Elias Witherow

“Tick tock…how long before everyone dies?”

My wife, Patricia, had been missing for over three years now.

I called my doctor and told him about all the strange stuff. He told me the headaches and dreams were probably just a side effect, nothing to worry about.

I couldn’t stop spitting. I couldn’t stop thinking about how that thing had been growing inside of me.

As I turned over this strange gift in my hands, my grandfather handed me a plastic, gold crown. He said it was “part of the game”.

“Father…I don’t think there’s any hope for me. I’ve done so much…”

It was as beautiful as the website boasted. High up in the West Virginia mountains, where the air was untouched by cities and smog, and where you could feel the purity in every breath.

I witnessed something no man was ever supposed to possess memory of.

“He said that Dad needed to build something in the cornfield so that we could leave.”

I’m worried about how people are going to take this.

“These…events…have really taken a toll on him. I can feel him…drifting away from me.”

She stood up and wrapped her arms around herself and begged me to turn off the recorder. I complied and watched her leave. I was just as shaken as she was.

One that has haunted me for years and has been the cause of many restless nights.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll go to bed early and wait for sunrise. Nothing good comes out of those hills on Halloween.”

I’m not going to tell you our band’s name, but we were big. Huge even.

More heavy breathing, then in a thick whisper, “Matt…he’s here.”

“Hehehehehehe…”

We tried. We tried everything. We burned him, shot him, cut him into pieces…but it never worked. He always came back.