Out in the bog, a deeper shadow played. The cancerous, bruised purple light pulsed inside the miasma, like a heart forever upon the edge of death. It crept closer, and memory, half hidden in sorrow, flickered to life. He watched the ghosts of his youth and Andre run. Memory was fallible, he saw, though all the years gone from his younger face. No broken heart, sorrow, or bitterness marred the child; although, he saw all of it in the mirror.

The darkness came, shrouded by Kayden’s mind, to moon light’s edge. It flowed, seethed, and beat with an alien light of dead, mad worlds. Though he strained to see what the blackness held, it deceived the eye, beguiled the mind. Young Kayden and Andre turned, for they could see. Joy twisted off Kayden’s young face. Andre, more accustomed to the world’s darker truths, looked away, but steeled himself to fate. Every ounce of joy was gone, now a memory to a memory.

Music from the radio stammered and then died. Light went dark. The heart beneath his tattered clothes pounded, but it felt a fantasy. Blood roared in his ears, and a chill worked through every muscle. Rasp of every breath held a rattle, as if each was the last. Every crow’s call, frogs’ croak, and whispers among the trees pressed upon the body and mind. He tried to dislodge the tang of soured pennies on the tongue. Low salt of tears or blood hung in the throat. Skin pebbled, fine hair rose, and he thought of thunder storms. All beyond him pressed into every nerve, so the bog was a part of him. Woodland creatures crept through the muck, which he felt. Darker things lingered there with strange minds of shattered perceptions. Kayden felt the line between the world and he dissolve; everything was beyond real, past dream.

Kayden looked out the window, frowned, and tears spilled. “Something happens,” he muttered to the glass and memories.

As in all dream, acts of fate, or nightmares, the world moved without passion and care. Each moment came. Isaac Stone slogged through the muck of the bog. Below his hateful scowl, he wore a smile of wild excitement. His brow drew down, nicotine stained teeth flashed in bestial rage. Dark eyes glimmered with sparks of bruised purple. Kayden pressed a hand to his chest, as gray crept into the edges of his vision. Mud clung to worn out boots, and the bottom of his jeans. Isaac squeezed his hands into fists. Knuckles popped; years at the mill had hardened fingers tough as wood.

Kayden’s hand worked at the door, but it was stuck. He peered through the dirty glass. The memory was content to play on, despite the pound of his heart. Sweat beaded all over his body. Each was cold as a corpse.

“What did you say?!” Isaac screamed. Young Kayden shrunk back.

“What are you talking about?” Andre looked away, as his lisp deepened. He crossed arms over a slight chest.

Isaac grabbed his oldest son’s wrist, and yanked him forward. He squeezed Andre’s throat, “You don’t talk about BLOOD outside the family!”

“She knew something was wrong,” he hissed, and cheeks reddened.

“I had a call from the Principal,” he pushed. His son slammed against the 1964 Dodge, and lights flickered through the dash and radio. “They said that YOU said things,” Isaac slapped him, sound sharp.

Kayden jerked, as his younger self shriveled against the vintage car. The unsteady memory felt real, for all was wrong though still factual. He could feel them, sense them. Rage, fear, and shame watched over the confusion, panic, and terror that crawled through Kayden’s heart. Darkness without joined the shadow within, until the mind was drunk in the blackness of forgotten sorrow. All outside was inside, which widened the gulf between mind and body. Every molecule was an ocean of endless bruised purple tinged black. A cacophony of sensation stole resolve.

“Is this real?” Kayden breathed with a shudder.

Every moment the memory played out, he recalled the past veiled in half-truths. This faulty dream on shifting sands played for Kayden. Before any sequence could be accounted, it slipped through the fingers. Fine grains of the mind transitioned from past to present, sifted by the years. Did it happen? Did they find Hooper’s Cherry? These lies he told to himself held truths, though falsehoods veiled them. Just beyond the glass, this drama drew on.

Andre begged. Isaac screamed. Both were hues of Kayden; one was consumed by the malignant dark, and the other broke more in every moment. Life had decayed by time, the creeping darkness filled in the gaps, lesions of the heart. The counselor had cried, as Kayden recalled, and the Sheriff had come, so disturbed were the staff. People whispered, though all acted ignorant. Some confessed they suspected, but another’s family was their concern. Kayden tried to get out, needed to help Andre, but he was locked inside, as his younger self cried, frozen by terror.

“Do you want to see you Mother, MOMMA’S BOY?!” Isaac screamed and slammed Andre’s head into the car.

“No Daddy,” young Kayden rushed forward, blinded by tears.

“SHUT UP,” he swung, and knocked his youngest son to the muddy earth.

“Get away from him,” Andre swung.

Isaac touched his jaw, eyes died but his smile grew, “Today, you see Gwen.”

He grabbed Andre’s throat. Though his oldest son struggled, hard labor hardened Isaac’s grin. Kayden punched at the glass, and kicked the door, yet it was unyielding. I need to save Andre, he thought, though it was from young Kayden’s mind. I wanted to be stronger. I needed to be tougher.

Andre stilled, and he drew closer to the glass, as his father dumped the body in Witch’s Pond, where many were said to sleep eternal. Isaac took in ragged, deep breathes, smiled wider, and disconnected. His eyes turned on his youngest.

The radio flickered to life, song of the pretender returned. Kayden stared at the light, which came to life. Beside him, the door to the vintage car popped open. He spilled from the it, but Isaac and Andre were gone.