UnsettlingStories | Unsettling Stories

The Quarry

I can’t remember the last time we’d had such a hot summer. All the beaches were packed. You couldn’t find a shoreline that wasn’t teeming with people. Most summers, we would’ve been right there with them. This last school year, though, had been rough. We’d had an inordinate number of encounters with bullies, and the last thing we wanted to do was put ourselves in a place where they’d almost certainly be.

That caution came with a price, of course. We were sweltering. Fans did nothing. Every time we opened the freezer to grab a chunk of ice, we’d get yelled at for letting all the cold air out. It seemed like everything we did, it only served to make us hotter and more miserable.

My brother had an idea that sounded pretty great to me. There’d been construction going on near the old quarry that was on hold for some reason. Donny said he’d been snooping around there the week before and he noticed there was still a lot of water from the spring floods that’d gotten trapped and hadn’t dried up yet. Plus, the quarry was deep enough to be in its own shadow; the walls went up at least 30 feet. It’d be a climb to get down and back up, but it was worth the risk if it meant getting a break from the heat.

We hopped the fence and stared down at the water. It looked pretty damn refreshing. The way down was steep and rocky, but Donny and I were both pretty agile at the time. We went slowly, despite dripping with sweat and coating ourselves with dust and bits of gravel. When we got to the bottom, it was already a relief. The air was ten degrees cooler and the shade provided a welcome reprieve from the mid-day sun.

There was a long branch near the edge of the pool. Since the water was murky, we didn’t want to take a chance and dive in. Both of us remembered how Leon Hollis broke his neck back in 3rd grade. Neither of us were going to make that same mistake. I reached in with the stick and pushed down and around. It felt about two or three feet deep. I let out more and more of the branch into the water and felt the soft, muddy ground underneath. We couldn’t do a proper dive, but we sure as hell could jump in. That was all Donny needed to hear.

In the blink of an eye, Donny had stripped out of his clothes. I hadn’t even finished saying, “Jesus Christ, Don, don’t take your fucking underpants off too!” before he was stark naked and mid-air in a bellyflop position. He crashed into the still water, sending out a massive wave to soak the muddy shore. I was untying my shoes when Donny spluttered to the surface. He looked different.

Donny’s pale body was covered in a mosaic of black and brown shapes. I mean covered. He was more brown and black than he was white, and as he staggered toward me with his arms out so they wouldn’t touch his sides and his legs bowed so they wouldn’t rub together, I realized what they were. Leeches. Hundreds – maybe even a thousand – leeches.

He began to scream. It was a shrill, high-pitched shriek that I’d only heard from girls on the playground at school, but with them, it was only while they were playing. The sound coming from my brother was one of abject terror. As he screamed, he formed the words, “help me” and moved closer and closer to the shore, away from the water. By the time I’d gotten over to him, he fell on his back into the soft mud, his head inches from the shore.

I stood over him, unsure of what I should do. He began rubbing his hands over his trunk, trying to unlatch the things from his belly and chest. Blood smeared as their bodies burst under his touch. My horror stunned me for a moment, and as I stared with shock at my brother’s body, I noticed details for the first time.

There was a leech stuck to his left eyeball. It hung down about 3 inches, its body fat with blood. The eye was red and angry looking and Donny was blinking furiously, and probably unconsciously, to get the thing off. One leech was attached to the head of his penis and there were seven on his scrotum and perineum. Under his arms were the remains of at least six that had been smashed as Donny rubbed and pulled at the ones on his torso.

Finally, I snapped out of it and began raking my nails across the creatures that covered my brother. He was a red mess. I tried to pick up my pace, noticing how, even under the shroud of blood, I could tell Donny was getting increasingly pale and weak. His arms didn’t move much anymore and his screams had devolved into wheezes.

I ran back to where we’d left our clothes and returned with a large beach towel. I wadded it up and scrubbed Donny up and down, not caring if I crushed the things instead of just removing them. They needed to die, and quickly, or else I was certain my brother would be exsanguinated. I rubbed his face and chest and legs and feet until there was nothing left pulp from their devastated bodies and the smeared blood they’d stolen from Donny.

I knelt next to Donny and tried to get him to focus. I told him I was going to run for help and he was going to be okay. His good eye moved to meet my face. “Back,” he muttered.

“Yes, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I assured him, and got up to run home.

Donny grabbed my ankle in his weak fist. I stopped and looked at him impatiently, not understanding how he didn’t see how time was a factor here.

“Back,” he said again. “My back.” He exhaled a long, low breath. He didn’t move or say anything after that.

A column of frost coalesced along my spinal cord. With great care, not wanting Donny’s face to sink into the mud, I turned my brother over and screamed. On his back were two leeches, each the size of a watermelon. No longer trapped between the mud and Donny, they detached their proboscises, each of which were as long as my middle finger. Then, with their bodies full and their appetites sated, they began the slow crawl back into the water.

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Prosopagnosia

pros

Jaime’s car accident nearly killed him. His coma lasted eight weeks. When he regained consciousness, he couldn’t recognize me and Inez. Prosopagnosia – face blindness – was the diagnosis. The doctors wouldn’t give us any answers about whether or not he’d get better. They just said we’d have to wait and see. Jaime could remember who we were; he knew he had a wife named Carla and a daughter named Inez, but whenever we walked into the room, he saw two strangers.

Over time, he started to recover. The recovery wasn’t total. Not even close. He’d jump with shock and surprise if Inez came into the room too quickly and didn’t leave him enough time to remember it was her. Last month, when Jaime and I were in the shower, I washed his hair and shoulders and back, but when he turned around, he yelped and tried to get away. He slipped and almost cracked his head on the faucet.

The therapist suggested Jaime carry and study a photograph of Inez and me as frequently as possible. The goal was for his damaged brain to hopefully remap the features he’d lost the ability to retain. After a couple months, we saw some major improvements. Still far from perfect, but much, much better. The frightened, jumpy person he became after the accident slowly started to resemble the strong, protective man I’d married.

Last night, I was jolted awake by the sound of Jaime shrieking. He wasn’t in bed. The sound came from down the hall. From Inez’s room. I jumped out of bed and ran to see what was wrong. Jaime met me halfway. His hands were covered in blood.

“It’s wearing her face!,” he screamed. He gripped my shoulders and studied my features with his wide, terrified eyes. “It stole her face!”

I struggled out of his grasp as Jaime sunk to the floor and called after me. “Find Inez!,” he choked out. “Please.” He sobbed as I turned the corner into our Inez’s room.

Gaping holes that once housed eyes oozed blood down pale cheeks. Those same eyes were now forced deep into the skull by the panicked violence of my husband. As I screamed with incomprehensible horror, Jaime came up behind me and bellowed, “get away from it!” “Find Inez!”

Jaime tore through Inez’s closet with the picture of Inez and me in his hand, frantically scanning everything inside for the girl who matched the appearance of his daughter in the photograph. My breath caught in my throat. In the picture Jaime studied to memorize the faces of his family, I was sitting behind Inez and brushing her long, black hair.

“What are you doing?,” he screamed at me. “Help me find her!”

Sobbing, I collapsed on the bed and cradled the cooling body on the blood-soaked Steven Universe sheets. After Jaime had gone to sleep, I’d finally given in to Inez’s nagging. Instead of the luxurious, flowing hair in the picture, Inez went to bed with her new, short, pixie-style haircut.

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I almost drowned when I was 13.

My friend Javon had a pool that was attached to the side of his porch, so there were no steps or anything to reach it. All you had to do was walk right in. Over Thanksgiving break, I was taking care of his dog, Trucker, while he and the rest of his family were on vacation. Another job I agreed to do was rake the leaves and clean up their backyard. So, early Friday morning after Thanksgiving, I walked over to his house. I greeted Trucker and we went outside. He ate his breakfast and played around while I raked, and after a few hours, the yard was looking pretty good.

Next up was the porch. A bunch of big, potted plants stood in one corner near the house. A ton of leaves had accumulated around them. I pulled the leaves out and had them piled in the middle of the porch when a big gust of wind blew them right onto the old pool cover. I grumbled and knelt at the edge of the pool and began pulling the leaves back toward the porch with the rake. Luckily, they hadn’t blown too far onto the cover and I was able to reach the majority of them. While I was crouched down and pulling in the last few leaves, I hadn’t noticed the dog come up behind me. He put his nose right against my butt as I was reaching out, and in surprise, I jumped and fell forward.

Aside from Trucker sneaking up, the other thing I hadn’t noticed was the small series of slits and holes in the pool cover that had been hidden by wrinkles and folds. I flailed and kicked uselessly as I went headfirst through it. The first thing I noticed was the hideously cold temperature of the water. It was an inordinately chilly autumn and we’d had a couple inches of snow the week before. The water had to be near freezing. I scrambled and tried to right myself. The pool wasn’t particularly deep – maybe 5 feet at the most – but my right ankle had gotten tangled in the tattered fabric around the hole and my foot rested on top of the cover. I couldn’t reach the bottom with my left foot.

I distinctly remember screaming and seeing the silvery bubbles explode out in front of me. I thrashed and pushed at the pool cover. As the cover moved upward from the force of my push, so did the surface of the water. There was no gap. I panicked and kept pushing and scratching at the cover. Three fingernails tore off as I clawed at the rough material and some part of me passively noticed thin trails of blood rising from the nail beds.

There was no way I was getting out that way, and my chest was already burning from the oxygen I’d wasted with all my flailing. The whole time I’d been underwater, I’d been jerking my right leg back and forth with the goal of freeing it, but the tension around my ankle had increased as the tangle of fabric tightened with my effort. I reached back and tried to grab my trapped ankle. Not even close. I had to curl my body under and try to swim up the other way. That time, I could reach the ankle and even get my hands out of the water. Still, I couldn’t get my left foot to touch the bottom. If my flexibility were any better, I might have been able to reach. But no. I was forced to remain underwater.

My pain in my chest and throat was searing and the pressure was unbearable. Everything in me was screaming to release my breath and inhale. I gripped my ankle, bent my knee, and pulled. My nose broke the surface of the water and I exhaled burning carbon dioxide and gobs of snot before falling back under. I hadn’t gotten a chance to breathe. Again, I pulled myself up and snorted a tiny bit of air into my lungs and what felt like a gallon of water into my nose. My hands fumbled at the fabric wrapped around my ankle as I involuntarily sneezed and sputtered in an attempt to get the water out of my sinuses. I fought upward with every bit of strength I had. Half my face breached the surface. I gasped and coughed chlorinated water out of my throat and chest while trying to breathe. I managed one good breath before going back down.

The sensation of having my lungs filled with fresh air calmed me by an infinitesimal fraction and helped me regain a bit of sense. Disregarding my attempt to extricate my ankle, I grabbed the tattered fabric around it and pulled. I felt it tear a tiny bit. I pulled and pulled, extending the rip toward the tangle until, to my intense relief, I was able to weaken the material enough to pull my foot out. I pushed both feet against the bottom of the pool and exploded upward, finally free. I stood in the frigid water and gasped as heaving, gluttonous breaths gradually re-oxygenated my body.

It was only then did I realize how badly I was shivering. I looked at the sky, and despite the radiance of the noontime sun, I knew I’d be screwed if I didn’t get out of the water immediately. I jumped and tried to haul myself onto the cover toward the porch. I slid off and fell back into the hole. Again, I leapt forward and tried to grasp the inch or two of treated wood that extended from the porch over the pool’s edge. My thumb managed to reach the top of the wood and I dug my ruined fingertips underneath. It was enough. I pulled until I could get my other hand on the surface, and kept moving until I could get my elbows, hips, and, finally, legs onto the porch.

Trucker, who’d apparently been watching the whole ordeal, licked my face. I called him an asshole and we went in the house. I sat in a hot shower for a long time, dried off, and put on Javon’s far-too-big clothes. A few days later, I got $200 for cleaning up the yard. They never mentioned the bigger tear in their pool cover.

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I think I’m having some kind of medical issue.

Maybe one of you can offer me some advice? I don’t have insurance and I can’t afford a trip to the ER. It doesn’t seem life threatening, though, so I might wait it out. I’ve always been a bit of a hypochondriac and I bet I’m just overreacting. Still, if anyone is interested in coming over and checking me out, just send me a message. I’d really appreciate it.

I was walking through the wooded area behind my home and I found this weird gray stuff oozing out of a rock. It was shiny and made me think of jellied lead. I’d never seen anything quite like it before. Since I moved out of the city ten years ago, I frequently walked around the many acres of woods near the house and never saw anything weirder than a squirrel eating a dead hawk. So this was new to me.

I took a branch and poked at the stuff. It resisted a little before it broke open, causing a more liquidy version to flow out from inside. I grabbed a smaller stick and scooped up a tiny bit of the stuff and walked back to the house. Part of me was worried that it fell from a plane or something and might be a toxic threat to the environment.

When I got home, I scraped the goo onto a dish I never used and threw the stick in the garbage. I shone some light on the plate, and I swear, the stuff moved a little. It’s not like it jumped up and made scary tentacles or anything like that; no, it just kind of spread out in a weird way. Almost like how jellyfish try to hide in the sand when they feel threatened. After I killed the light, it gradually reassumed its original shape. My guess was that the heat from the lamp made it melt.

I decided to wait until tomorrow morning and bring it to the local university just to be on the safe side. I don’t know what it was about the stuff, but I was really, really uneasy around it. When I left for an hour or two and went to the store to get groceries, I returned to find the plate empty and a streak of gray grease going off the plate, across the counter, and onto the floor. There wasn’t a trail indicating where it went after that.

Honestly, I was a little freaked out. I bent down and looked all over the place and never found the stuff. But it found me.

At first, I thought the sensation on my bare ankle was just a mosquito, so I slapped at it without thinking. Obviously, looking back, that was the wrong idea. The gray stuff spread out all over my palm, then the rest of my hand, then my arm, side, chest, back, and the rest of me. Long story short, I’m completely covered in the gray substance. But here’s the thing, and it’s why I’m not particularly worried: it feels amazing.

I know, I know, it sounds weird. But in all honesty, I’ve never felt anything like it. In fact, I was so taken by the sensation that I went back outside, over to the rock where the stuff was, and pulled as much of it off as I could and brought it into the house. Now, like I said in the beginning, I do think I’m having some sort of medical issue. It’s definitely not something I’ve ever experienced before or even heard of, so I think it’s important to get checked out. But still, I can’t get over how great the experience is. The stuff smells wonderful, too. And right now, as it spreads over my tongue, it tastes better than anything I’ve ever put in my mouth. Please, anyone who might be interested in investigating either for their own curiosity or as a medical precaution, just leave a message right here and I’ll give you directions to my home. I’d be so happy if someone came over.

Please. Come visit me. Come visit us.

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Roo

roo

I’ve lived in the same house for 40 years. After Ralph passed and I was left alone for the first time in three decades, I turned to my neighbors for comfort. They provided it in spades. I was honored and brought to tears by their kindness. Not too many places would make sure a lonely old man was taken care of. I’m surrounded by wonderful, beautiful people.

I took on the role of a grandfather to some of the neighborhood children. I was more than happy to babysit; Ralph and I always wanted to adopt but it wasn’t permitted in our state. So, having the opportunity to be a formative figure in the lives of these children was a great privilege. It made me feel like I was getting another chance to do everything that had been denied to me. I wish Ralph could’ve been here to take part. Still, I know he’s watching with the same love and pride he expressed every day he was alive.

One girl, Madison, formed a particularly strong connection to me. Her father was out of the picture. Her mom, Helen, who was forced to work full time, was rarely home during the day. Helen had always been the most supportive and loving of the neighbors after Ralph’s death, so when I had the opportunity to help with Madison and watch her during the work day, I was more than willing.

I started looking after Madison soon after her 10th birthday. She fell in love with the collection of toy kangaroos all over the house. Ralph was born in Australia and I always used to call him my little roo – especially when he got excited and his accent became more pronounced. On his birthdays, I’d give him some type of kangaroo toy. They’d been gathering dust after his passing and I was glad Madison could give them some life again.

Years passed and Madison started to grow up. I worried she was becoming depressed. She never had very many friends in school. She’d come straight over when her day was done and do her homework while waiting for her mom. Her mood was less bubbly than I’d remembered. Part of it, I’m sure, was her age. Adolescence is tough for everyone, let alone someone with a difficult family life like Madison. Still, I worried about her. She was perfectly nice to me and was never rude or disrespectful, but she’d withdrawn. She didn’t watch television with me anymore after her homework, either. She’d just sit on the floor in her kangaroo pajamas, which were far too small for her at that point, playing with Ralph’s figurines. Just like she did when she was little.

When Madison was 16, she got a boyfriend. Her first one, as far as I knew. I didn’t like him. At all. He was your typical teenage tough-guy type; a chain-smoking, foul-mouthed loser. There wasn’t anything I could do about it, though. Madison wouldn’t bring him over and I think she sensed I didn’t approve. But it wasn’t my business. I told myself years before that such situations were purely between Madison and her mother. Only if I felt like Madison was in danger would I interfere.

Madison spent more and more time with the boyfriend and less and less with me. The house grew quiet again. The other children I’d taken care of had grown old enough to watch themselves. Their parents stopped by every so often for coffee, but my general person-to-person interaction was far less than I’d previously enjoyed. I was lonely.

One night, Helen came to me in a panic. Apparently, Madison had admitted to using drugs. Helen had no idea what kind or anything like that, but she was terrified for her daughter’s safety. I tried to reassure her that there had to be something the school could do, but that was when she told me the other half of the story: Madison was pregnant.

This floored me. I’d seen Madison around town over the last few months and I’d noticed she’d gained some weight, but it never occurred to me she might be pregnant. Now her drug use was even more worrying. We tried to figure out a plan together and the only thing we could agree on was that the school had to know. Even though the local school system wasn’t the best, they had to have some resources dedicated to problems like these.

The school did nothing. Madison’s reckless behavior continued. Helen was too terrified to notify the police because she feared she’d be put in a foster home. I, too, was clueless. Time went by and the rare times I’d see Madison in town, she’d be stumbling around drunkenly with her idiot boyfriend, her protrusive belly an obscenity against the background of her intoxication.

On a late afternoon in February, I was leaving the supermarket when Madison spotted me from across the parking lot. She wasn’t with her boyfriend, thankfully. She rushed up to me and gave me a big hug. She didn’t seem drunk, but she had to have been on something. Her pupils were dilated and her words were slurred as she said how much she missed me. Then she asked if she could come over later to see the kangaroos. I told her that would be wonderful and that I missed her.

At some point around 7, Madison came over. I ushered her in quickly; it was way below freezing outside and she looked ill. I could tell she was high. She shuffled in without saying hello and went to the mantle where the kangaroos stood. In a singsong, childish voice, she talked to them. When she was 11, I thought that type of thing was cute. Now, though, knowing she was under the influence of something that was poisoning not only her, but the baby as well, it was far less adorable.

I walked up to her and asked if I could take her coat and if she’d like some tea and chocolate cake. She didn’t reply. She just kept talking to the kangaroos. I sighed and sat down on the couch, waiting for her to either snap out of it and talk to me or leave and hopefully go home to her mom.

Madison went down the line of the kangaroo toys on the mantle, saying “I love you” to each one. Then she walked back, doing the same thing in reverse order. Then she faced me. “I love you too, Michael,” she cooed, a thin smile cracking her pale face. “But you know what? I love Roo most of all!”

Madison dropped her heavy coat to the floor and I screamed. A gaping wound had been carved across the top of her belly. The blue head and chest and right arm of her baby stuck out from the opening. “Look at little Roo,” she said weakly. “Such a good little Roo.” Madison tried to hop toward me, mimicking a kangaroo. The limp head and arm of the child flopped back and forth with the movement.

“Sweet little Roo. All warm and safe in his pouch.”

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Fireflies

The theory went like this: when confused by nighttime fog, fireflies can congregate into masses of hundreds, or sometimes even thousands. The fog reduces their ability to signal properly; the distance is shortened and the light becomes too diffuse. To survive and attract mates, individual fireflies started banding together. Once a small group is formed, they signal to one another with pheromones, and that triggers simultaneous illumination. It’s brighter, so even through the fog, solitary fireflies can find the group. So if you see a glowing beachball hovering over the lake on a foggy night, don’t freak out. It’s just fireflies trying to fuck.

I moved to the woodsy town in Vermont a couple years ago. During my first summer there, when the pea-soup fog rolled off the lake every evening, I saw those glowing orbs for the first time. That was before I’d learned they were fireflies, so I didn’t know what I was seeing. I watched from my porch as the ball floated across the yard at the edge of the forest. It was beautiful, but haunting.

The following morning, at the local diner, I brought up what I’d seen. The waitress laughed and said they were just the local fireflies. Apparently they’re considered a minor celebrity in the area. My buddy from college, Phil, was an entomologist. Bugs were his thing. So when I got home after breakfast, I called him up. I figured he’d be interested in the phenomenon.

Apparently, “interested” was an understatement. I guess fireflies had never been observed doing something like that anywhere else in the world. I told him he’d be welcome if he wanted to make the drive up from Connecticut and stay for a few days to see them for himself. He did.

The next day, Phil arrived at dusk. Great timing. I gave him a quick tour of the place, then we brought a six pack out to the porch and waited for the fog to move in.

In a steady, slow creep, the fog poured across the lake, into the forest, and swallowed my yard. The moonlight was a dull haze above our heads, and right away we saw individual fireflies trying to locate one another with their bioluminescent shouts.

We waited and drank beer after beer as we caught up on the goings on in our respective lives over the last ten years. After a couple hours, I caught a glimpse of something glowing on the other side of the trees, right by the lake. I pointed and Phil stood up and went to the edge of the porch.

“Wow,” he breathed, and I could sense his genuine excitement. It was contagious. I got up and stood with him as we gazed at the orb of softly undulating light, our beers forgotten.

The mass of fireflies approached the edge of the yard, every one of its members flying in a tight, spherical pattern. “I don’t believe my eyes,” Phil said. “That behavior’s never been documented in that species.”

The sphere’s light waxed and waned, and solitary fireflies all over the yard, disoriented in the morass of fog, began to move toward the group. They incorporated themselves into the luminous mass.

The group turned back toward the forest and eventually went out of sight.

“Pretty cool, right?,” I asked.

“One of the coolest things I’ve seen in my career,” he agreed. “I’m going to write up a report tomorrow morning, then tomorrow night I’m going to see if I can record it with my phone. Might not come out too great in the low light, though.”

“Worth a shot,” I said. He nodded.

The next morning, I made coffee while Phil typed up his report. I could tell he was impatiently waiting for the evening, so I made a list of local stuff we could do to help the time pass more quickly for him. He finished up and we went out and had a fun, eventful day.

The sun drowned itself in the lake while we ate dinner. Individual fireflies right outside the window were already signalling, as if they wanted to do as much talking as possible before the fog made their job harder. I told Phil to go outside and leave the dishes to me. He didn’t argue.

I watched from the kitchen window as Phil dragged a lawn chair out to the line where the yard met the forest. He sat with his phone and his tablet and waited while fog drifted in around him.

He didn’t need to wait long.

An orb of fireflies coalesced no more than 20 feet from my friend. I stopped washing up and stepped out onto the porch to watch Phil get his footage. He held his phone out like he was Spielberg filming his next award-winning movie.

“I don’t know if this is gonna work,” he called to me. “Too damn dark.” He put the phone on the chair and tried to record with the camera in his tablet. “That’s a little better,” he said. “I think the camera in this thing is better in low light.”

He recorded for a minute, then I saw two more orbs coming in off the lake. Perfect. The waitress told me the smaller masses would sometimes join bigger ones, so I hoped that was the case. Phil noticed them too and called out, “that’s so cool!”

The new masses of fireflies converged on the one in the yard. The fog was dense and I was having trouble seeing Phil, but the glow of the bugs had produced a peaceful, pale-yellow haze.

I heard Phil swearing to himself. The filming wasn’t going very well.

“How about a picture?,” I asked. “That might help with the light problem. Try to take a lot of shots in a row and maybe you can animate them in the computer afterward.”

Phil didn’t say anything, but I saw him move the tablet down as if he were changing some settings. He held it back up, and flashes exploded through the fog as he took picture after picture.

“This is gonna screw up the way their illumination looks,” he shouted, “but at least I can show how they’re clustered together.”

Flash after flash after flash bloomed through the thick fog. Above us, the sky lit up as distant lightning announced a coming storm. Indeed, a storm had been forecasted for the early morning hours, but apparently it was ahead of schedule. “You see that?”

“Yeah,” Phil replied. “I’ll get inside before the rain.”

He kept snapping pictures. On the outskirts of the yard, I noticed more light. There were new orbs. Lots of them, ranging from ones the size of a lemon to others the size of watermelon. “Phil!,” I shouted, “check those out!”

More orbs coalesced and moved in the direction of Phil, apparently attracted by the strobing camera. The lightning flashed again. Brighter this time. Closer. There was no accompanying thunder.

Now there were tens of the firefly clusters, and the yard was a blur of pale yellow that threatened to compete with the camera flashes. “This is fucking awesome!,” Phil hollered, and almost as if in response, more lightning lit up the fog. It was almost blinding now, and I said to Phil we should probably go in. “Hang on,” he replied. “I’m almost done.”

All the firefly masses formed one colossal ball the size of mid-sized car, which hovered directly above Phil. There was another burst of lightning, this time accompanied by a gust of wind so powerful it knocked me down. The mass of fireflies scattered. And Phil screamed.

I jumped back to my feet just in time to be nearly blinded by an explosion of intense light coming from where my buddy was standing. I squinted and tried to acclimate my vision. Phil kept hollering. “What’s going on?!,” I shouted to him. There was no reply other than hysterical gibberish.

My eyes slowly acclimated to the light and I when I realized why Phil was screaming, I gasped and backed up to the house. A glowing firefly the size of a school bus was pinning him to the ground. He struggled and thrashed, but the insect must have weighed tons. Its wings fluttered and a hurricane-force wind pushed me against the house and flung leaves and branches from the nearby trees.

“Help!,” Phil shouted, over and over. I was too terrified to move. I could only watch as the hideously luminescent creature held my friend under its bulk.

A small drop of pure, white light fell from the mandible of the monstrous bug. Phil’s scream grew high pitched and inhuman. More of the liquid light drooled from the firefly’s mouth. I smelled burning. Burning clothes. Burning grass. Burning meat. A pool of radiance formed where Phil was pinned. His screaming stopped.

The firefly lurched up and took to the air, the wind from its wings shattering windows in the house and tossing me to the ground. It was gone. The light was gone. The orbs were gone. All that remained was a puddle of horrible luminescence.

I ran in the house and dialed 911, spoke to them for a minute, then stepped warily toward the liquid light. The stench was overwhelming. I gagged and got closer. The fog was making it difficult to see anything with proper resolution. But soon, I was only a couple feet away. It all came into focus.

The acidic light, which was now starting to dim, had destroyed everything it had touched. Tattered, singed clothing still smoked. The skeletal remains of my friend still steamed. And gripped in his bony hand, the melting tablet still sat, its flash strobing with dying pulses as the acid ate it away.

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Bags

I was ten when it happened. My tenth birthday. I was in the woods with my uncle and father and they were making sure I knew how to shoot. Before I could hunt deer, I had to show them I could hunt bottles. By that, I mean I had to hit ten bottles from ten feet away, using ten bullets. It wasn’t much a test. I could’ve done that when I was seven. My guess was they just wanted to do something special with the number ten. I would’ve preferred ten cakes.

Thanks to my well-placed shots, the first three bottles exploded in glittering, green shards. Against the sullen backdrop of the sun-punctured gray sky and the forest still recovering from last year’s fire, it looked hauntingly pretty.

Even though I’d worn my ear protection, I felt discomfort in both my ears. It wasn’t the normal ringing I’d encountered before, though. It was a painful buzzing, like flies were trapped by my eardrums.

I looked over and saw my dad and uncle both rubbing the area around their ears. They’d taken out their plugs and looked uncomfortable and confused. I pulled off my own and asked what was going on. Dad shook his head and said he didn’t know.

“Mother of fuck!,” my uncle exclaimed, prompting a burst of giggles from me and a slap upside his head from my dad. But then we saw what had caused his outburst.

The seven remaining bottles were floating. They stood, motionless, three feet above the rocks where they’d been placed. The buzzing intensified and the three of us cringed. It was like a colony of bees had descended on the quiet forest.

“Let’s go,” Dad said, grabbing my hand, and we started walking back the way we came.

Then the world ended.

My father and uncle were hoisted into the air. I shrieked. Their eyes grew wide with fright and they held their rifles in deathgrips while pointing them in every direction in a futile attempt to threaten whatever was assailing them. I remember how my dad looked right before it happened. The instant before.

A one of the levitating bottles flew with impossible speed. It struck my dad in his open mouth and shattered. Glass stuck inside his devastated gums, tongue, and cheeks. My uncle, now screaming, was met with the same hideous assault. Both wailed around the glass impaling the soft tissue of their mouths while I tugged at my dad’s leg, trying to pull him back to Earth.

30 years later, their screams haunt me more than the sight of their blood. But blood poured. Blood gushed. In a haze of uncomprehending horror, I watched as the shards extracted themselves from the mouths of the men and began to carve. Lips were amputated. Cheeks were excised. Flesh dropped to the forest floor. The buzzing in my ears reached an unbearable level, and with a sharp cracking sound, everything went silent.

Deaf, I huddled against a large tree and sobbed. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the violence. In a noiseless, surreal nightmare, I saw the glass carve their gums down to the roots of their teeth. Their heads jerked forward in a powerful movement and teeth exploded out of their skulls and into the sky. I followed their trajectory and saw, for the first time, a patch of dull, green light behind the gathering clouds.

I looked back at my father and uncle. They’d stopped moving their arms and legs and trunks. The violent forward motion had to have broken their necks. My uncle’s eyes gaped and darted in every direction, but Dad’s were on me. They expressed pain, but something else, too. It was comfort. Even in the bloodbath, he wanted me to know it would be okay.

It wasn’t okay.

The green light intensified and I saw the outline of something – that’s still the only word I can use – something – in the sky. The first thing that came to mind was Medusa’s head. It had a spherical center and countless, serpentine spires jutting from it at every conceivable angle. Liquid patches of light traveled between the spires, and as it descended, I felt the buzz which had deafened me vibrating my hair and fat.

It reached the treeline. It was the size of a house. My dad and uncle had their eyes on it as their ruined mouths wept. The spires stopped mere feet away from the three of us. A sliver of green shone on the two men, and they began to shake wildly.

If they hadn’t been paralyzed from the tooth extraction, the shaking would’ve ensured it. They flopped like electrocuted ragdolls pinned to a corkboard; arms, legs, hips, backs – all contorting in ways that would splinter and pulverize their bones. My father’s knees bent forward, hyperextending until his toes were touching his hips. My uncle’s lower jaw swept back and forth. There was no conceivable way they were still alive.

With a sense of resignation, I realized I couldn’t move. I was pinned in my position, helpless to do anything but stare at the carnage. I assumed I would be next.

The green light flashed red. The tattered clothing on my relatives split and fell to the ground. The glass, which had dropped to the ground after finishing with their mouths, took to the air again. It sliced through their bodies in long, deep incisions. The red light intensified, and I watched as their splintered, fragmented bones were hurled from their bodies toward the liquid light on the spire-studded object. In a final, hideous act, their eyes dropped from their boneless sockets and pulped brain matter followed them.

Two motionless bags of flesh hung in the silent forest.

If I passed out at that point, it wasn’t for long.

My eyes opened to the sight of the husks of my uncle and father being prodded by one spire each. Skin flopped back and forth. Any remaining blood rained onto the floor of the abattoir nouveau below them. The light had shifted from red to something else I’d never seen before. It was as if they were trapped in a beam of shadow; it wasn’t perfectly black, but dark gray.

Black fluid began to drip out of their skin. It puddled in the mess of blood and organs on the ground. Their flesh wounds began to close. The dripping slowed, then stopped. The bodies started to regain their original shape.

My despondent resignation grew teeth as fresh fear suffused my small body. The skins were full again. The arms and legs moved, as if they were being tested. Eyes sprouted from the empty sockets and teeth filled their mouths. After a couple minutes, they looked exactly like they had before they’d been murdered.

Exactly.

Everything blurred after this.

I remember them slowly descending to the ground. I remember their mouths moving as if they were talking to me, but in my deafness, I heard nothing. I remember trying to run, but being stopped; stopped and held against the chest of the thing who looked like my father. The twinkle of concern in his eyes was gone.

I was carried through the forest to our house. I remember Mom starting at the sight of my nude father and uncle entering, but then I lost consciousness. When I woke up, I was in my bed. It was the day after my birthday.

As I said above, it’s been 30 years. I am still deaf. Everything continued as if nothing had happened, other than a freak accident due to a combination of a misfiring shell and my shrugging off of my hearing protection right beforehand. I even told Mom about it all, and she just stroked my hair and told me it must’ve been a terrible nightmare.

There was no warmth in her eyes.

My mother, my father, and my uncle still live on the same street. I live across town. I don’t see them very often. They express great sadness at this and message frequently, but I can’t forget what I know happened – what I know wasn’t a dream.

Over the years, there have been clues. Every so often there’d be a newspaper article about strange lights in the sky or messes of blood and organs found in the forest. They’re things that are always explained away by auroras or animal attacks. Weird stuff, but not anything that’ll make people think more than twice.

Five years ago, I was on my way to the supermarket on my bicycle when my chain fell off. I pulled over onto the sidewalk to fix it. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another cyclist crossing the street. Then a car made an illegal turn and the cyclist had to swerve out of the way. He fell onto the ground. I looked up and realized it was Dad. He was picking himself up. A small gash had appeared on his elbow. Greasy, black liquid trickled down his arm.

He saw me and smiled. Then he looked at his arm and sighed. He lifted the bike back onto its wheels, walked up to me, and signed, “your mother and I miss you.” He hopped on the bike and rode away.

I just stared at tiny black drops on the pavement.

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