Caspar has been walking for nearly an hour before he comes upon something strange on the unmarked trail. 

He pulls out his second bottle as he wipes his brow to observe the entrance before him. The well-trod path narrows as it descends down between two monumental red walls standing tall. Where they meet there remains only a small gap. Caspar is already cursing his tall genes—it’s definitely going to be a tight squeeze.

As he steps closer, he takes one look back from where he came from. 

Inside the canyon, there’s sure to be refuge from the searing sunlight. But this also presents a tactical nightmare: at least out in the open, flat, expanse of the desert, Caspar could see for miles. There was no chance of something sneaking up on him.

But here? Inside a tight maze of earth? He’ll have to stay on his toes. One wrong move and he’s trapped between a rock and a monster’s fangs. 

Sucking in his breath, Caspar slides into the crevasse. In his hand, his knife scrapes across the orange walls as he descends down. A few times his foot catches on something that makes him certain he’s going to get trapped nutty putty style, but finally after a few touch and go moments, he squeezes through to a new area.

He sighs with relief as the claustrophobic stone opens into a small round room. It’s cool here, with a gentle beam of light illuminating it from above. A perfect little sanctuary in the desert. 

Caspar leans against the wall as he soaks it all in.

On the ground there are various footprints and even a few plastic water bottles. Caspar sighs, picking up the trash and stuffing it into his bag. The disrespect of nature is reprehensible, but at least they left Caspar a sign that people frequented this area. 

He moves deeper in. It takes scaling a few rough spots, and scraping up his face a little, but he makes it to a new section, this one with even more room to move. Caspar stretches, looking out for more hints.

Crack! 

Caspar jumps as a shadow of something passes overhead, blocking out the light for an anxious second. He looks up to see a small rock come loose, hitting into a large, dry, dead tree lodged sideways in the canyon.

He stands tense for a few moments. Was it an animal? Probably. Probably a bird. 

Fuck. He wipes his sweaty palms on his hands as he looks up. He can’t be jumpy. Jumpy hunters get got. 

He ponders for a moment how the tree got there, yards above him. He didn’t see many up there, and the crevasse was so narrow, it couldn’t have fallen in. Was it carried in by a flood?

Wait. What is that?

Caspar squints. On the tree, winding down from its roots to the tips of its branches, is a barely visible white script. Magic. But what witch would be able to get it up so high? A sour taste settles into his mouth. Witches are notoriously hard to hunt, and the good ones never fail to hide their scripts with a glamor.

“How did I notice you?” Caspar mumbles. “Was it luck, or…” Did someone show me? 

Gritting his teeth, Caspar moves on, now unable to shake the feeling he’s being watched. As he goes further and further into the narrow passage, the light begins to dwindle above him. Not because of a setting sun, but because more and more trees, branches, and logs collect above him, all covered in witches' script. 

To make things even creepier, he spots dozens and dozens of doll-like stick figures hanging from twine. Caspar’s nose scrunches in disgust as he realizes some have bits of hair or cloth wound around them. This is definitely reeking of witch now. 

His bewilderment grows as the canyon settles into pitch black darkness in the middle of the afternoon. The dead trees and branches thicken into a patchy ceiling. 

He can’t see any further, but from the breeze he can tell this is another large space. He digs in his backpack, flicking on his flashlight—

Caspar covers his mouth to prevent the scream that threatens to escape. 

The entire floor of the canyon is covered in—covered in people! Men. Women. Young. Old. all of them, strewn across the ground with no visible injuries, like ragdolls. 

Caspar swallows his fear. Are they dead?

He takes a step back. The flashlight sweeps to the side. There’s a man there, looking about his twenties. He’s wearing hiking gear and a backpack, and there's a smear of red dirt across his forehead. Carefully, Caspar kneels close, pressing his fingers to his neck. 

A pulse! He's alive!

Caspar continues down, checking people as he walks. He counts ten, twenty—

He stops in his tracks. An older man is lying in the dirt. Dark brown hair peppered with grey, dark circles under his eyes, clutching a long, sharp knife in his hands…

“Duncan!” Caspar whispers. 

He kneels at his uncle's side. Like the others, he’s in a deep sleep. 

Fuck, they’re all under a spell… Will moving them break it?

Caspar starts pulling off his uncle’s backpack, roughly stuffing the contents inside his own. He grunts as he lifts Duncan into his arms. 

“Fuck. I’m so making fun of you after this—you need to lay off the twinkies,” Caspar laughs. Relief is washing over him like a torrent. He’s found his uncle. Everything is going to be okay now.

He starts trudging toward the exit, trying not to feel guilty as he steps over the other victims. He’s coming back for them. He just needs to get Duncan out first. Then they can work out what to do next together. He can’t be mad still after Caspar saves him, right? He—

Caspar jumps as a peal of thunder shakes the canyon. What? That’s not right. 

He looks up through the branches. A raindrop lands on his nose. Oh no. Fuck, fuck, fuck, no. “Zero chance of rain my ass!” 

He attempts to speed up. As his panic grows, however, so does the tempo of the downpour. Soon, his shoes and socks are soaked as the water rises to his ankles. The former peaceful atmosphere of the slot canyon has been replaced with a rushing cacophony of sound. By the time he reaches the first tree, it’s already up to his waist. 

Survival is his priority right now, but he can’t suppress a sickly echo of guilt. All those people he left behind—

They’re dead. They must be, if the water is up this high. 

Nightmarishly, he pictures a horrifying image of dirty water rushing about them in the dark, swallowing up still forms until there’s nothing left. Will they awaken once the water begins to choke their lungs? Will they fight and cry out, the unforgiving tide swallowing their screams?

If they come back as ghosts, will they know Caspar failed them? He hopes they do. He hopes they haunt him.

He pushes down the sickly guilt boiling in his veins. There’s nothing to be done about it now.

Movement is slowed to a crawl as he fights being toppled over by the current. Duncan is weighing him down hard. Suddenly, something strikes Caspar’s thigh. 

He stumbles, crying out. Duncan slips under the red water. 

“No!” Caspar yells.

Caspar dives into the water, pulling Duncan up by the arm. His head flops back, lax. He’s still asleep.  

“Uncle Duncan! Wake up! I can’t do this alone!”

Duncan is unresponsive. Caspar’s grip is slipping, shit! 

Desperately, he searches for something to hold onto. There! Caspar struggles forward, lunging. He grabs onto a crevice in the wall and attempts to readjust his hold on Duncan. As Caspar pulls him forward, though, thunder again shakes the canyon. Above him, a sickening crunching sound shakes him to the core. 

Caspar looks up, eyes wide. The tree is slipping.

Time seems to slow as it comes loose, slick red walls giving way and splashing into the river below. Caspar only has enough time to take a deep breath as it comes crashing down on him. The world goes dark, only for Caspar to reawaken a moment later, breaching the surface. Confusion and panic swirls like a frenzy. 

Where is he? There’s a disgusting iron taste in his mouth and he can’t see anything. The water must have splashed into his eyes and nose. He desperately tries to wipe his eyes while staying afloat but more pressing matters make his heart skip a beat. 

Fuck, no! Duncan isn’t in his arms anymore!

Blindly, Caspar searches for something to hold onto. The current crushes him against the wall of the canyon, giving him an opportunity to sink his fingers in. He screams in pain as he clings on for dear life. Finally, he’s able to grab hold of something woody—a shrub, growing from the side of the canyon. He blinks the muck from his eyes as he searches the turbulent waves. 

“Duncan! Duncan, where are you!?” Caspar cries. 

He’s hoping to see his uncle spring from the water, hands waving. Instead, he gasps he spots another massive tree coming tumbling in the current. 

If it hits him at this speed, he will be pinned down, most likely underwater. He needs to get out, now!

Looking up, he sees a small divot in the wall. Using all his upper body strength, he pulls his left hand up to it, quickly rappelling from there to higher up on the shrub. He fears for a moment that the plant will give way, but thank god, the roots are strong. 

Miraculously, he’s able to climb up until he reaches the nest of tangled trees and branches which, before, served as a ceiling to the canyon. He busts his way through, pulling himself up and out of the narrow crevice. 

Finally, finally, he carefully navigates over the dead logs and trees until he’s made it to solid land. He’s on top now. He gasps on his hands and knees, dry heaving as he attempts to comprehend what just happened. His body aches, there's blood trickling down his face, and…

Duncan is dead.  There’s no surviving that asleep. Caspar barely survived it awake. 

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. The sky seems to howl his grief for him as the wind picks up. 

No. Wait. That’s not wind. Those are screams. Human. Human screams. 

Caspar looks up from his bloodied hands, out across the vast desert below him. The slot canyon is spilling red waves onto the earth in an angry torrent. In the near distance, a tornado has touched down. As it moves, the earth is scored like an animal is clawing at it. 

Caspar looks on in horror. No. Animal isn’t the right term. 

Human. It’s moving like a human. 

The tornado forms another funnel, like a leg. It’s lumbering away, screaming with dozens of anguished and enraged voices that chill him to the bone. 

What is this? Is this a monster? How is Caspar supposed to fight it? Can he fight it? 

He attempts to stand, but trips over his own feet. Pathetically, he doesn’t try to get up again. 

Before he has the chance to loathe his weakness. The tornado trembles. Like a man falling to its knees, it grows shorter and shorter until it dissipates completely, the voices growing quiet. With its death, the rain starts to lighten.

Caspar’s fingers dig into the earth. Is that it? Was that what was supposed to happen?

No. Nonono. Someone—something wanted this to happen. They killed all those people for this. But why? For what purpose!?

Caspar covers his mouth. Nausea is building. His body is quaking. 

Something wrong happened here, wrong beyond all laws of nature, magic, and humanity. 

Something Caspar has never seen in all his years hunting.