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Written by Brianna M. Fenty
The forest is alien. Unfamiliar to me in the daylight.
The last time I stood here was in my childhood, on a midsummer night when the sun had been usurped by the moon. The anxious imagination of my twelve-year-old mind had erected the fine hairs on the nape of my neck, driving a barbed line of gooseflesh down the length of my spine. My prepubescent eyes flicked left and right. They searched the abyssal voids lurking menacingly between stands of towering spruce and fir, probing for glowing eyes and sharp teeth. I remember the chill even now, fourteen years later, sweating under the oppressive August sky in the safety of the day.
I roll my neck. I adjust the strap of my pack. Its weight strains my shoulders, made heavy by hiking gear: tent, stakes, and guylines; pot stand, matches, frying pan; sleeping pad, sleeping bag, pillow; hunting knife, first aid kit, flashlight. Their heft is simple and familiar. It’s like any other day. Any other camping trip. Any other escapist trek into the tranquility of the woods.
Only it isn’t.
What makes me uneasy, what stands my hair on end and tingles my spine- just like that godforsaken night so many years ago- is the very unfamiliar weight of the .40 caliber G22 strapped to my hip.
It’s not that I’m afraid of guns. Quite the contrary. I grew up here in Colorado, your typical western white guy raised by another typical western white guy who saw roughing it as a lifestyle and hunting as a birthright. The first deer fell to my hand-me-down Savage Axis .243 on my tenth birthday. The kickback blessed me with a bruise that lingered for two days. The one on my back, inflicted by my father’s manly thump of paternal pride, had hung around for three.
Rifles are fine. Rifles are good. Rifles are powerful and reliable, meant for relishing the thrill of the hunt, for the rush of fulfillment that comes with taking down something bigger and badder than you and dragging it home to mount above the mantel piece.
Pistols are different. Pistols are built for self-defense, and I hate what that means.
I’m no longer the hunter. Not today.
I stare at the sign standing guard before the trail, the last bulwark of normalcy between the civilized world and the densely-forested warzone beyond.
FOGGY BOTTOM TRAILHEAD.
The final warning. The last chance to turn back, to wise up and flee. To step past that sign is to cross over enemy lines, and once your foot hits the dirt, well, that is the point of no return. I want nothing more than to pile back into my truck and speed the hell out of here. Never in all my life had I thought I’d find myself back here, yet here I am, determination waging a losing battle against my fear. My body screams at me to turn tail and run-heart pounding, palms sweating, lungs crumpling under the crushing force of panic mashing against my chest. But I can’t.
I finger the wedding band on my left hand. It seems an absent-minded action, but it’s not. Annalise’s warm smile fills my vision; the soft kick of our child settled peacefully in her belly echoing against my palm. Her soft pink lips ghost the stubble on my cheek. Her glowing blond tresses whisper against my face. Come back to me, she coos. Or at least I imagine that’s what she’d say if she knew the truth behind my absence. Annalise thinks I’m visiting my ailing mother in Phoenix, and was thankful I’d spared her the tedium of an old woman’s ramblings and the exhaustive stress of air travel on her heavily pregnant body. If I’d been honest, she’d have never let me go. The lie settles a stone of guilt in my gut, but it is easily ignored. That lie pales in comparison to my responsibility. I’ve a duty to protect my family, and their safety is a motivator that trumps all fears.
I close my eyes. A subalpine breeze tousles my hair, carrying with it the scent of greenery and loam, of danger and the promise of confrontation. I’m here to protect them. My wife and child. My daughter. My insides churn with apprehension, but if I don’t do this, if I don’t end this here and now, my family will never live in peace. We will never be safe.
My hand drifts down to the pistol at my waist. The metal is cold despite the heat.
This madness needs to stop. Once and for all.
The thunk of the trunk door slamming shut shakes me from my trance. The truck beeps, the locks click, the keys jangle and then muffle as they’re tucked away into a pocket.
No turning back.
“All set, Quinn.”
It’s a statement, not a question. For some reason this lightens the load on my shoulders.
It takes away the illusion of choice.
I turn to face Darius. My older brother, the stranger. Fourteen years have changed him, as years tend to, but they have not been as kind to him as they were to me. His long brown hair falls in greasy waves in dire need of a brush and wash; his beard is an uneven patchwork of brambles that betrays the inherent shakiness of his hands. A symptom of his overzealous love for cheap beer and whisky, as attested to by the bulging gut so out of place on his otherwise slender, crank-ravaged frame. Long gone is the adventurous boy I knew, his joyful grin and sparkling eyes murdered by a life of chronic addiction.
I can’t help the surge of distaste that swells in me at the sight of him. It mingles with a longing sadness for the brother I lost.
I shake the thought away. We’re not here to rebuild bridges burned. We have a job to do, and once it’s done I can go home to my wife, and he can slink back to the drug-addled trailer park he calls home.
I don’t pretend subtlety as I look him up and down. Defying physics, the haggard lines of his face deepen. His lip curls slightly. He doesn’t seem to like what he sees, either.
I swallow a sigh.
“All set.”
Darius rolls his shoulders, adjusts the grip on the semi-automatic held firm in both hands. It’s a slick, black monster of a machine. Seeing his bony fingers wrapped around it, the apathy in his slack mouth and sallow cheeks and dull eyes, it sends a shiver through me. He cracks his neck. I glance at the pistol- a twin to my own- holstered to his belt, and glance back up at the AR-15.
I nod at it.
“What’s that for?”
Darius snorts humorlessly and approaches. My jaw clenches. My fingers itch for my handgun.
He walks right on past me toward to the trailhead.
“Man’s gotta eat, kiddo,” he says. “You go on an’ enjoy your granola and piss-berries, boy. I’m gonna have me some red meat.”
Darius’s pack slumps rhythmically against his ass with each crooked stride. It sags against his back like a deflated hot air balloon, and for a moment I resent volunteering to carry the heavy equipment. But then I catch a glimpse of straggly fur poking out from the zipper he hadn’t fully closed, and I bristle.
I’d rather carry Jesus’s execution cross uphill than that bag and the cursed, foul coyote pelt inside. The fur is filthy. Caked with a decade’s worth of rot. A breeze rolls downwind from the tree line, wafting toward me the stench of decay and spoiled meat. The odor bolts my feet to the dusty ground of the car lot, glues my eyes to the swatch of animal hair peeking out at me, taunting me, daring me to follow.
I close my eyes.
I see it.
No. I smell it first.
You always smell it before you see that hellish beast, like an olfactory announcement of doom.
The hulking shadow passing by the windows of my home in the dead of night. Loping and twitching like a demon mid-seizure, circling the house. How many nights, for how many years, had I shot upright from a restless sleep to smell and hear and see the abominable silhouette of the monstrosity that’s haunted me ever since that fateful day fourteen years ago? How many times have I hugged my shivering, silently sobbing wife, before snatching the Louisville slugger from the bedside to stalk toward the foyer? The memories- all identical, a hellish nightly routine- wash over me, slowly at first, then all at once, seizing me in an iron grip.
The fetid stink of death assaults my nose. The windows are bolted shut, the front and back doors double, triple locked, but still I smell it. Still, I hear it. The rhythmic pound as it ascends the porch steps. The thump and swish as it staggers off-kilter to the door. The ghastly scratch as it slides its claws down the wood, fiddling with the knob. I can see it turning, jerking against the lock. The wood of the bat is smooth in my hands. Cold sweat saturates my palms, loosening my grip. My heart hammers against my ribs, fighting for freedom from the prison of my chest.
And then I hear the voice.
Not just any voice.
My voice.
What the hell is this place?
My thirteen-year-old, balls-barely-dropped voice.
Woah, Darius! Come check this thing out.
A perfect mimicry of my cracking preteen mumble.
Gnarly. We should take it, maybe it’s worth some money.
My voice.
And then it leaves. Like it always does. I stand there, bludgeon at the ready, eyes wide and trained on the doorknob, on the clusterfuck of locks keeping us in and the monster out.
Every night.
Every goddamn night for fourteen years, this thing, the Distortion (as Annalise calls it), comes to my home, robbing my wife and I of sleep, of peace of mind, of any sense or semblance of safety, and repeats- with perfect inflection, intonation, cadence, timbre, articulation- the very same words I said to my brother the day we found its lair and stole its skin.
I tried everything I could think of to stop the torment.
I phoned the police. After the fourth late-night call, they stopped answering and dubbed me the village idiot.
I adopted guard dogs, two great bull mastiffs. They turned up dead, skinned and mangled on the back deck the morning after I minted their collar tags.
I moved houses, renting out apartments in New Mexico, California, Iowa, Vermont. Everywhere we fled, the Distortion followed.
I set up cameras. Bear traps. Motion detectors. The loudest trip alarms I could find.
For fuck’s sake, I even greased the porch steps. I slipped and broke an ankle on the buttered stairs the next morning.
Insult to injury. Or was it injury to insult?
Either way, nothing deterred the beast.
My brother and I never really stayed in contact after pops kicked the bucket a few days after our little forest expedition. Darius was seventeen at the time, legal enough to strike out on his own. He and pops were close. The death hit him like a battering ram and when he finally landed he found himself smack-dab in the middle of meth country after a year or two of, as he called it, ‘livin’ off the land.’
Last night I received a call from a number I barely recognized. So unaccustomed to seeing those seven digits, I did about three double-takes. The shock was so potent I considered letting it go to voicemail. But something possessed my thumb. I tapped the ‘talk’ button. I pressed the mobile to my ear with a shaky hand, and on the other line, Darius’s scratchy, world-weary voice murmured a single sentence.
We need to end this, Quinn.
And that was that.
I blink away the memories and stare down at my feet. I touch the cell phone in my pocket and think of calling Annalise.
“Get a move on, chicken-shit,” Darius grumbles. “You got us into this mess, and I’ll be damned if you ain’t gonna get us out of it. Don’t think I won’t drag you if I got to, boy.”
I open my eyes, force them away from the coyote fur and lift them to my brother’s gruff face. Words escape me; my mouth is dry, my lips, cracked. I opt for a nod, and I take my first steps into hell after promising myself I'd lever lay foot in that forest again.
***
THE HIKE WAS LONG, hard, and emotionally arduous. Darius, for all his faults and physical frailties, somehow managed a brisk pace along the winding, rocky, uphill-downhill switchbacks. His loosely tied boots slammed into the dirt, splashed through the muck, crunched clusters of pebbles with determined abandon. He insisted on keeping the rifle in hand instead of slinging it over his shoulder. The carelessness with which he swung it about while taking generous swigs from his flask worried me. I flinched often, maintaining a cautious distance.
I tried to enjoy the tranquility. I really did. Vast canopies of Engelmann spruce dappled the rays leaking between their branches, casting a dancing honeycomb of golden light as far as the eye could see. The forest smelled of damp moss and rich soil, and the breeze was a crisp caress that tickled the nose and cooled the sweat beading on my forehead.
But reality was a cruel mistress. Fear clenched my hands into fists, prickled the skin on my arms, my back. I looked over my shoulder constantly, searching for misshapen shadows lumbering through the brush; scouring the deceptively peaceful wood for a predator hungry for skin and blood.
And then, of course, there was Darius.
The funk of stale whisky and cigarette smoke attacked my senses all day, as morning melted into dusk. Chain-smoking the whole way, he flicked the butts onto the path, cherries still burning. I pinched each one from the dirt, tucking them away into a Ziploc I’d brought along for that express purpose. A persistent ache had settled in the small of my back from all the bending and stooping. Ashy blisters formed quickly on my fingertips from the heat of the stubs.
My brother’s disregard for the land- and the thing that called it home- disturbed me deeply. But I held my tongue. The silence that stretched between us for the duration of our journey was an unnerving thing, but I preferred it to the conversations we might have otherwise had. Gone was the boy with whom I spent blissful afternoons swimming in mud-brown lakes and scaling maple trees, replaced by a jaded man of thirty made decrepit by a life of self-abuse and debauchery.
I missed him.
As we strode along, I stole glances at his brown eyes every now and then, prospecting for the mischievous twinkle that, in our youth, had once made them sparkle. All I saw now was dullness. Matte and hollow, like cardboard boxes left out in the rain. Devoid of the zeal for life they’d once held.
I lost count of how many times I shook my head, mourning the loss of a brother I’d once loved and idolized.
If only pops had managed to stay alive.
***
FOURTEEN YEARS HAVE passed since we found the Distortion’s lair, but time had not succeeded in wiping my memory of where it was hidden. From our current position, it’s no more than a two-hour trek northwest. But Darius and I swore a silent agreement not to wander in the dark of the Rio Grande.
I finish securing the last guyline to the stake anchoring our tent. I swipe away the sweat flooding my brow and collapse from my crouch onto my ass, rubbing my throbbing knees. A granola bar sings its siren song to my growling stomach and I reach for my pack, stiff fingers struggling with the jammed outer zipper—
“FUCK!”
A shadow crashes through the shrubbery and I leap to my feet, pistol drawn and trained on the thing with trembling hands, trying not to choke on my heart as it rockets into my throat.
Darius stumbles forward, throwing his rifle to the ground in fury. It lands dangerously close to the campfire. Sparks roar into the air. Burning branches jostle. The fire hisses. I put down the handgun and spring forward to kick the weapon away from the flames, adrenaline pumping like vitriol through my veins to energize my exhausted muscles.
“What the hell is wrong with you, dude?”
He staggers clumsily, mouth wrenched into an ugly sneer, eyes glassy. I can practically taste the alcohol radiating off him in repugnant waves.
Darius slurs something under his breath, nearly losing his balance.
“Fuckin’ deer, man. Skittish ‘lil prick.”
He’s hungry. I’m hungry.
Snatching the rifle from the ground, I sigh, dusting off the dirt and skirting away from the oppressive heat of the fire.
“Sit down,” I say, venomous disdain bleeding into my words. “You’re in no state to catch a firefly, much less dinner.”
I want to spit. Sour saliva floods my mouth, inspired in equal parts by hunger, anger, and frustration at the helpless wretch my brother has become. Instead I swallow it down, grimacing against the bitter tide.
I venture into the brush on silent feet, knees slightly bent, descending into the deadly calm all hunters must master.
A part of me wishes Darius had just given me that damned coyote pelt so I could handle this on my own. He’s a liability. A crutch. I know he’s been plagued by the same demon as me, but why the hell should he care? He has no family. Just himself. Just his body, which he pumps full of drugs and poison on a weekly- daily- hourly basis. Booze has melted his sanity; meth has destroyed everything else. Why, then, is this careless, self-deprecating, near-suicidal excuse for a man so desperate to be rid of the Distortion?
I huff and sneak into the thick brush of the forest, listening to the myriad sounds of the nighttime wood: crickets chirping, leaves rustling, branches creaking in the mountain wind. The light of the campfire recedes until I’m alone in the black, dark as pitch and demonic ichor. The fear is there- it never left- but I have a goal, a more important directive.
Food.
I crouch in the bushes. I wait. Time is sluggish as it passes. And then I hear it: the gentle, almost imperceptible snap of a twig beneath a dainty hoof.
Through the scope I spot a lone stag, grazing among a copse of young fir. His graceful head is concealed behind gently waving swaths of summer grass. I coax my breaths into a soundless flow. My finger lingers a hair above the trigger. My hands are steady. My pulse, slow. Time stands still. The hunt envelops me- the fleeting moment of harmony before the trigger pulls and ends a life.
My pops always said to squeeze the trigger after a long, even exhale.
So I take a breath in.
I let the breath out.
My finger hovers. Slowly curls. The cold metal kisses my skin.
Just before I squeeze, my intestines scrunch. A faint whisper of warning.
My eyes flick down at the gun, some fleeting instinct tugging my attention to something very, very wrong.
The magazine is gone.
Reality hits me like a slap to the face.
The stag’s head snaps up. Its eyes aren’t animal. They’re human. The whites are so large they glow in the darkness. The pupils are round. They dilate like a man aroused. The irises have a coppery glint, a piercing rusty glare that bores into me with an intelligence mirroring my own.
The deer... it stands.
It rises slowly, spine unfurling like a cobra rising to a challenge. It ascends on its hind legs. Its forelegs hang down like arms; its head cocks ever so slightly, and I swear, I swear on all that is righteous and holy, it smiles- a perverse mockery of a human grin- revealing not deer teeth but man teeth, square and straight and yellow. Its limbs are rigid. Robotic. Its tail is missing. The familiar stench of putrid meat hits me all at once like a sucker punch, a tidal wave of blight and mold.
It blinks. It raises its right foreleg- its right arm- and waves at me, a jerking, mechanical motion, a heinous imitation of a human gesture made worse by the hoof where a hand should’ve been.
Its lips don’t part but a voice nonetheless reverberates from its maw, a perfect mimicry, a perfect mimicry, a perfect mimicry of my cracking preteen mumble:
What the hell is this place?
Woah, Darius! Come check this thing out.
I stare. My body is petrified. The rifle, unloaded and useless, tumbles from my quivering hands. A grotesque, frankensteinish hybrid of man and animal holds me in its vile gaze, a patchwork nightmare made grossly real.
What the hell is this place?
I can’t move.
What the hell is this place?
I can’t breathe.
What the hell is this place?
The Distortion stares at me with freakishly wide eyes- a crazed man’s smirk on a deer’s face- stark still as if carved from marble- pointed ears frozen upright against its antlers- a blurry, monstrous thing, unmoving, unbreathing, solid as stone, watching me with an intensity so malicious and insane that my bladder loosens. Piss streams down my leg in warm, stinking rivulets, pooling at my feet.
Terror of the worst kind welds me to the ground, shoves steel wool in my mouth, fills my ears with deafening white noise.
So muffled are my senses that I don’t hear the footsteps approaching fast behind me.
An excruciatingly sharp pressure pierces through my back. Cold, thick, serrated steel stabs beneath my rib cage, puncturing skin and muscle and kidney and lung, forcing from my throat a desperate gasp.
I crumple forward. Thorns scrape my face. I land hard in the dirt, forcing the hunting knife deeper inside me. Hot blood mixes with my tepid urine, soaking me through. I roll onto my side, wheezing, desperate for air, for release from the spear of scalding pain running through my body.
I look up and see my brother’s face, sober and frank as winter dawn. Emotionless as a man who has accepted his transgressions and found within them no cause for guilt.
Darius drops the magazine. It lands with a heavy thump, the epitome of his betrayal.
I choke out his name. I ask him why. The garbled words are nothing more than a moist gurgle.
What the hell is this place?
Louder now.
Closer.
The Distortion’s footfalls draw nearer, swishing through the grass, the bipedal gait of a limping man, the same one I heard slinking around my house every night, clambering up my porch.
Tears of agony blur my vision. The hilt of the blade sinks deeper into my gut as I try to roll onto my back. My groan is strangled, pathetic. The glistening crimson tip of the blade pokes out through my gut, slick and cruel, blood pulsing around the merciless steel to dribble down my sides.
The foul smell intensifies.
It takes all my strength to crane my neck toward its source.
The coyote pelt, held tight in Darius’s fist.
Darius throws the pelt over me and I cry out- I try to- but the tanned hide suffocates me, plunging me into an absolute darkness that reeks of gangrene. I try to fight it. I try to thrash and flail, but each motion widens the gash, punctures my innards, churning my organs into soupy viscera. My mind fades like paint dissolving in water. The pain gnaws at the edges of my rapidly shrinking sanity. I can’t scream. I try and try. Naught but pitiful gargles escape my lips.
And still, the Distortion approaches. Its hooves, its feet, brush through the grass, louder and louder, closer and closer, and my prepubescent voice bursts from its deer’s lips over and over and over like a broken goddamned record:
What the hell is this place?
What the hell is this place?
What the hell is this place?
Adrenaline mixes with my unadulterated panic, my unabashed suffering, and finally, at last, I scream.
It’s a piercing, earth-shattering sound that echoes into the terrible night, rupturing my eardrums, galvanizing my body with one last surge of energy, energy that yells at me, survive, survive, damn you, survive, and I listen.
I rip off the coyote pelt. I roll onto my stomach, yelping as the tip of the blade is forced back inside me. I reach behind, howling into the dirt, inhaling dust and soil as I pour my agony into the earth and grasp the hilt of the blade.
Annalise fills my mind’s eye. Her dimpled smile. Her full lips. Her charming weirdness, her effortless beauty, her empathetic sensitivity, her unrelenting compassion, and her kind green eyes.
Her perfectly round belly graces my thoughts. I see my daughter resting in her womb, sleeping soundly, kicking gently, making her mother giggle with each gentle nudge.
They will be safe.
I tear the hunting knife out of my body.
They will be safe.
Tears stream down my face, mingling with the piss, with the blood, with the mud.
They will be safe.
With one final ounce of strength, I tighten my grip on the handle as much as my failing strength allows, and I thrust the blade into my brother’s throat.
My hearing escapes me, blessedly sparing me from Darius’s dying gasp. Blood wells from his mouth. My vision clouds, sharpens, clouds again. I sweep his legs out and push him into the brush. With a feeble shred of energy, I pull the coyote pelt over his twitching body, ignoring the pool of gore gushing out from beneath him.
Hooves crunch leaves, stopping just behind me.
Gnarly. We should take it, maybe it’s worth some money.
The moist, appalling rip of flesh, muscle, and cartilage tearing from bone rapes my ears.
I do not look back.
I drag myself through the scratchy shrubs, leaving a trail of scarlet in my wake. I’m slathered in brown and red. The pain running through me was white-hot, but it’s dimming to a slow burn. I’m not sure if that’s a good sign.
I’m calm. I’m tired. My eyelids flutter as if weighed down by the knowledge of what I’ve done. Of what I had to do.
The glow of the campfire offers a promise of comfort, of delicious okayness- perhaps its empty, but I don’t care. I pull and I push, crawling toward the light. I moan in anguish, even though I’m numb now.
Blood loss is a hell of a thing.
I never make it there. Fatigue assaults me. The mud is cool against my freezing body. I shiver. I quake. I try to keep my eyes open, but they will not obey my orders.
Annalise. Oh, Annalise.
As I bleed out, I am thankful that she is the one and only thing that blesses my final thoughts. Delirium takes hold, working its euphoric tendrils into my skin to relieve the pain and panic. My only regret is not being there to witness my daughter’s birth. To hold my wife’s hand as she labors through delivery; to smile down at her sweaty, straining face, declaring you can do this, you’ve got this, honey; to hold my child in my arms and press my forehead against Annalise’s as we cradle that little bundled miracle between us.
It’s then that I cry. Not out of pain- the pain is gone now, replaced by a numbing serenity.
No. I cry for the all the things I’ll miss. The precious moments with my wife and my daughter. Her first words. Her first steps. Her first day of kindergarten. Learning how to ride a bike; learning addition and subtraction, learning how to spell words like ‘mommy’ and ‘daddy’. Riding the school bus alone for the first time.
Falling in love.
What will Annalise tell her when she asks why she’s never met her daddy? Will my wife resent me, thinking I abandoned her? Will she fabricate an outlandish tale of heroism to explain my absence?
Darius, you cheating, honorless, traitorous son of a bitch. Hate roils through me, boiling what little blood is left in my veins.
Annalise will never know the truth of what happened here. Even if my body were found, what conclusion would she draw? Annalise knew about the Distortion. She huddled against me each night as it stalked our home, crying quietly into my shoulder. But she wouldn’t have ever known that I came out here to end the problem once and for all. Months from now, after filing a missing persons report, they’d find a single body, my body, next to a burnt-out fire and a crooked tent, and nothing more.
Unless...
My mobile.
My head rolls, like a drunk, five shots past his limit. The tent is fuzzy. It seems miles away.
But my cell phone is inside.
I stretch out a hand. I grasp the damp earth. I hoist my body forward, and it’s heavy, so heavy, as if fashioned of solid lead.
I pull. I push. I crawl. I don’t feel the cold anymore. I don’t feel the pain anymore.
I feel nothing. I forge on.
So close. So close. So very close.
My mangled hand wraps around the mobile. Numb fingers flip it open. The harsh white light blinds me. 9-1-1. Three numbers from salvation.
Through clouded eyes I stare at the screen. At the circle-and-slash flashing in the upper right-hand corner.
No service.
Cloven hooves slam down on my ankles, snaring me to the ground. The odor of maggots and metal fill my nostrils.
Defeat washes over me. My tortured scream echoes unheard into the abyssal night.
Gnarly, my thirteen-year-old, balls-barely dropped voice says. We should take it.
Maybe it’s worth some money.
Bio:
Brianna Fenty is a state maritime academy alumna hailing from New York's wonderfully weird Long Island area. After spending a few months learning highland voodoo from Scotland's resident fairies (AKA taking a gap year), she now keeps busy at home begrudgingly searching for a day job, writing strange stories, and forcing her very moody cat to read them. She has been previously published in Aphotic Realm Magazine, and in addition to short and flash fiction horror and sci-fi, Brianna is also working on the first installment in a planned dark fantasy trilogy.
Her work can be followed on her blog, https://briannafenty.wordpress.com/ and official Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/bmfenty/.