The lab was a fortress—a sprawling, underground facility built with reinforced steel walls and electromagnetic barriers, meant to contain the most volatile of threats. The Elk-Skulled Mimic was their latest, most chilling acquisition. Containment protocols required multiple airlocks, a temperature-controlled environment, and a viewing gallery with mirrored glass. Scientists referred to it only as Specimen E-57, a code cold enough to strip away the horror of its reality.

  The creature, confined in a sterile white chamber, had woken from its dormancy three days ago. Its empty eye sockets had scanned the room in a faceless mockery of curiosity, while its grotesque form tested the boundaries of its enclosure. At first, it clawed at the walls and rammed its immense frame against the barriers with sickening force. But the steel held. It always held.

  The organization knew they were sitting on a powder keg. Every movement, every sniff and tilt of the creature’s antlered head, was meticulously monitored. They observed its behavior, noting its unnerving silence despite the violence of its outbursts. Yet, the monster was not invincible. It bore scars, hints of past struggles. There were weaknesses to exploit, they just had to find them.

  But one detail from the initial recovery gnawed at them like a splinter: the creature’s reaction to music.

  ...

  A desperate search for witnesses began. The organization reached out through obscure networks, hushed calls, and encrypted messages, seeking anyone with even the faintest experience of such a creature. Most dismissed the request as conspiracy. A few sent panicked emails, claiming urban legends or nightmarish sightings. Among the flood of dead ends, two names emerged: Hank Tillman and Rick Lawson.

  Hank Tillman, a broad-shouldered, cheerful forest ranger with decades of experience, arrived first. His flannel shirt and weathered boots contrasted starkly with the facility’s sterile, whitewashed halls. “Y’all want to hear about that thing I ran into?” he boomed, shaking hands with too much gusto. “Got some stories for you, alright. But lemme tell ya, I ain’t going near it again.”

  The second arrival, Rick Lawson, was lean and quiet, a wiry lone-wolf biker who had the air of someone who trusted no one and nothing. His leather jacket bore scuffs and patches, souvenirs of a life spent on the road. “I saw it once,” Rick said, his voice flat. “Up close. I’ll tell you what I know, but if you’re thinking about keeping that thing alive, you’re out of your minds.”

  ...

  Hank and Rick were brought to a dimly lit briefing room, where a stoic scientist greeted them. The room felt too cold, and the air carried the hum of machinery. “You’re here because of Specimen E-57,” the scientist said. “We’ve learned that its behavior is influenced by certain stimuli—music, specifically. Your accounts might shed light on why.”

  Hank leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight. “That thing’s a nightmare on legs, but… yeah, I saw it react to sound. It was going after some hikers, but they had a speaker playing old-school country music. It froze up, stopped dead in its tracks. I thought it was some kind of fluke.”

  Rick’s eyes narrowed. “Not a fluke,” he muttered. “It’s not just music—it’s personal. When it came for me, I was working on my bike, listening to a lullaby my mom used to sing. Thing broke down my door, but the second it heard that song… it crumpled, started bleeding from its eyes. Like it wasn’t just a monster anymore. Like it hurt.”

  The scientist’s pen scratched feverishly against paper. “Fascinating. The connection to personal memories could explain its behavior. We’ve observed similar reactions in captivity.”

  Hank frowned. “You mean it’s reacted like that here?”

  The scientist hesitated. “Yes. A researcher unknowingly hummed a tune during an observation session. The creature became visibly distressed. It collapsed and remained dormant for hours.”

  Rick leaned forward, his jaw tight. “You’re playing with fire. That thing’s not just dangerous—it’s tragic. It was human once. You can see it in the way it breaks down when it remembers.”

  ...

  Over the next week, Hank and Rick were reluctantly drawn into the organization’s experiments. Their knowledge of the ESM’s reactions to sound and scent was invaluable. They observed from behind reinforced glass as scientists introduced new stimuli, testing the limits of the creature’s humanity.

  One day, a haunting melody played through the chamber—a lullaby. The ESM froze, its antlers trembling. It tilted its head, its claws twitching as if grasping at something just out of reach. Then, black blood began to drip from its hollow sockets, pooling on the sterile floor. It let out a guttural, choking noise that sounded almost like a sob.

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  But then the monster did something none of them had seen before. It pressed its massive claws against the glass, leaving streaks of black ichor. And though it had no lips to form words, a sound emerged—a fragmented echo of the lullaby itself, distorted and raw, as if the creature was trying to sing.

  Hank’s jovial facade cracked. “Dear God,” he muttered. “It’s remembering.”

  Rick’s fists clenched. “This isn’t right. You’re torturing it.”

  Before anyone could respond, alarms blared. The ESM had turned violent, slamming its antlers and fists against the glass. The song had awakened something deeper—rage, grief, confusion. Cracks spiderwebbed across the viewing window as the beast roared, its cries echoing with an otherworldly, guttural pain.

  The scientists scrambled to contain it, but Rick grabbed Hank by the arm. “We need to stop this,” Rick hissed. “Not just for us—for it.”

  The facility was in chaos. Red lights flashed in every hallway, and alarms screamed over the intercom. The Elk-Skulled Mimic—Specimen E-57—had entered a full-blown frenzy. Its antlers smashed against the walls of its containment chamber, sending fissures through the reinforced steel. Claws raked the floor, leaving gouges in the sterile white surface. The lullaby, which had stirred long-buried fragments of its humanity, now seemed to be tearing at its soul.

  Hank and Rick stood in the observation room, watching the nightmare unfold. The sight of the creature’s hollow eye sockets leaking black blood had silenced even Hank’s usual banter. Rick, pale-faced but resolute, was already formulating a plan.

  “There’s no saving it,” Rick said quietly, his voice flat. “Whatever it used to be, it’s gone now. All that’s left is suffering—and rage. We need to end this.”

  Hank swallowed hard, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced with grim determination. “Yeah,” he muttered. “But how? That thing’s tougher than a tank.”

  Rick glanced at the scientist standing frozen near the control panel. “You said it collapses when triggered by personal stimuli, right? The lullaby worked.”

  The scientist hesitated. “Yes, but—”

  “Then we use that,” Rick interrupted. “We get it dormant again. Once it’s down… we finish it.”

  Hank rubbed the back of his neck. “Finish it? You mean with fire or iron? It’s contained. Can’t you folks just… I dunno… keep it locked up?”

  Rick’s glare cut through Hank’s hesitation. “And let it keep suffering? You saw what that song did to it. Every time it hears something that stirs up a memory, it breaks apart. It’s trapped in its own nightmare, Hank. The kindest thing we can do is end it.”

  Hank exhaled, his broad shoulders slumping. “Alright,” he said quietly. “Let’s do this.”

  ...

  The facility had an emergency protocol for the creature’s containment, but Rick and Hank weren’t waiting for bureaucratic approval. With the scientist’s reluctant help, they set up speakers in the containment chamber, connected to a looping recording of the lullaby.

  The ESM, still rampaging, froze the moment the melody echoed through the chamber. Its massive frame trembled, claws twitching as it tilted its antlered head toward the sound. The black ichor began to flow again, streaking its hollow face like tears. The guttural choking returned, a sound that was almost human in its anguish.

  And then, as predicted, the creature collapsed. Its massive body hit the floor with a resounding thud, sending tremors through the observation room. It lay still, its antlers splayed awkwardly against the floor, its claws limp at its sides. The lullaby continued to play, the haunting notes filling the air as if mourning the monster’s fate.

  Rick didn’t hesitate. He grabbed an iron rod from the facility’s emergency containment supplies and motioned for Hank to follow. “Keep the fire ready,” he said. “If this doesn’t work, we need a backup.”

  Hank nodded, holding a flamethrower he’d been handed by one of the facility’s techs. “I can’t believe I’m about to roast Bambi’s evil cousin,” he muttered, his attempt at humor falling flat.

  ...

  The two men entered the chamber, their footsteps echoing against the sterile walls. Up close, the ESM was even more horrifying—a grotesque amalgamation of human and beast, its elk skull seemingly fused to its muscular, scarred frame. The smell of rot and earth clung to it, overpowering even in the sterile air.

  Rick stood over the creature, the iron rod trembling slightly in his grip. “This isn’t about hate,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “It’s about mercy.”

  With a deep breath, he raised the rod and drove it into the creature’s chest, aiming for where its heart might have been if it were still human. The ESM convulsed, a shudder rippling through its massive frame. Black ichor oozed from the wound, hissing as it made contact with the iron.

  Hank stepped forward, his flamethrower aimed at the body. “Rest easy, big guy,” he muttered, before unleashing a torrent of fire. The flames roared to life, engulfing the creature in a blaze of orange and red. The ESM didn’t move. Whatever had animated it, whatever had driven it to hunt and kill, was gone.

  ...

  The cleanup was quiet. The scientists cataloged the remains, but there was little left to study—just charred fragments of bone and ash. Hank and Rick watched from a distance, their expressions somber.

  “Do you think it felt anything at the end?” Hank asked.

  Rick shrugged. “I hope not. If it did… I hope it was peace.”

  The facility would go on to bury the incident under layers of secrecy, but the two men knew they’d done the right thing. The Elk-Skulled Mimic, a creature born of humanity’s darkest impulses, had been laid to rest. And though its existence was a reminder of the horrors humans were capable of, its end was a testament to mercy, even in the face of monstrosity.

  As they left the facility, Hank glanced at Rick. “You think there are more of those things out there?”

  Rick’s jaw tightened. “I hope not,” he said. “But if there are… I’m ready.”

  And with that, they walked into the night, two unlikely allies bound by a shared encounter with the unthinkable.