I read stories from the internet on my podcast and I'm seeing things…

Part 1

I'm telling you this story now at the end of it. I've been given a last choice to turn these actions into words. He’s watching me, pushing me to do this. I told Him it may take me days. He says he has all the time in the world. Maybe He sees it as a sick joke, or maybe He just wants to watch the blood on my neck dry. Regardless, when He’s done with me, you can’t let him find you. I don't know if this is a cautionary tale, a sermon, a living nightmare, or the sanity slipping from my brow… but believe me when I tell you, this is not a story I ever wanted to share.

Bear with me, I am writing with shaky hands and, despite reading dozens of stories on my podcast and scripting countless YouTube videos, I’ve never been great at writing, especially beginnings. It’s hard to ease into what’s going on, and right now, all I want to do is warn you, get it through to you how precious those moments you’ve forgotten are. I want to swear to you that the signs are always there, even if small. 

Nancy, if you’re reading this, I tried to see them too late. I love you, and I’m sorry for everything. I haven’t been myself in quite a long time. For all my regrets, I have never been unsure of your unconditional love. The memory of your laugh is my final comfort in the silence of the witching hour.

To anyone else reading, the voice in your head may not be God; it may be the devil. Ask it, the silence is also an answer. It cannot hide from you forever. It’s bound by laws we don’t understand. Angels and Demons are as real as the prayers you whispered to your own folded hands. They are both listening. They have been listening since you were a child… and if I have to tell this story, I may as well start there.

I was born a Christian in the Kentucky mountains. I was raised by two God-fearing, ever-loving, fanatic parents. My mother was a stay-at-home mom who dedicated her spare time to writing for the local newspaper. It was a mostly quiet, spread-out town, if a little bit backwater, and the bulk of her writings were based on local politics, seasonal practices, and the odd missing puppy case. My father was the local doctor… and I mean ‘the’ as in one and only. He dealt with a handful of gruesome tractor injuries, drunk bar fight bruises, and elderly care. Despite having a treasure trove of stories that they could’ve shared with me, more often than not, my parents kept their affairs to themselves. Instead, each night before bed, I was told all the stories from the Bible. 

And I mean all of them. From Old Testament incest to New Testament baptism, my parents shared it all. They’d follow stories up with morality lessons, going so far as to shake me awake if I fell asleep before they had fully explained the sin of coveting your neighbor. You’d think it would bore me, but quickly it made sense to me, enthralled me. It was my first introduction to storytelling at its rawest. 

Every theme explored, every narrative structure imaginable, and I consumed it like a wildfire in the wind. It was the foundation of my youth, and from there, I grew. I grew older, I grew more religious, more mature, more passionate, but also more condescending, harsher. Out of high school, I tried to preach as a youth pastor, but I didn’t quite fit the role. I liked reading the stories to myself more than reciting them to children. I think I scared them, too, forgetting to skip over the gory details to soften a message. However, my love for macabre narratives was not limited to Christianity. The bible, of course, had limits. The library horror section had age restrictions and limits. The internet had neither.

At first, it was finding creepypastas, then it was diving into Reddit, then it was looking for true crime and diving into the recesses of real horror. I never stopped searching for a new story, for a new tale, for an experience that was greater than the one I already had. As a kid, you dream of flying, of going to space, becoming a pirate or a knight, or a soldier. And as you grow older, things get in the way, and things get scarier. You learn that you can't be a pirate because real pirates aren’t cool and suave, they’re cruel and desperate. You learn that you can't be a knight because that doesn't earn you money, and it makes you a nerd, and no one likes you. And maybe you learn that you can't be a soldier because anytime you thought your government wouldn’t do that, you learn they already did much worse twenty years ago. So, you turn to horror because the messed-up things in those stories are either impossible and thus you can accept them as fiction, or they’re so real you feel that by reading them, you’re prepared for the world around you. Either way, you never stopped craving those experiences, and you can still find them. 

And that's why I started the podcast. I wanted to vomit my fascination and fear and morbid curiosity onto the internet. I thought I could mix it into my biblical knowledge and offer some light in the darkest corners of internet lore. I didn’t necessarily expect the channel to take off, but it did. 

You enjoyed it and my life became a blessing greater than I had even thought to pray for. People started calling me “the internet’s favorite Christian.” I found a career in storytelling despite being crap at storytelling, a kickass wife who was way smarter than me, friends that I would never have found without the growth of my channel, and money to fund personal interests I probably shouldn’t be pouring money into like my gun collection… but the thing is, you can always have too much of something. 

I have been more than lucky. I don't believe in luck. I was given everything I ever wanted out of my life, and I didn't blink twice to wonder how I got it. Then, I slowly started to resent it, quietly, but intensely. Now I'm here at the end of the pay period, and the bill is due. Do not take stories lightly. Do not take this one as mere fiction like all the others have been.

My first mistake was a human error: exhaustion. Over the past few months, I became tired. Stories had just gotten worse. When I started The Creepypasta Pod, Forrest and I barely knew each other, lived states apart, and were just messing around. At first, it was fun. However, by the start of this past year, things had gotten stale. Week in and week out, Forrest and I were reading worse and worse stories. They’d all start with an interesting hook, have a few engaging scenes, then end with a dumpster fire of exposition and dialogue worse than every middle school kid’s first Reddit horror story. This, combined with the other podcasts and my own channel, meant that I was burning out fast. I tried to hone my energy in. I cut down to the two channels, hired writers to pick up the slack, and put a pause on tours. However, this didn’t have the intended effect.

I had more free time, but I was trapped in my new Tennessee home. I was reading less, but the stories were staying shitty, and I was getting irritable, downright unfair. Typically, Forrest was the one who got really pissed, and I could laugh my way through the dogshit narratives and exposition dumps. Now, it was the other way around. I would end the podcast holding myself back from pouring out an essay of nitpicks and grievances with the story..

  Audiences didn’t mind, and from the outside it probably just looked the same as always, ‘Micah and Forrest losing their minds, but off-camera things were deteriorating fast. We'd say our goodbyes on the channel, stop the recording, but we’d kept our cameras on, and we’d just talk, catch up. Forrest would say something to me about how shitty the story was, and I'd laugh and agree, and then we'd talk about our weeks. He’d ask what I was researching or when I was gonna come out next, and I ask about the next video he was creating. Now we just turn it off. Not another word. I hadn’t had a real conversation with Forrest in over a month. 

Last Sunday, we finished recording for “My Daughter Keeps Trying to Kill Me in My Sleep”. It was nearly unrecordable. The Tennessee heat was damp and smothering. No AC could stop the sun from bleeding into the walls, and I was already irritable. I wanted to stop reading after the first page, and Forrest was noticeably hungover. Normally, we’d call it a bust and reschedule, but this was the week before he was gonna feature on an actual show, and we had to get videos out. Besides, the audience doesn’t tend to mind if we hate the story. By the time it was over, Forrest was reading the villain's lines like he was Heath Ledger’s Joker, and I read the protagonist like he was Batman. 

Forrest tried to keep the commentary short, but I couldn’t stop ranting about the stupid, lazy plot twist and how it didn’t make any sense for the protagonist to be the murderer, the dad, the sacrificed lamb, and somehow also the daughter. He tried to salvage the ending by apologizing to the author if we sounded too harsh, and I halfheartedly gave the outro. I immediately shut off the recording and sent off my part to our editor. I couldn’t bother to look back at the footage before moving on.

The next few hours I spent on my independent stuff. I worked in our living room, bringing my laptop to the open space and facing away from the sunlight that poured in through our back window wall. The renovations were finished just a week ago, and I was trying to enjoy the natural lighting we were shopping for. While my editors were working on a few true stories I could cover, I researched for my next video: The Testament of Solomon. 

I’d done videos on Apocryphal texts before, but this would be longer, more expansive. It’s a good time to mention that while I believed in angels and demons, I didn’t think of them as physical creatures. To me, they were an entity that relied entirely on mental energy. If you put your mind to it and did the ritual, good things would happen to you because you were so focused on that worldly pursuit; those good things would corrupt you into the absence of faith, and then it is over: you're in Hell. Nevertheless, the subject interested me, and I wanted to understand the history of demonic classifications and what the Testament of Solomon could mean as a religious text about ‘conquering demons.’ Most of the content and research around the subject was speculative bullshit. However, there was one historical account of demons that stood out to me.

While researching other accounts of demons and possessions, I came across a story of a 15th-century painter. After years of extreme loneliness and a failed career, he performed a ritual and summoned a demon who offered to give him living pleasure in exchange for his serfdom. The man had described the demon as a handsome gentleman with a clean face and a black dog by his side. While the man initially denied the demon’s offer, weeks of pursuit and temptation led the man to ultimately agree, and the demon blessed him. 

Within days, his paintings became mildly successful in certain circles, and he began attending parties where he drank profusely and slept with many of the women circling his work. The man later recounted that while he did this, the demon would watch him engage with the woman, and on multiple occasions, if the man ever closed his eyes, he’d open them to the man “sucking the life out of his thumb”. 

The man ultimately gave up the parties and returned to a modest lifestyle, shaken by the prior experiences. The demon, having slowly merged with its accompanying dog into an anamorphic beast, tried to get him to sign contracts by offering more money, more women, but the man refused. That was, until the demon appealed to the man’s loneliness in a different way.

The man had lost his father at an early age, the only person who had ever truly shown him kindness. The demon offered to fill this role in exchange for the man’s soul. He agreed, and the demon acted as his father for a time, before driving the man to suicide. He leapt off the roof of the local cathedral minutes after recounting his tale to a priest. He had hoped a man of the cloth could talk him out of the grizzly death and cast out the demon.

I had heard of summoning demons before, but the nature of their relationship and the basis of grief disturbed me. Yet, also, it was the description. The demon’s early appearance was described less as a ghoul or creature, but as a friend. It was only after the man had made the deal that the demon began to reveal himself, merging with the dog and doubling in size. Ever since my mom wrote an article about a missing puppy, I’d had nightmares about a stray mutt following me. A strange coincidence I chose to brush aside. I hadn’t seen the signs then; I wasn’t ready to. 

And still, the story’s logic bothered me. The man’s drastic conversion to the church felt like religious propaganda, making me doubt the whole account. Instead, my mind shifted to a different discovery. Something I hadn’t experienced in a long time was occurring: my faith was boring me.

God seemed distant, and the fantastical elements of the Bible felt more like stretches of the truth than miraculous works of authenticity. This, of course, had been happening for months. The lack of sleep had meant that my religious studies took a back burner. In that time, the nostalgic novelty wore off. I had begun to see the Old Testament more like it was a collection of metaphorical poetry and less like accounts of people who actually existed. This is, of course, more boring than believing in ghosts and God’s wrath, but it was more realistic. It was easier. It certainly made researching demonology less haunting and more passive. It was putting a strain on my marriage, though.

Nancy got home late. I tried to wait for her, but she texted me at 8 that she wouldn’t be home for another hour, so I heated up another microwave pizza and watched a few videos. In the late hours, alone, I felt more self-pity than ever. The sun would set, but the heat would rise. I’d spend that time in the kitchen, periodically washing my face and feeling sorry for myself. When did I lose her? I’d think to myself. I remember when we were first together, no matter how full the week or how tired we were, we'd make our schedules work just to see each other twice a week. Nowadays, though, I was too busy with the podcast, and she had her job. Despite sharing the same bed, it felt like I hadn’t seen her in a month.

It’s not totally our fault. Med school didn't exactly work around our lives together. Nancy needed sleep wherever she could get it, but things had been getting worse. I needed her around more. I was getting clingy. She knew it, but there was nothing she could do about it. I would badger her when we hung out together that I didn't get to see her more often, so she would feel guilty and draw distant. I fought for something better, maybe pointing out too many of my own insecurities, but she’d just look to solve it, without processing what it even was. She was never one for long conversations or getting into the thick of it. She just wanted a good moment. In arguments, I'd bring up the things that have been happening in context to where we were then, and she would just want to cut to the solution. 

This line of thinking depressed my mind and body, and the rest of that night I was pinching myself to stay away. I had been mulling it over, missing who we were and bringing up the hope that when she got home, she’d have a smile on her face and we could move past what the past few months had been.

However, when she did get home, she hardly spoke a word. Her face was drained and had bags in her eyes that matched my own. I asked about her day, but she said she was too tired to talk. I offered her leftovers, but she had eaten on the way home. I watched as she hurried up the mezzanine to take a shower. My eyes were blurry, worn out from trying to stay open all these hours. I checked all the doors and got ready for bed on my own, used the guest bathroom to brush my teeth, undressed, got into bed, and shut my eyes. 

About a half hour later, Nancy came into our bedroom. I silently watched her in the moonlight as she put on one of her oversized shirts and crawled in beside me. I turned over to kiss her goodnight, but she rolled over before I could reach her forehead. 

“Goodnight, “ I said.

“Goodnight.” 

I wanted to confront her, but it was too late. We’d been here before. It would become an argument without a solution, she’d lose more hours of sleep, and I’d feel more self-pity than I had at the beginning of the conversation. Instead, I stared at my wife and wondered who we had become. I reached out to rub her back, but that was when I saw six scratches across her back. The marks started from the edge of her neck and split down: three going under her right shoulder, and three going under her left.

At first, I was confused, then shocked, then panicked. My head drifted to salacious images of another man, sweat poured from my brow, and seeped into my eyes. Like the sweat they could have shared. Then logic painted a different image in my head: one of her explaining that a fussy child had scratched her while she pulled him from a room, or a dog jumping on her as she knelt down to tie her shoes before leaving the hospital. An ache began circling in my temple, and the reds of my cheeks were hot and heavy. I couldn’t breathe.

I got out of my bed and stumbled to our bathroom. My eyelids were heavy, and my body felt a heavy exhaustion while my mind was riddled with images of Nancy with a young stranger and a black dog. The hallway was a visage to me, and as I tripped over my own feet, I looked down the mezzanine to see my empty house and not recognize it. The moonlight illuminated shadows and flickered from the moistened glass. There were no decorations, no signs of life, and a suffocating stillness to every couch, chair, and table that littered the floor. When I turned back toward the bathroom, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. A yellow light shone from the ajar door. A shudder ran down my back.

Nancy must’ve forgotten to turn off the light. The sound of the drain softly echoed. I sluggishly went inside and sure enough, in addition to leaving the light on, she kept the sink running. Before turning off the faucet, I splashed a handful of water on my face. It was lukewarm. I rubbed my eyes and faced the mirror. I looked tired, unhealthy, and my eyes were red. I tell you this to know that I was tired, vulnerable, and not myself. So when I heard croaking from downstairs, my mind could only take so many leaps.

The croaking noise echoed from the empty main floor, clearer than the sounds typically coming from outside. A mundane wakefulness came upon me as I left the room and prepared to find the source of the sound.

I stepped out of the room and found the noise to be easily centred at the base of the living room. I could very plainly see the frog in the middle of my house. Lingering behind it was a trail of dark, thick blood. As I quietly walked down the steps, I became more aware of the dissonance as the animal croaked. Each exhale, blood spurted from a gash that went from the creature's eye down across its body. The croaking noise was not a clean one, but mixed with a gurgling push. The blood had left a stream coming from the frog's current position to the back door.

“Shit-shitshitshitshitshit.” I ran toward the kitchen and put on gloves from under the kitchen sink, barely noticing that the kitchen faucet had also been left on. I turned back and darted toward the frog. It didn’t move from me, and I picked it up, disgusted. More blood spurted from its neck and splashed onto my chest. I recoiled at the stench but pressed on. I hurried the frog into my backyard, the door had been left open, and I flung the creature as far as I could. It disappeared in the woods as quickly as it had arrived. Then I ran to the kitchen sink and threw up.

The next hour, I spent cleaning the trail of blood the frog had carried from the living room to the back door. I had turned the lights on to see the mess was larger than I had previously seen in the dark. The new white rug didn’t stand a chance. For every second I was gathering cleaners and inspecting the damage, the stench was steadily rising, and I hurried to clean it up, a manic desire to rid myself of the memory. The blood was thicker than I expected, and despite how hard I scrubbed, the marks wouldn’t fully dissipate. I started where the frog had ended, in the middle of the room, and worked my way to the back door. It was well past 3 am at this time. Through the glass, trees rustled and their shadows flickered in the moonlight. My blurred eyes confused shapes, and for a moment, I thought I saw the shape of a mangy black dog deep in the brush.

It disappeared as soon as it came. I didn’t trust my eyes at this late hour, so I ignored the vision like it was one of my childhood nightmares. Truth is, I hadn’t trusted myself in weeks. I ignored it and finished the window with the last breaths of energy. Exhausted, too tired to shower, and not daring to wake Nancy, I curled up on the couch and fell asleep crying.

Part 2

He’s been quietly watching me type this. He only speaks in small encouragements, soft spoken suggestions, and constructive recollections. His version of these memories is different, but the outcomes are always the same. It sickens me to say that He is the reassuring voice. It’s been hours of writing, remembering, weeping. Every time I stop writing to weep or fall asleep at my desk He beckons me to continue, gently encourages my efforts at the cost of my humanity. 

I always thought of temptations as a sensual allure, stolen glances, and roaring desires. Truly, it is a gentle hand on your shoulder beckoning on mistake after mistake, and only ever chastising when you question the grip of his fingers. He wants this for me, as I used to want it. However, the guilt and fear that has awoken me is only a nuisance to his contract.  Even now, he is nodding, egging me to get back to the story: a task bound before me in blood. So I will:

That first event occurred a week before I’m writing this now. By the time I woke up, Nancy had left for the hospital. I would’ve thought it was a nightmare if not for the frog blood that was still on my arms and chest. I woke up and headed back to my bedroom only to find my phone alarm ringing and nearly a dozen texts from Forrest. I had slept too long and missed when we were going to record. I hastily ran into the shower and scrubbed myself clean over a hot shower, the hot water graciously boiling my skin..

Afterwards, I threw on the closest Hawaiian shirt, ran to my office, and turned on my setup. The beginning was the toughest part. Forrest was anxious to get to the reading as we were in for another long one. I was still waking up and still recovering from the prior night. Two images kept popping back into my head: the bloody frog croaking in the dark, and the scratches on Nancy’s back. I tried to push past them as I fiddled with my camera. My service was out of whack, and my microphone kept cutting out. After half an hour of troubleshooting and restarting, we pulled up the story: “Goatskin”.

Forrest and I were in the dark on this one. It was a longer one with multiple parts. The recording was about five hours long.

The story is about a group of four friends who come across an abandoned church on their way to the Sand Dunes in Colorado. They find themselves trapped in a sort of time loop where every time they think they’ve passed the church, the road takes a left and they end up passing it again. After several attempts to turn around, go off road, or call someone, the car gets a flat, and the group feels forced to go inside the church and find a way out. One of the characters was a lot like me; she was spiritual and had read up about various religions and thought they’d have to negotiate with whatever entity was doing this to them. Another character was like Forrest: he didn’t believe in ghosts or spirits, and going to the farm felt like a worse decision than picking a direction and walking. 

The group goes into the church to find an old man dressed in a robe made of goatskin, dragging a baby goat by a rope. The man carried a bible. He could read it upside down. He offered the friends the chance to leave and “roam free,” but if they didn’t accept his offer, they would be forced to “be swallowed by their mother’s womb and choke on her barren depths.” The religious character thinks the deal is vague and likely a trap. Forrest’s character thinks they should take the deal, then kill the man. The other girl isn’t sure. The main character, a boy named “Isaac”, shows hesitation. He was the one who planned the road trip and thus feels guilty for the whole thing. He volunteers to take the deal only if the man lets the other characters go, sacrificing himself. He shakes hands with the goat man, only for the man to shake violently and begin wailing, pleading for mercy, and die. The goat then reverse-werewolfs into a man, shedding his skin and cloaking it around Isaac. Isaac asks if his friends can go, but the goat laughs him off and says he didn’t make a deal for all of them, just one of them.  The goat then kisses Isaac on the forehead, putting him in a trance. Isaac is led out of the church while his friends get stuck in the cathedral as it sinks into the earth.

At the time, I thought the story was okay. None of the characters felt fleshed out in a compelling way, except for the girl I related to. The twist was stupid and somewhat predictable, so it didn’t seem earned. The setup and setting were super interesting, but I don’t feel it paid off. It felt like the story could’ve been set anywhere and the events would’ve played out the same. I wanted something longer, too. A bit more meat on everyone’s bones. 

You don’t care about this, though. This is all to say that it didn’t sit with me, and if I weren't where I am now, I wouldn’t have remembered it. Sacrifice, that should’ve been my takeaway. Sacrifices aren’t always what you plan them to be. Sometimes giving yourself up is the most selfish thing you can do.

The stream ended with our typical goodbyes, but before I could turn off my camera, Forrest reached out to me.

“Hey, man. Are you doing alright?”

“I’m good.” I impulsively answered. “You?”

“It’s just… you’ve got bags on your eyes and you haven’t been the same in mon-”

“Oh,” I laughed. “I just had a shitty night. A frog got stuck in my house, and I had to throw him out, and he had a leaking gash.” Forrest shuffled in his seat.

“Yeah, uhh, for sure, man. I don’t really know what that’s about, but I just want to know that you’re alright. You’ve felt off… for a while, I mean.” My chest tightened, and a wave of emotional exhaustion flushed down my face. Another image of the man with the black dog appeared behind my eyes. “Just saying, man, you’ve been kinda weird and-.”

“ I think Nancy is cheating on me.” The mood shifted… as it typically does when you bring up that your wife may be cheating on someone else. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“Woah, why do you think that?”

“Well, she’s been distant. We haven’t had a conversation that wasn’t an argument in weeks, she won’t say ‘I love you’ back to me, and last night I saw scratch marks on her back like someone-”

“Like someone was gripping her tight?” Forrest’s eyes squinted.

“Don’t say it like that!”

“I’m just saying!” He was embarrassed. “That’s- I don’t know. Have you talked to her about it?”

“It’s kind of a hard thing to bring up!”

“Well, yeah, but geez, man.” He was laughing nervously. “You’ve known Nancy since college. I feel like I’ve gotten to know her a little bit. I feel like she can offer a better explanation than her having had some guy's hands all over her.” The statement felt like a strange mix of assurance and denial. “And, as for the other stuff… I’m sorry, Micah. That’s… that’s gotta be tough. I hope you guys can work through it.”

He was nervous, uncomfortable trying to talk me off the emotional ledge. We hadn’t ever been friends who talked to each other about serious problems. He was trying, though.  

“Yeah man, I know. I’ll talk to her.” We nodded at each other, showing affection and appreciation the only way two emotionally stunted grown men could. “Thanks.” 

“Sure, just.. Don’t be fucking crazy.” He laughed.

“Yeah, absolutely.” Already uncomfortable enough and with nothing more to say, I shifted topics. “Record on Thursday?”

“Yep.” He sat there awkwardly and I noticed he didn’t seem half as sloshed as he had been.

“Forrest, I can’t help but notice you’re not hungover…”

“Yeah.” his eyes shifted awkwardly. “One usually isn’t hungover all the time.”

“Except that the past three recordings you have been.”

“Fuck you, you don’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure I do, you always burp more when you’re hungover-”

“I burp, man! Plenty of people burp. Is that a crime?”

“No, whatever!” I shouted back, half-laughing. “Just, you seem… I don’t know, more attentive.”

“Yeah, well,” He shifted in his seat. “Just want things to go back to normal.”

“Sure…” I stared as he refused to look directly at the monitor. “Are YOU doing alright?” At first, he kept his mouth shut, but I could see he was on the verge of saying something. He opened his mouth and leaned in.

“I’m da joker.” He cackled, and I rolled my eyes.

“Screw you, man! I was trying to be a good friend.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” He laughed. “Seriously, dude, appreciate it.” He paused before ending the call abruptly.

I shut off my display and let out a deep sigh. The interaction was brief, but it shook my system. I remember thinking that I needed to get out of the house. It was a little after 4pm, hours left before the sun would set. I knew better than to take a walk alone in the backwoods of Kentucky, and walking in my neighborhood wasn’t exactly a wise idea either. It's about the best time to acknowledge that my house is larger than most. The channel does well, and I’m not totally proud to admit that I can afford a certain level of luxury. I’m not living like Travis Scott or Kanye, but I am comfortable. I don’t typically share this because I don't want to come across as bragadocious. Regardless, it’s important to understand that my neighborhood is safe, but the houses are spread out and not particularly inviting.

I got dressed, ate a dusty bagel, and took a drive instead. There’s a park outside my neighborhood where the trees were in late bloom and hung over the road like a canopy. I was in an ignorant splendor, blasting the AC and taking in the colors that lay out before me. Tennessee greens and vibrant purples were scattered around me. The winding road stretches without a destination for a long time. I was alone, with only trees and birds to keep me company. The first twenty minutes I played music, but I found myself turning down the stereo until it was barely background noise. Bible verses would occasionally pop into my head like pleasant memories: Matthew 6:26, Psalm 119:11, Hebrews 2:18. Instead of the black dog, I just pictured Nancy, talking. 

I missed her voice, her laugh. When we fought well, I’d always end up laughing frustratedly, pacing back and forth, and inevitably sitting just far enough away from Nancy that I couldn’t touch her shoulder or hold her hand. I was quick in these fights, bitter. I’d be sharp and immediate with a question or response, but I melted quickly. She would always be still, raise her volume but hardly move, and when I was quiet she’d be loud and we’d trade energy. When we were good, we’d both end up laughing and apologizing. I wanted that, for us to end up on the same team again. When it was about 6:00, I headed back home. Nancy’s car was in the driveway.

I walked in, the sun still burning through the walls and piercing the glass panels. I could see her legs hanging from the side of the couch. She was still wearing her scrubs, probably lazily scrolling on her phone. Her head popped out from the back of the couch and looked at me.

“Where have you been?” Her face was casual, eyebrows relaxed.

“I went out for a drive, just to clear my head. How was your day- or I guess- how were your past two days?”

“They were… Well, they weren’t great, but I don’t want to talk about it-” She sat up and put her arms over the chair. “I’m sorry about last night. I was just exhausted and needed to rest. Were you waiting long?” 

“No no, I ate and I was fine. I get it, it’s not up to you.”

“How are you?”  You said you needed to clear your head?” She watched me as I walked over and around the couch and sat across from her on the sofa. “You slept on the couch last night.”

“Yeah,” I winced. All that thinking about this conversation, and I still didn’t know what to say. “The couch doesn’t matter, that was something random. I went for a drive because I’ve been cooped up here and I needed to think… about you.”

“What about me?” Her casual demeanor was replaced with panic. Her voice had the slightest quiver.

“Well,” I scratched at my neck and leaned against the arm of the chair. The heat of the room was bogging me down, making it hard to speak. I’d ease her in. “I noticed you’ve been getting back from the hospital pretty late, you’ve been distant, and you have scratches on your back… Is everything alright with the job?”

“With my job? No, it sucks, but I’m getting there. I feel like we’re talking about something else, though.” Not panicking anymore, her eyes were narrow, and her jaw was clenched. I sucked in.

“Where were the scratches from?”

“I honestly can’t remember and didn’t notice I had scratches on me. Yesterday, an old lady fell and needed help getting back into her bed. She had sharp nails and a firm grip so maybe that was it, why?” Of course, I thought. I didn’t know what to say. I was relieved, but also riddled with guilt for even assuming anything. “Did you think I was cheating or something?”

“Well,” I was blindsided by the directness. “Yeah, kinda.” I nervously laughed. “Obviously you aren’t and I was just being crazy-”

“Being crazy?! You assumed I was cheating because I had scratches on my back, and I am understandably tired after coming home from long shifts.”

“Well, when you put it like that-”

“I’m not putting it like anything! That’s how you said it. Why would you think I’d ever cheat on you? Hell, when would I even have time if I wanted to?!”

“After work! I thought- Well, you haven’t been saying you love me back. We haven’t talked in weeks-”

“I’ve been at work, exhausted! A- And what are you talking about with ‘I love you?’ I say ‘I love you every night before we go to bed. You’re the one who hasn’t been saying it back!”

“What?” The contradictions were already giving me a migraine. “But last night you were-”

“Last night, I got home, told you I needed to sleep, and got into the shower before going to bed. When I got into bed, I told you I loved you, and you rolled over onto your side. You left the room like ten minutes later. Micah, what is going on with you? And why did you get up?”

“I don’t know,” I stood up and grabbed at my head. “I thought you were angry at me or that you cheated, and I needed to wash my face, and then there was a bloody frog that got in the house and I had to clean it up and-.”

“A bloody frog?” She pinched her temple. I must’ve sounded crazy.

“Yeah, an injured frog got in through the back door. There was blood, and I had to clean it up. There’s still marks in the carpet if you look close enough-”

“Okay, I believe you and don’t care about the frog!” She shouted, and it was quiet for a moment. “I do care… I’m sorry you had to deal with that. I just-” she sank further into the couch and buried her hands in her face. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d cheat on you.” She cried. I sat in silence, unsure of what to do. “What happened to us?”

“I don’t know, Nanc’.” I put my arm around her, and she crumbled into my chest. “I’m sorry. I- I haven’t been myself.” As I rubbed her back, my hands passed over where I had first seen the scratches. They were less noticeable than I remembered, barely breaking her skin. I didn’t understand what paranoid veil was covering my eyes, but feeling her snot and tears stain my shirt had woken me up.

“I need you to be yourself, for me.” She brokenly begged.

“I- I’m gonna try. I’m sorry, Nanc’.” 

“What do I do?” She pushed off of me and stared into my eyes. “How do I help you help yourself? I don’t have time to be here and I hardly have the energy to argue like this… but you also just won’t open up! You just aren’t here. When we argue, it’s in the past or about the future, but when we’re done your mind can’t stay with me. I just- What do I do?”

“I’m not sure-”

“Then what do you need? If not from me, what do you need for yourself?” I wish I could’ve told her then, but I didn’t know the truth then. I only knew what that voice whispering from the nap of my neck was saying to me.

“I need something to wake me up, to give me passion again. I need a good fucking story.”

“Then find one.” She softly hit her hand against my chest.

I let her go, fully dropping my arms. She got up and wiped her baggy red eyes. There was a moment where we both knew that the conversation had ended- a half-hearted victory where I had something to strive towards and she knew I was gonna try.

“I’m hungry.”

“Pizza?”

“Pizza.”

“Alright, go shower and I’ll pick it up.” We got up together and hugged. I wish I had spoken up then. Instead, I tried to ignore the black tail that caught my eye as it disappeared into the brush in our backyard. 

I got home with the lowering sun. The whole drive I debated telling her everything. I told myself that it was selfish to put my demons on her shoulder. I wish I hadn’t. If I had opened up to her, been honest about the black dog, maybe she could’ve saved us both. Maybe I just wanted to be the hero. She let me play the part for the rest of the night.

Nancy had showered and dressed in comfortable clothes. Apparently we both had a headache so we kept to a quiet night. We ate on the couch as she described her day, and I tried not to lose my dinner. She didn’t tell stories as much as give facts about patients, and I did not realize how many different objects fit into different holes of the human body. I never envied her work, maybe her dedication. We got ready for bed together. It would be an early night. As I made our bed, she brushed her teeth and shouted questions about my night from the bathroom and down the hall.

“How big was the cut on the frog?”

“Big, it was across nearly the whole body.”

“Yeah? Was there a lot of blood? What cleaner did you use?”

“The bleach. I may have watered it down a little.”

“So, that's why you left the kitchen and bathroom sink on! I was confused by that.”

Her voice trailed off as I undressed and got into bed and scrolled on my phone. A few minutes later, she came in. I set my phone down and watched as she walked to the other side of the bed. The rain pattered softly against the house. I opened the sheets and she tucked into me.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you, too.” She smiled. I kissed her forehead, she kissed my cheek. I kissed beneath her jaw, she kissed the edge of my left brow. Our necks danced with one another and our lips crept closer together until we were entwined, kissing each other. I felt no scratches across her back. Any detail after that is for her to remember. I ask that if you are reading this now skip the next paragraph because it is for you, Nancy, and you alone.

Nance, when I met you, I played it cool and pretended that I was not the kind to be scared. However, I was petrified. I believe in Angels and demons, heaven and hell. I also believe in science, in the structure of a miracle, and the equation of the mind. You are neither of these things. You are the greatest story I have ever read. From the second I heard your voice ring in my ears, I was captivated. As we fell in love, I was fed chapters of your life and I poured through them without skipping a paragraph, a sentence, or a word. You invited me into your story, and I have tried to be the golden thread to light up your path. I am afraid I am just the maze. Should you make it out of this alive, know that your story is still going, and I will be on the edge of my seat in heaven waiting for your homecoming. There is not a line on the page or a moment in your day that I do not find a masterpiece. You are the parable that saves lives, that fights for people, that gets caught watching the sunrise, and lives in the present as if there is no other way to live. You have loved me like no other, and you have given my story a reason to tell it. You are my angel in blue ink. Whatever happens to me, I love you. I’ll find you past the gates. Love, Micah

That night, I was awoken by the sound of lightning. The rain was loud, as if it were pouring in the house. I looked to my left. Nancy was still asleep. A thud came from downstairs, and I promptly pulled the gun out from my bedside drawer. Extreme, sure, but I didn’t care. The black dog had infiltrated my every thought, my every nightmare, and I wouldn’t let it invade my home. I got out of my bed slowly, trying not to wake Nancy. I shuffled to put on pants with one hand. Slowly, I pulled our bedroom door open and walked through, gun raised and safety off. 

Turns out I was right thinking the rain was pouring into the house. Every window outside our bedroom that could open was open, and the storm was leaking into our homes like death creeps into frozen lungs. I tucked the gun into my pants and ran to every room in the house, beginning with the second floor and working my way down. Every time I stepped in front of a window, I was blasted with water. It was more a hurricane than a rainstorm, and by the time I reached the main floor, I thought the glass wall would shatter against the sheer force of the storm. 

The sight outside the window wall was apocalyptic. The storm lit up the night sky with a blue and white electric backdrop. The windows pulsed as rain and wind battered the tempered glass. It was as if the glass wall was melting, and any moment the roar of God would rip the house from its foundations. Thunder struck. All of this was happening, and yet my eyes were entranced by a different vision. Covered from the rain by the nearest tree, a white cat sluggishly walked along the thick, flooded grass toward me.

The cat lacked any impurity or blemish. Its fur didn’t glow; it erased. Blank space in the shape of a feline crept closer and closer. I couldn’t see an injury, yet the creature walked with a limp. My body was frozen, for fear, allure, or awe, I could not tell. That was until its eyes met mine. Green, glimmering, and glowing past my every thought. I was entranced and felt my knees weaken. Another second watching and I may have wept. Instead, I was screaming.

In another flash of lightning, the black dog came out from the darkness and lunged at the white cat. They bore into each other, tearing at flesh and bracing against one another. Thunder struck again. Before my body could register, I was out the back door with my gun drawn. The wind and rain hit me hard. I was drowning as I raised my gun. The dog had pinned the dying cat and bit at its brow. I shouted at the beast. It faced me and crowed. I raised my gun and fired. 

My ears rang. I swore I hit it, but nothing happened. The black dog let the cat go, and the battered creature curled into a ball. It growled and ran at me. As I raised my gun to fire a second shot, lightning struck a tree nearby, the blast sending a shockwave at the two of us. The roar made my ears bleed, and my eyes flashed, blinded by the electric glow.

However, at the same second the lightning had struck, the rain seemingly stopped dead in its tracks and the black dog took a step back. He looked up at the sky before facing me. I squeezed the trigger. The trigger clicked, but nothing fired. The chamber was filled with water.

We stood staring at each other, my eyes darted past the dog to the feline. It just lay there; it could’ve been dead. I looked back up at the black dog. Under the cover of the tree, the beast was untouched by rain. Still, it was soaked in blood. It shook flecks off its body and darted out of sight. 

The ringing in my ears was aching, but I pressed on and cautiously crept toward the cat. Blood poured from her head and chest, but she was still breathing. When I was close enough to touch her, I knelt down and reached out my hands. She suddenly raised her eyes, the green now muddied with blood, and the cat struck at me.  I pulled back, but not before it scratched again. I dropped my gun and clamped my hand on the mark: a cross. When I looked back up, the cat was dead.

Blood was gushing from my hand, and I immediately felt dizzy. I stumbled inside. Leaning against the sink, I ran my hand through the water. After I had washed away the blood and dirt, I grabbed a bandage from the main floor bathroom. A sudden wave of exhaustion struck me. The sound of tapping rain was lulling me back to sleep. I was going to pass out. Desperate to check on Nancy, I lumbered back upstairs and swung open the bedroom door. 

There she lay, unharmed and unbothered. A throbbing pain between my brow raged. My vision blurred. I hadn’t taken two more steps before I was falling. I braced for impact. However, by some miracle, I landed gently on my bed, as if carried there. My eyes phased in and out of consciousness as my phone buzzed with a heavy storm warning. The time marked 3:13.

Part 3

He chuckled to himself as I finished the last part and, in desperate fury, I struck Him. For that, He beat me half to death and made me choke on my own blood. There is a rhythm to these outbursts. Every time I have tried to retaliate, he finds a new way to break my body. Then, he puts a cup to my lips, pours, and I’m returned to how I was before. The only scratch still on me is the cat’s. 

This last time, I spat out his healing poison and passed out on the floor. Fading in and out of consciousness, I heard him whispering threats, promises, and encouragements. He told me that it’s been just over 48 hours since I started. It’s felt eternal. When I was fully awake again, he made me drink from his cup, sat me down at the chair, and coldly told me to keep writing. He tells me where I left off, laughing again. I let him.

I woke up in a hot sweat. The first thing I did was reach for Nancy. She wasn’t there. I whipped around, checking the drawer for my gun. Nothing. I fumbled to put on clothes and practically fell down the stairs. The images of last night throbbed in my aching head as I wondered if it had all been a nightmare. I rushed outside.

Immediately, I was taken aback by the scene. The massive tree in my backyard was splintered and scorched. Smog was billowing from the trunk. Surrounding it was the damage of the storm, branches strung in the backyard, a crack in the window wall from sustained blows, and a blanket of rain that had not yet evaporated from the muggy heat. That was the first indicator that last night really happened, but these were all explainable. As I scrambled to get under the shade of the scorched tree, I saw the cat. 

It had not moved from its location. Its wounds had peeled open, and blood had all but covered its white fur. Flies crowded around the body, already taking their fill. I looked away, horrified by the stench and sound. It wasn’t just the buzzing of the flies, but the smallest sound of sucking and tearing. It was unnatural, and enough for bile to rise in my stomach. I forced myself to swallow as I avoided looking directly at the scene of the crime.

A few feet away, I found my gun. When I picked it up, it leaked water from every gap. I checked the magazine to find one shot was missing. I tucked the piece into my pants and forced myself to face the cat. A stench of rotten flesh persisted. I covered my mouth and felt a tear coming down my face. I felt unsafe, unprotected, and unwatched. 

Nevertheless, I felt a compulsion to pull the sad creature from the flies and bury it. And I did. It didn’t take long. Despite the flies, the heat, and the splintered state of the corpse, the process felt sanctified, holy. 

I ran back inside to grab my phone. A single text from Nancy read “had to leave early, luv u.” The vaguest memory of her kissing my cheek in the early morning settled into my head. She’s alright, I thought.

I spent the rest of the morning cleaning my gun, inspecting the house, and retracing my steps. There was still water under all the windows, which I cleaned the best I could. I went back to the tree. It hadn’t registered last night just how close the lightning strike was. Maybe it was a sign from God, I thought. Let’s just hope he was aiming for the dog. Looking back, I think it was the latter.

Regardless, I knew I wasn’t crazy; I couldn’t be. This meant the black dog was real, the demons were out to get me. The ache in my hand pulsated. I looked down at the mark. When you’re being haunted, what do you do? I remember asking myself. You leave the house and find a chapel.

My church was located right off the interstate. Getting there was like pulling into a gas station. Cars honked. It smelled like cigarettes and wet cement. However, the building itself was fine, traditional. For anyone asking, I’m nondenominational, but here that means I’m Baptist. For anyone who’s not religious, nondenominational might be described as a lazy Christian or nontraditional. For me, it simplifies faith to its necessities. I don’t think Jesus died so I could have mass or hate gay people. I think my God cares about faith, love, and hope. Right now, I was lacking all three.

It was about noon when I arrived. As I pulled in, I saw there were only a handful of cars in the lot. Getting out of my ca,r I was hit with a wave of dry heat. As I walked toward the front doors, I saw one of the countless local wild hogs wandering behind the church. No matter how many times I saw them, I always found them creepy.

I swung the front doors open dramatically. I probably looked insane staring to the far end, hoping to see the pastor quietly standing close by. He wasn’t there. 

The chapel was traditional. Two rows of pews and an altar at the north end. There was a small pool they had recently installed for baptism in the corner. It was empty. Two small windows hid toward the northern end of the building, with natural light leaking on the podium only. The distant sound of cars could still be heard inside the walls. This was paired with a dying AC and a few stragglers shifting in their seats. I found a corner pew and sat down. I folded my hands to pray. It hadn’t hit me until then how long it had been since I had had the old one-on-one with God. I talk a lot about my faith on my channel, but the truth is, I’ve lost it. Not in a dramatic refusal to accept the bible and the church, but a slow, quiet apathy towards everything that had to do with the church. Nothing kills faith more than apathy. It had been long enough that when I opened my mouth to speak, I wasn’t sure what to say. So, I stared.

My father once told me. “If you’re praying and you’re not sure what to say… don’t. Just listen and maybe God will tell you what you need to hear.” God was quiet today. The passive headache that had been haunting me the past few days was beginning to flare. The dog was creeping back into my head. The goat, too, and the frog, and the flies. When I shut my eyes, they were waiting for me, and they laughed at me, mocked me with human smiles and human teeth. Words began fumbling out of my lips as I sat there. Words like ‘please’, ‘save’, ‘Nancy’, Lord’, ‘stop’, and ‘I beg of you.’ The images in my head were getting more elaborate, more apocalyptic:

I was a lamb lying down only to get caught in the earth and buried alive. The frog was bleeding on my carpet, spitting blood onto my hands. I go down to wipe my hands, and I’m wiping them on a goatskin pelt. When I begin to rip off the pelt, the fly-ridden cat approaches. She sounds like Nancy, and she tears the clothes from my body. I fall to the ground, and I am on a desolate earth. The sky is yellow and I am nearly alone. Except for the man with the black dog, he walks toward me. The dog obediently struts behind them, and when he is close enough to kiss my cheek, I feel his arm raise.

“Micah, are you okay?” I am snapped out of my vision by a hand on my shoulder. It is the deacon. My eyes adjust to the bright light of the room. How long have my eyes been closed? I must be staring at the man with confusion. “You’re crying.”

“I am?” I wipe my eyes. “Sorry.”

“It is Micah, isn’t it? You were shouting… causing quite a scene.”

“Really?” My cheeks flushed.” Sorry, I didn’t mean to uhh.. I believe you, I guess… I- I need to see Pastor August."

The deacon walked me through the pews behind the church to the offices. I had met the deacon before. He was nice, a bit formal for my taste, but a seemingly good man. He moved quickly. At firs,t I thought he was also desperate for me to see the pastor, but the further we went and the each door we passed, it felt like he just wanted to get away from me. Eventually, we passed into a small office where Pastor August sat over piles of letters and papers.

“Micah? You look horrible.” He stood up and gestured for me to sit down. “Isaiah, you can leave us n-” The deacon was already rushing out of the door. “Sorry about him. Tough Tuesday.” We sat down in synchronization. There was a large window behind him. Outside, all you could see was Tennessee woods and the dim light of a setting day. He must’ve seen me staring. “Oh, the window? Yeah, it’s a bit strange of a placement. Doesn’t get much light, but when the sun set,s it’s beautiful.” He faced me again. His eyes were kind, sunken like mine, but patient. He was wearing a black suit with a white tie. “What brings you in? If you don’t mind me saying, I haven't seen you in the church for a while.”

“Right. I have been busy… It’s not an excuse, but yeah. I’m… I need your help,  Pastor August.” I leaned in. “I need you to trust me.”

“Micah, you’re scaring me a little. You seem-”

“I know, I seem crazy. I feel crazy, but…” Once again, the ability to explain my situation felt impossible. How could I possibly expect anyone to believe this, but who else was supposed to believe in demons? “I think I’m being possessed by a demon.”

His eyes flickered. “Possessed?”

“Or maybe oppressed. I don’t know. Weird stuff has been happening to me. A black dog has been following me. At first I thought I was seeing things, but last night there was a lightning strike and I shot my gun and this morning-”

“You shot your gun?” His eyes widened.

“Yes, at the black dog. It was attacking a cat. If it’s any consolatio,n the gun didn’t do anything-”

“Micah,” August pinched his eyelids. “It is my job to take what you’re saying seriously and provide you with some form of counsel. I believe in every aspect of the bible, including the more fantastical miracles our God has performed. All that being said, I’m struggling with this one. Do you have any proof with you of what you’re seeing other than the bags under your eyes?”

“I- don’t.” I shook my head and grunted. “Except, I have these scratches on my hand.”

“What scratch?” He raised his eyebrow. I looked down at my palm. The two slashes were obviously strewn across my palm.

“You don’t see them?” I raised my hand to him.

“I see them,” he let out a sigh. “But you could’ve done those yourself?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’m not sure-”

“Please, I don't know where else to go. If I’m crazy, I’m crazy, but this feels like something more, and I have to figure this out before something awful-”

“Micah,” he raised his hand. “Sit down.” I was standing. When did I stand up? I sat back dow,n acutely aware of the sweat slipping into my lips. “I don’t have to believe you to care. If you’re right that this is a demon or you’re wrong and this is… something else, either way you’re coming to me for help. I want to honor that. I’m concerned that you or Nancy are in danger. Now, what were you saying about this gun?” 

“Okay, well. I’m gonna have to tell you the full story. Is that alright?”

“I suppose,” he sighed and smiled. “I’m gonna get a glass of whisky first. You want anything?”

“Yeah, actually.” I half-laughed. “But water should be-”

I looked up to see Pastor August frozen in front of me. His mouth lay ajar and his eyes wide. He was crying as he raised his arm, whisky glass in hand. His movement was stiff, like he was being puppeted. He faced behind me, and I looked behind myself at the bare wall.

“Pastor August?” There was a small mirror on the back wall. Looking into the reflection, I saw the two of us in our exact positions, and just outside the window behind Pastor August was the black dog, sitting without moving. I looked at Pastor August through the mirror, and his head had been replaced with that of a wild boar.

I turned to see the pastor directly. His face was frigid and cold. I reached out to pull down his arms, but he wouldn’t budge. His right hand held the glass and suddenly thrust it at his face at full force. The glass shattered, and he fell to the floor. I reached down to help him, but his hand kept thrusting, and he kept stabbing himself with the broken glass. Over and over, the sound was clean and fast with the smallest of crunches every time a piece of glass would lodge in the skin or bone would shatter. I think I was crying as I tried to stop him, but my arms couldn’t prevent his. An unholy strength had taken over him, and there was nothing I could do to stop the possession.

Blood spurted onto me, and my hands were covered in it. More red was on me than in the pastor. His arm slowed the puncturing and eventually stopped. I ripped the glass from his hands and moved my left hand to his neck. I felt through glass shards and emerging blood for a pulse. Nothing. 

I scooted back in the office and started to weep before looking through the back window. The dog slowly approached the church. I cowered. He made his way up to the window and began scratching. I could hear His voice in my head, gentle and inviting. It’s okay, it’s okay. I turned around to the mirror and shattered it across the floor.

The black dog sat there, waiting, his body unnaturally still. We stared at each other, another impasse. Whatever was stopping him from coming inside was keeping me alive, but I couldn’t stay here forever. After all, there was blood on my hands, and someone had to take the blame.

I got up, not moving my eyes from the black dog. I nearly slipped on the slowly spreading pool of pastor blood. I locked the door I had come through. If I walked through the way I came, people would see me, so I found the next door over and I ran.

The rear of this church was a mystery to me. Any door I opened could lead outside to the dog or back into the nave. The steps I took led a bloody trail. Sweat and blood mixed on my face as I ran. The next room over was a lounge, empty as a blank office, and no windows. I cut diagonally and threw open the next door: the vestry room. 

A few pulpit cloaks were on hangers. Communion cups spilled over on a center table. There was one open window. Sure enough, the black dog was walking toward it. I thrust the red curtains shut and looked for the next door. It was against the same wall as the window. What to do? What to do? I saw an empty wine bottle on the floor, picked it up, and smashed it against the table. I turned back to the door I entered and scammed it open and ran for just a second before quietly crouching and walking backwards toward the exit door. He couldn’t see through the curtains, but neither could I. I put my hand on the latch that led outside and opened the door outside.

I went for a mad dash to my car without looking back. If He was chasing me, I wouldn’t know. I had to run around the whole church and straight across to my car. As I ra,n I swear I heard screaming coming from the church. The blood on my face and my hands dripped off my body as I cleared the last corner and made sight of my car. I huffed, my noise not dissimilar from His. He could be right behind me, just waiting to bite. I didn’t dare look back. I was too close. I pulled out my keys as I ran and unlocked the car. I reached the car door and I swung it open.

I threw myself in the car and finally looked across the yard to see if He had followed me. The lot was empty, no black dog, no witnesses. I let out an exhausted and relieved groan. 

“Thank God,” I muttered to myself.

“Don’t thank anyone yet…” A gentle hand came across my shoulder. My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. It was Pastor August, bloodied and bone-faced, eyes black and red. “You really ought to start the car. They’ll be looking for any minute now.” My face lost all blood. I knew, in that moment, the Black Dog was in my car, presenting himself in the face of a pastor.

 My face must’ve given away what I was thinking. He nodded and lightly squeezed my shoulder before politely and precisely putting his hands to his side. “Go on, it will be alright.” He smiled. I put the car into drive and pulled out of the church onto the freeway. “Just keep driving for a while.” He picked at the glass on his face. “I have somewhere I want to take you.”

Part 4

We traveled together for hours, northwest. Anytime I asked a question about where we were going, He’d casually brush it aside. My head ached, and the adrenaline ran out fast, but He would intermittently encourage me to stay awake. Long bouts of the drive were silent. He’s chuckling now, as I write this part, as if it’s a fond memory between two friends. He’ll laugh harder as I write that, in the first hour, I was quietly thinking of any way to kill Him. At one point, I reached for my gun in the glovebox, but the firearm was gone when I opened it. He didn’t say when he got it or what he had done with it. My mind frantically searched for ways to dispel a demon, a method of escape, places to go, but he quelled my questions with a greater terror. We were still in Tennessee when he 

“You don’t have much of a choice here, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, fuck you, why’s that?” I gritted my teeth.

“Well, it’s just the stakes, you see. You know you can’t escape me. Clearly, the people around you can’t escape me.” He gestured to the body he was holding himself to. The pastor’s corpse was showing early signs of decay, including a growing scent of degradation. “So, you have to take into consideration more than just yourself.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I white-knuckled the steering wheel.

“Well, it’s not just about you. Think about Nance’”

"Don't- call her that.”

“Alright, I understand.” He waved his hands up and nodded dutifully. “Well, she needs you to keep your head. It’ll do neither of them any good if you decide to be brash.” We met eyes as I looked into the rearview. He was daring me to try something, seeing what would provoke me. I looked back at the road, shook myself to stay awake. I could only look back at him so many times. His face haunted me, made me sick. Instead, I’d catch glances of his body or his arms and pretend the passenger was just that, a stranger catching a ride.

“So, where are you taking-?”

“It’s a beautiful drive, isn't it?” He scooted to the window like a child. “Just wait until sunset, we’ll be passing through some absolutely divine farmland… wheatfields and open sky for miles… like going out to pasture.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. This time, He didn't respond.

We drove on in silence. At one point, He tried to ask me my favorite story from the podcast. I ignored Him. I was just waiting for when we crossed the state border. 

However, we never did. One second, we were in Tennessee, the nex,t we were passing the entrance sign to Kentucky. I looked back at him when it happened. He smiled like he was hiding a small secret and continued to stare out the window. It was then that I noticed I hadn’t lost any gas in the tank. I wasn’t gonna have an excuse to get out of the car.

A few more hours passed by, and the sun did begin to set. He had been right, again. We were passing through farmland, and the sunset lasted longer than usual. A golden sea lay before us with a red sky dipping into the land, ripples of sunlight passed before us. Any other circumstances, and it would’ve been a pleasant sight, but with His presence, the red looked more like blood, and the yellow looked more like sin. 

The adrenaline had fully worn off, and the sun was tucked away. My eyes were getting heavy, and I pulled over to the side of the road. He placed his hand on my shoulder again.

“Micah, you need to stay awake.”

“I can’t stay awake through the night… I need to take a break. A-and Nancy will be looking for me. I should call her.” I looked him in the face; more flesh had fallen, and more bone appeared in its place. He only had one eye now. “You can listen in, I promise I won’t say anything-”

“No need,” He closed the one eye He had left, folded His hands, and looked down as if in prayer. “She’s alright. She hasn’t gotten off her shift yet.” He looked back up at me, and I almost threw up. “I suppose you can take a rest, a short one, though. I apologize, but I’m quite anxious to get where we are headed.” He scooted to the passenger side. “Go ahead and recline. I’ll give you a moment.”

“You know, if you want to get there so bad, you could drive.”

“Oh no, not at all. You’re doing so well. Besides, I don’t think you want these hands behind the wheel.” He raised His hands, and I saw that the right was mutilated beyond repair. He was bullshitting, but I didn’t have the energy to care. Whatever sick reason He had for making me drive, I’d have to oblige. I reclined my seat and lay down facing away from the creature. I wish I could say it took me a while, that I was so distressed by my situation that my eyes kept open. I fell asleep like I was dead, and I might as well have been.

—

It was like I had blinked. I awoke to his voice, whispering in my ear.

“Micah,” His face was that of the dog. I shook myself up and blinked. It was gone again, and I’m ashamed to say I was relieved to see the face of my dead pastor. “It’s time to go.”

I lifted up the seat and put the car in drive. I wasn’t fully awake before hitting the gas and getting back on the road. 

I asked him if I could call Nancy again. He said the phone had no signal. I tried to call anyway, but He had been telling the truth, or at least partially. Even now, I wonder what He had control of when we were in that car. How many things had been steered His way by choice and not chance.

The further we drove, the more of a guess I had as to where we might be headed. At some point, He gently sang to himself: Lead Belly and Johnny Cash. After a few hours, the sun began to ris,e and we were nearing our destination. As we approached, He began asking more questions.

“Favorite bible story?”

“Are you serious?” I shook my head.

“I am.”

“I don’t know, Jacob wrestling God.” I shifted in the seat as the demon perked up.

“Ooo, Genesis 32… Old Testament. I would’ve thought you’d chosen something more macabre- then again,” He laughed giddily. “And you said God, not an Angel? Interesting”

“Oh, do you know better?” I snapped. He didn’t respond but kept smiling. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe my favorite story is Matthew 5 or Ecclesiastes.” I peered back to see the demon’s face sink mildly. “What is your name?”

He turned to face me and smiled wider than I had seen before, the loose skin stretching to an inhuman degree. “Take a guess.”

“Nevermind.” I pretended to ignore him; my face was hot, and I was reminded that the passenger behind me was more than I had bargained for. It was stupid of me to try to goad a creature like Him. In a last-ditch effort, I prayed silently. Nobody seemed to respond. 

We made it into the city, and before long, the Black Dog stopped giving me directions. We both knew where we were headed. As we passed through cities, I begged for a cop car to see the dried blood on my body or the passenger behind me, but nobody did. The few cars we saw passed us without hesitation, and I wondered if He had put some sort of veil on the two of us.

It was morning when we pulled into the driveway. I prayed to God that Forrest’s wife wasn’t home.

“What are we doing here?” I gritted my teeth. I had only visited Forrest’s house a few times. Each time Jenny, his wife, answered the door. 

“I’ll just be a moment-”

“No! Let me come with you.” I put my hand on the demon’s shoulder for the first time. It was cold. He looked at me with what seemed to be genuine empathy.

“Micah, I don’t think you want to see this part.” 

“He’s my friend. He doesn’t have to be a part of this.”

“Oh Micah,” The creature shook His head, “He already is.”

I grabbed him and swung at His face. My hand connected with the clean side of His face. His head hardly moved. 

“Fine. Have it your way” he sighed before opening his mouth wide. A plume of smoke released from his mouth and moved to my lungs. I coughed as I breathed it in. As I coughed, I grabbed my throat, then my chest, my stomach, and finally the door handle. As I opened the door, I fell out and lost control of my limbs. I had no control of my body. “I didn’t want to do it this way.” It was my voice that rang out, but I hadn’t spoken the words. Then my legs rose.

I was walking toward the door. I screamed, but no voice came out. “Shhh,” He whispered back as he used my body. I was merely a vessel now. I could feel a tear run down my cheek as we approached the front door. Please! I shouted into the void.

I was at the front door, ringing the doorbell. I screamed, I prayed, I used every ounce of my being to move a finger, but my limbs were His now. The sweat leaving my brow was not my own. The front door clicked.

“Jesus, Micah, what are you- is that blood-?!” Forrest didn’t have time to run before I swung at him. He hit the ground and began crawling away. I was on top of him, knees pressing into his shoulders. My fist connected with his head again and again. He wheezed. Tears were streaming down my neck as my hands closed around his throat. 

“Sorry, Micah,” my voice rang. “I didn’t want it to go this way.” It was done as soon as it started. My hands let go, and my breath slowed. God, Why?! My hand felt for a pulse around his neck. It was faint, but steady. He was just knocked unconscious. What are you doing to him?! 

“Well, we are taking a passenger.” My voice rang out as my limbs dragged Forrest out the front door. “I truly didn’t want it to go this way.” I was silent. 

We carried Forrest down to the left side of my car. His face was bloodied. Our hand wiped at the blood, cleaning him up. We opened the passenger door and heaved his body into the passenger seat. We plugged his seat belt and propped his head to the side so it looked as if he was sleeping. Then, we headed to the driver's side and stepped inside.

“Okay,” my voice rang as our body turned to face the corpse in the backseat. “I’m gonna go back into that body if it's all the same to you. If you try anything, I’ll murder Forrest. Copy that?”

Yes.

“Good.” My eyes shut, and I began coughing again. From my stomach to my chest to my throat and out my mouth. Before I knew it, I was blinking and teary-eyed. I bent over and coughed my lungs out. A few seconds passed before His hand was, once again, gently on my shoulder. “Take a moment.”

And I did. I wept and sat staring up at my friend, then down at my hands. The sun rose, and the heat took away all the strength in my body. All the while, He kept whispering encouraging words and sympathetic condolences. Eventually, the sun took all the tears I had left. I shuddered his hand off my shoulder and put the car in drive.

“Where are we going?”

“Drive North.” He smiled tamely. I obliged and turned out of the driveway. I darted a glance at Forrest, still breathing. “He’ll be up in a few hours.” The creature spoke. We drove in complete silence. Out of the city onto the open highway. Once we were out of the state, He nodded his head and simpered.

“You should’ve asked me more questions.” He stared out the window. “Questions like ‘What’s your favorite bible story?’ and ‘Why are you making me drive?’” At first, I didn’t respond, but my eyes were sagging and I could barely stay awake. Besides, what was there left to lose?

“What’s your favorite Bible story?”

“Cain and Abel.” He laughed. I tried my best not to react. “Now ask me why I made you drive.”

“Why’d you make me drive?”

“I just wanted to get to know you, wanted to know your story. I’ve watched from the beginning. I was a pup and you were a child. I was fascinated by you, and I like to think you were fascinated by me, even if you didn’t know it yet. Your videos really connected with me. You worshipped those stories more than the bible. You had God’s words in your hand, and you still found yourself more interested in the murder and the blood and the horror, just like me. I just wanted the context of what was going on, some meat on Micah’s bones.”

“Ask me anything, I’ll answer if you let us go.”

“What’s my name?” He wasn’t smiling anymore.

The sun began setting as He told me to pull off. The car rumbled, and I noticed the gas was finally depleting from the tank. Before long, we were surrounded by woods and traveling on a dirt road. The road twisted and curved and as light faded, I became totally unaware of where we had gone. I had been using my watch to tell what time it was, but it had stopped working. The air had turned from a dry heat to a humid summer chill. I shivered as we pulled into a cabin. 

It was small, no bigger than a garage. The dark wood was old, but not decayed, and the whole building shone from nighttime dew. A cross of thorns hung above the front door.

I stepped out of the car first, the leaves brushed from a soft breeze. When He stepped out of the car, the woods had gone silent. 

“Would you like to help me with your friend?” He opened the passenger door. I came over and helped him pull Forrest from the car. “Quick, before it rains.”

I only made it a few feet before collapsing and dropping Forrest. I was exhausted with only a few hours of sleep over the worst 48 hours of my life. My legs were essentially useless from the drive. The demon rolled His eyes and picked up Forrest. He flung him over his shoulder like he was a towel. I stumbled behind them as He opened the cabin door.

At first, it was pitch black inside, but the demon flicked his wrist and set off a dozen candles, lighting up the space. The cabin was split into two rooms. The first one was a lounge set up very similarly to a recording studio. In fact, it looked nearly identical to the one Forrest and I had used for our in-person recordings. I shuddered as we passed through the room and headed into the back: a large room with no windows. 

The room was filled with bookshelves of literature, tables covered in religious antiques. On a desk in the corner, a simple computer and keyboard. We carried Forrest over to an ornate chair, arms in the shape of two snakes. We slumped him over it. As soon as we did, the arms of the chair coiled around his wrists.

“Would you be a dear and grab a cloth from that drawer beside you?” He pointed behind me, and I opened the drawer to find it full of medical supplies. Everything looked a half-century old, at least. I grabbed the thin cloth on the left side and turned around to find the demon with a glass bottle in his hand. He took the bottle from me and dipped the contents of the bottle.

“It’s alright. It’s just rubbing alcohol,” He made his way toward Forrest.

“No!” I shouted before backing down. “I-I’ll do it, it’s the least I can do.” The demon let the cloth drape from His left hand. I took it from Him and got to work on my friend. As I wiped his face clean, I saw the real damage. He had one black eye and swelling on his forehead. As I moved down, I saw the lines where my hands had choked him.

“Micah,” The demon gently took the cloth from my hands. “Brace yourself, and let me do most of the talking. We’re about to wake your friend.” I knelt by my friend and watched the demon carefully. He went to a cupboard on the shelf and pulled out a balm and rubbed it between his hands. I could hear loose tendons squish from His mangled right hand as He did it. When He was done, He raised his index to Forrest’s nose. I could smell the sweetest fragrance I had ever come across. Forrest tilted his head and slowly came to his senses.

“Forrest, good evening.” The demon touched his shoulder.

“Don’t touch him!” I snapped. “You can talk, just please don’t touch him.” 

Forrest blinked and tried to raise his hand, undoubtedly to inspect the searing pain on his face. “What- Where am-” he began coughing.

“You’re my guest, Forrest. Do you recognize me?” The demon leaned in mere inches from his face.

“Jesus Christ!” Forrest flung himself back in his chair. I held the chair from tipping and he looked at me. “Micah! What the fuck is going on?!”

“It’s complicated. I don’t-”

“Jesus, is this another one of the nightmares?”

“No, it’s not- another?” I squinted. 

“Nevermind, just find a gun and shoot me! I don’t want to deal with this,” he rolled his eyes as tears streamed from his face.

“I won’t be allowing that,” the demon interjected. Forrest’s face turned to Him.

“Y-you’re the black dog I’ve been seeing?” He asked before throwing his head back, trying to get out, “Fuck this.”

“What is he talking about?” I grabbed the demon’s arm.

“You’re not the only person I’ve been, well, seeing…” The demon modestly stepped away.

“Is this why you’ve been showing up to the podcast drunk?” I looked back at Forrest, the pieces coming together.

“Micah, You can see Him, too? Fuck- fucking do something!”

“I-I can’t! He’s a demon! What am I supposed to do?!” I shouted back.

“I told you to let me do the talking.” The demon stood up.

“I don’t know, splash him with holy water or pray or shoot him, dammit!” Forrest shouted. “You’re the religious expert!”

“I don’t just have holy water! That would be back at my house!” 

“Ecnelis” the demon spoke, and I felt skin close around my mouth. Forrest’s lips had also disappeared behind a layer of skin. I scrambled to my feet. “Norsrep dloh” He spoke again. My body went frigid, and I fell over. “That’s better.”

“I apologize, but I think it’ll be better if I separate you.” The demon picked up the chair Forrest was sitting in and carried him into the other room. He came back to the doorway. “We’ll be back in a little bit. Esaeler.” and slammed the door shut as I collapsed under my own arms and could speak again. I got up and ran toward the door, but as I did, my vision became blurry and I fell back onto the floor. The room was spinning. I slowly passed out as the sound of screaming came from the other side of the door.

Part 5

I remember coming to slowly. At first, I thought Forrest was helping me up, but it was Him instead. He carried me over to a chair and sat me down. My body was stiff as if I had been lying there for hours. Of course, if I had been, I wouldn’t be able to tell. There was only one candle left in the room, barely enough to light more than the desk and chair I was put against. The place felt detached from reality: a room in limbo. Truly, that’s what it is. A moment between death for the demon to dance with the devoted. 

His hollowed face closely inspected me. More skin had peeled off, leaving the left half of His skull completely bare. And the right side more flesh than skin. His skin had darkened while the exposed bone left a reddish tint. He briefly turned away, and I could see two thick protrusions coming from His back. When He faced me again, He was holding a plate of bread and a ceramic cup. He offered it to me. 

I took the plate, apprehensive at first, but as soon as my lips felt the cold tip of ceramic, I gorged myself. The hunger came in a painful rise and slow quell. He watched me as I ate, but I didn’t care. The bread was stiff, but soft enough. I washed it down with the bitter red wine he laid out before me. 

“You forgot to say Grace.” He aimlessly removed his tie and leaned against a table. 

“I said it in my head.” I lied. He nodded along.

“I apologize. I’ve been playing games,” He said. “I believe you have the wrong impression of me. I am not some screwloose devil child without an end goal. I want to help you. This has all gotten out of hand. Wouldn't you agree? Yes? That's why I have decided I am going to show you some things. It should give us both some perspective.” I looked up at him in apprehension. “Don’t worry, you’ve driven enough. It’s time I took the reins. Go ahead and finish your food.”

He took the plate when I was done. “Walk with me.” We made our way to the next room over. I cringed when I saw Forrest. He was asleep, or so I hoped. His bruises were completely gone. I looked up at the demon. “He’ll recover his strength shortly. The healing was painful, exhausting for him… but I need him looking his best. You too, but we can worry about that later.”

“But he’s gonna be okay?”

“Right as rain for all things considered, but that’s why I bring you here; to demonstrate something. Look at me,” I slowly turned around and did my best to face down the beast in front of me. “Whatever you may think of me, I am not reckless in my brutality, nor am I incapable of recovery. This means two things. I am in control of what goes on in between the three of us, and any punishment I deal to him, I can reverse. Is that understood?” I nodded. “Okay, now get closer to me, and do not be afraid.”

I stepped so that we were face-to-face. As I did, a cracking and tearing noise came from his back. The demon’s wings unfurled, each the size of two grown men. They were a deep shade of red and black, textured like snake-skin. I looked up in awe and terror as they scraped against the ceiling and wrapped around the two of us, consuming me. As they did, the light vanished from around us, and I shut my eyes.

And as soon as they were closed, they opened again. I faced away from the demon and found that we were no longer in the cabin, but back at the church, in the very room where He killed Pastor August. Blood splattered against the wall, and a red pool was left behind where the body had first fallen. Yellow tape was strewn across both doorways, and small yellow tags were placed throughout the room. I looked out the window, in the dark, and I saw another wild hog passing into the woods.

“Why did you bring me here?” I asked.

“Good question,” he smiled. “Micah, what makes this place special?”

“It’s the first place I told someone about you.”

“That’s true, but not quite what I was thinking.” 

“It’s where you first murdered someone.”

“No, I’ve murdered many people before this. Try one more time, think simpler.”  He stood over me as I studied the room itself, the books, the window, the cross.”

“It’s a church.”

“Correct, and why might that be important?”

“You’re in the church.”

“Well done, Micah.” He patted me on the shoulder. “We are in a house of God, and I was able to end the life of your Pastor August. There is nowhere that I cannot reach, and nobody can stop me. Does that make sense?”

I didn’t respond. I just stepped back toward the demon. “We can leave now,” I shut my eyes.”

“Very well.” I heard the sound of his wings wrap around us.

When I opened my eyes, my heart sank. We were in my house, my living room. The lights were off, but the blue light of a midnight moon passed through the window wall and illuminated the room. It was raining again, the windows were open, and the faucets were pouring again. Water leaked from the ceiling as well.

“We don’t have to be here.” I choked. Not Nance’, please not Nance’.

“It’s alright, Micah. Remember, I have a reason for everything. What reason would I have to hurt her?” He touched my shoulder and casually led me up the stairs. As we passed a leak, I reached out my hand. The water went right through it. I looked up at Him.

“Why the water?” I asked.

“That’s not me.” He gently pushed me forward.

We made our way to the bedroom, the first and last place I wanted to be. I entered first. Nancy was sleeping where I should be. A leak dripped on her blanket. I ran over to touch her, but as I lay down my hand, it went through her. I faced the demon.

“We’re not really here, Micah. Just observing from a distance.” He spoke plainly. A strange sense of calm washed over me. He flexed his finger for me to return to him.

“Why here, then?”

“She’s been crying; it’s hard to see in the dark.” He lifted his left index finger, and a small flame burst to life. “Look at her eyes.” They were red, sunken. Her hand held a crumpled tissue. “She’s been worried sick. She’s wondering where you are.”

“Why are you doing this?!” I shouted and ran at him with a raised fist. He grabbed my hand with ease and scratched me above my brow with the other. Blood began oozing.

“It’s too late for that, Micah. It’s too late for you. You can’t save yourself or your marriage, but maybe you can save your wife… and your son.” I stared up at him, unable to hide my fear. “Not even two days old. She doesn’t know it, but I do, and now you do.” I stared at her, hands bent over her stomach, and fell to my knees. With nothing else to do, I clasped my hands in prayer and threw my face to the ceiling. God knows I couldn’t do anything, so maybe he’d intercede for me.

“It’s time to go.” The demon said.

“No!” I darted toward Nancy, toward our son, but His wings closed over me. Before I could do anything, I was covered in darkness, and we were back in the cabin.

I slammed my hand against the floor and turned back toward Him. His wings retreated behind him. His face left a blank expression while my cheeks melted with blazing tears. I stared the demon down with certainty. “Why go halfway?” I asked through gritted teeth. “Just show me who I’m bargaining with.” He nodded and sank His head in prayer.

His hands were ablaze as He lit the clothes around Him on fire, and from the flames, His true body revealed itself. The flesh melted away to a gaunt, burgundy figure barely more than bones, with the skin more akin to a frog’s. His legs grew hooves and extended so that He was towering over me. He rubbed at his face, the dead skin and flesh peeling off to reveal a face not dissimilar to a skull, but with thin lips, a wide mouth, and a hundred boar’s teeth. His eyes were those of the black dog. Small goat horns sprouted from his head and curled behind him. He extended his back and stretched out before bending back over to me and folding his hands together.

“I feel naked without my robe.” He spoke with a forked tongue. On my knees, he wasn’t just towering over me; he was all-consuming. I backed away and scrambled to my feet while He turned to the cabinet. He pulled out a long black cloth. He wrapped himself so as to appear entirely cloaked; only his head was visible through the hood. His eyes pierced the darkness of the room. “Now you’ve seen me, there’s nothing left to hide… would you like to make a deal?”

“What do you want?” My legs shook.

“Sit down.” I fell into the desk and sank into my seat, never once letting Him leave my sight. “As I’ve previously said, I want to help you. Before all this, before Nancy, before the money, when you were just a little boy, what did you want?” He stared at me, but I couldn’t respond. “A good story. Something to get enraptured in. I’ve given you that, haven’t I? Romance, horror, a thrill, a beautiful tragedy where the arrogant human is brought to his knees and his faith is broken. And, of course, a conclusion where the beast reveals his true self.”

“So, what now? You kill me?”

“Well, I want to give you a choice. You can die now, as well as Forrest, and have a clean break. No more pain, no more torture. You die, but you die having never made a deal with me. Your story ends clean. I‘ve had fun, I respect when a man can’t be broken, and I send you to Yahweh.”

“Or what?”

“You write your story, tell everyone what has happened here. You become the author, the storyteller you desperately wanted to be yourself, maybe even warn some people about me, give Nancy a final goodbye, your son comforting words from his missing father. and you live."

“What do you get out of it?”

“Your soul… You serve me for the rest of our forsaken lives. Forrest, too, he’s already agreed.”

“I’m not a good writer.”

“And Moses wasn’t a good speaker… but here you are. I’ll help you, the burning bush to keep the lights on.”

“I-I don’t have something to write with,” I muttered. He darted toward me and spun me around. The computer on the desk blinked on.

“Your staff.” He nodded. “It’s alright, Micah. It’ll be good.” 

He outstretches his hand. What was I to do but reach mine to meet him?

 —

It’s been days of me writing this. I wake up, I write, I weep, I pass out on the chair, I pray. The room has no windows, and the only source of light is the white screen I type behind and the candle he lit. The room smells like old paper and spilled wine. I am desperate to find another way out, but He is always watching. He has only ever left my side to speak sweet nothings to Forrest or fetch me some bread to eat. 

I’ve only seen Forrest twice in the past week, to flesh out parts of the story. He is gaunt, his eyes sunken, and shaken. The sarcasm and witty one-liners were replaced with simple and obedient single-word responses. Every time we’re done, the demon ushers him back to the other room. The first time he put up a fight, begging for my time with me, to not be alone. The second time, he stayed quiet and just asked Him to keep him company. I didn’t say much either, just told him I loved him and that it would be alright, all things whispered to me by the demon in my lows.

When I cry, He puts his hand on my shoulder and gently encourages me. He knows details of my life I’d long forgotten. He tells me the stories I read as a child. When I go to sleep, He reads from the bible like my father would. Without Him, I wouldn’t know what day it is, but He tells me.

Today is Sunday, a week since the visions began. Now I know, He has been watching for much longer. The white angel watching over me has disappeared; He must've killed him. Every stroke of luck, every blessing has been a bad miracle. And now, when I finish, he will put Forrest and me in the two seats and make us tell his story to you, again. I think it’s his way of shaming us. He’ll craft a fictional author and tell you all this is just another fictional tale to laugh and critique. He knows as well as I do, people only stomach the horror when they know they're not in the story.

He’s left the room now, prepping Forrest for the show. Afterwards, he’s promised to kill us both. As I’ve written out the past week, I find there are gaps, things that don’t make sense. I’m seeing things. He knows I have been thinking of ways to escape. I know he’s been lying to keep the story interesting. I’ve asked him questions and he won’t give straightforward answers. The biggest question among them, if it wasn’t Him, who turned on the faucets? Who opened the window? Why has He refused to give me anything but wine? Why did we have to rush Forrest into the house before the storm?

Maybe it was God. Maybe He has been answering my prayers this whole time. Maybe I saw a white tail outside the window as I entered this place. It’s raining right now. Maybe, if I jump out that window at the first chance, the demon won’t be able to touch me. Maybe he will, and I’ll let glass do what it does best. Maybe that water will take me back to Nancy and our child. She is stronger than I, and if she looks for me, she will find me. If I have any hope left, it is in her, in God, and just past the window in the other room. 

I’m posting this now, before he comes back in: if you see my video, it isn’t me, but if you never hear from me again, have faith that I have found my family, that my story is not over, and my God did not abandon me.