Chapter 2: Madness in the Backyard

He wandered through the house, muttering apologies to no one, clutching his head. Aunt Brenda tried to calm him, but he pushed her away, sobbing, laughing, and then collapsing in a heap. The family watched in horror as he descended into something they’d never seen before—a madness that felt like it had crawled up out of the river itself.

Uncle Darrell was tied to a wooden bed in the middle of our backyard. The bed was dragged out under the old oak tree, its legs sinking into the grass. A tire swing hung nearby, a barbecue grill rusted in the corner, and dogs barked in the distance. The morning was hot and sticky, cicadas buzzing like static. Darrell lay there, wrists and ankles bound with frayed rope, his chest barely rising and falling. The family gathered close, their faces tight with worry and fear, hands wringing and eyes darting.

His whole body was ice cold, his face pale, and his lips were as red as a cherry popsicle fresh from the freezer.

Aunt Brenda dabbed his forehead with a damp washcloth, murmuring soft prayers and humming a shaky hymn. His skin was clammy, goosebumps standing out even in the heat. The cherry-red lips looked almost painted on, a shocking splash of color against the gray pallor of his face.

By now, he didn’t even have the strength to shout. The night before, he’d thrashed and screamed, but now he just lay limp, barely moving. Every so often, a low moan escaped him, sounding more like wind through the trees than anything human.

His eyes were lifeless and hollow, like the glassy stare of a catfish pulled from the depths—terrifying to look at.

Even the kids kept their distance, peeking from behind their mothers’ legs. Aunt Brenda tried to meet his gaze, but it was like staring into a pond at midnight—no reflection, no sign of life.

Aunt Brenda stood in front of the bed, wiping her tears as she spoke to Grandpa Joe: She clutched a wad of tissues in one hand, her voice shaky but determined. "Last night, while he was eating dinner, someone called his name from outside the front door.

He answered and went to open it.

Right after, he stood outside and told me he was going to town to visit the night market.

I didn’t even have time to respond before he disappeared.

He was gone the whole night and wouldn’t answer his phone.

When he came back this morning, he said the market looked ancient, all lit up, with rows and rows of old buildings.

He met lots of pale-faced people dressed in bright reds and greens.

Those people even treated him to a fancy feast.

But while he was talking, he suddenly started laughing.

He laughed and laughed, then sat down on the ground and began to cry.

He kept shouting, 'I'm sorry... I'm sorry...'

He kept admitting his mistakes and begging for forgiveness.

In the end, he went mad—kneeling and banging his head against the ground.

I was afraid something would happen to him, so I quickly called people to help tie him up."

She pressed the tissue to her eyes, her shoulders shaking. The family stood silent, the only sound the distant hum of the highway and the occasional bark of a dog.

At this point, Aunt Brenda sobbed a few times before continuing: "Dad, he doesn’t seem sick. It feels more like he’s been touched by something unclean.

What should we do?

You have to find a way to save him!"

Her voice broke, and she reached for Grandpa Joe’s hand, desperate for some kind of answer. The old man squeezed her fingers, staring at Darrell as if searching for a sign.