Author: Jeremy Robinson
Date: 2022-07-12 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Jeremy Robinson's first pulse-pounding horror novel (originally penned under his Jeremy Bishop pseudonym) is a horrific tale of post-apocalyptic terror that is one part zombie story and one part Dante's Inferno. The story asks hard questions and generates strong emotions in everyone who reads it-anger, excitement, and most of all: FEAR. This book asks the question that everyone is afraid to answer: ARE YOU READY? Small town reporter, Mia Durante, finds herself having brunch with the President of the United States on the day civilization comes to an end. An electromagnetic pulse blinds the U.S.
Publisher: Breakneck Media

Torment

By

Jeremy Seals

© 2016 Jeremy Seals

This volume of short stories is dedicated to the following:

My editor/wife,

My family,

All my personal cheerleaders,

All the wonderful people who bought Trauma,

And

The talented creators of the following podcasts:

Last Podcast on the Left

Blurry Photos

Paranormal Review Radio

Liar City

Contents

Visitors. 1

Kiss. 1

Violation. 1

Massage. 1

Nosebleed. 1

School 1

Cave. 1

Manor. 1

Pigment. 1

Lancer. 1

Visitors

Bailey didn’t notice the kid until he spoke, nearly causing a disastrous mess of chicken lo mien and pork dumplings. No real surprise that her senses were dull after the ten hour day she’d just put in. All she wanted to do was eat, zone out in front of the TV, and take a long, hot bath.

“Can I come in?” the boy asked.

He was around eleven or so, slightly built, wearing a ragged black hoodie that was a size too small. The hood was up and drawn tight around his milk colored face. His head was pointed down, studying the worn toes of his battered Converse sneakers.

“Why?” Bailey was cautiously concerned. “Are you lost?”

“Sort of,” the kid shrugged. “I just really need to use the phone.”

“Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Yes, but it is broken. It is food time and my mother will be worried if I do not call home soon.”

There was something very off about the way this kid spoke. It reminded Bailey of the way Data spoke on Star Trek; phonetically correct, without any emotional inflection. And why did he call dinner “food time?” Who the hell talked like that?

“Please,” the boy took a step towards her. “I really need to call my mother.”

Bailey opened her mouth to tell the kid to go away. Movement behind the boy stopped the flow of words before they began. Three more children, all identically dressed in ill-fitting hooded sweatshirts and beat up trainers, emerged from the shadows of the apartment courtyard. Each quickly turned their gaze downward as they entered the bright light provided by a large lamp post.

Real fear leapt into her throat. Fingertips tingling, Bailey fumbled her keys out. Trembling hands turned seating the key in the deadbolt into a struggle. She expected her traitorous appendages to drop them into the nearby bushes, just like a dumb bimbo would in a bad horror film. Making the procedure even more difficult was a need to keep one eye on the kids while doing it.

“Please!” For the first time, the original boy’s voice showed an emotion; urgency. “We need to come in. We cannot unless you ask us to. We need to call home.”

His face raised. The others followed suit. Bailey’s heart joined the fear taking up residence in her throat, thumping wildly. Every drop of saliva disappeared from her mouth. She momentarily forgot about the lock. All she could do was stare at four sets of perfectly black eyes.

Surprisingly, Bailey began to feel calm. Her instincts quit hitting the internal klaxons quite so hard. She relaxed the death grip her hand had on the keyring. It was nice to stand out here and stare into the tranquil eyes of his nice young boy. This harmless boy. How nice it would be to have them in to visit!

A modified Honda motorcycle buzzed loudly into the parking lot. It snapped her attention away from the hypnotizing gaze long enough to break the current chain of thought. The boy’s expressionless face contorted in frustrated anger. Bailey turned around, sliding the key home and unlocking her door.

The children were slowly moving forward in unison. She quickly entered, paper bag of Chinese food smacking the doorframe. White cartons tumbled to her welcome mat. Bailey could care less. The speaker stepped on one, reaching forward with a pale hand tipped with dirty fingernails. Bailey slammed the door shut, shooting her deadbolt hard enough to send a cramp shooting through her forearm.

Immediately, an incessant knocking began. She jumped away from the door, expecting the kid to punch through the sturdy oak and unlock it.

Nothing so dramatic happened. The banging continued. She forced herself to take deep breaths, trying to calm the rapid pounding of her heart. It was necessary to think about what to do next. Calling the cops was a good idea, as was making sure all the other entrances were locked up tight. Finding something to defend herself was a solid tactic as well, just in case one of them go in before the police arrived.

A small hand reached up to her large living room window. The grubby paw formed a fist and proceeded to thump against the glass. Bailey let out a shrill scream, rushing over to the check that the lock was engaged. Looking down, she could see a small white face staring up at her, oily eyes begging Bailey for access to her mind, to ensnare her into a trap that would encourage lowering defenses. She swept the blinds closed furiously. The plastic wand attached to the metal track at the top snapped off.

More knocks coming from the bedroom. Bailey ran down the hall, slamming the door closed after checking the latch. Instantly she re-opened the door, lunging inside to her dresser. From the top drawer she grabbed a short steel rod, which she snapped out into an eighteen inch baton. She’d bought it at a flea market after the stall vendor had talked her into getting the weapon rather than Mace. It felt good in her hand.

Even better, the intimidating sound of the club expanding caused all knocking to stop, for a moment anyway. It resumed a minute later, more insistently than before. Bailey cursed and shut the door again. Awkwardly, she lunged into the hallway bathroom, sitting on the throne after shutting herself in. The call of nature was not to be ignored, even in times of extreme terror. She couldn’t stifle a crazy laugh at the thought. Strange to be doing something so normal in abnormal circumstances.

Bailey was finishing up when the patio door off the kitchen slid open. She froze, waiting for the sound of basketball shoes on creeping across the kitchen linoleum. The pounding ceased. The complete silence was somehow worse than the noise. At least with the thumps, she knew where the kids were. Maybe they were already in the house, sneaking silently towards the bathroom, dead eyes shiny with the anticipation of mutilating her in unimaginable ways.

She got off the toilet and contorted her body into a position where she could look under the door. No one was waiting directly outside. Bailey strained, wiggling in the small space to get a better look down the hallway.

“Please!” A thin, reedy, and absolutely scared shitless voice cried out from the kitchen. “Please let us in, we can’t come in unless you tell us we can! We need to come in!”

Shock at the sudden speech turned into confusion. Why couldn’t the kids just walk in? It wasn’t like there was a big trench that magically formed whenever an intruder entered. What was keeping them back?

“Oh please hurry and let us in! We’re scared!”

Multiple sets of hands began drumming on the metal patio door frame. It was frantic, intense knocking, the desperate request of a frightened person running from some unspeakable danger. More shouts, more pleas echoed throughout the apartment.

Bailey hefted her baton and headed down the hall to the kitchen. Each step she took seemed to increase the children’s racket. They rained blows onto the retracted screen and even on the siding bracketing the entrance.

She stopped at the border between the living room and kitchen, weapon raised. Bailey’s body was wired from adrenaline. Sweat made her armpits a jungle. Though common sense was telling her to ignore the kids, to go for the phone on the end table, the primal part of her mind was ordering Bailey to find someone’s head to smash in.

“Please let us in!” The boy screamed wildly. ”Please, we’re running out of time! He’s coming!”

The sight of the kids was a punch in the gut. In this moment, they looked like ordinary children, frightened by a terrible dream, trying to get into their parents’ bedroom. Their arms blurred as they pummeled any available surface near or around the door. They strained towards the entrance, but none dared to cross the threshold.

“Who are you?” Bailey demanded, voice strong. “What are you doing here?”

“Please tell us we can come in!” The child’s voice was distorted, as if it came through layers and layers of static. “You have to tell us we can come in!”

“No! Fuck off!”

“Let us in!”

“Eat shit!”

Viscous black tears began to ooze down the children’s cheeks simultaneously. Each mouth dropped into an “o.” They began to wail, a loud, ear splitting, relentless cry that caused Bailey to slap her hands over her ears for protection. Her weapon clattered to the floor. She sacrificed one ear to the noise in order to retrieve it.

A blinding light filled the kitchen from the outside. Bailey threw up a hand, trying to see the source. The kids mercifully quit their caterwauling, replacing it with a deep gurgling reminiscent of a backed up drain. Black fluid spewed from between their lips and out their nostrils.

Something swooped over the children, enveloping them in what resembled an iron grey sheet. Frozen in a silent scream, they continued to vomit their foul liquid. It stained the covering as it began to tighten around them. The backlight dimmed a bit, revealing a shadowy, tall figure, very broad, wearing what looked to be a billowy hood.  It was steadily pulling the sheet taut, like a fisherman harvesting his netted catch.

Bailey groaned loudly. The cloth prison grew smaller and smaller, crumpling up. As it did so, bones cracked and organs popped underneath. Clothing fell to the concrete slab. They smoldered, bursting into blue flame before reducing to ash.

Finally the horrible process was complete. A basketball sized bag, held easily in the tall being’s hand, was all that was left of the children. It stepped closer to the patio door, revealing a face beneath the cowl that was heavily wrinkled, thick lipped, and blue in color. Large, oval eyes peered at Bailey’s hunched figure.

The figure did not cross into the kitchen, seemingly content to stare from outside. In spite of her relentless horror, she realized that she could feel the thing’s curiosity. A cold fingered hand seemed to rummage through Bailey’s mind. She felt the probing sensation, recognizing that whatever the creature was, it was pervasively trying to pluck information from her brain.

“GET OUT!” She screamed, voice breaking with the force of it.

Suddenly, all feelings from the invading presence was gone. The being stepped back, straightening its stance. A low hum began. The light began to pulse slowly, strobing in and out, increasing in tempo and pitch. Bailey stood frozen, baton outstretched in shaking hands, watching the figure’s body fade out into nothing.

It was gone. Bailey slid down the cabinets to plop onto the cool tile floor, feeling fatigue washing over her. A gaggle of her neighbors crowded out into the back yard, clad in night clothes and jabbering excitedly. Some even pointed cell phones up into the sky, trying desperately to capture footage that would turn them into temporary local celebrities.

Gathering the last of her energy, she tottered over to the open patio door, shut and secured it, then sat with her back against the glass. It felt good.

Bailey drifted off to sleep before the reporters got there.

Kiss

It was customary for mothers to leave their babies outside of the cramped, narrow shops in their prams. This was especially true on a gorgeous sunny spring day like this. Any respite from the crowded conditions of Council housing in London’s East End was welcome.

With Hitler’s long shadow ten years gone, there was an optimistic air among the people. They’d survived a great, horrible war. Now was the time to thrive and move forward, to bring England into a new era of prosperity.

The neat row of baby carriages was a testament to this. Most were nearly new, bought on hire purchase to hold a family’s future. Some children slept. Others goggled up at the bright blue sky. One chattered joyfully, sitting up and enthusiastically shaking a well-loved rattle.

Smiles, even on the hardest, weariest faces, came to those who looked upon these jolly cherubs. As a rule, no one stopped longer than it took to wave and coo. Any mother in full on protection mode was a fearsome sight.

Which is why the hunched woman hobbling to the prams drew some nervous glances. She limped along the uneven cobblestones on a gnarled blackthorn walking stick, dressed in a heavy old man’s overcoat and battered black work boots. A ragged hole was hacked into the right shoe to relieve a bunion. A small, dirty canvas drawstring bag was clutched to her bony chest. Unruly black hair stuck out from an absurdly large, wide brimmed grey hat. Wires stuck out from the front where flowers or perhaps fake fruit once decorated it. Hanging around the crone was a thick stink of mildew and urine.

Filth crusted the creases in her arthritic knuckles. The deep wrinkles of her face were equally highlighted with muck. Her smile was craggy, teeth nearly green with poor hygiene. Two large moles decorated the witch’s chin. White hairs grew rampant from them.

Disgust showed when anyone came within five meters. Many had seen the destitute. It was impossible not to encounter them in a slightly rough area like this. Few, even the former drinkers who were on the meths, matched the level of utter grubbiness hanging around the woman like heavy fog over the Thames.

Croaking out a sound that no one, save for a daft seagull, might call singing, the foul lady approached the leftmost pram. She licked a gnarled finger with a yellowed tongue and dipped it into the canvas bag. Gently, the witch touched the baby’s forehead, simultaneously blowing an assuredly nasty smelling kiss into the little boy’s face.

“Oi!” A large butcher yelled over at her, rushing over from his stall. “You there! Stop that! Get away from those babbies!”

The hag turned towards him, hissed, and then moved defiantly over to the next carriage, repeating the unsettling blessing. She kept glancing over her shoulder at the butcher as she did so. Her gaze was wild. It dared the man to come closer. He stopped, a little fear worming into his gut. For a moment, he considered going back to his stall to grab a knife.

Finally, he resumed his course. As the crone was reaching out to mark a third child, the butcher grabbed her by the shoulder. She squawked, turning quickly to lash out. Her sturdy cane smashed across his shins. He yelped, relinquishing his grip. The hag took advantage and smacked him smartly in the face.  The butcher stumbled back over his own feet, rump connecting painfully with the road. Blood streamed out a large cut on the man’s forehead. It took the fight out of him. He scrambled away.

Scuttling sideways like a crab, the crone returned to her task. An uneasy crowd was beginning to gather at the scene. Several were yelling for a bobby. No one else came close to the old woman. Not even the babies horrified mothers, who shouted obscenities from a safe distance.

The witch woman finished. She regarded the group briefly, a wicked grin cracking her grotesque visage, then turned and sped off down the street. Her movements were unnaturally fluid for such an ancient creature. No one in the mob prevented the hag’s flight. In fact, they jumped out of her way, like the healthy avoiding the touch of a leprous beggar.

Police whistles split the air. A young constable, billy in hand, weaved through the throng to give chase. The nightmare lady didn’t even so much as glance back at him over her shoulder. She cut nimbly around the corner. The policeman knew he had her. This narrow street dead ended into a loading dock.

However, though he was only seconds behind the crone, there was no sign of her. Only two large double doors locked up tight. No alleys led off the street. There were no fire escapes to climb. He did a quick sweep of the street anyway, breath burning in his chest. Nothing.

Unnerved, the constable went back out to the crowded market to wait for his sergeant to arrive. Cold hands tickled the back of his neck. He jumped, picking up his pace. Had anyone asked, he would have vehemently denied that his step was quick out of fear and not the need to begin taking statements.

Two hours later, all four mothers sat in the slightly shabby office of Dr. Neville Cort. Each clutched their charged to their bosoms, whispering among each other in worry of the multitude of diseases the withered old beast was sure to have passed along. The babies were quiet, either sleeping or blinking tiredly at the framed seascapes littering the walls.

Mrs. Root, Dr. Cort’s matronly secretary, was thankful for the calm. When the women had entered the office initially, nothing would soothe them. It took the sight of the battered butcher being led in by his apprentice to quiet the clucking. Blood often did that to a person. It reminded them that while the crone had touched the children, at least she hadn’t injured them bodily.

Once silence reigned, Mrs. Root gently swabbed the dust the hag had used off the babies’ foreheads with alcohol soaked cotton balls, storing them in a steel container for the Doctor’s later examination. Coffee which had been laced with a generous dollop of brandy was distributed. That further relaxed the mothers.

The door to Dr. Cort’s exam room opened. He walked the neatly stitched up butcher out before beckoning the oldest of the four women, Dolly, into the area next. She began chattering a mile a minute. His theory was that the most senior lady would be the most sensible. In one second flat, she proved him wrong, chattering about the bevy of plagues the witch had beset her poor little Julia with.

“Now, now, now,” he said, holding up his hands in an attempt to quiet her. “Let me perform an exam before we jump to any conclusions.”

“All right,” Dolly took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Doctor. This whole thing has me all wound up.”

“Completely understandable, my dear.”

Eyes, ears, nose, and throat looked normal. Heartbeat and breathing were unlabored. Dr. Cort carefully examined baby Julia’s brow with a large wood handled magnifying glass, looking for even the smallest cut or irritation. A main concern was the dust rubbed into the children’s forehead. He would look over the swabs collected by Mrs. Root later. For now he would be satisfied no obvious chemical agent had been applied.

Julia was good as gold during the physical. She watched the middle aged Doctor’s ruddy face, making the occasional sleepy grab at his watch chain. He was surprised and extremely grateful to the child. Less crying on the first case would make the other three go much easier.

“Things look very good, Dolly,” Dr. Cort said confidently. “Whatever the old witch was up to, it did no harm. I prescribe a bath, meal, and a good night’s sleep for her and a bottle of ale for you.”

“Oh, thank the Lord!” Dolly exclaimed. “I was so very worried! Thank you so much!”

“If a rash or a cough show up in the next few days, bring her back in. I have a little worry about the powder the hag used, but hopefully it was nothing but ashes.”

Rushing out to the waiting area to share her good news, Dolly was all smiles. New chatter started, but this Mrs. Root didn’t mind. It would help them all remain calm to know that the first check had gone well.

The following three exams were much the same. Only one minor, yet potentially helpful discovery was found; a small, hard grey fragment that was stuck to one child’s wooly mini cardigan. Dr. Cort plucked it off with tweezers. He immediately put it under the lens of his microscope, making a harmless, yet disturbing discovery. Putting on a poker face, he placated the baby’s mother by assuring her that it was a biscuit fragment.

When the last mother had been seen out by Mrs. Root, she joined the Doctor in his exam room. “I hope we never have another day like this one!”

“Indeed,” Dr. Cort was hunched over his microscope. “I’m just thankful that that final parent didn’t press me on the identity of this little speck.”

“Why? What is it?”

“A bone fragment. Human or animal, I can’t tell, but it’s definitely a bone.”

“Goodness!” Mrs. Root’s hands fluttered in disgust. “Oh, those poor dears! Are you going to tell the mothers?”

Dr. Cort sighed, considering. “I’ll check my texts, but I cannot think of a single disease brought on by external exposure to bone. If nothing shows, I see no point in further upsetting them.”

“Very good, Doctor. I’m not sure I’d want to know meself.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

Meanwhile. Dolly was serving up a steak and kidney pie to her husband, who sat listening half-heartedly to his wife’s much embellished recounting of the horrific incident. Once hearing that Julia wasn’t harmed by the trauma, the exhausted carpenter turned one ear off. He expressed anger and asked questions in all the appropriate places.

Julia herself sat quietly in her playpen. She blinked over her toys and hadn’t so much as touched her dinnertime bottle. Both parents chalked it up to the disruptions of the day. The baby would eat after a few hours sleep. They placed her in her crib, kissed Julia goodnight, and retired soon after.

******

The clock in the living room bonged Midnight softly. Baby Julia woke at the sound. It was still dark outside, not time for Mama or Papa to be up. She was very hungry. Normally, this sensation could be remedied by crying out. Milk or water came soon after. This time, something in her mind said to be patient. Wait and be quiet, it whispered. Your appetite will be sated soon.

Moments later, the window near her crib unlatched. It slid open quietly. Outside, a beautiful maiden reached through for Julia. She went willingly into the warm, pink hands. She toyed with the woman’s long red hair, enjoying the silky coils and the orange scent coming off it.

They flew unseen over the rooftops. Julia shrieked with joy the entire trip. She was disappointed when they stopped, but happy to see three other tots waiting for them on a plush yellow blanket in the alley below.

“See your friends?” the lovely lady said, voice gentle as a lullaby. “I’ve gathered you all up for a picnic! A grand feast!”

After settling Julia on the blanket next to a jolly boy who yammered excitedly, the elegant woman waved one arm. Before their eyes emerged a meal of truly epic proportions. Mashed potatoes, mushy peas, mince, and best of all, a steaming, gooey pile of iced buns.

“Eat up, my sweet little ones!”

No further encouragement was needed. Greedy hands plunged into the repast. They scooped handful after handful into their mouths. Lack of teeth did not hinder their progress. The food was soft enough to slide down. It tasted wonderful, much better than the milk that awaited them at home.

Whistling came to the woman’s ears. Her beaming smile at the children died away, replaced with a grimace of annoyance. The babies were oblivious to it. She stepped back into the shadows, eyes bright.

A policeman walking the night beat passed by the alley’s mouth. One of the babies picked this inopportune time to belch loudly. The lady cursed, then grinned. This could serve her purpose. She whispered an incomprehensible word. Flesh rippled. Her finger bones extended, sharp talons pushing through her skin.

“Who’s that?” the constable called, clicking on a flashlight. The beam fell onto the four feasting kiddies. “Well, what’s all this then? Where are your Mummies?”

He’d caught a glimpse of the red stains on their hands and faces when someone powerful grabbed his neck from behind. The bobby struggled, pounding on the thin forearm to no result. A long, delicate hand reached around his body to his stomach. He was ripped just below the navel, eviscerated up to his gullet.

Goggle eyed, the babies watched their benefactor set down a bone white platter laden with a dark red cherry pudding. They salivated. Chubby paws opened and closed in anticipation.

The maiden smiled. “Go on, my lovelies. Dig in.”

******

After the children had picked the fine dish clean of every last scrap, the lady gathered her charges up. They were returned to their unaware parents clean, full, and sleeping. No evidence of the nocturnal buffet was present.

The woman could hear, even though it was blocks away, a crowd gathering at the picnic site. She was glad they had fled. Two mobs in one day was too much for even a creature such as she. Hopefully the police would find enough to keep them busy until after tomorrow night.

*****

Dolly woke when her husband’s alarm clock went off. Mornings were a busy time for her. Make some breakfast, pack a lunch, feed Julia, and finally, have some time to wash up.

The baby was being particularly difficult. She didn’t want a bottle or to be moved from her crib. To boot, Julia had a loud, messy bowel movement that required both parents to take care of the mess. It left all three in a foul mood.

Her husband stomped off to work, hastily packed luncheon in hand. Dolly plopped her sour tot into the playpen. Julia grumbled unhappily at this, but soon laid over to sleep. Her mother was relieved. She poured a second cup of tea and set about scrubbing the soiled nappy. Money was tight. Salvaging the diaper was a daunting, but necessary task.

She put a large pot on the stove to boil, disgustedly examining the clout closer. She hoped that Julia wasn’t ill. The witch woman from the day before was very much still with her. An illness would mean a continuation of the unpleasantness.

A thick grey splotch caught her eye. Something was sticking out of the waste. Dolly held her breath against the stink, bringing the nappy even closer.

It was fur.

******

Dr. Cort was the most experienced physician in the district. As a result, the police always came round to rouse him or interrupt his day whenever a death occurred. He didn’t really mind. Dealing with the deceased was usually preferable to the woes of the living. Plus they paid him a rather tidy sum for the duty.

This particular crime he’d have gladly traded for fifty spoiled, colic ridden babbies.

A human skeleton sat on a dirty picnic blanket surrounded by mutilated rat bodies. Piled to one side lay a ragged bobby’s uniform. Blood was literally everywhere, caked to the walls and floor of the alley, even dried on the gnawed bones.

While all these things were disturbing enough, it was the fact revealed by his magnifying glass which was making Dr. Cort’s blood run cold; a myriad of tiny, sharp tooth marks littered the skeleton. The same thing showed on the rat’s bodies as well, though not as obvious.

“What’s the word, Doc?” A burly sergeant asked. He sounded slightly sickened by the whole scene.

“Not entirely sure,” Cort answered, rising from his crouched position stiffly. “Something with small, humanoid teeth ate both rodent and the poor constable.”

“Humanoid? Do we have a band of pygmies running about?”

“No clue. Maybe a ship from Africa smuggled some apes back that got free. Maybe someone from the zoo can take a look.”

The sergeant whistled. “Will do. In the meantime, I’ve some bad news to break to the constable’s family. Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

Back in his office, Dr. Cort sipped tea and looked out the window at the harbor. A strange crime. It made you wish for a simple shooting. His monkey theory was farfetched, but some wild animal attack was the likeliest cause. Sailors who travelled to exotic locations often collected foreign creatures to sell to the wealthy or to the zoo itself. Why, just last summer, an aspiring merchant had passed on after being bitten by a smuggled cobra.

He couldn’t get the odd shape of the tooth marks out of his head. Though he knew better, they were, well, more human than what he’d wanted to admit to the police. Small, well, toddler sized. Cort made a note to get impression of the marks from the sergeant.

Frantic voices broke into his musings. Dr. Cort groaned. A small time of quiet, Lord, that’s all he wanted. He set down his cup and walked out to the waiting room.

“Doctor!” Dolly screamed. She clutched a swaddled Julia, who wailed like an air raid siren. “Oh thank Jesus! Something is very wrong with her! That hag did something! I knew she had!”

“Calm down, Dolly!” Dr. Cort rolled his eyes internally. “Come into the exam room and I’ll have a look.”

Julia immediately went silent placed her down on the leather topped table. She shot a mistrustful look at the adults and hissed, actually hissed at her terrified mother.

“See!” Dolly shrieked. “It’s like she’s gone mad!”

Dr. Cort leaned in close to the tot, smiling reassuringly. She withdrew to the table’s edge, whimpering. Julia’s eyes darted left and right, looking for some avenue of escape.

“No need to fret,” Cort was thoroughly confused. Was this the same child he’d examined yesterday? “It’s your old mate, Dr. Cort. Let’s see what the problem is.”

Suddenly, the baby lunged forward at the doctor’s outstretched hand. Julia bit deep into the webbing between thumb and forefinger. He yelled out in pain, resisting the instinct to fling the baby across the room.

The child’s jaws were ratcheting down harder with each passing second. Cort pleaded for Julia to release him. Dolly was no help. Her hands were plastered to her face. She screamed shrilly, mercifully passing out before the wailing split his head wide open.

Loathe as he was to do so, he drew a hand back to strike the child. Julia, perhaps sensing what was coming, abruptly let go with a final shake. Her last wrenching maneuver rewarded the tot with a mouthful of flesh.

Dr. Cort wrapped his handkerchief around his bleeding hand clumsily. The baby sat with her head cocked, noisily chewing the meat. She looked like the dog on the RCA records gone crazy. What was she listening for?

“Mrs. Root!” Cort called, stumbling out to the waiting room. “Please call for an ambulance!”

His secretary was slumped over her desk, large bruise forming on her exposed cheek. A tall, beautiful woman, wearing a dark green cloak and holding a blackthorn walking stick stood over Mrs. Root. Three other babies sat at her feet.

“Wh-who are you?” Dr. Cort whispered, intimidated by the regal lady’s stature. His wound was nearly forgotten.

“A lonely old mother,” the woman croaked mockingly. “Come to claim a few children as my own.”

“You…”

“Yes, I was the one who kissed them. I fed them. Now they’ll come with me. First though, we need strength for our journey. Provide us with some nourishment, good physician.”

Julia grabbed his left leg from behind. The others converged on him, the fiery beauty pulling Dr. Cort’s tongue from his mouth in a final gruesome kiss.

Violation

Even with the truck mounted wench, bringing up the coffin was nerve wracking. It groaned, creaked, bumping gently against the grave’s sides. Each time the latter occurred, Elise’s breath caught briefly in her throat. Jones was experienced though. He carefully monitored the casket’s progress, stopping frequently to shine a bright light on the muddy box and checking for cracks or leaks.

If water had broken through the seal, no one made any money. Their buyers didn’t want moldy bones and tarnished jewelry.

“So far, so good,” Jones muttered. Elise knew from years of working with the man that her de facto boss was talking to himself. “Yup. Nice, tight, and all right.”

Bushes parted, making Elise jump. Mikey, the junior member of the crew, emerged, zipping up his fly. He was twenty, freckle faced, and had a perpetually tousled head of bright red hair, making him look like an overgrown Chuckie doll. Though she’d been skeptical at first on working with someone so young, the kid had won them both over by being an extremely good digger.

Unfortunately, Mikey also had a significant crush on Elise. It was annoying, but she tolerated it. She was thirty, too thin, and had no other romantic prospects. Compliments were few and far between. Being treated to a meal was an even rarer occurrence. She was very careful not to lead the boy on. Breaking hearts wasn’t something she liked to do.

A snort of laughter escaped her. It was a bad joke. Did you hear the one about the grave robber with a heart? She got it from the widow Perkins last night!!! Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!

The coffin finally cleared the hole. Jones expertly manipulated the crane’s controls. Soon it was sitting on the grass beside the grave. Elise and Mikey undid the heavy duty cargo straps.

“Okay,” Jones removed a scrap of paper from his breast pocket. “We have one Miss Liv Marius. Died 2002 at the ripe old age of 38. Our interested party believes that she practiced witchcraft, which makes this somehow valuable to our client. We are to collect the skull, spinal column, and both hands, all finger bones. Everything else we find belongs to us. Clear?”

“Cool with me,” Mikey smiled a bit. “Who wants to crack it open?”

“I will.” Elise flicked her head lamp on, examining the seal on the coffin. Cheap silicone stuff. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “Undertaker was a corner cutter. Lucky for us.”

From a shoulder bag of tools she selected protective gear and a spray can labelled “Dissolve-Ex.” Crab walking, fully aware Mikey was probably ogling her butt, Elise squirted a generous coat of the noxious substance around the lid. Goop ran, making thick streaks through the mud caked onto the sides.

Jones seated a crowbar into a crack. He grunted. The concrete protested, but slowly came open. A fetid wave of air rushed out to greet them.

“Oh man!” Mikey groaned, waving a hand around to disburse the smell. “Do you ever get used to that stink?”

“Nope,” Jones began working on the other side of the coffin’s lid. “It’s a dead body. It’s going to stink. All you can do is work through it.”

“Or wear a mask,” Elise gestured to her respirator. “Like I keep telling you to.”

“Jones doesn’t,” Mikey’s brow furrowed. “What’s the trick?”

“Menthol rub,” Jones grinned as the other seal broke. “Coat my upper lip with it.”

“Oh.”

Conversation stopped. The now exposed body was wrapped head to toe in a dark purple shroud. Mikey pulled a pair of heavy duty shears from his tool pouch and began to carefully cut through the thick fabric over the corpse’s head. Jones did the same from the feet.

“Skull looks good,” Mikey reported. “Necklace here too. Yellow gold with purple stones on the pendent.”

“Bangles on the left ankle,” Jones said. “Brass, probably. Careful of that spine now, Mike. The buyer wants it intact. Elise, get closer with your light. Keep young Michael on the straight and narrow.”

She crouched beside the boy, noting his slight flush of pleasure, even in the shadows the head lamp cast over Mikey’s face. Kid had it bad all right. Flattering, but she was going to have to put a stop to it. His crush would eventually make for rougher working conditions and create friction in the group.

Mikey was beginning to work through the ribcage to get at the prized spine when something growled from the underbrush. Elise shone her lamp at it, revealing a pair of bloodshot black eyes.

“What-“Jones began, straightening up. A small furry creature burst from cover. Shiny teeth chomped down on Mikey’s wrist. He howled in pain, flailing about wildly in an attempt to dislodge the monster grinding its fangs through his skin to the bone.

“Hold still!” Jones thundered. It cut through the confused, panicked haze enveloping Mikey’s mind. He instantly obeyed. One hard swing of the crowbar later, the young man was free. The skittering beast rolled about, squalling in rage and agony.

Elise had produced her reliable little .380 automatic. She was drawing a bead on the twisting creature. Jones pushed the gun up and simultaneously smashed his tool into the animal’s head. The fearsome noise stopped.

“Holy crap!” Mikey gasped. “What the hell was that? My arm hurts like a mothersucker!”

“Raccoon,” Jones was looking closely at the bludgeoned body. “Rabid too. Bad luck for you, Mike.”

“Oh man!”

“Don’t worry. We’ll get you to the hospital after we finish up. Get you some shots and stitches.”

“Stitches!” Mikey almost wailed.

“Yup,” Jones walked back to the open casket. “Fifty-five of them, at least.”

Elise tried to hide her smile. The kid was so darn gullible. Mikey sat down heavily, one hand clamped to his wound. His blue eyes were so big she was afraid they might topple out of his head.

Quickly and carefully, the duo removed the requested components. Elise was carefully placing the finger bones in a small padded box. Jones was nearby, examining some odd writing he’d found on the underside of the coffin lid. He gasped. Began to hiccup. Stopped.

“What’s up Jones?” Elise asked quietly. “You okay?”

“Did you see this?” Jones’ voice was odd. He was subdued, all his usual confidence gone. “It’s a warning.”

She looked. It was several lines of text written in some language she didn’t recognize. “So what? We’ve seen stuff like this before. Anyway, how do you know it’s a warning? You can’t read that any better than I can.”

“No, no. This is different. This is serious. We should put it all back.”

“Come on Jones! Snap out of it. We have what we need. Let’s put the rest back and go.”

Mikey stood uneasily. “What’s wrong?”

Jones was transfixed by the script. His arms were folded over his chest. He was rocking slightly, mouth working silently. Elise was slightly disgusted as drool began to run slowly from the corner of his mouth.

She exchanged a worried look with Mikey. He shrugged slightly, moving away from Jones slowly. Dealing with one crazy animal was enough.

“I’m sorry,” Jones said softly. “We’re all sorry.”

“Who are you talking to?” Mikey whispered.

“Her. She’s mad. We need to say sorry and put the stuff back. Say you’re sorry, okay guys?”

“Who’s mad? Dammit, Jones, we paid off the people we needed to,” Elisa was looking about, gun out and ready. “Is someone else messing around here?”

“The lady’s very mad,” Jones voice was that of a child. “We shouldn’t have defiled her. We have to put it back. Gotta put it back and hope she won’t be mad anymore.”

“No,” Elise said firmly. “I don’t know what’s come over you, but we’ve got what we need. Let’s go and get our fee. Just like always, right Mikey?”

“Right,” Mikey said confidently. “Just like always.”

Violently shaking now, their boss was moaning. He pointed into the forest beyond the weathered headstone. His normally olive skinned complexion was draining away. The neat goatee he affected was whitening before them. Dark blood began to run down one nostril.

“Witch! It’s the witch!” Jones screamed. “It’s too late now! The witch is here!”

Following the pointing digit into the dark woods, Elise and Mikey yelled in fear and surprise. Before them, trailing a long gown behind her, a twistedly beautiful apparition floated towards the trio. She was not pale, like a movie ghost, but glowed a light green. Her face was long, flawlessly smooth. The eyes were hard, glittering diamonds. Two monstrous dogs trailed behind her. Easily as tall as Elise herself, twice as broad. They each wore wide collars of thick ebony leather. Bright tanzanite pendants hung from the middle.

“My name is Liv Marius,” the apparition growled. “You have violated my slumber. Why have you done this? Why have you defiled my body?”

“We’re sorry!” Jones cried, falling to his knees on the muddy ground. “Oh please, don’t hurt us! We’ll put it back! We promise!”

One hand raised. The man’s frantic apologies ceased. He made a guttural whining sound. More blood began to flow, from both nostrils now. Slow at first, the thick crimson picked up the pace. It positively dumped out, punctuated here and there with some grey matter.

Elise’s throat convulsed, gulping in air. She loosed an ear piercing wail. Her arm raised the small handgun. It seemed to weigh a ton now, but she managed. She squeezed the trigger rapidly.

Liv’s shade barely noticed. She was completely focused on watching the gory mess pour from Jones’ face. A beautiful smile was spread across her plum colored lips. Perfectly straight, yet yellow stained teeth appeared. Even the hounds began to grin in a doggy way, long violet tongues lolling from their mouths.

Mikey stood agape, rooted in place by the gruesome sight. Silent tears poured down his cheeks. A rapid, disjointed prayer ran through his mind. What was this? Why had no one bothered to tell him that these things could happen?

Jones’ life ended in a final hiccupping belch. He flopped down on his belly, head rebounding gently before coming to a final stop. The ghost lady giggled. She clapped enthusiastically at the vile display. Once her glee had passed, she turned to the pair standing nearby.

“Now,” Liv purred. “What shall I do with the two of you?”

Unwilling to wait and find out, Elise took off. She didn’t look back to see if Mikey would follow. The kid was old enough to take care of himself. Though she would never admit to it, the thought occurred that she might get away while the ghost was killing the boy.

The specter’s ethereal dress flowed out around the still frozen form of Mikey. He did not protest as the white, flower specked material wrapped itself around his arms and legs. Urine ran down his limbs. He opened his mouth to plead with the evil spirit. Nothing came out except for a flat croak.

“Shhh!”  Liv whispered, drawing close to the terrified young man. She placed one hand on top of his head. An unsettling warmth began to flow through Mikey. Intense pain followed it, mercifully stopping at the base of his spine.

“A mânca cu poftă!” She called to the hound on her right.

Ground shaking at its approach, the giant canine stepped before Mikey. He tried not to cry anymore, tried to be brave in the face of his certain doom, but the flashing jaws that closed around his entire head were too terrifying for courage. A racking sob was the last sound he made.

The dog pulled Mikey’s head and spine off his shoulders. It sucked the vertebrae down intact like a spaghetti noodle. Moments later the hound began to heave. With a final deep huff, the ghostly animal regurgitated the boney snack, sans meat and skin.

At Liv’s gesture, the cleaned skull rose to float in the air. Mikey’s blue eyes peered lovingly up at his new mistress. She smiled benevolently at him, placing one long fingered hand under his chin, stroking lightly.

“Find the thieving bitch,” the ghost woman said. “Bring her to me alive.”

Howling, the gristly seeker took off the way Elise had fled. The dogs looked to their owner, who nodded approval. They returned the cry and stormed off, flanking what remained of Mikey.

Their quarry was hiding in a mausoleum close to the grave. A huge cramp had gripped the back of Elise’s right leg soon after she sprinted for the exit. Knowing that the witch woman would be on the hunt, she stifled a scream of frustration and denied the urge to give up. The lock on the gated tomb door was easily picked, even with hands that quaked in terror.

Inside, breathing the dank, mildew-ridden air, Elise clutched her reloaded firearm. She was trying to listen over the wild pounding in her chest. The hamstring spasm was slowly going away. Stretching it as best she could, Elise knew that running was going to be the only option for escape. If she hid here for too long, they’d eventually find her.

Something outside screeched through the air. She edged to the entrance, risking a glance. A skull, whipping its tail around madly, bobbed around the general vicinity, a sickening marionette looking for Elise. The dogs were close as well. Their noses were to the ground seeking her scent. One’s head lifted, causing her to retreat back into the deeper shadows.

A bat, attracted by the activity, swooped down. The hound with the lifted head snapped it out of the air mid-flight. It crunched the flying rodent up, swallowing it down in a single gulp.

Shivering, Elise felt her heart drop. They were going to find her if she stayed here and running was absolutely crazy. The monsters would easily catch up. Her pistol might be useful against the floating skull, but the dogs were another story.

The hound closest to her abruptly stopped sniffing. Its sharply pointed ears perked up. A sharp, echoing bark alerted the others. Elise whimpered, closing her eyes and covering her ears with sweating, quivering palms. She hoped it would at least be quick.

Long moments passed. Nothing happened. Perspiration beaded up on her forehead. She was now shaking uncontrollably.

Bright light penetrated Elise’s eyelids. Unable to help herself, she let loose a high scream, kicking out with both feet wildly. Fists followed suit. The firearm was all but forgotten in her fear.

“Whoa!” An older male voice hollered in protest. “Stop it!”

Breathing hard, the terrified grave robber opened her eyes. A lanky man in a worn pea coat stood there, powerful flashlight in hand. The caretaker, who’d cheerfully taken their bribe without any problem at all.

“I thought you guys were working outside,” he asked, rubbing a kicked shin. “What are you doing in there? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she answered between gasps. “We need to leave; now.”

Rising to her feet, Elise ignored his confusion and slowly exited the tomb. No sign of the creatures. She walked quickly towards the cemetery gates, resisting the urge to break into a full bore run.

“Hold on!” The caretaker protested, following closely.

“Shut up!” Elise hissed. “We can talk all you want once we get out of here. Until then, keep quiet and move!”

“I said-“the man stopped short. A high pitched keening split the air. He swung the light around. “What the hell is that?”

Mikey’s disembodied skull was barreling straight at him, mouth wide as it shrieked. His bright eyes burned out of the fleshless face. Somewhere behind this gruesome remnant, the dogs bayed encouragement.

The bony attacker slammed into the caretaker’s chest. He hit the ground hard, flashlight rolling away. Elise began to approach when a sound infinitely more awful than Mikey’s battle cry started. A wet, ripping, snapping noise, punctuated by the victim’s uneven, warbling shrieks.

Tail of vertebrae lashing furiously about, the skull was attempting to burrow its way into the struggling man. He tried to push it away. Unfortunately, his hand got too close to its gnashing teeth. Fingers came away, dropping through the hole in Mikey’s jaw.

Elise could watch no more. She sprinted away, unwilling to subject herself to seeing what was left of her friend drill into the caretaker’s solar plexus. Two perfectly synchronized howls preceded the heavy thump of eight massive paws. The dogs were on to her.

Willing her legs to move faster, she choked down the scream that threated to steal valuable oxygen. Elise could see the gates. No matter that the careful caretaker had locked them behind him. The tall bars could be climbed.

Concrete splashed against her back. Small pebbles, thankfully. She risked a look back. The hounds were close, plowing through tombstones like they were Styrofoam yard decorations. Their eyes burned red with hateful madness. An alien voice whispered in her mind, commanding her to stop. To Elise’s horror, her legs were obeying.

“No!” She bellowed, breaking the trance. Pushing the tired appendages harder, fueled by adrenaline, Elise crossed the last twenty yards in record time. She sprang at the fence like a wild ape.

The bars were rounded dowels of wrought iron, too slick to climb. She cried out with what little breath remained, scrambling and jumping to find some purchase on the unforgiving surface.

Powerful jaws clamped on her belt. Elise was lifted bodily. The dog flung her up quickly, getting a new hold on her slim waist. She expected the hell beast to bite right through and squinted against what was sure to be an agonizing few moments before her brain disconnected.

Instead, the hound turned and rushed back towards the violated grave. There it dumped her, scraped and slightly soggy, but otherwise unharmed, before Liv. Mikey’s skull, bloody and chipped from its efforts, circled slowly around.

What remained of Elise’s partners lay in the bottom of the hole, smashed under the replaced casket. The lid was closed. Hope, albeit weak and unreasonable, blossomed in her chest. Maybe the ghost wouldn’t outright kill her. There could be a slim chance to walk away from all this.

“No,” the specter said, voice full of false pity. “You’re not escaping punishment. I was dead, free from the misery of the world. Yes, I practiced sorcery while alive, knowing that anyone who disturbed me would damn me to a second life. I chose a quiet corner to be buried in, where the chance of being disturbed was small. Thanks to you, I now have to haunt these grounds forever.”

She curtly gestured with her head. The flowing cloth restraints from Liv cruelly snapped around Elise’s wrists and yanked her arms to point straight out, palms down. The dogs came around to face the thief. They positioned themselves so that their mouths were nearly touching Elise’s outstretched fingers.

“Hand for hand.” Liv whispered, snapping her fingers.

Though Elise screamed, it did nothing to mask the sharp, carroty snap of the demon hounds severing both hands neatly at the wrist.

Massage

No matter where he looked, Carter saw nudity. It shouldn’t have shocked him. After all, he was sitting in the comfortable waiting room of a massage parlor. Still, there were robes, though further consideration of this thought revealed how silly it was. This was a business centered on flesh.

Going to a place like this was a new experience to him. Years past his divorce, lonely, overweight, and very plain, Carter needed release beyond what a website could provide. He wasn’t really looking for a relationship either. The tedium of dating was an unpleasant exercise for a man of forty. All he wanted was physical contact and a little friction at the end.

At first, he tried local body rub ads on Craigslist. After a few encounters with women who looked like angels in their profile pictures and were drug ridden hags in person, Carter found out about the Relax Massage and Spa Company. Lots of positive reviews on several websites, plus reasonable rates made it worth a try.

Now he waited impatiently, butterflies in his stomach, sour acid in his throat. Chili and nerves didn’t blend well together. Carter hoped a fart wouldn’t sneak out during the service. It would be just his luck to rip one while some hot chick was flogging his doggie.

Heels clicked towards him on the faux marble floor. “Mr. Carter?”

The speaker was a knockout. Brunette, curvy; blue eyes framed by fashionable black plastic frame glasses. She wore a sultry parody of a business woman’s outfit, short black skirt with a crimson blouse. The neckline plunged in a deep “v” to reveal her augmented cleavage.

Carter’s mouth was a desert. He managed to croak out: “Yes?”

“Miranda is ready for you,” she smiled, voice carrying the trace of a European accent. “Please follow me.”

He did so, noting her impossible heel height and shapely calf muscles. She led him down a long hall, chatting pleasantly all the while. Carter spoke or grunted when it was necessary to do so, trying to hide just how excited he felt. If the hostess was any indication, he was in for a real treat.

They stopped in front of a door with the number “237” on it in gilt gold numbers. Inside stood a young woman, brilliant red hair shining under the ceiling mounted track lighting. Per the specifications he’d provided, Miranda was dolled up like his teenage crush; Daisy Duke. Barefoot, short shorts, and a halter top exposing a tanned, taught midriff.

“Hello Mr. Carter!” Miranda squeaked cheerfully. “Are you ready?”

“Yes!” He replied with pathetic enthusiasm.

“I’ll leave you two alone.” The hostess shut the door behind her, smile dropping off her pretty face the second the latch clicked. She crossed to the room opposite “237.” Inside were five large men of mixed lineage playing poker at a round table. Three others; two women and one older man sat at computer terminals. All activity stopped when the hostess entered.

“Green light,” she said, handing a file to one of the women. “Get ready.”

******

Miranda laid down some ground rules and told Carter to undress. He did so quickly, not exactly out of lust, either. His rather sizable man boobs were an embarrassment to him, so he figured that getting onto the plush leather massage table as quickly as possible would not only spare him humiliation, it would save the young lady from having to be subjected to the unpleasant sight.

She dimmed the lights. Soft music began to play. The quiet pad of her feet on the floor as she came closer made his heart beat harder. Miranda’s scent, some light, flowery perfume, hung in the warm air.

Expertly, the masseuse worked the stress from Carter’s back, neck, and shoulders. She had strong hands for such a small girl. He was fully relaxed, nearly asleep, to be perfectly honest.

So when Miranda stuck the needle into his left butt cheek, the sharp sting followed by an icy rush was a rude awakening. A thick fog quickly settled over his brain. Carter’s limbs felt like massive weights had been attached to them. He tried to at least turn his head. It almost obeyed, allowing an uncomfortable twist so that he laid on the left side of his face.

His fantasy woman was washing her hands vigorously at a nearby sink, like a surgeon washing up for theatre. The glare she threw at him in the mirror clearly displayed Miranda’s disgust.

“You make me sick!” She spat. “Dress up for me! Touch my disgusting, ill-treated body! Rub my tiny cock!”

Blood rushed up to Carter’s face. In spite of the significant trouble he was surely in, shame hit full force. This was wrong. He should be safe at home and perusing his urges on some website.

She was approaching him again, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. From a drawer under the table came a handful of blue topped specimen tubes and a syringe. Miranda drew blood until three of the vials were full, jabbing the needle mercilessly into a vein on his neck.

Once done, she left him. Fear was seeping through Carter, cutting through the drug haze. Was this some kind of illegal blood bank? Maybe it was some oddball police sting. Inject a mark with illegal drugs, run a test, and get creepers off the street.

This theory, while farfetched as hell, was all the more plausible when a cadre of men in black t-shirts and jeans came into the room. No one spoke. They placed cold, sterile hands on him, rolling Carter onto a gurney. One gingerly draped his bare groin with a white athletic towel.

Carter tried to speak to them. Whatever the injection had been, it’d effectively severed the connection between brain and mouth. A low moan was all he could manage. Maybe it was for the best. He was in enough trouble as it was. Talking could make it worse.

Goose pimples sprang up on his naked body as the men wheeled him rapidly down a cold hallway lit by caged bulbs clamped to exposed ceiling beams. This part of the parlor was all business. Cinderblock walls flowed on both sides, broken only by the occasional appearance of a cheap particle board door.

The end of the gurney rammed through a pair of swinging double doors. Carter jumped as much as the drug would allow. A heavy odor, something familiar and foreign at the same time, assaulted his nostrils, even making his eyes water a bit.

He saw the willowy man in surgical greens waiting under a bank of bright lights. Beside him was a chest high steel tray. A crude shelf was installed along one wall behind him. Large coolers, smoking with dry ice, sat neatly on it.

Dull horror crept into Carter’s mind. Simultaneously, he identified the smell; hospital antiseptic. The strong stuff used to clean operating rooms. Oh God…

“Subject is a forty year old American male,” the surgeon spoke into a small digital recorder. “Preliminary labs reveal no blood borne infectious diseases.”

Using a penlight, the doctor looked into both eyes. “No contacts. Do you wear readers? Don’t try to speak, just blink once for yes. No? Good! Too bad the color is so common. Oh well, we have to work with what we’re given, ja?

Whistling a jolly tune, the surgeon installed an IV into the crook of Carter’s arm. He then took a marker over to the coolers. The material squeaked as he wrote on them.

Sweat was pouring out of Carter. Surely this was some prank. In a moment, a camera crew would burst in. An obnoxious host would throw an arm around him and yell a slogan. Yucks for all.

“Subject has no significant other,” the doctor continued into his recorder. “Parents are deceased. One estranged half-sister. No children. I’m anticipating full viability of subject’s vitals plus the eyes.”

Clicking the device off, the surgeon picked up a syringe from the tray. He looked down at Carter, merciless green eyes devoid of any emotion.

“A pity that your baser nature led you here,” he said, inserting the syringe into the IV port. “It is good bait for our little business venture, yes, but I feel for anyone who cannot control their urges. Take solace in the fact that your organs will go on to save lives…for a price.”

“Find your happy thought, Mr. Carter. You will not wake from this.”

The surgeon depressed the plunger, sending a cold rush through Carter’s body. Blackness, tinged with numb despair, overtook him. The hard glint of the scalpel was the last image he took into the void beyond.

Nosebleed

Nosebleeds were a normal part of Markus’ life since he’d been small. His allergies were bad, and considering that most remedies caused dryness, the frequent occurrences were given very little thought.

That is, until his head began buzzing. He’d woken a little past one in the morning, thinking his cell was vibrating. This particular noise was much more consistent and notably louder than the phone. It was so insistent that it was actually making Markus’ eyes water.

A brief, distracted search of his bedroom was futile. All electronics were off. The mysterious hum was obviously coming from within. Groaning, Markus walked to his bathroom, avoiding use of the lights. Instinct told him that the illumination might make things worse.

He sat on the toilet clutching his head, leaning forward slightly. Blood began running from both nostrils. Great. That was all he needed.

Jamming both holes with tissues, Markus finished up on the loo and risked switching on a low wattage light attached to the exhaust fan. He gazed at the ghostly reflection staring back at him. It doubled momentarily, then settled.

Blood was covering his upper lip. It had even gathered on his chin and dripped onto his grey t-shirt. The toilet tissue was already soaked through. This was the worst nosebleed he’d had in a long time.

Markus gingerly pulled the useless wads out, flinging them into the sink. He expertly packed his nose with gauze. After examining his work, he spat several times into the basin to clear the coppery taste from his mouth. That was the worst part. He hated the thought of swallowing blood.

If only that damned buzzing would stop! It was increasing, growing into a body wide vibration. The double vision returned, ramping up to a hardcore level. Nausea reared its ugly head.

In preparation, Markus took a seat on his bathmat. He had time to flip the commode’s lid before his late dinner came up. The packing in his nose came free with the violence of his regurgitation, adding sickening red cheeriness to the mess.

Eternal minutes later, he flopped over onto the blessedly cool tile floor. The buzzing was slightly diminished, but unfortunately not gone. Markus took what he could get, especially since the nosebleed was dripping on.

In just a second, I’ll get up. He thought lazily. I’ll flush the pot and brush my teeth. I’ll pack up my nose again and go back to sleep.

Instead, Markus spent the next six hours on the bathroom floor. His brain had sent him into slumber shortly after this last thought.

As he slept, curled in the fetal position on the thin bathmat, something began moving under the skin of his right nostril. The nosebleed, which had been drying up, kicked off again. A small silver tail poked out for a moment, then attempted to bore back in, emitting a high pitched squeal when it failed.

The house phone woke Markus just before eight. It screamed shrilly, cutting into his aching skull, bouncing cruelly around the lobes of his brain. He moaned aloud, covering both ears. Fresh blood squirted from the right side.

Thankfully, his voicemail picked up after six rings. It was just his boyfriend, Chuck, asking if he wanted to get some lunch later. The very thought of food sent his stomach into a slow, oily barrel roll.

Executing an awkward lunge, Markus peeled himself up off the floor. His entire left side hurt. Not quite as bad as his head, though it was pretty close. He felt really disgusting. Sweat, blood, and puke stained his night clothes.

Though the bathtub was right beside him, it seemed an incredible feat to climb in. He did manage it, even leaning forward to turn the water on. This provided him with a silly sense of triumph. Hey, when you feel lousy, you take your victories where you could get them.

He was doing better after a vigorous scrub and soak. Only an occasional drip fell from his nose. The horrendous vibration was down to a dull drone. Funny though, his right nostril seemed to be twitching, like a bug had crawled up it or something.

Grabbing a towel, Markus hurriedly dried off before the spasm stopped. He cleared a spot on the foggy mirror. There was something hanging out. It was too bloody to tell exactly what it was. He touched the oddity carefully. A slight tremor went through his fingertip.

Was this the culprit? Had he snorted some object while sleeping? It was unsettling to think about, but he’d read about it happening. Supposedly, people ate spiders while they slept all the time. No matter, it was coming out.

From a drawer, Markus retrieved tweezers. They proved unable to get a good grip on the invader. Undeterred by this, he walked out to the kitchen, rummaging in a hodgepodge tool kit for a set of needle nose pliers. The slight buzz was increasing. It was as if the thing could tell he was trying to get rid of it.

Back in the bathroom now. He took a deep breath and seated his makeshift surgical device firmly on the object. Wincing against anticipated pain, Markus began to pull.

It came out easier than he’d thought it would. Soaked with gore, the foreign material clinked solidly into the plugged sink. His eyes watered. Pain lanced up. After a few moments spent with his eyes closed, getting a handle on the hurt, he wiped his face with his a washcloth.

While the aftermath of the procedure was unpleasant, just having that damned thing out made it worth the trouble. Markus carefully picked up the source of his torture. It was tiny, roughly the size of a small vitamin tablet, but much thinner. He began to run water over the thing, washing it gently. Each layer of goop that ran off brought with it a growing sense of unease.

The small object had a rough surfboard shape, deep pink in color. Small metal legs, six in total, jutted out on either side. They wiggled slightly. It vibrated softly against his palm. Something on its underside was pinching at the skin.

Dumping the contents of a small travel sized sewing kit, Markus brushed the thing into it. He didn’t know exactly what the plan was for it yet. Maybe taking it to his ear, nose, and throat doctor would be the best idea. Dr. Patel could send it away for testing. He needed to get his nose looked at, anyway.

He was making an appointment when the doorbell rang. Anticipating a sales person or a religious huckster, he chose to ignore it. However, his caller had a different idea. Whoever it was went from pushing the button to knocking. A rapid, professional tempo.

Deciding that the visitor might be someone more important than an Avon lady, Markus went to answer it. At the very worst, Chuck, who was prone to overreacting, may have called the police to come check on him. He gave a quick apology to the ENT receptionist and hung up.

Sure enough, the peek he took through the peephole revealed an official looking woman in a neat black suit. A badge was hanging around her neck on a lanyard. Big round sunglasses obscured everything from the nose up. Dark, curly hair bracketed an unblemished, spray-tanned face. Wherever she’d gone to get the latter done, they’d bypassed a normal bronzed flesh tone for an almost Oompa Loompa orange.

Markus opened the door. He tried to smile in spite of his rough morning. “Hello. Can I help you?”

“Are you Markus Peter Sanders?” The woman asked, dictation rapid fire. In fact, the voice coming out of this petite lady was so robotic it was actually a little unnerving.

“Yes. May I ask who you are?”

Rather than answer, she stepped forward into his home, holding up her badge. He allowed this automatically, not thinking to protest.

“Turn and face the wall. Now, please.”

“Why? What did I do? What’s this about?” He was feeling somewhere in between offended and angry. “You have no right to handcuff me without explaining what’s going on first!”

The woman’s thin lips formed a heavy frown. She grabbed his shoulder, trying to spin him toward the wall. Violently, they struggled for long moments, the woman attempted the same hold over and over. Markus was no expert fighter, but the move was so amateurish that he was able to avoid it easily.

What’s more, the efforts seemed to be completely exhausting to her. She was almost panting with strain. Markus didn’t even have to put much effort into resisting. The whole time, he kept trying to talk to her, even making an effort to be as calm as possible, a nearly unthinkable feat considering the circumstances.

After one last ditch attempt at a tackle, the inept official fell face first onto the floor. Her wig tumbled off onto Markus’ feet like a spider. She rolled over, narrow chest heaving.

It was then he began to scream.

Glasses gone, the woman’s large green eyes burned up at him. They were a solid color, no pupil to speak of. The odd skin tone he’d noticed through the peephole had rubbed off during the fight, revealing a pink-grey that didn’t belong on anything human.

“Quiet, Mr. Sanders,” she breathed. “Be silent and come with me. The others will not be so kind. They are coming for you. I failed. I failed. I fai…..”

Her piece said, the woman shuddered and became still. Fluid, a deep purple slime, flowed from her ears and mouth. It hissed against the floor. Smoke poured up, triggering the hoarse cry of the disc shaped detector over Markus’ head.

The steam pouring off the corpse created a cloak that mercifully shielded him from the final stages of the woman’s deterioration. It was thankfully odorless. Nonetheless, Markus pulled his  shirt up over his nose.

Too much! He thought. Too damn much! I can’t take anything else today! Enough, okay? Please no more.

A massive dark blue SUV skidded to a halt at the curb, as if in some perverse answer to his desperate plea. Four black suited people got out. Two men, two women. All wore identical wraparound sunglasses. Both ladies had similar bob haircuts. The guys were totally bald.

“Come with us, Mr. Sanders,” one of the men called, voice harsh and without emotion. “Enough is enough. Get in the vehicle and come quietly.”

“No!” Markus shouted, rushing to shut the door. The disintegrated woman’s empty clothing caught on the corner as he swept it closed, bunching up enough to prevent latching. Frantically, he kicked at it, only succeeding in missing it and slamming his foot into the metal fire door.

The two strangers in front booted it simultaneously. The door smashed against his leg, sending Markus completely off balance. A huge shove immediately after sent him crashing to the floor, vainly clawing at the wall to prevent the tumble. In a trice, he was flipped onto his belly and handcuffed.

“Where is the device?” One of the women asked, mouth inches from his ear. He could smell her breath, wet and papery, tinged with rot. Like old newspapers left in a damp basement.

“Bathroom,” Markus sobbed. “On the vanity in a plastic box, okay? Please don’t hurt me. I don’t understand any of this.”

“I’ll get it,” the other female agent said. She returned shortly with the container. It was placed in a small plastic bag and disappeared into an inside pocket of her jacket. “Secured.”

The male agents had already gathered up the stained garments of the apparently dead lady agent. He was squirting a clear substance over the faint burns on the carpet. The marks faded rapidly. “Clean up complete. Let’s get Markus Sanders out to the car.”

He was carried out to the SUV by all four agents. Two holding under his arms and the others lifting him by the ankles. Each was huffing pretty hard by the time they shoved him into the open rear hatch. Absurdly, one of the women covered him head to toe with a heavy comforter.

“There,” she said, sounding strangely pleased. “Now you won’t be cold.”

While the gesture was perhaps intended to be thoughtful or comforting, being under a thick blanket added to Markus’ panic. It became hard to breathe. His system, already stressed to maximum by blood loss, vomiting, and repeated trauma, finally overloaded. He passed out.

He woke on a cold table in a strange room. It was dark, save for a bright light coming from under the slab. A low fog floated around it. To his left, the four agents who’d kidnapped Markus stood motionless. Their heads were lowered.

“Hey,” he croaked. “Where are we?”

No answer. His voice echoed through the strange chamber.

Markus tried to sit up. Though no visible restraints were present, he found he wasn’t able to move anything below his neck. He strained, trying to do anything, even wiggle a toe. No dice.

“Hey! Someone help!”

A blinding blue light turned on above him. He cried out, turning his head and closing his eyes against it. An opening appeared in the wall to his right. Six hooded figures, four short, two tall, walked into the room. The short being in the lead carried a transparent tray shiny with silver instruments.

“Who are you?” Markus whispered. The beings were somehow familiar. This whole situation was giving him a sensation of déjà vu.

Despite the sensations creeping into his head, the sense of having experienced this before did nothing to stop the scream of terror as the six creatures threw back their hoods. The two taller beings had almond shaped black eyes, no nose. A thin slit was in place of a mouth.

The smaller beings were squat, neckless, and fat faced. They resembled trolls from a fairy tale book. Their eyes were pure white. Oddest of all, the dwarfs had navy colored skin. The smashed shape of their faces gave them a grimacing smile.

A long, narrow finger caressed the side of Markus’ face. He jerked his head to center, looking directly into the eyes of one of the tall beings. It was speaking to him without moving its mouth.

“Why did you take out your implant?” It asked, voice gently disapproving. “Now we must perform a more aggressive tagging procedure. This will be very unpleasant. Please brace yourself.”

“What? What do you mean, tagging?” Markus screamed. “Please! Whatever you’re thinking of doing, don’t do it!”

Involuntarily, his head moved so that his gaze returned to the immobile agents. He could see one of the tall figures take an ivory colored wand, rounded at the tip, from the offered tray. A moment later, something cold touched behind his ear.

There was bearable pressure at first, followed by a sharp pinch. The instrument beeped once, then the real pain began. Sharp crunching, the racket of a potato chip addict indulging without closing his mouth, accompanied a deep burning sensation. It snaked out to the entire side of his face, bursting blood vessels in his eyes and loosening teeth from his gums.

Markus bellowed in sheer agony. This seemed to upset the beings. Rather than stop the procedure, the tall being took a second instrument from the tray. After touching it to his throat, it completely muted Markus without diminishing the torture.

The wand was withdrawn after an eternity. Slowly, the injury’s intensity diminished to a dull throb. He was still unable to move, but this was moot. Exhaustion permeated every inch of his body. Had a perfect chance to escape presented itself, the most he could’ve accomplished was a boneless flop onto the floor.

Unkind hands gripped Markus’ ankle. The tall being was now at his calf, which was held up by one of the smaller creatures. A new instrument, ending in a small, sharp scoop, was used to remove a chunk of flesh. This was surprisingly painless.

What came next was not.

Extending from the cylindrical handle of the tool was a metal straw. The creature was none too delicately ramming it into the bleeding wound. The device whirred loudly. Something burrowed deep into the muscle, drilling down until it hit the bone.

Markus screamed silently. Tidal waves of pain crashed from toe to temple. Tears and snot ran in rivers. Sour sweat flowed out his forehead. Bile kicked up from his stomach. The mark behind his ear gushed blood.

“Done,” The tall being said at last. “Attempt removal of these and we will be forced to end you.”

In extreme agony, racked with cramps and the pain of two implants buzzing through his body, Markus could not reply. He wanted to promise to be a good patient. To swear that he would live happily tagged. If they wanted him to be an experiment, that would be just fine.

“Wipe and return.” The creature commanded. “Make sure evidence of the fallen hybrid is completely erased.”

As the stumpy beasts went to their tasks, the slender being walked over to a control panel. It touched a glowing yellow button. On a screen that shimmered in midair, a sleeping young woman’s face appeared.

On to the next.

School

At first sight, Stoddard School looked a dream. It was a medium sized, bright red brick building, surrounded by a white picket fence. A brightly colored playground stood in the neatly mulched enclosure. There was a paved area with a basketball hoop at the far end. The happy sound of children singing filtered out through the open windows.

Megan turned and smiled at the pigtailed brunette kid sitting sourly in her pink princess car seat. “See how pretty it is, Georgia?”

“I don’t care,” her daughter replied sullenly, arms folded across her chest. “I hate it. I want to go back to my old school.”

“We’ve discussed this already. Mommy’s job moved, so we had to move with it. Now get your lunch. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

Grumpily, the child complied, trudging a good ten feet behind her mother. A new lunchbox, in the shape of a fat grey cartoon cat, banged against her hip. She kicked at a rock. It skittered off the concrete sidewalk, landing at the work booted feet of a tall, broad shouldered groundskeeper. He looked disapprovingly at the little girl. Georgia sped up a bit, moving closer to Megan.

The double glass doors opened as the duo walked up. A middle aged woman, pleasantly plump with a neat, stylish short haircut, held them open. Her smile was infectious. Even the thunderclouds hovering around Georgia began to disappear.

“Megan and Georgia Summers?” She asked, extending a chubby hand. Bright charms on her bracelet jingled. “I’m Miss Aurora. Welcome to Stoddard. We’re so happy to have you!”

“Hi,” Georgia said shyly, clinging to her mother’s slacks. “Are you my teacher?”

“Sometimes. You’ll have arts with me, main class with Miss Courtney, and life skills with Mr. Pete. We’ll have lots of fun.”

“Good. You’re nice.”

Internally, Megan sighed with relief. She’d fully anticipated Georgia to throw a tantrum or to get a report after school that the child had sat crankily at a desk by herself, refusing to participate. The mention of time for art and the teacher’s sunny disposition probably saved her a migraine.

“Follow me girls,” Miss Aurora began walking briskly down the hall. “I’ll get Georgia settled, then I’ll show you to the main office. Lots of fun paperwork to do.”

“Great,” Megan groaned dramatically. “First day and Mom already has to go to the office.”

“Oh Mommy!” Georgia admonished. “You’re silly!”

Miss Courtney, the teacher, was every bit as kind as Miss Aurora. Megan was happy to see the kid walk eagerly into the classroom. She was even happier to see that the other children had decorated a seat with balloons and a colorful “Welcome!” sign. It was a good place.

After her shift ended at the local pharmacy, Megan drove back over to the school, feeling quite anxious. She’d checked her cell phone at every opportunity. The worry that Georgia’s good mood hadn’t lasted was very much on her mind.

The phone had not shown a single call, email, or text. Maybe Georgia had destroyed the entire school in a critical meltdown. Some might laugh at this. They’d never seen the little girl turn into a raging supernova when in a particularly foul mood.

All her fears were groundless. Georgia emerged from the school chatty and tired. The daycare seemed to have worn her out. Her stories of new friends and all the fun activities were frequently interrupted by wide yawns. She was so sleepy during dinner that Megan expected a nose dive into her mashed potatoes.

“Was there anything you didn’t like about school?” Megan asked, half-smiling.

“Yeah,” Georgia winkled up her freckled nose. “The juice tasted bad. It was sour.”

“Maybe it’ll be a different flavor tomorrow.”

“I hope so.”

After dinner, Georgia requested to go to bed rather than watch TV or play with her extensive collection of dolls. It was a little odd, but Megan chalked it up to the emotional stress of the day. God knew she was always exhausted after the first day of a new job.

“Is it okay if I look at your pictures from class, hon?” Megan asked as she tucked her daughter in. “You wanted me to see them, remember?”

“Oh yeah!” Georgia sat up in bed. “I do!”

“Don’t get up. I’ll get them out of your bag when I head back to the living room.”

“Okay,” Sleepy disappointment. “I just wish I wasn’t so tired.”

“It’s fine. You had a big day.” Megan kissed the little girl’s forehead. “Sleep well. Want the night light?”

“No, that’s okay.”

“Really? Are you sure?” This was a huge surprise. Georgia was totally terrified of the dark.

“Yeah. We talked about it at school. Miss Courtney said that nighttime is just a normal thing that happens,” Georgia explained. “That lots of good things happen in the dark. The class made a list of them. I thought of fireworks.”

“Well, she’s right,” Megan smiled. “If you change your mind, just holler.”

“I want to give it my best try.”

“Sure. Love you.”

“Love you too, Mommy.”

Megan blew her daughter a kiss and exited. She felt proud of herself. Sending Georgia to Stoddard was already showing benefits. Absolutely worth the extra hours she’d worked to pay tuition.

She settled in the living room with a beer, retrieving Georgia’s artwork on the way. A pair of crayon pictures depicted a big orange cat wearing an impossibly tall crown and a house surrounded by giant flowers. The third picture was a bit odd. It faded the small grin on Megan’s face, furrowing her brow instead.

It depicted a girl with brown pigtails sitting on a large black throne. There was a silver tiara on her head. At least, Megan thought it was a tiara. It was drawn in thick lines. Small figures were surrounding the chair on both sides. Blue tears ran down the girl’s cheeks. A massive frown was drawn on the pink circle of her face.

This was disturbing. She couldn’t remember reading stories with Georgia about sad princesses. What were those little creatures around the seat? Why did the silver circlet seem more like a restraint than a crown?

Her eye wondered over to a small stack of DVDs piled on the entertainment center. Star Wars looked back, case open. That might explain the small monsters in the picture. Georgia had voiced a frightened fascination with the Jawas. It would make sense that the princess would be scared of them.

Still, it made Megan uneasy. She would keep an eye out for more artwork like this. It could mean some underlying problem. Finishing her beer up, she went to bed.

The next two weeks passed without incident. Georgia had explained the strange drawing was of “bad guys kidnapping a princess.” This confirmed Megan’s Star Wars theory. She still came home sleepy, and her appetite seemed off, but the little girl wasn’t losing any weight, so Megan didn’t worry about it too much. Kids went through phases.

Supper at the beginning of the third week brought an escalation to the pickiness; absolute refusal to eat meat. Georgia ate all her vegetables and dinner roll. When Megan urged her to eat the cheeseburger that remained, she was met with a stony silence. This was another new behavior. Usually, even minor disagreements ended in tears.

Megan tried to combat this. Privileges were endangered. Pleas to eat at least one bite were ignored. All either tactic gained was more of the hostile quiet, complete with a dead eyed stare.

“Go to bed, Georgia!” She said at last. “I don’t want to hear it if you get hungry later. I don’t understand why you won’t even touch your burger. I thought they were your favorite!”

“Because the meat is bad!” The child’s voice was condescending, nearly cruel. “It’s not good like the meat at school.”

“What meat? We pack your lunch. The school doesn’t serve you food.”

“Miss Courtney and Miss Aurora do. You don’t know anything, you dumb bitch!”

“I know one little girl who isn’t playing any video games for a month!” Megan pointed sternly down the hall to the child’s bedroom. “Now march!”

Georgia slapped her plate off the table. It clattered noisily to the floor, spilling the contents across the faux tile. She stomped towards her room, throwing the door open hard enough to smash into the wall.

Wanting to scream, but unwilling to acknowledge the negative behavior and escalate it, Megan jabbed a finger out again, speaking through clenched teeth. “Go!”

Instead of entering her room, the kid forked two fingers at her mother. She hissed, eyes narrowing. Her lips pursed. Georgia spat between her digits, then spoke an incomprehensible word that ended in a shrill growl. This done, she went in, slamming the door.

“Good God!” Megan whispered, wiping a tear away from her eye. “What the hell was that?”

The next morning, she walked a silent Georgia to class. Miss Courtney greeted them as usual. When Megan asked for a moment of her time, the teacher readily agreed. She called for an aide to get things started before taking the concerned mother to the lounge for coffee.

“I can bet you want to discuss some odd behaviors,” Miss Courtney said, wrinkling her cute little nose in distaste. “Spitting, making weird hand gestures, being generally disrespectful? Chanting some oddball things?”

“Yes!” Megan was more than a little startled. “How did you know?”

“I’ve spoken to three other parents so far today. Roy Turner, one of the kids in Georgia’s class, was regaling the others during recess with the gory details of some horror movie he’d seen about curses and witches. He showed them something a character did.”

“Oh boy!”

“You’re telling me! His folks didn’t see anything wrong with it, either. We ended up having to remove him from the school. We can’t have disruptions like that.” Miss Courtney smiled apologetically. “Hard enough to manage without magic spells going round.”

“Well, that takes care of one problem,” Megan said. “But Georgia was talking about you and Miss Aurora giving them some meat. She wouldn’t eat a hamburger last night because of it.”

“I’m sorry,” the teacher winced. “My brother makes his own jerky. He gave me a big batch and I brought it in to share with the kids. I didn’t intend to cause you any problems at home.”

“It’s okay. Sometimes kids get picky. It’s just odd. She’s never been particular about food before.” Megan shrugged. “Hopefully this phase will pass quickly.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you,” Miss Courtney said cheerily. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, I’ll get out of your hair so you can get to class.”

“It’s not a bother. Feel free to come to us with any concerns.”

Miss Courtney insisted on walking her out. The young teacher even waited for Megan to drive by so she could smile and wave. As Megan returned the gesture, she noted a ragged looking man digging through a dumpster behind the school.

She was about to call the school’s office when Mr. Pete, the life skills teacher, came out the back door. He approached the scavenger. Nodding with approval, Megan pulled away.

Waiting until the woman was out of sight, the educator planted a quick strike against the homeless man’s face with a shot filled drawstring bag. He caught the bum as he fell and hauled him through the back exit.

Back in the classroom, Georgia stood stolidly before Miss Courtney. The hood of her dark robe was thrown back. She was awaiting the teacher’s wrath.

“Georgia,” Miss Courtney growled, fiercely white teeth bared in the dim candlelight. “Why did you attempt to perform a destruction ritual by yourself? Without our permission?”

“Because I hate her, priestess,” Georgia’s brown eyes were filled with venom. “She’s bad. She made Daddy go away. She leaves me with stupid babysitters and runs around on dates. I hate her!”

“Worthy, initiate,” Miss Aurora spoke up. “But did you bring what was necessary to finish your ritual?”

Holding up a handful of hair collected from her mother’s brush, Georgia gave a grim smile. “I did.”

“Good. Take it and show her what to do, Priestess.” Miss Aurora turned to the other students. “The rest of you should follow Georgia’s example. Do you have enough will to take justice on those who wrong you?”

“Yes, high priestess!” The children called out.

“Do you have strength to do what must be done?”

“Yes, high priestess!”

“Who will you serve?”

“You, high priestess!”

“Who is your goddess?”

“You, high priestess!”

Light knocks at the door. Mr. Pete entered. The homeless man he’d waylaid was slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes, bound hand and foot. His tattered clothing was removed. He’d been washed and shaved. Several cuts bled freely, speaking of the brutal haste Mr. Pete had used. A thick layer of tape covered his mouth.

“Come along children!” Miss Courtney exclaimed, leading Georgia by the hand. “Time for snack!”

A cheer came from the class. They rushed to an adjoining room hidden behind a thick black tapestry. Inside the chamber was a low onyx topped table. Appropriate sized chairs surrounded it. Places were set for each child; hand woven placemats decorated with the sigil of Baphomet, small daggers, and pint sized goblets.

Mr. Pete placed the helpless man in the center of the slab. He yanked the fellow’s shackled wrists up, securing them to an eyebolt equipped with a heavy carabiner. His legs were restrained in the same way.

Miss Aurora came around with a gallon jug full of dark purple drink. A label read “Magic Juice.” Cups were filled. The children were clutching their knives eagerly.

“Everyone drink up!” Miss Courtney said. The kids obeyed, eyes moving hungrily over the bound man.

“Now gather around,” Miss Aurora raised both hands high. “Georgia will lead our prayer today.”

The small girl bounced eagerly up from her seat. She held her small dagger outward, arms rigid and face grave.

“Please accept our sacrifice, elder gods. Take this unclean spirit into the fires of your kingdom. Grant us power and domination of our enemies. May your rule last until humanity lies stinking in the ground. Hail the old ones!”

“Hail the old ones!” The class echoed. Applause broke out. Georgia blushed happily and giggled.

“All rise!” Miss Aurora instructed.

Twelve children scooted their chairs back and stood.

“Raise your blades!”

Twelve small arms lifted twelve honed weapons.

“Partake!”

Twelve wounds followed by twelve greedy mouths.

Mr. Pete surgically carved the meat after the initial feeding. Slices from various muscles and organs were distributed. The room had all the lively chatter of a normal school cafeteria.

Georgia finished her meal as quickly as possible. She trotted over to Miss Courtney, who popped the last bite on her plate into her mouth and led the little girl back into the main classroom.

“Are you ready?” Miss Courtney asked, handing over a small wax doll with Megan’s hair attached.

“Yes, priestess,” Georgia’s small grin was stained red.

“You understand what will happen after the ritual is complete?”

“Yes, priestess.”

“Then proceed.”

Georgia pulled a neat selection of long needles towards her. She picked out a four inch pin, jamming it violently into the doll’s leg.

Megan was ringing up old Mrs. Lottie and her husband when a huge pain ripped through her right thigh. She spilled the open till on her way to the floor. Shrill screams filled the small pharmacy. Blood darkened her pants, pouring out from a gaping round wound.

Mrs. Lottie was rushing around the counter when a second hole opened in Megan’s left leg. The old woman stopped short, trying to call for help but unable to breathe in enough to do it. Her husband was on the phone making a futile attempt to explain to 911 what was happening.

An invisible hand gripped the young woman roughly by the wrist. It squeezed brutally for a time, grinding delicate bones together. Megan stopped shrieking long enough to whimper out a frantic plea for mercy. This was answered moments later as her arm rotated backwards, shearing tissue and tendon. It savagely popped out of socket.

The pain was explosive. Tears streamed down Megan’s cheeks. A ragged, hiccupping yell bored from her mouth. Mrs. Lottie fainted. Her hubby quit trying to talk to the befuddled operator and hung up after a panicked; “Sweet Christ, get here now!”

Claws dug into her armpit, ripping through tender flesh. Mercifully, Megan passed out a moment before her arm was torn off and thrown against a wall. Mr. Lottie vomited, then joined his wife on the floor.

An ambulance pulled up just in time to witness Megan’s severed head, trailing a ragged collar of crooked flesh, fly through the display window at the pharmacy’s front. Upon leaving their vehicle, the first responders wisely entered with a body bag.

Back at Stoddard, two vans, non-descript and perfectly ordinary, drove out of the parking lot. Mr. Pete followed in a small sedan. The convoy travelled to a small private airport. Children, some weeping, others, Georgia included, were eager, trooped from the vans to a waiting Lear jet. It took off shortly after everyone boarded.

Police investigating the murder of Megan Summers and the disappearance of the kids were baffled. No one had seen them since that morning. The staff’s backgrounds were all very well done fakes. Even the psychotropic drugs they found mixed into a half empty jug of grape drink had no back trail.

All the meager details were filed away in a cold case box a year later. Stoddard was repurposed as a medical office building.

No one bothered to check behind the hastily bricked up entrance hidden by the ragged tapestry in what had once been a large classroom.

Cave

Chris swam up from unconsciousness slowly, like a deep sea diver slowly rising to prevent decompression sickness. Water dripped nearby, causing his already throbbing head to pound even more mercilessly as each drop hit the larger puddle. The ground he laid upon was cold, damp, and hard. Stones dug into his hip and shoulder, piercing the heavy parka he wore.

Something tight was wrapped around his chest. Chris weakly struggled against it, slightly able to move his elbows away from his body. It was too much effort to do any more at the moment. Just doing that was sufficient work until his muscles woke up more.

What had happened? One moment he’d been on a sunny trial, taking photos to test out his new camera. The next, a sharp prick jabbed at the hamstring of his left leg. A warm numbing sensation followed the sting, flowing up to his head and knocking him out.

Remembrance of the odd pain started a maddening itch in the affected area. Chris attempted to maneuver a hand in order to alleviate it, stretching his bonds further.

Encouraged, he struggled harder, forcing the strange material out of shape enough to push it over his head. Freed, Chris set about restoring blood flow to his arms, wincing at the pins and needles as he shook feeling back into them.

He patted at the pockets of his coat. His phone was still there, though he had no signal. No surprise, since Chris was apparently stuck in a cave. More importantly, his pocketknife with flint striker in the handle was present. Now if only he could find wood to use as a torch.

Cautiously, reaching out with one hand, Chris began to explore the walls, searching for an exit. Three solid walls and one semi-solid that gave a little when he pushed. Whatever the last was, it stuck stubbornly to his probing hand. After scrubbing vigorously at the gunk, he unfolded his blade and attempted to cut into it. Very tough going, but there was progress. Fresh air seeped through the small hole.

Judging by how little progress he’d made with the knife, Chris decided against continuing. All it would probably do is leave him with a dull blade. Given the high potential for his circumstances to be dangerous, having a sharp weapon was important.

Experimental pulls at the tiny breech only resulted in tacky hands. Chris cursed out loud, immediately clamping his mouth shut afterward. He strained to listen for approaching footsteps. Long moments passed without a sound. He let out a breath he was unaware to have been holding and tried to think around the current problem.

A more thorough search of his pockets gave no help. This trip was only supposed to have lasted long enough to test filters on the camera. He hadn’t packed any camping gear. The single idea he could come up with was to try and burn away the material.

Removing the small flint stick, he crouched near the doorway’s bottom. A bright spark, blinding after the time spent in darkness, jumped out. It struck the wall and ignited it. Chris stood back in amazement. The barrier was going up like tissue paper. Really moldy old tissue paper that stank to high heaven. He briefly wondered about burning up all his oxygen. What if there was an airtight seal beyond this one?

Too late now. The apparent exit was completely open now. Dim light filtered in, enough to make out basic shapes without showing details. Meager weapon in hand, Chris walked slowly forward. Fingertips were kept on the wall to his left. Occasionally, it came into contact with more of the mystery gunk. He would stop and remove it, not wanting a build-up of the stuff to hinder mobility.

His plan was pretty simple; get out without encountering whoever had captured him and get home. Calling the police could wait until he was safe, not that he had a lot of information to give them.

A prickly, hairy object brushed Chris’ face. He yelled in surprise, swatting it away. It felt like smacking a water balloon wrapped in a toupee. The thing struck the stone wall, squeaking as it hit the floor.

Chris rushed forward, kicking blindly. He got lucky, smashing whatever the creature was against a rock. It splattered wetly. A small fleck of it struck his cheek, which caused an instantaneous sensation of irritated skin.

Panic, held at bay heroically until now, flooded him. Chris went sprinting down the corridor. Less than a hundred paces later he fell hard, losing his footing in some loose pebbles. The knife clattered away.

He lay still on the cold ground. The wind was knocked out of him. It was a struggle to breathe. Chris wondered if he’d broken a bone. It felt like his ankle was on fire. To boot, he was bleeding from two wounds; knee and palm.

Skittering, chattering sounds came from the darkness behind him. He rolled over onto his back, straining to see. There seemed to be a cluster of red lights at various heights floating in the tunnel. They were stacked on top of each other, almost like a rectangular flash on a camera.

He climbed slowly to his feet. Chris’ ankle was tender, but could bear weight. Good. If his kidnappers were finally showing themselves, running would be necessary, though given the results so far, this wasn’t the best plan.

A high pitched shriek echoed towards him. It was followed up by a series of angry chatters. Chris began to edge away, trying to be as silent as possible. His mouth was bone dry. Sweat ran down his armpits in rivers.

Multitudes of tiny red eyes opened throughout the corridor. Every surface seemed covered with them. They were much closer than he’d thought. Chris walked away as quickly as he dared. The path was littered with lose stone. Running now would be suicide. Another fall would do him in.

Suddenly a startlingly white face appeared in the gloom, dead center of the red eyes. Even more shocking was the fact that it was human. Indeterminately sexed, the features were heavily wrinkled. The nose was large and hooked. A massive vein pulsed mid-forehead.

“What…?” Chris stammered through chattering teeth.

The milky visage lifted to show skin stretched over the eye sockets and gleaming dentate ending in uneven points. A bioluminescence filled the tunnel, revealing a massive body comprised completely by a teeming, writhing bulk of dinner plate sized spiders.

A three fingered hand attached to a hair covered limb reached out for Chris. He booted it away, sending an arachnid flying into the wall. It erupted against the rock, sliding down on a slick of intestine and dark blood.

Roaring, the creature surged forward. Chris shuffled backward, struggling to keep balance. A tentacle, thick as a telephone pole, nearly smashed into him. One of the oversized spiders leapt onto his chest. It was trying to bite through the thick coat. He screamed and punched himself, smashing it.

Awkwardly launching into a run while trying to scrape the attacker’s viscous grime off, Chris narrowly avoided a large rock launched at his head. The monster was ripping small boulders from the walls, throwing them with nightmarish force. Sharp fragments showered down on his lowered head as he dashed for what he hoped was an exit.

Dodging and stumbling through the passage was exhausting. Already running on empty, his quivering legs threatened to dump him at any moment. Sooner or later the creature would catch up…or find its mark.

After what seemed an eternity, an opening appeared. Opaque light filtered through. Chris slowed, breathlessly crying out in despair at the thick webbing blocking it.

He’d outdistanced the monster by a hundred paces. It would be at him in a minute at the most. Rather than uselessly tearing at the barricade, Chris began to gather up stones in a rough pile. There was little hope of getting through the barrier. Better to go down fighting.

The ghostly face peeked around the final bend, a grotesque, triumphant grin plastered across it. Chris promptly pegged a baseball sized rock into the dark body beneath it. Squeals announced his kill.

More missiles followed. Each thumped into the beast with a wet smack. It whimpered loudly, as if asking how he could do such a thing. Chris screamed laughter at its pain.

From outside the blockage, a surprised voice interrupted his merciless flow of scoop and pitch. “What’s this stuff?”

“Help!” Chris yelled hoarsely. “I’m in here!”

“Holy crap!” A second speaker, female, exclaimed. “We’ve found him!”

Hissing, the creature advanced. It knew the new players were here to rescue the juicy morsel its scouts had recovered. Despite the painful attack, it was determined to prevent Chris from escaping.

A thick knife blade punched through the webbing. Its owner grunted manfully as it slowly parted the heavily spun material. Chris pushed down on the flat side, adding his force to the rescuer’s. The chubby, bearded face of a middle aged man appeared through the tear.

“Get down!” The fellow yelled, eyes looking over Chris’ shoulder.

He dropped flat instantly, narrowly avoiding the milky face’s snapping, crystalline jaws. Gunfire thundered a moment later. The beast wailed. Bullets pushed it backward.

“Sue! Get up here!” The man hollered, dumping the cylinder on a large revolver. “Shoot that damn thing!”

The black barrel of a rifle poked through the breech. It boomed in the small space. A neat hole appeared in the creature’s forehead. Its features scrunched up briefly, then slackened. The spidery mass which made up the horror’s body began to fall away, scampering back the way they came. Sue picked off a few more as they retreated, her high powered weapon nearly disintegrating them.

Chris stayed completely still during the pitched battle, hands covering his head. His ears rang from the gunshots. He jumped when the bearded man touched his arm to help him up.

“Easy, buddy,” The fellow said gently. “Sue shot the fudge out of whatever that was, see?”

Apprehensively, Chris looked at the monster’s corpse. Without the writhing body, it was reduced to a black boned skeleton. The structure was humanoid except for the enlarged jaws and teeth. Spots of white flesh stuck to it here and there. Its organs were contained in a clear sac of yellow fluid.

“Gross,” Sue offered, turning her tobogganed head to spit in disgust. She clutched the smoking rifle tightly, alert to any movement from the felled beast.

“We’ve been out looking for you,” The bearded man explained, keeping one hand on Chris to steady him. “Park ranger found your car two days ago. Volunteers have been out since then. You’re one lucky duck. If we hadn’t spotted that web sparkling, that boogie would’ve had you for lunch, my man.”

Chris nodded dumbly. Two days.

“Speaking of lunch,” Sue took his other arm. “Let’s head back to base camp. He needs something to eat and to have the paramedic look him over.”

Gratefully, Chris allowed the duo to lead him to a larger group set up at a campsite. He sipped broth while a sheriff, after listening to the story told by his saviors, led a dozen people away. Half an hour later, while a medic was setting up an IV to get him rehydrated, Chris could hear faint pops and smell smoke in the air.

He laid back on the camp bed and thanked God for sensible actions to extraordinary situations.

Manor

Basil watched the group of young humans enter his home with utter contempt scrawled across his ancient, stretched face. Damnable people. They always went where they never belonged. One would think that living in a decrepit old mansion buried deep in a swampy marshland was enough of a deterrent. The large padlocks the intruders had cut through with their loud tools were meant to be even more of a hint. Maybe he should hire some builders to erect a massive, red lettered billboard reading “Keep Out!”

Damn them. Damn them all. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? This intrusion would undoubtedly mean another move. The legend would grow, following Basil no matter where he went.

One hundred years of this persecution. Since being turned, he’d been chased, forced to leave from every place he’d made a home. Hell, the last fifty years or so he’d stayed out of the cities. He hunted exclusively in the swamps and wooded areas. Animal blood sated him as well as human. Deer were plentiful.

He would make an exception for these fools. They’d intruded upon his domain. Basil’s territorial instincts would not be denied. Still, he would be fair. The humans would be given one chance to leave. If they ignored his warning their penalty for trespass would be death.

From his hiding place in the high, dark rafters of the grand entrance hall, Basil summoned more of the shadows around his pale, furry body. Once sufficiently cloaked, he shrieked at the intruders in a shrill, deafening voice.

“Strangers! Leave my home or suffer! You are not welcome here! This is your one chance to save yourself!”

An answering scream followed by a sharp report of a handgun. Splinters burst from a beam a mere seven feet from Basil. So they’d come armed. That put a new spin on this situation. At first, he’d pegged them as explorers, come to check on the reportedly haunted manor house. Since they bore weapons, the bastards must have decided to make a name for themselves hunting a legend.

Flashlights clicked on. They futilely sought to find him. The darkness he wore was impenetrable. Basil could drop down and rip them to shreds, but what was the fun in that? There were four of them. Enough to cause a bit of chaos amongst them, with a little torture thrown in to keep his human hunting skills sharp.

What do to first? His bright green eyes, the shade of fresh limes, slightly luminescent, narrowed in thought. The long pointed ears twitched as he considered strategies. A slow smile exposed his gleaming fangs as his liver colored lips spread over them.

Basil had decided on a classic, yet effective opening maneuver. He wrinkled his blunt nose and made a soft chirping sound. The light from below attempted to get a fix on the noise, frantically sweeping the ceiling in a vain attempt to find him. He stopped the noise, not out of fear of being found though. Tiny feet were thundering in from each room of the manor house.

“What was that?” A female voice called out, voice fraught with panic. “We should go, like now!”

“Shut up!” Was the masculine reply. He was trying mightily not to sound terrified. “We’ve got everything we need to kill the-“

The man’s claim stopped short as rats began to pour into the main hall from every available crevasse. A wave of brown and black bodies scampered up the intruders bodies. More pistol shots rang out. Basil pushed a bit harder at the rodents. They clamored up the original shooter’s arm, gnawing mercilessly at the hand holding the firearm. The animals weighed the appendage down, forcing the weapon into a point at one of the shooter’s comrades.

Reflexively, he yanked at the trigger after a particularly deep rat bite. A gaping red hole appeared in a short, blonde woman’s gut. She collapsed, clutching at the wound. Basil’s grin grew wider. He called the rodents off. They dropped to the floor and scattered back to their hidey holes.

Basil surveyed the confusion amongst the remaining three with satisfaction. They would begin infighting, spreading blame and arguing on what to do next. His furry little companions had covered the hunting party in bites. Pain would add to their confusion.

Now to the second phase. He climbed easily through a hole in the roof. Walking steadily to the edge, he peered down at a van parked near the front porch. Time to eliminate their ability to leave easily. He looked around, trying to find something to utilize. Yes, it would be a simple matter to leap down to slash their tires, but it had been a while since he’d hunted humans. Basil wanted to take actions that would cause a maximum amount of fear. Adrenaline often made the blood tastier.

His wandering eye fell upon a rusty weather vane. That might work. After a quick bit of footwork avoiding the numerous holes on the ancient roof, Basil ripped the vane free. It was a heavy chunk of wrought iron, yet he handled it like a paper airplane.

Leaping gracefully back to his position above the van, Basil flung the makeshift spear downward. It pierced the hood with a shriek of steel and a crash of destroyed engine. The front tires popped deafeningly with the sheer force of his throw.

More shouts from below. Three pairs of frantic feet stormed outside to survey the damage. Basil delighted in their rampant fear. He was extremely amused to witness a large, dark stain appear on one of the male’s pants.

The other man ran around to the sliding side door of the wrecked vehicle. He removed a large duffle, spilling it in the overgrown front yard. Long wooden stakes rattled out. Basil wanted to laugh. This crew was guilty of watching way too many horror films. Piercing the heart was utterly pointless. What was the good in spearing a heart that was dried up and useless?

“Come down!” The frightened man, now wielding two stakes called out. The sharpened dowels quivered madly. “Get down here, you coward!”

Basil shrugged to himself. Why not? He jumped down from his perch, landing directly on the stake man’s shoulders. The weight of his grotesque body snapped the unfortunate fellow in half, pushing a portion of the spinal column through his stomach.

Oblivious to the terrified shrieks coming from the other two meat bags, Basil tore the upper half of the torso away. His face was upturned to drink the dark blood running out the destroyed organs. It was absolutely wonderful after decades spent feasting on woodland animals. He must have more!

The idiot with the pistol was shooting as fast as he could pull the trigger. Basil felt nothing, but the sound was offensive. It rang in and out of his hypersensitive ears. To alleviate this, Basil swung the body like a club, knocking the shooter back a good twenty feet to slam painfully into the house. The weapon bounced away.

Dropping the gory torso carelessly, he advanced on the unconscious or dead young man resting awkwardly on the front porch. Bloodlust consumed his every thought. An animalistic need burning inside to dominate and consume. Instinct overrode common sense.

This momentary loss of control allowed the remaining woman to slip past Basil. She sprinted away into the marshy forest surrounding the house. He grunted, frustrated at his lack of attention. The game was fun, but he wanted no loose ends. Avoiding discovery was paramount.

However, Basil could smell the blood leaking from the attacker he’d bashed. The urge to feast was too strong to deny. He stormed towards the dying man, lifting his body easily. One deep bite freed the delicious liquid quickly into Basil’s hungry mouth. He gulped it down as rapidly as it was given. The shooter’s body began to wither, skin greying and pulling tight against the bones. His eyes bulged out, the teeth in his mouth pulled back in a grimace, creating an almost comical appearance; some low rent funhouse mummy unwrapped.

Basil roared in triumph and ecstasy. His belly was round, full of sustenance. It’d been years since he felt this wonderful! Life itself ran through him, galloping through his dead veins like a derby horse. Maybe he would make the switch back to humans.

Time for the last. His nostrils flared, easily picking up the woman’s scent of sweat, enhanced by terror. Less than two miles away. Draining the fool with the gun had taken longer than he’d thought. The sun was still far enough off, which was a blessing.

Another item in his favor were options. Yes, there was a certain appeal to the chase. There was a lot to clean up here, though. Basil clicked his tongue, shaking his head as he rejected potential plans. No, there was only one option.

He bent, digging in the pockets of his victims. After a time he came up with his desired item. Carefully using one clawed finger, Basil tapped out a number on a cellular phone. It rang several times before a man picked up on the other end.

“Remember the favor you owe me?” Basil rasped. “Time to call in my marker, dear boy.”

******

Kate Marsted’s lungs were on fire. Her legs felt like lead. Never before had she run so hard, not even during the track meets that earned her a college scholarship. This was supposed to have gone smoothly, no hitches.

They’d grossly underestimated the creature. Even after studying hours of video footage collected via drone, the team hadn’t accounted for the sheer brutality the…well, vampire, exhibited. Good God, the bastard had torn two of them apart like they were paper dolls.

Gary, the team’s leader, had stumbled across the vampire while researching deer populations in the area. During a drone sweep, while he was counting a particularly large herd, he’d witnessed the grotesque figure sprint right through the middle of the animals, wrestle a deep chested eight point buck to the ground, and feed.

Immediately their minds moved into action. Keeping the discovery to themselves, the young people began to speculate the potential for science to finally prove a mythical creature as fact. Not to mention there were possible medical benefits to be had from the monster’s blood. They would be famous. More importantly, they would be wealthy.

Now, after witnessing the wholesale slaughter of three people, Kate wanted nothing more than to be studying the migratory patterns of swampland birds. This was too big a job for a handful of college kids, even if Gary was in the Army Reserve. Fuck, none of them had even considered if the guns and wooden stakes would even damage the creature. What had they been thinking?

The traffic sounds from the adjoining country road were music to her ears. She pushed herself to go harder, overjoyed at the thought of getting away. Kate burst from the flattened underbrush that marked the beginning of the old manor house’s driveway, panting like a dog in the middle of summer.

To her delighted surprise, a county police car rolled to a stop moments later. Behind the wheel sat Sheriff Moorland. He immediately got out. “What’s going on here? You know you’re not supposed to be out here, right?”

“Yes…” Kate struggled to catch a breath, bent over with exertion and trembling with the dregs of adrenaline. “Please….help….he…killed…”

“Who killed what?” Moorland asked sharply. His hand dropped the butt of his gun. “Take it easy, now, you’re safe.”

“No…we…need…to…go…now…”

“All right,” Moorland helped her over to his cruiser. “Let’s get into the car. We can talk at the station, okay?”

Kate nodded gratefully, allowing the officer to load her into the back seat. She flopped over, allowing exhaustion to overtake her. The big engine started and the car pulled away from the gravelly shoulder.

They were halfway down the lane before Kate realized they weren’t heading towards town.

“Hey!” She exclaimed, trying to sit up.

“Shut up,” Moorland growled. “Jesus Christ, what a mess you made.”

The patrol car sped recklessly down the dirt road, kicking up dust. Kate jostled around at every bump, struggling to not slam her head into the ceiling or doors. She clawed at the handle-less exits, cold fear kicking the vibrant hope at survival she’d felt moments ago out on its ass.

Skidding to a stop just behind Gary’s disabled van, Moorland beeped the horn twice and waited, knuckles white on the steering wheel. Sweat was running down his face. He chewed ceaselessly at his lower lip.

Basil appeared to the Sheriff’s left. His sudden emergence from the high grass made Moorland jump. The vampire grinned at his fright, indicating that the officer should roll his window down with a twirling hand gesture.

Moorland cracked the window. “I brought her, just like you asked. We’re even, right?”

“Yes, yes,” Basil smiled. “I cleaned up the…what did you call them? Hippies? Yes, hippies that were brewing drugs in this old house, now you return a lamb to me. I consider the debt paid.”

“Good!” Moorland exclaimed, voice girlishly high in his fright. “I’ll open the back door and you grab her, okay?”

“Very okay,” Basil said. “Oh, and I regret to inform you I’ll be leaving soon. I thank you for your hospitality. You’ve been more than kind.”

“Sure, sure.”

Kate heard the locks disengage to her left and right. She tried to push them open, wanting to at least make an attempt at escape. Nothing happened until Basil opened the door and yanked her out into the night screaming.

He held her up by one ankle, waving a good-bye to the Sheriff. Moorland gave a curt salute, reversing so fast the cruiser almost went into the tall vegetation bracketing the rough driveway. The vampire howled laughter.

“Now my little one,” Basil whispered, lifting Kate so that her femoral artery was at his lips. “One last snack before bedtime.”

Pigment

“A sleep study is just what you need,” Dr. Bell told the exhausted looking young man sitting on his exam table. “I think it will be the best way to tell us why you’re not sleeping well.

“Are you sure?” Eric asked. His eyelids felt so heavy that it was a struggle to keep them open. “That’s what you said about the blood work, urine screening, and the oxygen measurement device, which cost me an arm and a leg!”

“It’s the next logical step. Nothing has showed up on the other tests. The O2 meter showed a slight decrease in oxygen, but nothing too terrible. The sleeping pills I prescribed obviously aren’t working. It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.”

“I know, I know. I’m just really tired and really fed up with being poked.”

Dr. Bell patted Eric on the shoulder. “This should show us what’s going on when you’re actually getting to sleep. I wanted to get a study done in the first place, but the insurance company made us jump through other hoops before they’d approve it.”

Eric nodded, resigned to the procedure. Judging from the pictures he’d found on Google of what exactly the process was, it wasn’t going to be fun. However, if it could reveal why he’d quit recharging while sleeping, then the whole mess would be worth it.

He made the proper arrangements with the front desk, scheduling the sleep study for the following night. That done, he slowly walked to the bus stop. The five minute stroll felt like miles. His muscles wobbled with fatigue.

The illness had nearly pushed Eric to his breaking point. Nearly a month had gone by since he’d began waking up each morning feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. It wasn’t really an issue of going to bed and staying asleep. That all happened just fine. Actually feeling restored was the problem. Every aspect of his life was slowly going to ruin. If the study didn’t reveal the source, Eric was probably going to end up being admitted to the hospital.

While waiting for the bus, despite being alone at the stop, he felt anxiety overtake him. Eric felt like he was going to be mugged any second. His eyes darted about, trying to find the source of his paranoia. He shook uncontrollably as adrenaline dumped into his system.

The bus squeaked to a stop. Eric quickly rushed onboard and found an empty seat. His uneasiness lingered, though the intensity was significantly dialed down. He stared out the window at the passing city, blinking sleepily as the rumbling warmth of the large vehicle made him nod off.

A deep pothole jolted him awake. He opened his eyes to a smooth faced, slit mouthed man in a black Australian campaign hat. Tiny nostrils sat under a skinny, triangular nose. The fellow had irises so light a shade of blue that they nearly blended into the sclera.

Eric screamed out loud, recoiling from his window and nearly tumbling into the isle. A quick supporting hand from the passenger sitting opposite prevented it.

“Whoa! You okay?” Called the driver.

“Yeah!” Eric said too loudly. He looked at the fellow rider who’d prevented a potential injury; a sturdy Latino man in a leather Cubs jacket and matching hat. “Thanks for your help. Saved me from a nasty bump.”

“No problem. You sure you’re all right?” The Cubs fan asked. His friendly face showed clear concern. “You need a doctor?”

“I’m okay,” Eric tried to smile. “I fell asleep and had a nightmare or something. I feel like a dummy, but that’s all it was, honest.”

The Hispanic man looked doubtful. “I really don’t think that’s all it was, but I won’t bug you about it. There’s a good clinic at the next stop. I’m an accountant there. I know, I know, you don’t need a doc, but….”

He withdrew a business card with Hector Cortez, CPA printed neatly on it. “If you change your mind, call me. I’ll get you in quick.”

Touched almost to the point of tears, Eric took the card. “Thank you, Mr. Cortez. I’ll come in if I need to. I just want to get home and try to sleep at the moment.”

Still looking concerned, Hector shook his head. “Fine. At least you know where we are.”

The bus came to a stop. Eric shook Hector’s hand. “Thank you again.”

Fondly, he watched the kindhearted fellow exit the bus, joining the throng on the sidewalk. A small line was waiting to board. At the end of the queue, a tall figure stood, hunched into a billowing black overcoat. Curly white hair billowed from under his matching hat. The man’s face was pointed down, additionally obscured by the upturned collar of his coat.

An internal steel wire clenched around Eric’s guts. The man raised his face slightly, exposing it just enough to show those unsettling eyes. One hand raised in a wave.

“Oh no,” Eric whispered. “Please don’t let him on. Please, please, please!”

In a blink, the strange man vanished. Eric gawped in surprise. He couldn’t believe that the being was gone. In a way, it was more unsettling than actually seeing him. Hallucinating provided further evidence that his condition was driving him steadily towards insanity.

The remainder of his ride was thankfully uneventful. Eric trudged home from the stop, now too tired to think even muddled thoughts. He didn’t even bother getting his mail from the box in the lobby. All he wanted to do was crash. Eric’s limbs felt heavy. His vision was blurry. Just punching the elevator button to go up became a chore. It took an eternity for the car to arrive.

Finally, the doors slid open. He stumbled into it like a zombie, studying the toes of his sneakers once inside. There was vague awareness of another passenger, but he dismissed it. Lots of people lived in the building. Eric punched his floor and leaned against the wall.

“Tired?” A dragging, rusty voice rasped. “Poor Eric.”

He spun, coming face to face with the strange man. The being was grinning, or at least Eric thought he was grinning. Small, flat teeth were exposed and its lipless mouth was stretched wide. An odd smell of wet cardboard wafted off the humanoid.

“I’m here for you,” the pale man whispered. “I’ve come just for my Eric.”

His hands came up slowly. Eric screamed, flinging himself away from the stranger. He slammed painfully into the opposite side of the car. Rapidly, he pushed the “open door” button. The control panel blatted disapprovingly, not obeying the command.

“Don’t be so stubborn,” the being said disapprovingly. He placed a large, long fingered hand on Eric’s shoulder. “I picked you over everyone else. Feel proud, not afraid.”

“Picked me for what!!?” Eric nearly shrieked. “Who are you?”

“Some call me the Tall Man or the Hat Man, though names don’t really matter to me much.” He gave a low chuckle. “As for why I need you, let’s just say that you’re becoming aware of things you shouldn’t.”

That said, the grip on Eric’s shoulder tightened. The elevator car disappeared, replaced by a humid black room full of tall white haired men and women. Their distorted features were in various states of definition. Small, dark haired people in lab coats moved about the rows of taller beings, large palettes balanced on their forearms. They scraped goop off the boards with a small flat knife, then carefully applied the strange material to the faces of the taller humanoids.

“Come,” Eric’s personal escort gestured for him to follow. “Try not to look at them. It can be really unpleasant to see them before they’re complete.”

He tried to obey the suggestion. His eyes kept getting wider and wider each time they passed a column. The features of the beings near the back were much less defined. Noses were missing. Some had no hair or even eyes. The final row resembled artist’s models rather than anything humanoid. Despite their lack of senses, each turned towards Eric as he passed.

“What are you?” Eric asked in spite of his fear.

“Neighbors of humankind,” the tall man answered. “We live in the world a few doors down. You could call us observers, trying to figure out what makes humans tick.”

“Aliens?”

“To you. To us, you’re the aliens. You make us curious, so we make the occasional foray, either via sleep or physically, as I am able to do. Sometimes you see us, which requires more direct contact.”

The being stopped before a door. He waved a hand over a panel set in the wall beside it. With a whoosh of displaced air, it slid open. “Inside, please.”

Eric complied, intensely curious. Another dark room, only there was no one in it, just a large grey box. It was soundless, but he could feel the floor vibrating slightly. A man sized portal popped open, causing him to start.

“Go ahead, Eric,” the Tall Man encouraged kindly. “Join us. You’ll see things no other human being ever will and you’ll no longer have to worry about sleep.”

“Okay,” Eric walked forward, only hesitating slightly. “Will this hurt?”

“Not at all.”

Confidently, lulled by a lovely sound and soft white light emanating from the open door, Eric stepped in. The panel slammed shut behind him. Both the glow and musical noise stopped. Total darkness enveloped him.

Outside, the Tall Man stood with two of the small beings. One held a large bucket, ready under a thick metal pipe jutting from the cube’s side. The box issued a dull thump. Eric yelled out once in pain. There was a thud, followed by a loud grinding sound.

Pulpy skin toned paste flowed slowly out the spigot. The short being caught it in the container, hurrying it over to the other dwarf once the grating noise stopped. This second creature scooped a ladleful of Eric’s remains out and plopped it onto a white platter.

The Tall Man removed his cloak and hat, sitting down in a nearby chair. He was shirtless underneath. Pale skin, spotted with large pores, began just below the neckline. Wispy white hair grew in patches in between the fist sized indentations.

Working with a rounded blade, the small creature began applying the steaming matter onto the Tall Man’s face delicately. It was absorbed almost instantly.

“Build up my nose a bit,” the Tall Man requested. “If you please.”

Lancer

It was a scene out of a low budget horror movie. A ring of six men and women dressed in voluminous black robes stood around a young woman bound to a crude stone altar. The platform was made of three slabs of native rock that stood in a clearing carved out of a towering stand of pines. Six tall, white candles were positioned around the intended sacrifice’s spread eagle body. They dripped hot wax onto one of her manacled ankles from time to time, but the dopey expression on her face showed no pain or discomfort. Six torches provided illumination.

This particular group liked to do things in sixes. A shared belief was that anything which could be presented in increments of six pleased their perceived master. Each wore six silver rings and had identical walnut handled knives, the stainless steel blades six inches.

When planning this murder in the name of Satan, the group originally wanted to kidnap a six year old girl for the deed. The plan was aborted before it’d even really begun, due to the attention the police would turn to the abduction of a child. It could eventually expose the entire coven to the law, leading to public crucifixion.

In place of the child was the twenty-six year old escort before them now. Going by the unlikely screen name of “Lancer Dancer 2234,” she’d showed up at the impressively posh home of the leader, a defense attorney named Burton. It was clear from the get go that Lancer was an addict. She was scrawny, with deep black hollows under her cloudy blue eyes. Needle tracks scarred the crooks of both elbows. Her hair was badly dyed, thick with clumps of grease. The stink of defecation and poverty wafted through the heavy odor of discount store perfume.

Lancer downed the sedative laced drink offered in one quick gulp. Though her heavy drug abuse kept her from slipping into unconsciousness, it had reduced her to a twilight state of slurry moans. Easy for the group to bind and transport her to the place of sacrifice without struggle or protest.

Now the coven stood chanting. Accompanying them via a portable docking station was the thump of tribal drums. The music rose in intensity, reaching a crescendo at the same time as their ritual mantra. Each member slowly drew their honed knives, lofting them to cast dramatic shadows in the torchlight. Lancer’s eyes widened a little at the sight of them, but her lids were too heavy to do more than that. She recognized them as the likely agents of her demise, yet felt unconcerned. A quick death was preferred than the one she’d chosen though a dirty hypodermic.

Both the chanting and percussion stopped. Six blades plunged down into Lancer’s body. Blood spurted from the wounds. Ornate silver goblets hastily attempted to collect as much as possible before her heart quit pumping it so vigorously. The last sound she heard was the coven slurping up their prize. Willingly, she went into the darkness.

Lancer found herself walking out of the sheer black of death into a bright hallway. It smelled of antiseptic, like a hospital. Neat white square tiles went from floor to ceiling. A small diamond of red dotted the center of each. Doors were on both sides, each with a neat black name label. She walked slowly by them, wondering when she would find one with her name on it.

After what seemed to be an eternity of checking the doors, she stood in front of a solid white door with the label “Lauren Harrison, aka Lancer.” It opened before her. Cautiously Lancer entered. Pleasant lamplight glowed as she crossed the threshold, revealing a small, comfortably furnished apartment. It looked like a high class version of the last place she’d been happy; her first year of college, staying by herself in an off campus one bedroom.

An overstuffed recliner sat in front of a large television. Lancer flopped down it, rocking gently and smiling. If this was the afterlife, it wasn’t so bad, especially when all she’d expected was Hell.

She reached for the TV remote to see what was on. An envelope with her name on it sat on the small table beside the chair. Curious, she opened it. On elegant cream colored stationary, written in an equally elegant hand, was a simple message: “Don’t get too comfortable. You’re going to have company shortly.”

No sooner had she sat the letter down when a firm knock came at the door. Lancer opened it, wondering if it would be a friend or family member who’d passed on coming to visit. It wasn’t. A tall, thin man, dressed in a natty black suit with bright red ascot stood before her. He smelled of sandalwood and good aftershave. His head was entirely bald, gleaming under the soft light of the foyer.

“Should I call you Lauren or Lancer?” he said, flashing a brilliantly white smile of perfect teeth. He extended a strong, well-manicured hand to her in greeting. Lancer shook it, opening her mouth to answer his question.

“Doesn’t matter, “the man flapped his free hand in friendly dismissal. “I’m Wilhelm. I represent your…landlord. We have a job for you.”

Again, she attempted to speak. Wilhelm stepped past her into the apartment, effectively cutting her off again. “Nice place, huh? Much better than the rat hold you were living in on Earth, right?”

“Totally,” Lancer spoke earnestly. “I’m so grateful to, well, my landlord, I guess.”

“It’s not completely yours yet, my dear.” Wilhelm opened the large dual doors of the refrigerator wide. He pulled two bottles of orange soda, an all-time favorite of hers, opened them with a twist and handed one over to her. “Here you are. Dry as the desert around here.”

“What kind of job?” she asked suspiciously.

“You see, my employer hates to be misrepresented. The people who murdered you deem themselves worthy to call him Master, yet…they kill without thought, with no elegance. Slaughter should be with the purpose of bringing terror with it, am I correct?”

“I don’t know. I never thought about it, honestly.”

“No offense, my love, “Wilhelm drained his bottle of soda. It immediately refilled itself. “But you are what we call the lesser dead. One less junkie hooker on the street. The police don’t work too hard, your body rots in a pauper’s grave, the file grows dust in the cold case room.”

“My supervisor wants you to return to Earth, in a semi-solid form able to affect reality and destroy physical matter. You are to eliminate all six of your murders, as creatively as you can. Spread fear, make people afraid to leave their homes. Make them scuttle around the streets as they head to work. Cause reason to look over their shoulders as they load groceries into their cars.”

“I’ve never killed before,” Lancer considered what Wilhelm was saying. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Think on this,” he replied. “Those people took your life away. Yes, you were killing yourself slowly, but they took any choice out of your hands. They will do it again to someone else.”

Raw anger kindled a bonfire in Lancer’s heart. A moment of shame crept into her as she realized that she didn’t really give a shit if the bastards did it to someone else. All she wanted was to settle up with them. True, what she’d called her life had been crap. It’d been her life though. Who were they to decide for her when it ended?

“Okay,” she said quietly, looking up into Wilhelm’s grinning, handsome face. “I’m in. When do I do this?”

“Oh, there are forms to sign. We’ll discuss terms, of course. Once your name is on the dotted line, I snap my fingers and off you go.” Wilhelm produced a single sheet of thick linen parchment paper from an inside suit pocket. “The Boss pays rent, keeps the fridge stocked, and you don’t burn in the eternal fires of Hell. Instead you get his efficiency condo in the borderlands. Not exactly heaven, but a lot better than the alternative, am I right?”

“I’ve seen the movies, though,” Lancer said suspiciously. “There’s always a catch, right? So what is it?”

“No catch this time,” Wilhelm actually seemed to feel no surprise at this question. “No offense, but we have bigger fish to fry. Besides, the Boss likes to do the charity thing once in a while. Still trying to look good to Papa, even after all these years. Just in case attitudes upstairs change, you know?”

Lancer took her time looking over the document, turning it over and over in her hands. Trying to find some loophole that Wilhelm could exploit. It was straightforward though. Seemingly no catches. She signed the dotted line. He put the contract back into his pocket. They shook hands.

“Out the door and off you go!” Wilhelm exclaimed, too many teeth showing in a predatory grin. “Happy hunting.”

The apartment disappeared around them, taking Lancer’s visitor with it. She now stood in a large bedroom dominated by a massive four poster canopy bed. Three sleeping figures huddled under a thick duvet, one snoring softly.  A small dog lay on a blanket covered hope chest situated at the foot of the bed.

It was possibly the most elegant room she’d ever been it, but the antiques and plush carpet didn’t cover up the musky odor of fornication, a reek all too familiar to her. Lancer wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was a smell she’d never liked, something she’d hoped to never experience again.

The dog sat up suddenly, starting awake with a soft bark. It stared at the spot where Lancer stood, upper lip pulling back in a snarl. She did not hesitate, grabbing it by the nape of its neck and twisting it sharply in both hands. The snap of the vertebrae was louder than any noise the animal made in dying.

Her strength was a surprise. Even more surprising was the slight joy felt at killing the dog. It was a little shit owned by big shits. She wondered how it would feel to slay the people in the bed. First, she needed to make sure these were the right ones, though.

Evidence was abundant. The trio’s robes hung neatly on a corner rack, along with three matching pentagram medallions. Their daggers sat on a dressing table. The handles gleamed in the moonlight. Next to them stood a fat round container of disinfectant wipes.

Fresh anger exploded inside her. Lancer’s fingers sunk deep into the dog’s warm corpse, drawing blood as they plowed through the animal’s thin skin to the knuckle. She quickly walked to one side of the bed. Contempt filled her eyes at the fat, bald old man sleeping, mouth hanging open, drool dripping onto a thick pillow. It was disgusting. The snore was the cherry on this sickening sundae. She wanted to make it stop.

One hand grabbed the fat man’s jaw while her other began jamming the dog’s corpse, ass first, into his open mouth. He woke, attempting to pull away from the death grip on his face. It did no good. Lancer’s newfound power forced the dead animal down, dislocating the old man’s jaw in the process to accommodate the small body. He tried to scream, tried to flail about to release the hold, but the fuzzy toy poodle was blocking his airway. The old man died with the taste of blood and dog shampoo on his tongue.

The young man in the middle sat up slowly. “Grey? Grey, what’s wrong?”

Lancer snatched a handful of the boy’s shoulder length blonde hair. She twisted her fist in it, yanking him out from under the covers and slamming his slender body ribs first into one of the hard oak bedposts. It cracked loudly with the impact, breaking off the top portion to leave a jagged stump.

Still grasping his hair, Lancer pulled the little maggot to his feet. Blood was running from his mouth. He swung wildly at her. His blows glanced off, resulting in a series of barely felt soft thuds. She reached down with her free hand to grasp his genitals. Cords stood out in her forearm as she squeezed. The boy screamed, a high pitched undulating wail of sheer agony. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

With one powerful movement, Lancer lifted him over her head. She laughed aloud. This was fucking awesome! With a flourish, she slammed him onto the points of the broken bedpost. The final bedmate shrieked, finally sitting up from her obviously drugged sleep to see the young man briefly impaled before his weight sent both post and fresh corpse crashing to the floor.

The woman, middle aged and surgically altered, cowered with the thick bedspread pulled up to her mouth. Muffled sounds, half scream, half moan, came from her. What appeared to be implanted basketballs heaved rapidly under the blanket. Her eyes flicked over to the trio of daggers sitting on the dressing table. She lunged for the end of the bed, coming up short and doing a scrambling wiggle to the chest.

Giggling at the terrified woman’s awkward moves, Lancer waited until the bitch stood, then rushed her. A powerful shove sent the woman into a large window. Glass cracked, yet did not break.  Backing up to get a running start, Lancer tried again. This time the bimbo simply exploded out the window. Multitudes of small cuts covered the woman’s body. She seemed to hang in midair for a moment, waving her bleeding arms and legs frantically, then dropped to the stone patio beneath the window with a sick thud.

In the afterglow of her outburst of ultraviolence, Lancer realized she should have kept one of them alive long enough to learn the location of the last three cultists. Crap. Too late now. Maybe there was an address book in the dressing table or something. If that would even help. She seriously doubted that the other member’s names were earmarked with a special symbol.

The world around her began to fade in a red twinkle. Lancer was briefly alarmed, then relaxed as a whiff of Wilhelm’s strong aftershave followed the light. It seemed her benefactor’s agent was acting as a personal bloodhound.

Winking out as suddenly as it appeared, the red glow faded to reveal a dirty living room. A large trash can sat near a couch obviously scavenged from a dumpster. The can was full of beer cans and fast food bags. A half-eaten pizza, cold and greasy, sat surrounded on a coffee table by discount rate liquor bottles, most empty. It reminded Lancer of being hired out to do frat parties. She shook her head in angry disgust. Filthy little children. Kicking them off the planet would be a favor to society.

A high pitched whistle caught Lancer’s attention. A lump lay in front of the couch, wrapped in a dirty woolen blanket. Each exhale wafted out sour booze fumes. She took a careful step over to investigate. Near the tangled mass of curly, long brown hair lay the boy’s belt and dagger. Beside the unsheathed knife was a plastic cutting board laden with a half-eaten block of cheese. A large orange cat was nibbling on the corner, looking to where the ethereal girl stood with disinterest.

Lancer examined the scene, then reached down and picked up one of the weapons that had ended her life. It wasn’t nicely cared for. A thin patina of rust spotted the blade. Crusty yellow imitation dairy product stuck to the edges. Oh well, she shrugged, reversing the dagger point down. It would serve her purpose well enough.

She grabbed a corner of the blanket and flicked it away like a magician. Simultaneously, Lancer drove the knife down into the exposed side of the cultist’s throat. It rammed through to the hilt, tip sinking down into the hardwood floor. The boy’s eyes shot open. A low gurgling sound came forth, bringing with it a bubble of blood.  He groped for the handle, pulling the weapon halfway out in the process.

A full minute later, the kid’s hand fell away. His head rebounded dully off the floor before it became still. Lancer nodded to herself. Dodging the piles of dirty laundry and overflowing black trash bags, she walked down the short hallway. Two closed doors to either side, a bathroom, lit by a dim bulb over the water spotted mirror, lay at the end. She sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t have to go in there. The nasty den was bad enough. Even though her form wasn’t exactly solid, walking on what was sure to be a pee covered floor still grossed her out.

The door on the right held nothing. Probably belonged the kid she’d already aced. Inside the other room was more dirty clothing and a queen sized bed holding three sleeping bodies.

For crying out loud! Lancer thought, exasperated. Does everyone in this cult dig threesomes or what?

Two heads of dyed hair, both the odd shade of blonde associated with discount store coloring products and inexperience, poked out on opposite sides of a young man with long black hair. The room smelled bad. A combo of old pizza, sex, and malt liquor. Eau de class, to be sure. At least the kid’s robe was clearly visible, hanging on a plastic hook glued to the wall. It appeared to be the only thing in the room that was tidy.

Annoyed and uncertain, Lancer stood, trying to work out how to remove the guy without waking the two girls. She wanted to avoid waking them up. Screaming might bring others, keeping her from finishing the job.  The conundrum was solved as Wilhelm’s voice spoke up in her head.

“Fuck it!” he exclaimed. “Let them see! Let the two sluts spread it around the campus and the internet! The end result will be marvelous!”

She grabbed the cultist by the ankles and ripped the little shithead from his bed. One quick change of direction slammed him ass first into the wall. He struck a stud dead center. His ass made nearly perfect craters in the drywall to either side of it. The two girls sat up, still half drunk. They were totally unaware of what was happening. One let out a shrill giggle.

Lancer allowed the boy to get to his feet. He stood half hunched over, clutching his injured gooch. She jabbed a thumb deep into his eye, feeling the wet hollow touch the top of her hand as it jammed all the way in. He slapped a hand to it, bellowing out in pain. The bitch who’d found this situation humorous a moment ago let out a soft shriek.

Next came the right ear. Lancer ripped it free of the skull, slightly surprised that it came completely off like plastic ones that had come with her old Mr. Potato Head doll. She looked at it for a moment, noting with disgust a large glop of wax in the inner lobe. With a spastic motion borne of sheer ick, Lancer flung it into the face of one of the girls. Both screamed in unison.

Meanwhile, the kid was stumbling around, hands clasped to the bleeding holes in his head. Lancer forked two fingers into each of the bastard’s nostrils and yanked upward. A red, gaping hole now replaced where the nose should’ve been. He wailed in pain, trying to cover all of the wounds at once.

Gripping his wrists to prevent him from hiding the damage, Lancer whipped him about so that the bitches could see what she’d done. They went a shade of white. One fainted. The other slid down under the duvet to shield her from the gruesome scene.

One final touch. Lancer thought. She released her grip and took a new one on his neck. With a deep grunt of effort, bones broke and muscle twisted apart. The tough, fibrous tissue shredded as the cultist’s head was turned completely around backwards.

The world faded out around her in a crimson fog as the body dropped to the floor.

“Bravo!” Wilhelm cried out in her head. “Now, cut the head off this snake and come home!”

Lancer found herself staring at a middle aged woman sleeping in a battered recliner. Her robe was draped over a body made obese with indulgence. A yellow set of dentures sat in a filmy glass on an end table covered with dust and old paperbacks, most bloated with water damage.

It was a bit of a shock. She’d expected the leader of a cult to live in a grand home, much like or even better than the first three. This home was crammed full of boxes filled up with junk. Old magazines, newspapers, even stacks of catalogs from decades past dominated every inch. The stink was incredible, even worse than the college kid’s apartment. Several cat boxes in desperate need of cleaning were lined up against one wall. Half-eaten food on dirty plates were everywhere.

The old bitch didn’t even seem to register Lancer’s presence. She was focused on a reality show. One hand, fingers plump as sausages, held a string of black rosary beads that ended in an inverted cross. She toyed with it as the people on TV climbed a wall adorned with Tiki masks.

Disgust, hate, the need to destroy this phony, coursed together into a raging, boiling stew inside of Lancer. Cheap ass fucking fake. She took one step forward, driving a kick into the cult leader’s face. The woman squawked like a pigeon chased away from a scrap of hot dog. Blood seeped out of her squashed nose.

Channeling up all the knowledge learned from staying up too late and watching karate movies on the local channel, Lancer wound up a second kick. Her shin connected with the esteemed honcho’s mouth, resulting in a shattered jawbone. A muffled cry of pain began to sound from the old bitch. She tumbled over onto the floor, flopping onto her stomach like a beached whale.

Lancer shrieked laughter. She jumped onto the slag’s back. There was a loud woof as the air was knocked from her victim. It made her laugh even harder. It also made her curious about what other sounds the bitch might make if she was used like a trampoline.

Let’s find out!

Stomp one resulted in a pair of sharp cracks accompanied by a groan. Two gave Lancer further snaps, followed up with a wet gurgle that occurred at the same time as a liquid pop. She shifted her feet a little, feeling where her efforts had pushed bone into some organ or another.

The old woman coughed, bringing up a wad of bloody mucus. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps. Lancer stepped off the hag’s back, deliberately mashing one spidery hand in the process. She witch didn’t have long left.

Working her way up from the hand, Lancer proceeded to crush bones up from the forearm, to the upper arm, to the back, down the spine. With both feet she pulverized the filthy old crone’s pelvis. By this time, the witch was dead, but it was such fun grinding her old bones into dust! Lancer could feel Wilhelm’s satisfaction, like a warm blanket straight from the dryer. If he enjoyed this, he was going to absolutely love the coup de grace!

Lancer grasped the corpse’s ankles. She turned them, twisted the legs from their joints. Blood sprayed, ligaments tore. Yellow fat poured from the wounds. Lancer threw them into the dead fireplace. Old, neglected brick shattered into red dust.

The cerise cloud melded into Wilhelm’s teleporting mist. She found herself standing before her benefactor, back in the cozy little nook Lancer would spend eternity in. Her task was done. Now it was time to relax and live an afterlife in comfort.

“Bravo!” Wilhelm applauded. “What an astounding job! Fantastic enthusiasm for your first job, my love! What a catch you are! What a team we’ll make!”

“What are you talking about?” Lancer asked, taking a step back from the grinning, well-dressed man. “I was only supposed to perform the one job, right? It’s what was in the contract.”

“Consider this an extension.”

“No. You promised!” Lancer shook her head violently, raising both hands. “I want you to get out of here and leave me alone!”

“You bitch!” Wilhelm roared. He lifted her bodily by gripping her shoulders, shaking her like a rag doll. “You tell me to leave!!?? You tell me what’s in the contract!!??”

Throwing her aside to crumple against one wall, he yanked the fine parchment from inside his coat. “Read the fine print, whore.”

Lancer’s horrified eyes picked out the line “In the event of excellent performance, the agent reserves the right to assign more tasks to the signee. The signee cannot refuse those tasks given to her because SIGNING THE DOTTED LINE MEANS YOUR ASS IS MINE, SLUT!

“That’s right,” Wilhelm’s smile radiated vile good cheer. “I can do with you as I wish, so if Wilhelm says go kill, you go kill, got it, bitch?”

Her mouth worked. No sound would come out, save for a low rapid croaking.

“Refusal equals forfeiture of your lovely little flat. You go down in the pit with the rest of the sinners, dig?”

Lancer began weeping, unable to think of anything else to do. Had she really felt that signing that stupid piece of paper and trusting another slick talking man would keep her from avoiding her final fate?

“Now,” Wilhelm rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Let’s do something to turn that frown upside down.”

He withdrew an elegant silver knife and sliced into his palm. Wilhelm placed his hand over Lancer’s mouth. He pinched her nose shut, forcing her to open her lips. Sour blood dripped down her throat.

Fire ripped through her veins into her heart. Intense pain corkscrewed into Lancer’s bones, feeling them elongate and grow. Skin split, replaced with scaly plates covered in thick, brown hair. Her teeth dropped out. Large twisted horns burst from her skull. Lancer’s lower jaw widened. Sharp yellowed fangs sprouted from her bloodied gums.

After an eternity, the pain subsided. So did her terror at being this obvious demon’s personal murderer. Lancer stood on feet that had morphed into cloven hooves. She towered a full head and shoulders over Wilhelm, who was holding up a mirror to show her what she’d become.

Reflected in the glass was a powerfully built goat headed beast. Corse fur covered her entire body. Bright green eyes, their irises so luminescent they glowed.

“Well, my love,” Wilhelm asked. “What do you think of the new you?”

“I’m beautiful.” Lancer growled, stroking her new face with a three fingered, talon-tipped hand. “I’m so beautiful.”

About the Author

Jeremy Seals was born, raised, and still lives in Ohio with his wife and three furry children. Previously he has self-published a collection of short stories available through Amazon titled Trauma and has been published in issue 41 of Sanitarium magazine.