Scary Stories
by Wasuremono

	This wasn't how I wanted to tell you this story, but it's how it'll have to be, isn't it? I guess there's nothing to be said but the truth. Please try and believe me; as strange as this is, I swear I would never lie to you. Never. Even though right now I'd like to, very much.

	It all happened right here, in the swamp, just over a year ago....
	
	***

	If there was one word to describe the swamp in late October, it was "wretched." Late enough in autumn for the dead foliage to begin to rot, but not late enough for the cold to freeze it, the odor of decay seeped in everywhere. The stench almost seemed to discolor the air, it was so strong, and it was hard to avoid the suspicion that something was festering under there.

	Martin Trask sighed. "Wretched," "festering" -- yes, those would be good words to use to use when he told his son about his trip, but even distracting himself with word choices didn't disguise the fact that his partner was almost an hour late reporting back from patrol. Martin checked his pager again, just to make sure, but there was still no message from Charlie. What the hell was keeping him out there?

	God, maybe Charlie'd found something.

	They'd both just assumed it was a routine call. You got a lot of them this time of year: late-season campers, usually, reporting strange noises and campsite disturbances, and sometimes homeowners from the Ellay and Youngstown suburbs reporting wildlife sightings. The Bureau always sent a wildlife-control patrol out to check, but in all his years as a Control agent, Martin'd never seen an actual incident arise from the October swamp calls. It was all superstition, the natural effect of animal-skittish suburbanites getting wound up by the "spooky season."

	He had to confess, though, he was worried about this one. This had been a bad year for wildlife control -- a lot of pets gone feral, and more wildlife in cities than he was comfortable with. After those wolves in Snowman, he wasn't prepared to write off anything as a delusion. Then you added in the missing Youngstown girl, and, well... Martin figured you could never be too paranoid about missing-kid calls. Sure, the girl was 17, and he'd never had a missing-teenager report that turned out to be anything but a garden-variety runaway, but even that didn't calm his nerves. Martin trusted his gut, and his gut was unhappy about more than just the smell of the swamp.

	He was jolted from his train of thought by the crackle of his walky-talky. "Marty? Marty, you there?" Charlie -- poor reception, but definitely there. Martin grabbed the walky-talky from the seat next to him and replied.

	"I'm hearing you, Charlie. What's going on?"

	"Sorry about this, but I've been on the trail a while, and I found the kid! She's hurt; can you get out here to help me get her back to the cabin?"

	"Of course. Where are you?"

	"Take the southwest trail down! We're in the clearing past the first bridge. Marty, the sooner you can get here, the better. She's lost a lot of blood, and she's still trying to talk..."

	"Does she need an extraction? Let me call Ellay and get a chopper sent down --"

	"Nah, that's overkill. Just get down here and help me, okay?"

	"Whatever you say, Charlie. I'm on my way."

	The walky-talky went silent again, and Martin clipped it to his belt before heading towards the door of the cabin. Why didn't Charlie want a medical extraction? Was he worried about the costs, or was he just getting cocky again? Whatever it was, Martin didn't feel any better about this than he had before the call, but at least now he had somewhere to go.

	***

	The southwestern trail was even more disgusting than usual, the ground oozing with mud and mold, and so Martin was nearly halfway down the trail before he noticed the blood. Even in the fetid mess, it was unmistakable: four streaks of red-brown against the pale bark of a tree, running nearly parallel. The mark, Martin realized with a sickening twist of his stomach, of a desperately grasping hand.

	Martin could taste bile rising into his mouth, but he swallowed it down and kept tracking. The further he went, the more blood there was: streaks against trees, splotches in brush along the trail, and sickeningly large swathes on the more solid parts of the ground. It was drying slowly, but still undoubtedly fresh -- no more than a day, unless Martin missed his guess. Is this what Charlie had meant when he'd said the girl had lost a lot of blood? God, had she been dragged there? By what? 

 	The huge drag-mark lasted as far as the bridge, and by the time Martin was across, he had grown certain: this was too much blood. He'd be shocked if the girl was even in one piece when he got there, let alone alive, and all the medical extractions in the world couldn't change that. Maybe that's why Charlie hadn't asked for one -- he'd seen the inevitable.

	It was a comforting story to tell himself, and by the time he reached the clearing, he was prepared for the girl in any shape at all. What he wasn't prepared for was what he saw: the clearing bloodless and untouched-looking, and no girl anywhere in sight. Charlie was seated on a fallen log, eyes closed, and Martin gritted his teeth to keep from screaming. What in the hell did Charlie think he was doing?!

	"Charlie! Where's the girl?!"

	Charlie opened his eyes and rose from the stump, almost comically slowly, and shrugged. "She's gone. Went away."

	"What? Look, you told me... there's blood... is this some kind of prank?!"

	"No. No prank." Charlie shrugged again, adding a casually grotesque little smile. "She's gone. Don't worry about her anymore, Martin. Agent Martin Trask."

	Never in Martin's memory had Charlie called him by his full name. 

	"What..." Martin took a step back, hand moving towards the tranq pistol on his belt. "What's going on here? Please, tell me the truth. Where's the girl? ... Was there a girl?"

	"You tell me what's going on here. After all, you're the senior agent, aren't you? Partnered with me to keep me honest. Agent Martin Trask... very senior, very important. Very valuable." Charlie stepped closer, looking up at Martin at last. His smile had grown into a rictus-grin, and his eyes were distant and unfocused. 

	"God. No. Charlie, what's wrong? Don't --"

	Charlie lunged. 

	Martin scrambled back, drawing his tranq pistol and firing as quickly as he could force his shaking fingers to pull the trigger. The darts made a neat cluster on Charlie's chest, to no effect... until the bleeding started. Blood poured out, vast incongruous rivers from the tiny puncture wounds, and then the crimson waterfall turned silver. Martin stared for a long, hideous moment as Charlie began to melt, silvery liquid pouring from him and expanding into a vast, amorphous pool. 

	When Martin finally ran, it was too late. 

	Two steps, and the ground gave way under him and he sprawled forward, his vision filled with mud and red spots of pain from his ankle. Before he could pull his arms free, the silver thing was upon him, by now large enough to subsume him whole. He struggled for a moment, a few last thrashes, and then realized: he'd lost. He was dying. Martin's vision was silver and red, the pain growing -- and then he could feel the tendrils work their way into his mind.

	So that's what it had meant, Martin realized with the clarity of the doomed. So that's what it had meant by "valuable."

	No, he decided, even as he felt himself melting. No, whatever it wanted from him wasn't what it was getting. It could kill him, but there were things more valuable than life, and if he had to die, he would die remembering them. Martin forced to the forefront memories of all the joys he'd ever known: his home, his wife -- God, poor sick Flora... and his son. His son. Martin'd promised his son a story of his trip, just like he always did, and now he would never keep that promise...

	I'm sorry, he thought, with some last desperate hope that his son might hear him. Loid, I'm so sorry. I wanted to come home and tell you there was nothing, just another boys' weekend out at the cabin. I wanted to take you here someday. There was so much I wanted for you. Please, Loid, know that I'd take on the world for you -- every bully, every teacher who doesn't understand. I didn't mean to give up. I love you. I always will.

	Please... God, Loid, hear me... I love you!...

	The silver faded away to white, and then to nothing at all.

	***

	Suddenly, there was sensation again: a chill in the air, and the scent of swamp.

	Martin forced his eyes open. It was a frigid dawn, and he found himself slumped in front of the cabin. He shook his head to try and clear the cobwebs away, trying to reconstruct the events of the night. He must have gone outside to wait for Charlie, who was probably just off horsing around in the woods, and he'd nodded off and had an anxiety nightmare. A hideously realistic anxiety nightmare, certainly, one that still left icy pinpricks down his spine, but just a nightmare after all. He exhaled and headed for the door, muttering to himself. "Charlie's making breakfast. After last night, I deserve at least that much --"

	His legs froze under him. Startled, Martin caught the wall to keep his balance and looked down. No, he hadn't tripped on anything, but... his legs were shimmering, and as he watched, they began to melt into rivulets of blood-streaked silver. Martin began to sink down, losing height as his legs merged into a pool below him, and his vision filled with flashing red glyphs. Shuddering, trying to catch himself with his intact arms (but intact for how long?), Martin was not prepared for the voices that shrieked in his mind: a chorus of machine noise and screaming, formless at first but slowly making more and more sense.

	Consume -- Infiltrate -- Manipulate -- glory of Master Giegue -- Consume -- Infiltrate -- Manipulate --

	Martin sobbed through gritted teeth. The nightmare -- God, no. The blood, the silver... the monster... himself. It would have been better if he'd have died; then he wouldn't have ever known what had taken him, and why, and what it was going to do. What it was going to do to his co-workers, to his neighbors, to his family.

	His family, he thought, and he felt strength surge back into him. Goddammit, he wasn't going to let this thing take his family!

	Martin forced his will down through the blob of liquid metal that was slowly reintegrating his torso. Slowly -- too slowly -- the form of his body began to knit back together, first his torso and then the stumps of legs. They didn't look exactly right, but he finally found his footing again on something resembling his legs, and he exhaled.

	What could he do? He couldn't maintain this forever; already he could feel his mind beginning to tire. Yet he had to stay focused on his memories, because the moment he didn't, this thing would finish the job. Maybe he could contain it, but he needed somewhere he could let the form relax.

	When Martin glanced at the old, abandoned garbage can in front of the cabin, he cursed himself for knowing it was the only option. To spend however long this thing kept him alive in there... but there were no other choices. He couldn't go home and risk the beast slumbering in this liquid metal husk getting free. He'd never see Flora and Loid again... but that thing would never see them at all.

	Slowly, haltingly, he forced his legs to make their last few steps.

	***

	Martin had expected (and, in all honesty, hoped) to never see a human being again. After a while, he'd even stopped counting the days; it was better not to know how much time was passing out there, let alone what might be happening. Why speculate on the miserable present when the the only thing that kept the beast in his mind at bay was the past? Every day, as he revisited his memories of his family, he was reminded of just how much he missed them -- but, in a sick way, he was grateful for that. That grief still held enough love to keep the urges away.

	Even with the garbage can and his memories to distance him from the world, Martin could tell that autumn was upon them once again. There was the end of birdsong, the nights' and mornings' chill, and most of all, the cloying scent of rot. When he'd first smelled it, he'd half-expected to be discovered by his and Charlie's replacements, out investigating the usual October calls.

	Instead, he'd been discovered by a little girl.

	The girl -- Pippi, she called herself -- sounded younger than his son, but braver; when she'd heard noises inside the garbage can, she had come right out and asked if there was someone inside, and he'd answered in the human voice he could still barely muster. Who could have expected that she'd stay? That she'd talk to him, that she'd act as if nothing was amiss about a man who lived in a garbage can and refused to leave? It had been days now, and Martin still wasn't sure if he wanted her to leave.

	From outside, there was the thump of small feet running. "Hey, Mr. Trask!" said Pippi, tone even brighter than usual. "Do you know what day it is?"

	"No, Pippi. I don't." He tried to chuckle -- a miserable sound, metallic.

	"It's Halloween! Boy, I bet they're having a bunch of fun at home... but what a neat time to be out here in the swamp, huh? It's even a full moon tonight. Wow, am I gonna have a story for Ninten!"

	Halloween? God, Martin hadn't felt fear like this in a long time. He'd thought he'd coped with it being late October, with the fears of the cycle repeating, but Halloween was something different entirely. It was a cruel holiday, one where malice was rewarded and the whole world seemed to wear its worst traits on its sleeve. That had been bad enough when he'd been a human, but now it seemed like the invitation to a fresh nightmare. "I... er... that's nice," he choked out.

	"You know what we oughta do?"

	"... no, Pippi. I certainly don't."

	"We should tell scary stories! It could be just like Girl Guide camp last year -- build a big campfire and tell stories around it! Whaddaya say? You can come out and sit by the fire, even!"

	Oh, God. "I... I told you, Pippi. I can't do that."

	"Sure you can! You gotta come out sometime. Give it a try." 

	"I..." He shouldn't, he knew, but there was something pleading in her voice... and there was something about the idea of seeing one last human face. He concentrated, willing his mass back into human form: a torso and head, arms and legs, clothing and hair and a face. It was impossible to tell how well he had done, so there was nothing to do but try it. He pushed the garbage can open and stood up, willing his face into a smile.

	Pippi looked just like he had imagined: a tomboyish scrap of a thing, red hair pulled back into pigtails. She was carefully building a fire in the fire-pit near the cabin, and she looked up at him and burst into a wide grin. "See? That wasn't that hard! Now c'mon over here and sit down." He sat, obligingly, grateful for Pippi's nonchalance; it looked like the facade would be good enough. 

	Soon Pippi had her fire going at a pleasant blaze, pushing away the chill of the night. He could only barely register the fire's heat, but he still put his hands up, as if the little campfire could warm them. Anything to keep up appearances -- to make more authentic the best Halloween costume he had ever had. Pippi followed his lead, clearly pleased with her work. "There we go! Now, then, why don't we tell stories? I bet you know some really scary ones!"

	Yes, Martin thought; he certainly did. If she wanted a scary story, why not tell her the best one he knew? Once upon a time, there was a swamp, and there was a monster in it: a monster that eats people but keeps their bodies intact, so it can look like them and find more prey. A monster that screams of the glory of its master; a monster that hates love. It's sitting right next to you. It could, he realized, so easily go beyond that: Have you ever wanted to be a monster, Pippi? You see, it's wearing me down something terrible, and if you'd rather, I'd be happy to kill you and die and leave you to it...

	No, that wasn't a path he would walk down -- not tonight, and not ever. "Even if it's Halloween," he willed himself to say, "I don't really like stories like that. Wouldn't you rather hear a nice story instead?"

	Pippi pouted. "You're no fun! Buuuut... we can make an exception, I guess, as long as it's a funny story. My mom says that funny stories are okay on Halloween, too, since the laughing keeps the ghosts away."

	"I guess I'm in luck, then," Martin replied. "It is a funny story, and it's a Halloween story, too! See, when my son was your age, he built his own Halloween costume: a Space Invader, made out of cardboard boxes and construction paper."

	Pippi cocked her head to stare at him, and for a moment he was terrified that his disguise had slipped. "Really? A Space Invader, like from that game?"

	"It was popular at the school then, and he liked the challenge of building it. He was so proud, and the kids at school liked it too... but then it rained on Halloween night."

	"Oh, no!"

	"His mother and I didn't want him going out in that cardboard wreck, but he wanted to so much... anyway, to make a long story short, I went out with him, and his costume just melted. The boxes started falling off halfway through, and by the time we were home, he was just a little boy in a soaked cardboard box."

	Pippi scowled. "... that's not funny at all. What's the funny part?"

	"The funny part is that he never stopped smiling. You'd think a kid walking home in a soggy cardboard box would be upset, but not Loid! You'd think he'd won the lottery!"

	At that Pippi laughed, loud and long; Martin couldn't say whether it was genuine, that the image had truly charmed her, or that she was humoring him, but he didn't care. He joined in. The more laughter, the more likely that the ghosts would stay away for the night. On Halloween, the night of monsters and malice run wild, it had never been so sweet to spend one last night as a human.

	***

	That's where I'd like the story to end -- that Halloween just a few days ago, here with Pippi, telling stories all night and laughing. I know in my heart it's not the end, but I'd rather just fade away and be forgotten than have it go on. I hope you can understand that, Loid.

	Loid, are you still there? Is that you crying? 

	No, no, don't stop. It's okay to cry. Believe me, son, I'd join in if I could.

	I'm still glad I got the chance to tell you, and I hope it'll hurt less than wondering did. I only wish I could go home. Even if this invasion ever ends, I'll never trust myself. I'm sorry.

	Just take this with you: I love you both, and you mean more to me than I'll ever be able to say. I can't say how proud I am of you, Loid -- and how happy I am to hear your voice, just one last time. When you get home, help your mother through this, all right? Tell her I'm dead.. Don't give her any false hopes.

	Take care, son. Be careful in the swamp.