Pay the Price!

by Andreas Hort

If you’re readin’ this, it means we’re dead. If you’re a tourist, it means you’ve killed us. And if you think that ain’t fair, fuck you. You’re the ones who stopped visitin’ our town after that coronavirus and quarantine shit. Ungrateful bastards. You come to our town, eat our food, walk our roads, fuck our youth, but the moment we take a little somethin’ in exchange, you start screamin’ and beggin’, “Please, no, please don’t take away my child or husban’ or boo-whoever.” Spoiled fuckers. Didn’t your parents teach you that everythin’ has a price? You come, you enjoy our town, and in exchange, you leave somethin’ behind for the forest people. Otherwise we need to give ‘em one of ours, and there’s barely five hundred of us.

Or was.

You fuckers stopped comin’, so we played a lottery; only the unlucky one was the winner. But the forest people are real hungry, oh yes. We played and played, sacrificin’ one screamin’ winner after another, and now there’s maybe thirty of us left. Prolly less. And, for the first time in the history of the town, the forest people came out of the forest. I’m writin’ this as they’re bangin’ on our doors and barricaded windows. I can hear people screamin’ in the houses whose doors and windows already gave way. You fuckers. It’s all your fault. But you’ll pay the price. That’s the law of nature, payin’ the price.

If you’re readin’ this, it means we’re dead, but it also means you’re in our town. I bet the forest people are starvin’ right now. They usually are. I bet they know you’re here, too. I bet they’re real happy to see you. Did I mention that they make no sound when they sneak around? Do you already feel hot breath on the back of your neck?

Fucker. Time to pay the price.