Day 1 - An Occurrence at Hot Springs Ridge & The Twisting Withers

The day she went missing.

When she was found, she was uncovered alive in a 3,000-year-old sarcophagus. What happened to Katie? From the studio that brought you weapons and producers James Wahn and Blumhouse comes a terrifying new vision on April 17th, discovered the true Lee Cronin's "The Mummy" Some things are meant to stay buried.

Only in theaters, in IMAX, April 17th, rated R under 17 not admitted without parent.

“So, what do you guys think is in store for us this year?”

Lord of the flies? No, that's kind of last year. Actually, it feels like John burned a lot of material with camp last year. That's what worries me. One might not be original, but he also tends to keep coming up with new ways of involving

us. Each one, dumber than the last. You know, I can hear you guys, but really isn't that big. Sorry, John, but come on. You understand our concern, right?

Not really. Guys, nothing weird is going to happen this year. Seriously. Life has been too much for all of us lately. We're just going to go back to camp.

Just us? No one else. We have plenty of supplies and the weather report is clear for the foreseeable future. So, what's the catch? What do you mean?

“John, can you just save us weeks worth of worrying and give a clue about what's in store?”

Once again, I don't have anything planned. We're just doing team building stuff at camp. Trust me. John, we all love you, but we trust you about it. As far as, well, I can see you're still carrying some holiday weight.

So, I won't say as far as we can throw you, but... Damn, cold blooded. Just look under your seats.

I figured you might be a little paranoid because you're all pessimists who always

imagine the worst, so I got y'all something to make you feel a little more comfortable. Are these guns wrong with you, yeah, America? Yes. I mean, no, not really. Those are tranquilizer guns.

John, as someone not as used to your peculiarities, can you tell me why you think this would make us feel better? Yeah, and why you're at it, why did I get one? Of course I'll explain Nicole, what am I invisible? Those are for you all in case you start to think that things are escalating.

I'm not saying they're going to, by the way, just that you can have them in case. You want us to shoot you at the tranquilizer dart? What? What the hell are you talking about, Michelle? No.

Never shoot me. Why didn't I get one? Be here, Owen. You can have mine. I hate guns.

I wouldn't do that, Megan. Why not? Because the Trank Guns aren't for me. They're for Owen.

“Am I the only one who notices that when we get to the woods, Owen tends to escalate things?”

Oh, yeah, I see nothing. What? No, I don't. No, seriously, Owen, please, don't play with that. John, I'm not a child.

I know, children might actually listen to me. What, Johnny? You think I'm just suddenly going to die? Shoot himself in the neck, like Frank and old school? I mean, who didn't see that coming?

Oh, look, we're here. I'm going to die. Come on, guys. Let's get stuff on packed. I'll go grab the bags.

Anyone else concerned about that? Not really. I've gotten used to the weird minnesotaian way. He says bags. It's bags, John.

Not that. I mean, John is like, eerily calm. When has that ever been good? Hey, are you guys coming?

OK. I say we get all our tranquilizers ready.

And the second John goes full John.

We dose him up so he sleeps for the rest of the month and go into nola and get some bengays. Yeah, yeah, yeah. No serious. Am I going to wait something's happening?

He's just sleeping, right? Oh. Yeah, amongst other things. That's where we're at. Fart jokes.

Really? Remember, the old Irish saying, if you don't find Fart's funny, when you're a loser,

but the exact same amount of Fart's. Yeah, I'm hoping this isn't going to be a reoccurring theme this year. No promises. 20, 26 sucks and Farts are funny. Come on.

Let's just get this all over with. I'm with Heather, lock and load. Everyone else seeing this too, right? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, it's wrong.

Actually, nothing. Everything looks great. Thanks. I've been using frequent flyer miles the last few months to make sure stuff is set up and ready to go.

I'm at a loss. It actually looks like a real summer camp. In the middle of the bio. John, how did you do all this by yourself? The last time we were here, the place was--

trashed?

“Yeah, that's why I didn't invite other podcasters this year.”

Plus, I'm so tired. Are we actually staying in cabins this year? If you want to, I also have some camping gear, but honestly, with the bugs, I'd stick with the cabins. What's the catch?

No catch. Listen, ladies, gentlemen, and-- Wait, where's Owen? Probably still sleep farting in the bus from this male of it. Oh, well, we can recap it for him when he wakes up.

I know that in the past, the time that we've spent together has been-- Hey, Otter. Scarring? Like something only a bad writer would come up with?

Yes, all that, I suppose. But I really do just want us to get back to our roots. Hang out. Have some fun and tell scary stories for a month so that people can stop thinking about all the fucking horseshit

that's happening in the world. I don't need to get on a soapbox to reiterate anything I've already made well known about my own personal feelings regarding human rights. I started this podcast to tell scary stories.

“That's why we're here and why people listen.”

I think that or they just really like to hear a faceless, middle-aged man struggle through life. Yeah. Yeah, probably them. Yeah.

You are the worst salesman ever. I'm just saying.

I haven't worked in really hard on this basically since camp

ended last year. I thought back on my old camping experiences to try and make things the best I could. Really, this song made me think of an occurrence at Hot Springs Ridge.

Big Sur on the California coast is one of my favorite places to camp. And Hot Springs Ridge was the first place I were backpacked to. Back when I decided that putting a studio apartment is a way to gear and food on my back

and going for several days long walks seemed like a good hobby. And it was for a long time, of course, a lot changes so for time. And the area was no exception. You know, the pattern hidden away spots

get picked up by influencers or want to be YouTube stars and suddenly everybody just has to go stand and that same spot and take the same selfie in the same pose. And pretty soon, it's more about the selfie

than it is about the amazing scenery.

The quiet and calm of a special place ends up filled with trash left behind by day tripers and ravers who somehow think that just because it feels like a magic forest, there must be a magic janitorial crew to clean up after them. The inner webs get filled with people trying to find those

tucked away places and the locals telling them to stay away.

“I think that's a very detergent influencer.”

Big Sarah has been no exception. With its famous bridge and now one waterfall on the beach, a lot of hot springs ridge had largely been spared that because at the end of the day, it was a full day's hike away from the coast.

And he had to really decide he wanted to spend several days out in the wilderness to spend some time in the naturally warm pools fed by the sulfur springs nearby. Also, you'd be pooping in a toilet.

That was basically a wooden box

that over a pit that volunteer rangers redog every few years. So, maybe not really selfie worthy. Although more than one person found a kind of Instagram fame when another hiker walked around the screen of trees

that passed for backwards privacy. So the area was largely, but not completely spared. The last time I camped there was several years ago,

and it seemed like everybody just needed

“to get out of their houses and into anywhere else.”

So when I finally arrived at the backwards camp site, I was excited that there wasn't a soul around. I usually took trips like this midweek to avoid a small but growing number of people who had found that an R-E-I-Sleeping bag

in a Walmart tent wasn't a terrible way to spend the night. But I didn't expect to see another backpacker, too. As this was supposed to be a full moon,

and the sky would be amazing 10 miles

in from the coastal fog and more than 20 miles from many towns, much less in these cities of any size. I had my pick of the backwards camp sites, and for once the state wasn't in a drought, and there was no fire restrictions.

I said about setting up my one person tent and my gear at a site that had some river frontage, but we still talked away from the other near a site. And I gathered some dead fall firewood. There was calm, quiet except for the sound of the river,

and the wind and the trees and the chitter chatter

“of the stellars jays that flooded around the area,”

just waiting for me to accidentally leave some food out for them to scavenge. Exactly the prescription for the stress and strain of modern life, no cell phone signal, no cars, no leaf blower anywhere to be found,

and no construction noise that seemed a constant and a neighborhood where a new tech millionaires can afford just enough house to gut and remodel. And as usually happens,

my first night in the tent was a little fitful.

As I adjusted to the nearby sounds of critters, just doing critter things, like walking around my tent to investigate the new smells, or the cut off high pitched cry of a small animal, getting eaten by something bigger and meaner.

Circle of life, am I right? Frankly, I'd rather go being chomped down by an owl than gun down at local cinnaplex. The moon was one night away from fall, but my tent still felt a little too bright for real sleep.

But the next day, day came.

“A whole group of hikers who clearly look like they just”

gotten their gear the day before. Their shoes were barely scuffed, and I'm pretty sure I saw at least one take on somebody's backpack. Their presence was announced by the rap

blurring out of the Bluetooth speakers one of them had dangling from a shoulder strap with their pack. You gotta tell ya. There's nothing that'll quite sour a gorgeous day

by the river in the back woods, and having said river drowned out by what asked pussy on repeat. Worst, instead of doing what any regular hikers would do, and grab a sight a few over from mine

to give some space, they sat up at the very next spot. In that meant that while I still had a little bit of separation, they may as well have planted that speaker right next to me. I have a pretty strict policy of not being the guy to tell the people how to behave in the woods,

so I endured it for a few hours, and then decided to do an unplanned bay hike further up the river. I was relieved that the sons of their speakers grew solely fainter as I left them behind,

around and ultimately disappeared after a couple of bends in the waterway. Lone again at last and quiet. I read the long sign and settled my day pack on my shoulders for the rest of the hike.

That's when I heard this singing. Not something blaring from a speaker, thank God, but a song coming from an actual person. And when it seemed to fit out here in the woods, a soft and low melody that had a bit of melancholy in it,

a bit of sweet sadness, but really beautiful. I couldn't quite get the words, but as I got closer, the tune got clearer. To this day, I can home it if I close my eyes

and thank wild rivers and the wind in a trees. I came around the bend and river where I slight breeze picked up and walked to the sense of honey suckling jasmine over. I stopped dead in my tracks because there,

just ahead of me in a shaft of sunlight, was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. She was in the river submerged in a water up to her neck. On hair floating behind her as she gently floated and sang to herself.

There was nobody else around and I saw a pile of neat we folded clothing on the bankops at where my path was. So I figured she was naked. I know what you're thinking. This is how porn movies start.

And I suppose that's true. But believe me when I say that even though I was a healthy young guy with all the right hormones and all the right places.

All I could think of was the amazing beauty of the moment.

Sex was the last thing in my mind.

So I cleared my throat and coughed politely to let her know that someone was around

“and she didn't have the much privacy as she thought.”

The woman didn't startle. But she did maneuver herself around to face me. And the immobile green of her eyes opened wider and astonishment. I blushed like I was the naked one and stammered.

Oh, hi. Just passing by, I'm sorry to disturb you. I didn't see anything. My stammering peatered out as she laughed with a clear and clean burble.

That was for any embarrassment or concern. Between those eyes and the laughter, I felt myself relaxing. If she wasn't worried about it, I suppose I shouldn't be either.

After all, this was the wilderness.

It was always a question mark

if people swimming in the river had closed on any way. We were in pedal the way to the opposite bank. Still not saying anything. And if she stepped up out of the water, I saw how truly long her hair was.

Trailing behind her like a veil until she was fully out of the water. When she's on solid ground and began gathering her clothes with unheard movements,

“or what hair curled and flowed across her breasts and skin,”

somehow covering her more than a swimsuit would have, but also making her look even more naked and vulnerable. For the first time, I seemed to notice how pale her skin was. Almost creamy white against the background of the brown and green of the forest.

I was soon like that thought across my mind, then there was some shift in the air. Some indiscernable change and it felt like the day went from Jasmine and Sunshine to storm clouds

and a deep animal mask. In the shadows of the trees on the opposite bank, near the mysterious woman, I thought I saw some huge shape. Up right like a human,

but with lighter shadows rising about a tad like a crown or horns. My blank and the moment passed, far bank was empty. The woman must grab her clothes and run off,

“perhaps as disturbed by whatever was in the shadows as I was,”

and the day was just ordinary again. A light breeze flowing wherever in the now afternoon sun casting new shadows on the ground. I shook myself and decided to head back to camp. I had a lovely moment with a stranger

and I could survive a few more hours that amplified music before bad. When I got back to camp, it wasn't so bad. Even though the group had spread out and now it was clearly infringing on my camp area,

there was a pile of weed smoke over the area where there was sitting around several fires and passing around joints. At least it was no music blasting from a speaker. I noticed several dogs with them running loose.

That was never a good idea in this area.

Bears weren't unknown. When we were plenty of wild pigs, it would rip through those house pets without a second thought. Not to mention the mountain lions that generally avoid it humans,

but were seen with increasing frequency in the area. I broke my own rule and approached the group. It suggested that they may want to have their dogs secured and was met with a course of whatever man and it's cool they don't bite from the group.

And I gave up. And if they got old Rex killed or more likely got sighted by rangers for having loose dogs in the area, and beyond their heads.

After night fell, I watched the full moon rise up over the trees and it was as magical as I had hoped. A ethereal silver light filled the spaces between the trees

and a million sparkles reflected off the water

as they're rippled in the moonlight. It was indeed a magical moment. Right up until the group decided that a full moon dance in the woods needed the calming sound of Cardi B again

and cranked up their speakers to full blast. I was about to just give up and head into my tent in my own earphones to see if I could sleep when I heard one of the dogs beginning in the bark, joined by the rest in short order.

This was frantic, worn the pack level noise. Then I saw our step out of the trees. In the moonlight, her hair and skin seemed to have shared that same ethereal glow. Like the moon burst a small version of itself

and was moving across the ground toward me. She passed the dancer's slowed and stopped. Her gaze has turned toward her silently. Even the music stilled, although I didn't see anybody touch the speaker.

It got weird when one of the dogs,

gave a low growl and began to stiff legots

“stalking approach to the woman from the river.”

I don't know how to describe what happened next because it didn't make sense. The woman paused, locked eyes with the dog, and murmured a couple of syllables that I couldn't make out.

The dog wind, coward, and then just collapsed, like it had fainted. It didn't seem to be hurt and I could see its ribs rise and fall with its breath. The other dogs are quieted and they also lay down.

Not collapsing so much as just deciding it was nap time. It wasn't quite the same for the dancers. All around the woman, the dancers were falling, falling asleep, toppling to the ground, like puppets who strings have been cut. At once, there's one of them hit their head on a rock with a loud crack.

Unlike the dogs, that one didn't keep breathing. I couldn't tell what happened to the others. Were they breathing, sleeping, dead? Oh, I thought to myself,

okay, this must be a dream.

“And I kept thinking that even as she grew closer and closer.”

The night seemed to take on an extra warmth with her nearness. And the air was full of honey-suckling jasmine as she reached for me with pale arms and her long hairs seemed to wrap itself around me and pull me into her with a mind of its own.

The rest of the, let's call it a dream, was not porn, but it was definitely full of pleasure. It'd give in take and rhythms of sex and full of every fantasy I could imagine when a beautiful woman comes into a campsite naked

under a full moon. Eventually, we slept, I guess. Do you sleep in dreams? I don't know if it was minutes or hours later when I heard the dogs again.

This time, whining, law, and letting out stress little wolfs instead of barking. I caught that other scent on the breeze. The musky, wild animal stink at experience briefly earlier that day.

We've got stronger and stronger. And I felt the woman rise up from beside me as if to meet it. I sat up slowly and left, surgically. Not sure if it was a dream time adventure, something real.

I saw the woman in the moonlight, standing next to the shadowing creature. And I could tell this time, there was not a crown or horns, but antlers arose up from its head.

And while it's at upright like a human, there was something strongly animal-like in its posture. Is it feel would be more comfortable on all fours? The woman spoke to it in that burbling language I heard in a responded tour with more the deep rumble

that sounded like something between language and animal expressions. She responded, and even though I couldn't understand language, her tone carry both anger and some firmness to it, almost defiance.

A chill rushed along my skin as she justured at me. In the shadow creature turned the most frightening gaze had ever felt on to me. I could make its features out a little better as it faced me. Its head was deer-shaped.

It never definitely antlers rising out of its skull,

although their shadowy forms were heard to focus on. At the eyes, there were neither human nor animal, but some combination of the two. Their depths flickering with the orange of the forest fire and the silver of a full moon in the forest.

That gaze lingered on me, and I felt myself holding my breath until it last it turned away. A final rumble that felt like a dismissal and an agreement at the same time.

Honey, succulent jasmine, enveloped me as a woman wrapped me in her arms again. My face tight against her breasts as if she was sheltering me. And maybe she was.

Because that's when I heard the dogs again. This time deep and aggressive with growling. Part of me wondering if I wasn't dreaming of wolves and not hearing good old Rex out there. And then the scream started.

It didn't last long,

“but I'll never forget the sounds of canine sniles.”

Shocked cries of betrayal from the third to human voices,

escalating to shrieks that sometimes were cut off in the middle. And sometimes faded into weeping before finally. Everything was silent. Everything except the sound of the river

as she held me tight against her.

Last thing I remember that night

“was a gentle brush of her hair on my face”

and she kissed my lips the last time. In the fading scent of jasmine and honey sickle as I heard her footsteps. And the footsteps of something larger. Heavy air moving out from the camp.

Followed by the lighter padding of several smaller animals. All heading deeper into the wild woods. The next morning I woke up and said my tent. There was a heavy, coppery smell in the air. I stuck my head out of the tent

but neither saw nor heard any signs of the neighboring campers.

I stepped carefully out of the tent to investigate

but I stopped and mid-strived when I saw a molten lion dragging a lump of something bloody into the tree line. Before vanishing, the creature paused as if considering whether I was a better meal than whatever was already carrying.

“It's eyes looking at me over its jaw full of human carrying.”

It's looking briefly with orange flames before the big cat turned away and disappeared with its burden. Leaving me with only the quiet songs of the river in the morning sun. That was the last time I tracked up to hot springs' ridge. Used to be a great place to camp, but I don't go there anymore.

If I were you, I'd ignore the reddit threads that talk about trying to get up there for selfies and pay a little more attention with the locals tell you. Stay down closer to the car camping sites. That's what I do now.

Because those are easier to reach and there are also beautiful places to spend some time. Even if nobody cares when you play your music so loudly that it drones out the river. I'm sorry.

You want camp to be like that? Well, not exactly like that. How do you want it to be? Oh my god, hey, hey, where is everyone? All in, we're outside!

What's this thing in my neck? A tranquilizer dart. I do so, Bob, a good ONX Machina. Someone's shouting with a tranquilizer dart? Yes, shout yourself.

Yeah, that tracks, I suppose. Wow, look at this place. Owen, slow down, walking feet. I'll go get 'em. Okay, maybe I do understand the dart guns now.

It's worst case scenario, really. I mean, if it gets shot like five or six times so it'll just sleep through the rest of the camp anyway. I'll go get dinner ready. Anyone have a story to tell on the meantime?

“Has anyone here ever heard of the twisting whithers?”

Aside from the slow and steady hoof falls of the large draft horses against the ancient stone road or the continuous creaking of the nearly as ancient to Caravan wagon's wheels. Horace was sure he couldn't hear anything at all.

In the fading autumn light, all he could see from miles around were the silhouettes of enormous petrified trees, having stood dead now for centuries but still fusing to fall. Their bark had turned an unnatural and oddly lustrous black

when it seemed almost liquid as it glistened in whatever light happened to gleam of its surface. They seemed more like geysers of oil that had burst forth from the earth only to freeze in place before a single drop

could fall back to the ground, never to melt again.

Aside from those forsaken and foreboding trees, the land was desolate and gray with tendrils of coal and damp mist lazily sneaking their way over the hills and through the forest. Nothing grew here and yet it was said that some twisted creatures

still lingered as unable to perish as the accursed trees themselves. The Horace has seemed oddly unperturbed by their surroundings however and crashes Horace's elderly traveling companion casually struck a match to light his long pipe. "Don't go getting too anxious now, Laddy."

He cautioned, no doubt having noticed how tightly Horace was clutching his blender bus. Silver buckshotting cheap. It'll be firing that thing unless it's a matter of life and death. "You hear me?

The silver actually do any good anyway.

The things that live out in the twisting withers aren't likeants or revenants, I mean. Burning lunar caustic in the lambs keeps them at bay so at the very least they don't care much for the stuff. Horace's replied, "It doesn't kill them because they can't die, which is why the buckshot is so effective.

All the little bits of silver shrapnel are next to impossible for them to get out. So they just stay embedded in their flesh, burning away. A few times I've come across one of shop before and let me tell you, they were a sorry sight to behold. So long as we're packing, they won't risk an attack,

“which is why it's so important you don't waste your shot.”

They're going to try to scare you, get you to shoot off into the dark and that's when they'll swoop in. You're not going to pull that trigger unless one is at point blank range. You've got that. Yes, Grasace, I got it. Horace, not at once again. You've seen them up close then. Larry, and you'll be getting yourself a nice proper feely or self-air too long,

in every mind, Grasace assured him. And are they? Are they what people say? They are. Horace asked tentatively. Bloody hell, I know. I'm old, not a historian. Grasace's scoffed, but even when I was a young in the twisting where there's had been around since before living memory. Centuries at least. Nothing year but dead trees that won't rot.

Nothing living here but things what can't die.

“Folk play in the oven hood for the weather, at least when there are no witches or clerics in your”

shot. Horace said softly, looking around as if one of them might be hiding behind a tree trunk or inside their crates. The oven hood tried to eradicate a heretical cult and the dark magic that was unleashed, decilated, everything and every one inside of a hundred

miles stretch. Even after all this time, the land's never healed and the curse has never

lifted. Whatever happened here, it must have been horrid beyond imagining. There's not to dwell on it. Grasace recommended. There's just a creepy old road with few nasties lurking in the shadows, not so different from a hundred other roads in Whitaker. I've made this wrong plenty of times before I never ran into anything a shot from a blunderboss couldn't handle.

But the twisted Horace insisted his head pivoting about as if he feared the mere mention of the name would cause them to appear. They're twisted. That's all that need be said. Grasace asserted, but their twisted men, women, children, creatures, whatever was living in this place before it became the Whethers was twisted by that same dark magic. Horace said, utterly ruined, but unable to die. He said this place has been this way since beyond

living memory, but they might still remember somewhere deep down enough. You're here to shoot

“them, not sympathize with them. Grasace ordered. If you want to be making out of the Whethers”

alive, you pull that trigger the first clean shot you get. You hear me, lad?

I hear you, boss. I hear you. Horace nodded with a resigned sigh, returning to his vigil of the ominous forest around them. As the wagon made its way down the long and bumpy road, and the light grew even fainter Horace started hearing quick and fertive rustling in the surrounding woods, he could have convinced himself that it was merely the nocturnal movements of ordinary woodland creatures. If only he were in ordinary woodland. That's them. He asked his hushed

whisper as loud as he dared to make it. Nothing in the twisting Whethers, but the twisted. Grasace nodded, don't panic. The lamp's burning strong, and they can see your blunder bus, plain as day. We've got nothing to worry about. Horace surrounded, Horace hissed, though in truth the sounds he was hearing could have been explained by us few as one or two creatures. Can he push the horse's harder? That's what they want. If we go too fast on this old road,

we risk toppling over. Grasace replied, "Just keep a cool head, you know. Don't spook the horses, and don't shoot a false charge. Don't let them get to you." Horace nodded and tried to do as he was told. The sounds were sparse and quick, and each time he heard them he swore he saw something darting by in the distance or in the corner of his eye. He would catch the briefest of glances of strange shapes gleaming in the harvest moonlight, or pairs of shining eyes glaring at him

before vanishing back into the darkness. Pitter pattering footballs or the sounds of claws scratching it to tree bark echoed off unseen hills or ruins, and without warning a haggard voice broke out into a fit of cackling laughter. Can they still talk? Horace whispered, "If we don't listen, I don't matter how to do it." Grasace replied, "I'm not helpful at all, you know that." Horace

the sound of a deep rumbling bellow coming from behind them. He froze, nearly saw it then,

and for the first time since they had started their journey, old graces finally seemed perturbed by

what was happening. Oh, no, not that one. He muttered. Very slowly. He and Horace leaned outwards and looked back to see what was following them. There in the forested gloom lurked at giant of a creature, at least three times the height of a man, but its form was so obscured, it was impossible to say any more than that. Is that a troll? Horace whispered. It was, or at least I prayed, it was, but it's twisted now, and that's all that matters. Grasace replied softly,

“"What do you mean by not that one?" Horace asked, "You've seen this one before? A time or two?”

I, many years ago, and many years apart, Grasace replied, on the odd occasion it takes a mind to

shadow the wagons for a bit, which is neat to stay calm, keep moving, and it will lose interest.

The horses can outrun and bring behemoth like that, shortly. Horace asked, "Pleadingly, I already told you, we can't risk going too fast on this miserable road." Grasace said through his teeth, "Barded from memory serves, there's a decent stretch not to far up ahead. We make it that far, we can leave tiny back there in the dust. Sound good. Me, uh, yes, sounds good. Horace nodded furtherly, though his eyes remained fixed on the shadowed

colossus, prowling up behind them. Though it was still merely following them and had not yet given chase, it was gradually gaining ground, and that slowly crept into the light of the lunar

“caustic lamp, Horace was able to get a better look at the monstrous creature.”

It moved on all fours, walking on its knuckles like the beast men of the impenetrable jungles to the south. Its skin was sagging, and hung in heavy, uneven folds that seemed to throw it off center, and gave it a peculiar limp, scaly, diseased patches modeled its dull gray hide, and several cancerous masses gave it a horrifically deformed hunched back. Its bulbous head had an enormous dent in its cranium, sporadically dotted by a few stray hairs.

A pair of large and a skew eye sockets sat utterly empty and void, and Horace presumed that the creature's blindness was the reason for both its hesitancy to attack, and its tolerance for the lunar caustic light. It had a snub nose, possibly the remnant of a proper one that had been torn off at some point, and its wide mouth hung open loosely, as though there was still something wrong

“with its jaw. It looked to be missing at least half its teeth, and the ones it still had were crooked”

and festering, erupting out of a substrate of corpse blue gums. It's malformed. It couldn't possibly run faster than us, couldn't possibly. Horace whispered, "Don't give a reason to charge before we hit the good stretch of road, and we'll leave it well behind us." Crisis replied, "The twisted troll flared its nostrils, taking in all the sense that we're whafting off the back of the wagon, the odor of the horses, and the men of wood, and old leather,

of burning tobacco and lamp oil, none of these sense were easy to come by in the twisting withers. Whenever the troll happened upon them, it could not help but find them enticing.

Even if they were always accompanied by a soft, searing sensation against its skin,

"Crisis." Horace whispered, "Horsely. It's hide, smoldering. Good!" That means the lunar caustic lamp is doing its job. Crisis replied, "But it's not stopping. Horace pointed out in barely restrained panic. Don't worry. The closer it gets, the more it will burn. Crisis tried to reassure him. It's getting too close. I'm going to put more lunar caustic in the lamp. Horace said, "Don't you dare put down that gun lad."

Crisis ordered, "It's over too. It's not bright enough." Horace insisted, dropping the blunder bus and turning to route around in the back of the wagon. "Boy, you picked that gun up right this." Crisis hissed before being cut off by a high-pitched screeching. A twisted creature burst out of the trees and charged the horses, screaming in agony from the lamplight before retreating back into the dark. It had been enough, though. The horses

need, in terror, as they broke out into a gallop, thundering down the road at breakneck speed, with a gutter-roll howl that twisted troll immediately gave chase. It's uneven, quadripetal gate slapping against the ancient stone, as it's mutilated flesh jostled from one side to another. Crisis framed those horses in. Horace demanded as he was violently tossed up and down by the

Crisis shouted back as he desperately clutched onto the reins, trying to at least keep the

“horses on a straight course. "All we can do now is drive and hope it gives up before we crash.”

Hold on!" Another bump sent Crisis bouncing up in his seat and Horace nearly up to the ceiling before crashing down to the floor, various bits of merchandise falling down to bury him. He heard the twisted troll roar for rociously, now undeniably closer than the last time. "Crisis, or not losing it, I'm going to trust you to get." Horace said as he picked himself off the floor and grabbed his blunder bus before heading towards the back of the wagon. "It's no good,

it's too big and it's hides too thick. You only enraged and lay us vulnerable to more attacks."

Crisis insisted, "Get up here with me and let the bloody thing wear itself out." Horace didn't

listen. The behemoth seemed relentless to his mind. It was inconceivable that it would tire before the horses. The blunder bus was their only hope. He held the barrel a steady as he could as the wagon

“wobbled like a drunkard and was grateful his chosen weapon required no great accuracy at aiming.”

The twisted troll roared again. So closely now that Horace could feel the hot Mayasma of its rancid breath upon him. The fact that it couldn't close its mouth gave Horace a strange sense of hope. Surely some of the buckshot would strike its pallet and gullet and surely those would be sensitive and of injuries to deter it from further pursuit. Surely not daring to waste another instant Horace took his shot. As the blast echoed through the silent forest and the hot silver slag flew

through the air, the twisted troll dropped its head at just the right moment, taking the brunt of the shrapnel in its massive hump. If the new wounds were even so much as an irritant to it, it didn't show it. Plast! Horace cursed as he struggled to reload his rifle. The chorus of hideous cackling, rang out from just beyond the tree line and they could hear a

“stampede of malformed feet trampling through the underbrush. "Oh you've done it now! You've”

really gone and done it now!" Crasis disappeared as he attempted to pull out his flint lock with one hand as he held the reins in the other. A twisted creature jumped upon their wagon from the side, braving the light of the lunar lamp for only an instant before it was safely in the wagons shadow. As it clung on for dear life, it clumsily swung a stick nearly as long as it was as it attempted to knock the lamp off its hook. "Hey, none of that you!" Horace shouted as he pummeled the canvas roof

with the butt of his blunder bus and the hopes of knocking the creature off, hitting nothing but weathered hemp with each blow. It was not until he heard the sound of glass crashing against the stone

road that he finally lost any hope that they might survive. Crasis fired his flint lock into

the dark but the twisted creatures swarmed the wagon from all sides. They shoved branches between the spokes of the wheel and within a matter of seconds the wagon was completely overturned. As he lay crushed by the crates and covered by the canvas, Horace was blind to the horrors going on around him. He could hear the horses bolting off but could hear no sign that the twisted were giving chase. Whatever it was they wanted them for, it couldn't possibly have been for food.

They heard Crasis screaming and fleeting from Mercy as he scuffled with their attackers. The old man ultimately being unable to offer any real resistance as they dragged him off into the depths of the withers. Horace lay is still as he could, trying his best not to breathe or make any sounds at all. Maybe they would overlook him, he thought. Though he was sure the crates had broken or at least bruised his ribs, maybe he could lie in wait until dawn. With the blunder bus

as his only protection, maybe he could travel the rest of the distance on foot before sundown. Maybe he could. These delusions swiftly ended as the canvas sheet was slowly pulled away, revealing the twisted troll looming over him. Other twisted creatures circled around them, each of them similarly, it uniquely deformed. With a casual sweeping motion, the troll batted away, the various crates, and the other twisted, regarded them with the same general disinterest.

Trade goods were of no use or value to beings so far removed from civilized society. Horace's eyes rapidly darted back and forth between them as he awaited their next move. What did they even want him for? They didn't eat or didn't need to anyway. Did they just mean to kill him for sport or spite? Why risk attacking unless they stood to benefit from it? The troll picked him up by the scruff of the neck with an odd sense of delicacy,

holding him high enough for all its cohorts to see him, or perhaps so that he could see them.

hideous sigils made with fresh blood, blood that could only have come from crisis.

“The old man didn't have much left in him. One of them barked horsely. It stumbled toward him”

on multiple mangled limbs, and he could still make out the entry wounds where the silver buckshot had marred it so many years ago. I'm spy-ounce. Body by body. The blood ritual we began on millennium ago caused nearer to completion. The cover not did not. Could not stop us. Delayed. Yes. What does that matter? And we now have all eternity to fulfill our aims.

That being, the sorcerer Horace realized, hobbled closer, slowly rising up higher and higher

on hind limbs to grow tests and perverse in design for Horace to make any visual sense out of. As it rose above Horace, it smiled at him with a lipless mouth that had been sliced from

“ear to ear, revealing a set of long and sharpened teeth, richly carved from the black and”

wood of the twisted trees, along and flickering tongue weaved a delicate dance between them, all viscous blood slowly oozed from gangrene's gums. Its eyelids had been sutured shut, but an unblinking black and red eye with a serpentine pupil sat embedded upon its forehead. Several of the twisted creatures reverently placed a ceremonial bowl of twisted wood beneath Horace, a bowl that was still freshly stained with the blood of his companion. Though his mind had

resigned itself to his imminent demise, he nonetheless felt his muscles tensing and his heart beat furiously as his body demanded a response to his mortal peril. The sorcerer sensed his duplicity

“and reveled in it, chuckling statistically as he theatrically raised a long,”

dagger with an undulating serpentine blade, and held it directly above Horace's heart. "Not going to give me the satisfaction of squirming a commendable," it sneered, "May the blood split this moan herald, a new age of flesh-reborn, a veil-fean-or-best oral waters." As the twisted sorcerer spoke its incantation, it drove its blade into Horace's heart and skewered him straight through,

as blood spilled out his backside and dripped down the dagger into the wooden bowl below, the twisted wasting no time in painting themselves with his vital fluids. As his chest went cold and still and his vision went dark, the last thing Horace saw was the sorcerer, pulling out its dagger, is dismembered hard, still and pale, upon it. "Okay, well, I need to head out. I need to meet my tour bus back on Bourbon Street."

"A holy crap, I totally forgot you were going on tour." "Yeah, I'm so excited. I'm opening for dance with the dead and magic sword on their U.S. face-off tour, we're hitting 42 major cities in April and May." "Save Travels, Megan. Get me to see him Minneapolis. I'll make sure to add a link in the description for all your tour dates and how to get tickets." "Come on, I'll walk you out." "You know, I was one of the little concerns about

coming back to camp again this year, but I'm starting to think that this year will be exactly as advertised." "Yeah, so let's do this again." "Hey, have you guys seen this place? It's so much better than it was last year when everyone was going off-faryl, but it's still nice to see

some things never change." "What do you mean?" "He means that we just passed John down by the swamp,

and he's talking to himself." "Are you sure he wasn't talking to Megan? He left a little while ago to walk her out. Megan wasn't there. It was just John talking to himself." "What's so weird about that?" "He was crying."