"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the moment you've been waiting for!”

The growing crowd of college students let out a cheer as the announcer’s energetic voice blares out of the gymnasium PA system. Tons and tons of eager patrons continue to pour into the small college basketball arena, their sneakers squeaking on the shiny walnut basketball court.

The small arena is abuzz with colorful neon lights waving around in seemingly random directions and inviting rock music welcoming the college kids. The mass of students is all squished together elbow to elbow as they gather around the center.

The circular logo of Gibbet University’s ‘Crucibles’ has been covered up by a large structure-

An octagon!

The crowd all gather around the caged structure. The bright, clean white canvas is lit with the stage lights above. Everyone is eager for the event at hand. The air inside is filled with a poignant electric energy strong enough to power all of Massachusetts.

“My name is Benny, and you’re listening to ‘104.7 Benny in the Bin’! I want to personally welcome you to tonight’s spectacle! We here at the gorgeous Gallow Center Arena are gearing up for the competition of a lifetime! Struggling college student Blake Autumn has really done it this time. After somehow escaping the clutches of Gibbet Uni’s very own cult ‘The Cloaks’, Blake managed to earn a chance to fight for his freedom! We’ve got an exciting fight to the death to kick off round one! But first, let’s take a small commercial break and get a word from our sponsors!”

Benny presses a button on his control panel, before reaching over and turning a knob increasing the volume of the jagged metal rock song. He reaches across the small foldout table, grabbing his bowl of chinese food.

Taking a bite, the radio host smiles at the taste of spicy chicken.

His other hand has already begun checking his computer where he runs his radio station. It’s routine for him. Loading advertisements into his radio hosting program and checking stats, all while wolfing down fast food. It’s a process he’s grown ever so fond of, yet tonight feels so vastly different.

It was to be the story of a lifetime. I mean how often do you get the chance to follow a local cult shrouded in mystery?! Benny had put his blood sweat and tears into getting to even speak to a Cloak. And now, here he was. Some idiot running away from being sacrificed is now leading into what is sure to be his crowning achievement as a radio host journalist. A story so good it'll put him on the map for sure.

He glances over to the right, where the man who gave him the offer stands tall.

Compared to the casually dressed commentator, this man’s outfit is a peculiar one- a black, zipped up cloak that droops just below his knees, and a worn and torn witch’s hat. It’s been patched up, sewn, and still looks to fall apart at any moment. The tip of the hat swoops down, unable to keep itself straight.

The man turns the page of his book, his face poised with an intense stern look. He’s unfazed from the noise of the crowd below.

Frankly, the man puts Benny on edge.

Benny ponders the weirdo while wiping his mouth off with his shirt. Unmuting the microphone, Benny returns to his cool and confident on-air voice.

"And now, for our first event, our two fighters will brawl it out in hand-to-hand combat!”

Benny winces at the sound of the crowd. They all celebrate below in a frenzied cheer, some even throwing their food around in a rowdy manner.

“I see you folks are excited!” Benny sneers. “But anyways, let’s give a warm welcome to our first combatant! Hailing all the way from Pigeonburg, Tennessee. Give it up for…”

"Blake Autumn!"

As Benny draws the last name out, he mutes his microphone before turning up the music. Below the small press box, the small crowd has erupted into another wild frenzy. The lights above swing around towards a curtain where the fighter is set to enter the gymnasium.

Leaning back into his chair, Benny takes a sip of soda, and glances again at the person next to him.

“I hope you know I missed my two-year anniversary for this.”

The man doesn’t reply, continuing to stare down at his book.

“Just buy her something nice with the money we’re ‘definitely’ going to get.” is all the voice in Benny’s head can remind him.

"Something’s wrong Benny." the man's blank voice states, his eyes still focused on his reading.

The host looks back down at the crowd, who now mumbles in confusion as to why the fighter hasn't entered the arena yet. Benny panics, flipping his microphone back on.

"Uh Blake?? That's your cue." his stammer echoes throughout the gymnasium.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Nothing. No one. An awkward silence quickly ensues as everyone stares at the curtain where one Mr. Autumn is supposed to enter.

"He-llo?! Blake?!" Benny asks again, just as perplexed as everyone else.

Benny looks back at the man in the press box with him. His attention has turned from his book.

The man places his hands on the railing of the small press box, looking down at the crowd.

His people.

"The kid ran away again?”

He smirks, feeling a trickle of excitement down his spine.

“Just as I thought.”

* * *

“Shit.” I mumble to myself as I near eat the concrete. I look back. Just a huge crack in the sidewalk.

I turn back, pushing myself to run faster. I look down, moving my hand from my chest.

There's still blood seeping out.

Double shit.

I should be dead right now. My body should be in the process of being dragged to a dumpster or melting into a barrel of acid.

But no.

As fate would have it, I’m alive.

It’s funny really. One minute you’re on a seance table, screaming bloody murder for your life. You can’t hear anything but the organized chanting of a cult. You can’t feel anything but the tip of a blade piercing the top of your skin. The next thing you know, your restraints have snapped, and you’re hauling ass down a campus sidewalk. Somewhere in between I managed to sneak to my dorm, grab a bag, and a bus ticket.

It all happened so fast. Everything seems so blurry. The table, the torches that lit the dark basement room up, the cloaked figures standing over me. Their shocked expressions as I realized I could move.

I pick my feet up, using everything I have in the tank to keep going. My back cramps from the overstuffed backpack. I tighten the straps and press on. I don’t know half the shit I packed. Whatever I could think to grab. Exhaustion creeps in by the second. My chest tightens. I keep my hand on it, feeling my heart pound. I want to give up so bad. I want to let my body fall to the ground. Let the exhaustion win and take me.

Somewhere deep in me though, I can't.

Bumbling along the sidewalk, I pick up the pace and soldier onward, more and more sweat building the faster I go. More and more pain is building in my chest. I check my hand again. still covered in blood.

Am I just that out of shape?

Am I dying?

Both?

I can't think straight.

I look around frantically, praying I’m not being followed in the chilly night. The tall university buildings tower over me, only being broken up by faint white streetlamps. I think I see one of them. I run faster.

Maybe it was one of them in the seance room with me.

Or just a shadow perhaps.

I'll never know for sure.

As I near the bus stop, I exhale in relief. The large charter bus is there, waiting for me. It shines under a streetlamp like a gift from God. I reach into my pocket, pulling out the ticket. There's drops of blood on it.

I hurry, dragging myself up the bus stairs and slamming the ticket onto the center console. The driver inspects it as I collapse into a seat. I take my wrist, wiping sweat from my brow. I think some blood got on my head. My chest stings with every hoarse breath I take. Thank God the few people on the bus are passed out or preoccupied, because I look like I’ve just escaped an insane asylum.

I definitely feel like I’ve escaped one.

“You alright friend?” the bus driver shouts from the front. I can see his concerned face on the large mirror attached to the ceiling.

“Y-Yeah.” I take another breath, “Just ready to get back home.”

The driver nods understandingly, as he readjusts his baseball cap.

“Well, hey that sounds good. The name’s Luis, and I’ll be your driver for the long road ahead! Just lemme call my boss real quick while we get going.” he says whilst putting an earpiece into his ear.

I look down. My hand is still clenched on my chest. My fist is still balled up. I want to relax my arm, but I'm scared to move it. To see the damage done. Anticipation builds up as I work up the courage to finally move my hand.

There's a pool of blood in my palm, with more trickling down the forearm. I take my hoodie off and discreetly lift my shirt, getting a good look at my chest. The cut spans from under my collarbone, and swerves across my chest. It ends under where my left pec would be (if I were jacked). It's an odd shape. Bundling my dark blue hoodie up, I jam it into my chest. It's not a deep cut, I think. Still, it stings like a mother-effer. Wish I had some alcohol wipes to clean it. My breathing continues to slow, more so turning to a relieved sigh. My body is tired.

As the bus slowly pulls away, I look out the window into the bleak night. My eyes darted around, giving the school one last look to make sure I wasn't followed. My eyes are playing tricks on me again. Every shadow, every darkened tree, I think is someone watching me.

One of them.

Their image will forever be scarred into my memory.

Those crooked black hats.

Those ignited eyes.

Those damn Cloaks.