The scar eater

“Oh, sweet child… don’t cry. I’ll lick your scars softly… nibble at them slowly… and finally eat them. Your pain is so beautiful. Hush now… hush… let me take it all away…”

Even now, from time to time, so many years later, in the dead of night, I hear those words delivered to me in my most vulnerable moment. I hear that monstrous, syrupy sweet, vile, voice. It slithers through my memories like a wet tongue on raw skin.

No child ever expects to come face to face with pure, unadulterated evil. What was lost then can never be regained, but perhaps I can find solace and peace of mind from writing this down.

Two events happened throughout the spring of 1994 when I was 14. Kurt Cobain ended his life, and something extraordinarily evil and predatory made the small town I grew up in its hunting grounds.

This story is a tribute to a time and place I both wish to forget and remember, to the wonders and frailty of youth, and the shaky dreams that never came to be.

And most of all… To my cherished group of childhood friends.

It started on the evening of April 9th, 1994. We were all gathered in Gordy’s parents’ garage. The mood was solemn and quiet. Gordy was fiddling with his pick, just strumming on his unplugged electric guitar. You could faintly hear the intro to ‘’Come As You Are’’ resting in the still night air. Gordy was the kind of kid who liked to stay quiet and let his guitar speak for him. Then, he’d open his mouth, and you could tell he considered his words carefully. Whenever everything got out of hand, he would always be the one to ground things, cut through the noise, and approach it all with a clear head. He was, unquestionably, the one we all looked up to.

Stump sat at the drum set, just looking straight out into nothingness with a blank stare in his eyes, which wasn’t like him. He was always abrasive and outspoken. He’d run his mouth like he ran the drums. Fast and loud. With a wit none of us could match. His real name was Louie, but we called him Stump since he was a year younger and half a head shorter than the rest of us. Fiery auburn red hair and freckles, piercing blue eyes which fit his energetic and fast on his toes persona. He’d been moved up from 7th grade to our eighth-grade class. He wasn’t being challenged enough intellectually, according to his strict parents. He read A LOT of books which we all thought were pretty nerdy but it also came in handy at times. After watching The Chainsaw Massacre a couple of months prior he had become obsessed with serial killers and would often quote us random facts. Besides Stump, we’d sometimes call him Shortstein because he was supposedly too clever for his own class but also short. I know, we weren’t very inventive with the names, but really, he took the light-hearted bullying like a champ, and that’s why we liked him and quickly invited him into the fold.

I sat on the banged-up couch we’d found under an overpass. The scratched-up wooden table in front of me was littered with cigarette marks, beers, and soda cans we’d stolen from Stump’s dad.

Dylan threw himself down next to me on the couch and lay his head in my lap, staring at the ceiling. ‘’Jesus Christ, this is fucking depressing, you’d think someone died.’’ He was the jokester, and also chronically incapable of reading a room, which meant he didn’t have many friends besides us, but he played a mean bass, and really, he wasn’t that bad once you got to know him. He hid a loyalty and a heart of gold behind his carefully crafted façade. He was the one I had known the longest. We grew up on the same block and used to play in the green bushes and woods behind our houses.

In that moment, on that April night in 1994, I welcomed him breaking the awkward silence. It made Gordy get up, plug his guitar in, and before long, we blasted ‘In Bloom’ so loud it tore through the night and probably woke up the neighbors several blocks away.

Gordy’s voice soared through the garage and beyond. Like an angry period and conclusion to everything Kurt had been to us. I played rhythm guitar, and although there were times I felt like I was just there like a fly on the wall, strumming along, just being part of it was enough for me.

I know it might seem odd that the death of a person we never met would hit us this hard, but Nirvana, and Kurt Cobain in particular, had been our beacon of light. To us, he was proof that misfits and oddballs could make it.

We felt he spoke to us when he sang about apathy, boredom, and disillusionment with that raspy, unmistakable voice. The fact that he would opt out of life just like that was a major blow. Like losing a kindred spirit.

In truth, I guess we felt invisible, except for the odd bullying here and there; it was as if no one even noticed we existed. When we played together, though, we all became one unit. Loud. Young. Dumb. Determined. Hoping for that breakthrough that would take us all away from this butthole of a small town we were stuck in. Misery and boredom had brought us together; the never-dying and optimistic spirit of youth kept us going. It kept us determined not to stay invisible.

Looking back now, I wish more than anything we had just stayed that way… Invisible and together. I wish we hadn’t been noticed. Singled out by that… Thing.

The final echoes of Smells Like Teen Spirit faded, swallowed by the silence that rushed in like a cold tide.

We all put down our instruments and sat around the garage table. Gordy shifted in his seat, then stood, disappearing for a moment before returning with something dusty and old in his hands. A wooden board, edges chipped and yellowed with age. He set it down on the table, and we leaned in, the candlelight making the letters shimmer like whispers carved in bone.

“It’s a Ouija board,” he said, voice low, almost reverent. “I thought we might try to… You know… maybe get in contact with him. Kurt, you know?’’

I had never pegged Gordy as the superstitious type. His expression was unreadable, serious, almost expectant. However unconventional it may have seemed then, I now realize he was trying to present a way for us to process what we were feeling. None of us could have known then, the horrible road it led us down. It was just a stupid game… Or so we thought.

‘’I know what that is Gordy, I think we all do. Are you actually serious?’’ I said.

“Come on,” Stump chimed in, arms crossed. “Don’t tell me you actually believe that crap. What are you? 10?”

Gordy shrugged. “What harm could it do? Worst case, it doesn’t work. Best case, we get to talk to the legend himself!”

Dylan snorted. “Dumbass, even if it did work, which it won’t, why the hell would Kurt Cobain’s ghost be hanging around your garage? Why would he talk to a bunch of nobodies?”

Stump shot him an angry glare. “Hey, why wouldn’t he? We’re pretty cool.”

Dylan laughed. “Stump, shut up. No, we’re not. And you don’t even believe in this.”

“Whatever. I’m just saying. We’re awesome. Fuck you!”

I swallowed, an uneasy weight settling in my stomach. The air felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm. I wasn’t sure why, but something about this felt… wrong. Off.

“I don’t know…” I muttered. “Is this really a good idea? What if…” I wasn’t particularly superstitious… At least not at that point, yet the idea did unsettle me. Maybe I just felt some things were best left alone.

Dylan pulled his shirt over his head, waving his arms like a cartoon ghost. “Boooo, Jakey! I’m the vengeful spirit of all the kids you shot into your cum-sock!”

I shoved him, suppressing a laugh. “Oh, piss off.”

“Come on,” Gordy cut in, voice firm. “I’m bored. Let’s just do this. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Nevermind. And Jakey… as long as we stick to the rules, we should be fine.”

Boredom and curiosity won out over the unease gnawing at me. Nevermind.

“Yeah,” I exhaled. “Let’s do it. Nevermind.”

“Nevermind,” Stump and Dylan echoed.

Gordy doused the lights and struck a match. The candle flames flickered, casting long, shifting shadows against the walls.

Dylan smirked. “Oooh, looks cozy. Now we just need a red and white checkered tablecloth and a bowl of spaghetti and then Stump and Jakey are ready for date night.”

Stump shot back with his usual quick wit, “You know that’s the kind of thing someone in the closet would say, right? It’s okay, Dylan. We all hate you just the way you are. It’s safe for you to come out.”

For a second, Dylan’s smirk faltered. It was just a flicker, then he was back to his usual goofy self. Gordy cut in before he could throw another jab, his voice sharp.

“Can you guys just shut the fuck up for once and try to be serious?”

We heard the tone of his voice and realized the time for joking was over. He had a way of commanding our respect. Our attention. We all scooted together as he laid out the rules and explained the process.

Gordy laid the board down slowly, almost ceremonially, then straightened up and fixed us each with a serious look. The candlelight threw restless shadows across his face, making his eyes seem darker than usual.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and steady. “Before we start… the rules.”

He raised a hand, ticking them off with fingers that trembled just slightly.

“Rule number one: Never play alone. We’ve got that one covered.” He didn’t smile when he said it. No one did.

“Rule two: Be respectful. Don’t mock the game. Dylan, this especially applies to you.” Dylan rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, but for once, thought better of it. His face tightened, and he nodded.

Gordy glanced around, making sure we were still with him. His eyes lingered on each of us. Then he went on. “Rule three: Never take your fingers off the planchette until the session is over. That’s the tether. You break that connection; you risk letting something in.”

‘’Planchette. Tether.’’ Dylan made a fancy gesture as he said it. ‘’You sure know some mighty big words, Gords.’’ Gordy just barked at him. ‘’That’s what it’s called, dickhead.’’

I was concerned about what exactly could happen if this rule were broken. “How bad is that, exactly?” I asked, trying to sound casual, but my voice wavered and cracked at the end like a snapped twig.

Gordy didn’t flinch. “Bad,” he said. “Like… something comes through. And stays.”

My stomach twisted, cold and hollow. I didn’t even know if I believed in this stuff, but somehow, breaking the rules felt worse than just inviting bad luck. It felt like a dare we couldn’t take back.

Dylan leaned in and slung an arm over my shoulder. “Don’t worry, Jakester. I’ll protect you from the ghosties.”

His voice had that usual sarcastic tone, but there was something else there, under the joke… A flicker of sincerity I knew better than to brush off. For all his posturing, Dylan never bailed when it counted. He had proved his loyalty to us more than once before.

“Rule four,” Gordy said. “Keep a candle burning. It’s not just for looks. The flame wards off dark energy. But if it flickers hard or dies out completely, we stop. Immediately. I actually looked this stuff up.”

Stump scoffed, arms crossed. “Wow, Gordy. You’ve really been doing your spooky homework. Is this your end-of-year essay topic now? ‘How to Summon Dead Rockstars in Your Garage’? And aren’t you breaking a rule by doing this in your own home?”

Gordy glared at him, jaw tightening, but he didn’t rise to it right away. Then he muttered, deadpan, “The garage isn’t connected to the house. So technically, it doesn’t count because this isn’t mine or anyone else’s home. And no, Stump… I’m writing my end-of-year assignment on your mom’s tits.”

Dylan wheezed and nearly choked on his own spit, howling with laughter. I bit back a snort. Gordy didn’t usually jab like that. Maybe the tension was getting to him as well. Stump smirked and shrugged it off like he always did. Nothing ever seemed to stick to him.

“Rule five,” Gordy said, getting back on track. “If the planchette starts moving too fast… Stop. That’s not normal. It can mean the spirit is angry, confused, or… something else…”

We all went silent at that.

Gordy continued. ‘’Rule number six. Always say goodbye at the end of a session.’’

No questions about that one. It made sense.

Gordy’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper now.

“And rule number 7. If the planchette moves in a figure eight. We have to end the session immediately. No questions. Just stop.”

“Why?” Dylan asked, more curious than sarcastic.

“Because the figure eight is a symbol of infinity. Eternity. If a spirit does that, it’s not talking. It’s latching. It wants to cross over…’’

Stump blinked and then raised a brow. “7 rules? That’s it? Weird number. I always thought spooky shit came in threes or fives.”

Gordy gave him a flat stare. “Well, Shortstein, maybe there are other versions. These are ours.”

We sat in silence for a moment, the rules hanging in the air like heavy smoke. Outside, the wind scraped against the side of the garage. Inside, the candlelight flickered like it was trying to warn us.

We placed our fingers lightly on the planchette, the silence in the garage stretching tight as wire. You could’ve heard a pin drop, or a breath held too long. The air felt heavier, dense with something unseen, something waiting. Even Dylan wasn’t joking anymore.

Gordy cleared his throat, his voice low, careful, like he didn’t want to wake something.

“We wish to speak to the spirit of Kurt Cobain…”

A heartbeat passed.

Then Dylan, ever the idiot, broke the tension with a lopsided grin. “And if he’s busy, maybe Elvis can go get him?”

Gordy shot him a glare that could’ve cracked glass. “Dylan. Don’t.”

Dylan shrugged and fell quiet, the fragile stillness felt thinner now, as if something had noticed us.

The candle burned steadily. Its small flame cast long, reaching shadows that slithered across the garage walls. Nothing moved.

Gordy tried again. “We wish to speak to the spirit of Kurt Cobain… can you hear us?”

The planchette twitched.

Just a small, shivering motion, but enough to freeze the breath in my lungs. I leaned toward Dylan, whispered sharply, “Knock it off.” His brows furrowed. “I’m not doing anything.” I looked at Stump. His face was unreadable, but his hands were slightly shaking.

Then, once more, Gordy’s voice: “Kurt… are you with us?”

The planchette slid slowly across the board.

Y… E… S…

I jerked back slightly. “Okay, no. One of you is messing around. Come on.”

But I scanned the others’ faces and saw only confusion and suspicion. As if they were all quietly contemplating who might be moving the planchette.

Stump tried to lighten the tension. “You know, Y for yes, N for no. That works fine. No need to burn through the alphabet.”

“Stump, shut up,” Gordy snapped, his voice harder than usual. He leaned closer to the board, eyes fixed.

“Kurt… is that really you?”

Y… E… S…

Dylan shifted beside me, muttering under his breath. “Jake, are you messing with this? Seriously.” I dug my elbow into his ribs. “No, dude. I swear.”

“Whatever.” He didn’t seem convinced.

The candle flame fluttered, though there was no wind. The shadows on the walls stretched long and crooked.

Gordy continued, slower now, as if somewhat afraid of what might answer. “Kurt… we have questions.”

The room seemed to pull in tighter. The silence was burning a hole in my chest.

Stump took charge now, leaned forward, his voice quieter than before. “Kurt, what did it feel like… knowing the whole world knew your name? That you’d made it?”

We all wanted to know this; we dreamed of that feeling.

The planchette hesitated, then moved again.

Y… E… S…

I sighed. Nonsensical answer. In that moment, I felt stupid for even believing this whole thing for as much as a second. “Guys, seriously. This is so lame. You could’ve at least put some effort into it.”

They didn’t respond. Their eyes were locked to the board.

Then, without warning, the planchette jerked. Our fingers barely stayed on as it sped across the surface in a faster pace now.

W-O-U-L-D Y-O-U L-I-K-E T-O K-N-O-W H-O-W I-T F-E-E-L-S?

We all looked at each other, too stunned to speak.

“I don’t get it… What does that mean?” Dylan said, clearly directed at us but the planchette began moving again.

I C-A-N S-H-O-W Y-O-U H-O-W I-T F-E-E-L-S.
I C-A-N M-A-K-E Y-O-U-R D-R-E-A-M-S C-O-M-E T-R-U-E.

The air turned icy. Cold, like winter air leaking in from somewhere it shouldn’t. The flame flickered violently, casting the walls in wild, shifting shapes.

I swallowed hard. This felt wrong. “Gordy… I want to stop. Please.”

Dylan nodded. “Yeah, man. That’s enough. This is messed up. Can’t you see Jake’s upset?”

Dylan tried to seem brave for me, but I felt his frame shivering against me.

But Gordy didn’t even look at us. “This isn’t a game to me. I need answers. I know you all want to know the answer to this.”

And then he asked the question.

“Why did you kill yourself?”

The words hit the air like stones breaking glass.

“Dude, no! You can’t ask that question!” Stump snapped. “You said to be respectful! That was your own rule!”

Everything in me screamed to pull my hand away but I didn’t dare. None of us did. Not anymore.

Dylan leaned into me, his body trembling against mine. “This is bad. Seriously. Jake, this is bad.”

I nodded. I knew. I felt it in my teeth, in my gut, like a storm about to break.

Gordy leaned closer. “Please… just tell us why.”

The planchette moved, slow and deliberate.

I. A-M. E-T-E-R-N-A-L.

I. A-M…

It stopped. Hung there, like it was savoring the moment.

Gordy’s face was drained of color. His voice dropped to a whisper. It seemed he finally snapped out of whatever space he had been in, and the realization hit him like a ton of bricks.

“…That’s not Kurt.”

“No shit,” Dylan muttered, voice tight with panic.

Then, the planchette started moving again. We traced each letter, with a rising sense of dread and unease as the message was revealed.

T-H-E S-C-A-R E-A-T-E-R

“What the hell is that? What does that mean!!? Stop this shit, Gordy, Dylan whoever is doing this!” My voice rang through the garage, the words clawing their way out of my throat in terror.

Stump was pale as a ghost now, his hands trembling on the planchette.

“I want out,” Dylan said. “I want out RIGHT NOW!”

But none of us could move. Our fingers stayed pinned to the planchette as if nailed in place.

Then it happened.

The planchette snapped to life, jerking beneath our fingers with a violence that defied explanation. It dragged our hands across the board in a looping, relentless motion… Sideways figure eights, carved again and again with mechanical precision.

The infinity symbol.

None of us was moving it. Not willingly. I was sure. Our fingertips clung to it out of reflex or fear, I don’t even know which. Something primal locked us in place.

Dylan screamed first, a ragged, panicked cry. I followed, and even Stump, the eternal skeptic, let out a shrill, guttural sound that didn’t seem like it belonged to a boy his age at all.

“STOP IT!!” I shrieked. “GORDY!! WHAT THE HELL DO WE DO?!”

Gordy looked like a corpse. His skin had gone paper-white, and his lips quivered like they’d forgotten how to form words. His voice finally came, hoarse and cracking:
“Say goodbye! All of us! NOW!”

We did. All at once. The word tumbled from our mouths like a desperate prayer rising in intensity:
“Goodbye… Goodbye!! GOODBYE!!!”

But deep down, I sensed it. It was already too late.

The candle beside us sputtered once. Then it died. A hiss, like a final breath. Shadows swallowed the garage whole.

Then, from the far end of the room, past the stacks of old tires, the rusting bikes, and the shelves thick with dust and tools, came a sound.

Wet. Heavy. A sickening slap. Like raw meat hitting concrete.

We froze.

Something shifted, hidden just beyond the shadows. A hideous shape. Two bright and bloodshot eyes watching us from the dark, calmly, waiting.

None of us spoke. None of us breathed.

The silence stretched out… Humming, pulsing, alive.

A sweet and rotten smell began to fill the room. Like candy and decay.

Then, cutting through the dark, came a voice.

Soft. Sweet. Vile.

A sickening, unnatural pitch.
Almost childlike in its amusement.

“I’ll make you beg for it… I’ll make you plead… Like a starved puppy… Then I’ll take you to that special place you all dream of… At a price: All your pretty scars!’’

The shape emerged from the shadows. We got a glimpse, but I’m still not sure my brain could properly process what I was seeing. It was so quick you could blink and miss it, like a millisecond snapshot of teeth tearing through flesh… Maggots, torture… And something else… Like a thousand screaming faces blended into one terrifying mass.

Then silence reclaimed the garage, thick and suffocating, like a blanket soaked in dread. The air felt wrong… Emptied of presence yet charged, as if something unseen still lingered just beyond the edges of the garage, watching.

Dylan clung to me like a drowning man to driftwood. His whole body trembled against mine, silent tears streaking down his face. I’d never seen him like this before.

Stump sat frozen, lips twitching, eyes vacant. He whispered into the stale dark like a mantra or a malfunction:
“This didn’t happen… This isn’t real… There’s no such thing… Ghosts aren’t real… Demons aren’t real… This didn’t… didn’t happen…”

Gordy looked around at us. Pale and white as a freshly washed sheet. ‘’What did we just do? What the fuck just happened!?’’

Stump broke out of his frightened trance. ‘’We?! You mean YOU!! YOU suggested this shit to begin with! And then you took it too far!’’

Gordy’s frame shivered, clearly upset. ‘’Stump… I’m… Sorry… I…’’

I broke in between them. ‘’Shut up, just shut up! We are going to forget this happened, okay?! We are going to forget and pretend it never happened!’’

Dylan was sobbing slowly beside me. Stripped of his jokes, his bravado, reduced to something raw and terrified. I put my arm around him.

‘’Forget it? One thing is the stupid planchette moving… That could’ve been one of you assholes. But… We all heard that voice… Didn’t we? I think I saw something too… For just a glimpse…’’ Stump looked around at all of us. Clearly broken. This defied his deep-rooted sense of logic. His lips quivered as he said it… ‘’And… what the fuck is a scar eater? Forget that, I don’t even want to know.’’

We just nodded. We had all heard the voice. We had all heard its ominous threat.

Gordy cleared up. Then he did what he always did whenever we had landed ourselves in trouble. He tried to rationalize himself out of it.

‘’Look… Ma… Maybe we all had a bit too much of that weed we shared earlier, maybe… We shouldn’t have mixed that with beer.’’

I don’t think any of us bought that explanation, but we wanted to. We desperately wanted to. So, we all ended up agreeing on that explanation. We were high, drunk, got ourselves all riled up, and… Saw and heard shit that just didn’t happen.

If only that had been the truth. But the horror to come was darker than shadows, crueler than silence, and so vile it felt stitched from the marrow of our deepest fears. As if it came from some realm beyond ours, where evil had infinite time and resources to devise torment like carefully crafted artwork. Artwork, fit to hang in the great halls of hell. It defied the boundaries of nightmares… Especially for those of us who already knew how pain could wear many masks, from the quiet ache of neglect to the raw wound of loss and abuse.

The following week, nothing much happened, although I swear it felt as if something had changed. I could feel it, subtly. Footsteps scraping behind me, faint and strange laughs carried by the wind. Shadows looming, forming shapes they shouldn’t be forming. I kept it all to myself, told myself I was imagining it. But it felt like something was charging. Slowly building up.

It was Tuesday, and I was on my way to see the school counselor, Mr. Wentworth. The school had called my foster parents about my ‘’behavior.’’ As if skipping school here and there and not paying attention in class was out of the ordinary for a 14 year old kid. My grades were garbage though, I’ll admit that much, except for music and English class. In fact, if I’m being totally honest, looking back now, maybe I understood why my foster parents worried about me.

Mr. Wentworth’s office was… Different, to say the least. Old movie posters, band posters… Trinkets and souvenirs from what I guessed was a lot of traveling. One poster caught my eye. Nirvana? I nodded in silent approval before sitting down.

Mr. Wentworth looked through some papers before he looked up at me. My first impression was that he looked like an unwashed hippy. Not nice, I know. But that’s the feeling I got. Rough, unkempt beard. Check. Hippy glasses? Check! Flowery and colorful shirt? Check again.

I sighed. I just had to string him along. This wasn’t the first time I had to deal with this sort of thing. My fosters had sent me to several child psychiatrists right after taking me in. I had learned how to give them what they wanted so they would leave me alone.

‘’So… Jake. First things first. I’m here to help the best way I can. I’m not a psychiatrist, so don’t worry, I’m not going to psychoanalyze you or anything like that. We’re just going to talk a bit about how you’re doing in school and basically whatever you want to talk about that might be bothering you. Does that sound fine?’’

I nodded. I was already bored.

He nodded too. ‘’Good, whew… I was afraid you might be one of those needy brats actually expecting me to solve all their problems for them.’’

I raised my eyebrow a bit. This one was definitely new.

He shot me a crooked smile when he saw my surprised reaction.

‘’Hey, counselors are human beings too, I get tired as well. You know what especially get my gears grinding? Kids who expect me to magically solve problems they themselves are causing. I know it’s my job, but honestly… Well, sorry, I get sidetracked. Tell me a bit about yourself.’’

I was astounded honestly, but his straightforward no bullshit attitude was refreshing. I decided to play along.

‘’I don’t know what to say. I’m just not very interested in school.’’

He nodded. ‘’No harm in that, there must be something you’re interested in though?’

My eyes trailed towards his Nirvana poster. ‘’I guess, I really want to be a musician. If I’m being honest. My foster parents think it’s stupid…’’

His eyes locked on mine, and I felt the sincerity in them, maybe even a form of kinship, but a slight sadness too.

‘’There is nothing stupid about having dreams, Jake. As long as you’re realistic about them. Do you expect to be a rockstar?’’

‘’Hell yes I want to be a rockstar, who doesn’t?’’

His laugh was heartfelt, no condescending tone at all.

‘’I understand, I do. What an exciting life it must seem like to a kid from this, let’s be honest, boring little town in the middle of nowhere.’’

He kept on surprising me.

‘’But, I guess I wonder, if you might be able to temper your expectations somewhat? If you don’t become the next Cobain, maybe you would be fine with something less?’’

A reasonable question, really. And A+ for name-dropping my biggest idol. But to a fragile 14-year old with a head full of dreams, it seemed more like the same kind of disapproval and lack of belief in me I had heard before.

I think he sensed my disapproval and quickly asked another question.

‘’What got you into music in the first place?’’

My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t like that question. Never did. I always lied or shrugged it off. But something about his sincere interest made me just be honest. What could it hurt anyway? Maybe I could even have some fun with this.

‘’My mom used to sing me songs… Before she died… Velvet Underground, The Byrds… Stuff like that. She had all these records she would put on, too. Then she’d pick me up and dance with me in her arms. I really liked that…’’

He must have felt like he was getting somewhere, like he was connecting with me. Like he was picturing these happy moments. I had him hooked.

‘’It sounds like your mom was a wonderful person.’’

I flinched at the assumption. This is why I don’t like telling people how I got into music.

‘’No, I fucking hate her. She was a junkie who only cared about me when she was high. She did have a pretty voice, though, and some nice records.’’

Clearly, he was taken aback. I almost relished in it. Now comes the excuses, the attempt to salvage it all. She had loved me, after all, and addiction does terrible things to people. Yada yada yada.

‘’I’m sorry to hear that, Jake. I really am. I certainly understand if you hate her.’’

What was this guy’s deal? I thought.

‘’You don’t understand anything.’’

His voice changed… A calm, soothing quality came over it.

‘’Addiction is a hard thing to grasp… It really does change people. But I’m not concerned with how she dealt with her addiction. I’m concerned how you feel about it.’’

I was getting slightly annoyed at this point. I felt like testing him.

‘’I hate her… That’s how I feel. In fact, I hate her so much I don’t even care if I fuck up my life, because there is nothing I could ever do or be that will be as shitty as she was to me. I just don’t care.’’

He looked at me calmly, with what seemed like genuine concern behind his gaze.

‘’Well, that is certainly one way to go about things. I can’t deny that.’’

I scoffed at him. ‘’And what is another?’’

He looked me dead in the eye, and I will never forget what he said next.

‘’You could prove that bitch wrong. She made you feel worthless, didn’t she? Like you weren’t worth it. Worth her recovery, worth her effort to stay clean. Prove her wrong. Be better. Chase your dreams, whatever it takes, let it fuel you, that resentment. You are right to be hurt, Jake.’’

I was dumbfounded. This counselor surely weren’t like any other I had met before.

‘’I guess, that’s true…’’

We talked a bit longer until he wrapped it up.

‘’Well, Jake. I think we’re off to a good start. I’m not going to take any more of your time now. We got some more mandatory talks, but I want you to know, you run the show here, we can talk about whatever troubles you. I’m not here to tell you what to do or judge you. I hope you’ll come to realize that.’’

I nodded, still in shock over this guy’s alternative approach.

‘’And Jake?’’

I stopped and turned around.

‘’Don’t tell anyone I called your mom a ‘’bitch’’, ok? I’m told counselors aren’t supposed to use that kind of language.’’

I nodded with a smirk and left his office.

I hadn’t even made it halfway across the schoolyard when Gordy grabbed my arm with an iron grip.

“Jake! We need to talk. Now!”

His voice was tight, clipped, none of the usual Gordy calm. He dragged me past the rusted chain-link fence at the edge of campus, into the forgotten scrubland behind the school, where the old train tracks lay buried under weeds and broken glass. Our usual after-school hangout spot.

Dylan and Stump were already there, standing stiff beneath a skeletal tree, their faces drawn, eyes hollow. I instantly felt unease and dread coming along.

“What the hell’s going on?” I asked. Part of me knew, though… My heart was already picking up pace. Stump wouldn’t meet my gaze. Dylan just stared past me, like something terrible was standing right over my shoulder.

Gordy didn’t answer right away. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled note, holding it like it might burn him.

“I found this in my locker this morning,” he said. “So did they.” I’m guessing you didn’t check yours?’’

I unfolded the paper. It was damp, smudged. Dark stains had soaked through in places, like it had been written with something thicker than ink.

“Did you all forget? About the garage?
I haven’t.
I want to play with your pain.
I’m hungry for your screams.
I need your scars.

Here’s a question:

What snack is white, red, and resting forever sweet in Monument Park?”

A chill sliced down my spine. I stared at the writing, at the warped, scrawling letters, still faintly glistening. My mouth went dry.

“What the hell is this written in?” I asked, my voice sounding thin and far away.

“That’s your concern right now?” Gordy snapped. His voice cracked. “Jesus, Jake.”

I looked up. “Someone’s screwing with us. What did that last part even mean? Snack? Monument Park? It makes zero sense!!”

Gordy tried to cut in. ‘’Jake, if you let me talk, I can expl…’’

I pushed him aside. ‘’Shut up, Gords!’’

“Who?” Stump hissed. His voice was unsteady, eyes wild. “Who even knows what happened that night? Who could’ve sent this? Who is messing with us?”

I backed away from them, my pulse hammering. “No. No, this isn’t real. We all agreed that whatever happened in the garage, it was just… it wasn’t…”

“Jake,” Dylan said, cutting me off. His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t sarcastic. It was dead. Flat. “It was real. You know it.”

I laughed. But it came out broken. Too sharp, too loud. “You’re all in on this. This is just a sick joke, right? Come on. Say it. You’re screwing with me, just admit it!”

No one moved. No one smiled. Dylan’s eyes gleamed with something close to pity. Stump looked like he was about to cry. Gordy stared at me like I was the one losing my mind.

And suddenly I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“Stop it!” I snapped. Stop this shit! Tell me you’re joking! Tell me this is just some twisted way to get back at me for that time I locked you all in the basement and played that backstreet boys tape on loop!’’

Dylan stepped forward, slowly and deliberately. He put his arm around me. “Jakey… No one’s joking.”

I shoved him hard. “Liar. You’re all liars!”

“Jake!” Gordy barked, his voice cracking. “This isn’t a game anymore! Some… Someone is threatening us.’’

I looked at him in disbelief. ‘’Someone? Or something? Go on… Say it Gordy. You too, Stump and Dylan. Say it! Say what you really mean!!’’

Gordy stepped closer, his eyes locked on mine. “You saw it. On the board. You saw what it called itself…”

I watched as his lips formed the name…

Then the world tilted.

The air thickened… Sour and electric, as if the wind itself had inhaled a scream and never exhaled. Something was charging. A low, almost imperceptible moan seemed to rise around us, like children wailing and screaming through torn lungs. The stench of something sweet, sour and rotten drifted in on the breeze… Burned sugar, spoiled milk, blood, dead meat… Contrasting tones of innocence and decay.

I stumbled back, nausea swelling. My body knew what my mind refused to admit:
This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t imagination.

We’d awakened something in that garage.
And as much as we had tried to forget it… It remembered us.

Gordy pulled me out of my dread and terror. ‘’Jake, there’s more… I heard my mom and dad talking last night… A boy was found dead near Monument Park yesterday. My dad told my mom he was the one who had to tell the boy’s parents… That…’’

I looked at him. ‘’That what, Gordy?!’’

He pushed the words out, like it was some painful chore that just had to be done.

‘’That someone ate part of their son…’’

I felt sick… A snack in Monument Park… This thing had already murdered some poor boy. What were we then? The main course?

Over the next three weeks, two more boys were found dead. They would first go missing for a couple of days, then their bodies would be discovered.

The first was Ian Merrill, a quiet kid from the grade below us who always wore long sleeves, even in gym class. The news said he was found near Miller Creek, facedown in the mud, and rumors said “pieces where taken from him.” They didn’t say what pieces, but we heard the whispers.

Then came Tommy Ruiz, who was just thirteen. They found him behind the bowling alley dumpsters at dawn. The report said the scene was “unusually violent.” It didn’t need saying. Everybody in town felt the truth… Whatever monster was killing these boys wasn’t killing them quickly.

Everyone claimed they didn’t know anything, but by lunchtime, the whole school was buzzing like a kicked hornet nest.

The next days blurred together. Police cars rolled through town in packs, lights always flashing. Parents yanked their kids indoors. Every morning, the announcements began with the same warning:

TRAVEL IN GROUPS. REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS BEHAVIOR. DO NOT BE OUT AFTER DARK.

It should have made us feel safer. It didn’t. Because every time I heard those words, something cold crawled up my spine. A whisper in the back of my skull, like a fingernail dragging across raw skin:

We put this thing into the world.
We’re the reason these boys are dying. And at some point, it would come for us.

It was a Tuesday, not long after they had found Tommy, that we decided to start fighting back. I found myself outside Mr. Wentworth’s office. My body just went there, like muscle memory pulling me forward before my mind could lock the brakes. I’d seen him a few times since that first session, brief check-ins, quiet nods in the hallway, moments that felt like standing on the edge of a confession without quite falling into it. I kept telling myself that talking was pointless, that no adult could ever understand, that all that therapy crap was for other people. But I kept drifting back anyway.

Maybe it was the way he carried himself… steady, grounded, like he didn’t need to wear a mask the way everyone else did. He didn’t try to act cool or authoritative or pretend he had everything figured out. He just was, unapologetically. I guess I wished I could be like that.

His door was slightly open when I got there, warm lamplight spilling across the hallway floor, turning the linoleum gold. The building was quiet after hours, every sound sharp, too loud in the stillness. He looked up when I stepped inside, and his expression changed in a way I couldn’t quite decode. Surprise first, then something like concern.

“Jake,” he said, voice soft, “we didn’t have a meeting scheduled today.”

I shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid for showing up. His office smelled faintly of cedar and old paper. Vinyl records lined one wall, books another. A framed poster of Miles Davis playing trumpet hung over his desk. The lamp cast a warm glow that pooled in corners instead of filling the room, shadows stretching long and soft. My eyes darted towards the Nirvana poster.

He gestured to the chair opposite him. “Sit, if you want.”

I did, staring down at my hands. I felt him watching, not judging, just waiting.

“With everything that’s been happening,” he said gently, “I wouldn’t blame you if you needed to talk. I hope you know we’re doing everything we can to make you kids feel safe. You’re following the precautions, right?”

“Yeah,” I muttered. “Love being treated like a toddler again. Super fun.”

He didn’t smile. “It’s to protect you. At least until they find whoever is responsible.”

Something broke loose in me. The words clawed their way up before I could stop them.

“They can’t protect us,” I said, voice trembling. “No one can.”

He leaned back slightly, eyebrows tightening. “What do you mean?”

I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe me. You’d think I’m insane.”

He didn’t rush in with the usual adult comforting crap. He just let the silence open, giving me space I didn’t know what to do with. And somehow, that pulled the rest of it out.

“Why should I trust you?” I snapped. “You might be better than most of the assholes in this town, but you’re still someone paid to poke around in my head. You don’t care. If I told you what we… What I did…” My voice cracked. “You wouldn’t believe me.”

I could feel my hands shaking. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to anchor myself.

“There’s something hunting us,” I whispered. “Hunting me. Dylan. Gordy. Stump. Every kid in this town. And it’s our fault. We brought it here. And nobody sees it. Nobody sees us. We’re alone.”

My throat closed, tight and burning.

“Sometimes I think if I just hurt myself enough, maybe then someone would pay attention. Maybe then they’d see how bad it really is.”

Wentworth lifted a hand… Not a stop gesture, more like a soft lowering of heat before the room could ignite.

“Jake,” he said, quietly, firmly, “Stop.”

His voice shifted. Lower, steady, almost soothing.

“So Jake… I don’t think you’re insane.” He waited until my eyes met his. “I think you’re hurting. And I don’t think you know how to put that pain into words yet.”

I swallowed hard, unable to breathe.

“You know,” he continued, “people assume the worst kind of pain is the kind you can see. Cuts, bruises…” His gaze held mine. There was something in it… Too deep, too knowing. “But the real wounds? The ones that shape us? They don’t show. They live underneath the skin. And you carry them alone because you’re afraid that if someone saw the truth… they’d never look at you the same way again. It’s that… Intimate pain that burns the brightest. Quietly… The pain you don’t show anyone.”

He leaned forward slightly, voice hollowing into something almost tender.

“Even though I’m an academic, I know there’s more between heaven and earth than we understand. I don’t doubt the existence of things we can’t measure or prove. But whatever you’re facing… Whatever darkness you think is out there… Fear won’t help you fight it. You can’t defend yourself against something you refuse to understand… And… Jake… Hurting yourself is never the option.’’

His eyes were strangely vulnerable. Almost pleading.

“Give me a chance, Jake,” he said softly. “Let me help you. You don’t have to face it all alone.”

I looked away. Everything in me screamed to run.

When I looked back his eyes were locked on mine, and I saw a realization begin to form behind his gaze.

‘’Jake… You don’t have to let your relationship with your mother define your life.’’

I realized then he was still locked in his therapist mindset, despite his talk of ‘’between heaven and earth.’’ As much as I admired his casual approach and what seemed like genuine interest in me… One question remained: How would he ever understand?

“I told you. I don’t care what happened with my mother. That’s not what this is about.” I said.

He nodded. I noticed a slight disappointment in his eyes.

“I’ll be here,” he said. “Whenever you’re ready to tell me what this is really about.”

I left before he could see the tear that slipped down my cheek.

I made my way through the schoolyard to meet up with the boys after my conversation with Mr. Wentworth. Could I really trust him? I desperately wanted to. We needed an adult on our side, someone who wasn’t an asshole, someone who didn’t just brush us off like we were just kids with overactive imaginations. I would have to carefully consider how to approach him.

I heard commotion nearby and spotted Stump surrounded by the usual pack of bullies pushing him around. I told you before, nothing ever sticks with Stump, but maybe that isn’t quite true. Everyone has their limits, and I could clearly see he was in distress. I quickly found Dylan and Gordy, and we all went over to intervene.

‘’Look at that, freckles pissed his pants. Maybe mommy should’ve moved you a couple of classes down, with the other babies, huh smarty pants?’’ The voice belonged to Chase. The undisputed king of assholes at our school. He had his usual gang of cackling, mindless followers egging him on.

We all stepped between Chase and Stump. ‘’Fuck off, no one bullies Stump but us.’’ Dylan, despite not quite measuring up to Chase, never let anything like that stop him. ‘’Oh look, the merry band of idiots. Are you here to change your boyfriend’s diaper?’’

Gordy stood behind Dylan, not saying a word. I could see him charging up, anger rising, and I knew whatever he was going to say would make the situation explode.

I pulled Stump aside while Gordy and Dylan provided a shield between us. He was shaking, visibly distraught. Dylan was barking back at Chase, and while the situation around us escalated, Stump simply whispered in my ear. ‘’Jake, I don’t want to be at the school right now. Can we go somewhere else?’’ I tried to comfort him. ‘’Don’t pay attention to these assholes, Stump, they…’’ He cut me off before I could finish. He was pale as a ghost. ‘’It’s not them, Jake, that thing… The.. Scar…’’ He couldn’t finish the sentence, as if mentioning the name might summon something. ‘’I heard something in the school basement, I saw… I…’’

I was about to answer Stump when suddenly, I heard Gordy’s voice cut through the escalating noise. Sharp, deadly, fed up. ‘’Hey, Chase? Maybe you’re just jealous that Stump got moved up a class? The way things are going, you’ll still be here trying to finish 9th grade while you’re 50, you stupid fuck!’’

I held my breath and awaited the disaster to come. We all knew how sensitive Chase was about being held back. Mostly because his parents would relentlessly punish him for it and berate him, even while the rest of us were listening.

I turned around in time to see the massive fist connect with Gordy’s chin. I saw Dylan unsuccessfully try to step in and get pushed away with ease. I did the only thing that came to mind. I ran to get Mr. Wentworth. He quickly intervened and seemed to instantly get a grip on the situation and who had been the instigator. He took our side and sent Chase away to the principal’s office. Gordy refused a visit to the school nurse; he was always tough as nails. Dylan went with him to get his injuries attended to.

Everything seemed to be crashing down on us. Things were heading towards a breaking point, and we all agreed to meet at Monument Park after school to try to figure out what we were going to do next.

The park sat at the edge of town, wedged between a row of identical split-level houses and the old drainage canal that cut through the neighborhood like a scar no one bothered to heal. The grass was thin and patchy, worn down by decades of kids who’d grown up and moved on. Rust chewed at the jungle gym, and the swings groaned whenever the wind pushed them, metal chains whining as if they remembered too much. Someone had spray-painted a sloppy anarchy symbol on the concrete near the basketball court, already half-faded by rain and sun.

It smelled like freshly cut grass, hot asphalt, and cigarettes, someone’s older brother, probably, leaning against the bleachers and pretending not to watch us.

We gathered at the picnic table near the tree line, the one carved up with names and bands and hearts split clean down the middle. NIRVANA was scratched into the wood. Our doing, some time ago.

None of us brought instruments. That alone said everything. Ever since the entire thing started. The music had gone quiet. Our dreams and hopes were put on hold. Survival had kicked in. Nothing else mattered.

Gordy sat on the tabletop, legs dangling, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets like he was afraid of what they might do if left alone. Dylan paced in tight circles, kicking at pebbles, trying to burn off energy that had nowhere to go. Stump leaned against the trash can, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight I thought his teeth might crack.

I sat last, palms pressed flat to the wood, feeling every groove and splinter beneath my skin.

Gordy broke through the silence. ‘’So I overheard my dad talking again… It seems… All the victims had scars on the part of their body that was… He couldn’t finish the sentence but we all knew. Then he continued. ‘’That must be why this thing calls itself The Scar Eater.’’

We looked at each other and hesitated… I was the first to speak. ‘’I don’t have any scars.’’ They looked at me, puzzled. Stump chimed in. ’Not even a tiny one? Like from cutting yourself chopping onions or whatever?’’ I shook my head. ‘’Nope, not a single one.’’ Stump shifted nervously from side to side. ‘’Lucky bastard.’’ Gordy lifted up his shirt and revealed a scar on his lower back. ‘’I got this one from falling off a bike and unto a sharp edge when I was 7…’’ I looked at Stump. He showed us a scar running down his arm. ‘’I fell down from a roof and broke my arm. Bone was sticking out. My parents wouldn’t let me out of the house for months.’’

Dylan was last. He hesitated… And I knew why. I had known him longer than any of the others. I placed my arm around his shoulders. ‘’You know, you don’t have to…’’ He finally nodded. ‘’It’s OK.’’

He lifted up his shirt to reveal a scar running down the side of his stomach. ‘’My… Dad gave me this the night…’’ His voice broke. He couldn’t finish and we didn’t press him any further.

For a while, no one spoke. Eventually, when the air felt too heavy to breathe, we asked Stump to tell us what he’d actually seen in the school basement.

He didn’t want to. I could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, like he was bracing for a blow that had already landed once and would land again the moment he spoke. But Gordy met his eyes, steady, grounding, the way he always did when things started to spiral.

“Just tell us,” Gordy said quietly. “We need to know.”

Stump swallowed hard. His eyes clouded with fear. His voice barely held together when he finally spoke. It was thin and trembling. It was like he was in a trance. His voice felt distant. As if it were somehow not his own. As if he were reciting something dictated to him. Words he would never use. Words that could only manifest from something unspeakably cruel and merciless.

“I heard them crying,” he whispered. “Screaming and crying. Boys. All of them were boys. I’ve never heard cries like that before… Desperate… Begging… Like something was ripping them apart from the inside out. But there was another voice beneath it all, something else… Something that sounded… Aroused… Like m-moans of pleasure. It sounded like a man’s voice, but not quite… Something was… Off. It was too sweet, too… L-like a monster speaking with a mouth full of honey. Hostile, vile, but playful and seductive.”

Dylan froze. His knee stopped bouncing. He instinctively inched closer to me. Gordy’s fingers tightened around the neck of his beer bottle until his knuckles went white.

Stump wasn’t looking at any of us anymore. His eyes were fixed somewhere behind me, staring into a place I couldn’t see. The spaces in between reality and fantasy. Where that thing existed.

“There was a smell,” he said suddenly, breath hitching. “That’s what I remember most. Rotten but sweet. Like candy left too long in the sun, mixed with something long dead.’’

A cold crawled up my spine.

“He showed me,” Stump went on, “Images… Oh god… Faces twisted and distorted in impossible ways, bleeding, hissing, and gasping for air that never comes. Rattling as if their lungs were filled with tar. He didn’t rush it. He lingered. Like he wanted me to understand.” Stump’s voice dropped, raw and hoarse. “He feeds on their scars.’’

Gordy looked down at his hands. Dylan shook his head slowly, like denial alone might undo what he was hearing.

“He licks them open,” Stump said. “He tastes them.”

He gagged, eyes glassy.

Stump broke down. As if the words he was about to say next would shatter the fabric of everything that had always held us together. The park felt smaller now. Claustrophobic. Like a predatory thing was circling us. An ancient snake or reptile, tightening its grip on the entire area.

“He?” I asked quietly. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. “Stump… Look at me. Tell me what you saw.”

For a moment, he couldn’t. Words came apart in his mouth, spilling out as fragments, static screaming through walls, teeth sinking into skin that wasn’t skin anymore, the wet, patient sound of something chewing.

Then his eyes snapped back to mine.

“I saw Dylan,” he said.

The word landed like a dropped weight.

Dylan laughed once… sharp, disbelieving. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Stump said, panic bleeding into every syllable. “Not maybe. Not someday. I saw it. He’s coming for Dylan next. I felt it. Like a finger tracing his scars, choosing where to start.”

I grabbed Stump’s shoulders, but he barely seemed to notice. ‘’What do mean? How!? How and when will it happen?’’ Stump shook his head. Holding back tears. ‘’I don’t know how or when… I j-just…’’

Dylan stood abruptly, pacing now, running his hands through his hair.

“That’s bullshit,” he finally muttered and sat down next to me. He was trying to conceal his fear, but I felt his frame tremble next to mine. “That’s just b… You must have misheard… Why me? It’s…’’ His voice broke down, and the fear he had bravely tried to keep in all spilled out in sobs. I put my arms around him and whispered in his ear. ‘’We’re not letting anything happen to you, alright? Fuck this thing.’’

Stump composed himself and continued. “And there was a name,” Stump whispered. “It came through the static of screams. I don’t think I was meant to hear it. It slipped through by accident. One single voice among the thousands that cried out in pain said it. And I heard it.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Archibald Rowan,” he said.

The name sat between us, wrong and heavy, like something dragged up from deep water.

Gordy was the first to speak. His voice didn’t shake, but his eyes did. “Then we don’t run,” he said. “We don’t pretend this isn’t happening… We fight.’’

I pulled Stump into a hug before I even realized I was moving. Dylan stood there for a second longer… Then he joined us, stiff and scared, his arms wrapping around both of us like he was afraid to let go.

“We’re going to get through this,” I said, even though I had no idea if it was true. “If that name means something, we’ll figure it out. And we’ll stop it. Whatever it takes.”

I looked at Dylan.

“As long as we stay together.”

Gordy nodded once, firm. He stepped up, and we all circled Dylan.

“We won’t let anything happen to him,” Gordy said with a firm voice.

And in that moment… Terrified, shaking, bound by fear and guilt of what we had let into this world, we made a promise that felt heavier than anything we’d ever sworn before.

A pact. Not to be invisible anymore. Not to let it take one of us without a fight.

Dylan and I were the last ones to leave the park. Gordy headed home first. Stump lingered for a bit, pacing in tight circles, then finally peeled off toward the cul-de-sac near the elementary school. That left just the two of us, standing beneath a flickering lamppost while cicadas screamed from the trees like they were trying to warn us of something.

Neither of us said it out loud, but we both knew why we were dragging our feet.

Home wasn’t really home for either of us.

For Dylan, it was his aunt, who tried, in her own way, but felt more like an older sister who’d gotten stuck with responsibilities she never asked for. And his mom… she was there, physically, but not really there. Not since his dad. Not since the night she tried to shield Dylan and paid for it with her body. Dylan never talked about it directly, but I’d seen the way his jaw tightened whenever anyone mentioned fathers.

For me, it was my foster parents. Well-meaning, I guess. But distant. Everything about me was either “a phase” or “something I’d grow out of.” Music was noise. Grief was something to be handled quietly. Emotions was something boys weren’t supposed to have. ‘’You need to toughen up, the world wont pity you.’’ Words that had stuck with me.

So we walked.

The park was bathed in that late-summer glow… Warm, amber light clinging to the grass, fireflies blinking on and off like faulty stars. The air smelled like cut lawns and hot asphalt, and somewhere nearby a sprinkler ticked rhythmically, back and forth, like a metronome keeping time for a song we’d forgotten how to play.

“You remember the woods behind your old place?” Dylan asked suddenly.

I smiled before I could stop myself. “Yeah. I remember the water hole with the swing set. We used to jump out in the creek laughing so hard our bellies ached.”

“Yes! The creek! We swore it was a rainforest river,” he added. “We used to trail down it, pretending we were in the jungle. On expedition.”

“We were idiots,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied softly. “But we were happy idiots.”

We talked about scraped knees and stolen cigarettes, about camping out on rooftops and swearing we’d leave this town to see what the rest of the world had to offer the second we got the chance. About music, Nirvana, obviously, and the way Kurt’s voice had made us feel less alone. Like someone out there understood what it meant to hurt without knowing why.

But even as we laughed, the night felt… off.

Shadows stretched too long between the trees. The wind whispered through the leaves in a way that almost sounded like words. Somewhere deeper in the park, something cracked. A branch, maybe. Both of us flinched.

That’s when we reached the tunnel.

It cut beneath the road like a concrete throat, swallowing sound and light. Graffiti crawled along its walls, layers of old names and crude drawings peeling over each other like shed skin. Dylan slowed to a stop.

“I hate this place,” he muttered.

“You always have,” I said.

“Yeah, well… I really hate it now.”

He stared into the darkness as if it might stare back.

I nudged his shoulder. “Hey. Nothing’s going to happen. Not if we stick together.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay… Yeah. Together!”

The tunnel was cooler inside, with an earthy smell mixed with something else… Our footsteps echoed too loudly, stretched and distorted. Water dripped somewhere ahead of us, slow and deliberate.

Then we heard it.

At first, I thought it was the wind. Or maybe traffic overhead. But then it sharpened, soft, broken sounds. Whimpering. Boys crying. Dozens of voices layered on top of each other, rising and falling like a sick lullaby.

Dylan grabbed my arm. “Jake…”

“I hear it,” I whispered.

Behind us, at the mouth of the tunnel, something moved.

A figure stood there, silhouetted against the dying light of dusk. Too tall. Too still. It began to inch forward, each step unhurried, deliberate. In sick and twisted movements, it crept closer. It moved eerily. Like a badly made stop motion figure.

We were frozen in fear for a moment.

And then it spoke.

A voice like melted sugar poured over rust.

“I see you… Inside and out. Sweet, sweet boys, let me tear you open, let me drain your pain.’’

The voice exploded into a sick choir of cries and screams. A thousand voices at once were piercing my mind like needles.

We ran. Hearts racing fast. I was pulling Dylan behind me, refusing to let go as I dragged him along.

But the tunnel didn’t behave like a tunnel anymore.

The walls seemed to stretch, the end pulling farther away no matter how fast we ran. Faces twisted in agony peered through the concrete walls. The cries grew louder, closer… Sobs, pleas, prayers! While footsteps slapped wetly behind us, gaining ground. Inching ever closer.

I could feel its breath at the back of my neck. Warm. Wet.

“Don’t stop!” Dylan screamed at the top of his lungs. His voice was drenched in fear.

I grabbed Dylan’s wrist and pulled him hard enough that he stumbled, nearly falling. I didn’t let go. I couldn’t. If I did, I knew, I knew he would be gone. I knew I would lose him forever. Our footsteps pounded against the tunnel floor but the sound felt wrong.

Too wet. Too thick.

Like we weren’t running on concrete anymore.

Every step dragged.

My legs felt heavier with each stride, like something clung to them, thick and unseen. Like wading through mud that kept rising, ankles, calves, knees…

The tunnel stretched even further now.

I swear it did. The end, the faint circle of light ahead, pulled farther away the faster we ran, like it was retreating from us. Like it didn’t want us to reach it.

“Jake!? Why aren’t we getting closer?!” Dylan’s voice cracked behind me.

“I don’t know! Just keep moving!” I shouted, but even as I said it, doubt crawled in.

Because something else was happening. Something worse.

My thoughts… didn’t line up anymore. Memories flickered in and out, like faulty lights. I saw my mom’s corpse laughing at me. Her dead eyes locking on to mine as she dragged me violently around the living room to horrible dissonant music while squeezing the air out of my lungs.

Behind us… It came closer. Closer, ever closer. The footsteps. No longer distant. No longer slow.

They slapped against the ground with a sick, wet rhythm, like bare flesh hitting something soft. Too fast now. Too eager. Violent and angry.

As I felt it gain on us the dark tunnel walls around us began to move and shift.

At first, I thought it was just shadows, but no.

Faces. It was hundreds of wailing faces. Pressed into the concrete.

Mouths stretched open in silent screams. Eyes wide, bulging, begging. Their skin fused with the tunnel walls, as if they’d been pushed in and left there to set.

“Help us…” one whispered.

“Don’t leave us…” another sobbed.

“Stay…” a third breathed, its lips peeling back too far revealing something between a grin and a scream.

Their voices crawled over me, slipping into my ears, mixing with my thoughts.

My memories and self-perception twisted further.

I couldn’t remember how we got here.

I couldn’t remember why we were running.

“Jake…?” Dylan said, his voice trembling.

For a split second, I didn’t recognize it.

It sounded like one of them. One of the faces on the tunnel walls.

I turned my head just enough to glance at him… and his face… it shifted. Like I was looking at him through water. Like his features couldn’t decide where they belonged. Like he was slowly disappearing.

“Don’t! Jake please don’t look at me like that!” he cried.

“I’m not… I’m not!” My voice came out fractured.

For one horrible moment, I wasn’t even sure who Dylan was. I wasn’t even entirely sure who I was.

But I knew one thing. Something behind us wanted to open us up.

And it was almost there.

A breath brushed the back of my neck and made my skin crawl.

Warm. Wet. Too close. I felt my mind start to slip away.

“Don’t stop! Jake we have to keep going!” Dylan screamed, his terrified voice tearing through the noise, anchoring me, barely, as I forced my legs forward.

Each step felt like lifting stone. Each movement slower than the last. Like the tunnel itself was trying to hold us in place, feeding us to whatever chased us.

I pulled all my strength together and sped towards the dim, dying light from the flickering street lamps at the exit of the tunnel.

We burst out the other side like we’d been spat back into the world. The night snapped back into place. The park was quiet again. Normal. Too normal.

We collapsed onto the wet mildewy grass, gasping, laughing hysterically and crying all at once. Not knowing how to feel. Hearts still racing in our chests.

‘’Is that… All you got, you dollar store boogeyman!?’’ Dylan muttered under his breath. We both laughed, giggling like children. Sometimes you have to laugh in the face of fear if you want to keep your sanity.

After our hearts had settled down, I looked over at Dylan. His face was half illuminated by moonlight. As his eyes met mine, for some reason, my heart started pounding again. Only this time, it wasn’t exactly fear. I felt my mind slowly slip back into place.

“Hey… um… Do you want to hang out on Friday? Just us. Like we used to.”

I hesitated longer than I should have. And I noticed a hurt slowly creeping up behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’d like that.”

He smiled. And for just a second… As we were lying there in the grass, under the flickering stars. I noticed our hands were still clasped. I gently broke the grip. It seemed for a moment, he didn’t want to let go.

The following day I dropped in 15 minutes too late for English class, I caught Stump’s face, white and pale. He was trying to get my attention. ‘’Late again, Jake?’’

Mr. Andrews stood at the front of the room, sleeves rolled up, chalk dust clinging to his fingers like dried blood. He was younger than most of the teachers, early thirties, maybe. He carried himself with a tired warmth, like someone who still believed words mattered even after the world kept proving otherwise. He was the only teacher who ever looked at my notebook and saw something more than doodles in the margins. I knew he was disappointed I didn’t put in more effort. He shook his head as if he knew not to bother reprimanding me further.

That day, he wrote a single word on the board.

WOUNDS

“Literature,” he said, turning to face us, “is obsessed with injury. Physical, emotional, spiritual. Wounds are an almost essential part of any narrative. They represent something the characters need to resolve. Something unhealed. Trauma that begs to be explored and resolved.’’

A few kids snickered. Someone in the back whispered edgy.

Mr. Andrews didn’t smile.

I raised my hand and asked a single question.

‘’What about scars?’’

“Scars?’’ He contemplated the question before continuing. ‘’Think of scars as stories the body remembers even when the mind tries to forget,” he continued. “In Shakespeare. In Morrison. In Plath. Pain is never just pain. It’s a language. If wounds represent the unresolved. Scars represent closure. We’re going to be talking more in depth about that.”

He assigned us a short response: Write about a wound that never fully healed. Use metaphors.

My pen froze. When his eyes passed over me, they lingered just a second longer than usual. Encouraging. Gentle. Knowing.

Looking back now. It was as if he saw straight through me. Saw the tears meant for no one but myself and the four walls of my bedroom. I never noticed then. He couldn’t have known about my mom. No one at school besides Gordy, Stump, Dylan and Mr. Wentworth did. Yet thinking back now, he would leave little hints here and there. In our conversations. In the books he encouraged me to read.

I didn’t write a word that day.

After class we all met up where we always did when trouble rained down over us. Out by the old train tracks just beyond school property, where the world felt far enough away that no one could hear us think.

The tracks hadn’t seen a train in years. Rust had eaten through the rails, and weeds pushed up between the ties like the earth itself was trying to reclaim them. The trees surrounding the clearing had begun to bloom with spring, but something about them felt… hesitant. Like they were growing despite something, not because of it.

Our old tree fort still stood nearby. Or what was left of it.

Warped planks, half-collapsed, leaning like a memory that refused to die properly. We’d built it a couple of years ago… Me and Dylan mostly, with Gordy pretending he was above it and Stump trying to “optimize the structure.”

We’d lit bonfires here. Gotten drunk for the first time on beers stolen from Stump’s dad. Sat under the stars while Gordy played guitar and swore we’d leave this town behind.

It all felt like it belonged to someone else now. Like a different life.

We stood in a loose circle on the tracks, none of us quite able to look at each other for too long. The pressure was everywhere. In the silence. In the way we shifted our weight. In the fact that none of us had picked up an instrument in days.

Stump spoke. “I remember where I heard the name,” he said. His voice was low, urgent. “Archibald Rowan. He was a serial killer.”

That got our attention.

“A what?!’’ Dylan asked. ‘’But that…’’

“Sixteenth century,” Stump cut in. “England. I read about him before. Thought he was just another footnote. Just another serial killer out of many. But… The words got stuck somewhere in this throat. ‘’Maybe it’s best if I just show you…’’

Stump spread his notes out on a wooden bench like evidence on a crime scene, photocopies, handwritten dates, crude sketches.

“Rowan was a surgeon’s apprentice,” he said. “But also an occult nut. This was back when people thought medicine and magic were basically the same thing.”

He tapped a yellowed illustration of human torsos, etched with careful lines.

“He wrote his thoughts down. Illustrated them. And they survived to this day… He believed scars were… messages. Like the body was writing down pain so the soul wouldn’t forget it.’’

Gordy swallowed. “That’s messed up.”

“It gets worse,” Stump said. “He called scars gates. Said they were where inner pain hardened enough to be touched. Studied burns. Lash marks. Old wounds. Mostly on boys.”

My stomach dropped.

‘’Why boys?’’ I asked.

Stump made a slight shrug with his shoulder. ‘’According to his writings, boys hold more potential. They are taught not to cry, taught to be tough. It makes them bottle up pain. They are less likely to address their wounds. Whatever that means… Orphans were his preferred victims,” Stump went on. “Kids nobody would miss. He didn’t kill them at first. He cataloged them. Measured scars. Drew them. Said scar tissue was ‘the hardened memory of suffering.’

Dylan’s jaw clenched. “And then?”

“And then he started making new ones,” Stump said quietly. “On purpose. He believed pain, enough pain, could open the door to something. A world beyond ours where pain is so intense it turns into pleasure beyond human comprehension.”

“He kept a journal,” Stump continued. “The Ledger of Scars. Diagrams. Patterns. He thought if scars were arranged just right, they could align the soul. Like tuning an instrument.”

And… Stump held his breath before finally saying it. ‘’He started consuming scar tissue… Believing it held special properties that would harden him. Prepare him for the world he was hoping to enter.’’

I thought of the tunnel. The figure that had chased us. The voice. The way it listened. The way it inched itself into my pain, feeding on it.

“During his last ritual,” Stump said, “Rowan carved the same sigils into himself. Copied the patterns he’d made on the boys. And something answered. According to his writings… Something latched itself to him.”

I hesitated. ‘’Something? What do you mean?’’

Stump continued. This is the last thing he wrote before he was stopped. “I have committed a most grievous error. There is no divine reward to be found. The thing within me shall not be still. It ceaseth not, nor have I the strength to stay it. It whispereth into mine ears and feedeth my darkest desires, yet in the end it shall devour my very soul, until naught remaineth of me, and only then shall it rest. I am but a passenger within mine own flesh, granted but fleeting agency at its pleasure. There is no joy to be had, only suffering beyond all mortal reckoning.”

A chill went up and down my spine. ‘’What the fuck does that mean?’’

Dylan cut in. ‘’Why did you say it in such a douchebag way?’’

Stump sighed unpatiently. ‘’I read it directly from his notes. It’s how they talked back then, dummy.’’

Dylan nodded. ‘’So this guy was absolutely insane. Straight up basket case. Where is all this leading to, Stump? He died centuries ago.’’

Stump stepped forward.

“I was getting to that. When he was caught. He was hung and his body was burned,” Stump finished. “But after that… the killings didn’t stop.’’

He slid another paper forward. A timeline. His voice was shaking. ‘’I looked for similar patterns and sure enough… Every few decades,” he said. “Someone surfaces. Different face. Different name. Same obsession. Same victims. Boys with scars.”

The word scar seemed to echo.

“So it didn’t die with Rowan,” Gordy said softly.

“No,” Stump replied coldly.

We all fell silent for a while. Just contemplating the mess we had landed ourselves in. The sky was bleeding out into evening, streaks of pink and purple dragged thin across the horizon, fading into something bruised and uncertain. The abandoned rails cut through the clearing like scars themselves… Rusted, half-buried, stretching into the distance where the trees swallowed them whole. We stood there in the tall grass, the four of us, not quite facing each other, not quite able to look away either.

Gordy nudged a loose stone along the track with the toe of his shoe, over and over, like he was trying to grind a thought down into nothing.

“So,” he said finally, voice tight, “we have an idea what this thing is. A vague one, at least.” He glanced at Stump. “Did you find anything about how to stop it?”

Stump looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His hair stuck out in uneven angles, dark circles carved deep beneath his eyes. He shook his head slowly.

“All I found were Rowan’s writings,” he said. “And honestly… he reads like a lunatic who got lucky. Or rather unlucky. He didn’t understand what he found. He just… opened the door.”

Gordy exhaled sharply, kicking the stone off the rail so it disappeared into the weeds. “I don’t get it. If this has been happening for centuries, same method, same type of victims… How has no one connected it?”

“They have,” Stump said quietly. “Just not in a way anyone takes seriously.”

We all looked at him.

“I found references,” he continued. “Fringe articles, weird occult forums… the same patterns keep showing up. But every time, people explain it away. Coincidences. Copycats. Differences in details.” He hesitated. “That’s the odd thing. There’s very few official sources on any of this. Most are writings and blogs that read more like fiction and theories. However…”

Gordy cut off Stump with a hollow laugh. “So we’re fucked. That’s it? That’s the big conclusion? We’re just waiting our turn?”

“You’re giving up?” Dylan snapped, stepping forward. “What happened to ‘we’ll stop this together’?”

Gordy looked away, jaw tightening. I’d never seen him like that before. This was not our Gordy. The one who always had a plan, who always grounded us when things spun out. Now he looked… small. Like something had cracked inside him.

Stump raised his hands slightly, trying to hold the moment together. “I didn’t say we can’t stop it. I said I didn’t find a way to stop the thing itself.” He swallowed. “But there’s something else.”

We waited.

“From what I could tell… there’s always a person. A vessel. The killings stop, at least for a while, when that person is caught. Or killed.”

The words hung in the air like a bad smell. For a second, none of us reacted.

Then Gordy turned and punched Stump in the arm. “You idiot. Why didn’t you start with that?”

“Ow! I was getting to it, dickhead!” Stump snapped, rubbing his arm. “Jesus, let me finish for once.”

Dylan blurted out almost automatically: ’That’s what your mom told your dad last night!’’

I chuckled and I think I even saw the beginnings of a smile from Gordy. Everything almost felt normal. For a split second.

Then it didn’t.

“There’s something off, though,” Stump continued unfaced by Dylan’s jabs as usual, his voice dropping again. “The pattern is consistent. Every few decades, somewhere in the world. But… I couldn’t find anything in the last forty years.”

Gordy frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know,” Stump said. “There should’ve been something. But there’s nothing. Like it just… stopped.”

“Or no one found it,” Gordy muttered. “Maybe you missed it.”

Stump shot him a tired, irritated look. “I’ve been at this nonstop. Library, my parents’ computer, everything. There aren’t exactly neat databases for ritual murders tied to cosmic parasites or whatever the hell this thing is. Most of what I found was secondhand, and half of it was from people you wouldn’t trust to tie their own shoes.”

He trailed off, then looked at Gordy more carefully. Something shifted behind his eyes.

“Gords,” he said slowly. “Your dad’s a cop, right?”

Gordy stiffened immediately. “No.”

“Just hear me out… You could see if something similar happened…”

“No,” Gordy repeated, sharper now. “I already almost got caught listening in when he was talking about the murders. You want me to what? Walk up and ask for access to police records?”

“You could try,” Dylan said, stepping in. “Stump’s been killing himself digging this stuff up. The least you could do is…”

“And what have you done?” Gordy snapped, turning on him. “Or you, Jake? This could get my dad fired. You think that doesn’t matter?”

The words hit harder than they should have.

I dropped my gaze, staring down at the rusted rail beneath my feet. I felt useless. Like I’d been carried along this whole time, watching everything fall apart without doing a damn thing to stop it. Just a fly on the walls of hell.

“Fired?!” Dylan exploded. “You think I care about that right now? It said my name, Gordy. My name. I can feel this thing… I can feel it getting closer every day. I don’t have what you have. I don’t have Stump’s brain or your connections. I’m useless. All I have is this thing breathing down my neck every second and…”

He stopped. Just stopped.

All of us felt it.

We closed in around him instinctively, forming a tight circle, shoulders touching. The air had gone cold without warning. The trees around us rustled softly, but there was no wind.

“Gordy,” Stump said quietly, almost pleading now, “I know it’s a lot. But if there’s anything… anything at all in those files… it could help. Even a name. A pattern. Something.”

Gordy looked at Dylan. Really looked at him.

And whatever he saw there… fear, desperation, something fragile close to breaking, made his shoulders sag.

“…I’ll try,” he said finally. “Okay? I’ll try.”

I swallowed, then spoke before I could stop myself. “And if we find the person? The vessel?” I looked between them. “What happens then? It just… starts over again, right? Somewhere else?”

Stump hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it’s the only angle we’ve got.”

The last light of the sun slipped behind the trees, and the clearing fell into shadow. The tracks beneath us looked darker now. Deeper. Like something carved into the world a long time ago and never meant to heal.

I thought of Mr. Andrews’ words.

Scars are stories the body remembers.

And some stories have a way of repeating themselves. Like cruel circles forever unbroken.

Friday came and as I headed toward Dylan’s place I thought about how he never wanted any of us to visit; he always had an excuse ready, usually delivered with a shrug and a joke that shut the subject down. I knew why. I had been there once and seen what was left of his mom. I don’t even think Stump or Gordy had ever gotten the full story. But I knew. Dylan had told me once. His dad was abusive. And it escalated over the years. When his mom finally tried to protect him. When she finally stepped into character and said no, she paid for it with her mind and body. Dylan’s aunt stepped in after that. She was more like an older sister than a parent, from what he’d said. Present, but distant. Trying, but tired.

And his mom? She was there… But not quite. Unable to communicate her love. Trapped in her body. Like a ghost left lingering. Refusing to go away. Always there like a reminder of the cost of love. A vegetable, as some kids would cruelly say.

So when he asked if I wanted to come over, just the two of us, it felt like being handed something fragile. Something I wasn’t sure I was allowed to touch. Besides, something about him had seemed off lately. I felt it whenever we talked. Something beneath his jokes. Like he resented me for something. I hoped to figure it out.

His room was at the end of a narrow hallway that smelled faintly of cigarettes and instant coffee. When he opened the door, I hesitated for half a second before stepping inside, like I was crossing a line.

It was exactly the kind of room you’d expect from a teenage boy in the mid-nineties, but more lived-in than most. Posters covered the walls in uneven layers. Nirvana, Sonic Youth, Alice in Chains, The Cure, some half-torn flyer for a local show that had probably happened months ago. A single lamp on the floor cast a soft amber glow that made everything feel warmer than it should’ve been.

There were stacks of records everywhere. On the floor, leaning against the wall, half-organized crates shoved beneath the bed. Cassette tapes spilled out of an old shoebox. His bed was unmade, sheets twisted like he hadn’t bothered fighting gravity that morning. The air smelled like fabric softener, dust, and something faintly metallic.

Dylan moved through the room like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He dropped onto the floor near the turntable and started flipping through vinyl with practiced fingers, but his movements were distracted, unfocused. He wasn’t his usual loud, careless self. He was quieter. Held inward. Like he was bracing for something.

When he finally settled on a record and slid it from its sleeve, I recognized the cover instantly.

Ride. Today Forever.

He placed it on the turntable with a reverence that caught me off guard. When the needle dropped, and Sennen began to spill into the room… Those drifting guitars, that slow, aching build… It felt like the air itself softened.

“Didn’t know you were into that stuff, Dyl,” I said, trying to keep it light. “Kinda surprising.”

He shot me a brief glance before looking back at the spinning vinyl. “Yeah, well. There’s probably a lot of stuff you don’t know about me, Jakey. I’m allowed to like more than just grunge, you know.”

I crossed the room and sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. I picked up the album sleeve and studied it. The great white shark frozen mid-lunge, rows of teeth bared, beautiful and terrifying all at once.

“Never said you weren’t,” I said. “I’m just surprised. Because… I like this stuff too.”

That made him look at me properly. A look I hadn’t seen from him before.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I love Ride. Especially this track. The way the guitars come in, all slow and wide, with the bass and drums underneath… It makes me think of summer. Those long, lazy days where we’d just ride our bikes until we got lost and didn’t care. Scraped knees. Climbing places we weren’t supposed to. Sleeping on the school roof and watching the stars like the world wasn’t waiting to chew us up.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I remember that. Those were simpler times.”

We didn’t talk for a while after that. We just listened. Let the music wash over us, thick and shimmering. For a few minutes, it almost worked. Almost let me forget the police tape. The whispers. The thing moving through our town, preying on boys like us.

Dylan shifted beside me, restless. I took a breath.

“Not everything changes,” I said. “We’re still us. We’re still friends. We’ll always have the music. That doesn’t…”

He cut me off with a look that stopped the words in my throat.

“Friends… Music.” He let out a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I’m just… I don’t know, Jake. I’m not sure of anything right now.”

I put my arm around his shoulders without thinking. He flinched instantly, pulling away like he’d been burned. The reaction was so fast, so instinctive, it hurt worse than if he’d said something cruel. Only he could make me feel that way.

“Dyl,” I said quietly. “I know something’s wrong. You’re never this way unless something’s eating at you.”

He stared at the wall for a second, then scoffed. “Eating at me? I know you didn’t just say that.’’ I couldn’t help but force a laugh despite the seriousness of the situation. He joined me for a moment, then continued. ‘’A monster is stalking kids and eating them alive. The monster we probably unleashed. But Nah, it doesn’t bother me at all.”

He forced a grin. “Kinda exciting, actually. Something evil lurks out there, and only the four grunge detectives can stop it. And apparently… I’m next in line to be eaten. I hope it chokes on me.”

His laughed but it felt hollow. Like his voice hinged on the last part. As if the stark reality of it all came crashing down on him.

“Stop,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “You always do this. You joke, the second things get real… We’re going to deal with that thing. We will. Who knows if any of the things Stump saw and heard can even be trusted? It… might be messing with us for all we know.’’

I hesitated and continued. “But that’s not what I’m talking about… You’ve been… different. With me. I don’t know if…”

He cut me off mid-sentence. As if I had somehow struck a chord. His expression hardened, then cracked. “That’s it, Jake. You don’t know. You think you see through everyone… The great poet who has everyone figured out, but you don’t. Or maybe you’re just too much of a coward to see it… To see what I…”

He stopped dead in his track. His voice dropped, tired now. Maybe realizing he had crossed a line, not meant to be crossed.

He continued. “I’m sorry… Can we… just not? Not today. I don’t want to talk about the monster right now. And I don’t want to talk about… whatever you think is happening between us.”

He swallowed. “Can we just… just for today… Can things just be normal?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that. I need that too.”

The rest of the evening blurred into something soft and indistinct, like a memory already halfway gone while it was still happening. One record bled into the next. Ride gave way to Slowdive, then something fuzzier, older, half-forgotten and obscure. Dylan handled the turntable with careful hands, like the music was fragile, like it was sacred to him. Something to be guarded with care.

We cracked the window open just enough to let the smoke slip out. The summer air crept in instead. Warm, carrying the distant sounds of the neighborhood settling for the night. Somewhere, a screen door slammed. A dog barked once, then fell quiet. The world outside felt impossibly far away, like we were suspended in a pocket of time no one else could touch. Our universe.

We talked about our fucked up families and how Dylan’s aunt was dating half of the men in town.

The beers went warm quickly, sweating in our hands, passed back and forth more out of habit than thirst. We barely drank them. Just lifted them to our lips now and then, letting the bitterness linger like an excuse to stay still. To stay close.

We laughed at dumb things, inside jokes we’d been carrying since we were kids, stories we’d told a hundred times but still couldn’t resist repeating. Dylan mocked my terrible rhythm guitar. I told him his bass lines always sounded like they were trying too hard to be cool. He flipped me off without looking at me, smiling without a care.

The music kept building, layer upon layer, guitars folding in on themselves until the sound felt physical, like standing too close to a jet engine, like being wrapped in static and light at the same time. It filled every corner of the room, pressed against the walls, and vibrated through the floor. There was comfort in that thickness. In being drowned out. In not having to think.

The cigarette smoke curled lazily in the dim light, catching the glow from the lamp and turning gold, then gray. Dylan leaned back on his hands, eyes half-lidded, letting the music wash over him. I watched the rise and fall of his chest. The way his jaw tightened when a song hit just right. I wondered what he was thinking. If he felt it too. That strange pull. That sense of standing on the edge of something unnamed. Something dangerous.

For a while, neither of us spoke. We didn’t need to. The silence between us was heavy with things we didn’t yet have the courage to say.

Outside, something moved through the trees. A branch scraped softly against the house. I flinched, just a little, but Dylan didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to react. Either way, the moment held.

At some point, we stopped sitting on opposite ends of the bed. I couldn’t tell you when it happened. Just that, suddenly his shoulder was brushing mine, then resting there, warm and solid. Each time he shifted, I felt it… Every movement registering too clearly, like my body had tuned itself to him without asking. It frightened me. What I felt in that moment frightened me more than the monster haunting us.

The music faded into a low murmur, and the TV took over, late-night static and reruns bleeding blue light across the room. We lay on the bed side by side, shoes kicked off, the air still thick with smoke and warmth. The ceiling fan clicked softly overhead.

I turned my head without meaning to.

Dylan was already looking at me.

The light from the television washed his face in pale flickers, sharpening the line of his nose, softening everything else. His eyes were darker like that. Quieter. Less guarded. He didn’t look away when he realized I’d caught him staring.

His hand shifted on the bedspread. Slow. Careful. Fingers inching closer until they rested just beside mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. Close enough that it felt intentional.

Electricity went through my entire body. ‘’Dyl… You know… You said you were useless… But you’re not. You’re the backbone. Like a steady baseline. I don’t know where we… Where I would be without you to hold it all together.’’

He didn’t respond, but I saw the words landed. My heart thudded painfully in my chest.

I remember everything. The shallow rise of his breathing, the faint tremor in his fingers, the way he waited. Not pushing. Just offering the space. An opening.

I didn’t take his hand that night.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because something in me was afraid that if I did, everything would change. That I wouldn’t be able to go back. That naming it… even silently… would cause a shift in everything I had comfortably kept at a distance.

The love I’d grown up with, had been two-sided. One soft, engulfed in music and closeness. The other treacherous, neglectful, selfish and addicted.

So I stayed still.

After a moment, his fingers curled slightly, then relaxed. He didn’t pull away. Neither did I. We just lay there, suspended in the almost of the moment.

Still… For that one night, in that room, wrapped in flickering tv-light and shared history, the universe narrowed down to just us. Two boys balanced on the edge of becoming. On the edge of losing something. Or finding it.

And whatever waited out there in the dark… Whatever watched us, stalked us, breathed in our fear… It couldn’t reach us here.

Dylan didn’t show up for school the following Monday. At first, it didn’t feel like anything. Just an absence. A chair left empty. A name not called. But absence has a way of settling in. Of spreading quietly, like something damp creeping through walls. The longer you ignore it, the more it takes hold.

Every second he didn’t show up, felt like a punch in the guts.

I remember the glances we exchanged… Me, Stump, and Gordy, across the classroom during English. Quick, nervous flickers of the eyes. We knew something was off. Normally for Dylan, or any of us for that matter, skipping school wasn’t out of the ordinary. But these weren’t ordinary times.

Mr. Andrews stood at the front of the room, chalk resting between his fingers.

‘’Let’s continue from last weeks lesson.’’

He wrote the word Scar slowly across the board. Each letter deliberate, pressed just a little too firmly, the chalk dragging faintly as if it resisted leaving the surface.

“A scar,” he began, turning to face us, “is what remains after the body closes a wound.”

His voice was calm. Even. Measured in a way that felt practiced.

“It is not the injury itself,” he continued, pacing slowly along the front row, “but the evidence that something once broke the skin… and was forced to mend.”

He paused, glancing over the class.

“Closure,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “is often mistaken for healing.”

The chalk tapped lightly against the board in his hand. Once. Twice.

“But a scar is not necessarily restoration,” he went on. “It is adaptation. The body sealing itself. Imperfectly. Permanently.’’

He turned to face us all. ‘’In the simplest of terms. It is change. Transformation.’’

Something about the way he said it made the word feel heavier than it should have. Like it meant more than what he was saying.

“So what does that mean? In literature,” he continued, “scars function as markers. Proof of survival, yes… But also reminders. They anchor a character to a moment they cannot return from. A point after which everything is… altered.”

He stopped moving then and just stood there. Looking out at us.

For a second… Just a second… It felt like his eyes lingered too long. Not on anyone in particular. Just… searching. Studying. Like he was waiting for something to reveal itself.

Or someone.

I dropped my gaze to my desk, the varnished surface scratched with years of initials and half-hearted carvings. Someone had etched a band logo near the corner, faded now, barely legible. The kind of thing that used to matter. The kind of thing that felt impossibly far away. All I could think of was Dylan.

My throat tightened. The question came before I could stop it. My hand lifted, slow, hesitant, as if something heavier than doubt was pulling it upward.

“Yes, Jake?”

Mr. Andrews’ voice carried easily across the room. Too easily.

The classroom was bathed in that dull, late-morning light. The kind that flattened everything into pale yellows and tired grays. Dust hung in the air, visible where the sunlight cut through the blinds. The radiator clicked softly beneath the windows. Somewhere behind me, a chair shifted.

All familiar sounds, familiar sensations. Yet, everything felt different.

I swallowed.

“Is there anything in literature about…” I hesitated, the words catching like splinters in my throat. Then, before I could reshape them into something safer, they slipped out as they were. “…eating scars?”

A few students snorted. Someone muttered what the hell under their breath. A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the room, then died just as quickly.

Mr. Andrews didn’t laugh. He barely even moved at first, as if the question had paralyzed him for a moment.

Then he woke up, as if from a spell and moved near the board, chalk resting lightly between his fingers, head tilted just slightly, as if the question hadn’t surprised him, but intrigued him.

“Not a common motif,” he said at last, slowly. “At least not in any direct or literal sense.”

His tone had shifted. It was still measured. Still calm.

But there was a precision to it now. Like he was choosing each word more carefully than before. He set the chalk down and clasped his hands loosely in front of him, pacing once along the front row.

“But literature,” he continued, “is rarely concerned with the literal.”

He stopped and turned towards me. His eyes piercing mine with curiosity… And something else I couldn’t quite define.

“Let’s treat your question as metaphor,” he said. “An act of… consuming what a scar represents.”

The room had gone quiet. There was an air of anticipation.

“There is, perhaps, something almost tender in that idea,” he went on. “To take into oneself the remnants of another’s suffering. To absorb it. To relieve them of its weight.”

He paused, just long enough for the thought to settle.

“It suggests intimacy,” he added. “A closeness beyond ordinary empathy. Not simply understanding someone’s pain… But carrying it. Making it your own.”

Something about the way he said intimacy made my skin tighten.

He took another slow step.

“Of course,” he continued, almost lightly, “that is not the only interpretation.”

I felt the air shift, ever so subtly.

“One might also view it as an act of violation.”

The word didn’t belong in a classroom. Not like that. The way he said… It felt too personal.

“A scar,” he said, picking the chalk back up but not writing, just holding it between his fingers, “is not merely evidence of injury. It is the body’s resolution. Its attempt, however imperfect, to close what was once open.”

He turned slightly toward the board, then back again, as if the thought itself was more important than any notes he could write.

“You see, Jake,” he said, voice softer now, but somehow sharper for it, “scars are a natural part of the healing process. They are signs that we suffered, yes, but also that we lived through it.”

His eyes held mine.

“The skin that was once damaged… soft, vulnerable… It becomes something else. Hardened. Resilient. Altered, but intact.”

He let that sit for a moment.

“If that is taken away… one could imagine what remains.”

A faint smile touched his lips. Not kind or unkind. Just… knowing.

“A wound that never closes,” he said quietly. “Pain that never resolves. Something held open. Exposed. Ongoing.”

The chalk snapped lightly between his fingers. No one reacted or moved.

“Not healing,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “But suspension.”

For a second, just a second… It felt like he wasn’t speaking to the class anymore.

Like he was speaking through the lesson. Through something too personal to name. He held my gaze a moment longer than necessary.

Then turned back to the board.

“Now,” he said, tone returning to something more familiar, “if we were to apply that to character development…”

The spell broke. Chairs shifted. Someone coughed. A pen clicked.

But the feeling didn’t leave.

From across the room, I could feel Stump staring at me. Gordy too. Neither of them said a word.

And neither did I. Because something about the way Mr. Andrews had answered. It hadn’t felt like speculation.

It had felt like recognition.

During recess, they finally said it.

The intercom crackled to life overhead, that familiar burst of static cutting through the noise of the cafeteria. Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Chairs scraped. For a second, it felt like the whole building held its breath.

Then the principal’s voice came through. It was Flat. Detached. Stripped of anything human.

“Students are advised to go straight home after school. A temporary curfew is now in effect. If anyone has any information regarding the disappearance of Dylan Mercer, you are urged to come forward.”

There was no pause for emotion. No hesitation.

This was simply procedure.

Hearing his full name like that… Spoken cleanly, officially, like it belonged in a report or on a missing persons flyer… it hit harder than anything else could. It reduced him. Flattened him. Turned him into something that could be filed away, categorized, forgotten. Just another missing boy.

A statistic. A case.

Not Dylan.

Not the green-eyed idiot who laughed too loud at his own jokes and never knew when to shut up. Who could turn nothing into something just by talking long enough.

Not the boy who made even the dumbest joke land, just because it was him saying it.

Not the one who shared my headphones, shoulder pressed against mine, both of us staring at the ceiling while the music swallowed everything else, until the room, the town, the future… all of it just went quiet.

Not the boy whose dreams ran parallel to mine. Twisted together. Plans whispered like they might actually come true, getting out of here, seeing something bigger, becoming something more than what this place had already decided we were.

We weren’t done. There was still so much left. So many records we hadn’t heard yet. So many nights we hadn’t lived.

And now they said his name like it was already over.

I refused to accept it. As long as he was just missing, there was a chance. I knew it.

We didn’t speak after the announcement. Not in the hallway, not at our lockers, not even in the half-glances we usually exchanged when something felt off. The silence followed us like a shadow, stretching longer with every step until it became something we carried rather than something around us.

There was never any question about where we would go. The tracks were waiting.

The abandoned railway cut through the woods behind the school. The metal rails were dulled with rust, flaking and brittle, their edges eaten away by years of neglect. Weeds had forced their way up between the wooden ties, thick and stubborn, as if the earth itself was trying to reclaim what had once been imposed on it. Every step we took disturbed something, dry leaves crunching underfoot, brittle stems snapping softly, the ground uneven and shifting in places where roots had begun to break through.

We stepped onto the tracks and stopped, forming a loose circle without meaning to. The space between us felt wrong. We all noticed the gap where Dylan should have been. It was in everything. In the quiet. In the way no one filled it. In the way the wind seemed to move through that empty space just a little slower, as if it lingered there.

Gordy was the first to speak.

“They said he’s officially missing.”

His voice didn’t carry. It dropped straight to the ground between us, heavy and dull.

I swallowed, my throat tightening. “Don’t say it like that.” He looked at me, his expression hard to read. “That’s what they said.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” I replied too quickly. “They say that when they don’t know what’s going on.”

“You were the last one to see him.” The words came out of him before he could soften them. The weight of it settled immediately.

I felt something twist inside me. “He was fine,” I said, forcing the words out. “We just hung out. Listened to music. That’s it.”

Gordy didn’t look away. “Yeah. That’s it.” There was something under his tone now. Not fully accusation, but close enough to feel like it.

My chest tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he said, his voice sharpening, “if something happened after that, maybe you should’ve noticed.”

The anger came fast. Too fast.

“Oh, right,” I shot back. “Because I’m supposed to predict when my best friend is about to get taken by something we don’t even understand?”

“Best friend?’’ He seemed hurt, as if he’d always suspected I was closer with Dylan than him. ‘’At least you were there.’’ he snapped.

I took a step closer without thinking. “Yeah? Where were you Gordy? And whose idea was it to mess with that board in the first place?”

Gordy stiffened, I saw the hurt in his eyes, but my anger forced the next words past my lips. “Don’t, Jake. Just don’t.’’

“No, let’s,” I pressed. “You brought it. You pushed for it. You always push until everyone goes along with you. Every stupid idea always comes from you! Then when you get us out of it, you act like you did us all a solid!”

“You were all in!” he fired back. “Don’t act like I forced you!”

“You did,” I said, my voice rising. “You always do this sh…”

“Enough!”

Stump stepped between us, his voice cutting through the tension like something sharp and sudden. He looked worse than either of us… eyes sunken, shoulders tight, like he hadn’t slept in days.

“This isn’t helping,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less urgent. “You think Dylan would want this? You think this is what he’d want?”

The words hung there. Neither of us answered, because we knew Stump was right.

The wind shifted through the trees again, colder now, dragging along the ground before slipping between us. For a moment, it felt like something else moved with it… something just out of sight, keeping pace with the silence.

Stump exhaled slowly, trying to steady himself. “We need to think. Not… tear each other apart.”

Gordy looked away first, his jaw tight. “Fine.”

I nodded, though the anger hadn’t gone anywhere. It just settled deeper, heavier.

Stump ran a hand through his hair. “Gordy… your dad. Have you gotten anything?”

Gordy shook his head. “No. I haven’t found a way in.” He nudged a loose stone off the rail, watching it disappear into the weeds. “And he’s been acting weird. More than usual. He barely talks about anything anymore, let alone the case.”

I glanced toward the trees. “It’s not just him. Everyone feels… off. Teachers. People in town. Even at the store.”

Stump nodded slowly. “Yeah. It’s like something’s wrong everywhere. Like the whole place is…”

“Under a spell,” Gordy muttered.

None of us laughed. Because it didn’t feel like a stretch anymore. It felt like the only explanation that made sense.

Stump shifted his weight. “We should start thinking about who. If there’s a person behind this. A vessel.”

The word seemed to settle into the ground beneath us.

“Someone close,” he continued. “Someone who can move around without being noticed.”

There was a pause…. Then he said it.

“Mr. Andrews.”

I felt it immediately, that same unease from the classroom creeping back in.

“The way he talked today,” Stump went on. “About scars. It didn’t sound like theory. It sounded like… Like he personally knew what he was talking about.”

Gordy nodded, slow and uncertain. “Yeah, I agree. Something about that was off.’’

I hesitated before speaking. “Maybe. But…”

“What?” Stump asked.

I exhaled slowly. “Wentworth.”

They both looked at me.

“He’s smart. He knows about trauma, psychology… all that,” I said. “If anyone would recognize something like this…”

“You think it’s him?” Gordy asked.

I shook my head, almost instinctively. “No. I don’t know. He just… doesn’t feel like that. He’s too calm. Too… open. Like some kind of therapist hippie. Besides… He seems like one of the few adults in this town we can actually trust. Also the school counselor? It’s a bit too obvious isn’t it?’’

“People don’t usually look like what they are,” Stump said quietly.

I didn’t respond. Because part of me knew he was right.

Credit: Simon B. Elsvor