Darkness. Cold. Pain.
It seeped into everything—the kind of cold that gnawed through skin and burrowed deep into bone. I shivered beneath the stiff tarp, limbs curled in tight, but nothing could keep the chill out. Blood—mine and theirs—dried sticky on my skin. Every breath hurt. My chest ached with each inhale, ribs protesting every tiny movement. Muscles throbbed with exhaustion, my head fogged over with pain and memories I didn’t want.
And yet, it wasn’t the cold or the pain that yanked me from the darkness.
It was the sound.
WEEEOOO-WEEEOOO-WEEEOOO!
A high-pitched wail—piercing, relentless—echoed through the distance. My eyes snapped open, pupils contracting against the faint blue light leaking through the barn’s cracks. I blinked blearily, mind scrambling for answers that wouldn’t come. The sound grew louder—closer—then faded, swallowed again by the night.
What was that? It clawed at my nerves, foreign and overwhelming. I’d never heard anything like it before. Sirens—Father Reynaud had mentioned them once, in passing. Warnings for emergencies. Danger outside the walls, he’d said. Stay inside, stay safe.
But there were no walls left. Not anymore.
Another wave of sirens screamed through the cold night air, this time accompanied by something deeper—a low, mechanical rumble. Engines. Vehicles. Their roar grew until it vibrated through the ground beneath me. Tires crunched over gravel and snow as emergency trucks barreled down a nearby road. I clenched my hands tighter around myself, ears ringing with the cacophony. Red and blue lights strobed in through the slats of the barn—flashing, blinding, painting the inside with dizzying bursts of color.
I pressed my face into my arms, trying to block it out. Too much noise. Too much everything. I just wanted it to stop. My body was too tired for fear, but it was there anyway—gnawing at the edges of my mind, twisting tight around my lungs.
“...Fire’s spread clear down the south side,” a voice drifted through the air—male, rough, words muffled but too close. Footsteps—boots crunching through snow and debris. Another set of steps joined his, heavier, measured.
“Monastery’s gone. Like gone gone,” the second man said. “Never seen anything burn that fast. No survivors found yet. They’re still tryin’ to contain the woods up there.”
The monastery.
The words hit like a fist to the gut. My throat closed up, breath hitching in my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut, nails biting into my palms until they hurt. Images flashed behind my eyelids—flames devouring stone and wood, smoke swallowing the sky, screams—God, the screams.
No survivors. They’d said that. No one left.
Except me.
“They’re sayin’ it was some kinda gas leak,” one of the men muttered. “Doesn’t sit right with me, though. Too... weird.”
Weird. They had no idea. Monsters. I wanted to scream it at them—but my voice stayed buried in my throat, tangled up in fear and grief.
Wind howled outside, rattling the loose barn door on its hinges. Footsteps drew closer. No no no—stay away— I curled tighter beneath the tarp, chest heaving with shallow breaths. If I stayed small, maybe they wouldn’t notice me. Maybe they’d just go away.
Panic clawed up my throat. My heart thudded so loud I was sure they could hear it—pounding, desperate. I bit down on my knuckles, trying to breathe, but my body was trembling, cold sweat mixing with dried blood.
Then—clang.
My foot shifted. Just enough.
A rusted can, half-buried beneath hay and dirt, tipped over—CLATTERING across the barn floor like a gunshot.
Silence outside. A beat. Two.
"...You hear that?"
“Yeah. Somethin’s in there.”
Boots scraped against gravel. Closer. Too close.
"Hey!" one of them called out, voice sharp. "If there’s someone in there, come out slow! We ain’t lookin’ for trouble, just wanna make sure no one’s hurt!"
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Everything inside me screamed run, but my legs refused to obey—frozen to the floor, limbs heavy with exhaustion and terror.
The barn door creaked open.
Light—blinding white—cut through the darkness as a flashlight beam swept over rusted tools and broken boards... inching closer. Closer.
My pulse hammered. Please don’t see me, please don’t—
The beam caught on the tarp. A shadow shifted.
And then—RIP!
The tarp was yanked away. Cold air rushed over me, sharp and biting. I gasped, arms flying up to shield my face. A shriek ripped from my throat—raw, panicked—as I scrambled backward, heels scraping against the floorboards.
"Jesus Christ—!" the man stumbled back, one hand holding the flashlight, the other—a rifle—raised on instinct. "It’s a kid!"
Terror surged hot and fast. I pressed myself against the wall, body shaking, eyes wide as the beam lit up every bruise, every cut, every smear of blood. My lungs seized, breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. Cornered. Nowhere to run.
“Easy—hey, hey, calm down,” the man said quickly, lowering the rifle. His voice softened, but my ears were still ringing with sirens and screams. "We’re not gonna hurt you, I swear. Just—breathe, okay? You’re safe."
Safe. The word didn’t make sense. Not after tonight. Not after everything.
Another man hurried in, phone pressed to his ear. "Yeah—we got someone. Kid, maybe sixteen? Looks bad—real bad. Covered in blood—Jesus, I think she’s in shock. Send an ambulance—fast!"
Blood. So much blood. Sticky on my skin, drying in my hair. My stomach twisted. I wanted to crawl out of myself, to disappear.
“Hey,” the first man crouched down, hands raised to show he wasn’t a threat. “Name’s Rick, alright? What’s yours?”
I opened my mouth. No sound came out. Just breathing—shaky, broken.
Rick’s gaze softened further. "Look, you don’t gotta talk. Just... we’re here to help. Can you nod for me?"
I stared at him, heart still battering my ribs. Help. Every part of me wanted to believe it—but fear had roots too deep to pull free.
Outside, another round of sirens blared past—red and blue lights flashing through the open barn door like some twisted kaleidoscope.
And all I could think was too loud, too bright, too much.
Rick glanced back at his partner. "Ambulance is on its way." He looked at me again, worry etched deep into his features. "Just hang in there, kid. Help’s comin’, alright? You’re not alone."
But I was.
I had been.
And no flashing lights or kind words could fix that.
Not now.
Not after what I’d seen.
Red and blue lights bathed the barn walls in a relentless strobe, casting the world in flashing bursts of color that made my head spin. The sirens had faded to the distance, but the hum of idling engines and the crackling radios filled the air like an oppressive weight pressing down on me. I sat against the cold wall, arms wrapped tight around my knees, the scratchy fabric of a blanket someone had draped over me barely registering. My clothes were still sticky with blood, the smell of smoke and ash clinging to me like a second skin.
Everything felt… wrong. Loud. Wrong.
I didn’t understand any of it—the flashing lights, the strange men with shiny badges, the boxes they spoke into that barked voices back at them. My world had always been stone walls and candlelight, the quiet hymns of morning prayers. This… this was something else entirely.
What am I doing here? The thought echoed hollowly in my head. My body ached, bruises blooming under my skin, but it was the tight coil of panic in my chest that hurt the most.
Bootsteps crunched through the snow outside. Heavy. Purposeful. The two men from before straightened as a new figure emerged from the darkness—a man in a brown jacket, silver badge glinting under the barn’s flickering overhead light. He had a face lined by years of sun and stress, and a hat that seemed too clean for how worn he looked. His gaze swept over the scene before settling on me.
"Jesus," he muttered under his breath. His voice wasn’t harsh—it was… something else. Something that made my stomach twist.
“Sheriff,” Rick—the man who’d found me—spoke up. “Found her curled up under the tarp. She’s banged up real bad—blood everywhere. God knows how long she’s been out here.”
The sheriff nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes—sharp and searching—never left mine. He knelt down slowly, careful like you’d approach a wounded animal. "Hey there," he said, voice rough but gentle. "Name’s Sheriff Whitaker. You okay, sweetheart?"
I blinked at him. No. No, I wasn’t okay. But my throat clenched around the words.
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I know you’re scared. God knows I’d be too. But we gotta figure out what happened, alright? Place up there…" He glanced toward the direction of the monastery—the place that was now nothing but ashes and ghosts. His jaw tightened. "We just wanna help."
Help. They kept saying that. Like it was supposed to mean something.
The rumble of an engine drew closer—a boxy red vehicle with flashing lights rolling to a stop beside the barn. Men and women in bright uniforms jumped out, pulling open the back doors. A metal stretcher glinted under the lights.
I stiffened. What are they doing?
“Alright, easy,” one of the paramedics said, grabbing supplies. “We’re gonna get you checked out—just a quick ride to the hospital, sweetheart. Nothing to be afraid of.”
Easy for him to say.
Two of them approached. I pressed back against the wall, heart pounding. No no no— Their clothes were too bright, the equipment too shiny, and everything smelled like chemicals and plastic. One held out a hand, palm up like he was dealing with some wild animal. “It’s okay, kiddo. Just gonna help you stand, alright?”
My breath quickened, chest tightening. I don’t understand. Why are they putting me on that thing?
“Sheriff, maybe you—” Rick started.
“I got it,” Whitaker cut in. He crouched lower so we were eye-level, hat casting his face in shadow. “Look… I know this is scary. Probably more’n anything you’ve dealt with. But you’re hurt. We gotta get you looked at.” His gaze flicked to my arms—still smeared with dried blood and grime. "Let us help."
My head swam. Part of me wanted to bolt—to run into the trees and vanish. But my legs were lead. My arms shook from holding myself together. And that warmth spreading in my side wasn’t comfort—it was blood.
Slowly—hesitantly—I nodded.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
The paramedics moved fast after that—too fast. Hands on my arms, lifting me before I could fully brace myself. Pain flared—sharp and sudden—and I gasped, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. The blanket slipped, exposing torn sleeves and angry bruises blooming down my side.
"Whoa, careful—she’s got some deep lacerations,” one of them muttered.
They eased me onto the stretcher. Metal creaked beneath my weight, cold biting through the thin padding. Belts cinched across my waist and chest—too tight. Panic clawed back to the surface. Trapped. Can’t move—
“Easy,” Whitaker’s voice again, grounding. “Just protocol. No one’s gonna hurt you.”
The stretcher lifted, jostling me as they rolled me out into the night. The cold air hit like a slap, stealing my breath. More flashing lights, people moving everywhere—voices overlapping in a tangle of words I couldn’t follow.
The ambulance doors opened. I froze at the threshold. The interior was cramped, walls lined with strange machines blinking and beeping. What is this place? Wires dangled, tools clinked in metal trays. A needle gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Nothin’ to be scared of,” a paramedic said. "Just some equipment. Gonna make sure you’re stable before we get movin’."
Stable. What does that even mean?
But my body wasn’t cooperating anymore. Exhaustion dragged at my limbs, confusion wrapping around me like a thick fog. They lifted me inside. The doors slammed shut behind us, sealing me in.
The world outside—the snow, the barn, the night air—vanished.
All that remained was flashing lights, beeping machines, and the terror clawing through my chest as the engine rumbled to life and the world sped away.
Cold. Pain. Noise.
Those things tangled together in a mess of flashing lights and roaring engines. The ambulance’s sudden halt sent a jolt through the stretcher, pain flaring through my ribs and down my arms. I barely had time to process the words being exchanged—too many voices layered over one another, each commanding, demanding.
“Coming in hot! Trauma room six is prepped?”
“Sixteen-year-old female, multiple lacerations, possible fractures—vitals unstable!”
“BP dropping fast—let’s move!”
The doors burst open, flooding the cramped interior with a blast of frigid night air and the blinding glare of red and blue emergency lights. I blinked, dazed, the cold biting against sweat-soaked skin as they hoisted me from the ambulance. My limbs felt disconnected, distant. My head swam, vision tilting between darkness and glaring brightness.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Sirens wailed in the distance, echoing like a chorus of mechanical screams. Every blaring horn, every shout, rattled my skull—too much noise, too much light, too much everything.
The stretcher’s wheels bumped and clattered over uneven ground before hitting the slick tile floor inside.
Bright. So bright.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and sterile, reflecting off polished white tiles and metal fixtures. The air changed—warmer, yes, but too warm—smelling of antiseptic and something too clean to be safe.
The hallway stretched like a tunnel, walls lined with doors and machines that beeped and clicked, wires dangling like mechanical vines. Every corner brought new sounds—someone crying, a nurse barking orders, the rhythmic squeak of hurried footsteps.
I hated it.
It was all wrong.
The world blurred. I squeezed my eyes shut, but that didn’t stop the sensation of movement, the rush of voices pelting me from all sides.
“Her pulse is erratic—get her stabilized!”
“Set up a saline drip—blood type?”
“She’s going into shock—get that IV in now!”
IV?
Needles. I caught a glimpse—silver glinting in someone’s gloved hand. Panic surged. My chest tightened, breath hitching into gasps.
“Easy, sweetheart, we’re just—”
“No,” I croaked, barely a whisper. My voice cracked, raw from smoke and screaming. No needles. I tried to pull away—limbs heavy, muscles screaming. Hands pressed down on my shoulders. Trapped.
“Hold her still!”
“She’s resisting—just sedate—”
“NO!” The word tore from me, louder this time. Eyes flew open—everything too bright—and suddenly—
The lights flickered.
Not just a stutter—a pulse that rolled through the room like an unseen shockwave. Machines beeped erratically, heart monitors spiking. Nurses froze. Someone swore under their breath.
“What the hell—?”
“Is that a power surge?”
“No, look—her injuries—”
I didn’t want to look—but I couldn’t not. My arm—the one torn up from claws and debris—shifted. Blood smeared across my skin—except it wasn’t bleeding anymore. The gash—deep, raw—was closing, flesh knitting together in slow, surreal motion. Bruises lightened, faded.
“Jesus Christ…” someone whispered.
“That’s—that’s not possible.”
“She’s healing—how is she healing—”
Hands that had been holding me down lifted away. They backed off like I was radioactive, eyes wide and disbelieving. I felt their stares—heavy and burning. No one moved. No one spoke for a beat that stretched too long.
And then—
The panic swelled. My pulse pounded in my ears, the room twisting, walls bending inward. My body felt wrong, like I was stretching too far and folding in on myself all at once. Fear clawed at my ribs. Stop stop stop—
A tray of instruments rattled—metal clattering onto the floor. Someone stumbled back, knocking into a rolling cart.
“She’s seizing—no—no, she’s not—what is she doing?”
“This isn’t medical—this is—this is something else!”
The air grew thick with panic. Feet shuffled toward the door. Someone grabbed a phone, already dialing.
Then—
“Enough.”
The word cut through the chaos—sharp, clear, final.
Silence dropped like a stone.
Footsteps—measured, deliberate—clicked across the tile. A figure stepped into the room, white coat swaying behind her. Platinum hair, neatly pulled back. Ice-blue eyes swept over the room, calm and commanding.
“Everyone. Out. Now.”
No raised voice. No need for one. The weight in her tone was enough.
The staff hesitated—glances exchanged—until she arched a brow. That was all it took.
Nurses filed out, muttering under their breath. One lingered by the monitors. “Doctor, but—”
“I said out,” the woman repeated, gaze unwavering. “I’ll handle this.”
Doors hissed closed behind the last person.
And just like that—the noise was gone.
Only the steady beep of the machines remained.
And her.
She stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, studying me. Her eyes weren’t wide with fear like the others—just… focused. Analytical. But not cold.
“I’m Dr. Volkova,” she said finally, voice softer now. “You’ve had quite the ordeal.”
I swallowed hard, throat raw. Every part of me wanted to recoil—but there was no pressure in her stance. No rush. Just space.
Her gaze flicked to the still-fading marks along my arm. “That must have been frightening.”
What was I supposed to say to that? Yeah. Monsters tore through my home and I watched people die. Words caught in my chest, stuck there.
Dr. Volkova pulled a stool over, sitting without making me feel cornered. “I imagine you have questions,” she said, “but first—we need to get you stable. No needles,” she added quickly when I flinched. “No IV unless you say yes. Just... let me check you over. May I?”
I didn’t answer. Not really. But I didn’t pull away either. My head gave the smallest nod.
And for the first time since the world burned... I breathed.
The room settled into a heavy, lingering silence after the door clicked shut. The noise—the chaos—the whirlwind of lights and voices had faded, leaving only the steady beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor and the soft hum of overhead lights.
I lay back against the hospital bed, every part of me aching. The thin blanket draped over me smelled of bleach and fabric softener—clean in a way that made me feel dirtier. Sticky with dried blood, skin raw beneath the grime, clothes torn beyond repair—but all of that felt distant. Like my body belonged to someone else.
Across the room, Dr. Volkova adjusted her gloves, the faint snap echoing louder than it should’ve. Her expression hadn’t changed—still calm, still watching me with that focused gaze that seemed to peel back layers without pressing too hard.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she said, voice soft but firm. Not a suggestion. Not a question. Just something that needed to happen. “You’ve been through enough without sitting in blood-soaked clothes.”
I wanted to argue. To say I was fine. But... I wasn’t. The damp fabric clung to me, cold and heavy. Gross didn’t even begin to cover it.
Seeing my hesitation, Volkova picked up a folded hospital gown from the nearby tray. “You can keep the blanket on,” she offered. “I’ll help if you need it—but I’ll give you space if that’s easier.”
The thought of being alone—even for a second—sent a spike of panic through me. I shook my head quickly. “Stay.” The word rasped out, barely audible. My throat burned.
She nodded like she’d expected that. “Okay. We’ll go slow.”
Her hands were careful—never jerky, never rushed—as she helped me sit up with a palm steadying my back. Pain flared along my ribs, pulling a hiss from my lips. “Breathe through it,” she murmured. Not scolding. Just a reminder.
The gown felt stiff in my hands, the fabric foreign. I struggled with the sleeves, my fingers trembling so badly I couldn’t get my arm through. Heat crawled up my neck—humiliation sitting sharp and bitter in my chest.
Without a word, Dr. Volkova stepped in to help, guiding my arm gently. No awkwardness. No unnecessary comments. Just steady movements that didn’t make me feel like I was broken.
“Better?” she asked once I was covered.
I nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around me. The gown was warmer than I thought it’d be. Not comfortable—but less terrible.
Volkova rolled over a small tray of supplies. “Now for the cuts,” she said. “This part won’t be pleasant, but it’s necessary.”
Understatement of the year.
She grabbed a bottle of saline, tilting it toward me. “Ready?”
Not even close. I nodded anyway.
The first splash of cold hit my arm, sending a sharp sting down to the bone. I flinched, a breath hitching in my throat. She didn’t apologize—just kept working, steady and efficient. Gauze pressed against raw skin, cleaning away the crusted blood and dirt. It hurt like hell—but there was something oddly grounding about the rhythm of it.
Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time got strange—stretching and folding in on itself.
“You’re dehydrated,” she noted, eyes flicking to the monitor. “Your pulse is elevated—stress, blood loss, or both.” Another pause. “When was the last time you ate?”
My mind stumbled over the question. Food? Felt like a lifetime ago. I shook my head. “Don’t… remember.”
“Figured.” She wrapped a fresh bandage around my forearm, her fingers warm even through the gloves. “I’ll get you something light later. Water first.”
The mention of food twisted something in my stomach, but it was distant—another problem for another time. Right now, it was just me, her, and the slow scrape of gauze across my skin.
As she shifted to clean a gash along my ribs, her voice broke the quiet. “That thing you did earlier... when your wounds started healing—does it hurt when it happens?”
I blinked at her. Not what was that or how is that possible. Just curiosity. Clinical. Like asking if I bruised easily or had allergies.
“I…” My brows knit together. Did it hurt? “Feels… weird,” I said finally. “Pressure. Like... pulling from the inside out. Sometimes cold. Sometimes warm. I don’t know.” A beat. “It just... happens.”
She hummed thoughtfully but didn’t pry. Just kept cleaning. Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was... patient. Like she knew pushing would only make me shut down faster.
Another fifteen minutes passed in quiet work. She replaced bandages with fresh ones, adjusted the blood pressure cuff, checked my vitals without needing to tell me to sit still. I stayed still anyway. Moving hurt more than compliance did.
“There,” she said at last, pulling off her gloves with a snap. “That should hold for now. Nothing looks immediately life-threatening.” Her gaze softened just enough to take the edge off the words. “You did well.”
I didn’t feel like I did well. I felt like a trainwreck wrapped in gauze.
Leaning back against the pillow, I let out a slow breath. My body sagged under the weight of exhaustion, every inch bruised or burning. But for the first time since being dragged into this place, the panic wasn’t clawing so hard at my throat.
Volkova stood, collecting the used supplies into a tray. “I’d like to keep you for observation,” she said. “You’ve lost more blood than I’m comfortable with.”
The thought of staying here—trapped in white walls, under bright lights, with strangers everywhere—made my chest tighten again. “I... don’t know if I can.” My voice cracked on the words.
She paused, tray in hand. Her gaze met mine—steady, thoughtful. “Not a cage, Erika. Just a room with a lock if you want it.” She didn’t say safe. Didn’t promise anything she couldn’t guarantee. That... I appreciated more than she knew.
The door creaked open, and she glanced over her shoulder. “Doctor?” The sheriff’s voice filtered through. “Is now a good time?”
Volkova exhaled softly but looked back at me first. “You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to,” she murmured. Her hand hovered near my shoulder for a second—like she wanted to offer comfort but knew better than to push.
I nodded, throat tight. Five minutes, I told myself. I can handle five minutes.
Without another word, she stepped toward the door, paused, and added over her shoulder, “Yell if you need me.”
And then she was gone.
Leaving me with the weight of clean bandages, bruises I could feel under my skin, and the sheriff’s shadow darkening the doorway.
The door creaked as Sheriff Whitaker stepped inside, boots echoing against the tile. He held his hat in one hand, twisting it absently, his weathered face caught between sympathy and something tighter—duty. His badge glinted in the overhead light, polished but worn, like everything about him had seen too much and slept too little.
He shut the door behind him with a soft click that sounded way louder than it should’ve in the now-quiet room.
“Mind if I sit?” he asked.
I shrugged.
He pulled a chair over, settling across from the hospital bed with a grunt that spoke of bad knees or long hours—or both. His uniform was dusted with soot and ash. Smelled faintly of smoke. I tried not to think about why.
His gaze swept over me, lingering on the bandages Dr. Volkova had so carefully applied. “Hell of a night for you,” he said finally. His voice was low, carrying a southern lilt people used when they wanted to sound gentle. “Ain’t gonna pretend to know what you’ve been through, but I’d like to get some answers—if you’re up for it.”
I didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket tighter around me, the fabric rough against raw skin.
The sheriff sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, kid… we’re trying to piece together what happened up there at the monastery. Right now, you’re the only person we’ve found alive.” His eyes flicked to mine. Steady. Careful. “I need to know what you saw.”
My stomach twisted. Bodies. Blood. Screams that don’t stop echoing. I swallowed, throat still raw. “It… was attacked.”
He nodded like he’d expected that. “By who?”
I hesitated. The words stuck in my chest—because how do you tell someone monsters tore apart your world? That shadows with claws and teeth that didn’t belong in any nightmare actually existed? My pulse quickened, the monitor beside me betraying every skipped beat.
“Monsters,” I said finally, voice barely above a whisper.
Whitaker’s brow creased. Not disbelief—not yet. More like he was turning the word over in his head, trying to find a shape that fit. “Monsters,” he repeated slowly.
“Things with claws,” I pushed, words tumbling out now that I’d started. “Teeth. Fast. Strong. They—they killed everyone.” My breath hitched. “Burned it all down.”
Silence stretched between us. His fingers drummed against his hat, gaze dropping to the floor. When he looked back up, something had shifted. Pity.
“I was up there,” he said quietly. “Saw the place myself.” He paused, like he didn’t want to say the next part but knew he had to. “Whole thing’s ash and rubble now. Fire got hot enough to damage stone. We found… bodies. What was left of them.” His jaw tightened. “From what we can tell—looked like a mass suicide.”
The words hit like a punch to the ribs. “What?”
“That’s what it looks like,” he said, holding up a hand to stop me from interrupting. “Everyone gathered in the chapel, doors barred from the inside. No signs of forced entry. No footprints besides yours leading away from the place.”
He let that hang in the air.
I shook my head. No. “That’s not—” My voice cracked. “They wouldn’t. Father Reynaud—he wouldn’t—”
Whitaker’s gaze softened. “Kid, sometimes people in isolated places… they get ideas. Real bad ones. We’ve seen it before.”
No. Fury flared, burning away some of the fog in my brain. “You didn’t see what I saw.” My fists clenched in the blanket. Pain flared up my arms—I didn’t care. “They didn’t do this to themselves! They were attacked!”
His lips pressed into a thin line. Not angry. Not dismissive. Just pity again—like I was some fragile thing about to crack under the weight of my own grief.
I wanted to scream. I watched Brother Tomas get ripped apart. I saw Elena’s face—eyes wide and empty. And he was sitting there talking about cults and suicides like it was easier to believe that than the truth.
He reached out—hesitated—then just sighed. “Look, I ain’t saying I don’t believe you believe what you’re sayin’. But right now? We got facts that don’t line up with monsters. We got fire damage, bodies in the chapel, and no evidence of an outside attacker.”
My stomach twisted. Of course there wasn’t. Shades didn’t leave footprints. Wendigos didn’t leave survivors.
The door cracked open then—Dr. Volkova’s voice cutting through the tension. “Sheriff,” she said sharply, eyes flicking between us. “That’s enough.”
Whitaker glanced over his shoulder. “Just trying to get some answers, Doc.”
“She’s a sixteen-year-old girl covered in wounds, barely out of shock,” Volkova said, voice edged with steel. “If you want answers, you’ll get them later—when she’s not about to collapse.”
The sheriff sighed, pushing up from the chair with a grunt. “Didn’t mean to upset her.” His gaze slid back to me. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Get some rest, kid.”
He gave a brief nod, then walked out, boots echoing down the hall.
Silence settled again—heavier now. The weight of his words pressed against my ribs, clawing tight.
Mass suicide. Cowards’ words for what they couldn’t explain.
And they wouldn’t believe me.
The door clicked shut behind the sheriff, sealing me back into the quiet.
But it wasn’t peaceful—just loud in a different way. His words still echoed: mass suicide, no signs of an attack, no footprints but yours. Like everything I’d survived was some twisted lie. Like the blood staining my hands wasn’t real.
I sat rigid in the hospital bed, blanket pulled tight, jaw clenched until it hurt.
He didn’t believe me. No one did.
The door creaked open again, and I flinched.
“Easy,” Dr. Volkova said, stepping inside. No clipboard. Just a Styrofoam cup steaming in her hand. She held it out. “Tea. Thought it might help.”
I hesitated before taking it. The warmth seeped into my fingers, anchoring me. I didn’t drink—just held on, like it might stop me from unraveling.
Volkova glanced at the muted TV mounted on the wall. “Sometimes distraction’s good.”
Without waiting for permission, she grabbed the remote and flicked it on.
Bright colors flared across the screen, the sterile quiet replaced with the hum of a news anchor’s voice:
“With the opening competition of the 2021 Global Skyboarding Circuit set to kick off next week in Munich, anticipation is running high. Teams from around the world, including returning favorites Team SAF and rivals Team Balfour, are finalizing their preparations. This year’s circuit promises new course designs and higher stakes as competitors race toward the November championship.”
Footage rolled—figures streaked across the screen, soaring through open air. Trails of colored smoke spiraled behind them, painting the sky in bright reds, blues, and greens. The crowd noise swelled—cheers, whistles, an entire stadium roaring like a living thing.
I stared, blinking. What... are those?
They stood on boards—but not like any board I’d ever seen. The shape reminded me of something I couldn’t place—sharp edges, smooth curves, the front narrow with the back flaring wide, like wings. Like the drawings of birds in flight from the monastery library—except metallic. Mechanical. Some had angled fins at the back, making them look almost like... knives slicing through the sky.
Or maybe something else—machines I’d only glimpsed in old books no one let me linger on.
Skyboarding. That’s what the announcer called it. Whatever it was, it looked fast. Loud. Dangerous. A kind of flying that didn’t belong in any of the stories I knew.
People out there were counting down to competitions, waving flags, placing bets—living lives so far removed from mine they felt like fiction. Like a world I wasn’t meant to be part of.
My world had burned, and theirs just... kept spinning.
Volkova lowered the volume, letting the noise fade into background hum.
Silence stretched between us. The tea warmed my palms, but it couldn’t thaw the cold buried under my skin.
Then she spoke, tone softer. “Is there anyone you’d like me to call?”
The question twisted something in my chest. Family. Friends. Words that felt like hollow echoes. Everyone I’d known—ashes and empty halls. No one left to reach for.
Except—
“If everything goes wrong,” Father Reynaud’s voice surfaced from the haze, “find Howling Mad Zaraki.”
It had sounded ridiculous then. Still did. But he’d said it like it mattered—like it was the only thing that mattered.
I hesitated. The words caught in my throat before slipping out. “Father Reynaud… told me to find someone.”
Volkova waited. Patient. Not pressing.
I swallowed hard. “Howling Mad Zaraki.”
That name sat heavy between us.
And for a split second—just a second—something in Volkova’s face shifted. A flicker in her eyes—recognition. Shock? Hard to tell. But it was there.
Then—gone. Smoothed away so fast I almost thought I imagined it.
“That’s... a name,” she said, voice carefully neutral. “Haven’t heard of him, but I can look into it.”
The words sounded casual. The kind of thing you say when you don’t want to scare someone worse.
I didn’t press. Too exhausted. Too numb.
Outside, the news anchor droned on about pre-season rankings and team sponsorships. People waving banners, smiling for cameras. Normal life. Happy faces.
My fingers tightened around the cup. Must be nice.
Volkova stood, smoothing her sleeves. “Try to rest,” she said. “You need it.”
“Doubt I’ll sleep,” I muttered.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.” Her gaze softened. Not pity—just something quieter. Understanding, maybe. Or something close to it.
As she reached the door, she paused. “Call button’s there if you need me.”
Then she was gone. Leaving me with cooling tea, distant TV noise, and a name echoing like a weight in my head.
Howling Mad Zaraki.
What kind of person carried a name like that?
And why did it feel like my whole life just tilted toward something I couldn’t stop?