Claudette nestled in the between the bamboo and prayed that the stalks would be enough to keep her hidden. The thing that hunted her had already claimed two others, despite Claudette's best efforts to stitch up their wounds. With each cut sewn, a new one would seemingly be split open moments later. This creature, this hunter could be everywhere at once. An ever present force for evil.

Suddenly the wind hissed. Claudette held her breath as invisible flakes of glass cracked and shattered in the night. Then the spirit revealed itself under the gaze of the blood moon.

It might have once been a young girl once, a long, long time ago. Its features were untouched by the passage of time. Its skin without a single wrinkle. Its hair luscious and free flowing up into the air. It must have been beautiful once, might have even been human. Now it was a vengeful spirit trapped in an endless tug of war between life and death.

What lit this vengeful fury? Did it bear the marks of betrayal? Claudette could only speculate. Its limbs sliced off, only held on together by corporal strings and bloody bandages. Daggers of broken glass was embedded into the cold blue skin. With each jagged motion came the painful crunch of glass. Its face twisted with pain, joy, anguish and sorrow. Each expression more pronounced than the last.

Claudette couldn't help but feel sorry for the pitiful creature. The storm of emotions raging through it. Its humanity thrown away only to serve their eldritch warden. She stuttered at the thought of herself suffering such a fate.

Without a doubt it became Its avatar to hate. Pure, unfiltered hate set loose upon the realm with one goal: To hunt. Like all the rest, the killer has been honed to the hunt. Any semblance of personality, any thread that could reconnect that fallen humanity or didn't serve its purpose has been served. Claudette reminded herself no matter how they may appear, no matter how tragic their story, they don't deserve empathy. Not like they'll show her any.

The ghostly figure bent her head in unnatural positions. Its head bobbed in blunt directions like a stubborn stick shift. It hissed in frustration before it faded away with the howling wind. Its haunting vestige unwound as if it never existed. Claudette continued to hold her breath until the winds died down. Then the bamboo was still and silence fell upon her.

She emerged from her hiding spot and took a sigh of relief. She was thankful the hunter was elsewhere. Its cruel creativity was unmatched by anything back home. She wanted nothing more than to discuss this thing with the others at the campfire, maybe together they could learn something about how to avoid it. Plan around its strange powers. First she'd have to get out first.

Claudette surveyed the scene. Through the dense fog she spotted a towering estate of chipped wood and shredded paper. There was nothing modern about the design. Such a construction was only seen in traditionalist eastern cultures. Shame really to see it is such a state, to have endured centuries of neglect. The garden surrounded the estate fought for every plank, every floorboard and crack. Slowly reclaiming what was there.

All of this was bathed in the light of the blood moon. The hateful bamboo sharpened to a razor's point, the walls festering with unrelenting mold. The wooden frame gnawed away by unseen, otherworldly parasites. It was as if the very estate itself was seething with rage.

Claudette knew time was short before she was discovered again. Next time she might not be so fortunate as to find a hiding spot. A beacon of light exploded in the distance. Another step towards freedom.

Claudette approached the crumbling estate. The floorboards moaned in protested of each step taken. Claudette kept her ears open for the hissing winds. The spirit could be anywhere, stalking anyone.

In the center of a room sat a small shrine and beside that was the elusive generator. The shrine held up a demonic mask with long hair flowing down each side. Two sheathes hung below it, proudly displaying a forgotten legacy. Upon closer inspection, Claudette realized one of them was missing. The lit incense filled her nostrils with a horrid scent of rotting fruit, only furthering the unpleasant presence of the shrine.

"Pay attention. Don't get distracted." A familiar voice reminded her."Everyone is counting on you to do your part."

Claudette turned to see Jake creeping into the room. He was breathing heavy. His forehead covered in nervous sweat. It looked like he ran a marathon. She let out a quiet chuckle.

"You sound like Dwight." She said.

"We don't have much time." Jake said in between breaths. "It'll be back any minute." He pointed to the generator. "Let's get back to business."

"Did it follow you?"

Jake shook his head. "I lost it around the killer's shack. Now come on! We only need this last gen done!"

She pulled her gaze from the frightening mask, blocking out the thoughts and theories of its purpose. There would be time for that at the campfire, not here, never here.

The two crouched next to the generator and went to work. The repair was simple and repetitive. Claudette could do it with her eyes closed if she cared to. Out of all of the unfathomable mechanics of this twisted game, this was strangely the simplest among them.

"Hey," Jake said in a tender tone. His eyes holding back a single tear. "I miss him too."

"Now who's distracted?" Claudette jest, to which Jake responded with a short lived laugh.

"But really, it's okay to miss him. We all do."

"I know." Claudette softly said.

"Meg and I have been wondering what you think happened to him. Seeing how you're always looking for that kinda stuff."

"You mean lore?" Claudette asked.

"Yea, lore stuff."

Claudette raised one eyebrow in suspicion. "Do you want my honest answer or…"

"Lay it on me." Jake challenged.

"Well, in that case. I think he's gone. Dwight slipped through a crack in the realm and is just gone. I mean it was a literal crack in reality. Do you know what are the chances of him ending up back in our reality, let alone in a place where he could get back home? He could have landed in the middle of the Pacific and drowned a day later; and that's if he's lucky!"

"Wow, I never thought of it like that." Jake replied. His face drooped before quickly hiding behind a stern facade.

"If he didn't throw himself into a bottomless void or whatever It throws away any unwanted trash, then he might have ended up in another reality, another dimension or something else equally unthinkable. It's just a theory, but I believe Dwight is truly gone and he's never coming back."

The two sat in silence. A storm cloud hung over their heads. Dwight's never coming back. The idea terrified Claudette, but knew it was the most likely outcome. If she learned one thing being here, it would be that the universe doesn't care about you. Greater forces are at work and more often than not sweep you under the rug without a second thought.

The few moments later gen came to life. Light flooded the halls of the ancient estate. The sirens of the freedom sang to the heavens.

"We can finish this back at the camp! Come on, we got to go!" Jake said.

"You take the north gate. I'll get the other. If the killer catches one of us, the other could just run to the other gate."

Jake nodded and ran off into the fog towards the siren's call. Claudette felt overjoyed. She took a step outside before looking back to the crimson mask. Just one more peak wouldn't hurt, right? Jake will be working on the gates right now. She assured herself.

The mask could tell her the history of their hunter. It was clearly important to it with a set up like this. Knowledge was power and anything she could learn could be used against them. She was so certain, so certain that she would escape without a scratch that she didn't hear the whistling of the wind right before the sword ran through her back.

The blade felt colder than ice. Claudette's blood sent steam rising from the levitating steel. The blade, much like its wielder, was shattered and held together by mystical forces. The sword cut deeper than any physical blade could. There was something else seething from the stainless steel. The unquenchable thirst for revenge.

Her lifeless cadaver was thrown aside to the floor. The hunter screamed, hacking at the body with all its pent up fury. Slicing and dicing the body until it had its fill.

In her last moments of consciousness, Claudette saw the spirit gaze at the shrine. Tears flowing freely down its cheeks and onto the floor. The being tried to say something, to force out a single word caught in its throat only to come out as a tearful wail.

It lashed out its wrists and the shattered sword formed in its hand. The broken blade slashed and crashed into the demonic mask, shattering it to pieces. Claudette will never know what turned this once happy girl into a cold blooded spirit, but whatever it was to give this raving creature conniptions, it was something or someone close to it. So close they can cut out your heart.

"Wait-"

"Dwight, this is your brother Derek. Derek, this is your older stepbrother Dwight. We told you about him, remember?"

"Brother?" Dwight couldn't wrap his head around the word. He'd been gone for little over a year. In that time his family saw fit to move to the next model and leave him the dust. All this time he'd been struggling, surviving for them and they moved on?

The boy slowly approached him. He was half Dwight's height, his head reaching barely above Dwight's hip. He looked up to him with soft boiled eyes. A smile stretched across his face.

"You're Dwight!?" The child's voice was dripping with awe and admiration, all of which gave Dwight the impression that he was apart of some cruel prank.

Derek ran up to Dwight and hesitated before giving him a back breaking hug. Dwight squirmed under his iron grip. Part of him braced himself for a hook to be driven into his ribs.

"Get off! Get off! Get off!" He screamed. Dwight hastily dusted himself off, lashing out his arms in an pointless attempt to protect himself. His mother and father raced up the stairs to the poor boy's side. "Don't touch me!" He cried.

Dwight's parents took a step back from their son, giving him some room to breath. Derek's face compiled a look of embarrassment mixed with a touch of regret. He reached out his hand to comfort Dwight, than thought better and pulled it away.

"I'm so sorry! I just heard so much about you and wanted to meet you, but Mom said you were gone. But now you're here! You're back! And we can-"

Derek's words melted into background fluff. Dwight's brain going into overdrive. The kid was speaking a thousand words a minute. Everything was going by so fast. How much has changed in the past hour alone? Sleep nagged at him, telling Dwight that it was time to finally slow down and rest.

"I just need some sleep." Dwight muttered as pushed past Derek in the midst of his ramblings. "I just want to be in my own room right now."

He wrapped his fingers around the cold brace of the doorknob. It's been so long since he had any real sleep. He was ready. Dwight opened the door and stepped inside.

Reality slapped him in face. Nothing was as he remembered it. Dwight saw what remained of his mutilated room. His room was plane and was frankly boring, and Dwight was okay with that. Everything had its own little place. He kept his shirts in his dresser, his pens in a little cup and his bed by the window. That was it. No fancy wallpaper or posters or elaborate decorations. Now sports posters hung on the repainted walls. All the furniture was either rearranged or missing entirely. Everything that made it Dwight's room was gone. This was no longer his room, it was the boy's.

Dwight's heart ached. Not only did they replace him, but they gave what little he had away. This was his domain, the one thing in the world that he could call his own and they gave it away. The shirts in the dresser were not his usually white office shirts and his pen cup was missing altogether. Was this even his old house anymore? What else did they see fit to mutate while he was gone?

One thing stood out however. The one thing he recognized as his remained and it made him sick to his stomach. The bright green jersey was hung in a glass display. The name Fairfield printed proudly above the number 00. It reeked of failure. It drudged up the old, forgotten memories of regret that Dwight hoped to keep buried.

"See I kept your old jersey? Yea, when I get older, I'm going to try for the high school football team! Just like you!" Derek oddly cheered.

Dwight remembered the jersey clear as day and the awful memories that came with it. Dwight wasn't much of a team player back than. He mostly kept to himself and got on with the day to day grind of high school. But in the back of his mind he wanted to be so much more. He saw how the football players and the basketball team brought in trophy after trophy. All the students cheering their name, throwing parties and having a great time. Dwight however was never invited, never given the chance to be one of the cool kids so one day he decided to change all that.

It was a day like any other. Dwight signed up for football tryouts. He remembered lining up with the other kids in the school gymnasium when they handed out the jerseys. The coach barked at them to put them on, see how they fit. Dwight's jersey was a couple sizes to big for him, even with the shoulder pads stuffed underneath it. That was the first sign that something would go terribly wrong.

First up were basic drills. Dwight was tasked to running back and forth between a line of cones while holding the football. At the sharp shriek of the whistle Dwight ran forth and immediately tripped over the first cone causing him to fall face first onto the floor.

The next drill was a simply pass. Dwight ran out onto the court while his partner threw the ball to him. It soared through the air at breakneck speeds. It was fast, too fast! It was heading straight for him like a bullet! He held up his hands to protect his helmeted face and the ball bounced harmlessly off his elbows.

Despite his poor athletic display, Dwight was confident he could turn this all around. After all, he'd seen kids much smaller than him get on the team. Surely he could get over the low bar set for him. He just needed to do well on the last drill and everyone would be amazed! There's be cheering, parties, and popularity. No more bullies, he'd be one of the cool kids. Dwight would look back on this day as the day he turned it all around!

The last drill was practice tackle. The coach rolled up a few dummies and ordered everyone to charge at it with all their might. This was it. This was his moment. Dwight braced himself and when the coach blew his whistle he tackled the dummy with everything he had. Every muscle working together to knock into the stuffed foam wrapped in cheap blue leather. Only for Dwight to be flung backwards and land on the floor again. The pads acted as a turtle shell, trapping Dwight on his back in an embarrassing position.

"God damn it Fairfield! I've seen school girls selling cookies pack a bigger punch than you! Everyone," The coach called everyone's attention, pointing squarely at Dwight. "I want you to look at this boy and remember not to be him! This is what you don't want to be if you want to make my team! You got that?"

The coach grabbed Dwight by his shoulders and hoisted him up to his feet.

"Son, hit the showers! You're done here! I didn't expect to decline a single student here, but you've proved me wrong! You made a liar out of me! Now get out of here!" The coach screamed, bits of spit flying into Dwight's face.

After that he tried for the basketball team, but after hearing what happened with the football tryouts, the team didn't even look at him. Disheartened, Dwight went to get a job to make a little money on the side and became a delivery boy at the PizzaWhat. And the rest is history.

All those memories came flooding back to him. The shame, the embarrassment. Dwight wanted to tear the jersey off the wall. It was a monument to what he aspired to be, what he failed to be. Why this kid wanted to frame it was beyond him. Strange how Derek held a sparkle in his eyes when he gazed upon it, like it belonged to someone important.

Dwight didn't say a word. It's been a long couple of hours. The world was spinning so fast around him that he couldn't see straight. He escaped, he went to a hospital and now he'd just come home to find that the family he knew had changed all without him. Dwight just wanted some rest, sometime to let everything slow down and settle.

He climbed into the bed tucked next to the window.

"Um… That's… um... my bed." Derek said.

"Let him have it honey. He's been through a lot." Dwight's mother began leading Derek out of the room. "Dwight needs some rest for now. How about we go work on what we're having for dinner."

"Can we have fish sticks?"

"Of course, sweetie. How many would you like?"

Dwight stopped paying attention to the conversation. He was wrapped up in the soft, warm blankets of home. The pillow gently cradled his head off into wondrous, dreamless sleep. Nothing but pure concentrated rest. A quiet, gentle dark shrouded his vision as his consciousness drifted away.

"Welcome to Weeks!" The cheery sign read. "Enjoy your stay!" Below it was the label of the population. The original number hastily scratched off and replaced with a new one beside it that was also eventually removed in favor of a much more pitiful number. At the end of the lineage of scratch marks sat the untouched remainder of the population: A measly 47.

Frank looked out to what remained of the ruin town. It was foreign yet familiar. Empty shells either wondering the streets or stood as nostalgic monuments of the past. The air was thick with dread. The sun itself dimmed as Frank took his first step into this cursed place.

It bared the mark of the thing that chose him. The cold winds flaking off missing posters like dead skin. The shadow of a once thriving community now laid bare. The very earth beneath his feet stink of desperation and hopelessness. He smiled. It was his home away from home.

Frank strode down what appeared to be the main street that lead to the heart of the rural town. He eyed every one that passed him by. None of them were who he was looking for. He remained vigilant however. His gut told him that he was here. Someone will know where he went.

The town wasn't that big. What remained was a concentrated community of a handful of buildings: The scrapyard, a hospital, a lackluster police station, a few residential homes that must be packed to the brim with squatters, and an orphanage. Frank glared at the orphanage. A place for the unwanted, a place made for him.

He turned his back to the dilapidated building. No time for distractions. He told himself. Need to find this Fairfield twerp.

And there it was. Words drifted on that same breeze that guided him on this path. They wormed into his ear and dug deep into his skull.

"Did you hear about that Fairfield feller? They say he showed up near dead at old scrapyard."

Frank turned to the orphanage, cursing under his breath that he would need to go in there. Not exactly a place that brings back warm memories. The outside wasn't much better than any other building in Weeks. Broken boards, rusty iron and shattered glass joined together to make this monument of misery.

Inside was almost completely empty, anything that wasn't nailed down was taken or discarded. A couple talking among themselves in the corner of the room, a short fat man and a lanky, shriveled woman. They were old. They're clothes were ragged and worn. Bug bites covered every inch of the woman's skin while the short bastard's beard was crawling with lice and other ungodly parasites.

"Excuse me?" Frank flashed his wolfish smile. "Did you say Fairfield?"

The ghoulish couple looked bewildered as if he just appeared out of thin air.

"Yea, I did. What's it to you?" The old man spat.

Frank closed the door behind him. "I'm actually looking for him. See we have unfinished business and-"

The woman scratched a swollen lymph node on her neck sparticly. Her face twisted from the pain. Her eyes widened as if she'd seen a ghost.

"We don't want nothing to do with ya! Leave us alone, kid!"

"I'm not a kid." Frank said through gritted teeth. "And I just want to find-"

The white knight stood in front of his lady friend. "Didn't you hear her, boy? She said get lost! You don't belong in this town, boy! No one does!"

Frank buried his fingers into the palm of his hand. His nails digging into his skin. His knuckles whitened from the intensity of the grip. The chains of restraint loosened enough for the beast to bare his fangs.

"I'll ask again, nicely one last time. Where. is. Fairfield?" Frank relaxed his hand. His fingers settled into a jagged grip, ready to lash out at a moment's notice. In fact, they were inching to dig into the rude bitch's skin.

The fat man puffed out his already bloated chest.

"You think I'm scared of you punk? I've seen things that you wouldn't believe! You don't scare me!"

Frank leaned over the red faced manlit. He raised his fist before throwing it back down to his side.

"You're not better than me!" Frank grumbled.

"Then why you shaking little man?" The woman asked, reaching into her torn up purse and pulling out a just as dirty cigarette. It looks like she found it in a wet puddle on the sidewalk. "You scared? You should be!"

Frank looked down at his trembling hands. What would he have to be scared about? These two? They were trailer trash at best! He had nothing to be afraid of!

"I'm not scared of anyone!" Frank growled, struggling to control the beast that scratched at the bars. Everyone doubted him. Everyone always doubted him!

"This town is doomed and you best turn around and look for your buddy elsewhere. Best for everyone that you leave and never come back!" The old man ranted.

"Yea, we ain't telling you nothing!" The old woman puffed.

Frank lunged out, seizing the short man by his pudgy neck. He squeezed the man's windpipe like it was a stress ball.

"Where is he?" Frank screamed in the man as it turned a darker shade of purple. He was done with subtlety. Why be subtle when you can cut to the heart of the problem? "Where is Fairfield?"

The fat man waved his short little arms in Frank's general direction, clawing helplessly at the air. The power Frank held over him gave him a rush like nothing else. This pathetic weakling's life was in his hands. Every moment after this point would be owed to him and him alone. Every thought and every breath would belong to Frank! Nobody else! Just Frank, baby! Frank Morrison's the name and you will never forget it!

"Get off him!" The lanky woman lashed back. She swung her knee into Frank's chin. His teeth clamped down with a meaty crunch, nearly missing his tongue by a measly inch. Frank reeled back in pain. He tasted the blood trickling down his throat. His blood.

The fat man gasped for air. His dark face returning to its usual shade of red. He crawled back on the ground until his back hit a wall.

"Jesus Christ! This kid is crazy!"

"Let's get out of here!" The lady tried to pull the fat man up to his feet, but the human bowling ball proved too much for her.

"Crazy? I'll show you crazy!" Frank whipped out his knife from his pocket. "You want to see something crazy!"

Frank didn't even realized he was wearing the mask. He charged at the helpless couple. The woman blocked her face with her frail, bug bitten arms. Frank drove the knife into her forearm. She screamed a horrible scream that echoed off the crumbling walls.

"Last time: WHERE IS FAIRFIELD?" Frank roared.

"He was in the hospital!" The fat man cried. "That damn kid was in the hospital before he skipped town as any sane person would!"

Frank turned to the old man, pushing himself off of the woman. He pulled his knife from its fleshy sheathe, wiping the blood off his jacket sleeve. Frank allowed the tip of the knife to slide lightly across the man's neck. A small, hairline cut began to ooze.

"If you're lying to me…"

"That's all I know, I swear! He was last seen at the hospital. He would have to sign some kinda form before he left! They'll know where he went!"

"Good to know."

"So… so you're going to let me go?" The man whimpered hopefully.

Hope sparkled in his eyes. The sight made Frank sick to his stomach. Every fiber of his being told him to extinguish it, to carve him open like a thanksgiving turkey. That's what It wanted.

Frank pressed the dirty blade against the man's throat. He wanted this. He wanted to do it so badly. He wanted his first kill. The first time didn't count. They helped him finish it off. No, this was his and his alone.

Frank could never forget the Legion's first kill. He and the gang were robbing some store or something like that. Seemed so long ago. It would have been simple, run in, grab the cash, maybe a little vandalism for fun and bail. Simple, easy, a cake walk but this janitor that got too brave for his britches and grabbed… her.

She was his everything. It was her that helped form the Legion in the first place. The Legion wouldn't exist without her and Frank owed her everything for that. So when that cleaner creep laid his hands on her, something dark awoken inside Frank. Something that drove him to cross that final line. The last taboo that the Legion has never broken.

He remembers the rush of driving his knife, the one he and Julie shared, into the cleaner's back. The warm blood splashing on his fingers. Even the smell was something savory.

"Finish him!" he ordered as his team stared at him shell-shocked.

Joey was the first to listen. He grabbed the knife and jammed it into the bleeding man's ribs. Susie was crying and whining. She begged for them to stop.

"Frank, we can't do this! We have to call an ambulance!"

Frank was on the verge of slapping her.

"We're not calling anybody! We have to finish what we started. Now grab the knife!" Frank yelled as loud as he could, hoping that the others won't see his own hands trembling.

Julie closed her eyes and stabbed the janitor in his chest, then she handed it to Susie.

"Frank please, we can still fix this!" tears dripping beneath her mask.

Frank drew her hands with his own and drove the knife deep into the man's throat. The rest was simple. Joey was the only one with a car, so they stashed the body and drove up to their favorite hangout. When they were in the middle of burying the body is when It called him. And the rest was history.

Frank tore himself away from the crying manchild in the corner. Pathetic, acting like he's never been stabbed before. He wouldn't have lasted a day in Frank's shoes. Blood flowed feeling down one of the man's many chins.

"Come on Frank. You can do this. You got this!" He hyped himself up. His hands trembling as he gripped the bloody handle of his knife. he stood up and headed for the exit, but not before turning around and pointed his knife to stranger.

"Don't make me come back."

It would have been cleaner if the other's were here. He'd never take a hard knock to the chin if they were watching his back. But he assured himself that he didn't need them. Once again, It chose him and only him!

He wiped the bloody knife on the sides of his sleeve again and stashed it in his pocket. He nearly threw the door of its hinges when he kicked it open.

"Next stop: Hospital." He walked back out into the streets of Weeks, completely oblivious of the face he was wearing. Let them stare. It was his real face after all.

Dwight eyes flooded with moonlight. The silvery shine forced his eyes open and he was awake again. The night, the dark, Dwight clutched his blanket close to this chest. He quickly looked around the room, trying to recall where he was in the realm. The jersey above his head reminded him that he was in the real world.

Or was he?

Dwight slinked off the bed. His eyes, so adjusted to the darkness, colored the room in a shade of blue. He looked around, he was alone. The walls didn't look aged or bent out of shape. No cracked glass or moldy spores. Everything was brand new or at least kept cleaner than anything found in that nightmare. Still, that could all be faked easily.

How could he know that this wasn't a trick? It could shape the world around it. It shaped the monsters in the fog, the dark servants that hunted them without end. Would it be a stretch to believe that all this was fabricated, ripped straight from his mind? Nothing, not even your own memories were sacred in that place. Nothing at all.

Wracked with paranoia, There was only one way to find out if this was real or not. Dwight felt his way along the side of the bed to the corner of the room. Wedged in the corner was a broken piece of wall lovingly tucked in its rightful spot as if nothing ever happened. A blanket of dust held it in place. Good, no one has been here since I left. Dwight thought.

He pried open the corner quietly. Dust spilled out onto the floor. Dwight held his breath to not breath it in. No need to wake up everyone else in the house or alert whatever lurked in the dark.

Without the corner, a small hole in the wall revealed itself and there, tucked away from the world for almost a year was a small little notebook no bigger than Dwight's palm. The cover was blue and stuffed to the brim with doodles and drawings of a much younger Dwight.

"It's still here." Dwight held his diary in his hands. His small, secret friend to share all his troubles with when no one else would listen. He hadn't thought about it in years. He never needed it. He had his friends to help him. He had his friends to share the burden of embarrassment and secrets. In the trails all things were made trivial and the worse you'd get from revealing a dark and terrible secret, like the time you almost threw up on your crush in fifth grade, would be a playful chuckle. He opened the page to the latest entry.

"Tonight, the boss is taking us on a team building exercise. Why does it have to be in the woods? We can't bond somewhere less terrifying? Doesn't he know how many people go missing in this town? And he wants to go in the woods! I have to go or I'll risk losing my job. The others already don't like me, I need to make a good impression while I still can."

"I wished they liked me. My boss gets along with everyone else but me. Why? I try my best! Isn't that what matters? Sure I mess up a lot on the deliveries and once or twice I burnt a pizza but I try! Tonight is going to be terrible. Before it gets dark I'll sneak back home. I got a test I still haven't studied for. This week can't get any worse."

"Yes it could." Dwight whispered to the pages. "It got a lot worse."

This was real. No one but Dwight could write words so utterly pathetic. Dwight couldn't stand the sense of whining he gave the passage. He was tempted to tear the page out and burn it so no one else would ever discover it. If only he knew that a little team bonding would be the least of his worries.

"Whatcha reading?" Dwight snapped the book shut with a thunderous clap. He threw himself around to see Derek watching him behind the bedroom door.

"Nothing! It's nothing!" Dwight shoved the diary back in its little hidey hole and placed the corner back in its place.

"Didn't look like nothing? Oh! Is it a secret?" Derek crouched beside Dwight. His eyes dead fixed on the misplaced corner.

"Nothing is here! Nothing at all!"

"Are you sure? Looked like you were hiding something."

"I wasn't!" Dwight almost yelled.

Derek's eyes grew watery and his face turned red.

"I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone." Derek began to march out of the room.

"What are you doing here?" Dwight asked.

"I wanted to check up on you. Mom said you've been through something really bad, so I brought to protect you from nightmares." The child held up his 'Mr. Stitches'. The frankenstein monster of stuffed animals held together by lousy stitching and unconditional love.

"Well… I'm fine. There. Don't worry about me."

"Why would I worry about you?"

Dwight looked down at his scar ridden hands. He felt every cut crawl up and down his body. That empty space in his very being bobbing around without a purpose.

"No reason. Please, leave me alone kid. I… I need to be alone."

"Okay, I'll leave Mr. Stitches here for you just encase." Derek set the worn stuffed animal beside the bed and wormed out of the room, watching Dwight until he finally shut the door behind him.

Dwight turned his back to the little book and pulled a pen out from his shirt pocket. He put it to the innocent piece of paper. The blank page reflecting the blinding moonlight into his sensitive eyes. He had the words bottled up in his head. He'd been saving them for years. The most twisted, vile, and horrid words he'd been saving to describe the nightmare he lived through. He wanted to let it all out, to finally share the burden even if it was in a diary of all things.

But part of him wanted to hold it all in. The thought of his parents finding this and realizing what happened was too much to bare. They would blame themselves, parents always do. He couldn't do that them. He couldn't make them go through that.

What if they thought he was crazy? They'd sent them away. Send him to a horrible hospital with those lights and pale white walls that would serve to be a constant reminder of that… place. It goes back to his parents blaming themselves. They'll think they failed to protect him from something that you can't fight back. You can't fight it. You can only run and hide and pray it never finds you. Fighting it was just as futile as fighting gravity.

Dwight gripped his head. The memories scratching from the inside of his skull. Dwight placed his pen to paper and wrote madly of all that he endured. Every cut, every hook, every regret came flooding to the page on a wave of black ink. In his own ocean of madness came islands of reprieve. He spoke of his friends and the fleeting joys they shared around a crackling campfire. Meg, Claudette, and Jake. They were others, but they were the first faces that endured the nightmare with him.

Dwight stopped at the terrifying thought that his closest friends were still at the mercy of It. Do they even know he escaped? Do they think he's dead, lost to the void that inches every closer with each demise?

Dwight scribbled madly on the page. He didn't bother to check the ravings he was writing. He just had to let it all out. He wrote and wrote and wrote until his pen ran dry, than he reached in his shirt pocket for another. Dwight was thankful that he rarely wrote in his diary, giving him ample space to describe the horrors in great detail. To wrote a terrible tome of hope and horror.

When he was done he had burned through all the pens in his breast pocket and just barely managed to condense all he witnessed to one book. He closed the diary shut, its cursed pages now bleeding ink, and hid it behind the small patch in the corner.

It was done. His confession signed and sealed away, hopefully to never be found. Dwight thought the weight would be lifted from his shoulders. He thought the burden would roll off of him, but it didn't. It was still there. That empty void in his chest was a constant reminder of that. No, the burden is only lightened with kindred spirit. A friend. And all of Dwight's friends were… somewhere else. Somewhere beyond description.

The night wore on and Dwight was wide awake. Every instinct firing off in his head. His ears listened for the faint crunch of leaves underfoot, his nose ever vigilant for the slight whiff of blood, and his eyes would not remove their gaze from the locked bedroom door nor the barred window flooded with moonlight.

Sleep had eluded him, Dwight realized as the sun peeked over the horizon and pushed back the night. He wiped the crust from his eyes and jumped when he heard a growl. His head whipped around the room only to realize that the source was his own stomach. He was hungry.

Food. Another thing he had nearly forgotten about. Dwight heard the commotion coming from the downstairs kitchen. A familial banter happening beneath his feet. Dwight opened the door to his room and walked downstairs. After rounding a corner he saw the loving display.

"Dwight!" His mother exclaimed. "You're just in time. Your father is making his world famous pancakes!"

"That's right, son!" His father cheered. A doopy smile spread across his face as he hinted to his cooking apron. It read "This might sound cheesy… But I think you're really grate!" With a cartoon of a happy cheese grater with his little swiss friend.

Thankfully his father's cooking abilities far surpassed his comedic value. The pancakes smelled delicious. The sound of the batter sizzling in the pan gave Dwight an odd feeling of satisfaction.

"Why don't you go seat at the table and I'll give you a stack!" Dwight's father offered. "I know just the way you like them to! The perfect welcome home meal!"

Dwight sat at the long end of the dinner table. A smile wooden table that stretched across the room. His mother and step sibling scooted up to join him. Dwight smiled as he received the first and biggest stack of pancakes. He ignored Derek's quick glances at a distance, waiting for some unknown sign.

Dwight didn't let that bother him. He gave himself this one moment. This one moment where he was home and that's all that mattered. He put on a mask for his family. A mask of a smiling son finally returned home.