like dead trees, all windows cracked, all doors silent. Nature claimed everything—ivy thick as scars, moss like memories. No life. Just green rot.
Behind them, the rhythm of claws.
Inconvenience in full form, not bugging now, but hunting.
His voice followed, croaked and deeper. Not quite human. Not quite beast.
“Don’t look back, little friend… You might see too much.”
They reached the building—a former HVAC installation company. The sign was rusted to nonsense. The glass doors were already gone, a carpet of vines where tile once lived.
Inside, desks collapsed like corpses. Cabinets spilled dead files.
They took the stairs without thinking—climbing like fear had hands at their back.
Fifth floor. One below the top.
Gray flooring, faded red brick walls. Vines like veins.
Several doors. Closed. Each with a string, frayed and loose, slipping
out the bottom like worms or warnings.
No time to ask what the strings were.
Below, creaking. Boards groaned under weight not made for this world.
Then the voice.
From down beneath, crawling up like smoke.
“Hello, little sheep…”
“Where are you now?”