Cole Burkhardt

I had, throughout my entire life, been given every possible reason to be skeptical of such things, to the point where I had been called a buzzkill on more than one occasion.

The only stories I ever gave weight to were the bits and pieces of native folklore I'd heard here and there, since, like most ancient folklore, they always had a basis in the archaeological reality of this place,

even if not every supernatural detail was true.

I was certain there had to be an explanation, and that it would eventually present itself.

But, in the moment, my dogs were trembling.

Night was falling, and the pins and needles of dawning dread were crawling up my throat.

I went home, made my dinner, and spent the rest of the evening cuddling with my dogs and trying not to think about it.

A week passed.

Pushing the experience out of my mind proved impossible.

It hung on my mind like a leech.

I'd turn down the road towards my home, and I'd be face to face with the mural, forcing me to remember that night, whether I wanted to or not.

I had come up with a few other theories since then.

Maybe they gave the paint some kind of aging treatment on purpose.

Maybe they gave the paint some kind of aging treatment on purpose.

Maybe it had been painted over the years earlier, and they had simply uncovered it, so on and so forth.

It bothered me enough that I considered going out to investigate it again, but every time I did, an uneasy feeling in my gut told me I shouldn't go there alone.

the monsoons hit the next day.

Our first storm of the year was a massive one, flooding the streets so high you could have sailed a boat through them, only to be shipwrecked by the violent wind and rain a few minutes later.

While taking one of two detours on my way home from work, I passed by a few stretches of road populated by beached cars and

their passengers wading through the water towards any building that might give them shelter until it passed.