“Come on, admit it!”

“Shut up, Steve! No, nothing happened that night.”

“Oh really? That’s not what Jay told me!”

“Well, too bad he isn’t here.”

Steve sighed audibly.

“Yeah, things would be much more fun with him around,” he pressed out in overplayed outrage.

As he took the lead and walked ahead of me, I rechecked my phone. It was already long past eleven in the evening.

“Yo, Steve, you sure that stupid cabin is up here?”

“Should be pretty close by now,” he called out from ahead.

“Dude, that’s what you said half an hour ago. Can you at least check Google Maps or something?”

Steve rummaged through his pockets for a while before he found his phone. He squinted at the screen for a while before he turned it off again.

“Well?”

“Got no signal out here.”

“You kidding me, right? We’re in the middle of the freaking forest and we’ve been walking for god knows-“

“Yo, Paul, look at that,” he suddenly called out.

I frowned and walked over to him. He was holding up his phone and illuminated a wooden signpost. I looked at the thing and then back at him.

“What’s so special about it?”

“Did you read it?”

I looked at the thing again, hoping against all odds to find it pointing towards the cabin we were trying to find. The first sign pointed towards the resting area where we’d parked the car. The second to some village off to our East. The third one pointed up ahead and showed that we were close to a place called ‘The Thirsty Boar’. The little beer mug next to it suggested that the place was a bar or tavern.

I looked back at Steve, frowning. He couldn’t be serious.

“Come on, it’s only about half a kilometer away. We could get a beer or two and ask someone where the cabin is.”

“How d’you know if the place is still around? I bet it’s closed by now, anyway.”

“Yeah, but the cabin’s in the same direction. We might as well try.”

“How do you even know? What if we went in the wrong direction? Shit man, let’s go back and sleep in my car for tonight.”

“What? We’ve been walking for more than an hour. I’m not walking back to the car!” Steve laid into me.

Finally, I sighed, mumbled a curse, and nodded. Maybe we could get directions and I wouldn’t mind having a beer.

As I followed him I got out my phone once more, but of course, there was no signal.

We trudged onwards, and I was more and more sure that we were completely and utterly lost. Then I heard something from ahead that sounded like faint music. The moment Steve noticed it he hurried onward and I could soon make out signs of light from between the trees. A short while later we arrived at an old tavern. The giant metal boar over the entrance told us we’d made it.

The Thirsty Boar was right in front of us.

“Man, this place looks old,” I pressed out as I looked at it.

Here and there the plaster was flaking off and the wood paneling’s color had almost completely faded.

Regardless of how bad the place looked, the lights were on and music and muffled laughter reached us.

“Might as well have a look,” Steve said and gave me a wink.

As he pulled open the heavy entrance door, the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and stale booze hit us.

“Jesus,” I cursed and instinctively covered my nose.

Steve didn’t seem to mind at all and had already stepped inside. I followed him and frowned when I heard the music.

“What’s with the music?”

“Sounds like the stuff my grandpa used to listen to,” Steve answered. “You know, that old folk stuff.”

“Oh god, I hate that stuff.”

Without even bothering with my remark, Steve made his way towards the bar. When I looked around that everything in here was as old as the exterior. Was this the place’s gig? Trying to emulate old times?

As I followed Steve, I noticed that the place wasn’t just old. It was run down, shady, and dirty, as if it hadn’t been renovated in decades. The low-dangling lamp in the center of the room was so yellowed by cigarette smoke it could barely illuminate it.

The room was filled with half a dozen tables haphazardly placed against the walls. Here and there people were sitting together. Some more visible, others shrouded in darkness. Only a handful looked up at us, their faces haggard, their regard indifferent. They soon returned to their drinks and conversations.

The barkeeper was a sturdy man. When we reached the bar, he finished pouring another patron a beer.

Before we could even ask for a drink, he squinted at us and gave us a quick once-over.

“You boys sure you want to spend the night at a place like this?” he asked in a thick, local dialect.

“Now that we’re here, we might as well have a drink,” Steve said. I shrugged and nodded in agreement.

“Make it two beers then,” Steve said, grinning at the barkeeper.

The man nodded, but his face didn’t light up at all and he still regarded us with visible disdain.

Once we’d gotten our beer, Steve and I found ourselves an empty table and set down.

“Man, this place’s shady,” I pressed out in an inaudible voice. For a moment I couldn’t help but look over my shoulder to make sure no one else had heard me.

“Hey, it’s not so bad! At least we got beer.”

With that, Steve raised his glass for a cheer. I halfheartedly toasted with him before I took another look around.

“Can’t say I like the place. Let’s finish our beer and get out of here.”

Steve shrugged and took a big sip of his beer.

After a few more minutes, a patron on the next table turned to us.

“You young gentlemen don’t seem too fond of this place here. The Boar might not look like much, but I assure you, this place has quite the history.”

I said nothing. The man’s voice was sleazy, and his overly friendly expression didn’t feel real at all. It felt like nothing but a facade to me.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“What’s so interesting about the place?” Steve cut me off.

Now the man’s face changed to a sly grin. I watched as he picked up his beer mug and got up from his seat. He almost stumbled to our table in a hunched over way. The black suit he was wearing and the goatee that accentuated his face made him appear more than comical.

“Well, my friend, this place is old, very old. One could say it has always been around in one way or another. But let’s not be rude, my name’s Curt.”

Steve and I introduced ourselves as well.

“You want to know more about the Boar’s history then?” he asked once more, turning towards Steve.

When he nodded vehemently to answer the question, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes.

The place had never been popular, Curt began. Even worse, the cliental was always of a special sort. As I looked around the room once more, I knew what he was talking about. There was a time, though, Curt said, when the place was notorious. As the stories go, the tavern was known for housing a local black market. It was during the times of World War One and the inflation following it. Quite a few people came here to exchange their last belongings for something to eat.

“Others,” Curt said with a grin on his face, “came to bet.”

Steve looked up. “To bet?”

“You could say, my friend, this place was also a gambling den. Instead of trading your belongings, you could also stake them in a game. Some won, others,” and at that he leaned forward, closer towards Steve, “lost everything.”

“Lost everything?” I asked Curt, but the man only continued to smile at me. Then, after a while, he talked again.

“Well, there’s the story of farmer Heinrich. A rich man, prone to certain habits. You could say he liked the bottle a little more than his wife. It caused trouble at home and drove him right here to this very place. Then, one night, in another drunk stupor, he lost everything. His money, his livestock, and even the farm. Of course, Heinrich was also an arrogant man. When the last gamble was done, he didn’t want to pay and tried to leave. And that was that.”

“That was what? What happened to him?” Steve asked.

Curt’s smile changed to a toothy grin.

“He was never seen or heard of again.”

I chuckled. This had to be an urban legend. This guy, Curt, was trying to give us a little scare. Too bad it hadn’t worked. By now, though, my beer was empty.

“Well, that’s it. Come on, Steve, we got to go-“

“No way, Paul, let’s stay for at least another beer!”

With that, he held up his empty beer mug and put on a jokingly sad expression.

“All right, fine. Guess I go get the second round then?”

Steve game me a nod before he turned back to Curt.

“So about that story,” I heard Steve start.

I cursed as I made my way to the bar. For a moment I looked over my shoulder and saw how far Curt leaned over the table. He was pushing almost his entire upper body into Steve’s direction. What a weird guy, I thought to myself.

“Hey there, could we get another pair of beers?”

The barkeeper looked from me over to our table and frowned.

“You shouldn’t talk to that fellow.”

“Curt? Yeah, he’s weird, isn’t he?”

“I’ll say it again, keep your distance from him. I’ll bring over your beer in a minute.”

As I made my way back my eyes focused on Curt again. The way he sat there, the way he crooked his back if the guy straightened he had to be two meters tall.

As I sat down, Steve’s head jerked to me.

“No beer?”

“The barkeeper brings it over soon. What did I miss?”

I looked over at Curt, who’d taken out a pack of Skat cards. As he shuffled the deck, I saw how old and worn the cards were. The white of the card s had taken on a dark yellow stain and the edges were rounded up and dirty.

“You in, Paul, right? It’s Skat!”

When Curt’s eyes focused on me, I couldn’t help but be crept out. There was an unsettling, almost malignant glow in his eyes. For a moment his smile seemed to grow even further as he waited for my answer.

“Nah, I’m good. I haven’t played in years and don’t even remember the rules,” I finally answered, shaking my head.

“Oh, come on! Why are you always so lame! It’s just a game!”

“Indeed, nothing but a game,” Curt agreed, grinning at me.

It was at this point that the barkeeper arrived with our beer. He put the two mugs down before he put a heavy hand on Curt’s shoulder.

“Why don’t you go back to your table, Curt? I don’t think these boys would be interested in your games. And you,” he turned to me and Steve, “you better get out of here.”

“Oh, but Wolfram, this young man here agreed to play,” Curt said beaming and pointed at Steve.

The barkeeper’s eyes rested on Steve for a long moment, before he turned away and made his way back to the counter.

As I sat there, I thought I’d missed something about that encounter, something important.

“Need one more?” a man from another table called out.

“Oh, indeed, we do! Join us, friend, join us!” a still beaming Curt called out.

Soon after, the man joined as at our table, placing himself on a chair between me and Steve. When I looked at him, I felt the same strange feeling. Something was wrong here. This guy was grinning too, but that was all I could say about him. The rest of his face was almost entirely empty. There was no defining feature to him, nothing at all.

“I assume you know the rules?” Curt asked, turning to Steve.

“Played a few times, so I guess I’m good,” Steve answered upbeat.

“Guess that will have to do. First to reach two hundred points wins. First to reach negative two hundred loses. Whichever happens first.”

Now Skat is a complicated game. If you don’t know the rules, you’re bound to lose.

As I watched though, I realized that Steve hadn’t only played a few times. He had a solid grasp of the game and was quite good at it.

Steve won his first hand and started with a solid lead.

“Well what do you know,” Curt said, laughing a little as he gathered up the cards and shuffled them for the next round.

From how hollow his laugh was and how he squinted his eyes, I could tell that Curt wasn’t happy at all about his loss. As the second round started, I could tell that the man was now much more serious.

It was almost as if luck had turned on Steve. His hand was even better than during the first round, but this time he lost and with it all his initial points.

As I sat there and watched round after round, it seemed almost as if Curt was cheating. Whenever Steve played a hand, the man seemed to have exactly what he needed to counter it.

Curt, on the other hand, won his hands with ease. They seemed almost too good to be beaten.

The newcomer didn’t do much and acted more like a third wheel. During the entire game he didn’t play a single hand, and most of the time he played in an absent-minded manner.

The game was finished in only half an hour and it was Steve who’d lost. The moment the last round was over, Curt announced the result of the game in a bellowing voice.

Steve scowled at Curt for making such an enormous deal out of it, and I could see his face turn angry. What Steve didn’t notice was how everyone in the entire place had turned into our direction. I felt watched, no, almost cornered.

“Hey, Steve, I think we,” I started but Steve didn’t listen to me, instead he spoke up to Curt again.

“How d’you do it?” Steve asked. “There’s no way this was skill or luck.”

“What are you trying to say, friend? You lost fair and square.”

Steve didn’t even bother to answer Curt. Instead, he got up and turned to me.

“Let’s go, Paul, no reason to stay any longer.”

As I was about to get up, Curt’s face still focused on Steve, showed a sly smile.

“Not so fast, friend. There’s one rule above all else in the Boar. Each game here’s a gamble. You lose, you’ve got to pay.”

“We said nothing about gambling,” Steve started. “I don’t give a shit about your rules. I won’t pay a damn thing, especially since you-“

“But you agreed to play a game, which means you agreed to the rules.”

“Okay, fuck this, we’re out of here,” I said and got up.

The situation had changed, and I didn’t like where this was going at all. I didn’t feel safe anymore, and all I wanted was to get out of this place.

“I wouldn’t think of leaving just yet. The Boar is indeed a very thirsty place,” Curt said from behind us. There was now a hard edge to his voice, and all the jolly nature from before was gone.

We’d barely taken the first step when the other patrons got up and positioned themselves between us and the door. Their faces seemed to comprise nothing but glowing eyes and wide grins. Steve next to me stopped, and we both shared an anxious glare before we turned back to Curt.

“How much do you want?” Steve asked and took out his wallet.

“Oh, you misunderstood,” Curt started laughing and finally got up.

This time he straightened his back. As he did, I gasped and instinctively took a step back. I’d know the man had to be tall, but he was almost gigantic. What little light the old, stained lamp had provided grew even darker.

The smile on Curt’s face was now nothing but malignant. His eyes were almost bulging and had changed to a darker, reddish tone.

“Money’s got no value here. No, you must pay with something else.”

“Then what the hell do you want?” Steve shrieked in a loud, scared voice.

“Shouldn’t have joined his game, boy,” the barkeeper said, shaking his head. “Nothing I can do now.”

I watched as Curt’s grin grew wider and wider, almost dividing his face.

Curt’s entire body seemed to grow taller. His head almost pushed against the ceiling above us. His eyes had turned into bulging red orbs and his hands opened and closed in anticipation. Steve turned, was about to run, but two of the other patrons restrained him.

“Hey what the hell are you doing?” I screamed, but I was restrained as well, my screams drowned out by a hand closing over my mouth.

In front of me, I saw how the abomination that had once been a man named Curt, opened his giant, wide mouth.

“It’s your soul I want.”

With that, his hands shot forward and closed around Steve’s shoulders. The two men who’d held Steve in place backed away.

I tried to move, tried to free myself, but the more I struggled, the harder they held me down.

Steve started screaming for me, but there was nothing I could do. I could only watch as Curt’s monstrous head jerked forward, and he brought his face right in front of Steve’s.

Then Curt’s eyes changed to a mesmerizing, iridescent glow. Steve’s screams and his struggling died down. His muscles went limp, his mouth fell open and his expression grew empty. Then his skin sagged, melted before he withered away.

After only ten seconds, it was all over. Steve was nothing more than an empty, withered husk that was held up by two monstrous hands. As Steve’s remains hit the ground, the wallet he’d been holding crashed to the floor next to him.

For a moment I stared at the wallet, then at what had once been my best friend. My brain didn’t comprehend what had happened. Reality itself had become a thing of impossibility, had warped into insanity itself.

By that point, Curt had already returned to his human form. He was smiling again and turned to me.

“Now then, friend, would you be interested in a game as well?” he asked in the same sleazy voice as before.

It was at this point that I could shake off the two men still holding on to me. In sheer and utter terror I pushed myself through the many ominous figures in the room and out towards the front door. Only moments later I was outside, running through the dark of the night.

—

When I woke up, it was morning and I found myself in my car. I didn’t understand how I’d even made it back there. I remembered bits and pieces of my desperate run through the forest, but it all felt distant and surreal.

Then I remembered Steve and jerked up, but I was all alone in the car. Moments later I was out on the tiny resting place and called out for him, but I got no answer.

I didn’t know what had happened last night. There was no way the things I remembered could’ve been real. Maybe they’d drugged our beer, or hell, maybe it all been nothing but a vivid dream. Who knows, maybe we went back and slept in the car. If so, where was Steve?

When I couldn’t find him after hours of searching, I made my way back into the forest. As I followed the path, I called out his name again and again, but there was still no answer.

Eventually, I arrived at the old signpost. From there, I continued on the same path as the night before.

It wasn’t long before I arrived at the old tavern, or better what remained of it. Instead of the building I’d seen last night, all I found was a ruin. Only bits and pieces of the ground floor remained, but I recognized the same metal boar head I’d seen last night. Only now it was old and rusted.

“There’s no way,” I mumbled to myself.

As if in a trance, I stepped forward. There was no front door anymore. The inside of the place comprised nothing but overgrown rubble.

Then I saw something between the grass and the small bushes.

It was a skeleton.

The last fibers of old rotten clothes still clung to the bones. Then I noticed a dirty, old leather purse right beside it.

With shaking hands, I picked it up. And as I scanned the contents, there was no doubt anymore about what had taken place at The Thirsty Boar.

It had all started with an obsession for talk shows in my teenage years. Back then, I couldn’t get enough of them. The audience, the mundane topics, the drama that unfolded in each show, it was terrific.

It was years later, during a studio tour, that I learned about audience extras. I signed up for the program instantly.

Being an audience extra means that you’re invited to shows with a live audience to fill up empty seats. It’s a common practice. There are quite a few shows that invite audience extras, to give the impression that they are packed.

Back in 2008, I was part of a talk show audience for the first time. Being there and seeing everything first hand was an exhilarating experience. Needless to say, it was enough to rekindle my teenage obsession.

I often tried to get a seat in the bigger and more famous shows. There were two problems, though. First, there weren’t always empty seats available. Second, if there were empty seats, it was never enough for everyone who’d signed up for the program. Instead, they relied on a complicated system of rotation.

In time, though, I found out about other, smaller productions. They were recorded for pay-per-view channels, niche programs, or online distribution.

The biggest difference was the number of free seats available. Many of these shows had a hard time pulling in people, and often half their seats were empty.

It wasn’t rare for them to invite participants of studio tours to their shows. If that didn’t do the trick, they’d sent out a member of the production crew to ask pedestrians passing by the studio if they were interested.

That’s how I became a regular in these types of shows. When I learned how often they needed to fill up empty seats, I started to hang out in front of the production studios. If I played it right, I was almost always invited.

While many of these shows weren’t as exciting as the popular ones, they had their very own charm.

I sat in quite a few test runs or pilot runs for upcoming shows. They were pretty hit or miss, but either way, they could be fun, if only for how terrible or ridiculous they were.

What happened in one of those shows haunts me to this day.

The day began like so many others before. By then I knew when production for the day would start and when ‘audience acquisition’ as I called it, took place.

I’d been there for five minutes when some poor devil was sent outside. He went around asking me and many other people if they were interested to be in the audience of their new and upcoming talk show.

I could tell this show wasn’t upcoming in the slightest by the number of people he’d gathered. It was most likely a niche program.

The man ushered us inside and placed us in strategic positions in the audience. It was to give the impression that the studio was packed while it remained half-empty, even with all of us audience extras.

It wasn’t long before the host stepped in and introduced himself. He was a self-proclaimed self-help guru and influencer that no one had ever heard about. The show would be the pilot for his new self-improvement talk show.

Fabulous, I thought, sounds like he’s trying to cash in on the current self-improvement hype. I groaned as I readied myself for what would be few hours of utter boredom.

After he was done talking about himself, the host introduced us to the first guest, Amy. She was an Instagram model and yoga trainer. Her entire demeanor and way of talking clarified that this girl thought she was way more important than she really was. I half drifted off when she ruminated facts about fitness, vegan diets, and the importance of a positive mindset.

The second guest was Tyler. He was all about spirituality and entrepreneurship. He went on about how meditation, finding inner peace, and Feng Shui had changed his life. It had helped him to not only improve his general productivity, but also his business mindset. Apparently, he also worked out a lot.

Discussion started with dieting and exercise, shifted to spirituality versus creativity, only to return to dieting. It was mind-numbingly boring.

There were some questions from the audience. Anyone could tell the people asking were either part of the production team or paid to do so.

‘This one’s for Amy, how are you able to find the time to work out, look so amazing, but also run a yoga business?’

‘Tyler, how is finding inner peace related to the successful launch of a product?’

I couldn’t wait for this show to be over. Once you’ve taken your seat in the audience though, you can’t walk out, at least not as an extra. The worst part? You have to smile and seem enthusiastic about being there. That means applauding when needed and uhhhing and ahhhing when necessary.

Finally, the host introduced guest number three. That’s when things got a bit more interesting.

Quinn stood in stark contrast to Amy and Tyler. The two of them were well-groomed and fit. Quinn, on the other hand, was scrawny, unkempt, and at least a decade older than them. What little hair he’d left on his head was long and greasy, barely able to hide the many bald spots. He wore a pair of old, worn denim pants at least two sizes too big for him. A button-down shirt that seemed as greasy as his hair completed the outfit. His skin was pale and unhealthy, suggesting he didn’t go outside a lot. Even from where I was I could almost smell the guy and knew he hadn’t showered in days.

I could see Amy smile in disbelief as Quinn made his way towards her. When he sunk in the seat right next to her, she inched away as far as possible from the newcomer.

The host smiled awkwardly, confused about Quinn’s appearance, but kept to the protocol. He turned to Quinn and asked him, too, what he thought about self-improvement.

“Well, these people here are full of shit,” he exclaimed and pointed at Amy and Tyler.

“Dieting, exercise spirituality? Give me a freaking break!”

So they brought in the counter. It was a typical thing in talk shows and other, similar productions. At one point you introduced someone with a differing opinion to steer conflict and spice things up a little. Maybe this guy could create enough trouble to make the rest of this show bearable.

The first who lay into Quinn was Amy.

“You know, one can tell right away you aren’t into exercise and fitness,” she said cackling.

Tyler regarded the newcomer with a smug smile but said nothing yet. Still, one could tell what he was thinking.

As Amy continued to belittle him, Quinn just sat there, listening to her. Finally, when Amy’s little rant was over, Quinn talked again, this time right at her.

“If a little stretching, some bending and an Instagram account dedicated to your fat ass are what you call an improvement than I don’t want to know what you were like before.”

While Amy’s face reddened in a mixture of surprise and outrage, Quinn continued.

“None of you know anything about true human potential… or how to unlock it.”

By now even Tyler couldn’t keep from making a snarky remark.

“And someone like you knows all about it, right? That what you learned in your mom’s basement?”

After Tyler’s comment, the host tried his best to intervene. He made a quick little joke before he tried to move the discussion to a new topic.

Everyone went with it, except for Quinn.

“All of this is so useless. You all talk so high and mighty. You’re so sophisticated with your social media accounts, your blogs, and all that other bullshit. It’s all worth-“

“Worth two hundred grand, my friend,” Tyler interjected.

“All worth nothing. Just empty talk,” Quinn finished without even looking at Tyler.

“Then what’s the real way to improve? Aren’t you full of it yourself? You’re here to get a rise out of us because you’ve got nothing to show for yourself, right?” Amy asked with a triumphant smile.

I knew she expected the guy to either back paddle or to keep to his rants and continue to make a fool of himself. Instead, Quinn smiled. He now turned from her towards the audience.

“Do you want to see what true improvement is? Do you want to see the potential hidden deep within man?”

At this, many people in the audience roared with laughter before they called out they wanted to know.

I looked at the host who stood there, uncomfortable. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected it would at all.

“Now, now, shouldn’t we,” he tried to intervene again but gave up when no one gave him any attention.

By now Quinn had jumped off his chair and taken a few steps towards the center of the stage. I noticed the host giving a brief nod to someone off-camera. Was this the cue for security, I wondered? As it looked though, he seemed intent on letting this play out, given the audience’s excitement.

I could see a ‘What the hell’s going on?’ expression on Amy’s face.

“You truly want to see it?” Quinn asked again.

Of course, the audience agreed again. Someone went on, telling him to stop wasting time while others were still laughing at the crazy guy on stage. I could tell that everyone found this new development much more interesting than the rest of the show.

I watched as Quinn raised his arms high into the air and murmured to himself. As he became louder, I first thought it was Latin, but then realized it was something entirely different. It was guttural, more a mixture of sounds than actual words.

The entire audience was laughing now, and soon even the guests couldn’t help but join in.

Had the production team planned this entire thing to garner publicity, or was this guy insane?

“The hell’s going on?” I heard Amy, who looked first at the host and then at Tyler.

I could see that security was already on standby at the edge of the stage. Guess I had my answer, I thought. This wasn’t planned at all.

“Come on now, I think we saw enough of your little act,” the host called out to Quinn and took a few steps towards the man.

“Careful there, he might show you his true potential,” Tyler joked.

Then Quinn’s performance came to an abrupt end. He fell to his knees, his arms dangling at his sides, his head resting on his chest. Heavy beads of sweat fell from his face to the floor.

The host had almost reached him when Quinn’s hand vanished in his pocket. When it returned, he was holding a small knife. Before anyone could react, he moved the knife down the length of his arm. It left a deep, long cut behind and moments later blood gushed from the wound.

“Oh my god!” Amy screamed.

The noise and laughter of the audience had died down. In a second, the entire scenario had changed. This was not wacky or funny anymore. This had become very real and very dangerous.

I saw security rush towards Quinn. They were only a few steps away from him when everything went dark with a loud bang.

Only seconds later, light returned to the stage. It wasn’t from the floodlights, though. No, this light had a different source and now every pair of eyes in the studio rested on it.

Where Quinn had been mere moments ago, stood now a different figure.

It was a glowing and muscular naked man whose body looked as if cast from gold. Blood, organic matter, and lengthy pieces of skin covered the ground all around him. It reminded me of the skin shed by a snake. What had just-?

“This is true human potential,” I heard a deep, raspy voice echo through the entire studio. As the figure in front of me said these words, I could only stare at it. I felt drawn to it almost at an instinctive level and thirsted for more of its voice.

As the power came back on, I saw that security was still there. They, too, couldn’t help but stare at the imposing figure with no idea what to do or what was happening.

Then Amy screamed. She was out of it, clutching on to her knees and rocking. Without saying a word, the figure stepped up to her. It was towering over the woman, almost twice her size. Before it had seemed the size of an average person, but now it seemed much, much taller. As I stared at the figure, I couldn’t tell how tall it was anymore. It was almost as if reality was shifting and changing in its vicinity.

In a swift motion, the golden giant grabbed Amy by the neck and lifted her from the seat. Amy’s eyes grew wide. Her hand shot forward, trying to free herself. I could see how she clawed, scratched, and finally bit at the hand holding her. The figure showed no reaction at all.

There was only one guttural word it said:

“Dâku.”

As soon as the word had passed the figure’s lips, Amy’s face distorted. Her eyes popped from her face and blood gushed from every orifice in her body. Only moments later, she fell apart, the flesh melting from her bones. All that remained of her was a heap of organic matter.

I was in sheer and utter shock and sat there not able to move a muscle in my body. Around me, people screamed and dashed for the exit. I saw them crash into each other and topple over one another as they fought for the door.

Tyler, too, had retreated from the stage and joined the fray. Security was still there, but they still didn’t rush forward. Instead, they backed away from the stage, the fear visible on their faces.

I heard the figure say something else, and the entire studio reverberated from these few words.

Then, with only a few steps, the golden abomination crossed the space between itself and the host.

The man wasn’t able to do anything as the figure picked him up. When I heard the word ‘Dâku’ again, I could finally tear myself from my seat.

I was prepared for a golden hand to close around my neck, to be killed, but somehow I made it to the exit door. Only seconds later I was out of the studio and rushing down the corridors of the complex. In my panic, they had transformed into a sprawling labyrinth. I dashed here and there, from one dead end to the next, without knowing where I was even going.

I don’t know for how long I’d been running when I made it outside.

As I fell to the ground, panting and shaking, more and more people streamed from the building. Minutes later, the police and multiple ambulances arrived.

Security soon escorted everyone from the premise to a nearby open area. Most people didn’t understand what was going on, but I heard the entire studio complex was being evacuated.

Once things had calmed down, I tried to leave. A sturdy security guard stopped me and informed me in a few brief sentences I had to stay a bit longer.

In the end, I got the entire show. The production company regretted what had happened today. They would reimburse any damage I’d suffered because of the incident. After that, they told me what had happened in their eyes.

A man had come to the production studio pretending to be a guest for the show I’d been seated in. Once they realized he didn’t belong, it was already too late. They made the mistake to run with it. Around the time of the general power outage, the man snapped and got out a concealed weapon. After harming himself, he’d then attacked the other guests and the host. Thankfully, though, the police were quick to restrain and apprehend the man.

They didn’t say a thing about the golden abomination or that people had been killed.

When I raised my voice in protest, they informed me it would be better for me to not spread any silly rumors. It would be best if I kept my mouth shut and signed the statement they’d prepared for me. The production company would handle the rest.

I knew it was a thread and so I signed it right away.

There was nothing about the incident on the news. It was by sheer luck that I even saw the brief article about it in the local paper. All it talked about was a fire in the studio complex and the subsequent evacuation. The entire incident was quickly and quietly swept under the carpet.

To this day, I still can’t make any sense of what happened that day. What had Quinn done? What had he become? Had this weird man found a way to evolve to a higher form of being?

And if so, what had he become? Had the police been able to stop him? Had they killed him?

I try to tell myself that this is what happened, but part of me can’t believe it. Somehow I doubt that guns would’ve been able to stop a being that could kill with a single word.

I doubt it can be stopped at all.

Many people wonder what it would be like to be famous, to be a star.

I guess it’s the reason casting and talent shows became so popular in the early 2000s. It was a sort of wish fulfillment, plain and simple.

By that time, I’d worked in the television industry for quite a while and knew it was a harsh place. There was no actual job security. Once a show, project, or series was over, you were on your own.

When I was offered to be part of a production team in this new and upcoming category, I took the chance right away.

It should pay off and for years I worked on my countries equivalent of Popstars, Got Talent, Top Models, The Voice, and other similar productions. I was not a juror, moderator, or writer. No, I was part of the production team.

Being behind the curtains taught me quite a bit about the ins and outs of this industry.

It won’t be news to anyone if I tell you that all those shows are fake and scripted.

We, as the producers, had a clear idea about the show beforehand. We knew exactly what types of people we needed for a season to be a success. While talent is necessary other criteria are much more important.

The most important thing was that each of the finalists filled a particular image, a stereotype, so to say. A few of those are the hottie or hunk, the wallflower, the hatchling or little genius, the unattractive one, the old guy, and the freak.

Most of those should be self-explanatory.

The most interesting one is the freak. He’s a total wildcard. He’s not there for people to identify with, but for them to cringe and laugh at, to love or hate, but also to impress. It can be a social-awkward nerd with an unbelievable set of dance moves or a cross-dressing furry with a fantastic voice. The weirder they are, the better.

It was a general rule that most people would watch the first couple of shows of a season. The reason was simple. Those were the initial castings and general the most humorous of the entire season. What can I say, people tuned in to laugh at all the weirdos that showed up. What sold them on the rest was the finalists.

During the castings, our prime goal wasn’t to find talented people. Our top priority was to fill as many of the different stereotypes as possible. One of the hardest to find was the freak, but they were also the most rewarding ones. Whether or not we could fill the spot could make or break an entire season of the show.

Think about any of the talents shows you watched. Which people do you remember? Who did you talk about with your coworkers? It’s always the weirdos.

On a casting day back in 2014, I met one such person. Because of that encounter, I should never work in that industry again.

Casting days are tough. Sure the castings last only eight hours, but because of all the organization, it can easily become double that.

The worst thing about it is that a considerable number of candidates just plain suck. It’s funny for an hour or two, but after that, it drags you down.

During the preceding weeks, our roster of finalists had filled up one by one. Only a few spots remained open. One of those was the freak. We had made it a priority in this week’s castings to find someone that could fill the spot.

There’s no shortage of weird candidates. The tricky part however is to find one that’s talented enough to be a finalist.

That day one person stuck out the moment he set foot into the building. It was the violinist Stephan de Preaulx.

He chose each of his steps wisely and held his head high in the air. An air of grandeur surrounded the man and not just a bit of arrogance. His outfit stood in clear contrast to his entrance. He wore a plain black suit with a bow tie and a pair of old worn-out leather shoes.

Stephan was an older man, most likely in his mid-fifties. He was tall, lanky, with arms that seemed a tad bit too long. His hair was a long, greasy mess and a scrubby goatee accentuated his face. His most remarkable feature was his eyes. They were of a hazel color and showed a radiant, almost feverish glow.

In short, he was so weird you couldn’t help but stare at him.

Weirder still than his appearance was his behavior. It was both eccentric and over-dramatic. That wasn’t all though. His way of speaking was strange too, old fashioned, and almost antiquated. He’d pronounce certain words and vowels almost formally while slurring others. His accent didn’t fit his name at all. It wasn’t French, but a mixture of provincial German with a hint of Russian. No one could tell if it was genuine or faked.

“Stephan de Preaulx, violinist extraordinaire, here to test his music,” he announced in a booming voice when he was asked what brought him here. It resulted in a lot of stares from the other people in the room.

When we asked him how long he’d been playing his instrument all we got as an answer was a smile. During the brief interview, he didn’t say a lot. Occasionally he even spaced out. He didn’t react to us anymore and instead whispered to the instrument he was holding in his arms.

The instrument was as weird as he was. It was a slightly warped and distorted version of a violin. The best way to describe it is to imagine a violin made by someone who’d only heard about them but never saw a real one. It came close enough, but it was still distinctly different.

If this guy was any good with his instrument, I thought, he’d be sure to become a finalist.

We scheduled his act for later in the afternoon. After the initial interview, we pretty much left him to himself in the waiting area.

Most people spend this time preparing for their act or socializing with the other candidates. Stephan did neither. He just sat down and waited. Again he seemed to space out completely and ignored everyone who tried talking to him.

He only came back to life when we informed him it was time for his act. In a moment his expression changed to one of intense focus and his eyes showed the same feverish glow I’d seen before.

“Well then,” he said in his weird voice and got up.

Again, he did it in an over-dramatic way and almost jumped off the chair. The few other candidates that remained in the waiting area couldn’t help but giggle.

Without listening to our instructions or waiting for his cue, he made his way to the stage. It forced us to play his entrance music, Pachelbel’s Canon in D almost half a minute early.

The procedure for every act is the same. The most important part is that it’s the judges who set the tone. You’re the guest in their show after all. The protocol is simple. They welcome you, ask you a few questions and pull a joke or two before you’re asked to perform your act.

Not so with Stephan. The moment he’d made it to the stage he spread out his arms and introduced himself in his loud, booming voice.

“I am Stephan de Preaulx, violinist extraordinaire, here to test his music!”

The judges laughed.

“Well, he might not know how things work here, but he sure knows how to make an impression,” one of them said jokingly.

It was a blatant plea for this guy to stick to the protocol. Stephen, however, fucked things up further.

He completely ignored the judges, raised his violin, and began to play.

A long, terrible screech came from the instrument.

“Oh god, this can’t be happening,” I cursed to myself and frowned.

As the man kept moving the bow over the violin hectically, the screeching continued to fill the studio. This guy didn’t know the first thing about playing the instrument.

The audience broke into loud laughter and soon booed the man. The face of the judges changed from complete surprise to utter disbelief. Their faces said the same thing I was thinking.

“Is this guy for real?”

After only ten seconds of the unbearable sounds, the first of the judges rose her hand. She was about to hit the buzzer to vote the man out, but then her arm stopped in midair.

Her expression changed, she gasped audibly before she lowered her hand again. The laughter and the booing of the audience subsided.

Everyone became quiet and only the terrible screeching of the ghastly violin remained. Almost the only one because right then I heard it too.

There was a second, much different melody below the screeching. It was a harmonic, droning melody, one that was almost hypnotic. As quiet as it was, the longer you listened, the more you ignored any other sound. You were drawn in by it more and more.

An ordinary violin shouldn’t be able to produce such a melody, I thought. Was this the reason for the strange shape of the instrument?

For a while I just stood there, at the side of the stage, watching Stephan’s hectic playing, and listened to his music.

Then I noticed something.

It was almost invisible and at first, I thought it was nothing but an optical illusion. It was a translucent strand that spread out from the violin. I watched dumbfounded as it twisted and then extended towards the audience. Was this weird man somehow able to visualize his music?

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I closed my eyes, then opened them again, but the strand was still there. By now though, it wasn’t just one, it was hundreds of them. They were all growing further and further, the faster the man played.

Most of the people in the audience sat there, wide-eyed with an empty expression on their faces. It was as if they were hypnotized. None of them seemed to notice the strands and none of them reacted as they entwined people.

I stared at the other members of the production crew and many were as confused as I was.

When I looked back at the audience, I saw a middle-aged woman jump from her seat. Her face was a mask of terror as she raised her hands, clutching at something invisible to her eyes.

It wasn’t to mine though. The translucent strands had closed around her throat. Mere moments later her eyes grew wide, her body went limp, and she fell to the floor.

The strands let go and I could see that they were now faintly glowing. A moment later they receded to the instrument, taking the small, glowing light with them.

As I watched, I saw the same thing happening all over the audience to at least a dozen more people.

“What the hell’s going on?” I pressed out .

The voice of an old lady brought me back to reality. She’d noticed that the person next to her had fallen to the ground and she’d called for help.

Other people seemed to wake up from their hypnotism, but no one understood what was going on.

As more and more people were passing out and clutching at their throats, panic spread. Some people tried to help the victims while others tried to flee from the studio.

All the while, the frantic music of Stephan de Preaulx continued. The man wasn’t fazed in the slightest by the chaos erupting around him.

As people ran for the exits, I finally gave the cue for security. Then I took a step towards the stage and the violinist myself, only to stop right in my tracks.

There was something other than the translucent strands. It was several shades that surrounded the violinist. They were almost invisible, like the strands, yet I could make out their faces. One was boasting with laughter, his face a mask of infinite jest. It played the violin with Stephan, creating this second, hypnotic melody. The faces of the others were nothing but impish grins and glowing eyes.

They were the ones who controlled the strands. I saw them sending out more and more of them, twisting them and entangling people. Then, once a person had passed out, they pulled them back and devoured the small light they’d stolen.

My body froze the moment one of them laid eyes on me. It must’ve realized I could see it.

I stumbled back one step, then another and then I could not move. As security rushed Stephan, I felt something close around my throat. My fingers clutched at the translucent strands. I tried to rip them away, tried to stop them from suffocating me, but I was unable too. All the while the ghastly shade grinned at me.

I fought for air, tore at my throat, and told myself repeatedly to stay conscious. For a second I slipped off into the darkness, but then I could suddenly breathe again.

Security had finally made it to the stage and ripped the instrument from the man’s hands.

I sat there on the floor, taking in breath after breath greedily. The shades, as well as the strands, were gone.

After the music had stopped, people calmed down and soon normalcy returned to the studio.

By now the emergency personnel had entered. Most of the people who’d fallen turned out to be fine. Nothing had happened to them apart from passing out and suffering a few slight bruises. It was quickly concluded that the strange violin music was to blame for what had happened.

I could see the relief on many people’s faces when they heard that their friends and relatives were unharmed.

Unharmed, I thought. It was true enough, at least in a physical sense.

Those shades though, they’d been after something else. Whatever they’d taken from people wasn’t physical though. I knew because for a moment I’d felt those strands probing inside of me, searching for something. The only thing that saved me was the sudden end of the music. It had banished those terrible shades back to wherever they’d come from.

When I turned to the stage, I saw how the strange violinist took his instrument and bow from security. Then he turned around and walked backstage. As he passed me, he gave me the shortest of grins which sent me back cringing in horror.

I wanted to call out to people to stop him, to restrain him, and ask him what he’d done. But somehow I could only watch as he walked away.

Only a few minutes after his act had been put to an end, Stephan de Preaulx had vanished from the studio.

Afterward, higher-ups proclaimed it had all been a social experiment. They wanted to see how an audience would react to this type of performance. People’s tickets were refunded and everyone present would be awarded tickets for the rest of the season. The crazed violinist was revealed to be an actor. The strange things that some people had seen were state-of-the-art visual effects.

We members of the production team got our very own version of the story. It was essentially the same bullshit they’d told the audience. I didn’t believe a single word, but I still signed the form they held in my face, regardless.

For the day all castings were discontinued, but the next day it was back to business as usual.

That morning I showed up like I’d done on so many others throughout the years. When I reached the stage, however, something inside of me made me recoil instinctively. It was almost as if my body was afraid to find Stephan de Preaulx out there once more.

In the end, I couldn’t do anything about it. I tried entering again and again, but after I’d suffered a terrible panic attack, I could do nothing but resign from my position. Even when the studio told me I’d never get a job in the industry again if I left now, in the middle of the season, I still did it. There was no way that I could ever work in a studio or near a stage ever again.

To this day, years after the incident, I still wake up in the middle of the night. I’m still suffering from terrible nightmares.

And every single time, there’s this cold pain in my chest and I’m filled with a sad yearning for something I’ve lost.

The weirdest thing happened tonight. I am confused about it, and I have the feeling I did something very wrong.

To make things short, I am a content writer for a magazine, and I work at night. The quiet and the overall atmosphere help me to be more productive.

The only problem is that writing at night can be quite irritating. Now I am not an anxious person per se, but the night can be scary. Weird noises, things moving in front of your window or shadows on your balcony. You might know it is a cat, or your neighbor going to the toilet in the middle of the night. Still, it scares you.

Many people think having a balcony is incredible. During the day it is, but at night it can be the complete opposite.

I can’t tell you how often I checked it out. So many times I was afraid to see someone or something out there, watching me or trying to break into my place. I know it is nothing but irrational fears.

Tonight was the same, or at least at first, it was. I was sitting at my desk working on an article about a special edition of some pseudo-popular movie. Late in the middle of the night, I heard the sharp sound of something hitting my window. I jerked and looked up.

First I checked if anything was in my room. Then I tiptoed towards the window. Nothing was there. Next was the balcony door. Nothing again. I relaxed a little. “It is only in your head,” I told myself as I opened the balcony door. I checked the right side. It was clear, nothing. Then I turned my head to the left. I saw a figure cowering in the corner of my balcony.

I jumped back, my heart skipping a beat. Before I could so much as blink, I was back inside and locked the balcony door behind me. I looked around and picked up the first blunt object I could find, an empty glass bottle. It almost slipped from my now sweating hand as I went back to the door.

Something was out there, and this time it was freaking real! I don’t believe in ghosts, monsters or demons, but that thing cowering out there…

I checked again, but from inside I saw nothing. As I opened the door once more, I could see the thing moving on the left side. I slammed the door and took a deep breath. It was way too big to be a damned cat or a bird.

I was waiting for whatever was out there to come running towards me. In my mind, I saw it jumping at the door screaming and trying to force its way in. None of that happened.

Minutes passed. Then I pushed the door open a little further with my foot, holding on to the glass bottle with an iron grip. I looked outside and still saw no movement. With my eyes glued to whatever was out there, I got out my phone. I opened the flashlight app and illuminated the corner.

I gasped. It really was bigger than an animal. As I raised the bottle though, I saw hair, dark hair. Then an arm and legs. Then I saw clothes. It was a person! What was someone doing out on my balcony in the middle of the night?

Armed with the bottle, I yelled out a ‘hello’ that was a little too quiet and not as intimidating as I wanted it to be. I saw movement and was soon able to make out a face. It was the face of a young woman. Her eyes grew wide, and I saw her mouth open, then close again. I saw the bruises on her face and something that could be dried blood. Her hair was a dirty mess. After a moment her mouth opened again, and I could hear her murmur something. I wasn’t able to understand a word. Then she repeated it, and this time I was able to make out the word help.
Then once more, this time a little louder: “Help me.”
She began to repeat the words over and over again.

It was a girl. I told her everything was going to be alright but still held on to the bottle. I asked her what had happened and she started to ramble on. I didn’t catch most of it. I heard something about a group of people, some guys and her trying to get away.

As I gave her a closer look, I could see the dirty, ripped clothes. I noticed the blood stains and could see how much she was shaking.

She finally looked up and told me, pleading that she had to hide or they might find her. After that, her words weren’t audible anymore, drowned out by her sobbing. For a moment I stood there still in shock, but soon got a grip on myself and told her to come inside.

I explained I’d get help and call the police. This agitated her, and she repeated the word no over and over, shaking her head. She seemed way too scared, almost completely out of it. I was quick to assure her that I wouldn’t call anyone.

She heaved herself up. A ‘Holy shit’ escaped my mouth as I saw her whole appearance. I could see that not only her face but her legs and arms too were covered in bruises. There was a long cut on one of her legs. I couldn’t even make out how old she was.

I told her again to come in, reassuring her that it was safe inside and that she shouldn’t worry. As she stepped through the door, I could have sworn I saw a smile on her face.

She took a few steps in and then stood there motionless in the middle of the room. I asked how I could help her but got no answer. I told her that she could use the bathroom to clean herself up and where to find towels. After a few more painfully long seconds of no movement, she went towards the bathroom. Moments later I heard her close the door.

I took a deep breath. What a night. I thought about calling the police again. What if she was a student from the university campus close by? She could be on drugs and was having a bad trip? Or she hung around with the wrong crowd? I didn’t want to get pulled into any of that kind of trouble.

As I stood in my living room, I shivered. The balcony door was still wide open. I went outside again to give the corner I had found her in a quick check in case she had dropped something.

Only at that point it finally hit me. I shivered again. This time not because of the cold. No, it was because of the girl, because of this whole encounter. My hands clung to the railing as I looked down from my sixth-floor balcony.

There was no way someone can climb all the way up here. There was no possible way. I started shaking in fear. How in the hell did she get up here?

I jerked around. Nothing. The living room was empty. I ran towards the bathroom. The door wasn’t locked. No sounds from inside. I pushed the door open and took a few steps in, only to find it empty.

No one in the shower, no one in the bathtub, no one anywhere. Yes, I even checked the ceiling. I checked every single spot, not only in the bathroom but in my whole apartment. There is no one else here. I am all alone. She is gone, vanished.

As I am now sitting here, I keep telling myself that she must have run off; that she skipped out on me. But if she needed to hide, why would she leave? How did I not hear any of the doors open or close? Why is the front door still locked?

And, most of all, why can’t I shake off that little smile I saw as she set foot in my apartment…