The Troop

by Nick Cutter

The trees had a uniformly deformed look, like children nourished on tainted milk.

It is a fact that cannot be denied: the wickedness of others becomes our own wickedness because it kindles something evil in our own hearts.

The wickedness of others becomes our own . . .

The moon hung in its western altar like the last melancholy guest at a dinner party, who was too lonely to leave.

In such ways are friendships built. In tiny moments, in secrets shared.

There is an emotion that operates on a register above sheer terror. It lives on a mindless dog-whistle frequency. Its existence is in itself a horrifying discovery: like scanning a shortwave radio in the dead of night and tuning in to an alien wavelength—a heavy whisper barely climbing above the static, voices muttering in a brutal language that human tongues could never speak.

But most living things don’t want to die. It took a lot to kill them.

The dividing line between genius and insanity is very thin and quite permeable—which is why so many geniuses descend into madness.”

It came down to that flexibility of a person’s mind. An ability to withstand horrors and snap back, like a fresh elastic band. A flinty mind shattered.

That’s what’s different about kids: they believe everything can happen, and fully expect it to.

Getting teased your whole life must force you to grow some pretty hard bark.

“I’m just saying that sometimes the more you care for something, the more damage you do. Not on purpose, right? You end up hurting the things you love just because you’re trying so hard.

Nothing wants to die. Things cling to their lives against all hope, even when it’s hopeless. It’s like the end is always there, you can’t escape it, but things try so, so hard not to cross that finish line. So when they finally do, everything’s been stripped away. Their bodies and happiness and hope.