THE PIT
Collapsing Dimensional Space
November 7th - 5:02 AM
The descent was fifteen feet through darkness that felt like falling through oil—thick, resistant, wrong.
Zale hit bottom hard, rolled, came up already scanning.
The pit was exactly as the case files described. Circular. Ten feet diameter. Smooth concrete walls too slick to climb. A bucket in the corner on a rope. A bottle of lotion, cap off, mostly empty.
And curled in the far corner, skeletal and barely breathing—
Emma.
Zale crossed the space in two strides, dropped to his knees beside her.
She was alive. Barely.
Nineteen years old but looking sixty. Skin stretched tight over visible bones. Dehydrated. Starved. Her college sweatshirt hung off her frame like a funeral shroud. Fingernails broken and bloody where she'd clawed at the walls.
And she was moving.
Not conscious movement. Compulsive. Her hands rubbing something invisible on her arms, over and over, the motion so ingrained it continued even in her delirium.
Lotion.
Conditioning. Days of being told to put the lotion on her skin or face the hose. Her mind had broken around the command, made it automatic.
"Emma," Zale said quietly, checking her pulse. Thready. Weak. But present. "Emma Martin."
Above them, the ceiling *cracked.* Not physically—spiritually. Reality splitting apart like rotting fabric, pieces dissolving into void.
Two minutes. Maybe less.
"Emma," Zale said louder, gripping her shoulder gently. "I need you to wake up."
Her eyes snapped open.
Brown. Terrified. Completely shattered.
She screamed—a sound that was barely human, raw throat producing nothing but rasping horror—and tried to crawl backward into the corner, away from him.
"No no no not again please not again I'll put the lotion I'll do whatever you want just please don't—"
"Emma." Zale kept his voice calm, steady, not moving closer. "Your mother sent me. Catherine Martin. You're going home."
She stopped. Stared at him with eyes that didn't quite focus.
"Mom?" The word came out broken. Disbelieving. Like she'd forgotten that word meant something real.
"Yes. She hired me to find you. My name is Zale Akula. I killed the thing that took you. It's over. But I need you to trust me right now because this place is coming apart and we need to leave. Can you do that?"
Emma stared at him for three heartbeats.
Then lunged forward, grabbed his jacket with skeletal hands, and sobbed.
Not crying. Not weeping. Full-body sobbing that shook her entire frame, thirty years of Catherine's trauma compressed into four days and released all at once.
"Is he—is it—" She couldn't finish.
"Dead," Zale said firmly, wrapping his jacket around her shoulders. "Permanently. He's not coming back. Ever."
"You promise?"
The ceiling cracked wider. Chunks of reality dissolving into nothing, void bleeding through.
Ninety seconds.
"I promise," Zale said, and meant it.
He stood, pulled Emma to her feet. She immediately collapsed—legs wouldn't support her weight, four days of starvation and terror having destroyed what muscle she'd had.
Zale caught her, lifted her easily despite his own injuries. She weighed almost nothing. Maybe ninety pounds. A college freshman athlete reduced to skeletal fragility.
"I've got you," he said. "Hold on."
Emma wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face against his shoulder, and held on like he was the only real thing left in the universe.
Zale looked up at the pit's edge.
Fifteen feet. Smooth walls. No handholds.
And the dimensional space was failing, gravity becoming unstable, the air itself beginning to taste like vacuum.
Sixty seconds.
He pulled out his phone. No signal—of course not. They were in a pocket dimension that was actively ceasing to exist.
Relentless Pursuit couldn't help—it tracked people, not exits.
True Sight just showed him how fast reality was unraveling—very fucking fast.
The Firefighter's Axe could cut through barriers but there was nothing to cut to.
Which left—
Zale looked at the bucket. The rope.
Thin. Frayed. Probably hadn't held weight in decades. But it was connected to something on the other side, in the real world, outside this collapsing nightmare.
An anchor point.
He grabbed the rope, tested it.
It held. Barely.
"Emma," Zale said. "I need you to hold on tighter. Don't let go no matter what happens. Understand?"
She nodded against his shoulder, arms tightening around his neck.
Zale wrapped the rope around his left arm, gripped it with both hands, and pulled.
The Hercules Method enhancement kicked in immediately—superhuman strength flowing through muscles that should have been exhausted, bones that should have been broken after the fight with Bill.
Zale hauled them both upward, hand over hand, boots bracing against the slick concrete walls.
Five feet.
The pit walls began to dissolve, concrete turning to shadow turning to nothing.
Ten feet.
Gravity shifted sideways. Zale's stomach lurched, his enhanced sense of balance screaming warnings. Emma whimpered but held on.
Twelve feet.
The rope snapped.
For one terrible moment they were falling—
Zale's hand shot out, caught the edge of the pit, fingers digging into concrete that was already crumbling.
He pulled with everything he had.
They cleared the edge as the pit collapsed into nothing, the entire floor of the basement simply ceasing to exist behind them.
Zale rolled, came to his feet with Emma still held against his chest, and ran.
The dimensional space was dying.
The walls dissolved as Zale ran toward where the tear had been. The ceiling fell away into void. The floor cracked and shattered, pieces floating away into darkness that swallowed them completely.
Behind them, nothing chased them—literal nothing, absence of reality consuming everything it touched.
Twenty feet to the exit.
The single doorway that led back to the real world, still hanging open like a wound in space.
Fifteen feet.
Emma's grip was slipping. She'd passed out—body finally giving up now that rescue was real, mind shutting down to protect itself.
Ten feet.
The doorway was shrinking, edges pulling inward as the dimensional pocket contracted.
Five feet.
Zale dove.
***
Reality slammed into them like a physical wall.
They tumbled through the dimensional tear and hit solid ground—real ground, Ohio dirt and dead leaves and morning air that tasted like frost and life.
Behind them, the tear collapsed with a sound like reality sighing in relief, folding in on itself until it was nothing but a shimmer in the air that faded within seconds.
Gone.
The dimensional pocket ceased to exist, taking with it thirty years of spiritual contamination and the last traces of Buffalo Bill's presence.
Zale lay on his back, Emma unconscious on his chest, staring up at the sky.
Dawn was breaking. Red and gold painting the horizon.
He'd made it.
They'd made it.
"MR. AKULA!"
Rodriguez's voice, distant and panicked.
Zale lifted his head slightly.
Rodriguez, Chen, and Hartley were running toward him from the tree line, weapons drawn, expressions shocked.
They'd watched him vanish into thin air twenty minutes ago.
Now he was back, holding an unconscious girl, covered in blood, looking like he'd fought something that shouldn't exist.
Which he had.
"Medic," Zale said, voice rough. "Now."
Chen was already on her radio. "We need medical evac immediately. Victim located. Critical condition. Repeat—victim located and alive."
Rodriguez dropped to his knees beside them. "Jesus Christ. Is she—"
"Alive," Zale confirmed. "Severely malnourished. Dehydrated. Possible hypothermia. She needs a hospital. Now."
Hartley stared at them both. "Where did you—how did you—we saw you disappear—"
"Later," Zale said. "Help me."
Rodriguez carefully took Emma from Zale's arms, wrapped her in a thermal blanket Chen produced. Emma's eyes flickered open briefly, saw the FBI badges, the uniforms, the reality of rescue.
"Safe?" she whispered.
"Safe," Rodriguez confirmed, voice gentle. "You're safe, Emma. We're taking you home."
She closed her eyes again. This time not from terror.
From relief.
***
MEDICAL EVAC - 5:47 AM
The helicopter arrived twelve minutes later.
Paramedics descended like a precision team—IV lines, oxygen mask, vitals check, all performed with practiced efficiency.
"BP 80 over 50. Heart rate 110. Temperature 94 degrees. Severe dehydration. Malnutrition. Possible shock."
"Get her on saline. Slow drip. Watch for refeeding syndrome."
"Vitals stabilizing. She's a fighter."
They loaded Emma onto the stretcher. She was conscious now—barely—eyes tracking movement but not quite processing.
One of the paramedics looked at Zale. "You need medical attention too. That blood—"
"I'm fine," Zale said.
"Sir, you're bleeding—"
"I said I'm fine." His tone left no room for argument.
Rodriguez stepped in. "Let them work on Emma. We'll handle Mr. Akula."
The helicopter lifted off, rotors beating against the dawn sky, carrying Emma Martin toward Walter Reed Medical Center and the mother who'd been waiting four days to know if her daughter was alive.
Zale watched it disappear into the distance.
Then sat down heavily on a fallen log, exhaustion finally catching up.
Chen approached carefully, first aid kit in hand. "You're hurt."
"Healing," Zale said, but let her look anyway.
She pulled up his torn, blood-soaked shirt. Paused.
The wounds were *closing.* Visibly. Flesh knitting together, ribs shifting back into alignment, skin crawling across gaps that should have required surgery.
Not fast. Not instant. But undeniably happening.
Chen stared. "What are you?"
"Prepared," Zale said simply. "And expensive to hire."
He pulled his shirt down, stood, grabbed his duffel bag.
Rodriguez approached, expression carefully neutral. "Mr. Akula, I'm going to need a statement. What happened in there—wherever there was—"
"Buffalo Bill's wraith created a dimensional pocket anchored to the original pit location," Zale said. "I entered. Killed the entity. Rescued Emma. The pocket collapsed. That's the statement."
"That's not—"
"That's all you're getting," Zale interrupted. Not unkind. Just final. "The rest is classified above your clearance. Senator Martin can brief you further if she chooses."
Rodriguez's jaw tightened. But he nodded. "Fair enough. You did what we couldn't. That's what matters."
He extended his hand.
Zale shook it.
"If you ever need federal resources," Rodriguez said quietly. "You call me. Directly. Whatever you need."
"I'll keep that in mind."
Chen handed him a card. "My number too. In case you need someone who believes in things that shouldn't exist."
Zale pocketed it. "Thank you, Agent Chen."
He started walking toward the tree line, toward the vehicles that would take him back to civilization.
"Mr. Akula," Rodriguez called. "What you did here today... you saved that girl's life. Her mother's sanity. You gave seven families closure. That's hero work."
Zale paused. Glanced back.
"I'm not a hero, Agent Rodriguez. I'm just someone who's good at killing things that won't stay dead." He allowed himself a slight smile. "There's a difference."
He walked away.
***
WALTER REED MEDICAL CENTER
Washington, D.C. - 4:23 PM
Zale had showered, changed into clean clothes, and dealt with the bureaucracy of writing an official statement that said absolutely nothing useful.
Now he stood outside Emma Martin's hospital room, watching through the window.
Emma was unconscious, hooked to IVs, skeletal frame barely visible beneath hospital blankets. Monitors beeped steadily. Doctors had said she'd need weeks of recovery, but she'd survive. Physically, at least.
Psychologically... that would take longer.
Catherine Martin sat beside the bed, holding her daughter's hand, face buried against Emma's arm, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
No composure. No Senator mask. No armor.
Just a mother who'd spent four days in hell waiting to know if her daughter was alive.
And now knew.
As Zale watched, Emma's eyes flickered open. Saw her mother. Whispered something.
Catherine's head shot up. She grabbed Emma's face with both hands, whispered something back—probably "I love you" or "You're safe" or "I'm here"—and Emma broke, tears streaming down her emaciated face.
They held each other and cried, thirty years of Buffalo Bill's trauma finally,finally having an ending that wasn't death.
Zale turned away. This moment wasn't for him.
He'd done his job. Gotten paid. Archived another legend.
Time to go.
He was halfway to the elevator when Catherine's voice stopped him.
"Mr. Akula."
He turned.
She stood in the hallway, face blotchy from crying, eyes red but clear. She crossed the distance quickly, and before Zale could react, hugged him.
Not a professional embrace. Not polite gratitude.
A genuine, desperate, grateful hug from a mother who'd just gotten her daughter back from the dead.
"Thank you," she whispered against his shoulder. "Thank you thank you thank you."
Zale stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then carefully patted her back.
"She's strong," he said quietly. "Like her mother."
Catherine pulled back, wiped her eyes. "What do I owe you?"
"Nothing. You already paid."
"That was before—before you nearly died bringing her out of that place. Before you—" Her voice broke. "Money doesn't cover what you did."
"Senator." Zale met her eyes. "Your daughter is alive. That's payment enough."
Catherine stared at him. Then nodded slowly. "If you ever need anything—anything—you call me. Personal line. Day or night. Whatever you need."
She pressed a card into his hand.
"I mean it, Mr. Akula. You gave me back something I thought I'd lost forever. That means I owe you a debt I can't repay. But I'll try."
Zale pocketed the card. "Go be with your daughter, Senator. She needs you."
Catherine nodded, started to turn, then paused. "The thing you killed. The wraith. Is it really gone? Really dead? Not coming back?"
"Really dead," Zale confirmed. "Buffalo Bill is finished. Permanently. I made sure."
"Good." Something hard entered Catherine's expression. "I hope he suffered."
"He did," Zale said simply.
Catherine nodded once. Then returned to Emma's room.
Zale watched through the window as she sat back down, took Emma's hand, and whispered something that made Emma smile—barely, weakly, but smile.
Healing would take time.
But it would happen.
***
DEPARTURE - 6:15 PM
Zale sat in the back of the FBI helicopter, returning to Haddonfield, staring at nothing.
The book manifested in his lap without being summoned.
Fell open.
Showed him the new page.
---
[PAGE ACQUIRED: THE SKIN THIEF]
Entity Designation: BUFFALO BILL (Wraith-Class)
True Name: Jame Gumb
Classification: Obsession-Bound Wraith / Serial Killer Revenant
Threat Level: Alpha-Class
Origin: Belvedere, Ohio - Died 1991, Reformed 1994
Historical Record:
Born from violent death and unfulfilled obsession. Gumb died before completing his transformation ritual—creating a "woman suit" from victim skin. Rage and obsession prevented natural death, reforming as wraith bound to original kill site. Spent three years possessing corpses and living hosts to continue ritual. Eight confirmed post-mortem victims (seven killed, one rescued).
Documented Abilities:
Corpse Animation (pilot dead bodies as temporary vessels)
Possession (brief inhabitation of living hosts)
Spiritual Anchoring (bound to pit location)
Reality Warping (minor—electronic interference, temperature manipulation)
Skin Crafting (supernatural preservation and stitching of harvested flesh)
Weaknesses:
Bound to original kill location (could not operate beyond 50-mile radius)
Spiritual weapons caused severe damage
Vulnerable when manifested physically
Obsession made behavior predictable
Kill Count: 5 (original spree, 1991) + 7 (post-mortem, 2022-2025) = 12 total
Status: PERMANENTLY ARCHIVED - WRAITH ESSENCE ABSORBED
Powers Extracted :
FLESH SCULPTING - Temporarily alter physical appearance. 24-hour duration. Cosmetic only.
WHISPER OF COMPULSION - Project subconscious suggestions to weak-willed individuals within 15ft.
SPECTRAL POSSESSION - Temporarily inhabit corpses or severely weakened hosts. 1-hour maximum. Extreme risk.
Status: PERMANENTLY ARCHIVED
***
The book snapped shut.
Zale dismissed it.
Two legends killed. Two pages archived. Emma saved. Case closed.
And now... what?
Back to minor hauntings? Poltergeists? Cursed objects?
He needed something bigger.
The familiar weight of boredom settled back into his chest like a stone.
He closed his eyes.
***
Three miles away, at the edge of the forest where Buffalo Bill's dimensional pocket had collapsed, something watched.
It stood perfectly still among the trees, unnaturally tall—eight feet, maybe more—arms too long, wearing a suit that seemed both modern and timeless.
And where its face should have been—
Nothing.
No eyes. No mouth. No nose. No features whatsoever.
Just smooth, white, empty.
It tilted its head—slowly, deliberately—tracking the helicopter's path across the darkening sky.
Then eight appendages unfurled from its back like spider legs made of shadow and something that wasn't shadow, something that existed in the spaces between matter and thought.
The figure stepped—
—and was gone.
Vanished between one moment and the next, leaving only the faint impression of something wrong lingering in the air.
The trees bent away from where it had stood.
The grass beneath was dead, turned to ash.
And somewhere, in a reality Zale hadn't yet discovered, something ancient and patient added his name to a list.
The Slender Man was interested.
The Slender Man was watching.
And the Slender Man was very, very good at waiting.
[END CHAPTER 7]
A/N: Writer's block hit me like a brick today.
Help me out — what monster should appear next?
Drop your favorite monster in the comments
mythological, supernatural, folklore, horror movie… anything goes.
Throw your scariest, weirdest, or straight-up cursed monster at me.