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Skin Walk with Me

The personified cave wall of the North American Terror

By Zack GrahamPublished about a year ago Updated about a year ago 21 min read
Top Story - February 2023
Skin Walk with Me
Photo by Bangkit Prayogi on Unsplash

If walls could talk, they’d teach you a thousand words for shame. I have no memory of what came before me – this is perhaps our only overlap. Some entities are visitors and others hosts; the most fortunate are the ones who live as both. I am sought by eternal guests in every age and era.

There may not be memories, but there were dreams. An entanglement of unending darkness, interrupted only by the flickering spurts of cosmic ignitions. There were great rumblings. Plates of shifting earth beneath a Gaian downpour, and primordial monsters drifted in the froth. The only thing that survived such a surface was a dreamscape – stone and root shared a sleeping vision that water would forge them a sanctuary.

I stirred beneath my parent seasons but they never came to wake me.

Over time, my mouth became known to some; furry travelers caught in elemental chaos. Soon my throat had been explored, all the way back to the first great chamber of my heart.

The darkness of my body is difficult for delicate things to navigate. Waking flesh and slumbering stone exists as the dichotomy of the Gods, and where one goes the other often doesn’t.

We are parallel yet impassable to one another.

That was until Restful Cloud came. My skeleton is hidden and reaches deep into the earth. Only the outline of my lips will show you where I rest.

He came to me starving and beautiful; the first to know the nature of my being. He crawled along the forest belly on a vision quest for the elders.

The state of his mind allowed him to see not just my mouth, but the breath in and out. He took to the neighbor foliage and crafted the dyes of his medicine – the paint that gave me a face. First, layers of yellow and red around my opening, accented with sappy green pine needles. The bright colors surrendered to blue and gray, until he reached the rockshelf in the back.

Restful Cloud saw a brow in that shelf, and placed purple, unblinking eyes at the top of my throat. He chanted the sacred songs of his Mother, and I learned the values of his bloodline.

“Now you may inspect all who inspect you,” he explained when he was finished. These eyes angled to let me see the clearing just outside my entrance, and all within.

He carried flat stones outside and placed them in a tight circle; he adorned that with additional seat stones. It became the sacred hearth of his medicine.

He slept within my safety and stirred under the weight of mystic dreams. In the delusions of his vision quest, I became the sanctuary promised to wandering tribesmen – a cave of gnostic transmission.

He returned to his tribe when the quest was finished. I took care to maintain the painted walls after he left.

Our bond was simple for many seasons. He returned each spring, when the creator unpacks the sunlight, to sing to the land.

I became the parlor for the young shaman to practice his medicine. In time, others were interested in his meditations: the trees grew taller so as to better see his spellcrafting, and the sun made time to linger in the evening. Even the wind had heard of Restful Cloud’s growing gnosis. It carried his songs to the furthest nations.

The boy that found me became a man through the seasons. His body grew long and lean, unblemished by scars or skirmish. Creators recognized his authority of the earth and rewarded him greatly; the rain seasons were heavy and the summer sun fell endless upon the hunt. Servants of the kingdom came to pay tribute in the way of bears, owls, and curious rabbits. He spoke and the creatures obeyed; they brought herbs and quartz for his potions.

One spring he brought another guest; Needle By Itself. She was tall and strong, even the trees saluted her stride. They walked hand-in-hand while they spoke of the future.

“You know this is the way,” Restful Cloud insisted. “My medicine is for the people.”

“What if it doesn’t go away?” she asked.

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

Needle By Itself made her case within my hollow. She peered at Restful Cloud with unwavering eyes as she spoke – the dancing campfire between them reflected the mood.

They didn’t speak when she was done, but surrendered to carnal instincts. There is nothing more adventurous than the shadows of newly lessoned lovers; the clashing of their spirits still brings my stone to tremble. The fire cast a heat against my walls, but the thrumming silhouettes left a coolness in their wake.

This is the closest I’ve come to ecstasy.

They visited together often after that season, but always with the hushed excitement of secrecy. Restful Cloud continued to gather his power in my hollow between the sun and moon. The tribes teetered on what visions the shaman would bring, and the crows squawked their impatience from above.

There was a great weight on the shaman’s shoulders, but like his namesake, he carried them with the shapeless power of the sky. More seasons accumulated upon Restful Cloud’s face until he resembled a weathered old man. The easy laughter that brewed in his belly showed a different age.

He returned one spring with a new name, given to him by the other elders. In honor of his spiritwork, and through the tribe’s respect, Restful Cloud became Happy Smoke. They ascended to my lofts and stoked a ceremonial bonfire to honor the transition. These were new visitors to me, who showed me the rhythm of movement. The council painted themselves with medicine and danced until sunrise.

Happy Smoke shooed the elders away after they rested – he took time alone with Needle By Itself. They sang back and forth in the twilight hours until they ran out of breath. It was the last time they relaxed under the moon.

Things were balanced when they left; good in soul and soil. I couldn’t have known the world away was changing.

Happy Smoke returned later that year in a delirium. He wore his bright medicine paint, but it was plastered over with streaks of dirty blood. He was gaunt, skinny in the chest and legs. His frantic eyes threatened to roll right out of the socket.

He stumbled to the inner workings of my throat and called out for his friends and family.

“Needle By Itself!” he cried for his lover.

Silence swallowed his words.

The closest I come to speaking is tasting the echoes of others; the vibrations cascade throughout my body as if I conjured the syllables myself. I’m ashamed to admit the euphoria his shrieks brought me. Some of those shameful words still linger in the deepest chasms of my chest.

He shambled out of my mouth and left, muttering curses to the trees. I knew his magic changed when the trunks swayed to avoid him.

When he returned, he wasn’t alone; he carried a broken corpse. One by one he carried his tribe up the mountainside and into my cavernous maw. Some of them were so desecrated that Happy Smoke carried their remains like logs of wood.

Needle By Itself was the last; the shaman sobbed with each step of the climb. His wail silenced any hoot or howl along the mountain.

He was calling down the attention of the creators. Happy Smoke wiped his tears and took to crafting the necessary medicine for revival. The bodies were painted and arranged in the way he’d been instructed. Nothing stirred in my darkness.

He sparked a fire and took to chanting a sacred prayer. He pleaded with his ancestors to turn the dead back to their bodies, and called on the creators for personal justice.

The gods mocked his cries.

The sun bubbled on the horizon and brought color to the air. Its pending rays threatened to expose the truth of his tribe. The shaman scrambled the rest of the morning to drag the bodies into my hidden reaches, where the gorges become impassable. I could feel bones bow and snap to accommodate the crushing angles – some belonged to Happy Smoke as he forced his mindless descent.

He emerged unbroken, giggling like a child. The old layers of crusted blood and medicine were accented with the bright splashes of fresh wounds. Tucked into the narrows of my underbelly was everyone Happy Smoke loved.

He wandered into the sun and swallowed fresh air – the first in many hours. The old man’s eyes were black and veins erupted along his neck and chest.

Chindi klesh Chindi,” he muttered with open arms. Blood flaked from him like old skin. “Ah hi di dail Na Nil in.

A writhing stirred my placidity. Nothing familiar, but alien entities bouncing blindly as they scrambled through my unforgiving chasm. It was a race to the surface, and lent to the sensation of vomit; hot, fuming bodies thrashing up from my stomach and throat until they reached my mouth.

I understood the sensation of having something foreign beneath your skin. The only thing I knew lay in my depths were the corpses of the clansmen – I feared Happy Smoke’s spell brought them back from the dead.

They poured into my jaws and showed themselves to be black, corded snakes of gut wrenching proportion. A slithering mass spilled out from my airway and untangled itself at the feet of the shaman. He watched with unblinking focus.

Happy Smoke snatched one from the pile before they totally detached themselves. It constricted his arm as he hoisted the wretch up to eye-level.

The other snakes paraded into the trees to make good on the shaman’s curses.

“New blessings before old gods,” he chanted. The snake lifted its head as if hypnotized by his spell.

Happy Smoke lunged forward and swallowed the snake’s head. It flexed against his jaws, but he clamped and bit it clean off. The coiled body convulsed with a deathroe.

The shaman savored it while he pulverized the body to craft his new medicine; the skull, the fangs, the scales – not a dribble escaped his mouth while he chewed.

A black, bubbling tar was all that remained when he was done. It looked toxic, but Happy Smoke smeared the putrid paste all over his arms and face. He stared up into my gaze as he finished his transition.

He scooped up the last of the rancid elixir and began a dark incantation. He applied the medicine with a shaking finger as he sang in the dark – a glyph of unholy origin painted on my wall.

His fingernail flaked away against the stone, but he didn’t take notice. The medicine he prayed for manifested itself in the way of undying scorn. There wasn’t a pain that would bring Happy Smoke to his knees; not even the splintering of his bones.

Days cycled until a season changed, and the shaman only meditated. His eyes never moved from the symbol on the wall, even as he withered into a bony knot of skin. Black hair, once sheer and striking, curled into dead gray wads.

Happy Smoke climbed to his feet when the moon hung red, as if he’d been summoned by the eclipse. He took long, creeping strides back into the land. None of the owls hooted a hello to the medicine man – only dead silence blanketed my opening.

The arid nub of his tongue rimmed his lips, and surveyed the parched fissures therein. His hibernation partially mummified his body.

It was no matter; the medicine man took to his new tasks.

He started with the seats around the firepit – the ring of ceremony. Happy Smoke heaved the stones up and over the mountainside with his brittle body. Despite the wasting of his muscle, he proved tremendously strong.

The flat resting rocks trundled down the face before they went silent.

“None find shelter here,” he promised.

He went on to find a length of oak wood. It fit his hand perfectly, like the scepter of a forest lord. Happy Smoke delicately tucked himself away in the underbrush and disappeared from view.

A tapping began. Not a loud bang but a subtle percussion among the trees:

…tap tap TAP

TAP tap TAP…

A violent gust stirred the trees, and the tapping sound mimicked its call.

Most would have dismissed it for rattling branches, but I knew Happy Smoke’s medicine well. His spellcrafting resided in impersonating natural phenomena. This coaxed events from the land in an honest manipulation of the cycles.

The wind whipped into disastrous fury; the tree boughs bent until they nearly touched the ground. Unsuspecting creatures crashed through the cyclone as it upturned their nests and dreys.

Happy Smoke continued to drum from his hiding place. The tempo increased with the howling of the sky.

An owl drifted against the squall with unmistakable agitation. It cut back and forth before landing near the firepit. With wings set wide, it strut toward the infernal tap tap tapping.

The owl was big, a noble defender of the spirit world. Even so, the bird misjudged its quarry; there was no anticipating the shaman.

Happy Smoke pounced.

They clashed in the dirt in a bid to draw first blood. The owl screeched with a savagery that made the old man pause; this creature had once been his acolyte.

Betrayer! it would have screamed. You’d kill me, your midnight servant?

Happy Smoke roared in a frenzy – his new bloodlust showed indiscriminate.

The owl raked the shaman’s chest to the bone. A black, rank mucus spilled out of the wound.

“Like the stone, I carry no blood,” he explained.

A wing moved to strike him, but Happy Smoke dislocated the joint with swift action.

The owl hissed and offered its talons a final time. The barbed razors buried themselves in the shaman’s face: one pierced his cheek, another his eye, and the last strayed beneath his scalp.

More of the black mucus leaked from the lacerations. It smoked on contact with the owl’s righteous feathers.

Happy Smoke didn’t bother to remove the claws from his skin; instead, he leaned down over the owl with a wicked, gaping mouth. His jaw hung hingeless as it descended to his chest.

Like the snake, he swallowed the head of the bird and gnawed until it came free. The dreadful old man devoured his adversary on a stone perch above the firepit – chewing bone and slurping tendon.

After the shaman had eaten enough, he angled to remove some of the more delicate bones: the hollow channels made for a good witch whistle. He stripped back flesh and muscle to expose the gray, glistening tibia. Whatever wasn’t made into tools went into his moldering belly.

The sun feared to rise, but when it did, there was no sign of Happy Smoke – only blood and feathers.

I was no longer a parlor, but a sepulcher. He went dormant in my darkness throughout the day, and slunk off into the woods by nightfall. The makeup of his costume consisted purely of gore and matted furs.

One day his brow was adorned with ill, twisted antlers; whether he tacked them on or they grew on their own, I couldn’t be sure. They never wobbled as he shambled through my darkness.

He sang doomed ballads into crannies of the dead.

“I dream of a burial season,” he said through the rubble in his throat.

The shaman stalked into the wildland that night and vanished for many moons.

When he returned, he wasn’t alone. A person toddled behind the shaman into my silent entry. He was dressed in exotic fabrics with ashy blonde hair – his eyes were vacant like a drone.

The stranger stood motionless while Happy Smoke flayed him. He started with his forehead, traveled down the slope of his face and into the channels of his collar. Skin sloughed onto my floor in wet, sloppy sheets; neither of them made a sound during the undressing.

When he was done, Happy Smoke forced the stranger to crawl into my crevasse - he left strands of muscle behind him on his journey. The shaman packed him into the space above Needle By Itself – a godless burial.

He was the first of many.

They followed him back to my lair one at a time, and then in groups. Soon entire villages made the pilgrimage through the mountains to climb into my bowels. They wore no expression, bearing the soulless eyes of the dead. No one could withstand the vile new medicine, and fell prey to his wicked stone dagger.

He led them into my deepest cavities and laid them over his kin. Those pockets grew bloated with their gummy, banded bodies; they breath collectively, as if they’ve fused into one creature.

Happy Smoke took the skins into a different chamber; one nearer the surface. This room was narrow but had an endless ceiling, and the air from the surface collided with the air from the crust. This vortex creates one of my best features – natural, endless rain that dribbles from the roof.

This is where he hung the gruesome skin flaps. Fingers, toes, even their ears; the shaman became a talented butcher. Most of the human hides were entirely intact. The moisture helped to preserve the tender features.

But the shaman grew too greedy.

Ages passed and he continued to make his fleshy deposits – every gulch within me was overfilled. The rain chamber is stuffed to the brim with discharging skins.

So he began to keep them alive, packed into craters like grains of sand. Some of them have bouts of awareness where they scream and writhe against the mass, but no one turns to help. The weight of the swarm collapses their panicked lungs until they succumb to the madness again.

The madness here is silent, and my cold, callous stone is not a comfort.

Great lengths of time escaped me as I watched the horror accrue. The woods grew sick and still, untraveled because of Happy Smoke’s folk tales. Not even the animals strayed into his part of the wood – nature knows when to self-correct. Alas, I was under his spell.

My guests started as hunters and trappers, vagrants of any kind. They transitioned into homesteaders, farmers, until a town became established. Happy Smoke plucked stragglers from the outskirts to enchant and lead back to his cave. He secured a steady feast of frontiersmen that had never heard of such a man-eater.

The shaman grew more bold. One night he returned with a line of followers in tow; the bobbing heads of a dozen ghost-eyed children. He discovered some schoolhouse or class field trip and baited them back to his cave.

He stopped just outside my opening and let them file into the cavern. Happy Smoke tousled their hair and marked their chins with blood as they strode by.

“The longest trail yet,” he admitted.

Search parties zigzagged across the mountain for the rest of the season – none came to discover the carnage within me.

The old man hid from the world with his new plunder. Souls are invaluable for dark medicine; Happy Smoke showed me when he consumed the animal agents. The children’s essence promised a curse of unborn suffering – generational agony forced upon unsuspecting keepers.

Just like Happy Smoke and Needle By Itself, the children were forgotten too. People search after the missing but only for so long. Time delivers no closure, but it does bring a promise: none of you are fit to survive very long.

The land became occupied, though – more so than ever before. The malediction of the shaman encouraged pestilence, but civilization continued to encroach from all directions. Hikers and transients roamed the valleys and rivers below me.

The old man snickered at the gods. Their meddling only fed his appetite.

Creators cycled into the winter months and brought snow as an early offering. Deep white banks erased the textured slopes of the mountain.

He returned once just before dusk. His movements were quick and alarmed, as if he’d been pursued. The low light of the forest cast deep shadows within me; the shaman vanished from sight just as quickly as he appeared.

A hunter meandered just beyond the clearing. He spotted the firepit and hesitated – something about its isolation spoke to him. He was young, as young as Restful Cloud had been when he first found me, but seemed to have a knowledge of the terrain. The boy was sure-footed and carried a brown rifle.

He left a lingering eye on the firepit before turning back to his hunt.

A whistle cut the air; sharp, short, crisp.

The hunter looked to my outset.

The shaman blew his whistle again – it served as a perfect lure.

As the hunter approached, Happy Smoke materialized from the shadows and crawled up the rock wall. He angled his ascent until he reached a ledge that overlooked the entry. Strips of flesh dangled from his antlers as he loomed.

A cloud of festering rot permeates from my every pore – the flavors of smoke, preserved meats, and body sweat were long overtaken by murder. The hunter stopped again when he recognized the scent of death.

Happy Smoke whistled a strange, familiar tune; one that made the hunter’s eyes peel wide.

He stepped into my noxious first hollow. Only with a hard squint could he behold the abhorrent symbols on the walls. His eyes traced along the dismal archive until they met mine, and for a brief moment, I was allowed a window into the old world. Curious instead of frightful, considerate before menacing. There was a shade of innocence I forgot existed.

Happy Smoke reached out and pushed a heavy stone off the ledge. He flexed his arms by its descent.

The boy’s neck disappeared into his torso and the top of his head folded under the weight. It rolled down his back, which pushed him face-first into a guttural spasm.

The shaman sang and danced and clapped above his twitching body. He climbed down and rolled the boy over so he was face up, then dragged him toward my opening.

Happy Smoke wasn’t interested in this skin. The hunter came to the cave a warrior, so would be given the death rites of such. There wasn’t grief or grudge to carry.

He laid the boy down beside the fire and began the ritual; an exchange of medicine. Happy Smoke took turns painting their faces with the other’s blood – then he took to dismembering his fidgeting corpse. He removed the limbs with a crude handstone and stacked them in the firepit.

Last came the bowling; a sacred custom for the defeated. The shaman disemboweled the boy with ruthless precision. When he was finished, all that remained was a gooey mass of ruin. Fragmented ribs poked out from between layers of meat and all I could see was myself in it: hard, static structures entrenched in carnage.

The old man gathered twigs to build a fire in the hunter’s belly – a method of passing on courage to their next life. Flames fizzled out against the blood and gore. Happy Smoke waited for him to stop breathing before he removed his head and carried it back into the cave. He placed it over the doorway as if I were a mantle.

His father arrived a few days later. The relation was undeniable – he was simply a taller, older version of the hunter, with the addition of a bushy beard. He moved with the same sinister silence as Happy Smoke; certain death.

He skirted down the path his son used until he came upon the clearing. His boots fell in the exact same snowtracks.

My dark opening beckoned him to search.

“Casey?” he called out sternly.

We watched each other’s stillness for a time. He eased himself into the treeline and listened; a menacing double-barrel relaxed against his chest.

Happy Smoke stirred at the newcomer’s call. He shambled up from the bloodworks and crawled along the cave floor, muttering indiscernible hexes.

The shaman produced the bone whistle from his matted buckskin trousers, and piped a curious spell. It promised good health and closure in its melody.

The woodsman didn’t move, but kept a steady eye on me. He knew better than to follow any stray sound – perhaps he knew the legends about us.

Happy Smoke clambered closer to the opening and began a vile chant. He put his whistle away and cupped his hands around his mouth.

“In here!” an unknown voice exclaimed. It came from the shaman.

The father leaned toward the sound.

“Hey!” Happy Smoke teased again. “I’m in here!”

He sounded like the boy.

Nothing rousted the woodsman. He crouched in the underbrush with hardened patience; a denim sentry against the snowdrifts.

Happy Smoke laughed and moved toward the opening. He restarted the dark medicine chant from before.

He didn’t exit as a man, but an owl. It glided out of my entry with ruffled, unpracticed wings. The woodsman furrowed his brow.

The owl landed on a stone outcrop and barked at the stranger – he would have heard a curious animal, but it was that of an informal challenge. They watched each other in a weird, unnatural standoff.

Happy Smoke took flight again, and pumped his wings toward the father.

I tried to scream a warning but my airways are too congested with boots and backpacks.

The mutant owl sailed over the clearing with just a few beats of its wings – the woodsman finally got to his feet as it approached.

Happy Smoke wasted no time – he materialized midair and retook his original form. He flailed through the sky, windmilling arms and cycling legs, before he crashed into his opponent.

The woodsman didn’t have time to react. The shaman collided with him and they rolled into the thicket – one wrestled with the other until they fought back to their feet. They squared off again, toe to toe, and circled back into the clearing.

Happy Smoke charged forward to bring the woodsman to the ground again, but he was ready this time. He swung the butt of the shotgun and clubbed the shaman across the eye.

“You in there, Casey?” he screamed over his shoulder into my den.

That’s when he saw him; the limbs resting in the firepit, and the burnt, headless torso beside it. The flimsy checkered flannel, Casey’s only defining attribute, was caked with his insides.

Happy Smoke croaked an explanation but then just started to laugh. He squatted low and taunted the hunter with his hands.

The father didn’t bother looking when he pulled the trigger; he kept his eyes on the boy. A deafening report flattened the wildland, and a cloud of onlooking crows evacuated the trees. They did looping circles and squawked their cheers down at the contest.

Happy Smoke’s left hand evaporated into a chunky red mess. Birds went wild above.

The shaman rushed the woodsman, wrapped him up with both arms, and slammed him into a snowbank. They grappled only a moment before Happy Smoke reared back and gored the man with his antlers over and over again. Ragged breath escaped the punctures in his lungs.

He straddled the man’s chest and forced his mouth open with the hand still intact. The woodsman struggled under the shaman’s weight, but his energy was spent. Happy Smoke’s other wrist pulsed a steady channel of blood and black mucus, which he forced between the man’s lips and down his windpipe.

The woodsman became still, looking up with the same dead eyes as the others; milky, soulless globs.

Happy Smoke stood and, with his arm firmly lodged inside the man, dragged him back into my opening.

He didn’t stop to prepare him; instead he hauled him deeper and deeper into unknown crevasses. They plunged until they passed into folds of the earth that didn’t belong to me.

When they emerged, only one of them made the ascent.

It was the woodsman.

He didn’t carry the wounds from the confrontation – his body was totally intact. He stopped in my lowest halls and took time to wash himself in the springs. My pools are stained with the blood left behind.

He emerged that night beneath a waning moon. It cast enough light to let me watch him stretch and roam around the clearing. His joints popped with an audible reset that would make any structure jealous.

“Cayse yee,” he said with uncertainty. “Cay see.”

The woodsman kept repeating phrases unfamiliar to me. He practiced until the sun relieved the moon and illuminated the stranger; he had the same bushy beard, the same faded denim outfit, free of any bloodstains.

“Casey,” he enunciated.

The woodsman smiled in a way I recognized. It had the coyness of youth that I knew Happy Smoke for.

“I didn’t find Casey,” he said as he wandered out of the clearing. “I didn’t find Casey.”

What had been alien throughout the night now sounded fluent on his lips.

He whistled a medicine tune on the long climb down the mountain.

urban legend

About the Creator

Zack Graham

Zack is a writer from Arizona. He's fascinated with fiction and philosophy.

Current Serializations:

Ghosts of Gravsmith

Sushi - Off the Grid!

Contact: [email protected]


Reader insights


Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

Top insights

  1. Compelling and original writing

    Creative use of language & vocab

  2. Excellent storytelling

    Original narrative & well developed characters

  3. Eye opening

    Niche topic & fresh perspectives

  1. On-point and relevant

    Writing reflected the title & theme

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Comments (9)

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  • Bilal YILDIZabout a year ago


  • Kelly Robertsonabout a year ago

    Wow this is intense! You can really tell the care and time you took in writing this piece. Masterful job!

  • Babs Iversonabout a year ago

    Awesome!!! Loved it!!!💕💖

  • Excellent read and congratulations on your Top Story

  • Lilly Cooperabout a year ago

    A good read, well written in a traditional way.

  • Brannan K.about a year ago

    The cave was a great conduit for this type of story; primeval and dark in its own vein, you'd be hard-pressed to find a better canvas for the basest and most violent instincts of human existence to be captured. Considering the devolution of man into what we would typically surmise to find inside a cave, such as an animal, a beast, or something to be feared, it fit perfectly. Your vivid imagery painted the cave wall as a sentient being remarkably well, really highlighting the desired perspective for the prompt and story. You nailed it!

  • Jennifer Heatonabout a year ago

    The transition of what was once a man and turns into a beast, narrated by the oldest earthly judge of all time - rock. Secrets of savagery, love and absolute horror kept alive by stone’s safekeeping. You have such an amazing way of taking readers on a quest to find clarity, even when it’s murky with blood. Amazing job as always.

  • Aphoticabout a year ago

    Absolutely brilliant. The visuals were stunning. Your descriptions are so vivid. This is everything I’d want from a skinwalker story and more. And the ending was just…ugh. Fantastic job!👏👏

  • Yvonne Heatonabout a year ago

    Since reading this yesterday I have been thinking about it and love the perspective from the wall. It is unable to look away from the absolute darkness of the human mind. Which is actually the scariest thing on this earth. Great writing Zack.

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