20 Sep The Catsup Massacre

It was the sort of bizarre incident that would forever haunt a small town such as ours. The Catsup Massacre, we called it, though it wasn’t exactly a massacre in the traditional sense. No one could quite agree on how or when it had happened, but the stories varied wildly. Some said it occurred late at night in the heart of our sleepy suburban neighborhood, while others swore it happened at high noon, but without so much as a soul there to witness it. Regardless, the one thing everyone agreed upon was that it was like something out of a horror movie.

I sat at our local diner, Joe’s, nursing a cup of coffee and eavesdropping on the hushed conversations around me. The atmosphere was different today, tenser than usual. The Catsup Massacre had everyone on edge.

Gloria, the owner of the diner, approached me with a weary smile. “You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind, Mark. Care to share?”

I sighed, leaning back in my booth. “It’s just… this whole Catsup thing, Gloria. It’s giving me the creeps. I mean, what could’ve caused such a mess?”

She nodded, her expression sympathetic. “I know, dear. We’re all wondering the same thing. The town council’s holding a meeting later to discuss it. Maybe they’ll have some answers.”

As if on cue, Sheriff Barnes entered the diner, and all conversation ceased. He made his way to the counter, where Gloria poured him a black coffee, no sugar, no cream.

“Morning, Sheriff,” I greeted, my voice shaky.

“Morning, Mark,” he replied, his usually stern face showing signs of exhaustion. “Gloria, have you heard anything new about the Catsup incident?”

Gloria shook her head. “Not a word, Sheriff. It’s like it happened in a vacuum.”

Sheriff Barnes took a sip of his coffee, deep in thought. “Well, folks, we can’t let this get to us. We’re a resilient community, and we’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise you that.”

As he left the diner, a sense of unease lingered in the air. No one had a clue how or why it happened, and the absence of answers only fueled our fears.

Over the next few days, our town went through the motions of life, but the Catsup Massacre was a constant shadow. Rumors ran wild. Some claimed it was a prank gone horribly wrong, while others believed it was a deliberate act of vandalism, or a murderous conspiracy of epic proportions. But there was one detail that no one could deny: it involved ketchup, and lots of it.

Late one evening, I was sitting on my porch, staring at the darkened street, when my neighbor, Mrs. Wallace, approached. She held a plate of freshly baked cookies, a nervous smile on her face.

“Mark, I know it’s strange, but would you like some cookies?” she offered.

I took a cookie and nodded my thanks. “Thanks, Mrs. Wallace. It’s just been a weird week, you know?”

She sighed, glancing down the street as if expecting something to jump out of the shadows. “Yes, dear, it has. And I can’t help but wonder what’s next.”

* * * * * *

The truth is, the incident dubbed a “massacre” started when thousands of glass ketchup bottles were found in Rick Swenson’s yard, mostly emptied of their contents. Instead of being in their respective containers, the ketchup – a bona fide tidal wave of it, from the looks of it – had more or less engulfed Swenson’s once immaculate home. And Rick… well, he and the members of his family – including his wife and four children – were nowhere to be found.

That is, until someone checked the basement and discovered their corpses, each of them filled from head to toe, every pore and orifice, with the viscous red condiment. At least, that’s what the rumors were saying. It all sounded too horrible to be true. An entire family having been essentially embalmed, like Heinz-sponsored piñatas.

I couldn’t shake the haunting image of the Swenson family’s gruesome fate. It was as if they had been transformed into grotesque ketchup-filled mannequins, their lives cruelly snuffed out in the most horrifying way imaginable. The Catsup Massacre had taken an even darker turn, and I was determined to uncover the truth behind this macabre mystery.

As night fell, I left my porch and ventured toward the Swenson residence. The air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant sound of crickets. The moon cast an eerie pallor over the neighborhood, illuminating the now-empty yard that had been a sea of ketchup bottles just days ago, before the local biohazard clean-up outfit had removed practically all trace of the incident. The outdoors portion of it, anyway.

I approached the front door with trepidation, stepping over and through the police tape, my heart pounding in my chest. I had never trespassed before, and I wasn’t exactly eager to have a criminal record, but I needed answers.

The Swenson house stood like a looming specter, its windows dark and foreboding. With each step closer, a feeling of dread settled upon me, but I couldn’t turn back now.

The front door creaked open with a spine-chilling groan, exposing the dimly-lit interior. I flicked on my flashlight and cautiously stepped inside. The air was thick with the acrid scent of ketchup, making every breath feel suffocating.

My flashlight beam danced over the abandoned living room, revealing overturned furniture and shattered glass. It was as if a violent struggle had taken place here. I moved deeper into the house, my heart racing.

As I entered the kitchen, I stumbled upon a chilling sight. Ketchup bottles were scattered across the floor, their red contents spilling out like pools of blood. It was a grotesque tableau, a nightmarish scene straight out of a horror film. While the exterior of the house and the property were more or less back to normal, the interior of the Swenson home told a very different story.

I followed the trail of ketchup, my flashlight beam trembling with unease. It led me to the basement door, which hung slightly ajar. The basement was where the Swenson family’s lifeless bodies had been discovered, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there were more answers to be found down there.

Inhaling deeply, I mustered the courage to nudge open the basement door and venture into the darkness below. With each step down the aged, groaning wooden staircase, the temperature plummeted, and the overpowering scent of ketchup intensified.

When I reached the basement floor, my flashlight illuminated a horrifying scene – a crimson trail that led from where I presumed the family’s lifeless bodies had once lain, to a narrow passageway hidden behind a bookshelf.

With growing apprehension, I followed the trail, my footsteps echoing in the suffocating silence. The passage led to a hidden chamber, a place unlike anything I had ever seen. The walls were lined with ketchup bottles, arranged in a purposeful pattern, and the room itself seemed to pulse with an otherworldly energy.

In the center of the chamber, I discovered a journal, its pages filled with incomprehensible symbols and cryptic writings. It was Rick Swenson’s journal, and as I perused its contents, it became clear very quickly that he had stumbled upon a cursed recipe, a dark ritual that involved something inhuman and not of this world… and a veritable buttload of ketchup.

As I read through the journal, a voice echoed in my mind, a haunting whisper that filled me with terror. I suspected it may have been the same voice that had driven Rick Swenson to commit unspeakable acts, which later claimed his own life and that of his beautiful family, and now it seemed to beckon to me, promising answers to the mysteries that had consumed our town. But at what cost?

The sinister voice, like a siren’s call, did its best to coax me from the depths of the hidden chamber. Its haunting whispers filled my mind with promises of forbidden knowledge, but also with warnings of the dire consequences that awaited me. The journal in my trembling hands held the key to unraveling the mysteries of the Catsup Massacre, and the voice urged me to read on.

The enigmatic writings in Rick Swenson’s journal alluded to a ceremony that involved summoning otherworldly entity hungry for souls. The ketchup, it seemed, was not just a condiment but a vital component of this ritual, a symbol of the entity’s insatiable appetite for human lives.

As I continued to read, the voice in my mind grew more insistent, demanding that I complete the ritual, to offer myself as a willing sacrifice in exchange for the knowledge I sought. It promised enlightenment beyond imagination, but it also warned of the horrors that would befall me if I refused.

I struggled against the pull of the voice, to resist the allure of the forbidden knowledge. It was as if an invisible force was controlling my thoughts and actions, driving me toward a dark and inevitable fate.

Before I knew it, I was overtaken with a sudden craving for ketchup.  Ravenously, and to my utter horror and disbelief, I involuntarily began lunging in all directions, at whatever sources of the condiment I could find, and began shoveling, scraping, and pouring it into my mouth. Off the floor and walls, out of bottles, gleaned from shards of broken glass littering the floor, it didn’t matter where it came from. I needed it in my mouth, and I needed it now.

I have no idea how much time passed as I consumed what felt like gallons of the noxious substance, but somehow, some way, in a moment of sheer terror and desperation, I managed to tear myself away from the journal and flee the hidden chamber. The voice in my mind screamed in rage, a cacophony of torment and fury that echoed through the basement. It was not happy I was alive, and even angrier that I was leaving.

I stumbled up the creaking stairs, my heart pounding and my legs turning to gelatin, the scent of ketchup still clinging to my clothes. As I burst out of the basement door, gasping for breath, I was met not just with a blast of cool fresh air, but with the blinding beams of flashlights and the austere faces of the police.

“Freeze! Hands where we can see them!” one of the officers shouted.

My limbs moved of their own accord, and I found myself raising my arms in surrender. Panic welled up within me as I tried to explain the horrifying ordeal I had just experienced, the unseen entity, and the cursed ritual.

But to the police, my words sounded like madness. They didn’t see the malevolent force that had taken control of me, forcing me to consume ketchup in the basement of the Swenson house.

They rushed me out of the house, their flashlights glaring in my eyes, their voices stern and demanding explanations. The officers were convinced I had been trespassing and tampering with evidence, and they were determined to get to the bottom of it.

* * * * * *

The police station was a stark contrast to the eerie darkness of the Swenson house’s basement. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the cold, gray walls. I found myself seated in an uncomfortable metal chair, hands handcuffed behind my back, as officers bustled around, preparing to interrogate me.

Sheriff Barnes, his brow furrowed with suspicion, entered the room and took a seat across from me. He regarded me with a dour expression, his eyes piercing like daggers.

“Start talking, Mark,” he demanded, his voice commanding. “What the hell were you doing in that basement? And why in God’s name were you covered in ketchup?”

I took a deep breath, my mind racing to find the right words to explain the horrifying ordeal I had endured. The memories of the unseen entity that had controlled my actions, the voice in my mind, and the accursed ritual from the journal were still fresh and haunting.

“Sheriff, I know this is going to sound crazy,” I began, my voice trembling, “but there’s something in that basement. Something… otherworldly. It forced me to consume ketchup, gallons of it, against my will. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Sheriff Barnes exchanged a skeptical glance with the officers in the room, who listened intently but with evident doubt.

“I found Rick Swenson’s journal,” I continued, desperation in my voice. “It mentioned a ritual, a dark entity hungry for souls. I think it’s still down there, and it wanted me as a sacrifice.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the air heavy with disbelief. But then, one of the officers, Deputy Rodriguez, spoke up. “Sheriff, we should at least check the basement. Make sure there’s nothing else, or new, down there.”

Sheriff Barnes nodded reluctantly, and they un-cuffed me, leading the way back to the Swenson house.

* * * * * *

As we descended into the basement, my heart raced with dread, fearing what we might find.

The basement was eerily quiet now, devoid of the malevolent force that had once controlled me. The ketchup-smeared bottles and crimson trails remained as eerie reminders of the horrors I had experienced.

We searched every corner, every crevice, but found nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if the entity had vanished, leaving behind only the lingering scent of ketchup and a sense of foreboding.

I think more shocking was the amount of ketchup I had consumed, which had previously been on the walls and floor, and which was now nowhere to be seen. Presumably, it was inside of me. I felt sick.

Back at the police station, I was released from custody, but the doubts and suspicion still hung in the air. Sheriff Barnes, though skeptical, couldn’t deny the bizarre circumstances surrounding the Catsup Massacre and my harrowing experience.

“You best keep your distance from that house, Mark,” he warned, his voice grave. “We’ll investigate further, but for now, stay away.”

* * * * * *

The night air was cool and crisp as I left the police station, my mind still reeling from the inexplicable events in the Swenson house’s basement. Sheriff Barnes’ warning echoed in my ears as I walked through the dimly lit streets, each step feeling heavier than the last.

My anxiety gnawed at me, urging me to flee, to leave this town behind and forget about the horrors I had witnessed. But I couldn’t. I wanted to understand the Catsup Massacre. Needed to understand it.

As I passed by a nearby grocery store, the overhead lights beckoned me inside, casting an inviting glow across the aisles of shelves. I wasn’t hungry – of course not, not after what I’d just done in the Swenson basement – and yet my feet moved of their own accord, taking me toward the store’s entrance. It was as if an unseen force was once again guiding me, pulling me deeper into the store’s interior.

In the condiments aisle, I stopped, and promptly broke out in a cold sweat as I realized where I’d been led.

My gaze fixated on the array of ketchup bottles that lined the shelves.

Ketchup. Oh, no. Oh, sweet Jesus, no. Anything but ketchup.

The familiar scent filled the air, tantalizing my senses. All the while, my stomach turned and my mind reeled. Without conscious thought, my hand reached out, and I grabbed a bottle, tearing off the cap.

The ketchup poured into my mouth, thick and sweet, as if it were a lifeline. I couldn’t stop. The bottle emptied within seconds, but my insatiable hunger persisted. Desperation consumed me as I dropped to my knees, scraping spilled ketchup from the linoleum floor with my fingers, shoving it into my mouth.

Employees and a handful of customers stared in shock, their expressions a mixture of horror and confusion. But I couldn’t hear their gasps and whispers. All that mattered was the ketchup, the crimson elixir that compelled me to consume more.

I moved to the next bottle, tearing it open and pouring its contents into my mouth. The taste was overwhelming, a symphony of flavors and sensations that eclipsed reason and sanity. I continued this grotesque ritual, bottle after bottle, until my vision blurred and my body grew weak.

My consciousness waned as darkness closed in, threatening to consume me entirely. But just as I teetered on the precipice of oblivion, a pair of arms seized me, pulling me away from the ketchup-covered aisle and into the harshly-lit grocery store parking lot.

The concerned grocery store clerk who had witnessed my disturbing episode held me firmly, her voice a soothing presence in the chaos of my mind. “Hey, hey, are you alright? What happened in there?”

I struggled to form words, my throat raw from the onslaught of vinegar-laced ketchup. “I… I don’t know. Something… something took control. Forced me to…”

She nodded, her expression sympathetic. “You’re safe now. We’ll get you some help.”

As the police were called once again, I was left with the unsettling knowledge that the entity from the Swenson house had not released its grip on me.

Then I passed out.

* * * * * *

I awoke in a sterile hospital room, the harsh white light overhead making my head throb with pain. I could hear the distant hum of medical equipment and the muffled voices of nurses and doctors outside my room. My body felt weak, and the memories of what had transpired at the grocery store flooded back with horrifying clarity.

A doctor entered the room, her face a mask of concern. “Mark, can you hear me? My name is Dr. Rieckmann. You gave us quite a scare.”

I nodded weakly, struggling to sit up. “What… what happened to me?”

The doctor hesitated for a moment before speaking. “You suffered a severe physical and psychological episode, Mark. Your consumption of ketchup in such large quantities was extremely dangerous. We had to pump your stomach to remove the excess condiment. And there’s something else you should know.”

I watched her, anxiety gnawing at my insides. “What is it?”

The doctor’s expression grew graver. “While you were unconscious, we ran some tests. It appears that the ketchup you ingested had some… unusual properties. We’re not entirely sure what caused your compulsion to consume it, but it’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

My mind raced, thoughts of the entity and the cursed ritual resurfacing. “You have to believe me, Dr. Rieckmann. It wasn’t my choice! Something forced me to eat it.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “We’ll need to keep you overnight in our psychiatric ward for observation, sir. Your safety is our top priority.”

I was led to the psych ward, confined to a room with padded walls and a single narrow window. My mind was in turmoil, haunted by the events that had unfolded in the Swenson basement and the grocery store. I had to find a way to break free from the entity’s influence, to stop the unnatural compulsion to consume ketchup.

The night in the psych ward was long and restless, filled with nightmares of crimson floods and echoing whispers. But by morning, I was released, deemed stable enough to be discharged. I couldn’t stay there, not with the darkness that still lurked in our town.

Leaving the hospital, I knew I had to uncover the truth about the Catsup Massacre and the malevolent force that had taken hold of me. The horrors I had witnessed, the ritual, and the entity hungry for souls were all pieces of a puzzle that needed to be solved.

* * * * * *

With determination burning in my chest, I set out to investigate further, starting with the Swenson house. I had to understand what had transpired in that hidden chamber, what had driven Rick Swenson and his family to their gruesome fate. Perhaps there were answers hidden within the journal that had been my undoing.

I returned to the Swenson house, this time in the light of day. The police tape had been removed, and the exterior appeared deceptively normal. I approached cautiously and quietly, on the lookout for any police presence.  Seeing none, and with a sigh of relief, I proceeded.

The eerie silence still hung in the air as I entered the house, my heart pounding with each step. In the basement, I was pleased to find the journal where I had left it, and hurriedly perused it once again, doing my level best to try and decipher its cryptic symbols and writings. It spoke of an entity from another realm, a being of immense hunger and authority. The ritual that Rick Swenson had unknowingly unleashed had bound the entity to our world, and as ridiculous as it sounded, ketchup – of all things – was the conduit through which it could feed.

As I delved deeper into the journal’s pages, I began to piece together the components of the ritual. It involved a series of incantations, gestures, and the consumption of ketchup in large quantities. I shuddered at the thought of what I had been compelled to do in that place. I imagined I would be losing sleep over it for years, if not decades.

With newfound knowledge and a growing sense of dread, I realized that the only way to banish the entity and end the curse of the Catsup Massacre was to reverse the ritual. I had to find a way to break the connection between the entity and our world.

The journal hinted at a way to undo the ritual, a complex and perilous process that involved collecting specific ingredients and performing a counter-ritual. It was a dangerous path, one that would test my courage and resolve to the limit, but I had no other choice.

My first step was to gather the ingredients, some of which were rare and obscure. Nervously I traveled to antique shops, consulted with local historians, and scoured libraries for information on ancient rituals. Fortunately I was met with no further interference from the entity, and suffered from no compulsions. Each piece of the puzzle brought me closer to understanding the true nature of the entity and the extent of its hatred for mankind.

* * * * * *

As the days turned into weeks, I uncovered the final ingredient needed to complete the counter-ritual. It wasn’t at all what you would expect. It was not some relic from a bygone era, or a vial of some exotic elixir. No.  It was… mustard. That’s right. Ordinary mustard.  It sounded wrong in so many ways, but who was I to argue with the journal? What else could I do? I had no choice but to trust it and hope for the best.

With the final ingredient in hand, I truly believed I possessed the power to sever the connection between our world and the entity’s realm. There was one final hurdle, however: the concoction had to be administered at the site where the original ritual had taken place — in the Swenson basement.

The night of the counter-ritual arrived, and I stood alone in the basement, armed with the knowledge I had gained from the journal , and the vial of what I suppose you would call a potion. A mustard-based potion that I was convinced tasted even worse than it smelled. But no matter.

The air was thick with anticipation as I returned to the Swenson home for what I hoped was the final time. I was surprised to find that even after all this time the scent of ketchup still lingered. A haunting reminder, I thought, of the horrors that had unfolded here.

With trembling hands, I began to recite the incantations and perform the gestures outlined in the journal. Each word and movement had to be precise, and any mistake could prove fatal. The basement seemed to come alive with unseen forces, and I could sense the entity’s presence lurking in the shadows. It was furious, and I didn’t have much time.

As I neared the final step of the counter-ritual, I uncorked the vial. Without hesitation, I did as I was trained, splashing a portion of it on the floor, smearing some on the walls and ceiling, and finally, ingesting the last of it. All the while, the entity in the corner of the basement seemed to bubble and pulse in silence, seemingly mustering up the energy to manifest fully. I braced myself for whatever was about to happen next.

The eerie silence that followed the completion of the counter-ritual in the Swenson basement was palpable. I waited, my heart pounding, expecting some sign that the entity had been banished, that the curse of the Catsup Massacre had finally been broken. But the basement remained still, and the entity, though it slithered into a crack in the wall and out of sight, didn’t appear to be in anything even remotely resembling pain. It seemed more… annoyed. To say I was beside myself with confusion and disappointment would be an understatement.

Then it dawned on me. The mustard was a ruse. A trap. Of course it was. No one in their right mind would believe ordinary mustard would be the final ingredient in a demon-banishing ritual. I felt like a fool, and not only that, I was now in incredible danger, and so was everyone else in my town.

I retreated from the basement, my footsteps echoing in the empty house. The entity was elusive and cunning, and it felt in every way as if it had just outwitted my efforts. No wonder it hadn’t bothered to stop me from collecting the ingredients.

I had failed.

* * * * * *

I awoke the following morning in my own home, and a feeling of unease immediately settled over me. It was as if the very air in the town had grown heavier. And then, the news came.

The awful, awful news.

A chilling message reached my ears, delivered by a stone-faced neighbor who had heard it on the radio. The police station had become a house of horrors, mirroring the fate of the Swenson family. Everyone involved in the investigation into the Catsup Massacre, including Sheriff Barnes and his officers, had been found dead in the same macabre manner, suffocated and choked with ketchup, in the basement of the police station.

The shock and horror rippled through our town like a tsunami. The Catsup Massacre, once a nightmarish enigma, had taken a gruesome and devastating turn. Fear and paranoia spread like wildfire as residents grappled with the realization that no one was safe, that the entity’s malevolent hunger knew no bounds.

Funerals were announced for both the Swenson family and the fallen officers, and our town became shrouded in mourning. It was a somber and surreal time, where darkness seemed to loom at every corner.

I felt the weight of the tragedy pressing down on me, a crushing burden of guilt and responsibility. I had tampered with forces beyond my understanding, and my attempts to banish the entity had seemingly led to even more death and suffering.

A conflict raged within me. Part of me wanted to flee the town. I felt responsible for the deaths of those officers who had only sought to protect our community. But another part of me knew that leaving would be an act of cowardice, an abandonment of the very people I had sworn to protect.

As I stood at the crossroads of indecision, I received an unexpected visit from Mrs. Wallace, my elderly neighbor. She brought a plate of freshly baked cookies, her eyes filled with compassion.

“Mark, dear,” she said softly, “I know this town is in the grip of something truly terrible. But we can’t abandon it. We have to face this together, find a way to put an end to it. Everything will be okay, dear. You’ll see.”

I nodded in agreement, but honestly, I didn’t believe her. I didn’t know if I ever would.

The services for the Swenson family and the fallen officers were solemn and heart-wrenching affairs. The entire town gathered to pay their respects, a sea of mourners whose lives had been forever changed by the horrors that had befallen us. It was a reminder that we were bound together by a shared tragedy, and that we needed each other more than ever.

* * * * * *

In the days that followed, I couldn’t shake the weight of guilt and responsibility that had settled on my shoulders. The deaths of the Swenson family and the police officers haunted my every waking moment. I was torn between the desire to flee the town and the need to confront the entity responsible for these horrors.

Mrs. Wallace’s words continued to echo in my mind, urging me not to abandon our community. All the while, the fear that the entity might follow me, as it had once before, gnawed at me like a relentless beast.

Finally, unable to bear the guilt any longer, I made a difficult decision: I would leave town first thing in the morning.

And so I did.

In leaving behind everything and everyone I had known and cared about for decades, I imagined I was also leaving behind the painful memories of the Catsup Massacre and the guilt that had weighed me down. But my decision to leave had been a cowardly one. I knew it, and I didn’t know if I could ever live it down. Mrs. Wallace had pleaded with me not to go, her eyes filled with concern, but I couldn’t bear the thought of staying, of facing the entity and the darkness it represented. But she had no way of knowing the extent of my involvement, or what I’d been through, the things I’d done to try and save everyone.

In a way, I suppose, I felt like I wasn’t simply leaving them behind.  In my mind, I was sentencing them all to death – and that made everything so much worse.

In my new town, thousands of miles away, I hoped for a fresh start. I settled into a quiet neighborhood, surrounded by strangers who knew nothing of my past. I found a new job and tried to rebuild my life. And for a while, it seemed like I had escaped the horrors of my previous life. The nights were calm, the days uneventful. The Catsup Massacre became a distant, haunting memory, one that I tried desperately to forget.

But then, the nightmares began.

I would wake in the dead of night, bathed in sweat, the echoes of screams and the smell of ketchup filling my senses. The nightmares were vivid, as if the entity that had haunted me had found a way to reach me even in my new home.

The people in my new town were kind, their smiles warm, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that something was terribly wrong. My paranoia grew, and I found myself watching my neighbors, searching for any signs of any disturbance or calamity. But there was nothing, only the quiet routines of everyday life. I tried my best to relax, I promise you.

And then, one fateful day, it happened. All my hopes came crashing down, like a house of cards.

It would have been an ordinary Wednesday, if it hadn’t been for the morning news report that shook me to my core. A massacre had occurred in my new town, a gruesome and horrifying event, resulting in the deaths not of a single family, or of a few dozen individuals, but of hundreds. And it mirrored the Catsup Massacre in every way. Once again, innocent lives had been snuffed out, and ketchup was employed as a cruel and unusual torture device. It made national news, and was decried as a bizarre terrorist attack, or the actions of deranged cult members. But I knew better.

I couldn’t believe it. The entity had followed me, its thirst for souls clearly unquenched, and seemingly growing. Not only had the guilt I had tried to escape caught up with me, but the entity did as well, and now, my new town was paying the price.

I knew I couldn’t run anymore. As if there was anywhere to run to anyway. The burden of guilt that had plagued me for so long would never be lifted. There was no escape. Running away from my past only allowed my demons time to catch up with me.

Overwhelmed by anxiety and grief, I wrung my hands, sank into the nearest chair, buried my face in my hands, and sobbed.

I cried for a while, cursing my stupidity and foolishness, feeling sorry for myself, until a scent wafting through the air caught my attention.  In shock and dismay, I immediately sobered up and wiped the tears from my face.

The vinegar-rich, sickly sweet odor was unmistakable, and it was growing stronger by the moment.

I braced myself as the smell filled the room, and watched in silent horror as a fog-like substance, reeking of a condiment-drenched basement, seeped into my apartment from beneath my front door.

I would recognize that scent anywhere. That unforgettable stench.

Oh, God, I thought. I smell… ketchup.