Forty Days and Forty Nights & The Silk-Lined Fiction

This is creepy. A podcast dedicated to sharing the most famous chilling and disturbing creepy pastas and urban legends in the world, whether these stories truly happened or not simply fabrications is for you to decide. These stories made in teen graphic depictions of violence and explicit language. Listener discretion is advised.

Hey y'all. You're listening to a *********. And if you are listening to this on terrestrial radio in the middle of the night in Minnesota farm country instead of on the podcast feed, then you've made some choices in your life.

“Let's go on with you. You've seen some darkness haven't you?”

Yeah, I've been there. I mean literally in the darkness looking back, watching you. Sometimes judging you because you. For those of you listening on the podcast and not having to endure my Wednesday night tones into the void. Welcome back. Which probably get back to the show before I start to say something that gets ominous figures waiting for me in the parking lot. Again. But hey, who might it complain? I love this.

First up, from Reader Nathan Hibarrow and aerated by Rissa Monteness, creepy presence,

40 days and 40 nights. He guys know why I hate campfires. I mean, ever since I was a teenager I've watched those movies

“where people gather around the mall camping, eating s'mores and talking.”

I started to wonder what that felt like. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful to be here. Doing the very thing I used to dream about doing when I was a kid. It's a privilege to share that moment with you, but the last time I was in a space with fire. A devil himself was walking the earth.

Before moving here, my family and I lived outside of a small colonial town in Minesjadais, it was called Teardentus. Our house set at the edge of the forest where the dirt road disappeared into trees that were older than anyone else in the town. Sometimes the only sound we could hear was the flapping of a bird's wings. Hend besides the neighbors, we rarely saw other people's faces. Unless we were shopping. I don't know exactly how you guys do it here, but in Brazil,

we have a season called Guarishma. It lasts 40 days before Easter. And technically, it's the same thing you call land, but people in my country, especially the ones who live in rural zones. They don't see it as a religious tradition. They see it as a warning. My grandmother used to say that during those forty nights, hell wasn't exactly closed. There were very strict traditions that we had to follow in

order to stay safe during this period. Rule number one. Never answer if someone calls your name

from the woods. You never know who's calling out to you. Rule number two. Never sweep the yard after sunset. Rule number three. Never whistle after dark. Something might whistle back. And the most important one. Rule number four. Never ever. On any occasion. Leave the house after dark. You're not prepared for what you might find. As a child, I always thought those rules were just old superstitions. Just another religious practice like the

precessions or saying the rosary. To me, the rules were just old people's bullshit. Legends without

“any logic. Until that is the night I broke one. Honestly, no lies. Growing up in a vast green area”

was terrific. I was nine around that time and moms that I'd finally be able to go to school once I'd reached 12. You know, even living a simple life with no money, no fancy toys. I was happy. Maria, the oldest daughter of our neighbors. She was my best friend. She told me about all the

incredible times that her sister supposedly lived in the capital. One day, it'll be us, Laura.

She said that to me more times than I can count. One day, we'll live far from here where they

but I hope she's doing well. The most fun part of the day was running down the muddy roads with Maria,

“all while fantasizing about living in the big city. I mean, everything that I have now is an”

unimaginable victory. Being here as a recently graduated architect would be a dream, beyond reality for a little Laura. And since we didn't have toys besides old rag dolls and

broken second-hand white cars, the company meant everything. In a certain way, we were taking

care of each other and just slowly creating this path to a better future. I wish she could see me now. I trade places with her if I could. Maria deserved all of this. Except for harmless little white lies and pranks, we were a pretty obedient Catholic kids. We followed our parents' rules, even the ones related to faith and forgiveness. That was the year that the faithful time had come. The time to decide what our penitins for

the course might be. I don't think I mentioned it, but during those 40 days, we had to give up something pleasurable to show our praise to the Lord. It was a hard and punitive practice for two poor girls, but, again, we were very obedient. So we came to the conclusion that there was no more playing with our toys, but at least we could still see each other and find

other ways to have fun. The routine itself never changed, woken up to the crowing of the rooster,

eggs for breakfast and coffee, helping Granny however was a sacred chore. Always help your grandma to clean the house and cook while I head to the city. Mommy's to save that a lot. After lunchtime, the tasks were done and mom would get back from work. She would give me one of her loving kisses on my forehead. She wasn't an important or respected lawyer like Clara, but she was a waitress at a roadside restaurant. Even at my young age, I admired my mother. She was a saint. She didn't

break the rules and she used to pray hard every night. Even though she was never aware of it, I listened to her prayers every night, and I loved it because 90% of them were attempts to provide me with a proper education and freedom. One day while I was playing with Maria, Mom called me. She said today, Mommy is not going home. In tears, I asked her why.

It was the first time we'd spent a night apart. To my surprise, she was going to work over time.

And even promised to bring me back a treat, but I would have to be patient for it.

“I said, but Mommy, are you not scared of being alone after dark? Are you going to go outside at night?”

I might have been kind of skeptical, but my concern was true. Thankfully, she quickly comforted me by explaining her plan about sleeping at a friend's house. So that day, the three of us spent time together. Those moments made me feel very special. And they reaffirmed that although I wasn't a wealthy kid, I had love and good people surrounding me. By the time the clock hit 6pm, I had already swept the art floor. Not leaving any chances for

someone to scold me for disobeying the holy rituals. Mom left the house after giving me a big kiss on my forehead and on grandma's. That night it would be just us. Back then, going about early wasn't easy. I had so much energy and so many ideas popping in my mind. So I just lay in bed, listening to my granny's prayers in her room. And I decided to do the same. It wasn't long, though, after praying the our father that

someone called my name, someone from the woods. Laura, Laura, come here. It was a creepy, quiet whisper. One that sent shivers down my spine.

“Was this a result of forgetting to pray sometimes and underestimating our traditions?”

My mind wouldn't blank. Like I was frozen and incapable of standing up to whatever was saying my name. Mommy and grandma told me not to answer of something in the forest calls, so I didn't, of course. But a sense of doubt, a desperate sense of doubt began to consume me. Should I stay quiet and sleep? Waiting for the next day to come and hoping to be okay? Or should I go get my grandmother and tell

These torturous thoughts were interrupted by a shrill noise. One which put me on high alert.

Laura! The sound was louder this time. Laura, it's Maria, please open up! My heart ached. What if Maria were in danger? Maybe she was somehow locked outside searching for help and being followed by something. But then a macabre thought across my mind. Is that really her out there? Afraid. I didn't answer the call, but I opened the window. I had to see if my friend was in danger. But thank God, it was definitely her.

“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night? Don't you know it's forbidden?”

You're going to get us both in trouble. Please go back home, Maria. It was useless and my advice did nothing. She was calling me so that we could play outside. Okay? I didn't really believe in those superstitions, but I still wondered if there was something still terribly scary out in the forest tonight. At night, your mind isn't exactly the same. Especially when you see the gleaming eyes of birds of prey in the bushes or hear the sounds they make.

It's enough to scare away any hunter who dares to wander the woods at night. Although that night was very beautiful and not as morbid seeming as usual with tons of fireflies

“just lighting up the skies, our parents made it clear. No leaving the house after dark.”

We had no idea what might happen if we did, but disobeying the elders was pretty serious. And it was a very naughty thing to do. Of course, I said no, but Maria's insistent begging convinced me. It only be just a little bit of play outside, right? No harm could come of it. Yeah, we had the rules the restrictions, but we would just be playing a little bit.

It was harmless. At first, nothing seemed wrong.

The dirt road was quiet and unlike any other night. The forest looked like a fairy tale under the moonlight. Tiny fireflies were surrounding us. We were running around and playing tag and

“it felt so magical. Maria and I couldn't be happier. We even saw majestic owl on its nest.”

And that stunning animal graded us by hooting and raising its wings. About 10 minutes later, a sense of despair just came over me. I heard the sound of singing in the distance. And almost immediately the image of my worried angry grandmother came to mind. She was probably freaking out. Her small granddaughter had left in the middle of the night. Aquarishman night. But another idea seemed to make more sense.

And I had to be sure. Do you hear that Maria? The question came out, but without any logical explanation, my friend was not there anymore. She left me. I was alone on that deserted dark road.

That was the first time I feared for my life. It was a type of horror that I've never felt before.

And it struck me. The moon was hidden behind the clouds and the fireflies weren't anywhere to be found. Sure, the way home was back, but in that instant, my skepticism about the legends was no longer existent. It had given way to pure terror of what could be lurking in the darkness. Indeed, I was not prepared for what I would find. Of all of those rules, I disobeyed the one my family feared the most.

So alongside the panic came the shame and the blame. That's when I saw shimmering lights appear, a theoryally. And the singing I heard before was in the air once again. My theory was right. It sounded like the songs people sang during quarrish my processions. But there was no church near the forest. The nearest one was in town.

My despair disappeared for just a moment. If it was a procession, then maybe someone could help me. Help me light the way back to my house.

I've never seen believers like them. Not even here in America. They were dressed in long white robes.

Their words were undeciferable. No church I knew of sang like that as far as I remember. Maybe you won't believe me, but I swear that some of them weren't moving their lips. But there were still words and sounds coming out.

“Was it an illusion created by the light of the flames in their hands?”

I don't know, but rest assured, I checked twice. And none of their lips were moving at all. The masks, they wore were more macabre than their clothes or songs. They were all wearing skull masks, covering their face except for the mouth, of course. The procession passed me by like I wasn't even there as if my presence was nothing.

I didn't move a muscle. It felt like an inescapable force was coming to get me. My grandmother had told me about the gates of helping open for the corashma. Could they be what escapes through? That's when I felt a hand resting on my shoulder.

“For the second time that day, I thought I would die.”

The first one was when Maria left me.

And the second was when a thin, cadaverous hand gripped my shoulder. My whole body went cold and I felt shivers and my heart was pumping louder than ever. My breathing felt this regulated and I knew that either passing out or even dying was a real possibility. I still don't believe in miracles, but a spark of hope for one helped me gain control for just a few seconds. And I turned around to see, however, was touching me.

I saw a tall figure, identical to the other ones around. It was holding a browned briefcase. It's impossible to describe the smell, but the one that came from them was numbing. It asked me with a calm and horse voice if I lived nearby. An offer to help me get back home.

A nagging question came to my mind. Should I ask for help? Am I better off alone in the forest? Or with them? Terrified by their presence, I lied. No, no, sir. I don't need help, actually.

I'm with my mom. She's right there. Pointing at the darkness in the distance, I pretended to see my mother waiting for me.

“Their presence was the worst thing I felt that night, so I decided that being alone in the cold”

and dark woods was way better than talking to them. Thankfully, the tall man believed me, or at least pretended to, but he didn't leave. Not before handing me the bizarre briefcase and asking if I could hold it for him. He promised me that by the next afternoon he'd take it back. I accepted the object without hesitating and just gave him a nod.

By the time he hit the road again, I started to run. I cried a whole lot while running back home. My best friend left me with those things. I don't even know if they were really humans. The worst part about it, one of them might come to my house the next day.

When I managed to get to my room through my window, I broke down and I wasn't capable of any sleep that night. And the chantings, they were just so overwhelming in my head as if the procession was still out there. Waiting, lurking, watching us. The next morning, seconds after mom entered the house, I ran to her.

Still crying, still afraid.

I spent the night thinking of what those men could do to her, thinking that she could never return home.

The biggest problem, how would I return the briefcase back to the creepy man?

“Would he come into my house dressed like he was last night?”

If mom and Granny saw that, I'd be in a lot of trouble for breaking the holy rules. The brown briefcase was hidden under the bed, and my curiosity about it showed up. For giving Maria and talking to her wasn't viable at the moment, I was disappointed. Mad. My child's brain was doing its best to process that unholy situation, and somehow it blamed Maria. After lunch, mom went to work for more overtime.

She told me that in order to make my surprise become a reality, she had to work even harder.

Granny was washing the dishes, complaining about bad dreams from that night. She said, I will definitely nap after this. I wanted to ask her about the night mirrors, but until today, I don't know if in that state of mind, the dream would really just be a dream. Minutes, hours of past, and the guy didn't show up.

“How is in the yard waiting with the briefcase in my hands, but nothing happened?”

Well, Maria did give me a little note.

She said, sorry I was scared and ran away. I was scared too, but I would never abandon her.

I thought we were best friends. Finally, nighttime came, but there was still no sign of a person looking for a briefcase. Mom was already home, so I started to think about what to do with that damn thing. I was really heavy, so maybe I could empty it and just throw it away. Again, one of the worst decisions that I've ever made in my lifetime.

By the time everyone went to sleep, I used every bit of strength I had with my little fingers in just open the briefcase. What was inside was enough to make me tremble and puke. Inside of it were parts, human body parts. I threw up. The scent of blood just took my mind back to the horrors that I witnessed on that last night. The presence of those cursed people pushing down on me.

I couldn't even scream or run. All I could do was stare at those human bones and

“would appear to be a crushed adult leg soaked in blood. What the hell was that?”

Why did that man do that to me? The situation felt so out of control that asking for a help felt like it would only make things worse. And not without mentioning the disgrace it would bring to my loved ones. I regret it so intensely to this day but all I did was try to get some sleep and pretend the grotesque events were just a nightmare.

Trying to close my eyes and relax my mind was even harder that night. Before opening the briefcase, I could feel someone watching the house throughout time. But not anymore. Now I didn't feel anything. I knew it. The once quiet and peaceful place was now a stage for deafening gruesome noises and incidents. These incestant owls just growing louder and louder, followed by the cries of suffering. Cries that seemed to be coming from a woman,

begging for help. I tried my best to shield my ears from this spiral of evil, but it was useless. Scratching sounds from outside, traveling through the walls. Somebody was trying to get in. Was it the horrendous figure trying to claim as package? Are the legends true? During these 40 days, hell's gate is open. And when you break the sanctified laws, do atrocious things come for you? I can surely tell you. And that specific moment?

The birds were acting crazy trying their best to escape the woods,

“which were now cursed. As if the maddening sounds of birds flying away in fear of wolves and”

scratching weren't enough, a twisted laugh began to spread to different points in the forest. It sounded like the laugh of an old woman. And the laughter was directly proportional to my desperate crime. Mom, Granny, Maria. They all appeared in my mind. They would face a terrible and macabre fate because of my recklessness. Again, that tiny spark of hope showed up when my family came to the room and hugged me. Telling me to stay quiet and safe. Mom and Granny left the house,

promising to find out what was going on. Although I did want to help them and didn't leave them

“alone, my body wasn't capable of moving. In that moment, I understood, and I forgave Maria.”

She was just a child, like I was, too. Hope dies last, so I allowed myself to be a

child to think that my mom would solve the problem as she always did. My favorite strong hero,

alongside my grandma, would make things go back to normal. And I'd be able to tell them what I did, and tell them about the briefcase. Has my breathing calmed? The sounds out there also began to fade. I felt that, finally, the turbulent and cursed period was over. Only to soon find myself in an even worse scenario. The one that I prepared you to hear this whole time.

“The devil himself came to me. Sounds stopped for 10 seconds and then, fire.”

A violent and uncontrolled fire. The noises, laughter, and howls, they were all replaced by a harrowing

resonation, and the flames engulfed the forest. Terrified by the idea of being alone amidst in the various spectacle, high ran off the door, searching for anyone. Mom, Grandma Maria, they had to be okay. Or else I'd have no reason to live. But then I saw it, standing there, menacing, just a few steps from the yard. It wasn't the form of a goat man with long horns, as the ancients often describe. No, it was a horribly emaciated creature.

It's arms and legs were the size of an adults, and it wore a black coat. I knew I was doomed by the time it noticed me. It's cadaverous hands pulled back the cloaks hood, and it looked at me. I was in a state of complete lethargy. It's presence made everything good in the world, mean nothing. And my whole body felt like it was covered in agony. The strangely shaped burned head adjusted itself so that it could look at me.

The eyes and mouth, they were empty, and an abyss of darkness just lay there. The creature tried to say something, but all I could hear were these unidentifiable noises, like the babbling of a child. It suddenly stopped, and then mom was screaming. Not a scream calling for help. She was looking for me, and whether by luck or miracle, the screaming drove the beast away.

And before it disappeared in the woods, it closed its eyes, and smiled at me. Mom was running as fast as she could, trying her hardest to reach me. I looked to my side in summery as house, burnt, destroyed, no sign of my friend or her parents. Screams and shouts erupted like a geyser from my mouth. It was all my fault. My mind went blank. I was exhausted.

I was unconscious for two days and woke up in a hospital bed.

“Mom and Granny were okay at least. The very first thing I asked after waking up was,”

where is Maria as she okay? The answer was a cold, averted glance. The surprise my mother was preparing, was that we would finally be living in the big city in another state. The change, the new environment, new conditions,

and things I'd never had before filled me with joy and provided a future.

But never, oblivion. I can fill myself with friends, good memories, and a successful career in another country. I can live at the fullest and make dreams come true, but I don't know if I left that forest. I don't feel like I did.

“Whatever that thing was, I had never left me. I can feel it at night.”

Looking down on me as I sleep. What I've just told you guys is not a story.

It's a testimony. It's a curse. A truth no one likes to hear because it follows.

Like it followed Maria, has it now follows me, and I am so, so sorry. And next from writer Danny Edy and narrated by Colbergard, creepy presence, the silk line fiction. The old man's dead body lay at the bottom of the stairs, wide cloudy eyes looking up at the ceiling. His stiff fingers still clutched to the dream-spattered whisk, a curious place for an aspiring baker to be found dead.

“Running parallel to the stairs was a long wood-paneled hallway that led to a dark cluttered”

living room. With the kitchen tucked away through a wide doorway off the back of that, the low tick of a clock could be heard from down the hallway. Detective G. S. Dillinger furiously scribbled that piece of information down on his note pad, whether it was relevant or not, was yet to be known. The air in this vestibule of death was thick with stale cigarette smoke, and the smell of

portite still lingered, along with an earthy undertone. Well, at least two Dillinger's nose. Dillinger was, thankfully, no longer a cigarette smokeer, having given up after suffering a pierced lung, as he, like many other men, climbed a ladder and crested a trench on a battlefield in something else, northern France. He remembered that cigarette,

longingly. What he never longed for was the sound of bullets, shells dropping, and the

howling screaming that seemed to serenade him most nights when he drifted off to fitful sleep. The beat cop, Smitherson, who had arrived just before Dillinger, was also writing notes. Dillinger didn't understand why, but he let him do it anyway. The beat cop was young, early 20s with a face that looked perpetually anguished. Dillinger imagined him turning up, lights blaring to an active crime scene, and the burglar with his legs still stuck in the window,

would probably just burst out laughing at Smitherson's face. So, do we have any signs of violence? Asked Smitherson. Good question. There was not a trace of blood anywhere. The victim did not appear to be shot, stabbed or beaten in any way, but he was stone-pulled dead. Not that I didn't see. Dillinger replied it dryly, but the look on his face shows that something

gave him a hell of a fright. They both looked down at the body. It's eyes wide in terror,

with hearts on it, hung open, revealing the nakedness of the pale old man in all his flacidity.

Smitherson rubbed at his bald chin, and impression of a thinking man.

“So, did he come to answer the door and have a heart attack? Or something you think boss?”

I'm not your boss, kid. Dillinger stepped over the body and headed down the hallway to the living room. A tall grandfather clock that had the back-in-ing tick sat against the left wall.

Dillinger noted it started the time at 3.18 AM. He reflexively looked at his watch.

7.46 AM. He had been called here on discovery of the body by a house cleaner, Sally Tillerson, upon her arrival at 7 AM. So, the clock has stopped. Just stay with Mrs. Tillerson and make sure she's okay. He'd hauled out to Smitherson.

“Smitherson disappeared into the den that sat off the main entrance.”

Dillinger entered a living room that appeared untouched. A few cushions scattered across a low couch and magazines sat a top and oak coffee table stained by coffee rings. The air clung to him with a sense of familiarity. He could not quite place. Almost as if he had been in this room before, his chest beat with an ache for an unremembered past. The grandfather clock now ticked heavily behind Dillinger as if it had suddenly sprung to life.

Dillinger spun to it. His day's frozen as it began to tick its rhythmic pulse.

“A sheen of sweat coated his collar as he watched it ticked backwards.”

36. 35. 34. 33. 32. Eradlin's sound followed by the sound of movement had danced wooden floorboards came from the vestibule. Dillinger stepped back through the living room to see the body sliding

back down the hall towards him, had first the sound of its feet driving along the boards.

Whom? Whom? Whom? What the? The clock ticked even louder now as he stepped back to let the body slide past and as it did he noticed the blades of the whisk were also turning backwards. Backwards. Backwards. He watched in silent awe as the body slid across the living room carpet then disappeared into the smothering darkness of the kitchen. He had sailed deeply, what awaited him on the other side of that wall he did not know. The gentle thump of his pulse

led the way. Inhale. Dillinger cautiously stepped into the kitchen, his hand rested on the grip of his 38 through the doorway into the black. The kitchen was going, not completely gone, but in the process of going. No half-baked cake, no enolium, no four walls. Just a hollowed out piece of reality being eaten from the inside out. Small pieces of wall and floor swam in the black space like an abstract painting that was slowly unraveling before him in a swirl like oil in

water. Fear now thumped at his ribcage as he turned back to call down the hall to smithers in, but there was no hall any more. Just an endless dark cavern, its floor and walls seemingly made of shimmering rock that rose up to a penumbral sky. He tried to call out, but his mouth

Still, the clock ticked louder than anything else. In the center of what remained the linoleum

“floor where the breakfast table should have been sat what appeared to be a large obsidian”

black stone cube. The center of what looked like a vacuum. The stone slab of absolute night, two meters tall, with edges so sharp they seemed to slice the very air around them. It didn't just sit there. It anchored the room, a low hum that emanated from the stone

thrumbed in sync with the ticking of the clock tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

The once dead man in the peach dressing gown was there too, but he wasn't on the floor anymore. He was suspended in front of the black stone, feet just hovering above what was supposed to be

“the floor. Strands of wool from his gown were floating upward, vibrating, disappearing into”

the surface of the block. His wild white hair was doing something similar. He had a slightly bud-eyed and frantic look about him, but he non-challantly licked at the cream that hung from the whisk in his right hand. He held the whisk, like a soldier holds a weapon. Yummy. The one dead man who now moved like the living, it stended the whisk towards Dillinger. You want some soldier? Dillinger wind stepping called soldier, and a sharp pain jolted his chest.

Still, the one dead man spoke. A little sustenance before you, the detective solved the

“prime of your life. His eyes flashed wildly, and he let out a childlike dittle that sounded like”

cullery rattling around in a deep sync. He just titulated madly with the whisk. The way the one dead man spat the word detective, like it was some poisonous, lint-covered thing rolling around his mouth, like the whisk-covered cream was now tainted. He then stabbed with the whisk at Dillinger, who, amongst the comprehension of this confusing scenario, was trying to remain calm. It was not working very well.

Light burst into the black space as the face of the stone lit up behind the one-stead man. White light showed the hands of a reverse ticking clock. The one-stead man pointed at it. Cream dripped in long ropes and with a withered smirk. Best-it-moven soldier. Dillinger looked around the space with the liminal lighting, providing a small measure of ambiance. Around the edges of the black block, Dillinger couldn't

see out of the kitchen to a bat yard, or the neighbor's fence, as he expected. He only saw a pressured void of stars that weren't stars, but a swirling kaleidoscope of what could only be then and some when else. Then the stone seemed to exhale. At least that was what the rushing sound and hot wind that hit Dillinger's face inditated. Dillinger fell back, tumbling end over end through a vast black space, sounds fluctuated around him, alternating

between what sounded like the beating of winds, but slow and landerous and his own terrified screams

that finally tore from his throat. The scream that came from him wasn't instant noise.

It was a memory of a scream. Distant like he was a witness to his own scream, hearing it from a

with patterns and lines, striations trying to reform into solidity.

“Finally, everything around him stretched inward. The perspective warping until the far corner”

of the once-tavernous fluctuating space felt like he could reach out and touch it. Then he felt solidity under his feet. Solid ground. But a cool moisture clung to him. His skin grew cold and damp.

In front of him, beyond the black stone that had arrived, just as he did,

was that same battleground in salt-me-el northern France that he had stood on in the coldest spring of September 1918. Around him the sound of artillery fire grew and the screams

“of dying men ran out. Under all this was the deep sound of the thrumming of something huge,”

like the beating of winds. Bullets whizzed and wind passed his head and he threw himself to the mud, feared near paralyzing him. Blood soaked earth splashed his face cold and wet, as muzzle flashes lit up the night around him. He slid down a muddy wall on the ground below. He looked around. The trenches ran away and either direction littered with slummed and shattered corpses. Above him men charged over the line and were brought down in a hail of brutal machine gun fire.

Their flesh and blood stripped from their bones near instantaneously, tanks rumbleed through the earth. The tania of bullets bouncing off their pleading threatening to tear a dillinger's ear drums. A hand touched his left shoulder and gaspane

he spun to it. That once dead man stood next to him now in full first American expeditionary

forces uniform, but a much younger, more vibrant version of him. He had no whisked in his hand just the standard issue rifle in his right and a small black obsidian stone in his left. Don't go up that ladder dillinger. He eyed the stone in his hand. I'm here to stop you from doing that. Confusion swam through a dillinger's mind. He had a clear recollection of the moment he ran over the top that morning and when the bullet pierced his side, the endless hours of

recuperation, a hospital time, the discharge, the long miserable passage home, the picking up and rebuilding of his civilian life. All of it of a sod. The thrum of winds shook the sky. The smell of homebound dawn, morning coffee and the weight of his 38, felt like dreams now fading upon waiting. The dreams he took no longer grasp, like entry wound smoke pouring out through his fingers. The mud around him, thick with the scent of blood, death and decay,

“seemed to be the only thing that was real now. Dillinger looked up through the haze of the great”

war that surrounded him. The sky wasn't just smoke and fire anymore. Something huge was blotting out the stars. The sound he'd thought in his primitive brain was the beating of monstrous wings through louder. A rhythmic paper thin, whump, whump, whump, whump, that vibrated in his teeth. Then, as a flare ignited the sky in a harsh, mad museum white, he saw it, darted into him, colossal, all encompassing. It wasn't a bird or the dive bombing of a plane.

A single colossal butterfly drifted through the broiling sky.

“Its wings shimmering with colors that didn't exist in the mud of France or anywhere else”

known to the world. With every beat of those huge wings, the world around Dillinger flickered. The trench was filled with dying screaming soldiers. The trench was a mass grave of bleached bones wrapped in rotted uniforms. Whump. The trench was now a hallway, an acquired house, smelling of baiting and cream and old cigarettes. Do you see it now? The one steadman that stood next to him whispered, clutching the

obsidian shard. Every choice is a fork, a branch on the tallest tree.

“You dough up that ladder and you set a billion things in motion. You end up in that kitchen.”

You end up as that man in the peach dressing down baiting a cake at three o'clock in the morning, because that's all you hoped for in the last fleeting moment. A life that wasn't heroic or amazing in any way, but a normal life. Even as that bullet left that German gun, you began to choose. Here we are, again,

making the choice. But be careful. You may end up as the sound of a scream that never ends.

He smiled. Or you become one with the mud.

“Dillonja looked at the man. His eyes no longer as milky as they were in that entryway, but youthful”

and full of excitement and fear for the world. The same eyes Dillonja had when he left home for this first satan place. The eyes looked the same, because they are the same. Were the same and would always be the same. But you don't get to have your cake and eat it too. Dillonja looked at the latter. The wood was splintered, slick with the blood of many men who had

gone up before him. Their bodies now on their way to being entombed in the mud. Five stayed out here. Dillonja rassed. His voice sounding like dry parchment.

Who do I become? The soldier smiled and, for a second, he looked 40 years younger,

but a thousand years more tired, the same way Dillonja felt most mornings. I'm just here to show you the way he waived flamboyantly up and down the ladder. As for what you become, stay and you don't become anything. That's the beauty of it. You just stop. The stage lights are off and everyone just goes home. Dillonja, with a sharp-edged melancholy smother in him, looked from the obsidian shard to the once

dead man's face. The transition was settling in. The appearance of youthful skin was beginning to sag into the jowls of the dead man from the hallway. The once dead man prop to the rifle against the trench wall, his hand now free to rummage in his breast potted. Dillonja looked on as hell seemed to be falling down around them. "Cider Ed," said the once dead man, crumpled packet held out between the two men. Dillonja's hand went to reach for them,

but he taught himself. I gave up. The once dead man gave him a wink, and that withered smart, slimeed across his face, time beats to a strange rhythm, my friend. He lit a sitter at, and looked at the ember flame longingly as he had sailed slowly. Why the tate? Dillonja spat.

rattling laugh as a shell whistled overhead. Chitter, flower, and the basics of life detective.

“The thrill of being called soldier had gone from Dillonja. The once dead man was now moving from”

foot to foot, almost in an agitated way, as if he was trying to hurry some process. Let's just say we were trying to sweeten the deal, so you wouldn't feel the stain when the butterfly finally flapped its weight. The soldier pointed his small shard towards the center of the battlefield. There, rising out of the mud, a light in an unholy tombstone, was the great black cube. Its surface reflecting the muzzle flashes, not as light, but as distorted memories.

It's the anchor, Dillonja. It's the weight that keeps the butterfly from blowing us all away.

“You were drawn to that house, because in some ways, that's what you wanted in those last moments.”

You were always a form of detective, and you couldn't stand at the smell of a lie.

Your whole life, though, the badge, the dawn, the civilian life, the pierced lung. It was all a lie that awful rotten toothed smirk again. Dillonja looked up great wings of shadow. It clips to everything around them, rolled back on the verge of beating again. You sniffed out the lie, and created your own beautiful fiction. The moment you climbed that ladder and took a bullet.

“Above them, the giant butterfly's wings beat again.”

The mud and the death of the battlefield flickered into the polished wood of the living room.

For a split second, Dillonja saw himself as the detective standing over the body of the one-stead man.

His whisk held a loft. For another flash, he was looking up from the floor, creams spattered whisk in hand, as a police officer Smitherson zipped the body bag up over his face. Another figure stood over him, but his face was a swirling obscure blur. Mrs. Tillerson cried at Keenan Howell. This once-a-dead man, who now seemed to be ushering him on his way.

He was back in the mud, staring at the man who was both his prime victim, and by some twisted logic, his own ghost, a ghost from a future yet to be determined. The crime isn't that you died. The one-stead man whispered, his voice blending with the thrum of great ancient wings, the wher of the unseen whisk and the ticking of the grandfather clock. It's that you thought you lived.

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