The Horror Collection: Turquoise Edition
Author: Graham Masterton; Candace Nola; Tom Deady; S. E. England; Greg F. Gifune; Steve Stred; Daemon Manx; Mark Towse; Callum Pearce
Date: 2024-01-28 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror
Description: Book 18 in The Horror Collection series.

The Horror Collection

Turquoise Edition

KJK Publishing

The Horror Collection: Turquoise Edition © 2023 Kevin J. Kennedy

Edited by Ann Keeran & Kevin J. Kennedy

Cover design by Michael Bray

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Printing, 2024

Other Books by KJK Publishing

Collections

Dark Thoughts

Vampiro and Other Strange Tales of the Macabre

Merry Fuckin’ Christmas and Other Yuletide Shit!

The A to Z of Horror

Anthologies

Collected Christmas Horror Shorts

Collected Easter Horror Shorts

Collected Halloween Horror Shorts

Collected Christmas Horror Shorts 2

Collected Christmas Horror Shorts 3

The Best of Indie Horror

The Best of Indie Horror Christmas Edition

100 Word Horrors

100 Word Horrors 2

100 Word Horrors 3

100 Word Horrors 4

Carnival of Horror
Inside the Indie Horror World

Vampires

The Horror Collection: Gold Edition

The Horror Collection: Black Edition

The Horror Collection: Purple Edition

The Horror Collection: White Edition

The Horror Collection: Silver Edition

The Horror Collection: Pink Edition

The Horror Collection: Emerald Edition

The Horror Collection: Pumpkin Edition

The Horror Collection: Yellow Edition

The Horror Collection: Ruby Edition

The Horror Collection: Extreme Edition

The Horror Collection: Nightmare Edition

The Horror Collection: Sapphire Edition

The Horror Collection: The Lost Edition

The Horror Collection: LGBTQIA+ Edition

The Horror Collection: Monster Edition

The Horror Collection: Sci-Fi Edition

Novels and Novellas

Pandemonium by J.C. Michael

You Only Get One Shot by Kevin J. Kennedy & J.C. Michael

Screechers by Kevin J. Kennedy & Christina Bergling

Stitches by Steven Stacy & Kevin J. Kennedy

Halloween Land by Kevin J. Kennedy

Dedication

I’d like to dedicate this one to all the indie authors out there who are working hard to keep us in new stories. Author life isn’t an easy one, but it is a passion. Most authors don’t earn enough to make it their full time living but the brave ones keep at it anyway. Some are lucky and can eventually quite their day job and others always keep it as a second job, but it only shows their dedication. Tell your favourite authors you love their work. Drop a review somewhere for them. It will mean more to them that you can imagine.

Kev

Table of Contents

On Site
by

Steve Stred

Music Box Dancer

By

Candace Nola

A Grim Fairytale

By

Callum Pearce

The World Turned Red

By

Daemon Manx
iBola

By

DE McCluskey

3am and Wide Awake

By

Sarah E. England

Definitely Not Haunted

By

Ashley Lister

Beans for Supper

By

Tom Deady

Snow Angels

By

Greg F. Gifune

What the Dark Does

By

Graham Masterton

A Sense of Belonging

By

Mark Towse

Down, Bitch

By

Richard Clive

On Site
by

Steve Stred

“Camera rolling,” Eric said, as he tapped the record button on his phone and worked the filters with his fingers as he followed his girlfriend, Jenna.

“Hey, I can’t believe we’re actually here! You know how much I’ve been hyping this up on my Youtube channel, but now…” she did a 360, Eric subtly zooming in on her ass as she twirled already thinking of the comment section and the time stamps, “we’re here, at the actual site where they filmed Cabin Bound. As you know, this is my favorite movie of ALL time. Released in 1993, it featured a young Stig Hauser opposite an even younger Debra Mannering in her first role. She’d go on to play Lady Renegrade in all the blockbuster Marvel movies fifteen years later, but it was this, her first role – and the only one where she ever got topless – that has created a cult following. Join me, Jenna Jams – YOUTUBE personality – as we visit the filming sites and share some trivia! Make sure you slam that like button and hit subscribe!”

She smiled at the camera, bent at her knees, and pushed her arms together just enough to offer a hint of cleavage before Eric hit the record button again to stop it and said ‘CUT!’

He honestly didn’t need to say the words, it was just the two of them filming the content, it always had been (even for her Only Fans page, which she was still surprised that her three million Youtube subscribers hadn’t uncovered yet), and his editing work was remarkable, considering it was done completely on his phone.

“Eric, I can’t believe we’re actually here!”

“I know, babe. I’m excited for real. Like, they said they didn’t give access to the site anymore, but all I had to do was drop your name in the email and bingo bango, ACCESS GRANTED!”

She laughed, jogged over, and gave him a hug. She could feel his bulge when he pulled her against him, but she pushed him back.

“Not right now, tiger, ok? We can take some pics and film something later, but right now, let’s stay focused. We have limited daylight left.”

“Are we really gonna sleep in the car tonight?” he asked, his voice becoming a whine.

“There’s no chance I’m sleeping in a tent out here. Look at how creepy this forest is? And the remains of the cabin? Fuck that. I ain’t sleeping anywhere near that!”

He nodded, knowing there was no chance of changing her mind.

“Ok, so, what do you want to film before we run out of light?” he asked.

“I think we should get two longer sections done. One on the run-down cabin they used and a video on the cabin model they built but left behind. Tomorrow, we’ll go out to the beach where Dawn got topless and to the flat stone where she was sacrificed at the end of the movie.”

“You gonna change your top? Or we gonna make this into one longer video?”

Jenna hadn’t even considered that. She’d just been so excited to finally make it out to where they filmed her favorite movie.

“Let’s do two parts. Day one and day two. We can split them into four videos if you think we have enough quality footage. That work?”

“Sure, it’s your channel, babe.”

“Don’t be like that,” she said, playfully punching his shoulder. “You’re the only reason people even get to watch my videos. I’ve said it plenty of times that you should be in the shots too.”

“Nope. 78% of your subscribers are male and between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six. If they found out you were seeing someone, especially a skinny, dweeb like me, I’d estimate you would lose 90% of them. That’s too big of a hit. You’d lose a lot of cash.”

“I love it when you get all geeky,” she said, squeezing his face before kissing him hard. “Let’s go film something, ok?”

*

The first bit went off without a hitch. They only had to re-film two sections. The first was when Eric had moved around her too far and their car came into view behind Jenna. They stopped and he jogged over, backing it up fifty feet until it was out of sight. They could never be too careful. Jenna was young, attractive and had a massive following and that meant her fair share of creeps and weirdo’s. They needed to take as many precautions as they could to prevent that particular group from discovering where she lived. Even the smallest clues could be mined online to track her down.

The second was when Jenna was showing how the camera crew had used an old rock beside the rotting remains of the real cabin. The rock had been used to get the exact angle for a key shot in the film. While doing this, she’d slipped and fell to the ground. Her and Eric had burst out laughing. Once she made sure she was ok, she hopped back up and they re-filmed it.

“We can use that in a bloopers reel on Instagram,” Eric said, chuckling.

“Yeah, yeah. At least my boobs didn’t pop out like when we were filming that inflatable water slide video,” she said, which prompted more laughter.

“Ok, so next, let’s head over to the cabin they left here. It should give us some great angles and I’d love for you to discuss how the director said in that interview that this was when some weird shit happened. What was it he said again?”

“You don’t remember?” she asked, flabbergasted. “I’ve only told you like a million times.”

“I know, I know, but my minds on how I want to film this.”

“Director Aaron Sodergren said that on day five of filming, his lighting guy felt something rub his arm in the woods when he went to take a piss. They all made fun of him. But later on, the lighting guy developed an enormous rash on his forearm, to the point that he needed to seek medical attention and he ended up having his arm amputated. The very next day, Andy Carlos, the guy who was in the zombie creature suit said he felt something ‘enter’ into his brain and begin to subliminally tell him to attack his co-workers. He actually grabbed a prop axe and attacked Stig Hauser. Hauser, as you may know, was a former Mr. Muscles winner and easily subdued Andy. The police came and Andy was deemed, at trial, to be mentally incompetent and was admitted to a long-term psychiatric facility. He lived there until he died just two years ago. It was reported by the nurses who cared for him, that he would frequently shake and mutter about the thing in the woods that grew inside of him.”

“Jesssssuuusss Christ, Jenna,” Eric said, all the color having left his face. “Why didn’t you tell this to me earlier, so I could’ve, I don’t know, NOT COME,” Eric said, trying to laugh, but did a pretty unconvincing job.

“Oh, please. You knew what you were in for.”

They made the short hike down the path and stopped when the remains of the cabin they had used for filming came into view. A further five hundred meters down the path and they’d end up at the sacrificial rock and past that would be the lake. The location scouts had done a phenomenal job of finding this place for filming. Not only had it fit the script perfectly, but it had allowed them to use a significant amount of natural lighting and pre-existing landscape as set pieces. No way could this have been replicated on a sound stage, at least that’s what Jenna believed.

“Can you believe how well this has remained?” she asked, taking a few steps towards the structure.

“Jenna, how about we film you walking around this curve and then we’ll get the big reveal for the video. I think it’ll look sick and a double bonus, I can do some slo-mo on your ass in the walk up. We can use that for both the Youtube stuff and some IG reels. It’ll be perfect.”

“My tights are a light purple, as long as you can’t see any sweat coming through that’s fine,” she said, pulling them up so they cupped her ass cheeks and lifted them higher. It was a frequent way for women to get gratuitous Tik Tok views, and while Jenna thought it was ridiculous, more views meant more money flowing in.

“Nah, you’re good, babe.”

They walked back fifty feet before Eric said, ‘action’ and started filming. He stayed only ten feet back, panning up her legs, lingering on her butt and worked up to eventually framing her in the entire picture. When the structure came into view, he was now twenty feet back and was able to get the perfect shot of her re-enacting her surprise and joy at finding it within the woods.

“Friends, look at this! Wow! Can you believe it’s still standing!”

She took a couple short steps with extra bounce to showcase just how excited she truly was, before turning back to look at the camera. Eric was focused on getting the shot and at first didn’t notice her expression change as her eyes moved to something behind him.

“Did you see that?” she asked, pointing.

Eric turned, still filming, and zoomed in on the dense trees.

“No, what? Where am I supposed to be looking?”

He moved the screen back and forth, not finding anything that would line up with what had shocked Jenna so much.

“I’m sorry. It must’ve just been the way the light was hitting the trees. I could’ve sworn I saw something.”

“Think you’ve just spooked yourself,” Eric said, doing his best to not tease her. The last thing he needed or wanted was for the two of them to start bickering or even get into a fight. From experience, Jenna had no limitations on how far she was willing to go when yelling at him.

Wanting to move on and calm her a bit, Eric decided to continue with the footage.

“Ok, I can trim that last bit and we can use everything, up until when you start to turn. So, let’s get you looking over at the cabin. You can turn and continue from there. Sound good?”

Jenna agreed and took her mark.

“Action!”

She turned, keeping her eyes on the camera.

Good, Eric thought, don’t look behind me, don’t let the trees freak you out.

“So, here we are! The famous structure the cast and crew left behind when they were finished filming Cabin Bound. Now, a bit of easter egg trivia for you fans out there. If you pause the movie in two distinct spots – and what we’ll do for you guys here, is I’ll add the links in the time stamp below so you can easily leap to what I mean and come back over – you’ll discover the subtle odes to both the Evil Dead franchise, but also to Cabin Fever. Here, follow me,” Jenna said, jogging to the entrance of the structure. From the outside, a casual observer would’ve assumed that this was an old hunting cabin, that the interior would have walls and furniture and could be used to stay in for a prolonged period of time. But as Eric followed Jenna, and got closer, the interior came into view, showing that it was completely empty.

“Alright, so here we are, where in the movie, this would’ve been the kitchen. Notice here on the floors where we can still see the outline of the props they would’ve had for the stove, fridge, and counters. Even here on the walls you can see the holes that had held up the cupboards. So, right here, in Cabin Bound, Stig Hauser slams his bottle of beer on the countertop. The bottle broke, which frightened a lot of movie goers – an unintended jump scare – but if you recall, the beer within splashed high onto the roof. My camera person will show where they’ve etched in a mark here,” Eric craned the camera up and zoomed in, finding the scratched name on the roof, “that was used for the CGI where the roof distended down and grabbed onto Stig’s arm. And of course, Cabin Fever was directed by Eli Roth, which is why they used the simple word ‘ELI’ for the camera to find. As for the Evil Dead easter egg, come over here.”

Eric took his time, knowing that Jenna would be over at the next spot already, but he wanted to catch as much of the interior as he could. They had limited time until it was dark, and he knew subscribers and those who came across the clip would be irate in the comments if he didn’t do some due diligence while in here.

The roof was solid in the front half, the section that faced where they’d walked in, but the back half had large squares cut into the wood. These had been filled in with a plexiglass or similar material. It made sure the rain, snow, leaves, and other residue from above didn’t get inside, but made for a lot of usable, natural light. It was one of the main reasons so many cinephiles referenced Cabin Bound as one of the best lighted horror movies of all time. It certainly didn’t suffer from the ‘too-dark’ issues a lot of the newer horror films did. He continued along the roof, pausing on some green colored moss or mold, he wasn’t totally sure, before panning down and finding Jenna in a deep squat position on the other side of the room.

“Alright, so, this is the easter egg for The Evil Dead. If you remember in the movie, a trap door flies open. Well, let’s not forget about the clock, and as it is drawn, the clock stops ticking. So, when Aaron Sodergren was shooting the scene where Isabella Fuentes, the lady who appears in the trees and forces her way into the cabin, is decapitated by Stig Hauser, the shot is from below, looking up. Sodergren used this trap door here,” Jenna pulls a section of the wood floor, which pops open to expose a shallow hole in the dirt underneath. “The camera man essentially popped up out of here and filmed Isabella. She stood right about where my trusty camera person is standing now and was positioned in between Stig’s legs. This gave us a unique – and often copied – sequence. As for the clock, Stig threw Isabella into the wall over here,” she points to where the prop clock would’ve been, “and proceeded to bash her face into the glass pane. And then he says his memorable line, ‘I ain’t joining you,’ which of course played off the ‘join us’ line in The Evil Dead!”

Eric was smiling, watching as Jenna grew more and more excited. Her passion for this movie and this video they were filming was evident and he knew this would not only get a ton of views, but some of the little bits he’d piece together for promo would go viral. Maybe this would be her first one hundred million views video? He sure hoped so, she deserved it. She’d worked hard to leave an abusive family situation, go to school, get a job, and bust her ass to be the best version of herself she could be. A lot of people didn’t know how much she donated to charities and how many hours they both volunteered each week at the animal shelter.

“I think that’s it for inside,” she said, after discussing how they filmed the scene from the roof’s point of view. They’d hung the camera from a cord and slowly rotated it with a bungee cord. Then, once it was all the way around, they’d let go and the camera had spun around and around. It was a disorienting piece of footage, but the effect it had created and how they’d used it to showcase Stig’s possession before he went crazy and chased Debra into the woods was considered cinematic perfection.

“We’re running out of light. We should probably get back to the car and get some dinner going,” Eric said, leaving the structure. He stretched his arms high, twisted at the waist, before turning to look for Jenna.

“Jenna?” he called out, looking for her.

“Jen, where you at?”

He stepped back into the structure, not finding her where he’d left her by the trap door side of the room.

“Not funny! Where are you?”

“Eric, come check this out,” he heard her yell from behind the building.

“How? Is there a door?”

“Yeah, walk towards my voice,” she said.

He took a few tentative steps towards the back corner before he realized that the walls didn’t line up. One was set back about three feet, creating an optical illusion. It also offered a way out through the back.

“You see this? How cool is this?” Jenna said, when he stepped out to the back of the structure.

“I’d heard a rumor online that this was how the practical effect of Margaret disappearing through the wall had been filmed, but nobody had ever confirmed it existed!”

“It is pretty cool. Should we film it?” Eric asked.

“You know what,” Jenna said, “I don’t think we should. Let’s allude to it, but not actually show it. I kinda want this to be my – no our – little secret.”

“Well, how about we film you walking through the wall, and we can edit it to show it as an homage to that scene, but then not reveal it?”

“YES!”

She ran past him, back into the interior, which prompted him to follow.

Once in place, she looked back at the camera, walked out through the unseen opening, and disappeared from view. Eric had her walk back inside so that they could use the two versions for various promotional clips, before they decided they’d got all the footage they needed and began to walk back to the car.

***

“God, we got some good footage today,” Jenna said as Eric got the camping stove lit.

“We sure did. Wow, that place is really cool. I gotta admit, I was a bit skeptical about it, but you were right, this location is perfect. No wonder so many people rave about the movie.”

“See! See! And you always complain when I tell you how awesome it is,” Jenna replied.

“Nah, I’m just giving you a hard time,” Eric said, opening two cans of stew.

“You want me to give you a hard time,” Jenna said, reaching her arms around him to grab his crotch.

“Now, now, let’s eat first. I’m starving. Then we can have a little fun, ok?”

“Fine,” she said with a laugh, going back to sit on a camping chair they’d brought.

“Not gonna lie, really not looking forward to sleeping in the car tonight,” Eric said. He divided the stew into two bowls and handed one to Jenna, the other he set on the ground. He took a seat, sitting cross-legged, and greedily ate.

“I know. You already said that. You know what I’m not looking forward to?” Jenna said.

“What’s that?”

“Peeing in the woods.”

“Ha,” he laughed, almost dropping his bowl. “You don’t have to go in the woods. You could just pee right here. I won’t look. I could film though, if you wanted to branch out a bit…” he said with a sly smirk.

“I’m good, thanks,” she said. “And I’ve seen enough horror movies to know that if I go in the woods, I can’t go too far, or I’ll get lost, and something will get me.”

“Stay safe,” Eric said, returning his attention to his stew.

Jenna went around the car, deciding she was just going to pee behind it so that Eric wouldn’t see. They’d done a lot of freaky stuff together, but she simply couldn’t bring herself to pee in front of him. As she went to pull down her tights, she heard him cough and paused. He was too close. She would need to face her fears and go in the trees.

The woods surrounding where they had parked the car were dense, but surprisingly spread out once she stepped out of the cleared area and beneath the branches. The trees were old and tall, their branches long and covered the sky above fully. It gave the allusion that it was filled and thick, but in actuality, Jenna discovered she had plenty of space to do her business and didn’t even have to worry about dodging branches or having to climb over deadfall.

She found a little spot to squat only a few feet into the trees and pulled her tights down, before dropping into position. Jenna made sure to face in a way that the ground ran away from her and spread her feet as wide apart as she could in this position, not wanting to pee on her shoes. Just before she was about to release, a noise sounded, and she clenched.

“Eric?”

“Yeah?” he called back from where he still sat.

“You hear anything?”

“Nah.”

She suddenly swatted her free hand around her exposed ass, a sensation that something had grazed her skin overtaking her. She didn’t make contact with anything, though. Not caring that she still had her tights around her shins, she stood and looked around. Nothing. Just her and her bare ass standing in the trees.

Returning to a squatting position, she began to pee, pushing as hard as she could in the hopes that she would finish up fast and get back over with Eric.

Another graze, another swat. She looked behind her in both directions as far as she could without losing her balance, but still saw nothing.

Once she was done, she shook dry, annoyed that she hadn’t brought any toilet paper or anything to wipe with her, pulled up her tights and returned to Eric who was washing their dinner dishes.

“All good?” he asked when she came back over.

“Yeah. Just weirded myself out,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Well, don’t get too scared on me, I need you to protect me,” Eric said, rubbing her shoulder.

“Somebody’s gotta do it,” she replied.

“You wanna have a fire tonight? If so, we should get some wood gathered before we can’t find it in the dark.”

“Nah, let’s just get into the car and we can watch a movie of something. I’m actually pretty tired.”

“Sounds good,” he said, packing their cooking gear back into their camping box.

He opened the back door and let her climb in first, before he got in behind her. It was a hatchback style car that allowed them to lower the back seat and make a space that would allow them to sleep fairly comfortably. Eric hated it because it wasn’t very wide, sleeping across the car from door to door, so he had to sleep with his legs bent the entire night.

Once they were both in, he found the key fob for the car and hit the button to lock the doors and engage the alarm. He knew they were out in the middle of nowhere, but he certainly didn’t want to wake up in the middle of the night because some random person had come along and was breaking in.

Eric got situated and angled so that he could see the movie Jenna had already started on their mini projector they brought for trips like this. He was about to ask if she wanted to fool around when he realized she was already asleep, her soft snores making him smile.

“Fine then,” he said quietly to himself as he focused his attention on the comedy she’d put on. He didn’t last long either, joining Jenna in sleep within minutes.

***

Sometime during the night, Eric woke in a fog, feeling as though he was burning up. He had no idea where he was, until he saw Jenna sleeping beside him. He reached over and touched her forearm, finding it didn’t feel too warm or too cold. He touched his own forehead which was covered in sweat. His skin felt hot to the touch and when he licked his lips, his tongue felt thickened, and his lips bloated.

“Jenna,” he said, louder than he’d meant too, but feeling like he had no control over the volume of his voice.

She moaned but otherwise didn’t respond.

Eric began to say her name again, when an odd scraping sound began, as though something was crawling across the roof of the car. A sliver of a shadow changed shape that he only caught in the corner of his eye, but when he looked, there was nothing that would’ve created such a shift.

As his internal temperature began to rise, he stripped off his shirt, awkwardly peeled off his shorts and boxers and pulled back his sleeping back, the cool night air feeling divine across his sweat-dotted naked body. The air must’ve been the cure to his unexpected awakening, as his eyes grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep, even as the scraping increased, and a thicker shadow slid across the back windshield of the car.

***

In the morning, Eric woke and immediately brought his hands to his face, feeling for swollen lips and a sweaty forehead. When neither was found, he breathed out a sigh of relief and looked over at Jenna who was still sleeping.

“Jen, up and at ‘em, we gotta get filming.”

“Mmmmmm,” was the only reply he got.

He disarmed the car, opened the back door, and climbed out, happy that the mornings weren’t as cold as he’d expected. When he turned back to the car, he had to do a double take. Across the back of the roof, in a straight line, was a thick scratch. No, it wasn’t a single scratch. When he leaned in to investigate it and traced it with his fingers, he could see and feel where something had gone back and forth across the paint, all the way down to the metal body underneath. He hadn’t been dreaming. That had been an actual sound he’d heard. He looked around for any evidence of what might’ve caused it, but finding nothing, he returned to get Jenna up.

“Jenna, did you hear anything last night?”

“Besides you farting?” she replied, pulling her sleeping bag over her heard.

“No, I’m serious. I heard a scraping sound in the middle of the night and now this morning there’s a thick scratch across the roof of the car.”

“What?” she said, sounding completely awake. She hastily climbed out of the car but stopped and looked at Eric. “What’s this about?”

“Look at the roof,” he said, pointing.

“Why’re you naked?”

He looked down, surprising even himself that he was completely nude.

“I thought it was a dream. I heard the scraping. I was burning up, had a fever and my face and lips were swollen. I took my clothes off to cool down.”

She stared at him intently, as though to confirm he wasn’t messing with her. When she was convinced that he was telling the truth, she looked at the roof, her fingers tracing the thick scratch much like his had.

“What do you think did this?” she asked, looking around just like he had.

“Don’t know. Not sure what would cause this. It looks like someone sawed back and forth across it with a piece of metal.”

“You sure it wasn’t here before?”

“Jenna? Really?”

“Just asking.”

He reached in and found his bag, grabbing some clothes out and got dressed. Once he was done, he waited while she changed.

“Breakfast and get to it?” Jenna asked.

“Yeah,” Eric replied. “I’m just confused about that scratch.”

“Me too, but you know what? We got a few hours of filming and once done, we can head home. And you’ve been a trooper, so I’m thinking you deserve a nice reward later.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, biting her bottom lip.

“Sweet, I’ve been eyeballing a few PS5 games,” he said, drawing a playful smack from her.

They went about making some coffee and Eric got out the camping stove and whipped up some scrambled eggs. They’d brought some muffins as well, so he took one, cut it in half and handed it to her. They ate in silence, enjoying their food and coffee. Eric knew she was running what she wanted filmed through her head already. Eric was thinking about something else though. He was thinking about photosynthesis. About how warm the morning sun light felt on his skin. How the dew drops on the undergrowth would taste like heaven and how each blade of grass suggested infinite clean air and succulent fiber.

“Eric?”

“Huh, what? Sorry, I was distracted.”

“I’ll say, I said your name about a dozen times.”

“Sorry, daydreaming. What did you want?”

“I was asking you if we should go to the beach first and film there, then film at the sacrificial rock when we came back, or should we just film at the rock on the way out? What do you think?”

“Hmmm…” he said, running the scenarios through his head. “Let me ask you this, in the movie, Debra runs out of the water because Stig has gone crazy and tries to attack her underneath it, right?”

“Yeah, that’s right. The malevolent force has taken control of his body and brain and is out to sacrifice her to the woods.”

“Alright, so, are you planning on recreating that run out? If so, we’ll want to film at the rock first, otherwise you’ll be soaked, and it’ll look weird to film at the rock with you wearing your drenched clothes.”

“Oh, good call,” Jenna said.

They cleaned up their breakfast mess, double checked they had everything they needed and began to hike out to the sacrificial rock. This had been the location of the film’s finale, where Stig Hauser’s character had ripped Debra’s character limb from limb in honor of the force within the woods. The special effects had been both brilliant and ridiculous. Depending on his mood, Eric was either enthralled with what he was watching or would laugh until he cried at how bad it looked. Jenna didn’t care, she thought it was a fitting ending to her favorite film of all time.

On their way out, they stopped for a moment to revel once again at the original cabin as well as the structure the film crew had left behind. Leaving it felt oddly sorrowful, as though the two structures were sad to have these two, rare visitors continue past without stepping foot within. Eric found that today he could really smell the various woods that had been used to build it, as well as the mold in the crossbeams of the roof and the stale air that hovered just below it at the apex of the interior. He should’ve questioned why he could smell all of this, but instead Jenna called out to him, and he noticed she was already off down the trail.

“Keep up, what’s with you this morning?”

“I don’t know. Just feel strange.”

She took his hand, something they rarely did – for reasons they weren’t sure of, they just didn’t hold hands – and they walked towards the sacrificial rock together. Her hand felt warmer than he’d remembered her ever feeling, her aroma intoxicating. He could smell so much of her, could feel her energy moving into his bloodstream osmotically, as though their skin were conduits of positive and negative ions, and their synapses were firing in sync. His nostrils flared when he realized that the sweet smell now dancing in his nose was coming from between her legs and he longed to push her to the forest floor and lay between her legs, engulfing her sex with his entire mouth. Each individual taste bud on his tongue vibrated at the thought of exploring her hidden folds.

“Eric, for fuck sakes, what is going on?”

He looked at her, seeing she was angry and that she’d stepped back.

“Sorry? What?”

“You were squeezing my hand so tightly that your nails almost cut into my skin. Maybe we should just go back,” she said, turning in the opposite direction.

“No, stay. Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but let’s go get this footage and we can head back. Think the air out here is playing tricks with my mind.”

She only nodded, walking away from him towards the rock with enough speed to create distance between them.

He waited a moment, got out his phone and began to film her as she went, knowing this would be a great opening segment for this section. He zoomed in, framing her and the rock appearing over her shoulder when he noticed something odd. He kept the camera on her, but he looked at his fingernails.

All of them were dark green.

At first, he wondered if she’d somehow painted his nails and he’d not noticed, but on closer inspection he could see that it was his nail beds that were green and to his utter shock, the aroma of freshly cut grass was coming from them.

“What in the actual fuck,” he said to himself before he focused back on Jenna and hurried to catch up. She was waiting for him near the rock and when he got close enough, she began to speak for the camera.

“Here we are! Can you believe it! This is the actual sacrificial rock where Stig Hauser rips Debra apart in Cabin Bound. Now, if you remember, Stig’s character had tried to attack Debra at the beach. She runs here, only to be caught and killed. It made for one of the tenser moments ever filmed and rumor has it, some of the fake blood they used remains on the surface, as though it stained the rock.”

They walked around to where the camera crew would’ve been filming to take in the entirety of the flat rock. It was close to twenty feet across and almost made a perfect circle. Sure enough, long, red blotches were visible on the surface and when they saw this, Jenna let out an excited giggle.

“There they are! Can you believe this, friends!”

She jumped easily onto the rock and went to the middle. Once there, she lay flat on her back in the same place that Debra would’ve been when they filmed.

Seeing her in that spot was all Eric could take and something inside of him split open and roared.

Jenna looked at him with a devilish smile, not what he was expecting at all, and she got onto all fours.

“I can’t take this anymore,” he said, dropping his phone and stepping towards her. She put up a hand, which seemed to somehow work to stop him as he suddenly couldn’t move.

“You won’t have to. Now that its in you, it’ll work its way out soon enough,” she said. She stood and went over to him, taking him by the hand and guiding him back down the path.

Nothing made sense. She smelled like the world’s most beautiful bouquet, every single breath she took, every twitch of her muscle fibres moving, sent him into an orgasmic internal convulsion.

“Please, you need to stop, I’m burning up,” he said, breathing heavily. His skin was on fire, sweat was running down the sides of his face and soaking his shirt.

Jenna grabbed the bottom of his shirt and pulled it over his head, freeing him from the molten hot material. She knelt before him, pulling down first his shorts and then his boxers. When his erect penis popped free, he gasped in relief thinking she’d taken him in her mouth, but when he looked down, he was shocked to see a thin vine was growing from the opening at the end of it.

“What?”

“The forest has shared its secrets with me,” she whispered into his ear, as she skipped ahead of him. He looked at his cock once more before his eyes found her. When had she taken her clothes off? He didn’t care. All he knew was that whatever was growing within him wanted out and it wanted to plant its flora seeds in Jenna.

He raced after her, growing angrier and angrier with her wanton laughter.

“Please, baby, stop,” he called out, but still she ran on.

He tried to call to her again, but as he opened his mouth, pollen and dandelion fluff burst out, floating away in the air in front of his face.

Running, he saw they’d arrived back at the car.

The body of the car was wrapped in a thick tangle of roots and vines, the cause of the rooftop scratches now evident. Jenna was on the hood of the car, one finger beckoning for him to come to her. Her legs were spread wide, her blooming garden the only thing his green-tinged eyes could look at. With each step, he gained less and less ground, and when he looked, he saw that his feet were becoming rooted to the dirt below, as he transformed fully into a monstrous fungus of unknown origin.

As the roots that surrounded the car enveloped Jenna, his own breathing became strained, and the sepals from his head opened and he in honor of the entity that lived within these woods, he began to bloom.

The End

Music Box Dancer

By

Candace Nola

Tory stared silently at the corpse in front of her. It was foreign, the shell of someone she once knew, but empty now, devoid of life, of spirit, of love. Her mom lay before her in an ivory casket, lined with lilac silk and cream-colored pillows. Her once rich mahogany skin had a sickly gray hue. No amount of mortuary makeup could bring back the deep chocolate warmth of her mother’s flesh, the soft pink of her cheeks, or the red of her full lips. Her mother had been beautiful, elegant and classy, kind and soft-spoken.

There were those in the neighborhood that thought her mom put on airs, tried to act better than they thought she had a right to be, better than they were. Tory remembered her mother telling her one day to treat herself and others as she wanted to be treated. To accept others treating you as less than would create a lifelong pattern of Tory being made to feel less than, to accept less than what she rightfully deserved or earned.

Life was hard. Tessa made sure to tell Tory the facts. She protected her, but sugarcoated nothing. All we have in life is ourselves. Anything, and anyone else, is a blessing, but never a guarantee. Tory knew that to be a fact, even if she knew nothing else for certain. She had watched her mom scrape by for every cent they had, for every meal she put on the table.

Tory had never gone without, but she knew her mom had often missed meals so she could eat. Tessa had gone without proper coats in winter, so Tory was warm. Her mother sacrificed every single day for her daughter, and Tory had never seen her cry, had never heard her complain. Tessa Jones loved hard and was fierce in her duties as a mother and protector, and now she was dead.

Tory shifted on the hard wooden pew, sweat running down the small of her back. The tiny church was standing room only and the flimsy cardboard fans were doing nothing but shifting around hot air and body odor. Their family, friends, and neighborhood lookie-loos were all in attendance. Church ladies were dabbing their eyes with tissues while the ushers looked stoically on. The Pastor droned on and on about finding solace in the Lord and in each other. All Tory wanted to do was dance. It was the last thing she had done with her mom.

She wanted to go home, to wind the delicate key of her music box, and drift away to the tinkling melody it produced. The music box was old, a birthday gift from her mother when Tory was nine. Tessa found it in an old thrift store she had walked past one evening in the city. It was lovely. Tory had never seen something so beautiful, and to be told that it was hers, well, that just put her over the moon.

It was hand-carved wood that glowed in the dim light. There was a small drawer on the bottom with a rose pull-knob on it. The top opened to reveal a black velvet-lined box for her treasures, and a small dancer that popped up and twirled on a spring when the box was wound. The tulle tutu was frayed, the ribbon around the tiny waist faded pink, and the long brown hair was stringy, but Tory had loved it then and she loved it now.

She would spend hours watching the dancer twirl on her post, the melody haunting and hypnotizing her as she drifted away inside herself. She began mimicking the dancer, swaying, and twirling around her room on her tiptoes, mesmerized by the music, by the thought of being on stage, dancing for real. The thought was a pipe dream, Tory knew that. Her mother could not afford such things and even back then, Tory knew that Tessa would work herself to the bone trying to make it happen. She already worked so hard; Tory would not allow herself to ask for more.

The rare times Tessa had caught her dancing along to the music box she would simply watch, quiet and proud in the doorway as Tory twirled and dipped and spiraled around her small room. When the melody played out, Tessa would clap and yell ‘Bravo!’ just as if Tory was on stage. Those moments defined Tessa and Tory. Pure love between a mother and her child. Quiet strength and adoration. Tessa never once thought about the possibility of losing her mother. Not now, certainly not at thirteen. Yet, here she was, in the front pew of their tiny church, beside her distraught grandmother and her aunt.

Tory blinked when her aunt nudged her. The service had ended, and the ushers were wheeling the body of Tessa Jones down the narrow aisle. Tory dutifully followed behind her grandmother, barely noticing when her aunt stepped into line behind her. She let them guide her to the limo outside and slid inside, only grateful for the cold air that drenched her heated skin as she sat back.

Tory watched, numb, as Grandma Birdie blew her nose once more, while her aunt patted her hand. She looked away as the old woman began sobbing again. Tory refused to cry. Not here, not in front of them. She rarely cried at home, let alone in a car full of strangers. Relatives, sure, but they weren’t Tessa. Tory cried in her mother’s arms, not theirs. Tessa wasn’t here anymore. There would be no more crying for Tory. She turned her gaze out the window, the music box melody drifting through her mind.

When the limo pulled up to the gravesite, Tory slid from the leather seat, dreading the return to the hot sun once more, but she did it knowing the faster they got this over with, the faster she could go home. She followed the crowd of dress shoes and taupe nylons clad in clunky heels over to the faux grass carpet beneath the white tent. Baskets of flowers, roses and lilacs and lavender were everywhere, already set up by the funeral home attendants. She watched as the hearse pulled up and her mother’s casket was carried over and set into place.

Her heart hurt as the blanket of cream and lilac roses was placed on top of the gleaming ivory box. She felt the sweat dripping down her back and face. She tried to breathe as her heart picked up the pace, slamming against her chest. She felt her grandmother rubbing her back, and she flinched away from the heavy hand. It was too hot to be touched, too hot to think, to hurt, to breathe. White noise filled her brain with static. The world grayed, and she swayed, unsteady on her feet.

Just as her eyes fluttered closed, she caught sight of a dancer among the tombstones, faded tutu swirling in a haze of smoky gray, hair billowing out as she twirled, a faded pink ribbon around her waist. The dancer dipped and twirled behind statues and trees, then reappeared, smiling at her as the world faded to black.

When Tory opened her eyes again, she was laying across the cool back seat of the limo. Her aunt was gently patting her face with a cool towel.

“Tory, baby. Are you alright?” Aunt Franny asked. Worry was etched onto her pretty face.

Franny was Tessa’s younger sister, and she looked the most like her. Tory blinked several times as her vision cleared and the understanding dawned on her that it was not Tessa holding her, but her aunt. Tory struggled to sit up, to get away from her grasp. She didn’t want her hugging her. She wanted her mom.

“What happened? Where did she go?” Tory asked, twisting to peer out of the windows.

“Where did who go, honey?” Franny asked, trying to pull Tory back to her, but Tory shrugged her off.

“The dancer. Didn’t you see her?” Tory replied, ignoring the pounding in her head, still looking for the pretty dancer among the graves.

“What dancer? There’s no dancer, honey. You passed out. Probably just overheated.” Franny grabbed a bottle of water from a compartment that Tory hadn’t noticed and handed it to her.

“Here, drink this. You’ll feel better. We need to get you back out there so you can say goodbye. It’s almost over, Tory. I know it’s hard.” Her Aunt Franny spoke gently to her, like one might soothe a toddler. “Just need to get through this last part. Then we can go home.”

But Tory knew that was a lie. There was still the luncheon to get through. The endless line of chicken, pasta, cake, and grievers. She knew how it worked. Tessa had taken her to funerals before. She had even helped serve the food at a couple of funeral luncheons for the church. She always felt so horrible for the family, plastering on fake smiles as people approached to hug and cry and be counted amongst the family and friends that had come to support.

It was all so fake to her, so orchestrated. The hushed whispers, the talk of what really happened to Junior or Big Teddy. When it was all over, the family was left alone, to carry out trays of food, to thank the workers, to go home to dark, empty houses as the world around them grew more silent, day by day. Society forgot them. Family forgot them. Their friends forgot. The mourners were left alone with their sorrow. Quietly left to die alone; every day, dying inside, decaying from loss, and hurt and anger, and hopelessness. Lost.

Tory followed her aunt to the graveside. All eyes watching her, whispers filling the tent, crawling across her skin like spiders. She kept her eyes downcast as she approached the casket, already positioned over the freshly dug hole. Her aunt prodded her, and she stepped forward to pull a single rose from the blanket draped over the coffin. The pastor began to speak in his solemn voice once more, then the gears began to lower Tessa Jones into the ground. Tory’s eyes filled with tears as the music box melody played in her mind. Across the cemetery, the dancer spun and twirled among dead roses and gray headstones. Tory only stared, silent, as her mother was laid to rest.

***

By the time Tory got home, she wanted nothing more to do with people at all. She went to her room and just sat on her bed, staring at the music box. The last conversation she had with her mom played in her mind. That final evening, before pulling an extra shift at the hospital, she had caught Tory dancing. She stood there watching and applauding as usual, while Tory giggled at their routine. Tory knew she was too old to still be dancing around her room, but it was their thing. One of their only things, and this time Tessa had joined her. She stepped into the room, wound the box once more, then took Tory by the hand and led her through the dance.

Tory thought she was beautiful that night. Her wide smile, her gleaming white teeth, and sparkling eyes in the warm amber light of Tory’s room. They dipped and twirled and giggled as the dancer watched from her perch, her arms extended in an eternal pirouette, forever on pointe. When they were done, Tessa had gently closed the box and sat with Tory on the edge of her bed for a minute, pulling her into one of those hugs that only a mom can give.

“You know baby, whenever you need me, you just come tell the dancer. Whisper your dreams to her and she will tell me. Wherever I am, the dancer will find me, and I’ll know. I’ll whisper back and when you wind the box again, you’ll hear me in the music, and you’ll know it’ll be alright.”

“Mom. I’m too old for fairy tales now.” Tory had giggled, but loving how her mom still told her the same story about the box. “I don’t believe any of that stuff anymore.”

“It’s true.” Tessa had said, sitting up and brushing Tory’s braids away from her face. “The old lady at the shop told me so. It’s a magic box and the dancer can hear your wishes and your dreams. If you tell her, she will answer. You’ll always find me in the music.”

Tory had only laughed and hugged Tessa before she went to stand up.

“I love you, mom. I have everything I need right here. I have you and I have the dancer.”

“That’s my girl.” Tessa replied. “I gotta go. Miss Jackie is right next door if you need her. The pizza is on the table. I’ll be back at midnight.”

“I know, I know,” Tory said, following her mother to the door. “And don’t let anyone in, unless it’s Miss Jackie.” She grinned at her mother as she grabbed her keys and purse and opened the door.

With a final smile and goodbye, Tessa was gone. She would never come home.

As Tessa Jones walked the four blocks home that night, at approximately 11:15pm, two wannabe gang members had pulled up next to her, robbed her, and beat her to death. Tessa had died for twenty-seven dollars and an iPhone. They had fractured her skull with a pipe wrench, broken four ribs, shattered her wrist, and ruptured her spleen. She had died of the head injury long before anyone found her.

Tory blinked dry eyes and stood up, wishing the memory away. Wishing to be anyplace but here. Wishing her grandmother and her aunt would go away and stop packing her things. She didn’t want to move with them. She didn’t want to leave her home, where it smelled like her mom. Where the lavender bloomed in the backyard, where the ferns swung gently from the porch rafters. Where her mom was everywhere, her essence permeating the very core of the house, flowers and spice and pure Tessa.

Art was everywhere. Bright colorful prints on every wall. Potted flowers in handmade vases. Coffee mugs in every shade of purple. The secondhand couch was made new with throw pillows and knitted blankets. Even Tory’s room sported a chaotic rainbow of color in every nook and cranny. Tessa liked to say they may be broke, but that was no reason to live poor.

It took Tory a while to understand what Tessa meant, but she had gotten it in recent years, as she started to mature and see her home through her friends’ eyes. In turn, she saw their homes through her eyes and Tessa’s. Not that she was ever judgmental or unkind about the state of any of their houses, but she began to appreciate the effort Tessa made to keep their home clean, neat and attractive. While everyone in the neighborhood had secondhand furniture and handed down clothes, Tessa freshened up the dreary brown plaids and faded floral upholstery so often found in thrift shops with hand-sewn covers and throws. Bright cushions and rugs covered bad carpeting and bare wooden floors.

Dishes of all colors filled their shelves rather than going for mismatched sets, Tessa went for solid colors of the same style, so their kitchen cabinets looked like matched sets, rather than goodwill cast-offs. Lamps lit dark corners with fabric shades that Tessa made herself. Greenery filled the rest. Plant life hung from hooks in every corner, ferns and spider plants, aloe, and violets. Everything Tessa touched thrived, just one more of her rare gifts that Tory found so wonderful. She had a creative touch that came through in everything she did, and now it was all being packed into boxes.

Tory sighed and walked over to the music box. She gently opened the lid and gazed at the tiny dancer. She ran a finger along the skirt of the tutu, smoothed the hair over the plastic form of the doll, then she found the key in the back and began to wind it. She needed to hear it. Tory needed to dance, and maybe, if she closed her eyes tight enough, she would feel her mother dancing with her once more.

She finished winding and stepped back a few feet, readying herself in the same pose as the dancer. Arms up, toes pointed, perfect position, at least as far as Tory was able to do. The music started, high and tinny, but haunting. Tory never did find out the name of the song, but she didn’t care. It was her song. Her and her moms and no one could ever take that away.

She danced, slowly spinning, eyes closed, arms up. She dipped and twirled and moved her arms up and around like a slow butterfly around a windmill. Her head cocked to one side, letting the braids cover her face, and tears flowed from her eyes as the melody caught her and held her. The music rose and fell, swirling in her mind like a symphony and together, Tory and the dancer, danced as one.

Tessa’s words came back to her in the midst of the song.

“Whisper to her, Tory. Tell her your dreams. I’ll be there…in the music, Tory. Find me in the music.”

Tory danced. Her tears flowed. Her heart finally admitted what her soul already knew and broke. Tory spun around the room, a phoenix rising, fury seething through her blood. She gave in to it, embraced it. Tory gave her voice to the anger and whispered those blackest and bleakest and most desperate of thoughts to the dancer.

“Bring her back. Kill them all. Bring her back. Kill them all.” She chanted it, not noticing when the melody shifted to capture the rhythm of the chant.

Tory danced. Her arms lifted, her legs rose and fell and swirled around her like the dancers’ did so many times before. Static filled her brain, blocked all sound, gray haze blurred her vision, already glazed behind a veil of tears. She danced for hours. Her toes bled. Her braids whipped and whirled around her so fast they stung her cheeks and arms, but she was numb. She collapsed onto her bed when the music finally ceased.

She slept, not knowing that the dancer watched, not seeing the tiny eyes blink in the darkness, not hearing the key wind by itself or the melody start again, but this time a new rhythm pulsed through the old one. One set to a chant, a rhythm given voice by anger, a dream whispered to a dancer.

***

Tory woke to sunlight peeking through her pale pink curtains, the first fingers of dawn painting her walls peach and gold. She smiled for a moment, ready to hop from her bed and run to her mom's room, then she remembered that Tessa was dead. Instant tears flooded her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, clenching her fists, willing herself not to cry. Sobs threatened to break free from her chest and she took a deep breath, refusing to break. She exhaled and sat up, staring at the open music box.

A thin sliver of sun fell across the dancer, shrouding the face in darkness and making the doll seem to shimmer with shades of mahogany brown rather than molded pale plastic. Tory blinked and wiped her eyes. When she looked again, the dancer was the same faded plastic doll as always, still beautiful in Tory’s mind but the same as ever. She rose from the bed and took her scarf from the bedpost to wrap her braids up. Then she went to the box, stroked the soft hair of the ballerina, and turned the key.

In the middle of her room, Tory struck her beginning pose. Feet facing opposite directions, arms over her head, forming a graceful oval. She stared at the dancer, tracing the details of it as she had many times before, then closed her eyes as the music began. She knew the ballerina in the box would twirl and dip as it could only do but Tory, Tory danced with her whole body.

“Tell the dancer, Tory. Tell her what you need…” Tessa’s voice was in her brain, a soft echo from the past.

She lifted herself onto her toes and swayed, spun, and swirled around her room, giving herself over to the music box. Her heart began to race as the music shifted slowly, increasing tempo and a low bass began to pulse within the music. Tory’s chant from the night before came back to her. Her blood sizzled in her veins, anger made her jaw clench, sweat began to drip from her brow. Her lips moved. Her body vibrated with her fury. The phoenix burned. The dancer grinned.

***

Two blocks away, Terrance and Devon stood by the alley, smoking a fresh blunt, waiting for their regular customers to show up. The two thugs had been there all night, working their section of the block for Little Petey, one of the biggest dealers in the hood. They leaned against the back of a beat-up Honda that had the trunk slightly ajar, and no tires to speak of. Everyone knew they posted up there because the fiends that were too broke to pay, often paid in ass, taking turns with the thugs in the back of the car so they could get their fix.

Terrance laughed at something Devon said as he passed the blunt to him, then turned to face the dark alley, hearing a noise from beyond the car.

“Hold up, yo,” He told Devon, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “You hear that?”

“Heard what?” Devon asked, inhaling from the blunt as he turned to watch Terrance. “You see something?”

“Nah, man, but thought I heard music…. or something back there.” Terrance waited a moment, then shrugged it off. He turned back to Devon, reaching for the weed. “Puff, puff, pass, man. You know the rules.”

“You just trippin, son. We been out here all damn night.” Devon said, snickering. “I’m gonna piss. Here, take it.” He passed over the blunt and walked around the junk heap, already reaching for his zipper as he stepped deeper into the shadows.

An old dumpster stood halfway down the garbage filled alley, and that was where Devon liked to do his thing. Incidentally, he liked taking his hookers back there, too. The really desperate ones would go down on him, on their knees, surrounded by piss, old condoms, and trash. He liked to see how far some would go; call it a power trip, but trash was trash, and that was exactly how he treated females. Devon didn’t allow a bitch to get one over on him. He struck first and struck often.

He snickered as he started pissing on the dumpster, remembering that fine bitch they took down last week. Uppity tramp thought she was better than everyone else. Devon been trying to tap that since he first saw her walking to her job at the hospital months ago, but she wouldn’t even glance his way. Terrance kept laughing at him, telling him he was wasting his time. Everyone knew Tessa didn’t play around with their kind. Hell, far as Terrance knew, Tessa didn’t play at all.

Devon’s head whipped around as high-pitched music sounded right in his ears. Something fast but tinny, like an old kid’s music toy or a jack-in-the-box. Piss dribbled onto his new kicks, and he groaned, trying to tuck his junk back in his pants as he looked for the source. He saw nothing but shadows. Then the music came again, and a shrill laugh. The coarse hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and a chill crept down his spine.

A shape formed on the wall across from him. Something lean and tall, spinning fast and out of control, appeared there. Limbs formed, legs and arms, a feminine torso, long strands of hair that fanned out as the shadow spun. The music filled his brain as he stood mesmerized, watching the shadow spin toward him. Across the alley the dancer came, a wide grin on her face, legs and arms moving in a frenzied dance. Her ripped tutu framed a tiny waist and a sliver of pale pink unfurled as she twirled closer and closer to him.

Devon opened his mouth to scream for Terrance, but he was frozen. Nothing fell from his lips but a strangled whimper that ended in a gasp as the dancer opened her mouth inches from his and began to inhale. Her mouth opened so wide, so much wider than Devon had ever seen. Her eyes glowed orange flames, brighter than the sun, and her hair fanned around her face like she was floating in water. Her long arms were up, legs on tiptoe as she hovered in front of him. A dancer ready for her solo.

Devon was unable to move, horrified as the dancer made no sound, but shimmered bright with fury as she sucked the life from him. He felt his breath leave his lungs and enter hers. He felt his body caving in on itself. He felt his organs burst inside his torso, felt his bones shatter and his veins burst. Her anger consumed him, coursed through him straight to his heart. His jaw went slack, his eyes emptied. His heart slammed against his chest, a final stuttering pulse as it seized, then went silent.

Blood wept from his ears, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. His eyes were black, lifeless voids. Devon’s lifeless corpse collapsed against the dumpster, splattering to the ground like wet laundry. The music faded. The shadows lifted, and the dancer spun away into nothing, leaving nothing but a few strands of hair and a bit of pink ribbon behind.

When Terrance came to look for him a few minutes later, all he could do was scream.

***

In her room, Tory collapsed, drenched with sweat and tears. Sobs shook her slight frame as she hugged her knees to her chest and rocked herself like a small child. She wept for her mother, and for herself. She was exhausted and her body ached. She felt like she had been dancing for hours, but knew the music box only lasted for a few minutes. Her head ached from grief and despair and so much pain. More pain than she knew what to do with.

Tory lifted her head and gazed at the dancer. A haze of tears brought that odd shimmer back to the doll’s molded flesh and painted on smile, but still hazy or not, Tory thought she seemed just a bit more vibrant this morning. There was a hint of red on her cheeks and across the full lips. The hair seemed fuller. She blinked, but the dancer stayed the same. Maybe it was just the light from the sunrise streaming in. Tory shrugged and got to her feet, wincing as her toes hit the bare floor.

She inhaled sharply and glanced down to see bloody footprints on the wood. Tory stared at her socks; blood seeped through the faded cotton. She sat on her bed and peeled the sock off, grimacing as the fabric stuck to her raw toes. Blisters had formed and burst on her feet and the tips of her toes as she had been dancing. Maybe she danced longer than she thought, past the music stopping? She supposed she could have. When she got lost in it deep enough, she could hear the song in her head loud and clear.

Tory gingerly stood up, crossed the room to her door, and opened it. Her aunt stood just on the other side, her small fist in the air as if she was about to knock.

“Goodness, Tory. You scared me!” Franny exclaimed in shock. “I was just coming to see if you were done.”

“Done what?” Tory muttered, looking at her aunt. “I just woke up.”

“Who you fooling? You’ve been up dancing in here for hours. That music box just been playing and playing, for almost two hours now.” Franny said. Her tone was a bit playful but kind and gentle. “It’s okay, honey. Your mom told us you dance to the melody. We didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Two hours…” Tory repeated. “But I…”

“At least two hours,” Franny said, rubbing her back, guiding her from the room. “It’s okay, hun. Grief does funny things to our minds. It’s easy to lose track of things, get lost in ourselves, and our pain.”

She stopped near the bathroom door. “I ran you a bath already. Why don’t you get in, rest a bit, and get dressed? Grandma and I will make you a big breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry, Auntie.” Tory said, slipping inside the bathroom, trying to hide her bloody feet. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Still gotta eat, baby.” Franny said through the door. “I know it’s hard, but you’ll feel better.”

Franny waited a minute for a reply, but none came. She sighed and glanced down, noticing the faint crimson toe-prints on the floor.

“I guess two hours of dancing without shoes will do that to a person.” She muttered.

She sighed and went to the kitchen to get a mop for the floor. Franny blinked away a few tears of her own. Tessa and her were as close as sisters could be, but nothing came close to what Tory and Tessa had. She felt the girl’s pain as deeply as she felt her own. No child should lose their mother at such a young age, but life was a cruel and fickle bitch.

***

Terrance sat shaking on the back porch of the row house that Little Petey did business in. Everyone knew it was a crack house and the local whorehouse. Petey kept his women addicted to him, and his drug. They were the cookers and the hookers. Petey liked to call it a one stop shop. ‘Waste not, want not’, he would chuckle whenever asked. ‘Them bitches want the candy, they gotta make the candy. They want to try the candy, they gotta pay for it.’

Petey loved to explain his business. He kept the girls hooked so they would cook his meth, measure out his dime bags, and count out the ‘X’. In turn, he kept them fed and housed. They turned tricks from their rooms for a little cash, which all went back to Petey for their drugs. Seamless circle of life. Terrance hated the slimy little guy from the Bronx. He would have already done Petey in if it weren’t for Petey’s boss. The boss man was the one Terrance was trying to impress.

Lawrence with his suits and fancy cars. His big smile and bigger watch, not to mention an even bigger bank account. Terrance had hoped to bring Tessa to Lawrence as a gift. Get her strung out and ready to trick within a few weeks or better yet, get Lawrence to want her for his own girl and, in turn, gift Terrance a stable of his own hookers to run.

Dumbass Devon had ruined that plan trying to fuck the woman when they first took her down. Tessa had fought back, hard. Damn near took Devon’s eye out. The beating he dealt out was intense, and Terrance hadn’t been able to stop him. When he dealt the final blow, Tessa’s face barely looked human. Terrance was almost impressed with the broad. Devon was not impressed, and he was pissed that she died before he could get his dick wet.

All they were supposed to do was kidnap her, dope her, and hold her until she was hooked. Devon could have broken her in later, but no, he wanted her first. Terrance knew he should have left Devon out of the loop, but they did everything together, and now Devon was dead in the alley. Terrance shuddered as he took another hit from the joint. He couldn’t get Devon’s face out of his mind. Those black eyes, the blood oozing from every hole, the jello consistency of his body like he was nothing more than a sack of tissue and pulp.

When he found Devon behind the dumpster, he had run straight here. No cops, no phone calls, no ambulance. He ran like the bitch he was, and he couldn’t get that damn music he had heard out of his head. He inhaled again, flicked the roach, and immediately took a swig of the beer that was beside him.

“You good, bro?” Petey asked, watching him from the doorway. “I sent the boys to handle it. No worries.”

“Am I good?” Terrance asked, standing up to face the little man with his greasy hair and handlebar mustache. “Do I look good to you?”

“Calm down, dude. I said I handled it.”

“Handled it? You ain’t handled shit. You didn’t see him, man. Whatever killed him, it wasn’t a natural man.” Terrance lit a cigarette with a shaking hand, muttering, “it wasn’t natural.”

“Aight, dude. I get it, but like I said, I sent the boys. Just chill. Come get some food or something. Sit the fuck down.” Petey jerked his head toward the door inside the house. “Come on. I ordered some shit.”

“Man, whatever,” Terrance said. “I can’t be here right now. I’ll be around tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you better be,” Petey called after him. “I know where your grandma lives. You better not do something stupid, dog.”

Terrance didn’t even react as he walked off, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. Head down as he made his way into the afternoon light. He heard nothing but the high-pitched melody he heard in the alley. He saw nothing but Devon’s sunken and terrified face.

***

Tory spent the day helping her Grandma Birdie clean the tiny kitchen. Boxes were scattered across the table and counters. Dishes were being divided into piles for Tory to keep and some to donate. Canned goods boxed for the church pantry. Her life being decided by one kitchen utensil at a time. Her body felt numb. Her heart, once beating a slow staccato in her chest, pounded ever faster as her distress grew.

Aunt Franny finally rescued her, sending her to her room with a plate of food and orders to rest. Tory stumbled blindly down the short hallway; her eyes too full of impending tears for her to see. She reached her room, closed the door, and set the food on her desk. Tory padded on sore feet to the dresser, locked on the dancer in her box.

She stared at the tiny figure; brow wrinkled in confusion. The doll was different, somehow. The stringy brown hair had grown frizzy, curls forming at the roots like it had gotten wet at some point. The pink ribbon was frayed more than it had been, and the paleness of the molded body seemed deeper, more tan than soft peach. Tory slid her curtains open and lifted the box, holding it to the light, inspecting the doll closer.

The lips were more red, fuller than the painted-on slash that she remembered. The cheeks glowed like soft roses in bloom and the eyes were lighter, not so much the dark brown they had been. Tory traced the figure in its delicate costume, then set it down. Maybe her mind was playing tricks on her, but she was too tired to care. The dancer was still beautiful, even if time was changing it somehow. Tory wound the key, absently mindedly staring through the glass window as her fingers found the mechanical gear and began to turn it.

She gave in to her sorrow and allowed her body to unravel as the music filled the room. She bent and swayed in time with the dancer. Eyes closed, memories of Tessa filling her brain. Her laugh, her smile, her warm arms around her in a tight hug. Tory danced and let the anger and the hurt build. She spun and twirled and flung her arms out wide, mouth open in a silent scream that was borne of pain and fury. The phoenix burned. The dancer grinned. Tory danced as the world fell away.

***

Terrance slept on the lumpy couch in his grandmother's basement. His eyes fluttered beneath his lids. His lips moved in a frenzied plea.

“No. No. No, please. It wasn’t me.” His voice was ragged, begging, and filled with panic. “No! Stop!”

He bolted upright. His scream waking him from the dream. Sweat ran down his brow, dripped from his jaw. His hands shook. Terrance wiped his face with his hands and swung his legs to the floor, sitting with his legs wide, elbows on knees, his hands clenched to stop the trembling.

“What the fuck, man?” He whispered to the empty room.

He hadn’t had a nightmare since he was a little kid. He felt the warmth in his crotch as his senses returned and shame burned in his cheeks. He had pissed himself. Good thing his grandma kept the old couches covered with her plastic sheets to keep them nice, as she liked to say. The old plaid couch set had seen more administrations than Terrance himself had, but hey, old folks were funny like that. His grandma wasn’t the only lady in town with plastic over her furniture.

He went to stand up, but his legs shook so hard he collapsed back onto the couch. Music began to drift through the room. High, tinny, and delicate, with an odd pulsing rhythm that built as it came closer. His eyes went wide. He knew that music. He’d been hearing it since the day before. He heard it before Devon died. He had heard it in his dream.

He tried to stand again but sat frozen as a shadow across the room lengthened and grew. The supple frame of a woman arced over the room. A silhouette of a ballerina, arms out, legs extended, twirled toward him. The hair fanned out behind it. The eyes glowed brightly in the dim room. The rest of the body was all shadow and movement, spinning faster and faster across the room as the music played.

Terrance shook. His mouth dropped open to scream, but nothing came out. His muscles were tightly coiled in his flesh, ready to flee but unable to spring his body forward into action. The music pulsed; the tempo grew. The dancer dipped down, spinning, spinning, spinning. She was inches away from him.

His eyes locked onto hers. She opened her mouth and began to inhale. Dark shadows shimmered beneath the fury-filled eyes. Her hair billowed out and formed curls as the dancer breathed him in. He watched paralyzed as the skin changed to brown; the teeth began to gleam. Tessa Jones' face drifted into clarity as the dancer sucked his essence from his body.

Terrance felt his breath leave him and his mind fold. He could feel his jaw clench as the screams refused to come. Everything inside him burst at once. Pain consumed him. His bones shattered. His eyes began to bleed. The dancer pulled everything he was from his soul. Inhaled him. Devoured him. Terrance’s empty vessel slid to the floor, a jello filled skin suit, as the dancer closed her mouth and twirled away.

The music faded. The shadows receded. Tessa Jones, and the dancer that carried her, vanished into the darkness, leaving nothing behind save a bit of silky pink ribbon that fluttered to the basement floor.

***

Tory came to, lying on her bedroom floor. Sweat covered her body, and she ached all over. The late afternoon sun stretched across her room. She blinked, trying to remember what happened, and slowly pushed herself up to a sitting position. Her toes wept blood. She stared at them, wiggling them gently, then she stood up and went to the dancer. This time, she was sure it had changed. The tiny doll sported a soft afro of fuzzy curls around its face. A white ribbon held it back from its face, tight and high, in a natural bun. The tutu was new, orange and gold layers that sparkled like the sun, with a bright red sash around its waist. High cheeks and full red lips, mahogany limbs stretched into a perfect pose.

Tory gasped. A trembling finger reached out to touch the dancer, but before she could, a shadow appeared behind her. In the mirror, Tessa appeared, smiling gently at her daughter. She wrapped her arms around Tory as only she could, and the music played. Tory began to cry as Tessa’s words filled her mind.

“Look for me in the music, Tory. I’ll be here always, the dancer in your dreams.”

Tory opened her eyes and turned to her mother and took her hand. One more time, the music played as mother and daughter spun and twirled on tiptoe around the small room. Full hearts, pure souls, connected by a bond that only a mothers' love could bring.

When it ended, Tory opened her eyes, alone again. The dancer smiled at her from her post. A perfect image of the woman Tory knew so well. Dressed in colors of flames and a smile as bright as the sun, Tessa Jones was the dancer, the phoenix, and the fury.

The End

A Grim Fairytale

By

Callum Pearce

The three teenagers stood in the forest clearing looking at an old ramshackle dwelling. Everybody in town knew the story of old Eleanor, the woman that lived here in this small building away from the noise of the town.

At the age of twenty-five, Eleanor had returned home from work to find the bodies of her two children lying in a patch of drying blood. Deep wounds on their throats showed the method of dispatch and the smug grin on the corpse of their father informed her of the culprit. She had planned to leave him that coming weekend. She had been so close to taking herself and her children to a safer, happier place. When her husband had found the money she had been squirrelling away, he killed both children and drank poison himself. No brutal wounds for him, just a seemingly satisfied rictus grin, frozen on his lifeless face.

Eleanor had been seen that night stumbling towards the forest clutching a small locked box. People had said that she seemed somehow empty. Some had called out to her, only to be greeted with a vacant stare and silence. It was as though Eleanor had left this world along with her children. She had headed into the forest, never to return to the life she had known. At first, people tried to coax her back into town. Some brought food and blankets when she still slept under the stars. Eleanor never spoke another word to any of them. The small dwelling started to appear where she slept, though nobody ever saw her coming into town for parts. The place she intended to call home, until the day she died, was made up of lots of scavenged items as though everything that was ever lost had found its way here to this place. It would now provide shelter for this broken-hearted woman. Eventually, people stopped visiting and left Eleanor to the peace she craved.

***

"We could knock, she must know something," Jack started toward the small house but found his feet getting heavier with every step.

"You're scared, unbelievable. A big butch man like you scared of a little old lady," Prone to exaggeration and always a bit camp, Kyle was laughing and slapping his thighs.

"We don't need her, do we? We've got you and I'm pretty sure you're the expert on fairies around these parts."

"Oh haha very funny," Kyle said. At least his mouth said that. His eyes said I would love nothing more than to suck your soul out through your ears and shit it onto your twitching corpse. He smiled as sweetly as he could manage though, through gritted teeth.

Claire knew it was time to step in and diffuse the situation. This had been her job ever since they started into their teenage years. All three had been best friends since they were first allowed to play away from their front gardens. They'd gone to the same schools and all lived in the same part of town. Their childhood had been filled with adventures and stories. At the start of their teens, Claire and Jack had made the obvious error of trying to date. Both had suspected it wouldn't work out but early teens can be a very confusing time. This had left both boys with a simmering rivalry. They had stopped being a group of children going on adventures together. Now, with Jack as an ex-lover and Kyle as her gay best friend, both men felt that the other shared a relationship with Claire that they could never hope to replicate. Now sixteen, they all had plans that took them in opposite directions. Jack would be going to work in his father's business, Claire would be leaving to go to college, and Kyle was going to theatre school miles away.

It had been Claire's idea to have one last adventure together. She had been reading in the paper about a recent rise in fairy sightings in the forest that housed old Eleanor. They had heard stories since childhood about tiny, shining creatures moving through the trees and songs sailing on the wind in an unknown language. They had even hunted for them when they were younger. Camping in each other's gardens and sneaking out on their bike to the forest when the lights went out in whoever’s home they were camping behind. As their parents slept, they hunted through the trees, carrying small nets and throwaway cameras. Today, each of them wanted to feel that magic again. One last time playing, before they were expected to put such childish things behind them and enter the grown-up world. So they pushed deeper into the forest and looked for a suitable place to camp.

After setting up a large tent, the boys prepared a place for the fire they knew they would be glad of later. Then they started to plan their next moves. Claire looked through all of the old articles she had brought with her about the fairy sightings She had also brought a book of horror stories in case they got bored in the nighttime. Most of the fairy sightings were in a large clearing in the forest. Claire knew the place well, she remembered that a tall graffiti-filled rock stood in the centre. This, of course, seemed the logical place for them to start their adventure. The best time for sightings was always early evening, as the sun started to slide away and parts of the forest drifted off to sleep whilst other parts woke up to hunt. For now, they would busy themselves getting their campsite ready.

As the evening drew in, they packed a bag with snacks and drinks, each carrying a flashlight for when the night would creep over the forest. They set off for the clearing giggling and teasing each other all the way. None of them truly expected to find fairies. They weren't sure if they even believed in them. Growing up in a town like theirs with the sightings, the stories, and the minor tourist industry that had built up around them, you couldn't help but hold on to the glimmer of possibility though. They chatted happily about the times they would sneak out to the forest as children. They laughed about how they would scare each other when they got back home, whispering ghost stories in the tent. For these moments they felt like children again. Even Jack and Kyle weren't making sly comments to each other. This made it particularly strange that they all started to feel a sense of dread as they approached the clearing. Perhaps it was the realization that these times would come to an end after this adventure or perhaps it was something else. They all walked a little slower as they got closer to their destination.

In the clearing, they went straight toward the large rock at the centre so that they would have something to lean against as they ate their packed sandwiches. Kyle was already pulling a bottle of wine and a corkscrew out of his bag.

"Did you remember the cups?" Kyle asked.

"Was I supposed to bring them?" Jack looked sheepish as he rummaged in his bag.

"I thought Claire was… ah ha got you, look at your face." Jack laughed as he pulled three stacked plastic cups out of his bag and threw them towards Kyle.

"Tit," Kyle mumbled as he opened the wine and started to pour.

"Ah this is the life," Jack sat down with his back against the rock and took a cup of wine from Kyle.

"So many people must have been here over the years." Claire was looking over the graffiti that filled the rock.

Kyle handed Claire a wine and stood behind her reading the graffiti. There were poems, rude comments, names, and lovers' initials. Each little piece of the rock held something with a story behind it. Hundreds of people had been here and felt the need to leave something of themselves behind. He tried to imagine the tales of the people whose names adorned the rock. He pictured happy lovers holding each other and determined to make a permanent mark on this special place. A mark that may well last longer than their relationship. The uneasy feeling hadn't gone away but they were learning to live with it. Like a constant noise or unpleasant smell that somehow, after prolonged exposure, your brain just finds a place for. Among the other graffiti, Kyle saw large brown symbols had been painted all around the rock. When he stared at them, it was almost as though they were speaking inside his head. Symbols he had no hope of recognizing were almost telling him how to pronounce them.

"Rah, chay…." his mouth was moving almost without his willing it,

"zor…"

"Come away from there!"

They turned to see old Eleanor rushing into the clearing toward them. Like her house, her clothes seemed to be made of lots of different scavenged materials, wrapped, pinned, or knotted together. Her face looked so much older than her eighty years, she looked completely exhausted. The teenagers stood with their mouths open, unsure of what to do and slightly in shock. They had seen her sometimes in the forest collecting food or flowers. They had never heard her speak or seen her attempt to approach anybody.

"It's not time yet!" She screamed.

"Come away from the stone."

Their legs went into auto-pilot, Jack jumped up and bumped into Kyle as they both moved in the same direction away from the rock. Claire backed away a little bit and then turned her body to face Eleanor.

"Come with me please," whilst still urgent the old woman's voice had calmed significantly since they had stepped away from the rock.

"We didn't mean to upset anyone," Claire said as they walked towards Eleanor. "We were just having a bit of fun. Looking for fairies, you know?"

"You'll find no fairies here girl. Many come here, dazzled by the twinkling lights. They're not fairies that they find."

"What are they then?" Kyle was feeling braver now that Claire had taken the lead.

"Pray you never find out. Come with me."

Part of Claire felt nervous and still in shock from the old woman's sudden appearance. She was even more baffled by having heard her voice. This old silent woman with so many myths and stories surrounding her was suddenly speaking to Claire and her friends. Possibly offering her the chance to find out which of the stories are true. Whilst she felt uncomfortable and scared, she decided she couldn't miss the opportunity to get to know the woman behind the tales. She set off following the old woman back toward her small home. Of course, where Claire went the boys followed. They were both nervous but desperate not to show it.

The old woman showed them into her home. Like the outside, nothing matched. Everything looked like it had been found or fixed together from two separate mismatched items. There was a small table in the centre of the room that they were invited to sit around. A pot was already boiling held over a fire in a cobbled-together fireplace.

"Will I make you all a cup of tea?"

As one, they all turned to look at the four chipped, cracked cups that sat on a smaller table next to a bucket of dirty water. They wanted to decline but Claire accepted politely. As the old woman busied herself making their drinks, they took the time to take in everything in the room. It was all surprisingly normal for a house pulled together from bits of rubbish. Eleanor seemed like a fairly normal person too, considering what they thought they knew of her.

"So you don't believe in the fairies then?" Kyle asked

"I believe in nothing boy," Eleanor said without turning back to them. "I know they're not fairies that people come here looking for."

"What do you think they are?" Jack joined in.

"I know exactly what they are," she placed the tea on the table in front of them. "Demons," she declared. "Children of hell."

The boys snorted hearing this and tea sprayed out of the sides of their mouths.

"Young lady, pass me that box over there."

Eleanor pointed to a small locked box on a crooked shelf. Claire wondered if this was the box from the story, the one people had seen Eleanor clutching as she made her way into the forest all those years ago. She stood to cross the room but suddenly felt rooted to the spot. Fear and dread overwhelmed her. Sweat tickled her whole body and her stomach turned over like a tombola.

"You can't do it can you?"

The old woman was smiling at her. She noticed that the strange feeling that had taken over her faded as soon as she let go of the desire to pick up the box.

"It was passed down in my family for many years. A small book in a strange language locked in a pretty box. Nobody knew why we had It. We had no idea where it had come from. All we knew was that whilst we didn't want to be near it, we must protect it," they all stared at her as she spoke. “ I know that you all know why I came here all those years ago.”

“Your children were killed,” Claire said softly.

“Well, like you, I could never bring myself to touch that box or the book inside it. After my babies were taken, no fear or pain could reach me. Nothing could do more to me than was already done. I knew somehow that the answers would be in that book.” Just hearing Eleanor talk about the book made the uncomfortable, dark feeling return to Claire. Even the boys fidgeted uncomfortably. “It had sat silently in our family homes, being passed down from person to person, I think it was waiting for that moment. I brought it here to the forest.”

“What is it, some sort of magic?” Claire asked.

The boys were completely lost but Claire seemed to be handling the conversation fairly well. They watched the two women talking and sipped their tea politely.

“There's no magic in that book, only words that should never have been put to paper. Forbidden words that worm their way into your soul.”

Kyle was thinking about the words on the rock. He had felt that they had been trying to speak to him. As though they were trying to sound themselves out in his head.

“The devil came to me that night, summoned by words that forced themselves out of my mouth. They came out coated in pain and grief, so much better for reaching their target,” Everyone stared at her silently.

“A tall, beautiful woman had risen from the ground where I lay sobbing. Her skin was dark and immaculate, long thin legs stretched up above me. Her face was kind and gentle but I knew straight away who she was.”

“The devil's a woman,” Jack laughed.

“ I begged her to return my babies and give me back my life.” She continued, ignoring the interruption. “She had to tell me that my babies were far beyond her reach now. I could be assured that my husband, their murderer, was not. She would see that he suffered for all eternity.”

They were all enthralled, gulping the tea now, instead of the little sips they had been taking. It seemed the more they drank the drier their mouths became. So they drank more.

“She couldn't give me my babies back, but she could entrust her own to me. I was to look after her children here in this forest. Help them to grow strong, feed them.”

“The fairies?” Claire asked.

“Demons,” Jack corrected her with a smirk.

“Yes, my children, they needed souls to grow strong and bodies to eat. They crave the music of your screams. So I deliver what they want.”

“Those lights though, they're tiny, what are they like little piranhas?” Kyle was picturing the small lights swarming over a body and devouring it in millions of tiny bites.

“They're not small, stupid boy. They're far away. I use the stone to open the door when dinner is prepared.”

“I'm sorry, you're mental,” Jack's voice was slurring slightly. As he stood to get away from the woman his legs felt like jelly underneath him and he slumped to the floor.

"What the f…" Kyle tried to go to his friend to help him but he too slumped to the ground unconscious.

“Poisoned,” Claire slurred the word. Her head was growing cloudy and her stomach was dancing.

“They're always so hungry,” the old woman whispered.

Claire managed to push herself out of the chair and stumble forward. The old woman made no move to stop her. She staggered toward the door of the small hut, reaching for the handle. Her head was spinning, it seemed the different parts of the ramshackle dwelling were moving away from her. It was as though no part of the building was connected to another. The individual pieces seemed to float and move around. She closed her eyes to fight the dizzy feeling and reached out for the door again. The cold air outside hit her and she knew she had made it back out into the forest. Stumbling forward, she dared to open her eyes. Small lights danced in the trees around her. Some flew right up to her face and then around her head before flying back into the trees. Her body was getting heavy but she trudged forward with the old woman walking slowly behind her.

"We've been watching you for a long time," the old woman shouted.

"My children are ready to cross over permanently. They chose you to help them, a long time ago."

"Why me?" Claire sobbed as she moved slowly forward, pursued by old Eleanor.

"All of these years, you kept coming back, searching for the forest's secrets. My children were watching you. They were waiting until your body was older and stronger."

Claire wanted to lie down on the forest floor and sleep. She managed a few more steps before her legs stopped working completely. The lights were all around her and Eleanor was closing in as she fell to the ground.

"It's almost time." Claire could feel the old woman's hot breath on her neck. Her eyes closed and everything went black.

When Claire started to wake up, she could feel that her hands and legs were tied. Her eyes were watering and her vision was blurry from whatever she had been drugged with. When they cleared, she could see the twinkling lights floating around her. She was in the clearing with the stone again and the boys were tied up too. The old woman was touching the rock with one hand holding out a book with the other. She was mumbling words to herself as the lights started to grow. Claire had a moment's peace as she slipped again into unconsciousness.

She woke again to screaming. It was Jack, howling and begging for his life. The old woman was shouting over the noise.

“Scream for them my boy, scream louder, they love it.”

Claire turned her head and saw the demons surrounding her friend. Now they looked the same size as the old woman. They were hairless, pale, naked things with pointed sharp teeth filling their mouths. When they laughed, saliva and blood trailed down onto their chins. They were ripping chunks of flesh from Jack's body and eating them in front of him as he screamed and writhed on the forest floor. They stopped every so often to roar at him or laugh into the sky. Eleanor noticed Claire was awake and stalked toward her.

"It'll all be over soon girl." The old woman was grinning as she leaned down toward Claire.

"We taste better when we are terrified, our pain is delicious to them,"

"Why are you doing this?" Claire shouted. "They're not your children, you're human like us."

"For those that turned a blind eye when I was beaten in public. Those that never offered to help us escape my vicious, cruel husband. This town will know only suffering when my new children are strong enough to cross over. Hell is expanding and this vile town will be our first conquest."

"You're not one of them, your just an angry, bitter, old woman and they're using you," she was wriggling trying to loosen her hands and shouting over the sound of Jack's screams. "You know this isn't right. They will turn on you in an instant when they have what they want"

"I'm protected," Eleanor laughed waving the book in front of her.

"Imagine if you weren't. Imagine how you would taste to them."

Jack had stopped screaming, it was Kyle's turn now. Claire could see the creatures surrounding him, they cackled a wet throaty laugh as they approached. Blood and chunks of flesh dripped from their evil faces. Claire tried to get up but only managed to shove herself forward. She hit the old woman hard knocking her to the floor. The book fell away from her. As the book left her hands the demons turned quickly as though somebody had just passed with a strong-smelling, delicious meal. She saw a look of panic in Eleanor's eyes as the old woman scrabbled around trying to get the book back. Claire knew that she needed to distract the creatures with a tastier meal. All of the horror and sadness old Eleanor had to give them would be like a banquet. She had been marinating in pain and misery for decades here in the forest. Likely adding to it each time she fed these foul creatures.

Could the same trick work twice? She pushed herself up and forward again knocking the woman over. As the book tumbled from her hand Claire threw herself on top of it.

"Stupid bitch!" the old woman screamed. The creatures had already turned their attention to her and were approaching quickly. "Give me the book. you will never leave this place without me,"

"I suspect I won’t be leaving either way." Touching the book, even through her clothes, made her feel sick. She wanted to roll away from it but she knew it was the only thing keeping her alive.

The boys were silent. Long gone from pain or fear. It was Eleanor who screamed now. She begged, screamed, and cried as the monsters tortured and devoured her in small chunks. Claire wriggled about trying to release her hands and feet but making sure she stayed in contact with the book. She could see the bodies of her friends torn to pieces in the clearing and she screamed in agony. The book heard her pain and grief and the words slithered from the page into her mind, as they had with Eleanor all those years ago. They had been spoken before she knew they were there. The beautiful woman Eleanor had talked about rose from the ground in front of her.

"Don't worry little one," the devil said smiling. "I can take away the pain and the memory of what happened here tonight. I just need your agreement."

Claire didn't speak, she just stared at the dazzling creature above her. Her hair and skin were dark and shining. Her face was the most beautiful Claire had ever seen. She was tall and slim. When she looked around the clearing, she did so like a cat, eyes darting from place to place. The creatures that had finished with Eleanor now started to gather behind the devil. She reached out a hand to help Claire up.

"It is your turn now to look after my children, but the task this time will be different."

Claire looked at the bodies of her friends and sobbed.

"I can take away your pain," the devil spoke like a caring mother. "With your agreement, I will make sure you remember nothing of this night."

Claire noticed her hands were no longer tied and she reached out to allow the devil to help her up.

***

As nurses fussed around her in the hospital bed. Claire struggled to remember how she got there. She struggled to remember much of anything at all. She found out that she had been found by the side of the road, near a local forest. People were still searching for her friends, whoever they were. The nurses kept reassuring her that the baby was okay. She knew that this was important but didn't have a clue whose baby they were talking about. She noticed a small book on the cabinet next to the bed and wondered if it was hers. As her hand rested on her swollen stomach, she realized quickly whose baby everyone had been so concerned about. Looking down, shifting her gown to expose her body, she saw something moving inside her, her skin rippling and moving. Claire knew nothing much about herself but she knew she had to protect this child. This child was the future and things were going to change.

The End

The World Turned Red

By

Daemon Manx

Dark brooding clouds hung low in the afternoon sky, threatening to rain at any moment. The wind picked up and sent an icy chill racing up Beth’s spine, settling in the base of her neck. She shivered as if her own grave had been trampled on, turned to the men beside her and motioned for them to remain silent.

Something was wrong—they shouldn’t be there.

It was impossible not to listen to the voice screaming like a wraith inside her head. None of them had survived this long by ignoring those voices; they all heard them. Still, there were times you had to push the voices to the side and get the job done—this was one of those times. And no one knew that better than Beth Carter … you either figured out a way to fix your problems, or they fixed you.

“I got a bad feeling about this,” Deet whispered, his voice dry and nearly as tired as the crevasses crawling up his face.

“Just nerves,” Casper replied, but knew better. “We got two hours. Easy, man.” His broken English turned man into ‘mang’ as he looked up at the darkening sky and forced a smile that almost appeared genuine. “Should be fine … should be.”

Casper’s hair was tangled and hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in far too long. His clothes were as ruinous as his face, which wore an angry scar across the right cheek, zigzagged, ragged and raw. Someone had attempted to stitch it and had done a piss-poor job, leaving the wound only slightly better than if they had done nothing at all. Casper crouched low behind the tangle of bushes, trying to conceal his hulking frame as best he could. Not easy. Fortunately, the shrubbery had grown more than a little out of control. It had declared an all-out war against its boundaries, lining the once traveled avenue.

Together, the group watched the front of the Rite Aid for any furtive movements and continued to scan the desolate street.

“I don’t know. Just look at it,” Deet stated. He was older than Beth and Casper—considerably, graying at the temples and in the beard. He wore dark jeans and a dark leather jacket with a bandana tied around his neck which made him look as if he were about to rob a bank. It was difficult to see the dirt on his already dark clothing; however, the bloodstains were easier to identify. They had dried to a deep crimson brown and were everywhere. Deet looked as if he had just sailed through Hell on the Jolly Roger or ridden through it on a Harley.

“Will you two shut the fuck up for a second? You’ll have every geek in a five-block radius on us if you keep it up, for Christ’s sake!”  Beth spat, her clothes and face only slightly cleaner than the others’. Her hair was cropped short out of what looked like necessity rather than choice. She carried a Browning 30-30 slung over her shoulder and a Glock .40 cal. on her hip.

“Sorry, Beth.” Casper nodded and held his tongue.

Deet used the barrel of his S&W .357 mag to part the bushes in front of him, then craned his head to get a better look at the building. It appeared quiet, for the moment at least. But there was no reason to assume it was safe, even if the sun was still out.

The trio continued to survey the storefront from their relative camouflage on what used to be Fairmount Avenue. It was still Fairmount Ave, technically, except this street was a much different animal than the one it had been just a year before. The once busy four lanes of Butler’s main thoroughfare now told a dark, desperate story.

A wreck consisting of a school bus, a police cruiser, and what might have been either a Toyota or a Honda blocked the two center lanes. It was difficult to identify the third vehicle because it was pancaked underneath the bus. All of the vehicle’s windows had been shattered either before or after the wreck had gone up in flames. Shards and splinters of broken glass littered nearly every inch of the forgotten pavement.

There were other wrecks blocking the road in both directions—none of them had happened recently. The grass and scrub brush forcing its way up through the cracks in the broken asphalt stood nearly three feet tall. It wove its way through the abandoned vehicles’ axles and tires and would one day consume them. That day looked like it was going to happen sooner than later. Nature invaded from either side of the street and, in some cases, had already started to weave its way into the abandoned buildings.

Several bicycles lay on the curb in front of the Rite Aid near an overturned garbage can. The wind picked up and scattered a tangle of loose papers across the street. Beth watched the faces flip and flutter on the green bills as it sailed past her. Grant and Franklin tumbled across the broken blacktop till finally, the useless scraps of tender caught in the spokes of one of the bicycles. The once valuable item was now worthless and didn’t even make good kindling to feed a fire.

The front of the building had been partially consumed by a bygone blaze that had ripped through it like an infection. The storefront windows had been blown out, most likely when the vehicles exploded on the street. But the roof and the interior appeared more or less intact. It was a long shot, but the medicine they were looking for might still be in there. The place certainly looked in better shape than most of the structures in town.

Several of the buildings on Fairmount Ave had burned to the ground. Their rubble and scattered timbers looked as if they had fallen decades ago. Hard to believe it had only been a year. To Beth, it felt like a lifetime. Butler had been her home for a brief moment. Now it was unrecognizable.

She and Casper had been working at the diner the night it all fell apart. Her hair had been longer, and she had worn a good twenty pounds more meat on her frame back then. Now, her cheekbones showed through her skin, which looked thin and taut against her skull. Her eyes were sunken, with dark circles beneath them as if her own body had begun to devour itself. They all carried a nowhere-near-nourished look on them.

Beth had been about halfway into her shift when the first explosion rocked the diner. The front picture windows imploded, raining a shower of glass over the customers seated at the counter and the front booths. She had frozen and been unable to move. It was Casper who had pushed her to the floor and out of the way, but not before he had taken a shard of the window in his right cheek. That projectile had been intended for Beth; it would have hit her in the forehead or possibly the eye. Casper had saved her life that night, and he had been at her side ever since. Not a bad guy to have watching your back, either. How many girls could say they had an ex-pro wrestler as a sidekick?

“We’re gonna do this by the books, y’all. No screwin’ around.” Beth’s drawl was more pronounced when she was stressed. “We go in, and we clear any uglies that might be hangin’ around. Then straight to the back. We’re looking for anythang that ends in ‘cin’ or ‘cillin’. Keflex and Z packs will do too. En keep yer eyes open for painkillers, Oxycontin, or Oxycodone. Junkies woulda’ cleaned them out first, but ya never know.” She lowered her voice slightly and turned toward the others. “Also, bandages, gauze, alcohol. Y’all know the drill. Any sign of trouble, and we bounce.”

The men listened to her intently and waited for her to give them the go-ahead.

Beth instinctively ducked as the sound of a gunshot echoed from what could have been a mile away or right down the block. It was immediately followed by several others. The quick rap pap pap sounded more like firecrackers than bullets. But Beth knew better and held up her hand to signal the others to hold tight and stay exactly where they were.

The wind picked up again and almost seemed to howl as it carried dead leaves and the remnants of someone’s savings account across Fairmount Ave. Some misguided opportunists had raided the First Fidelity, hoping the power would return one day and cash would be worth something again. But as society and the infrastructure quickly collapsed, the hopeful bandits had either given up their pluck or been consumed by more pressing issues. Probably survival.

Several more shots rang out, closer this time.

Deet leaned over and whispered into Beth’s ear. “I’m really getting a bad feeling about this. We should get out of here. It’s going to be dark soon. We can try again tomorrow.”

“Alice ain’t gonna’ last unless she gets those meds,” Beth hissed. “I don’t like it either, but we ain’t got no choice. You want to tell those kids their mommy didn’t make it cause we had a bad feelin?”

Deet scowled and looked at the ground. “Of course not.”

Alice was the only reason he volunteered to come in the first place. He had been the one to help her and the boys get out of Tampa in one piece. It had been a nightmare. The fire and the bodies and all that blood. They had barely made it themselves. Beth knew how he felt about Alice, and she knew exactly what buttons to push, one of the traits that made her such a good leader—a royal bitch, but still a good leader.

“You’re an asshole,” Deet hissed.

“Someone’s coming.” Casper pointed to the south end of the block.

A small group of people slowly emerged into view. The new arrivals walked up the center of Fairmount Ave, weaving in and around the wrecked vehicles like a boa constrictor. They clearly weren’t in any rush and made no attempt to conceal their presence.

“They haven’t seen us. Stay down,” Deet said, crouching lower behind the brush.

Beth removed the 30-30 from her shoulder and trained the sight on the approaching group.

“What do you see?” Deet asked.

“Give me a second.” Beth lost sight of the group as they disappeared behind a Federal Express van overturned on its side. The vehicle’s contents had been ransacked and discarded across the street. “One second,” she repeated.

She watched through the scope as the first man emerged from behind the disabled van. He was bearded and haggard-looking and carried a threateningly large, fully automatic weapon. The gun was trained in front of him with his finger poised on the trigger. Haggard was followed by another man who looked equally as grizzly and every bit as dangerous. The second man held a pump-action shotgun in the more-than-ready position. Turning his head, the second man barked something to the remaining members of his party still behind the van.

Beth squinted and focused on the area in front of the vehicle when a third man finally revealed himself. He wore a pair of mirrored sunglasses, and Beth instantly noticed he wasn’t carrying a gun, at least none she could see. Instead, he held a thick chain in both his hands. The heavy links wrapped around his fists and trailed a length attached to something at the other end. There was resistance to it; the man was dragging something heavy behind him. Beth’s chest tightened. The forgotten taste of sour Hamburger Helper filled her mouth as she watched the man with the giant leash parade up the middle of Fairmount Ave with his prize in tow.

Then, the man gave the chain a heavy yank and screamed something Beth could not make out.

Suddenly, a woman staggered out from behind the van. Her wrists were handcuffed and attached to the chain by a massive padlock. Dark blood had dried on her face; a deep purple bruise  sealed her right eye shut. Her shirt was torn down the front, and she looked to Beth as if she were barefoot. The only solid piece of clothing she wore was a pair of cut-off shorts. She was tethered to another woman who nearly fell as they were yanked by the force of the chain. The second woman was in a far worse state than the first and looked like she had been beaten within an inch of death. She was in shock, and by the glazed look in her eyes, Beth thought she might have been drugged.

“Jesus Christ,” Beth spat.

“Damn!” Deet scowled. “I see them too.”

The man yanked even harder on the chain, nearly dumping both women face-first onto the pavement. “Move your ass, bitch!” he screamed.

Beth heard him this time. The fire in her belly and the taste in her mouth grew even more sour at the memory of the word.

The women stumbled blindly, unaware of what was happening or where they were. It was now evident that both of the girls had been drugged. Beth returned her sights to the first man and focused on the space between his eyes. She gently eased her finger over the trigger and applied pressure.

“I’m takin’ the shot,” she whispered. “I can take ‘em out.”

“Just wait a second,” Deet said, placing his hand on the barrel of her Browning and lowering it toward the ground.

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” She scowled. “You know what those bastards are doin’. We got to help them poor girls.” Her eyes had begun to fill at the corners, like a river ready to overflow its banks, but Beth held her stare and focused it like a laser on Deet.

“And if you miss, those fuckers will kill us, and you’ll most likely end up the third one on that chain.” He parted the brush for a closer look. “Just watch for another second.”

Casper waited patiently for either one of them to make some type of call. He had pulled a 9 mm from his hip and held it at the ready.

The two men in the lead walked brazenly up the center of the street with their weapons drawn. They looked like a band of half-crazed coked-up commandos—more than just dangerous, they looked evil. The guy in the sunglasses continued to yank on the chain and scream at the women. There was nothing covert about the group in any way. They were not only ready but were looking for trouble—whatever type they might find. The past year had changed everyone, but it was obvious these men hadn’t been all that swell to begin with. They had only come out a harder, meaner, far more insane version of who they had been before.

Beth raised the nose of the rifle again. “I can make the shot,” she repeated.

This time, Deet just whispered, “Don’t do it. It’s not safe.”

Beth focused on the man in the lead, the guy with the Uzi-looking machine gun. She slowly began to apply pressure to the trigger. She took a deep breath, held it, and then gently exhaled and pressed…

“There’s more of them,” Deet said, which broke her concentration.

She eased back on the trigger. “Holy shit!”

Beth removed her finger and looked up. About thirty feet behind the first group, a second small battalion of men decked out in fatigues and police riot gear marched toward them. All the men were heavily armed. They carried machine guns and sawed-off shotguns; they had sidearms as well. There was an additional five to seven men in total. Behind them, another half dozen women were bound in chains and shackles, some of whom were barely clothed at all. Each one of the girls wore the POW look of thunderstruck submission.

“My God!” Beth finally let the damn gates open.

“I know, I know,” Deet said. “I wish we could help, but we’re outnumbered. They would kill us, and I don’t even want to think what would happen if you survived. Alice would die for sure—from a goddamn strep throat! We can’t help those women, but we can still help Alice.” He looked to Casper, who had gone pale.

Beth’s tears caught in her throat. She hated it but knew Deet was right. Alice was one of their own. That’s who they had to worry about. Even if it meant turning their backs on these women. They couldn’t help anyone if they were dead ... or worse. Beth had learned there were a great many things much worse than death ... far too many things. “Bastards,” she hissed again as the bitter taste filled her mouth and the memory invaded like a plague.

***

An image usually came to mind when you told people you were from Savannah: large Victorian-style houses situated on sprawling acres of land, opulent gardens and willow trees draped in Spanish moss. It was a beautiful picture, and it was a reality for many of the residents of the historic Georgia town. But for the Carter family, that world was so far removed from the realm of possibility not even their dreams could digest it.

The family’s single-wide trailer sat on a squat of earth no bigger than a driveway. The city dump was situated a meager stone’s throw down the one-lane dirt road Beth called home. On a good day, the wind blew in from the west, sending the repulsive stench of refuse in the opposite direction, but most days were not good. Most days were not good at all.

It was an old story; Daddy was an abusive drunk, and Mommy liked to knock boots with anyone but Daddy. Beth had tried to stay out of the line of fire and had done a pretty good job of it. That was, until she hit puberty and her old man started to take a hands-on parental approach. He had never actually forced himself on her, but once Beth turned seventeen, she didn’t think it would be long. Instead, Frank Carter’s modus operandi had been violent physicality.

At first, the abuse had only been of the verbal variety. “You lazy Bitch!” he would scream the minute he walked through the door. Christ, how she hated that word, like a soldering iron thrust into her soul, piercing and scalding her very essence. And how he used it so carelessly, so casually, so bitter. Like a cancerous pit in the center of her heart.

Then, she met Donnie. He was charming and gentle and so good-looking, so attentive to both of their needs when she let him have her underneath the Bay Street Bridge one day after school. She knew it was supposed to hurt the first time, and it had. But it had also been sweet and warm and wonderful, like an unsettled ocean deep within her had finally been calmed, had finally been soothed.

Donnie played guitar, and Beth could sing like an angel. They spoke of getting out of Savannah and making it to Nashville, fantasized about making it in the music business and one day playing at the Grand Ole Opry. She had rested her head against his bare chest, the glazed look of bliss in both their eyes as she softly sang.

I stare into your eyes

Restless in our lovers’ bed

Feverish the world turns red

I’m hungry for you

And there’s no escape

So we know we have to run away

And we live to fight another day

Like lovers do

I’m hungry for you

And even though Donnie said all the right things and touched her exactly the way she wanted to be touched, she knew when he said, “Baby, we are getting out of this town, and we are gonna make it,” that they never would. There was always that gnawing in the back of her brain, like a starving little rat chewing its way through the trash. Beth knew it wasn’t going to end well. But still, it was nice to dream.

Frank Carter sloshed through the front door and plopped his busted-up, broke ass at the kitchen table.

“Fetch yer daddy a beer, would ya?” he barked at Beth, who stood no less than three feet away but still not as close to the fridge as her old man.

She begrudgingly retrieved the cold aluminum canister from the shelf and set it in front of him. Then, turning back to the stove to finish mixing the hamburger helper, she made the horrible mistake of leaving herself unprotected.

Fawomp! Frank’s fist connected with the back of her head, bringing stars into full view and nearly knocking Beth to the floor.

“Don’ turn yer’ back to me! How many times I tol ya, bitch?”

Beth stared him down through a bleary eyeful of fresh tears. The heat within flushed her face and raced to her temples in a fever. It was all she could bear. How many times had the fucker raised his fist? How many times had he called her a bitch? How many?

An acrid taste rose in her throat and settled on her tongue. She watched the old man scan her up and down, certain he had licked his lips as he did so. It made her that much sicker. She had no idea how much longer it would be before Frank actually tried to take her but knew it wouldn’t be long.

A rage as hot as a pressure cooker built within her and began to whistle. Beth attempted to control her next move, but the heat was too much to suppress. Something inside her popped as loud as a cherry bomb.

Then, the world turned red.

It filled her eyes and marinated within her. It set her blood on fire.

“Next time, get yer fuckin’ beer yourself, ya pig! No wonder mom left your drunk ass. If I was her, I’da left ya too. You know, she’s fuckin’ that busboy at Wilsons’. How’s that make ya feel, asshole?”

Frank began to rise from his chair but was silenced like a slaughtered hen when Beth spun with the frying pan in her hand. Cast iron, full power, and a quart of greasy Hamburger Helper whomped Frank against the smart side of his head—the outside. He hit the floor like a wet couch—limp, lumpy, and useless.

Beth scraped up the leftovers that defiantly clung to the bottom of the pan and fixed herself a plate. She stepped over her father’s definitely unconscious, possibly dead body as she crossed the tiny kitchen and sat at the table. The foul consistency of the greasy mixture was masked by her elation. It might as well have been caviar and lobster tail; it tasted like freedom. That afternoon had been the first time Beth had corrected a man.

It wouldn’t be the last.

***

The first group was nearly in front of them now, and the second battalion was closing in. Soon, their entire legion would be on top of them.

Casper and Deet shared a tentative sideward glance. They huddled in closer to Beth, attempting to gain as much cover as possible. Casper extended his hand toward one of the backpacks lying on the ground at their feet. Deet flashed him a questioning look and was about to motion for him to stop when the sunglasses guy took a step toward their position.

The man turned abruptly and then jerked on the chain even harder than before. He yanked both battered women off their feet. They were thrown to the pavement, crashing onto their knees and elbows. The woman in the back had been caught completely off guard and got the worst of it. Her head bounced off the blacktop like a marble.

“Get up, for Christ’s sakes,” Sunglasses screamed.

The haggard man in the lead position turned toward him. “Jesus, Tony, don’t mess ‘em up too much. They ain’t no fun if you kill ‘em. And who wants a bitch with a messed-up face, other than you, ya dumbass redneck? Next time”—he held up the barrel of the Uzi—"this goes straight up your ass!”

“Sorry, man,” Tony answered. He walked to where the first woman had fallen, less than five feet from where Casper, Beth, and Deet were hidden.

Beth watched as Tony took off his sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket. Then, he bent down and grabbed the woman from under her armpits. The woman’s eyes widened as she focused directly on Beth through the small opening in the tangle of branches.

Beth read volumes in that look. She saw the countless beatings and violations the woman had endured at the hands of those monsters. She saw how the men had kept the women compliant with drugs and shackles and the repeated humiliations. Although the entire message was transmitted in a fleeting moment, Beth could hear the woman’s cries within her own head.

Dear God, please help me. For the love of God, do something!

Beth choked on the tears but kept her silence.

Tony pulled the woman to her feet, which were now shredded from the carpet of broken glass. Then, he walked to the other woman in the back, who was more dazed now than before. Her face was purple and bleeding heavily. She attempted to blink away the blood as it flowed from the gash in her forehead and into her eyes. Tony took an old bandana from his back pocket and wiped it across her face.

Beth’s stomach turned as she struggled not to imagine what that bandana had been used for. She could smell the rancid rot as it violated the woman’s brow. She could taste it. Beth’s heart stagnated in her chest as the blood was cleaned away and she saw the woman clearly for the first time.

She gasped.

The woman’s name was Gail Kelleher. Beth knew her; they had worked together at the Tick Tock diner a lifetime ago. They hadn’t been exactly friends and had never spent any time together outside of work. Gail had been a few years older and had been serious about her studies, unlike Beth, who had never made it out of high school. Still, they had been friendly and had worked together. In fact, Beth had been covering Gail’s shift the night it all happened.

Dear God, that had been a year ago. Had Gail been a prisoner to those bastards the entire time? Beth tightened her grip on the Browning and slowly rose to her feet.

The second group was engaged in some private joke at their captives’ expense. They were busy taunting one of the women tethered to the chain of their harem caravan.

Casper pulled his hand out of the backpack as Beth stood up and started firing.

Deet had no time to stop either of them. “Balls!” he screamed.

Beth’s first shot hit the Uzi man in the side of the neck, fountaining a cascade of crimson into the air. His body flopped to the pavement almost instantly. He did manage to squeeze the trigger of the machine gun and was almost able to raise it. A spray of bullets tore through the pavement at Beth’s feet just before the man hit the ground.

The second guy with the shotgun turned toward her and tried to take the shot. Deet fired twice, silencing him before he could do anything. Tony didn’t have time to react either, as Beth’s bullets hit him three times before he could even turn to face her. He fell, clutching the chain in both of his lifeless fists.

“Heads!” Casper yelled as he tossed something into the air.

Beth and Deet knew the drill; they turned and shielded their eyes just as the flash-bang detonated. Hot, blinding light filled the darkening street as the concussion popped their eardrums and sucked the air out of their lungs. Deet quickly turned his attention on the second party of men. Beth had already begun to fire.

The second group had just enough time to pop off a few rounds at the assailants in the bushes before the grenade landed at their feet and exploded. They were stunned, blinded, and caught completely off-guard. Several of them fired in what they believed was the correct general direction, but their bullets went wild, ricocheting off the ground at Beth’s feet. However, some were a bit more focused, sailing past her head so close she could feel the draft. Deet had emptied his revolver and was quickly reloading. Several cartridges fell to the ground as he frantically worked the weapon.

Beth continued to pick off the ravagers one by one, her bullets finding their marks in the men’s chests and skulls. Ribbons of blood caught on the breeze and lifted into the air like the aroma of Sunday supper. It had been the thunderstruck look in Gail’s eyes that had pushed her to action. Beth knew that look; she had worn it herself a lifetime ago. There was no way she could just sit back and do nothing—there was no way.

Spent shell casings littered the street as the sound of automatic weapon fire filled the air. The ringing in Beth’s ears nearly drowned out the din of the full-blown war being waged—which was the last thing that any of them needed. This was supposed to be a stealth mission, in and out, no noise and no problems. The thunder of gunfire and the concussion of the flash-bang would be as effective as the clanging of a dinner bell. Soon, they would be faced with a much larger problem than a band of coked-up rapists who fancied themselves a militia.

Beth stopped firing and scanned the area for anyone left standing. Every last one of the marauders had been dispatched; their bodies lay in broken heaps strewn across the pavement. The women had been knocked senseless from the flash-bang and had taken to the ground for cover. They slowly rose to their feet, some to their knees, and stared blankly at their rescuers.

Gail, who was shaking and in shock, still managed to focus intently on Beth. There was recognition in her stare, understanding. But there was something else Beth noticed: something was missing, as if a part of the woman had been stolen, lost. A piece she would never get back.

Although it felt as if it had lasted only minutes, the battle must have ensued for far longer. The elongated shadows eating across the avenue revealed the nearly obscured sun had already started to set. The gathering clouds were now much darker and more threatening than they had been. The first drops of rain were quickly added to the growing river of scarlet freely flowing down Fairmount Ave.

Deet coughed, then gasped. Beth knew immediately something was wrong.

“No!” she cried and turned to him.

Deet held his hands to his chest; his face had gone stone-white.

“Deet, what is it?” Beth lowered the Browning.

He tried to answer but only managed to open his mouth. A deep crimson stain coated his teeth and his tongue. Then, the dam broke. A pulsing red gravy forced its way between his fingers and quickly soaked the front of his shirt. Deet looked down at the blood, and his knees buckled. A large caliber round had hit him in the center of the ribcage. He fell onto his back and stared up at the darkening sky. Deet was dead before his head hit the sidewalk.

Beth rushed to his side, and Casper was right there. “No, Deet. God, no!” she cried, and immediately attempted to pump life into his chest.

“Too late, Beth. He’s gone!” Casper   tried to pull her away. They both knew the bullet had pulverized Deet’s heart.

Suddenly, the skies exploded. The rain, which had been holding back, began to fall in torrential sheets. A bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky, turning the air blue for a brief moment.

“Beth.” Casper shook her by the shoulder. “We need to move.” Large drops ran from his hair, washing some of the dirt from his face. The scar that raced across his cheek now looked fresh and agitated. “They are coming. Chupacabra … they are coming!”

“God, Deet,” Beth sobbed. “It’s all my fault.” She kissed Deet’s cheek as the rain mixed with his blood and pooled underneath them.

“You did right!” Casper asserted. “You tried to help.” He motioned to the women in the street who were still shackled to their captor’s chains.

Beth’s tears morphed with the rain, now heavy and constant. Distant thunder broke up the continuous drone of droplets as they pounded the pavement. The shocked women stood frozen, watching Casper and Beth. They had been prisoners for so long they had lost the ability to think for themselves and had no idea what to do next. Their pleading eyes begged for answers, for any direction at all. None of them had thought to search the pockets of their dead captors for the keys to their shackles, and none had attempted to retrieve any of the discarded weapons lying at their feet. Instead, they simply stared, wordlessly waiting for Beth and Casper to do something, waiting for someone to tell them what to do.

A blood-churning scream pierced the roar of the storm, sounding almost cat-like, some animal in great pain. First, it howled, then it bellowed. There was something human about the cry, but there was something toxic and alien about it as well. It was answered by another shriek from nearby and then another even closer than the first.

The mournful noise was enough to snap the women from their half-dazed hypnosis. They sprang to action as they finally realized just how desperate their situation was, as if they had been somehow numb to it for so long. Their frantic eyes darted in every direction as they wrenched and wrestled against their chains and shackles. Most tried to simply pull their wrists through the confined openings in the small cuffs, tearing their flesh in the process. Blindly, they fought to free themselves from their bindings and each other.

Beth looked up at Casper with terror in her eyes. “They’ve heard us. Oh, God, Casper. They heard us!” She began to panic herself. She had witnessed what only a handful of the beasts had been able to do that first night and had seen far worse since. There was no telling how many heard the gunshots or what unimaginable hell was headed their way.

***

Casper had been in love with Beth since the first day she started working at the Tick Tock Diner. He would watch as she flirted with the truckers coming in for cups of bad coffee and a peek at Beth in her tight uniform. He bussed her tables and joined her on smoke breaks. And on more than one occasion, he was happy to correct any customer that got too hands-on. Casper loved her voice and believed she would make it to Nashville and sing at the Opry one day, even though the guy she was seeing did everything in his power to snuff that dream like a wet candle. The guy was no good for Beth, and Casper wished him nothing more than a hasty departure from his beautiful friend’s life.

They had been working together the night it started. Casper watched from behind the counter as Beth covered the floor. She hadn’t even been scheduled to work, but Gail Kelleher had been unable to make it in. Beth’s dirty blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail that made her look as if she had just stepped off the bus from Georgia.

Actually, she had arrived on four bald tires in her broken-down Accord with her guitar playing boyfriend, Donnie, who had been full of promises but suddenly found it impossible to keep his dick in his pants. For some reason, girls were attracted to those kinds of guys, the ones who were bad for them but had boyish faces and played guitar. Casper knew he didn’t stand a chance with a girl as pretty and as perfect as Beth. He was too big, he was too awkward, and he was too ugly. What the hell did an ex-wrestler have to offer a girl like that?

It had only been a small circuit in Hidalgo, Mexico, but he had made quite a name within it. Eduardo “Casper, the Ghost” Velasco had been infamously named for his ability to render men unconscious—on the verge of ghost-ness—in the first round. His famous Airplane spin and Scoop slam had made him a household name in Hidalgo.

But that had been a lifetime ago. There was no going back.

“Hey, vato,” a voice called from the darkness as Casper exited through the backstage door. He spun around in time to see the three men rush toward him. Two of them carried baseball bats, and the other held a knife. “Give us da cash, and you don’t get hurt.”

Casper scanned the dark alley, not a streetlamp or a place to run. He had never been mugged before, but he knew many of the wrestlers had been jumped after the shows. Everyone knew the wrestlers were paid when the show finished and would be carrying cash.

Holding his hands up, he slowly backed away from the men, putting as much distance as possible between them.

“Hey, pendejo! I didn’t say move. Now, give us da money!”

It was a blur after that. Casper remembered the first man rushing him, raising the bat, leaping like a leopard. He quickly dodged and wrapped his massive arm around the man’s neck. There was a snap and a crunch, then the man stopped moving. A flicker of flash, a fever of flurry, he recalled grabbing the knife from one assailant. After that, the world turned red. He finally woke from his trance, standing over the bodies of the three men, basted in blood.

There was nothing else to do but run. There was no defense he could argue. He had killed three men. More than likely, the assailants were connected to either the police or the cartel. That’s just how it worked in Hidalgo. So, Casper emptied the men’s pockets, adding another ninety bucks to his own money, then made his way to the border. It had been an arduous trek, but he had averted the patrols and slipped across. He arrived in Tennessee two weeks later, starving and in need of work. The Help Wanted sign hanging in the front window of the Tick Tock had been a sign from God.

“Dios Mio,” he whispered as he entered the diner.

***

Beth feigned a flirtatious smile as she took the men’s orders. Eight p.m., another Friday night at the Tick Tock Diner, smack dab in the middle of Bum Fuck Nowhere. The truckers looked her up and down, not even trying to be subtle.

Fucking Donnie, she cursed in her head. The bastard had taken her car and hot-tailed it out of town with Becky Fuckin Bishop—skank whore!

Beth was pretty sure her freckles and the ounce of cover-up she had applied earlier were doing a good enough job of concealing the shiner Donnie had given her as a going-away present.

“Will that be all?” she asked, offering another sheepish grin. “Great, Sugah, I’ll be right back with y’all orders.” It didn’t matter how far she traveled from home; Georgia was always there. Some things about her life were impossible to leave behind.

Beth turned to leave when one of the truckers reached over and pinched her ass so hard, she saw stars. Not wanting to risk losing her tip, she bit her tongue, smiled, and walked off.

Suddenly, Casper appeared with a trayful of water glasses. He stormed toward the table, allowing the tray to crash down and one of the glasses to dump into the ass-grabbing trucker’s lap. “Oh, sorry, señor,” his broken English a bit more intentionally broken.

“Goddamn!” the trucker shouted and attempted to stand.

Casper, who looked more Samoan than Mexican, towered over the man, forcing the trucker to cower back into the booth.

“You are very rude.” The three teardrops tattooed on his left cheek winked. “You might want to apologize, I think.” He left the table and approached Beth where she stood alone, gazing out the front window.

“Ya didn’t have ta do that, Sugah.” She smiled, revealing her swollen right cheek. “I can handle myself, ya know. I’m a big girl.”

“I don’ mind.” At six-four, Casper loomed over her five-one like a building. “Puto had it comin’.”

Beth giggled and patted his massive biceps. “My, you are a big boy!”

“You have no idea.” Casper straightened his back and stuck out his chest. “I see he hit you again.”

Beth’s hand shot to her swelling cheek. “I’ve had worse. ‘Sides, I won’t be seein’ that creep again no time soon. Took the car, along with his whore, and headed off to—I don’t give a rat’s ass. All I know, he’s outta my hair and outta my life.”

There was more truth to that than Beth was letting on.

She had seen it coming, had seen the way Donnie was becoming more and more like her old man with each passing day. He had discovered a taste for Bourbon, Ole No 7. Couldn’t make it through the day without it. And it wasn’t just the fact the bastard was fuckin around and not doing a very good job of casting shade on it. The fucker had put his hands on her, more than once. It was just like her old man all over again. Who the fuck did that limp dick prick think he was, pushing around Beth Carter?

Beth arrived at the apartment a half-hour before Donnie, just enough time to transfer four or so ounces of Quaker State anti-freeze into the bottle of Jack on the counter. She deliberately started the fight with him the moment he walked through the door.

“Were ya out with yer whore?” Was enough to set him off.

It had been a bitter one this time, but one Beth was happy to see through to the end. It finished with Donnie knocking her to the floor with a right cross. “That’s what you get, ya stupid bitch!” he screamed, grabbing the bottle from the counter, along with the keys to Beth’s car, and storming out the door.

She didn’t cry … not one tear. Instead, Beth sat on the kitchen floor, holding her cheek, and laughed until her sides hurt. She had knocked over one of the chairs and taken the ashtray with her on the way down. From where she was sitting, the scattered butts almost looked like tiny chunks of Hamburger Helper. Which made her laugh even harder.

Drink up, Donnie boy! Nobody calls Beth Carter a bitch—nobody!

Casper’s voice brought Beth back.

***

“You are better without him. He no good.” Casper imagined picking up Donnie, Airplane spinning and Scoop slamming him.

Suddenly, the front picture window lit up, blazing orange.

“Dios Mio!” Casper’s eyes doubled in size. “Es Chupacabra!” he gasped.

A deep fiery glow filled the entire window and brightened. Then, it turned a dark red and continued to intensify. Moments before it happened, Casper was able to recognize the light for what it was. He saw the flames. Something was burning, and it was headed directly toward the diners front doors.

He watched as the pick-up crossed the four lanes from the opposite side of the street. Flames billowed from the rear of the cab and from underneath the vehicle where the fuel tank was located. The driver must have had his foot pinned to the floor; he came at the building like a bat out of hell. The passenger’s side tires left the ground as the truck swerved and nearly overturned right there. Somehow, the driver managed to regain control as the wheels again made contact with the pavement and continued to propel the fiery bullet straight at the diner.

For a brief second, Casper saw the face of the man behind the wheel. The driver was wide-eyed, crazed, and clearly terrified; the man was scared to death.

Then, Casper saw why.

Beth turned to see what he was looking at. “My God! What are they?” The sight was ghastly. “Those aren’t people. That can’t be people! Dear God—those are people!” she finally screamed.

For a second, Casper thought the truck was dragging them. Bodies were attached to the back cab and bumper. Flying and flapping limbs and torsos bounced and flailed as the truck sailed over the avenue’s grass median. He initially thought some crazed lunatic had gone postal and had mowed down half a dozen pedestrians, tied them to his truck, and set it on fire. Now, the Molotov corpse cocktail was being hurled at the diner at about seventy miles an hour.

The burning truck was covered in bodies, all of them clinging, scrambling, contorting as they fought to get at the man behind the wheel. Their limbs twisted and bent at impossible, violent angles as they clawed at the derelict vehicle rocketing out of control.

Their arms and legs flailed. Their chests and backs heaved and writhed in such an unnatural fashion it made them look like they were in a state of flux, as if they were changing, altering. Casper couldn’t be sure if the demon beings were human or had ever been. The only thing he knew was they were dangerous.

The next thing Casper saw sent ice water racing through his veins. Two of the creatures clawing at the back bumper somehow propelled themselves into the air like guided missiles and threw themselves on top of the truck. They scrambled and clamored their way to the driver’s cab and began to claw at the roof and the windshield. They moved in horrible jerking motions, twisting and distorting as if they were in the grips of seizures.

They’re not human, was the only thing Casper thought as he watched the horror unfold outside. More of the creatures threw themselves from the back of the truck toward the driver’s compartment.

“Are they trying to get at him?” Beth gasped.

Even from a distance, they could see the driver of the truck was terrified. His eyes practically popped from his skull in terror as the beasts continued to clamor to get at him. The man behind the wheel turned the vehicle to the left and then the right in an attempt to shake the bodies free, but it did nothing. Some of the creatures had caught fire, which didn’t deter them either. They continued to clutch and claw at the truck in a ravenous need to satiate whatever hunger drove them.

“Oh … oh no!”

As the truck loomed closer, the features of the attackers were revealed.

“Casper!” Beth screamed as the burning vehicle slammed into the front of the diner. The world turned red as the explosion shattered the front window, firing broken glass inward. Beth flinched but couldn’t react quick enough.

However, Casper moved like a whip, grabbing her and then shielding her with his large physique. The cleaver of glass that connected with his cheek tore through it like a hot knife sinking into soft butter.

“Casper!” she screamed again as the burning bodies clamored against the broken glass. “Dear God … look out!”

Casper spun on his heels; dark crimson leaked from his broken face. He snatched Beth around the waist and lifted her in one motion.

“Wha … wait!” She struggled against him.

“No time, Beth.” He lowered his head as he raced past the stunned truckers in the booth. “Es Chupacabra, gotta go!”

As Casper slammed through the batwing doors to the kitchen, the first of the burning beasts forced its way into the diner through the broken window. Suddenly, they were everywhere, pouring in like a flood, descending upon the Tick Tock’s late-night clientele. Smoke began to fill the diner, along with the acrid smell of charred meat. It happened so fast it had to be a dream. But there was no mistaking the reality of it when the first blood-curdling screams pierced the night like a dagger.

The beasts had made their way to the men in the booth and begun to rip them apart, tearing at their flesh, gnawing, pulling, ripping into their skin, and then feasting upon them. By the time Casper had carried Beth through the kitchen and out the backdoor, the men in the booth had been rendered nothing more than a late-night snack.

The diner’s had become dinner.

Casper threw Beth into the passenger’s seat of his Corolla, and they were a good mile away before he realized he had a six-inch dagger of glass stuck in his cheek.

By then, those things were everywhere, on every street and every corner, smashing through the picture windows of families’ homes and ripping drivers from the seats of their vehicles. At first, the voices on the radios were frantic and nonsensical, then there was static. In the end, it was over as fast as it began ... civilization, that is.

The first thing to go was the media—the television and the radio. The internet lasted a little longer but not much. After that night, there was never another newspaper, podcast, or so much as a scrap of mail. The power grid folded less than a week later—no lights, no phones, and no help. It happened so fast the authorities had been overrun as easily as everybody else.

The lucky ones, those who had made it past the first night, had plenty of theories, but no one knew for sure. The hospitals were the first places to fall, and the police and national guard had been no match for such random brutality. Throughout it all, the Army was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, the only thing that mattered was survival, day to day, minute by minute.

But hadn’t life always been that way? Beth told Casper she had thought so. Growing up in the Carter household taught her that much. You either figured out a way to fix your problems, or they fixed you. You either survived, or you did not.

The shell-shocked women in the road had finally mustered enough clarity to search their captors for the keys to their release and had even managed to find them. They helped free one another, then took off blindly into the descending twilight. They may not have been thinking all that coherently, but at least they had the good sense to get as far as possible from whatever it was heading their way.

Inhuman shrieks now filled the night as the rain tried its best to drown out the pestilence. It grew louder and louder as the creatures called out to each other. Casper took Beth’s hand and looked her dead in the eyes.

“We got to go, Beth. Now!”

He was right. She looked across the street at the burnt-out Rite Aid less than fifty feet away. Beth watched as Gail Kelleher freed herself and ran barefoot across a carpet of broken glass into the First Fidelity. The woman never looked back.

Casper lifted Beth, grabbed her by the waist, and set her in motion. Then, they were running, leaving Fairmount Ave and the women behind them. Beth took one last look. The second group of women had not been as successful with their keys; they were fumbling and panicked. Beth knew the girls would not make it. They would die in the middle of Fairmount Ave anyway. She prayed Gail and the other woman were going to live to see another sunrise, but she knew better. The girls were as good as dead.

You either survived, or you didn’t.

The last thing she saw before she followed Casper down the alley was the charred Rite Aid sign. Alice was not going to get her antibiotics anytime soon. Maybe she would pull through anyway. Beth knew better. Alice wasn’t going to make it another day. Her kids would be destroyed, but they would get over it—or they wouldn’t.

She turned her head and focused on the path in front of her. A greasy memory rose and settled on her tongue—Hamburger Helper. She swallowed hard and pushed it aside. The voice in her head told her to keep running and not to look back … she listened. She hadn’t survived this long by ignoring that voice. They all heard them from time to time. It was the only reason she was still alive. And no one knew that better than Beth Carter … you either figured out a way to fix your problems, or they fixed you.

The End

iBola

By

DE McCluskey

‘Jesus Christ,’ Cory, the tall, broad-shouldered salesman type shook his head. He was holding a hand over his mouth stifling a gag. He’d heard the saying a sight for sore eyes, a million times before, but he never thought he would be seeing one for himself.

This was literally, a sight for sore eyes.

‘You’ve got to be fucking joking me,’ he gasped. ‘How the hell has this happened? Like, how the fuck, could something like this even be a thing?’ His face was flushed, almost the same colour as the dark auburn of his meticulously coiffured hair.

‘Aw, for fucks sake. We paid a fortune for these.’

Brandon was a slightly overweight geeky type. He was the technical lead, and the brains of this two-man project. His face was ashen, and he was nodding, aimlessly, as he gawped at the same sight that was making Cory gag.

Both had hands over their mouths, the creases in their brows telling the world they really couldn’t make any sense of what they were seeing.

‘I can’t look at that,’ Cory whispered between his fingers. His eyes making a liar out of him as they moved rapidly, recording the scene before him, undoubtedly, to replay every single time he tried to relax for the rest of his life. ‘This is a fucking mess.’ He turned to his smaller partner with wide, wild eyes. ‘Do you think this was anything to do with the devices?’

There was a lot riding on this project, for both of them, and by a lot, that meant everything. They had both ploughed all their savings into it, they had re-mortgaged their houses to the hilt, and maxed out all of their credit cards.

Brandon was shaking as he looked around the room. He was witnessing their financial ruin, or doom, lying on the floor of the room behind the tempered glass. He sucked air through his tight lips, making an ugly high-pitched whistle. ‘We’re going to have to bury this, and fast,’ he whispered. ‘I refuse to be financially ruined, by a bunch of dead African refugees.’

Cory looked at him, the wildness in his eyes was still there, but his slack mouth spoke of incredulity.

‘Where did we get them from?’ Brandon continued. ‘Do you think we could get our money back?’

Cory was shaking his head. ‘I don’t think you can get refunds on illegal immigrants, Brandon,’ he replied. ‘Those traffickers tend not to give receipts.’

Brandon couldn’t tear his eyes away from the situation through the glass. He remembered hearing a phrase once, in some film or other, when he was a kid. He could remember the scene, but not the name of the movie. Either way, he’d never, not once, thought he would be slap-bang in the middle of a FUBAR moment.

Yet here he was.

‘Maybe we should just get out of here. Burn this fucking place to the ground and run. I don’t know what’s gone on in there but it’s not something I want to play with. I don’t fancy hanging around to find out if that shit is contagious, or not.’

‘Fuck!’ Brandon spat. ‘Can we get more Africans? I don’t think the testing is anywhere near finished.’

Cory shrugged. ‘I have no idea. The guy who brought them in gave me a mobile number. He told me to only use it once, and then smash the fuck out of the phone I used to ring it with.’

Cory’s face went grey again, for the second time in ten minutes. ‘Is there CCTV evidence of any of this?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. We set it all up like Big Brother. Every moment will have been caught. Do you want to watch it?’

‘Fuck no! I have absolutely no desire to see what’s caused… that! I was going to say, if there’s video, we’re going to have to get rid of it too. This situation needs to be contained. If word of this gets out to our creditors, then we’re done. And I'm not just talking about the project either.’

‘I know,’ Brandon said, his eyes glazed. ‘You don’t need to remind me who’s backing this.’

‘We’re going to need it cleaning up,’ Cory said, pointing, but not looking through the tinted window.

Brandon raised his eyebrows. He was the opposite of Cory, he couldn’t take his eyes off what was behind the glass wall, and the… well, he didn’t have the words to describe the devastation behind it. It looked like someone had made a really bad, fake snuff film. Only this wasn’t fake, and there was no one to call cut. Eventually he tore his eyes away and looked at his partner. He cocked his head. ‘I hope you're not thinking about me going in there,’ he asked, his eyebrows raised.

‘Well, I can’t do it. I've got a meeting this evening, and I paid a fortune for this suit.’

Brandon shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, turning back to look at the ugliness behind the glass. ‘Absolutely not. Don’t we have crews for this kind of thing? Don’t our investors have specialist people for this?’

‘Are you going to ask them?’ Cory asked, still refusing to look through the window.

Bandon shook his head, slowly, as if resigning himself to what he was going to have to do. ‘There’s no way I’m going in there without a full hazmat suit. So, if I'm going in, then you're paying for the suit.’

Cory sucked on his teeth again. Brandon hated it when he did this.

‘You’re going to have to get all the devices back.’

‘You’re kidding, right?’ Brandon asked, his eyebrows almost knitting together. ‘They’re going to be next to useless. We’re not going to be able to use them now.’

Cory sighed. ‘They cost us over five grand a piece. Do you want to throw away fifty grand on a bunch of dead immigrants?’

Brandon breathed, deeply. He thought he could smell the stench of how he imagined it would smell in that other room. He shivered as he looked through the glass again, mesmerised at the sheer carnage behind it.

‘I'll get you a hazmat suit,’ Cory announced, looking as if he were trying anything just to get out of this warehouse.

‘I'm coming with you,’ Brandon said. ‘There’s no way I’m staying in here, with them…’ He was pointing towards the glass wall. Cory refused to look.

‘Come on then. We’re not going to be able to keep a lid on this if we don’t clean it up.’

‘Can’t we just throw a match in? No one’s going to be looking for any of these guys any time soon. The way it’s looks in there, there won’t be much of anything to find in the rubble. It’ll also get rid of the video evidence.’

‘You’ll still have to get the devices. They’re too expensive to just let go.’

Brandon sighed. ‘Let’s go. The sooner we start this, the sooner it gets done.’

***

Two hours later they had a hazmat suit, and Brandon was dressed, from head to toe, in the cumbersome coveralls. His face was miserable as he gazed through the window to where he was about to venture, to do what needed to be done.

Cory hadn’t come back into the building. He said he was going to make some phone calls, to see if he could get someone to burn the building down, professionally, with no questions asked. Brandon thought he was being a pussy, and was scared of puking down his new, fancy suit.

So, all alone in the control room of their operation, he pouted as he entered a code into a glass door. The hermetic seal hissed, and the door popped open, just a little, allowing access to a small airlock. They had needed this level of security as the project was so controversial, and secretive, plus it made them feel like they were the heroes of a science-fiction show on TV.

After the first door closed behind him and sealed, and the other one opened, he tentatively stepped into the room. Straight away he noticed the change in temperature. It rose by at least ten degrees to levels that were not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, especially in such a heavy suit. He was wet, moist, and damp, instantly. He didn’t think it was possible to be all three at the same time, but that was how he felt. Sweat was dripping down his face, and he wanted nothing more than to wipe it off but couldn’t. As he breathed in, he could taste the salt, and feel the tickle of the moisture in his nostrils.

He regarded the job before him, realising quickly that the tickle on his nose was going to be the least of his worries. It was his stomach that should be his main concern. The fact that it was currently churning and rolling, generating an ugly feeling in his midriff. This is what should be his priority. It felt like his innards were liquidising. He didn’t know if he wanted to puke, or if it was going to go the other way, but his mouth was wet with thick, warm saliva building up. There was a bitter taste rising from his stomach, and he had to reach out and lean against a wall, just to stop himself from falling over.

The room was set up like a luxury house. There were long sofas, some long tables, and a fully equipped kitchen. Down two corridors were huge bedrooms that were more akin to dormitories. Communal bathrooms were everywhere, each with deep Jacuzzi baths and waterfall, steam showers. It was based on the houses they used in reality shows, where groups of strangers were brought together and observed for weeks.

It was untold luxury to the African refugees they’d trafficked to partake in this project.

Now however, it looked like something totally different.

Now it looked like a whole different world from the comfort that had been offered to the illegals. It resembled an infectious disease ward, after the infection had gotten loose.

Cory had jokingly dubbed the project The Anal Rider 5000, and the name had stuck. Officially it was the Human Holistic Control Interface (HHCI), but Anal Rider 5000 was a better take. It was also more accurate, as the control was based on an anal applicator. It was always going to be a tough sell to get gamers to insert a holistic scanner, rectally, then allow it to scan their full synaptic pathways and create a database of how they move, before transferring the findings to whatever interface, whatever console was their choice.

The anal interface was unobtrusive, and after it had been inserted, and activated, the user’s full motor-neuron functions could be linked, and the user could then absorb themselves into whatever game they wanted to play. They could be that iconic female adventurer; they could be that diminutive Italian plumber. They could be walking through the deserted foggy village to the eerie cries of ghostly children, or maybe even fight some of the battles of World War Two.

Sadly, none of these test subjects were ever going to experience this again. In fact, they were never going to have any experiences, ever again. He looked around, after the initial shock, and nausea had passed. He wasn’t out of the woods yet. There was still a rather unpleasant job to do.

The mess before him was hideous. It was something so far beyond his wildest dreams, or even nightmares, he didn’t know where to start.

First, he thanked the universe that the hazmat suit was keeping everything out, including the smells, because he guessed if it smelt even a fraction as bad as it looked, there would be a good chance he’d be chucking his lunch, for the next week.

There had been ten of them. Five women, and five men. They’d had the interfaces inserted for them, mostly under duress due to them not understanding the process that was happening to them. Once fitted, they were told they could enjoy all the benefits of the nice house, including all the gardens, all food they could eat, and all the facilities. All of this was on the provision they played the computer games for at least six hours a day.

Of the ten people who’d been installed, none were left. All that remained where husks of naked bodies. He wondered why they would all be naked, but when he saw the torn fragments of clothing strewn around the room, he had an understanding. These people hadn’t been able to suffer anything against their flesh as whatever had happened to them, took hold.

It was a push to even call some of them bodies.

He swallowed, grimacing at the bitter taste that was forcing itself down his throat, and bent down to begin his grim task.

He looked into the face of the first cadaver. The holes where its eyes should have been, were nothing but circular pits filled with jelly. What was left of the eyeballs were hanging by pink tendrils down the poor soul’s face. Its mouth was open, as if it had died screaming, or crying. It had no teeth left in its mouth. They were on the floor, in a pool of brown, unidentified liquid, next to the body. It was a strange thing to see them, stark white in the dark viscus fluid.

He'd been thinking of the body as an it as there were no visible signs of gender available to him. It’s head was bald. Where hair had been, there was nothing but bloody pulp, as if every strand had been forcibly, and violently, yanked free.

Brandon, holding down a gag, looked again at the thing’s rotted face. The gaping hole where its nose used to be and the deep cuts around the creases of the mouth, made it look like it had been screaming so bad it had torn its own flesh. He could only imagine how fetid this thing must smell and was again thankful for the hazmat suit.

The rest of the body had not fared any better than the face. Its fingers had lost their fingernails and were stretched into claws, as if it had been tearing at, or into something. Its naked chest was sexless, he couldn’t tell if there had been breasts, or not. The chest was nothing but an open, seeping wound, gaping through to the stomach. From the hole he could see semi-digested food, chewed meat, wet bread, and a slurry of vile pink thickness pooling on the floor. In the mess, he thought he could see something that looked like the remains of a penis. He didn’t want to dwell on this though, he’d seen far too much already.

His head was swaying, and his eyes were stinging, not only because of what he was seeing, up close and personal, but because of the sweat running into his eyes. His stomach continued to dance as he thought of the loss of humanity that had occurred here. All of it for an interface for fucking computer games.

To counter these thoughts, he forced himself to think of the money he was set to receive. The sickness left him pretty sharpish then. What are the lives of a few African refugees worth against the billions coming my way once this thing is released?

This thought spurred him on. He suddenly didn’t mind doing a little bit of dirty work when the rewards were so high.

Against every instinct he had, he reached out to turn this husk over. He needed to retrieve the gadget, and he knew there was only one way he could get to it. As he pulled on the body, his hands sunk into the flesh the instant he touched it. It felt like jelly, or chocolate that had been left out in the sun and melted, only keeping its shape. An odd memory came to him, of one of those tri-angle bars of Swiss chocolate he’d left out in the sun for too long. He’d tried to pick it up, to eat a wedge, and his fingers had passed right through it. This was almost the exact same sensation.

He'd enjoyed the melted candy back then, but now the memory made him retch.

As he gagged, he misjudged his balance, foolishly gambling his weight on the solidity of the body. As his hand fell through the mush, momentum took him the rest of the way. He gasped as he tumbled into the ex-human mess. As his helmet hit the body, he expected a jolt as he contacted something solid; that didn’t happen.

He fell through the body.

He watched as gelatine organs and rotting meat slathered over the protective plastic of the visor. He felt like he could taste the filth in his mouth as he screamed.

His stomach flipped, and this time he was not so lucky with it correcting itself. As he opened his mouth, a hot flow of warm, yellow bile, flowed from him. It was bitter as it passed through his lips, to splatter against the transparent plastic, before splashing back and covering his face, and re-entering his still open mouth. This made him close it again as the thick grime returned home and was swallowed.

The alien substance his stomach had just rejected, was rejected again, and the cycle continued.

He was on his back, covered in liquified human, with his own projectile vomit dripping on to his face. This isn’t how I want to die, he thought, surprising himself with the lucidity of it. Eventually his stomach stopped rejecting, and thankfully stopped rolling. He closed his eyes. The stink, and the moist warmth within the suit was awful. He could feel liquid dripping, cool and thick, onto his face.

He wanted to wipe it away from his nose as each time he breathed in, as sniffing the vomit back up, was causing him to choke. He rolled onto his side and felt the goop pool against the side of his face. He opened his mouth to breath, but more spew sloshed into his mouth.

As he spat the liquid out, he feared vomiting again. He wasn’t quite sure he’d survive another round.

Breathing from the side of his mouth, he attempted to correct himself, knowing he was doing no good lying on his side. He tried to find grip in the thick, slippery soup on the floor, but his initial attempts were fruitless. He put a hand into the grime and pushed, attempting to use it as leverage, but it slipped, and he fell again. Cool broth sloshed against his face, and he had to hold his breath to avoid swallowing more of it.

He groaned, again from the side of his mouth, as he felt his stomach beginning to bubble.

He lay back on the floor and opened his eyes. It took a moment to register what he was seeing due to his tears attempting to clear his vomit from them, and from the thick brown goo covering the plastic visor. He waited a few moments before attempting to move again. He rolled over onto his side. As he did, he came face to face with a bloated, but wilted, flaccid penis. He knew then that the person he was rolling about in had been male after all.

He rolled again, the vomit in his helmet, cold now that it was out of his body, sloshed over his face again, and then again, as he continued rolling. Once free of the jello-body he’d been cavorting inside, he took a moment to lever himself off the floor. His grime-covered gloves finally finding purchase, enabling him to pull himself into a sitting position. As he did, cold vomit spilled down his suit, dousing his sweating body with its greasy coating.

He shivered as it oozed through his clothes.

He stifled another gag, as the stench inside the suit was acrid, and excruciating.

After taking a moment to conduct his thoughts, he turned back to look at the body he had just been in. There was almost nothing left of it. It was now only remotely humanoid. It looked like what he could imagine a person who had just fallen out of a moving aeroplane at thirty thousand feet might look like. It was a mess of liquidised flesh, organs, bones, and half-digested food. If he hadn’t been covered in this concoction and was in danger of becoming desensitised to its horrors, he might have vomited again.

With a Herculean effort he managed to stand up, grimacing again as the vomit pooled within the feet of the suit. He needed to get out of this madness. He hadn’t signed up for this. All he’d wanted to do was to design an interface that could map the human genome and send it to a computer console, and then get stupidly rich. There was nothing in that contract about retrieving gadgets from liquidised dead refugees’ asses.

He groaned as he looked into the mirror that was a window on the other side. He knew what lay behind there, and he longed for it. It was safety, it was sanity, it was riches beyond his wildest dreams, and he knew how wild his dreams could be.

With a steely determination, he turned back to the job at hand.

The body he had been rolling in was almost gone. The only parts decipherable as human were from its hips, down. The gadget he needed was inserted within the anal cavity of this man, or whatever it was now. All that was required was for him to insert two fingers into this cadaver, locate the cylindrical object, and retrieve it.

What could be easier?

He reached down to the naked buttocks, and, with a grimace, he pulled them apart.

He needn’t have bothered.

The melted chocolate in the sun effect returned, and the buttocks fell apart like semi-set jelly. A thick brown sludge gushed between his fingers that was warm, against the cold of the moulded flesh, through his heavy glove. He could smell this even with vomit up his nose, even through the hazmat suit, mostly through his vivid imagination.

He looked up at the ceiling, hoping to clear his mind of what he was seeing, but it was too late. Once you’ve seen a man’s ass split like jelly, with a light-beige chocolate sauce seeping from the inside, it was something that printed itself, indelibly onto your brain. There was no way he would be able to eat chocolate bombe pudding at Christmas, ever again.

He wanted to wipe his face more than anything in the world. He needed to get the greasy moisture from his skin, to get the stink and taste of his own stomach juices from the suit. The only way this was possible was to retrieve the gadgets and get the fuck out of this hell hole, pronto.

He coughed as he extended two fingers to search the man’s rectal cavity. He grimaced at the gore dripping from them and shuddered. He looked at the disarray before him and saw something resembling a sphincter, only it was nowhere near as tight as he would have expected it to be. It was half relaxed, and the thick slurry was still weeping from it. He pushed his two fingers into the semi-tight hole. It widened with a gaseous resistance his imagination allowed him to smell.

Thank you, brain, he thought.

The opening of the sphincter allowed more of the vile contents to gush, lubricating his fingers as they wriggled within what was left of the colon, but he couldn’t find the gadget. He inserted another finger, sliding it smoothly inside, flinching from the gas that expelled as the entrance widened, and resumed his search.

There was still nothing.

With a sigh, he inserted his little finger and pushed deeper.

Something solid rubbed against his fingers, but try as he might, he just couldn’t grab it. He tucked his thumb inside his fingers and slipped even deeper.

Now I’m fisting a corpse, he thought. Could this day get any worse?

Eventually, he located the device, and grabbed it greedily. He pulled his hand out of the refugee’s asshole, with as much dignity as he could muster. Only he couldn’t. His hand was stuck. ‘Fuck,’ he spat, spraying a saliva and vomit cocktail onto the inside of his hood. He pulled, only lightly as he didn’t want to lose the gadget he was grasping, but he couldn’t move. His hand was stuck tight, caught in a vacuum. He pulled again, and again, yet it wouldn’t budge. ‘Fucking hell!’ he hissed.

He tugged again, but there was still no give in the fleshy colon, if anything he thought it was now gripping him tighter.

With an almighty yank, he pulled his hand free of the corpse’s ass and it came with a comical popping sound. The force used caused him to fall back, naturally putting his hands back to stop the tumble.

It sunk into something.

He turned to see what it could be and almost threw up again. He’d crushed the face of another corpse that had been behind him. His hand had gone through the head as if it were an over-ripe melon, complete with the juice he would have expected.

As he witnessed this damage, the familiar gorge began to rise from his stomach.

The face was pushed in, and the jelly-like substance that had been its flesh, its skull, its brain, was now covering his hands.

The vomit was coming, there was nothing he could do to stop it now. Instinctively, he threw his hand to his face, to stem the flow, when he saw something that stopped everything in its tracks. All thoughts of vomiting, all the cramps in his stomach, all the saliva creeping up his throat to lubricate his pipes in readiness for the oncoming expulsion, ceased.

He just stared at his hand.

His gloveless hand.

He swallowed as he looked at the corpse, he’d been wrist deep inside only moments ago, and there, protruding from the ruined remains of his anus, was his glove.

A deep panic overtook him, and he found it difficult to catch a breath. He looked over to the long mirror that he knew was his only way out of the psychosis he’d found himself in. He needed the gadgets though, his whole life plan depended on them. They were going to make him the rich man he deserved to be. If that meant pulling small cylindrical objects out of dead peoples asshole’s, then that was exactly what he was going to do.

He gritted his teeth, swallowed the thick saliva, and gripped the material hanging out of the exposed sphincter. He pulled on it, not caring about the cold, diseased filth squeezing, oozing between his fingers, or the warm breeze from the gaseous escapes brushing his exposed flesh. He needed that gadget, and he needed it now.

The glove slipped from the mire, bringing with it another slurry he knew he’ need to rummage through. There was no point putting the glove back on, so he pulled off his other one, freeing his hand and fingers to do their work unencumbered. The beige scum was thick and cold as he rummaged for the object. Eventually he found it, wrapped his hand around it in triumph and pulled it from the quagmire.

It wasn’t the gadget.

It looked like a semi-digested sausage.

With a grunt, he flung it across the room, and watched, with grim satisfaction, as it splattered onto the mirrored wall, before slowly sliding down, leaving a greasy trail in its wake. He looked at the filth dripping from his fingers. You’re going to go into some fucking terrible places today, he thought with a wry grin. Get it done then we can get on with living the rest of our lives on that beach in Bali.

With nice thoughts running through his head, and a cool breeze rippling though the suit from the arms, he delved his naked hand back into the sludge that the man had expunged. It took him a moment or two of searching, but he soon found something.

This time it was the device.

It was small and cylindrical with a tiny blue light on one end that was currently flashing through the grime coating it.

It’s still mapping, he thought with a grin.

The stink of everything was wafting towards his nose, along with the cooler air. It was sweet, like someone had been cooking with sugar, but far too much sugar, as the sweetness was cloying, and sickening.

It smells better than my vomit, he thought with a nod.

He put the device on a plate, on a table, then entered the corpse of the victim whose head he’d inadvertently caved in. As he turned the corpse over to gain access to it asshole, it too fell apart in his hands. It literally turned to mush the moment it was moved. What the fuck happened to these poor bastards?

He managed to roll what was left of the leaking bag of filth over, kind of, and located what used to be its ass. Without a second thought, he delved two fingers into the sphincter, encountering minimal resistance as he did. The stink from the escaping gas crawled up his arms, heading straight for his nose.

It was cold and wet inside.

It felt like he was fingering a condom that had been filled with cold oatmeal. He grimaced as he slipped his digits deeper, fishing for the small object. His fingers found solidity within the mush, but he couldn’t grasp it. He stuck out his tongue, bit it gently, and inserted another finger, but still couldn’t grasp the damned thing.

He knelt next to the body and inserted three fingers of his other hand, pulling the hole apart, stretching it as wide as it could go. He bent down further, looking inside the stinking chasm. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but wished he had a torch. He pulled the opening even wider. A ripping sound proceeded the expulsion of chute-mud from the opening. It splashed over his visor, obscuring his vision. He wiped the waste away, his fingers slipping from the hole easier than they’d entered.

His vision was now too distorted to see what he needed to see. The visor was just too dirty, so he decided to remove the useless item.

The instant he did he gagged, coughed, and vomited.

The room was warmer than he thought it would be, and the stench of rotten meat, with the lingering gaseous under-stench of discharge, lay heavy in the air. More dark yellow liquid dribbled from his mouth. He used his hand to stem it, forgetting about the dead men’s residue that was still dripping from them.

The taste was an abomination.

It was cold mush that was one-million times worse than the regurgitated bile he’d swallowed while wearing the mask. He spat, hoping to get everything out before he could swallow again. Even when he did swallow, he didn’t think he’d managed to get all the filth. His saliva was lumpier, and more bitter than it should have been.

Shaking his head, he continued his revolting work.

He dipped his hand back into the organic quagmire and searched for the next gadget.

His fingers found the greased-up cylinder and grasped it.

He placed it on the same plate as the other.

‘Two down, eight to go,’ he said, grimacing at the taste of the thick air.

He looked around at the eight other bodies scattered about and sighed. The more corpses he violated, excavating the expensive gadgets, the more he became desensitised to the extremity of what he was doing. He marvelled at how he had gotten used to the stench, and the ugly taste on the back of his throat. Before he knew it, he had harvested nine gadgets, all of them on the plate, languishing in a heavy puddle of liquid human.

There was only one more to find.

When the last one was done, and there were ten gadgets, he stood and regarded his work. Ten people were ruined. He thought of them as worse than dead. Their lives, their humanity, and eventually their dignity had been systematically taken from them. They had died naked, screaming, clutching themselves as their insides, and eventually their outsides, turned to mush. Their liquidised internal organs gushing from every orifice possible. Their eyes falling out, their anuses prolapsing, as had the women’s vaginas… The men’s penises rotting, before eventually falling off. All of this before some stranger came in and destroyed their assholes to retrieve something that probably should never have been up there in the first place.

This was a fucked up situation.

FUBAR, he thought.

However, once they set fire to this factory, once all of this was gone, they could get back to testing and sending the devices out to their focus group, and the early adopters. They were so close to completing this project that he was not willing to allow a mysterious, African disease to get in the way of the riches that were so close he could almost taste them, just underneath the sickening grime coating the inside of his mouth.

He took the ten devices, and the plate, over to the mirrored wall.

His stomach cramped a little as he did, and he had to stop for a moment to correct his spinning vision. Thankfully, the feeling was only fleeting.

He knocked on the mirror. ‘Cory, I've got them,’ he shouted, positioning his mouth over the small microphone hole. ‘Are you in there?’

***

‘Do you have the devices?’ was the first question asked by the anonymous voice on the other end of the phone.

‘I’ll have them, soon,’ Cory replied.

‘Excellent,’ the voice spoke. ‘A crew will be there within the hour. Do not be inside when they arrive.’

The phone went dead before he could reply. He kind of got the feeling they wouldn’t be bothered if he was inside, just as long as they got their products.

There was a knock on the window, and for the first time since he came back inside, he looked into the room.

It was total and utter carnage in there.

With a deepening sense of revulsion, he watched Brandon knock. He was holding a plate filled with small cylindrical objects that were all flashing blue. He spared a look behind his partner and witnessed the result of his depraved acts on the dead.

He threw up in his mouth as he watched the man holding the plate, wipe his disgusting face with a disgusting hand, leaving a disgusting residue on his disgusting skin.

‘Cory, I've got them,’ Brandon shouted into the microphone in the window. ‘Are you in there?’

Cory almost pressed the button to unlock the hermetically sealed door. His hand actually reached out for it but paused at the last moment. He regarded his friend in the other room. He was knocking on the window again. ‘Cory, come on man. Open up. I've got the devices.’

Brandon looked at this friend’s face. He looked beyond the filth, the grime, the blood, and the shit. He saw the man’s eyes.

They were red.

They were not the pink of someone who might have gotten an irritant in them, but the deeper colour of someone who was seriously sick. He kept rubbing them, and the more he did, the redder they got. He watched his friend wince, as if something in his stomach flipped, and was painful as opposed to irritable.

‘Brandon,’ he shouted after pressing the button to talk. He could hear his own voice booming in the other room. His friend looked up towards it. ‘Listen, you’re going to need to go through the decontamination procedure. But first, I need you to pass the gadgets through, and I’ll start the decon on them, then we’ll get you done. Do you hear me?’

Brandon nodded. He struggled over to the small hatch at the end of the window.

‘Put them through. I’ll get them, give them a wipe, and get them out to our clients. We’re going to be billionaires, man. Just put them through and the money will pour in.’

Brandon coughed.

Cory flinched as blood sprayed from his friend’s mouth, splattering the window. Brandon reached out and wiped it leaving a pink swathe across it.

‘Come on. Hurry up, you're going to need to get that decon as soon as possible. You’re not going to want to end up like them, are you?’

Brandon turned to look at the mess behind him. He coughed again before creasing over as a gush of blood escaped his mouth. As he turned back, Cory noticed it wasn’t just coming from his mouth. It was pouring from his nose, and from his eyes.

‘Come on. Pass them through and let’s get you out of there.’

Brandon swallowed. Cory watched him wince, as blood continued to stream from his eyes. He pressed the button to open the hatch, and as he pushed the plate into the airlock, Cory could see the tips of his fingers were bleeding too, as his fingernails hung uselessly from them.

This was worse than looking at the man’s bloody face.

When the red light turned green, Brendon stepped back from the hatch. He pressed a button and his side opened. He looked around for something to use to pick the plate up; he didn’t want to touch it. He couldn’t find anything, so he took off his expensive jacket and used it to cover his bare hands.

He took the plate and found a plastic box. He removed the lid and slid the contents into it. The objects, and the slime they were coated in, slid inside before he put the lid back on.

There was another knock on the window, and he forced himself to look. Brandon was on his knees. He was banging, weakly on the glass, shouting, begging to be let out. Cory could do nothing else other than watch as his friend, and business partner, fell to the floor. Blood was bubbling from his eyes, his ears, his nose, and his mouth. His hands were nothing but bloody stumps still tapping on the glass, leaving bloody smears all over it. He was either gasping for breath or trying to scream for help, either way there was nothing anyone could do to help him now.

‘I’ll make sure your family are provided for,’ he whispered through the window. He knew Brandon wouldn’t be able to hear him, but it made him feel better about what he was about to do. Brandon’s bloody, red eyes locked onto his, but Cory didn’t have the guts to hold them. He had to go, he had to get out of the building and hand the gadgets to the investors.

‘I’ll see you soon,’ he whispered, getting up. He grabbed the box and made his way out of the office, into the cool air outside.

He never looked back, but swore he could hear a tap, tap, tap on the window.

I’ll probably hear that till the day I die, he thought.

***

‘They’ll need to be cleaned,’ Cory said, passing the box into the waiting car. ‘You won’t want to touch them yourself.’

‘The money will be in your account within the hour, and the contracts are already with your lawyers,’ the voice from inside the dark car spoke, as arms reached out to take the box.

‘I've emailed you the names on the focus group. They’ve all paid big money to be part of this.’

‘Understood,’ the voice replied before the door closed, and the car drove off.

Another car pulled up, and four men got out. One of them looked his way. His stony expression told Cory he didn’t relish conversation. ‘Is there anyone inside?’ he asked.

Cory looked at the huge facility and shook his head. ‘Not anymore,’ he whispered.

The man nodded, then began barking orders at the other three.

As Cory got into his car, he spared a last look at the building. His brow ruffled as something rumbled in his stomach. He shrugged, gunned the engine, and drove off into the afternoon sun.

The End

3am and Wide Awake

By

Sarah E. England

From somewhere inside the house a door slammed.

His eyes snapped open, heart racing. Beside him his wife slumbered on.

Had it been a dream?

Tick-tick-tick-tick…No other sound apart from the bedside clock…

Or was there? Yes…He strained to hear…the sound of breathing…Was it his own or…?

Holy crap! Someone’s in the room!

He tried to jump up, only to realise his limbs were completely paralysed. Not so much as a finger would respond. Horrified he lay there, locked in, forced to watch as a shape broke away from the shadows on the wall, gradually taking form.

No, no, this could not be!

Yet now it was gliding over towards the bed, until it stood over him. Watching, observing. And then slowly, oh-so-slowly, began to climb onto his chest, as heavy as a wet dog.

What the f…?

A scream died in his constricted throat. He couldn’t breathe. He was going to die and couldn’t even reach out to touch his wife, to say good-bye. The world was fading to black…

Which was when the voice came, delivered with malevolent glee, “Good morning, Jack. Wakey, wakey! It’s 3am.”

***

9am:

The medical receptionist looked up from her desk and gave the pretty, young drug rep a wintry smile. “Don’t keep him long this morning; he’s got a full clinic waiting.”

Hayley Peters mirrored the glacial lip twitch and knocked on Dr McGowan’s door. He was a nice guy, she was thinking, one of the few who offered her coffee and bothered to ask how she was keeping. But today there was no cheery call to come on in. She knocked again. Silence. Well how odd! Cautiously Hayley pressed down the door handle, then slowly nudged open the door.

“Hello?”

Jack McGowan’s office was a modern box piled high with books and reading material, a testament to his volume of work. He had his back to her, staring at the computer screen. A blank computer screen.

“Dr McGowan?”

Jack turned and looked at her with a puzzled expression.

“Sorry, I knocked but–”

“Oh yes!” He indicated the chair opposite. “Yes, of course. Sorry, Hayley. Had a bit of a rough night. I’m not quite with it yet.”

He looked shocking - grey pallor, red-rimmed eyes - weary beyond all reason.

Taking a seat, Hayley hesitated, unsure of how to proceed. “Feels like spring might be round the corner today, still a bit chilly out, though,” she said, reaching into her briefcase for a brochure. “Children keeping you up, I take it?”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then shook his head. “No, It’s not the kids.”

She was still distracted, rooting in her bag. “Oh, were you on call?”

“No. It’s Sort of… Well…”

His words tailed off, and she sat holding the brochure, not sure how to proceed. It looked as if he had a huge burden to offload, as if something terrible had happened, and she was about to say she could come back another time, when he appeared to make up his mind about something and abruptly switched his focus back to her.

She smiled faintly. “Can I help, at all?”

Later, how she wished, with all her heart and soul, that she hadn’t asked him that. But it was too late – he’d begun to tell the story.

“It was Linda,” he said. “We’ll call her Linda - just out of prison and suffering from severe depression. She’d roll up in a ball in the corner of the ward. If she was asked to do anything she’d stare back wild-eyed, kicking and spitting if you got too close. We tried everything, Hayley. But then a couple of days ago I had this idea. Thought we’d do hypnosis.”

He paused.

Hayley waited.

“Shouldn’t have.”

Twenty-two-year-old Hayley found herself gazing at the photos on his desk of a happy family life, of freckle-faced kids grinning at the camera, at his array of certificates on the wall, and felt an unaccountable stab of fear, a prescience of doom. This father, this doctor, this bastion of the established adult world, had been broken. And was about to tell her why.

***

Jack’s Story:

It had been a tough decision. Linda had been in prison for many years following an armed robbery that resulted in the death of a security officer. Disruptive and tormented, she’d finally been sectioned, after which she’d become significantly more agitated.

“I want to try hypnosis,” Jack told his colleagues at the team meeting.

At first it worked well and Linda showed a remarkable improvement. However, less than an hour into the second session her personality completely changed - gone the angst-ridden young woman, now replaced by a grinning mask of pure malice. And out of the mask came a chorus of deep guttural voices, referring to themselves as, ‘The Legion.’ The new persona then proceeded to issue severe threats to Jack and his team if they did not discontinue that particular line of treatment.

To everyone’s horror the voice seemed to know every intimate detail about Jack’s private life, including that of his wife, to a sickening degree. Quickly realising the demon was feeding off his energy, Jack tried to calm the situation down by surrounding his aura with protective light and breathing deeply. No fear. No response. And after a while the malignant persona began to diminish, the lights flickered, Linda became Linda again and the mask melted away.

When she woke she had no recollection of what had happened and shortly afterwards, contentedly sipping tea, told him she felt fine, so good in fact that she’d like to come off her medication.

“Whatever you did, it’s working,” she told him.

But that night as Jack lay in bed mulling over the day’s events, the marital bed began to tremble, gently at first, then to judder quite violently. Astonished, he looked at his wife who remained soundly sleeping. Was it some kind of waking nightmare? He lunged for the lamp, light flooded the room, and immediately the bed stilled.

Bad dream.

He glanced at the clock. It was 3am.

Yet things were to become more bizarre. The following morning, shortly after he arrived at work a phone call from an angry colleague was put through.

“Now look here, McGowan - I’m telling you now I have no intention of carrying out this ridiculous request. Quite frankly I’m amazed you had the nerve to even ask.”

Confused, Jack asked him what he was talking about. He’d made no such request. The other doctor insisted it had been Jack who’d left the message on his personal answer phone and would not repeat it for fear of embarrassing them both further.              Shocked and not a little upset, Jack continued with the morning’s work before attending a lunchtime conference. When he arrived, however, he found his place had been cancelled and was subsequently refused admission. The event was full and the cancellation had, apparently, been made by him.

There were other oddities. His computer would flash up without warning, the printer would print unfathomable messages, lights dimmed and brightened and a book flew off the shelf on its own accord. Then he’d picked up the phone to a caller who spoke only gibberish, except it was very clearly enunciated gibberish as if Jack should be able to understand. When he didn’t the caller became extremely agitated and he was forced to put down the phone.

That night he’d lain awake trying to work out what was happening. Either he was losing his mind or some external force was influencing him. His wife, exhausted after her long day with the children, murmured something in her sleep and Jack sighed. He couldn’t burden her with this.

Alone in the dark, his scientific mind had tried to analyse the situation. But every avenue he took led to the same conclusion: Linda’s demon. He didn’t want to acknowledge this, he told Hayley. But what else could it be unless he was going insane? Had a demonic entity jumped into his aura from hers? Was it now attached? Or worse – inside of him? Because one thing was indisputable - she was better and he was ill.

He’d been coming to that conclusion when there was a sudden crash downstairs, and his eyes had snapped open from an exhausted and fitful sleep. The night air was black and heavy, a suffocating blanket. Something was in the room with him. And out of the darkness a shape had taken form, climbed onto his chest and begun to compress his breathing. He’d been paralysed, he told Hayley, unable to move or speak, as the creature leaned over and hissed in his ear, its voice silky and content.

“You are one with us now, doctor. Just imagine what we can do…How utterly…delectable…”

He had tried to move his head away but found he could not. His heart was galloping, sweat pouring in rivulets down his forehead, dripping into his eyes, down his neck, soaking the pillow.

“My perfect host…what shall we call it…an affinity…?”

He wanted to scream, ‘Never, never,’ but no sound came. His wife had slept on. And downstairs the clock chimed.

It was 3am.  Again.

***

He began to dread the nights, the big, comfy marital bed no longer the sanctuary he’d come to cherish.

“You look knackered,” said his wife one morning over breakfast. “We should book a holiday, Jack.”

He nodded, dizzy and distracted with fatigue. Everything was normal. The kids were running round arguing and getting ready for school, the baby was whimpering and refusing to eat his boiled egg, the post plopped onto the mat and the radio played a familiar pop tune: ‘So you had a bad day….’

“What about the Canary Islands?” His wife was spooning egg yolk into the mouth of their youngest child - an apple-cheeked toddler with red hair and fat fingers.

“Yes, fine, book it. Oh, actually let me check the diary first.”

“Do it today then Jack, and I’ll get it sorted. My god, you really do look rough.”

That night he slept downstairs, wrapped in the duvet from the spare room while the electric fire hummed and shadows played on the walls. Afraid to drop off and constantly expecting the worst, inevitably, however, he dozed. And at the precise moment he slipped into sleep a loud explosion woke him.

Immediately on alert, heart thumping somewhere in his throat, the first thing he noticed was that the fire was off and the room was icy cold. His breath steamed on the air.

“Who’s there?”

He wandered into the hall and found the front door was wide open. Freezing air rushed in and he pushed it shut. Just as the study door slammed at the end of the hall. And then the kitchen door. He stood alone in the hallway. Watching. Waiting.

“Who’s there?”

The darkness intensified to soot black

Tick-tick-tick-tick.

A door creaked on the landing.

He looked up. Silence echoed through the hollow chambers of the house. And then slowly he began to climb the stairs, overwhelmed with a feeling that something was very wrong up there. His children, his wife…

Upstairs the air was thicker, almost palpable. But there was a lamp on in the bedroom. Was his wife reading? Unusual but maybe she couldn’t sleep? Yes, that was all it was. It had been a breeze from the open door, which must not have been closed properly, and everything was perfectly normal. Nothing to be worried about…

He pushed open the bedroom door. But his wife was not in bed. His mind tried to make sense of it. And then he saw her. On the floor, her body cold and rigid.

On autopilot he grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her. Her skin was icy, limbs set to stone, and it took every ounce of his strength to drag her to the bed and then lift and roll her back in. And another hour before he felt her muscles gradually relax.

Thankfully when she woke she remembered nothing except she ‘didn’t feel too good.’

We are legion…We are many…

Things were getting worse, far more dangerous. He had to tell someone.

***

9.30am:

Hayley listened with a mixture of disbelief and horror.

“Dr McGowan, you must get help.”

He lifted his head. “Ah, Hayley, I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have burdened you, but–”

“No, it’s ok.”

He looked at her. “I couldn’t tell any of my colleagues or they’d have me committed!” Hayley smiled, a glacial smile. How she wanted to get out of here.

***

But for the rest of the day Jack’s story didn’t leave her. It was impossible to get rid of the mental images he’d conjured or the feelings of terror. And everything was going wrong. Jack’s secretary had snapped at her for taking so much time. Her car kept cutting out. Her next appointment had been mysteriously cancelled and then she got a parking ticket. By the time she arrived home to find she’d lost her flat keys and had to go to a neighbour who kept the spare set, a head cold was coming on and she decided to have a bath and an early night.              ‘So you had a bad day….’

She took a book to bed to take her mind off it all. The novel was a good one and, quickly engrossed, the sudden sound of breaking glass was a heart-leaping shock. Putting the book down, she sat absolutely motionless for several minutes, the thud of her pulse banging in her ears. Had that happened?

Then into the silence came the undeniable sound of footsteps padding down the corridor.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror opposite - a blonde, child-faced woman beneath a pink lamp – with an expression of terror on her face. As the shadow of a hand crept across the wall behind her. And switched off the lamp.

She tried to scream but no sound came.

And beside her the bedside clock glowed.

It was 3am.

The End

Definitely Not Haunted

By

Ashley Lister

The eBay listing concluded with the words DEFNITELY NOT HAUNTED, and that was what caught Arthur’s eye. The full listing said, “Antique Doll - Ernst Heubach Germany 1906. No Cracks or Hairlines. DEFINITELY NOT HAUNTED.” Underneath the listing title was the photograph of the ugly fucking thing. The head was bisque, the pink colour of offensively processed meat, with thick and broad eyebrows painted beneath a superhigh forehead. The eyes were wide, rimmed with painted lashes that would not have looked out of place on a sex worker, but age had turned the once-baby-blue irises into the pale colour of cloudy cataracts. The thing stared blindly out from the computer screen as though it wanted to convince Arthur that it was definitely not haunted. It was not pretty. It was not cheap. But, because it was definitely not haunted, Arthur thought it would be ideal.

Without another second’s hesitation, he hit the BUY IT NOW button.

***

The package arrived three days later. Because the doll was only thirteen inches in height, it had been sent in a used wooden port case. The box fitted the Heubach like a little dolly coffin and that macabre thought was enough to make Arthur grin dourly as he examined his purchase. Bright sunlight filled the room flooding in through the leaded windows where the orangery overlooked the southern acres of his mother’s estate.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” asked his mother.

He’d been unwrapping the package in the kitchen and, not for the first time, she’d managed to sneak in behind him without him realising she was there. For an elderly woman with a dodgy heart, and sufficient mobility issues to mean she was receiving government benefits to add to the coffers of her inherited wealth, there were times when she could sneak around the place like a ninja. Arthur jumped as though he had been goosed and span abruptly around to face her.

“Jesus Christ, Mother!” Arthur barked. “You scared the living crap out of me.”

She waggled a finger at him. It was gnarled with arthritis, the nail was stained piss-yellow from cigarette smoke, and the movement made shards of light dance at him from the six-carat diamond she wore.

“I’ll have no more of that blaspheming,” she told Arthur in a shrill voice that would have allowed no argument. “I’ll have no blaspheming, and we’ll have a little less of that toilet language in this house, thank you very much.”

“I only said ‘crap’,” Arthur complained truculently.

She raised a warning hand and said, “And, as long as I’m alive and this is my house, I’ll thank you not to use that toilet language under my roof.” Pausing only to light a cigarette she peered over Arthur’s shoulder and glanced at the package he was studying. “Now, tell me,” she barked, speaking through a mouthful of cigarette smoke. “What’s that you’ve got there?”

Although he had wanted to surprise her, Arthur had been in enough of these conversations to know that there would be no point trying to conceal the purchase any longer. “This was going to be your birthday present,” he explained. “It’s only just arrived. I haven’t had a chance to properly wrap it yet because I was going to make sure it was in good condition. But I thought it might be something that would go with your collection.”

Her wrinkled face broke into a smile that was like a rip in cracked leather. Her grin was filled with nicotine-stained dentures. She stank of last night’s gin and a morning without being troubled by a toothbrush.

“It’s a gift for me?” she called, delight evident in her voice. She pulled Arthur into a tight embrace so he could savour the full stench of her perspiration and cigarette smoke whilst she pushed her thinly covered sagging breasts against his chest. “You are such a thoughtful little boy, aren’t you?”

Arthur wanted to remind her that he wasn’t really a little boy. He was going to be fifty before the end of the year, and he weighed in at a little over twenty stone on a good day. This meant he was neither a boy, nor could he be fairly described as little. However, fearful that she would suspect something if he let her see signs of his animosity, Arthur simply tolerated the embrace, and the disquieting sensation of her substantial breasts against his paunch and agreed that he was a thoughtful little boy.

After a moment, “It’s a Heubach,” he explained.

She pushed him out of her embrace and tutted impatiently. “I can see she’s a Heubach,” his mother snapped. “1906, by the looks of her, and still wearing her original broderie anglaise.”

The abruptness did not surprise him. Arthur’s mother was a connoisseur of dolls. “The description said she’d got no cracks or hairlines,” Arthur mumbled.

The embrace was finished. His mother moved to the kitchen table and fell on the doll. The cigarette continued to dangle from the corner of her mouth, trembling only slightly and sending small grey curls spinning up to her squinting eye. Her hands pulled confidently at the doll’s rope colour hair as she peered myopically at the bisque head. Her examination went from there to study the bisque arms and feet.

Having lived with her and her collections for nearly half a century, Arthur knew she was looking for the hairline cracks that were the natural signs of age on these toys. A Heubach without cracks or hairlines was as valuable to a doll collector as an uncirculated sovereign would be to a numismatist. It was a sign of mint-condition excellence and the good condition of this Heubach’s dress, coupled with her lack of cracks or hairlines, suggested she would be a special addition to his mother’s collection.

“I can’t see any marks on her,” his mother admitted after a moment’s lingering inspection. She tapped the ash from her cigarette to the kitchen’s parquet floor, coughed, and then said, “It’s very good quality.”

Arthur nodded and braced himself to say the most important thing. “It’s mint-condition quality,” he agreed, “and the listing said it’s definitely not haunted.”

His mother scowled. Without any warning, she slapped her hand across his face and marked him with a stinging blow. The blow was sharp enough to ring from the tiled walls of the kitchen.

Silently, Arthur walked out of the room.

***

That night they sat in front of the roaring fireplace in the east wing’s sitting room. Mother was in her armchair, near the window, and Arthur in the centre of the chesterfield settee. Both seats were positioned so that they faced the coffee table in the centre of the room where his mother had placed the Heubach. Aside from the crackle of logs in the fireplace, the stillness was only broken by the inexorable ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner of the room.

Arthur supposed his was not a bad life. Admittedly, he was nearly fifty years, still lived with his mother and had never achieved anything of any value or merit. And, to make matters worse, he was the live-in carer and housekeeper to his mother working for pocket money and meals with little hope of bettering his situation. But he knew, one day things would change. One day, when his mother had finally passed, Arthur knew he would inherit all her wealth, the opulence of the estate where they lived, and he’d have control over her extensive, and very saleable, collection of dolls.

“She’s a fine sample,” his mother observed.

She had a gin in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Occasionally she coughed and Arthur would get excited with the hope that he was hearing the first strains of cancer in her lungs.

“I’m glad you like it,” Arthur said quietly.

That morning had not been the first time his mother had struck him. Being honest, it was not the first time his mother had struck him for suggesting a doll might be haunted. The creepy little things scared the shit out of him, and his mother had so many displayed around the house it was impossible to escape their sightless eyes and fixed, inhuman expressions. There were currently eight in this sitting room, two of them sharing the chair that faced his mother, three sitting on the mantlepiece above the fire, and others lurking in various locations. Each time he happened to notice one from the corner of his eye, Arthur flinched as though he was about to be attacked and struggled to suppress a scream. However, when he mentioned this perpetual sense of disquiet to his mother, she simply responded by silencing him swiftly and telling him that she didn’t like to hear mean things being said about her babies.

Sometimes the silencing came with a harsh word or a reminder that he was a middle-aged man who’d never managed to cut his mother’s apron strings and was still sucking off the teat of her family’s wealth. At other times, the silencing came from a slap across the mouth to remind him he was not meant to say unkind things about her doll collection because each and every one of those dolls was one of her babies.

Arthur shifted in his chair and glared at the Heubach. “Did it just move?”

His mother glowered at him.

“Of course she didn’t move. She’s a doll. She’s got a bisque head that’s nearly as empty as yours. There’s more chance of you earning a living than of her moving of her own volition.”

Arthur nodded hasty agreement. “It must have been a reflection of light from the fire,” he agreed. He gave her a conciliatory smile and said, “I’m clearly tired and my imagination is working overtime.”

His mother grunted. “Probably the only circumstances where you’ll ever do any overtime,” she grumbled. She cast him a glare that silently said he was worthless, work-shy and a massive disappointment. And then she continued to sit in silence for the rest of the evening, watching the Heubach in quiet contemplation as the clock ticked and the fire crackled.

She had never bothered bringing a TV set into the house. There was no place for a radio either. She had once purchased a gramophone player but that had been consigned to the attic after she’d listened to both classical music records that came with it. Since then, evenings for her and her son were set aside for quiet contemplation. Of course, Arthur could have gone to his room and looked at the internet again, but the purchase from eBay was proving to be a less successful gift than he’d hoped and he was still trying to find a way of transforming the Heubach into a success.

Arthur flinched again, as though he had seen something surprising. He opened his mouth, as though he was going to make an observation about the uncanny happenings around this doll, and then quickly closed it when he saw the glint of animosity in his mother’s eye.

“I should go to bed,” he said with conviction. “I’m clearly tired and seeing things.”

His mother nodded sullenly. “That’s a good idea,” she said darkly. “Perhaps the rest will do you good.”

***

Two hours later, at the sound of her screaming, Arthur went rushing to his mother’s bedroom. He had managed to snag a dressing gown from the back of the door and fastened it over his pyjamas for the sake of modesty. His feet had fallen easily into his slippers, and he could go to her side at a run. His mother’s unearthly scream was shrieking from her bedroom as though she was being murdered or violently assaulted. The screams rang from the glass of every tiffany lampshade on the upper landing.

“What is it, Mother?” Arthur called, pushing his way into her bedroom and switching on the light. Illumination flooded the chintz wallpaper and instantly banished the darkness.

She was sat up in bed, clutching a crotched blanket to her chest, and pointing to the dressing table that sat beneath the window. Her screams had been shrill before. Now they had transformed into a pitiful moan. “How did that get here?” she demanded.

Arthur followed the direction of her pointing finger and saw that the Heubach was standing atop his mother’s jewellery box in the centre of the dressing table. The broderie anglaise gown looked resplendent. The doll’s masculine face seemed austere, save for the helplessness of the cloudy eyes which staring directly at Arthur’s mother. The expressionless face made the Heunach look like a truculent bully trying to feign innocence.

“Did you put it there?” his mother demanded. “Did you put it there as some sort of joke?”

He shook his head. “Of course not,” he said irritably. “I went to bed before you,” he reminded her. “I left you and your dolly downstairs and I’ve been asleep for the past hour and a half.” He racked his brains to find the right words that would convince her that he was not responsible for the doll being on her dressing table but he wasn’t sure such words existed.

“If you didn’t put it there,” his mother began warily. “How did it get there?”

She snatched a packet of Marlboros from her bedside cabinet and lit one with a shaking hand. When he saw how severely she was trembling, Arthur began to wonder if she’d come close to having a stroke.

“How did it get there?” she demanded.

“You must have brought it up,” Arthur said simply.

She shook her head and continued to stare fretfully at the doll. “I didn’t bring it up. I’ve not decided which collection she belongs with, yet.” As she said the words, she glanced at the walls of her bedroom and Arthur was reminded that the room was replete with bisque-headed dolls staring blindly at him from their sightless glass eyes. There was a shelf above her bed where a tableaux of blonde dolls in nightgowns stared out, as though watching over his mother whilst she slept. From what Arthur understood of the collection, two of those dolls alone were worth in excess of £10,000. On the wall that faced the dressing table, his mother’s royalty collection stood silently glaring out into the room. This collection had been a long time in the construction and consisted of twenty different dolls, including specimens from Bychkova, Kämmer and Reinhardt, and at least three from Madame Alexander. Having heard her boast about them for half a century, Arthur knew the entire collection had an insurance value in the millions.

“So,” she pressed. “If I didn’t bring it up here, how did it get on the dressing table?”

Arthur sighed. “You must have brought it up and forgotten you’d brought it up,” he said pragmatically.

She shifted her scowl from the doll to him and asked, “Are you suggesting I’m old and forgetful?”

He drew a deep breath and knew that was definitely not what he wanted to suggest. “I’m just taking a guess at what’s most likely to have happened,” he said diplomatically. With a knowing expression on his features, he added, “I’m fairly sure you don’t want me suggesting any other probable causes.” As he said the words, he glanced warily at the Heubach and then took an uneasy step away from it.

“Take it out of here,” his mother insisted.

He started toward the doll and then hesitated. “Where do you want me to put it?”

“Anywhere!” she screamed. Her cheeks were flushed with colour and the cigarette in her hand was trembling as though she was gripped by a palsy. “Just take it away and make sure it can’t get back in here. Can you do that for me?”

***

Arthur sat in the kitchen, staring at the doll as it stood in the centre of the kitchen table. He had taken advantage of the late hour and the solitude of the house to pour himself a hot cocoa. He figured the warm, milky drink would help him get back to sleep once he’d returned to bed.

But, before going back upstairs, he found himself in a contemplative exchange with the Heubach as they silently studied each other.

“How did you get into Mother’s room?” he asked.

The doll said nothing.

“Did you make your own way up to her bedroom so that you could scare her into an early grave and let me get the inheritance that’s been long overdue to me?”

Still, the doll said nothing. It simply regarded him with its glassy blind eyes.

“Was that eBay listing untrue?” Arthur pressed. “When it said you’re definitely not haunted: was that a lie? Are you really possessed by the haunted spirit of some diabolical creature that’s going to scare my mother to death?”

He waited for a response from the doll, but still none came.

“Arthur!”

It was his mother shouting from her bedroom. Knowing better than to leave her calling for him, familiar with the way such indifference could result in punishment, Arthur drained his cocoa, hurried up the stairs and pushed his way into the bedroom.

“What is it, Mother?” he gasped, as soon as he entered the room. “What’s wrong?”

“Turn the light on,” she snapped.

He did as she commanded and was shocked to see that she looked like she had aged considerably since he’d given her the gift that morning. Her eyes were lined with dark circles. Her hair looked paler and sat in thinning, sweat-soaked curls against her scalp. She looked like something freshly risen from the grave.

“Who were you talking to?” his mother demanded.

“No one,” he assured her. “There’s only you and me in the house,” he reminded her. “So, there’s not really anyone I could talk with.” With a grin, realising what she might have heard, he added, “Well, I was talking to your Heubach doll whilst I drank my cocoa, but she wasn’t answering back.”

His mother fixed him with a glare of deathly contempt. The other dolls in the room also glared with an animosity that matched that of the old woman. Arthur figured she was about to say something scathing about his intellect, or the fact that fifty-year-old men shouldn’t be talking to their mother’s dollies whilst drinking cocoa. The only thing that stopped her was when she saw the Heubach doll standing on the dressing table.

His mother screamed.

Arthur flinched as though her cry had caused him pain. He tried to shrink into himself and listened as his mother’s shriek spiralled onwards and upwards as though she was hoping to reach a pitch that would shatter glass.

“How did that get back in here?” his mother demanded.

He glanced at the Heubach. It stood innocently on the dressing table, looking as though it had never been moved from when he was first summoned to her room. Arthur did a doubletake, trying to find words that would explain how the doll he had been talking to in the kitchen, was now sitting on the dressing table in his mother’s bedroom. He thought for a moment before shaking his head and saying, “Well, that’s just impossible, isn’t it?”

“Did you bring it up here?” his mother asked.

Her words were sounding ragged, as though she was short of breath from screaming. Every word was rasped, suggesting her throat was too raw to properly carry the words. For a woman of her advanced years, Arthur knew these were poor health indicators. He supposed it was also a bad sign that she was still sipping from her glass of neat gin and reaching for another Marlboro.

“Did you do it?” she demanded. The words were croaked like a guttural roar. “Are you trying to frighten me to death by bringing that doll into my bedroom? Are you hoping I’ll die from fear and you’ll inherit this house and all my wealth?”

He stiffened indignantly. Fixing her with a level gaze, hoping his cheeks weren’t colouring with his outrage, Arthur said, “That’s a shitty thing to suggest.”

“Language!” she retorted.

That admonishment was enough for him. Arthur turned his back, stiffened his neck, and marched out of the room.

He could hear his mother shouting for him to come back, demanding that he remove the Heubach from her bedroom, and telling him that he was showing his true colours as a worthless and ungrateful little boy.

Arthur listened from the comfort of his bedroom, all the time thinking that the words ‘little’ and ‘boy’ were exceedingly inaccurate. She ranted for most of the night but Arthur only heard her for half an hour because the cocoa helped him fall asleep with relative ease. And, when he did fall asleep, the rest was pleasant and dreamless.

***

“That was a terrible way that you behaved last night,” his mother said over breakfast the following morning.

“A terrible way that I behaved?” Arthur scoffed.

He had prepared breakfast for them both. They were having two slices of lightly browned toast each, accompanied by a pot of Twinings English Breakfast tea. It was the same breakfast that they’d had for the past forty years, ever since she’d started insisting he contribute to helping with household chores.

“You heard me shouting for you to move that doll,” his mother complained. “You heard me shouting and you did nothing.”

Arthur nodded agreement. “I did hear you shouting,” he told her. “I had also heard you accuse me of putting that doll in your bedroom. I also heard you suggest I was lying when I said I had no idea how it got there.” He glared at her and said, “I heard you say a lot of things last night, but I don’t think I heard the word ‘sorry’.”

Her jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. “If you didn’t put it in my room, what other explanation is there for how it got there?” she asked eventually.

Arthur shrugged. He picked up a slice of dry toast and said, “I’ve got ideas. “But I’m worried, if I tell you what they are, I’ll get another slap across the mouth.”

She stared at him with silent fury. From past experience, he knew she didn’t like to be reminded that she had a physically violent nature.

“It wouldn’t have hurt you to do as I asked,” she told him darkly. “It wouldn’t have hurt you to return to my bedroom and move the doll.”

“And it wouldn’t have hurt you,” he began, with equal venom, “to apologise. It wouldn’t have hurt you to not accuse me of trying to terrify my mother when I was only trying to be a dutiful son.”

He stood from the table and stormed deliberately out of the room.

“You can come back here and get me the butter from the fridge,” she called after him.

Arthur ignored her.

“I said,” she began. Her voice trailed off, as though she realised he wasn’t going to respond. Making a deliberate effort to climb from her chair, ensuring that Arthur knew she was moving on her own and it was not easy for a woman of her advanced years, she pushed the chair heavily back on the kitchen’s tiled floor and stamped heavily to the refrigerator.

Her scream spiralled higher and higher until Arthur ran into the kitchen to find out what was causing her distress. He found her clutching at her chest and glaring into the fridge at the Heubach that stood inside there, atop the butter dish. His mother pointed at the doll, tried to mutter a handful of choked words. And then she’d collapsed to the floor and Arthur knew she was dead.

The fear had killed her.

***

A month later, Arthur was packaging up the last of his late mother’s estate, putting items into boxes and listing them on eBay. He smiled tenderly when he realised he still hadn’t put the Heubach up for sale and wondered if he should keep the doll for sentimental reasons. Reminding himself he had no reason to be sentimental about the thing, Arthur took three photographs with his new iPhone, and then put it in a box. In the listing box on eBay he wrote: “Antique Doll - Ernst Heubach Germany 1906. No Cracks or Hairlines. DEFINITELY NOT HAUNTED.”

The End

Beans for Supper

By

Tom Deady

NOW

I was twelve years old when girls in Copper City started going missing.

The first was sixteen-year-old Kayleigh Gilroy. Nobody thought much of it at first, Copper City was a remote southern Arizona town with very few prospects. It was too small to hold a girl like Kayleigh. She was smart, talented, athletic, and just too alive for Copper City. Her best opportunities would have been working at the Walmart over in Perseverance or waiting tables at the Tumbleweed. Naturally, everyone figured she’d skipped town, headed to Phoenix or maybe even California to find something better.

I was still in junior high, but I knew who Kayleigh was from going to Copper City football games on Friday nights. I wasn’t into football much, I just went because there wasn’t much else to do. And because Kayleigh was one of the cheerleaders. It wasn’t football season when she disappeared, though, it was the beginning of summer. She was going to be a senior in the fall, but folks figured she didn’t have another year of Copper City in her, so she took off. When the second girl went missing a month later, that’s when people started talking.

I haven’t been back to Copper City since I graduated high school. Unlike Kayleigh, I really did run away. Well, sort of. I got accepted to college in Massachusetts and the day after graduation, I got into my Chevy Malibu and headed east. After college, I got a job teaching at a small private high school in New Hampshire, and the years slipped away. I never stayed in touch with my father, and the few friends I had just kind of faded into the background as happens. When I got the news, I knew I finally had to go back.

The first thing I do after settling into my hotel room is drive by my old house. I’m surprised to see no police presence, not even a single cruiser with a sleepy deputy out front. The only evidence the house had been a crime scene are the few strands of yellow police tape flapping in the early evening breeze. Otherwise, the place is the same shithole I grew up in. The paint, faded blue when I left, had devolved into a sort of grayish-white that is peeling off in huge, flesh-like strips. The front porch is held up on one side by cinder blocks, and at least three of the windows are broken and covered with cardboard. It could have been recent – vandals, I suppose - but it doesn’t look it.

I get out of the rental and walk up the driveway, unable to look away from the ramshackle house of horrors that starred in my childhood. I thought it had only been that for me. The window on the second floor on the left was my bedroom. I watch, thinking I might see the ghost of the twelve-year-old me staring forlornly out. My hand reaches involuntarily for my side.

I step to the side and the barn comes into view, lurking behind the house like an unwanted visitor. Growing up, the barn had been off-limits, no surprise, considering it looked to be on the verge of collapsing. My father always kept a huge padlock on the doors, told me it wasn’t safe. I had no idea how true that was. I turn away, not ready to get any closer. But the memories, well, they’re never very far away.

THEN

“Joseph!” My father’s voice seemed to shake the entire house, sending a current of dread through me.

“Coming, Dad,” I called back, getting to my feet. The walk downstairs was like walking the last mile. My father was sitting in his ratty recliner, wearing dirty-looking boxers and a yellowed strappy undershirt. It wasn’t even noon, and he already had a beer in his hand and a couple of dead soldiers next to his chair. “Yes, sir?” I said as I approached him.

He grinned at me, and there was nothing but malice in his eyes. “Did you watch your cartoons this morning?”

My mind spun backward. It was Saturday morning, so of course I’d watched cartoons. When I’d heard him waking up, I hustled back to my bedroom. Had I left the television on? No, I was sure I’d switched it off. “Yeah, for a while,” I said tentatively.

“Well,” he said with a sigh that was supposed to be remorseful, but I knew better, “looks like we’ll be having beans for supper tonight.”

A shiver ripped through me. “No, Dad, I…” I searched the room wildly for evidence of what I’d done wrong. My gaze drifted to the spot on the floor where I’d sat to watch television and my stomach did a flip. There was my cereal bowl, right where I’d left it. “I’ll clean it up,” I said, scurrying over to fetch it.

“You bet your ass you will,” he said, no hint of his grin or his fake-jovial voice. My real father had made his appearance. “Beans for supper.”

I backed out of the room, tears filling my eyes.

NOW

I get back to the hotel room and pull out the bottle I’d bought on the way. It hadn’t been easy explaining to the kids why I was going away without them. Paula knew, and I think she understood, but the kids…no way. They didn’t know they even had a grandfather. And I mean to keep it that way.

Paula answers on the first ring. I wonder if she’d been sitting by the phone all evening. It makes me feel shitty to think so, but it pisses me off a little, too. I thought she understood.

“You’ve got a couple rugrats here dying to talk to their daddy before bed,” she says. Is there an edge to her voice?

“Put ’em on,” I say, pouring another shot into the plastic cup.

“Daddy!”

I grin, happy for the first time all day. Little Mary can always bring a smile to my face.

“Hey, sweetheart, how’s my girl?”

“When are you coming home, Daddy?”

“Soon, honey,” I say, downing the shot. “What did you do today?”

“Well,” she says, and I can picture her expression. She loves to tell stories. “School was school, but after school, I had a play date with…” She goes on and I half-listen. It’s not that I don’t care about her day but I really just want to hear her voice.

“Oh, here’s Adam,” she says.

“Hey, pal. How’s the man of the house?”

“Hi Dad.” Adam is the polar opposite of his sister. Quiet, reserved, it’s like pulling teeth getting him to talk sometimes.

“How was school?”

He starts to answer but Mary is speaking in the background, asking for the phone back because she’d forgotten to tell me something. Then she is crying.

“Did you hurt your sister, Adam?” I try to keep my voice even, not sure I succeeded. I hear Paula trying to console her.

“It was my turn to talk—”

“Adam. Did you hurt your sister?” I repeat.

“Dad—”

“Answer me!”

Adam gasped. I grit my teeth. Why can’t they just let me deal with this?

“Joe, are you all right?” Paula’s voice was tentative, maybe even scared.

“Yeah,” I say, “great. This isn’t easy, you know.”

I listen to Paula shoo the kids off to bed. “It isn’t easy for any of us either, Joe. To just go running off—”

“Running off? Paula…” I bite my tongue and take a deep breath. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at Adam, but…” I pour another drink.

Paula sighs. “Did you see him yet?”

“No, it was late when I got here. I went by the old house…that was enough for one day.”

“Joe,” that hesitant, sheepish voice again, “have you been drinking?”

God damn it. “Just a couple beers,” I lie. Fuck this. “I’m going to go see him in the morning and I’m pretty beat from the drive. Tell the kids I love them, and I’ll call them tomorrow.”

“Joey—”

I hang up the phone.

THEN

It had become my daily routine after school to spend the afternoon at the library. Since my father had lost his job, he stayed home every day, drinking. The more I stayed away, the better off I was. Instead of looking for work, he’d taken to spending time in the barn. I had no idea what he was doing but it sounded like he was building something. To be honest, I didn’t really care what he was doing out there as long as it kept him away from me.

On my way home after a couple hours’ reading, I stopped at Rossi’s - the little corner store - and bought the local paper. I sat on the curb outside the market and read the headline:

Where is Julie Brown? Sixth Copper City Teen Gone Missing.

It was almost a year since Kayleigh had disappeared. None of the girls had been found. This latest one…I knew her. Julie was in my grade, the youngest so far. Too young for most people to believe she could be a runaway. I skimmed the article but there was nothing I didn’t already know. She’d left softball practice to walk home and never got there. Nobody had seen anything. I got to my feet and trudged home.

“Where the hell have you been?”

My father was waiting for me in the front hall, looming over me as soon as I walked in. “Stopped at the library to do my homework,” I said.

“What’s that?” He jutted his chin toward the newspaper folded under my arm.

“Just the paper,” I said, handing it to him. I watched as he looked at the headline, then back at me. “I knew her,” I said softly, hoping for…something. Sympathy? Understanding? No, I thought, just some mercy.

“So?” I shook my head and tried to walk past him, but his hand shot out and clamped on my upper arm. “Where you going?”

“To my room,” I said, looking down. Dealing with him was like dealing with a wild animal. First rule: don’t make eye contact.

“I’m hungry,” he said, his voice changing to that softer tone. The one that was supposed to fool me but only filled my gut with something cold and slippery.

I tried to pull away, but he was too strong. I looked at the hand that held me, wishing I was tougher, wishing I could pull away. Fight back. But that gnarled hand was like a vise. Scarred and dirty— Was that blood?

“The fuck you looking at?”

“Did you hurt yourself?” I couldn’t pull my eyes away from his bloody knuckles. He let me go so he could examine his hand. I rubbed my arm where he’d grabbed it, knowing it would bruise later.

“I was working in the barn,” he said, “must have scraped it.”

I wanted to ask what he was working on out there, but it was a dangerous game to ask him anything. He might tell me exactly what he was doing, or he might cuff me on the side of the head. Mix some of my blood with his. It was fifty-fifty, so I kept my mouth shut.

“Go on and make me a grilled cheese,” he said, heading toward his recliner.

NOW

I wake up in a tangle of sheets, the result of trying to run from something in a nightmare. Something I don’t really remember, but don’t have to think too hard to figure out what it was. Who it was.

I squint against the harsh sunlight that cuts through the blinds, throwing shadows on the floor that look like prison bars. I am still wearing the clothes I’d arrived in. The bottle sits accusingly on the night table. It’s two-thirds empty. The cap is in the plastic cup. I have no idea how that had happened. Ignoring the dull thump in my head and the queasy roiling in my belly, I head for the bathroom. As I strip down, my eyes are drawn to the full-length mirror, and I trace the jagged scar that runs across my side. While it makes all the others look harmless, I can still name each one like they are badges of honor. I step into the shower to try to wash the dirt of yesterday off—and some of the self-loathing I feel.

After the shower I feel a little better. I put on jeans and a t-shirt. No need to get dressed up for this errand. A light breakfast in the hotel restaurant, then on to face the day. That is the plan. I glance longingly at the bottle, and the next thing I know I’m holding it. I tell myself it is just to put the cap back on, but I’m not a good liar, not even to myself. I take a long pull from the bottle, then screw the cap on. A little liquid courage is understandable, I think.

THEN

I slowly opened the door, expecting him to be standing there. Waiting. But the house was quiet. Empty. I could always tell. His car was in the driveway, and it only took a second to figure out where he was. What the hell did he do out there all the time? I left my backpack in the hall and walked through the silent house. I should have just gone to bed but my curiosity was too strong.

There was something odd about all the time he spent out there. It’s not like he was tinkering around restoring an old car or building birdhouses. He had no hobbies. No talent. Except for drinking.

I went out the back door and saw light sneaking through the cracks in the barn walls. They were too high up for me to peek through. I think he’d covered up the ones that were lower. Which was also fucking weird. There had to be a way. I approached the door but didn’t bother trying it. I was sure he had it bolted, and if he caught me trying to get in…

I crept along the side, looking for any possible spot I could put my eye to and see once and for all what he was doing. I was pretty sure he was growing pot or maybe even making moonshine, if that was even a thing anymore. I turned the corner and walked along the back wall, still finding no access. I reached the next corner and turned, now moving toward the front again, when I heard a grating noise—a metal-on-metal screech—followed by a bang. He was leaving the barn. A sickly weight settled in my stomach. He’ll get back in the house and see my backpack, then check upstairs… My only chance was to get around to the front of the house and pretend I was just getting home.

I waited for him to get partway across the yard, then I cut over into the neighbor’s yard. I sprinted across their lawn and up their driveway, then ran along the sidewalk to the front door of my house. I opened the door, and this time he was standing there, holding my backpack. I was gasping for breath and dripping with sweat when my eyes met his. He was grinning but there was no humor in it. His expression was evil, malevolent.

“Looks like it’s beans for supper.” He turned and walked to the kitchen.

I watched him go but it was like looking through a telescope through the wrong end. My vision was closing, narrowing. I couldn’t seem to get any air into my lungs. Something was inside my stomach trying to claw its way out. I couldn’t go through it again.

“Joseph!”

Every voting member of my fight-or-flight council was telling me to turn around and run out the door and never go back. Instead, I trudged toward the kitchen. Not all leashes are visible.

My father already had the can of beans on the counter, and he was pulling the can opener out of the drawer. He didn’t turn when I sidled up next him, he just started turning the crank to get the cover off the can. When the blade made it all the way around, he pulled the lid off. It caught on a tiny sliver of metal that still connected it to the can. When he pulled it off, it made a ting sound that made my teeth ache.

“Take your shirt off, boy.”

“Dad—”

He slammed the can opener on the counter, and I gasped. That wasn’t my only reaction. My bladder let go. He either didn’t notice or he ignored it.

“I told you to stay away from the barn, but you just had to fucking go snooping.”

“I d-didn’t see anything—”

“Take your fucking shirt off, Joey, or I’ll start on your face.”

The smell of my own piss filled the air as I peeled off my shirt. He grabbed it and tossed it aside, then grabbed me by the throat. His eyes pinned me, daring me to look away, but they weren’t filled with rage or hatred, they were empty. Bottomless. He put the jagged edge of the lid against my side and dragged it slowly toward my hip, keeping his eyes fixed on mine. The pain was spectacular, beyond description. He liked to find new places on my body instead of cutting into the old scars. Hot blood dripped down my side while hot piss dripped down my leg. What I wouldn’t give him were the hot tears that he wanted. I flinched but wouldn’t look away. Wouldn’t cry.

“Stay away from the barn, son.”

NOW

I stagger out of my car, gasping for air. The memory was so powerful I can feel the pain in my side, feel the blood. I reach down to make sure I hadn’t pissed myself again. I look around, certain that everyone is staring, but there is no everyone. I am alone in the parking lot. The autumn air is crisp, as if winter is trying to make its presence felt early. I fill my lungs, breathing out slowly. Those same fight-or-flight voices are urging me to get back in my car, just drive away. Don’t look back. He can’t hurt me anymore. Of course, that isn’t really true. He’s never stopped hurting me. I shove my hands into my pockets and walk toward the steps of the building.

Once inside, sweat pools under my arms and drips down my face. I state my business to the man at the front desk. He eyes me with open hostility but says nothing. A few minutes later I am seated in a small cinderblock room. Waiting.

When the buzzer sounds and the electronic lock clicks, I steel myself. After all the years, knowing I am perfectly safe from him, my chest still tightens. I want - need - to get up and run but there is nowhere to go. The door opens and a guard leads in a man— This has to be a mistake. This old, fragile-looking figure can’t be the same man that had terrorized me for all those years. The man who had made me flee my hometown never to return. Then he faces me and those dead eyes lock on mine. My bowels clench and I gasp. Yes, it’s him, all right. And he’s still a monster. I just never knew what kind.

The guard helps him get seated and locks his handcuffs to a ring that is bolted to the table. I feel his eyes on me, searching, prying…

“Son.”

My head jerks up, anger boiling at his audacity to use that word. “No,” I say, somehow holding steady, “not anymore.”

He gives that humorless grin that had scared me all those years ago. “Look who’s all grown up and full of himself.”

“And look who’s finally where he belongs,” I counter, hoping I sound more confident than I feel.

“Maybe so, son. Maybe so. But at least I’m here on my own terms. Can you say the same?”

I ignore his question. “Your terms? They dragged you out from under a bathroom vanity at gunpoint. Those were your terms?” It was true, he’d constructed some half-assed hideaway under the bathroom sink. It was something he’d seen on a Charles Manson documentary. Figures.

“Ah, but look at all the fun I had before that. Those were my terms.” My face burns. How could he have done it with me living there? How many could I have saved if I hadn’t been such a coward? “Thirteen,” he says with a smirk that I wish I could wipe off his face.

“Thirteen what?” I don’t really want to know the answer.

“Thirteen while you were living with me. Right under your chickenshit nose.”

I try to hide my shiver. It is like he is reading my mind. I don’t care about the man sitting across from me. I only care that he won’t be able to hurt anyone else. He’ll likely die in prison, either from natural causes or prison justice. I hope for whichever makes him suffer the most. But I still need to know.

“Why?”

He glares at me for a long time, but I won’t look away. Not this time.

“I did it to save you,” he says.

I laugh. The nerve of him trying to spin this to be my fault. To make himself the hero of his story.

“All my life, I’ve had these voices,” he says, rotating a finger near his head, “and they tell me to do bad things.” He pauses, licking his lips, his eyes darting around the room as if he’ll find the right words floating there. “Ever since you were a baby, the voices told me to kill you. Instead, I took the girls.”

“And that made these voices, what, stop for a while?”

He nods.

“Sounds like an episode of Law and Order or some shit,” I say. “And funny thing, they were all attractive young girls. Not only that,” I say, anger taking hold of me, “But it didn’t quite shut the voices enough to keep you from cutting me up with a fucking tin can lid.”

He looks down. “It wasn’t just girls,” he says. “Those are just the ones the newspapers cared enough about to write a story on. There were plenty of others. Homeless people, transients, the ones that slip through the cracks.”

I gape at him. Initial reports had put the number of victims at over thirty. And that didn’t include all the missing persons files. They could have been runaways or victims to another monster, but odds were, that number was way north of thirty. “Jesus.”

“He had nothing to do with this, son.”

“Answer me this,” I say, unsure of why I am even having the conversation. Trying to apply logic to a situation that defies it. “Why didn’t you stop when I left?”

“Because then the voices told me to kill myself.”

“I wish you had,” I say, getting to my feet.

“You’ll understand, son. You’ll start hearing them. God help you when you do.”

***

I get home late. My flight was delayed, and the shuttle to the parking lot took forever. I am wrung out, physically and mentally. The things my father had told me preyed on my emotions. On my soul. Paula is asleep when I get upstairs. I want to talk to her, to purge myself of the filth that was inside me after listening to him. I make noise getting undressed and brushing my teeth but she doesn’t stir. She’s awake, she just doesn’t want to talk to you. I shake the random thought away and settle in next to her.

I wake to an empty bed. Shambling in a barely awake state, I find her in the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast. The kids are bickering over something in the living room. “Did anybody even notice I’m home?”

Paula smiles. “I wanted to let you sleep,” she says, “it was so late when you got home.”

See, the voice says, she was awake. I try to ignore the thought. Or is it a voice? “Would you mind making me one of your world-famous omelets?”

“Sorry, hon, the kids just finished the eggs off. I have to get to the grocery store today.”

Anger flashes, bright and hot. It feels like the kids are arguing inside my head. “Don’t you even want to know how my trip was?” I’m not sure Paula understands me, I’m speaking through teeth so tightly clenched I am afraid I might crack a molar. My temples throb in time with my pounding heart.

She finally looks at me. Miracle of fucking miracles, she’s actually picked up on my tone.

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” she says carefully. Her face changes. Not exactly a frown, but close. Then I figure it out. She thinks you’re crazy. Like him. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

I stare at her. Is she fucking serious? “Sure, hon,” I say, the sarcasm sharpening my words to fine points, “let’s do that. Now is perfect. I’m on practically no sleep, the kids ate all the fucking eggs, and now they won’t stop fucking screaming. Yeah, let’s talk about my father, the serial killer!”

She steps back from the force of my words. From my rage. From me. “Joe?”

The terror in her voice brings me back. The tears that fill her eyes are my fault. Her expression… Shame fills me when I realize she is wearing the same look I’d worn as a kid. She deserved it. “No!”

She gasps and retreats another step, bumping into the counter. I press my hands to my temples, rubbing hard. What is happening?

“Joe,” she says slowly as she inches along the counter, “I’m going to take the kids out for a bit.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and nod, knowing that if I look at her, if I see that scared rabbit look on her face that I might— Might what, Joey? Might follow in the old man’s footsteps? I have no answer for that.

***

She calls me later and I do my best to stumble through an apology. I tell her that seeing him impacted me more than I ever thought it would. I keep my voice calm, remorseful. I swear I am fine, that we’ll talk after the kids go to bed and I’ll tell her everything that happened. I down another shot as she blathers on about something. Then I perk my voice up to a jovial simpering. “I’ll even have dinner on the table when you get home.” I hang up and open the cabinet, staring at the can of beans.

The End

Snow Angels

By

Greg F. Gifune

Five hours out of New York I found myself on the Cape Cod highway creeping toward Whaler’s Bay.  The snow hit halfway into Rhode Island, and the closer I got to the Atlantic the heavier it became, blowing across the road in thick sloppy bursts, blurring gray skies and making visibility nearly nonexistent.  The Sagamore Bridge, an enormous structure of steel and concrete linking the Cape to the mainland had been difficult to negotiate in the storm, and I figured I’d make it just under the wire.  If this weather persisted they’d close the thing down within the hour, but now on the other side, the desolate path of highway cutting through heavy forest was still familiar.  Nothing much changed in these parts.  Maybe this time, for once, that might be to my benefit.

I glanced at the brightly wrapped box on the passenger seat before returning my eyes to the whirlwind of white.  The day before Christmas, less than twenty minutes from the small town where I’d briefly lived, married, and had a child.  Most times it seemed I’d been gone a lot longer than two years.  I’d stayed away because it was what Amanda wanted.  For the first few months after my move to New York I talked to Bethany on the phone, but she was only four and couldn’t understand why her father had gone away, and ultimately it became too painful for me to even hear her voice.  When I’d told Amanda I planned to pull back from them completely, she agreed that was best.

I fought off pangs of rage and tightened my grip on the steering wheel, struggling to keep the car on the road against the force of an increasing wind.  I wondered if the kid would even recognize, much less remember me.  I wasn’t sure I had the right to interfere with that after all that had happened, but Bethany was my daughter—my only child—and I missed her desperately.  There hadn’t been a day in the years I’d been gone I hadn’t thought of her, pictured that sweet face in my mind, or replayed the times we’d had together before things came apart.  Amanda I’d gotten over—we were never that good together—kids who’d met at college in Boston and fallen fast and hard, and who should’ve called it quits after graduation but got married instead.  Even when I asked her to marry me, I knew I no longer loved her, but she was carrying our child, and I couldn’t abandon either of them.  Ironic, that.  Yet the one positive that came of our relationship was the miracle that was Bethany.  And I’d gone long enough without her.

A sign announcing the Whaler’s Bay exit was a mile away emerged from the whiteout just long enough for me to see it before it was swallowed by snow.  Though I was alone on the road, I checked the rearview out of habit, and carefully pulled over into the breakdown lane.  Slamming the car into Park I relaxed a bit and drew a slow, deep breath.  I cracked the window and lit a cigarette, the icy snow tapping my cheek like tiny needles, the crisp air a welcome change from the car heater.  I puffed my smoke, held up a hand.  Wasn’t shaking too badly.  I had a consistent tremor in both hands since that day so long ago, but with drink and nicotine I’d learned to keep it under relative control.

I watched the snow a while, loving and hating it, at once attracted and frightened by it.  And just like every other time it had snowed since that day, I replayed the moments before it all went down.

Bethany and me stomping through the snow, running and playing in the drifts in the backyard, our laughter so genuine and carefree…Bethany in her snowsuit, stumbling around, giggling and chasing after the flakes…The two of us lying there, staring up at a barren sky, making snow angels then walking across the quiet stretch of yard, her small hand in mine as we approached the forest line.  “Where do the animals go when it snows, Daddy?” she’d whispered, as if fearful a louder tone might disrupt the natural silence.  “How do they stay warm?”

With a heavy sigh I flicked the cigarette out into the storm and wiped my face with a sleeve, aware now, just as I’d been then, that there was something in the snow besides those angels we’d made, something more than woodland creatures watching us from deep within the forest.  Something…else…

I dropped the column shift into Drive and pulled back out onto the highway, back into the storm and the secrets I knew that snow contained somewhere just beyond the scope of everyday vision.

***

Main Street was dead empty, already blanketed in nearly half a foot of snow.  Faint lights in small houses cut through the storm, but all the businesses were closed.  The General Store, the Post Office, the Police Station—everything looked the same.  I followed the main drag to the first intersection, took a right and followed the rural road for nearly a mile; familiar visions of the years I’d spent there trickling past my mind’s eye.  I found Bobby’s cottage set back from the road atop an incline, nestled among the trees, their branches weighted with snow.

I left Bethany’s gift but grabbed a bag from the back and trudged across the lawn, stepped up onto the small porch and gave the door a thump before I could change my mind.  When there was no response I knocked again.  This time it was answered.

Bobby looked startled at first, his deep-seated dark eyes squinting and his face registering disbelief.  But then that old familiar smile emerged and he slammed into me, arms embracing me.  “Steve!  Jesus!  Man, it’s so good to see you!”  He dragged me into the house before I could respond, shut the door then turned and looked at me like an admiring parent.  “What the hell are you doing here?  Why didn’t you call?”

I reached into the bag and pulled out a fifth of vodka.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Thanks, man.”  He couldn’t seem to stop smiling and nervously straightening his thinning hair.  As usual, he had a scruffy look and needed a shave, but I knew I looked even worse.  “I can’t believe you’re standing here.”

“Believe it,” I said with a shrug.  “How’s everything?”

He took my coat and tossed it over the back of a recliner, then led me across the small den, past a Christmas tree skirted with presents, its multi-colored lights blinking as if in time to the dancing flames in a stone fireplace on the far wall.  “Good,” he said as we entered an even smaller kitchen.  As if only then remembering who it was he was talking to, the smile slowly dissipated.  “You okay, man?  I mean, you know, are you all right?”

“Close as I ever get.”

Bobby grabbed two glasses from a cupboard, cracked the vodka and motioned to the table for me to sit.

“I got a present for Bethany I want to drop off tomorrow some time,” I explained, then grabbed the bottle from the center of the table and poured us each a drink.  “I hate to barge in on you like this, but you think I could crash here just for tonight?  I know it is Christmas Eve and all, but—”

“Of course, of course, don’t even—yeah, for sure.”  He killed his drink and was smiling again, but it didn’t last.  “So are you still in Philly?”

“Went home to the city for a couple months, but it was hard after everything that happened.  I moved upstate, been there since.  Got a little place, just a studio apartment, but it beats the street.  I work nights at a warehouse unloading trucks, been doing it for the last couple years.  I keep to myself and nobody knows me up there, so it works out.”

“Working nights, huh?  That sucks.”

I looked at him over the rim of my glass.  “I don’t sleep much anyway.”

“Yeah, you look…”

“Like shit.”

“Nah, man, just tired.  You look tired.”  Bobby sighed and leaned back a bit in his chair.  “Why the hell didn’t you call me all this time?  You just up and left, never said goodbye or nothing.”

I stared down into the vodka.  “I didn’t really know what else to do.”

“I know it was rough for you,” he said softly.  “Lots of people had plenty to say around here.  Small town gossip and all that bullshit, you know how it is.”

“Funny,” I said, feeling the vodka warming me.  “The things people believe.”

Bobby looked away.  “Last thing I knew you checked yourself into that…”

“Psychiatric ward,” I finished for him.  “You can say it.”

“Then I heard you got out and just took off.”

“I did thirty days,” I told him, pushing the memories of that place from my mind.  “They said I was sane.  Bet the folks in town never talked about that though, did they.  Didn’t much matter, I guess.  Steve’s crazy, that’s all everybody thought.”

Bobby straightened his posture.  “Not me, bro, I never thought that.”

“I’m here to see Bethany,” I told him.  “But that’s not the only reason.  I’m going into those woods again, Bobby.  The shit I saw out there I still see.  Every day, I still see it.  Every time I close my eyes.  I try not to think about it, but it won’t go away.  Even after all this time.  If anything, it’s getting stronger.”

He stared at me as if he hadn’t heard me.  “What the hell really happened out there, Steve?”

Giggles…laughter whispering through the trees as I crept into the woods, glancing over my shoulder, seeing Bethany standing in the yard, small mittens over her eyes as she counted aloud...One…Two…Three… Moving through the beginnings of forest, my boots crunching snow, the flakes falling—the beauty of it all.  Cognizant that I’d never been this deep in the woods behind our home and aware that Bethany might hurt herself or wander off looking for me if I hid too far away, I stopped and slid behind the base of a large oak tree.  From my position I could see her struggling to remember her numbers and the proper sequence, her tiny form mingling with the plumes of mist tumbling from my nostrils and mouth.

Peeking around the tree, I watched as she trudged through the snow, perhaps thirty yards away.  I leaned back, away from the tree, then to the side, breathing heavily.

Something foreign—intrusive—different than the tickling snowflakes—brushed my cheek.  My eyes shifted, taking in the swirling snow, blurring the treetops and pale sky beyond, and focused on a hand, the skin gray, bloodless, nails brittle and dull.

I staggered back, lost my footing and fell onto the seat of my pants, the snow breaking my fall and surrounding me as I sunk deeper, my eyes still trained on the area above me.  A body of what was once a man hung suspended from a thick branch, feet tied to hold it secure, arms dangling, swaying gently in the winter breeze, hands extended as if reaching out for me.  The eyes, still wide, mouth open, forever frozen in a silent shriek, face locked in the horror experienced at the moment of death, the body gutted like cattle, an open and empty cavity where a chest and stomach should have been.

Scrambling to my feet, staggering about and trying to find my bearings, I saw the others.  Four or five bodies, all hanging from trees, all mutilated and displayed like demonic ornaments on snow-covered branches.

“Daddy, where are you?”

Her voice shattered the madness, dragged me back, and I was suddenly charging through the trees.  I closed on Bethany, scooped her up in my arms without breaking stride and bolted across the yard, struggling through the snow toward the house, feeling as if something was following, chasing, closing in from behind.

Confused and startled, Bethany began to cry, and I realized I was crying too, choking back tears, trying to make it to the house before…

The vision and Bobby’s sullen face blended together as the memories dissolved, like the serene surface of water once disturbed and now rippling back into focus.  He noticed my glass was empty, and with a sigh, took hold of the bottle and poured me another few inches.  He seemed incapable of resuming eye contact, staring instead at the table between us, his mouth opening as if wanting to form words but unable to produce them.

I was about to rescue him when the sound of a door opening distracted me.

A young woman sauntered in, clad only in a skimpy white tank top and a pair of matching panties.  Her dark hair was short and mussed; eyes still dull with sleep, black eyeliner smudged and fake eyelashes batting slowly.

Bobby smiled.  “Hey, baby.”

Bare feet padding quietly across the tile floor, she moved to the refrigerator, a slight grin curling her lips, her eyes locked on me throughout.  “Hey.”

“Steve, this is Bambi.”  Bobby threw back his drink.  “Bam, Steve.”

The woman pulled a small bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator, gulped down a bit and returned it, wiping her lips with the back of a hand.  “Heard a lot about you,” she said, voice whispery.  “Good to meet you finally.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, struggling to stay calm.  The entire time I’d known Bobby he’d lived alone.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Yeah,” she said, slinking over to Bobby and kissing him.  “You too.”

I watched as Bobby pulled her close, returned the kiss then gave her ass a gentle slap as she turned and headed back into the hallway.

“Got to hop in the shower,” she mumbled.

Bobby and I sat quietly at the table until the sound of old pipes rattling disturbed the silence, quickly replaced by rushing water.  I sparked a butt and tried to think of something worth saying.

“We been living together for about a year now,” he said.  “She’s only twenty-two but she’s a townie, I known her family for years.  You remember the strip club over by the canal?  She dances there a few nights a week, makes good money.  I’m still over at the mill, so it works out.”

I nodded, still trying to erase the memory of nipples pressed against the thin fabric of her shirt from my mind.

“Shy ain’t even in Bambi’s vocabulary,” he said with a chuckle.  “Believe that.”

I forced an obligatory smile as silence again fell over the room.

“Listen,” Bobby finally said, leaning across the table.  “Maybe going back out into them woods is best.  You need to see for yourself what’s really out there.”

My eyes found his.  “And what’s that, Bobby?”

“Nothing but forest, my man, nothing but woods.”

“I thought you said you believed me.”

He ran a hand through his hair, reached for the bottle then seemed to change his mind.  “I believe you believe what you saw, all right?”

“Now you sound like those fucking shrinks.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, dude, what the hell you expect me to say?  You’re talking about bodies hanging from the god damn trees.  Amanda told me she called the cops when you got back to the house.  Dody checked it out.  I talked to him myself a few days later.  He didn’t find nothing out there.  Nothing.”

“I know what I saw.  I don’t give a shit what Dody—”

“He’s the chief of police, for Christ’s sake!  My old man was buddies with Dody for years.  Hell, I’ve known him long as I been alive.  There ain’t but four cops in the whole town, and every one of them checked out them woods, Steve.  Don’t you think as cops they’d want to know if there was fucking bodies out there?”  Bobby pushed himself to his feet and began pacing next to the table.  “Look, I think you seen something out there, okay?  But the mind plays tricks on us sometimes.”

“I know what I saw, Bobby.  It’s never left me.”

He spun around, his hands on his hips.  “Fine, then where’d they go?”

I remained calm, motioned to his chair.  “Sit down and hear me out.”  Bobby did as I asked but immediately poured another drink.  “I lived here for four years,” I said softly.  “Moving back to Philadelphia wasn’t an option as far as Amanda was concerned.  I never felt she really wanted me to live here either, but we were together, we had to be somewhere.  In all the time I lived here, Bobby, I never felt welcome.  I always felt like an outsider.  You were the only person who ever gave me a chance, ever even showed any indication you wanted to be my friend, and I know that was only because you and Amanda had been close your entire lives.  Amanda had her nursing degree and a job offer at Doc Bradley’s office, so I stayed home with Bethany while she worked.  It was very isolating; do you understand?  I lived in a town where no one wanted anything to do with me, where I never had contact with anyone other than you.  Amanda’s an only child, her parents had already died, and my family was all in Philly.  I remember the town meetings everyone went to, and how Amanda would always insist I stay home with Bethany and keep out of town business.  I was a resident here.  I was married to a townie, raising a child here, yet even my own wife treated me like an outcast.  You got any idea how—”

“Steve,” he interrupted.  “Whaler’s Bay is a small town.  We got a population of less than two hundred, and they’re all people whose families have lived here for generations.  Most of us—me included—have forefathers who founded the town as far back as the late 1700s, for Christ’s sake.  You know this.  Besides, like you ever gave a shit about town politics anyway.  You’re talking old Yankee folk here, and we aren’t always the most hospitable, welcoming types—I admit it—but these ain’t bad people either.”

“This town has secrets, Bobby.”

“Show me one that don’t.”

I smoked my cigarette, watched him.  “I did some research into the history of this place.  I did some—”

“So it’s a big conspiracy against you, right?”  Bobby laughed, as if it were impossible to react to my words in any other manner.  “Steve, you had some sort of breakdown, okay?”  He slammed his glass on the table and was on his feet again.  “The reason them bodies weren’t there when the cops went to check is because you fucking imagined it.  Get a grip, bro.  It was two years ago and you’re still killing yourself over this shit.”  He closed the gap between us and put a hand on my shoulder.  “You got a suitcase or anything?”  I nodded.  “Go on out to the car and get it.  I’ll let Bambi know you’ll be here for dinner and staying the night.  You’ve been drinking and that storm’s only getting worse.”

“Maybe I should just—”

“It’s Christmas Eve.”  His grip tightened as he turned his face to a small set of double windows over the sink.  Night was coming fast.  The smile was back as his free hand scooped my car keys from the table.  “Where the hell else you gonna go?  Come on, shouldn’t nobody be alone tonight.”

***

Standing by my car, the rear door open, I looked to the sky.  The snow had become a bit lighter but was still falling steadily.  The quiet of this town wrapped itself around me like a funereal shroud, offering fear and impending doom where peace and tranquility should have resided instead.  The remains of daylight were slowly being absorbed into pewter skies, as darkness skulked closer with the silent gait of the predator I knew it to be.  I gazed at the duffel bag on the seat, reached a hand inside and pushed the change of clothes aside.  I pulled the 9mm free.  Until the day prior, when I’d purchased it on the street back in New York, I’d never held a gun in my life.  It felt easy in my hand, like some dime-store toy, and for a moment I considered leaving it in the car.  I glanced back at the cottage.  Dull light from flames flickering in the fireplace danced behind sheer curtains.  With a sigh, I shoved the weapon deep into the duffel bag, pulled the drawstring closed and hoisted it up over my shoulder.

The hours that followed bled away slowly, as night settled over Whaler’s Bay.  Bambi served a roasted chicken that the three of us ate at the kitchen table; occasional forced small talk interspersed with silverware clanging plates and Christmas tunes playing lightly from a small radio.  The tension lessened a bit when we moved to the den, but the underlying sense of impending doom remained.  Bobby continued to drink heavily, hiding his discomfort behind a drunken demeanor.  Bambi sat across from me in a recliner, bare feet crossed at the ankle and tucked beneath her, her outfit of underwear replaced by an oversized sweater that hung below her bare knees.  The look in her eyes burned straight through me, only adding to the surreal nature of the evening.  The look was at once familiar yet foreign, an uninhibited sexual heat masking something more.  Something I knew could not be avoided.

Something I knew would come to a head before the night was through.

When she went to bed, she kissed Bobby goodnight then smiled at me once more, eyes dropping the length of me as her tongue slowly traced her lips.  “Sure was nice meeting you, Steve,” she said.  And then she slipped into the kitchen, hesitated, and lifted the sweater up and off over her head, exposing her nudity beneath.  With a quick glance over her shoulder, the sweater dangling from her hand, she vanished into the hallway and the darkness beyond.

Bobby and I sat quietly for perhaps another hour.  He had a few more drinks while I sipped the same one I’d been nursing since dinner.  Stretched out next to the fireplace, feeling the warmth, I gathered a blanket he had brought out for me around my legs and leaned back on a spare pillow.  The idea of curling up and drifting to sleep there on the floor, next to the fire—although impossible—was appealing, and I was relieved when he finally rose from the couch, yawned, and offered a dramatic stretch.

“Listen,” he said softly, crouching down next to me.  “I’m gonna give you some advice, and you take it for what it’s worth, you hear?”  The flames reflected in his bloodshot eyes.  “When you go see Bethany tomorrow, give her the present, spend some time with her and be cool.  Then go home, Steve.  Go home and get this shit straight in your head.  Get yourself some more help.”

I nodded and smiled in a way I hoped looked cordial.

“You gonna be here in the morning?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

Bobby gave me a gentle pat on the shoulder, and with a muffled grunt, rose to his feet.  “Well, Merry Christmas, my man.”

“Merry Christmas, Bobby.”

***

Darkness draped the cottage, the slowly dying fire providing the only light.  I laid back, head on the pillow, still fully dressed, and reached a hand out to the duffel bag beside me.  Feeling the hard lump of the 9mm beneath the canvas provided a sense of perverse security, but my eyes remained trained on the kitchen doorway, waiting and already knowing what was coming.

Wind whistled, the cottage creaked, the fire crackled, and my mind raced, still uncertain I could do what had to be done in order to survive.  And in the relative darkness, I found myself questioning whether survival was as important to me as I had previously suspected.

She separated from the shadows lingering beyond a single shaft of moonlight cutting the kitchen.  Moving silently, only the sound of her breath disrupted the stillness.  A wisp of perfume preceded her, and as Bambi knelt beside me I felt warm hands gently caress my chest.  I slid shut my eyes, offered a soft moan, feigning sleep as her hands slid lower.  The blanket was pushed aside and she fumbled with my jeans then pushed a hand beneath them.

I grew in her palm, felt myself pulled out and into the open, one hand working it slowly, the other gliding back across my chest, this time under my shirt, long, obscenely bright acrylic fingernails parting the hair there, circling my nipples, tickling my throat.

My eyes opened slowly, focused first on her bent over me, and then as she took me into her mouth, the warm moisture tightening, suckling powerfully.  A quick shiver of pain fired through me as her teeth caught me, and my head lolled to the side, seeing over her shoulder to where Bobby stood nude in the doorway, watching with a glazed smile.

I slowly reached a hand out to her buttocks, stroked them before moving it up over her bare back, to her shoulder, and finally to the back of her head.  Pushing her deeper, I timed my subtle pelvic thrusts with her own rhythmic motion, my mouth dropping open, the air escaping my lungs in one frenzied gasp.

Bobby stepped deeper into the room, his erection glistening in the darkness, his hand greeting it as he watched us, the same odd grin gripping his face.  A look much like Bambi had displayed earlier.  A look beyond lust…beyond hunger…

Fingers locked into Bambi’s hair, my free hand crept across the floor to my duffel bag, trembling as I worked the drawstring and pushed it open, searching until I felt the 9mm against my palm.

Drawn deeper into her mouth, I exploded, emptying into her with a rush of blinding rapture, my body bucking, then relaxing, then again going taut before drowning beneath a wave of exhaustion.

Bambi released me from her mouth with a popping sound, her hand still stroking me, eyes wide and glazed, lips and chin coated and dripping with only the beginnings of what she hoped to consume.

And then Bobby was moving across the room, a hand coming into view from behind his back…

Bambi’s laughter distracted me.  Humorless, evil laughter from deep within her, as she clamped a hand around my throat, trying to pin me there, opened wide her mouth to reveal a flash of teeth, and sunk them into my thigh.

My scream overpowered the whisper of the wind as I yanked the 9mm free just as Bobby closed on me, revealing the hunting knife in his hand, a quick wink of light as fire reflected against steel.

Raising my leg, I kicked Bambi as hard as I could, knocking her aside, her teeth tearing from me just before I brought the gun around and shot Bobby full in the face.

The sound was deafening in the small room, and in a flash a dark hole appeared between his eyes as the back of his head exploded in a spray of crimson, bone, and brain tissue.  He collapsed, the knife falling to the floor as his body toppled backward into the Christmas tree, knocking it over, the sound of branches scraping walls then floor accompanying Bambi’s shriek of shock and rage.

I scrambled away from her, my back against the wall, my feet kicking, knocking wrapped packages aside, my arms locked but trembling violently, the gun aimed at her as she swung her head around.  Still on all fours, my blood and cum staining her lips, she seemed more a wild animal than a human being, teeth bared and chest heaving, breasts glistening, rising and falling with each ravenous breath.

“Don’t,” I said, uncertain if I’d actually spoken the word or only thought it.

I fired just as she leapt for me.  She was dead before she collapsed across my legs, her bodily fluids spraying me this time, spattering across my face in a quick shower of fine mist.

The gun fell from my hand, blood still dripped from the bite wound in my leg, and bile erupted from my mouth as tears flooded my eyes.  My body bucked, alternating between violent sobs and an odd numb sensation.

Somehow, the lights strung about the toppled Christmas tree had been reactivated.  Blinking in time, illuminating the faces of the dead surrounding me in pulsing intervals, I began to laugh through the tears, an uncontrollable cackle at home in all the madness.

At home soaking in evil, an evil I now shared.

Once I was able to stand on my own power, I dragged myself to the bathroom.  After washing the blood and fluids from my face, neck and hands, a quick inspection of my upper thigh revealed a small section of torn flesh, accompanied by bruising, the flow of blood now stopped and caked around the punctures.  I found some peroxide, gauze, and tape in the medicine cabinet, dressed the wound as best as my shaking hands allowed, then moved back into the kitchen and collapsed into a chair at the table.

I burned the remaining hours of darkness drinking, chain-smoking, and waiting for dawn.  If I got out of town I’d be free—I’d make it.  The town folk would cover up the murders and never charge me; never come looking for me—not with what I knew, not with what I could bring down on this town and the generations that held its secrets.  Now it was a matter of finishing what I’d started and getting the hell out of Whaler’s Bay alive.

And that’s exactly what I intended to do.

***

I left the cottage just as daylight pierced the horizon, the 9mm tucked in my belt and concealed beneath my coat.  All emotion had left me.  I felt nothing.  I drove through town, past houses where children and families were awakening to Christmas, gifts and decorated trees, warmth, laughter and joy, oblivious to the intruder in their midst.

By the time I parked on the side of the road and stepped from the car the snow had stopped, the temperature dropped.  Across the street stood the forest that eventually led to the house I’d once shared with Amanda and Bethany.

Where do the animals go when it snows, Daddy?

Moving with a purposeful stride, I walked deeper into the forest, the world around me frozen, the sun reflecting blankets of near blinding white.

How do they stay warm?

The visions were back, circling me like wolves.  Heart racing, I forced them aside and continued on, negotiating a steep embankment.

At the top, I gazed out across the final stretch of woods, a flat expanse of snow and my old home in the distance beyond.  Just like Bobby said, nothing but forest.  For the briefest moment a surge of panic nearly overwhelmed me, but as with the visions, I buried them, assigning them to the darkest recesses of my mind.

Because to my left, coated in snow, there stood a small ramshackle cabin.

Seconds later I held a padlock in my hand.  A single blow to the door casing it was attached to, caused the brittle wood to splinter, and the lock gave way.  It fell to the ground, swallowed by the snow as I pressed a palm flat against the door and pushed it open.

Rusted hinges squeaked, echoing through the trees.  A feeling of dread and darkness more tangible than any I had ever experienced slipped free, wafting about like remnants of imprisoned souls escaping long dead carcasses.

There were no windows, so I used my lighter to punch a hole in the darkness.  I stepped through the threshold, covering my nose with an arm as my eyes struggled to adjust to the flickering light.

Except for an oak slab of a table in the center, and a large steel basin against the far wall, the cabin was empty.

I moved deeper into the room, noticed an array of tools laid neatly across the table.  Crouching, I trained the flame on the floor.  Grates…steel grates that were a darker shade than the plain cement floor.

Turning, I moved slowly, the lighter now burning my fingers.

Installed at strategic points along the wall were a series of inverted hooks.

***

The house bounced in the distance with each new step.  Breaking through the trees into the yard, I staggered forward then froze.

Bethany stood near the back of the house, a bright knit hat standing out against the backdrop of snow.  A snowsuit not so different than the one she’d worn years before covered her, mittens attached to the sleeves but hanging free, a doll dangling from one hand.  She had seen me too, and stood quietly, her breath forming rising clouds that circled her small frame.  She was taller—six now instead of four—and as beautiful as ever.

I moved carefully, fighting back the tears and praying silently as I closed the gap between us.  As her face came into clearer focus, she eyed me coyly, a slight smile hiding just beneath the surface of her rosy cheeks and delicate lips.

“Hello, baby,” I said softly.

Bethany allowed the smile to come, slowly, gradually.  “Daddy,” she whispered, as if I were some mythical being rather than her father.

“Merry Christmas, angel,” I said.  Stepping closer, I crouched down.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy.”

I didn’t want to startle her more than I already had, so I fought the urge to sweep her up into my arms and hold her tight.  “I’ve missed you so much,” I told her.  “So very much, baby.”

She nodded, mouth open but unable to express herself.

“This is for you.”  I held the wrapped package out to her.  “Go ahead, take it.  It’s for you, it’s all right.”

A small hand lifted it from my palm.  She seemed suddenly mesmerized by the bright paper and pretty gold bow.

“You can open it now if you want.”

Bethany carefully sat her doll in the snow next to her then tore the paper free.  It drifted slowly to the ground as she studied a wooden box.  Slowly, she lifted the lid to reveal a pretty figure carved of ivory perhaps six inches long.

“It’s an angel,” I said.

“An angel,” she repeated in a whisper.

“A snow angel, Bethany, that’s what it is.”

“A snow angel,” she repeated.

“Just like the ones we made that day, remember?”

She nodded and smiled.

“But this is a special snow angel,” I told her.  “She has a secret.  You know about secrets, don’t you, baby?”

Her eyes locked on mine.  “We’re not supposed to tell secrets.”

“Mommy and I thought you might like to come and visit Daddy for a while,” I lied, my voice shaking.  “Would you like that?”

“Can Mommy come too?”

“We’ll see.  I’m going to go inside and talk to her.  You stay out here and play with your angel, okay?”  I stood up.  “See if you can figure out what her secret is.”

Bethany stepped toward me awkwardly, but as I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, small arms found my waist, wrapping themselves around me with more strength than she appeared to have.  I pawed the tears away and hugged her back, holding her against me in the cold, neither of us saying a word, even when I forced myself to let her go and headed toward the house.

***

As I walked around the side of the house I could see light bleeding through the windows.  Unbuttoning my coat but holding it closed, I crossed the front walk and knocked at the door.

It was answered quickly.

The glee in Amanda’s eyes immediately vanished, and she raised a hand, pulling her robe closed at the throat.  “Steven.”

“I came to see Bethany.”

Her expression shifted from surprise to anger and defiance.  She leaned against the doorframe, craning her neck until she saw our daughter safely sitting in the snow, the angel in her hands.  “You should have called,” she said, one hand still concealed behind the door and holding it tight against her body.  “You’ve been drinking for a change, I see.  I can smell it on you and you look like you haven’t slept in days.  I really don’t think this is the time for you to be anywhere around—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you think.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

We stood glaring at each other a while.

Finally, Amanda folded her arms across her chest and gazed past me to the street.  “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.  Nice day for a walk in the woods, don’t you think?”

“Let’s not make a scene here, Steven,” she said softly.  “It’s Christmas morning.  Don’t ruin it for Bethany by forcing me to call the police and have you dragged out here.”

“That’d be a really bad idea.”  I opened my coat.

She saw the gun but only rolled her eyes.  “Steven, you need help.  Don’t do this.”

“We better talk inside.”

“I—”

“Now, Amanda.”

***

The house had changed.

I stood in our old living room, remembering the times I’d played with Bethany there, remembering when this had been a home, our home.

Amanda sat on a couch opposite me, next to which stood a Christmas tree.  Scattered around the base were several torn sheets of wrapping paper and a wide assortment of toys and gifts.  She looked a lot older than I remembered her, hair a few shades lighter than when we were married, but that same distant fire burned in her eyes.  “Steven, this is insane,” she said with a dramatic sigh.  “Do you even realize what you’re doing and the consequences that come with such actions?”

“Haven’t you heard?  I’m nuts, fucking certifiable.”

“Please just stop and think a minute,” Amanda said in a softer tone.  “I know you want to see Bethany and I understand that, okay?  I do.  But this is not the way to go—”

“You lied to me.”  I held my ground, a hand resting gently on the butt of the gun still tucked in my belt.  “All that time, you lied to me.  You let me think I was crazy when you knew all along what I’d seen out in those woods was real.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I—”

“Spare me the act, Amanda.  You’re not even convincing anymore.”

“Steven, you’re ill.  You need help.”

“I did some research into the history of this town,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady.  “It was founded in the late 1700s.  There wasn’t anything remarkable about it until the winter of 1802, when one hell of a blizzard hit.  It was the worst of the century in these parts, in fact.  Cape Cod was desolate and isolated from the mainland in those days, and the entire town was buried in snow.  It took more than two months before those who survived were able to dig out and resume anything even resembling a normal life.  A lot of people died in that blizzard.  By some written accounts nearly half the population, which at that time was said to be about the same as it is now, just under two hundred people.  By right, the entire town should’ve died in that storm, sooner or later.”

“The blizzard of 1802 is common knowledge,” she said with a frown.  “What’s your point?”

“More than half the population survived,” I answered.  “That’s my point.  How do you suppose they managed that?”

Where do the animals go when it snows, Daddy?

“Cut off from the rest of civilization, buried in foot after foot of snow, an entire village paralyzed.”

How do they stay warm?

“Just what do you suppose those folks did for food?”

A twitch that began at Amanda’s eyebrow danced the length of her face before settling on her upper lip.  “You’re referring to the rumors of cannibalism.  That too, is common knowledge, albeit speculation, but certainly in extreme circumstances those things happened now and then in those days.  No one disputes that, but there’s never been any proof the survivors in this town ate the dead, it—”

“You think I went back in time?” I snapped.  “Is that it?  I’m a fucking time traveler now?  Is that what happened to me out in the woods that day, Amanda?”

“I have no idea what to say to you at this moment, Steven.”  She shook her head, her eyes revealing genuine fear for the first time.  “You’re insane.”

“You’re all descendants of the founding fathers,” I told her.  “They got a taste for it, didn’t they?  A taste for human flesh and blood they passed along from generation to generation.  A ritual still practiced today in total secrecy.  Practiced like some demented celebration every year on the anniversary of the blizzard.  The bodies I saw slaughtered in the forest were real, Amanda.  Slaughtered like cattle, because it still goes on today, and you’re all in it together.  This town’s dirty little secret.  Until an outsider no one could figure out how to get rid of stumbled onto something he shouldn’t have.”

“Steven, for God’s sake, do you hear yourself?”

“I saw the slaughterhouse.  I was standing in it not five minutes ago.”

“Please,” she said.  Her eyes, suddenly moist, were brimming with tears.  “Please try to stop and just think about what you’re saying.  If you truly believe this you are deeply disturbed and need professional help as quickly as possible.  Now give me that ridiculous gun and I’ll do everything in my power to help you, but if you insist on—”

“Have you done it to our daughter, too?”  I heard my voice crack.  “Have you taught her to do it just like the rest of you sick fucks?”

Amanda wearily shook her head and muttered, “Don’t do this.”

“I’m taking Bethany out of here.”  I moved closer, pulled the gun free and held it down by my side.  “One way or another, I’m getting her away from all this.”

Amanda rose to her feet, face pale.  “Do you really think I’ll just stand by and let you take Bethany from me?”

“You won’t come after me,” I said.  “The others won’t let you, not with what I know.  Not with what Bethany knows.  Not with what I can prove.”

“You won’t get a mile from here.  I’ll call the police the second you leave.”

I nodded, tucked the gun back into my pants and buttoned closed my coat.  “You do that.”  As I moved toward the door I stopped and looked back at her.  “Just remember I love Bethany too, and I’d rather see her dead than to be a part of this.  Once we’re over that bridge we’re home free and you know it.  Get in my way before we get there and I’ll end it for both of us before anyone can stop me.  Understand?  And if you think I’m bluffing, you try me, bitch.  You go right ahead, fucking try me.”

Her hands still held at her side and clenched into fists, Amanda slowly sank back onto the couch like a deflating balloon.  “She’ll come back to me eventually,” she said through tears and gritted teeth.

“We’ll see about that.”

“We live forever, Steven, haven’t you realized that yet?”  She slowly licked her lips.  “Through each other…within each other…”

***

Haunted by illusions of the dead—blood, urine, excrement and bile trickling from severed limbs, dripping from organs sliced free and held in open palms, escaping across porcelain, swirling into drains clogged with bone chips, mucus, and tendons dangling like blackened string—I awakened to Bethany’s sweet face.

Standing next to my bed, still in her pajamas and robe, the initial uncertainty she had displayed during the ride back and subsequent evening in her new home seemingly lessened, she nervously shuffled her feet and softly said, “Good morning, Daddy.”

I swung my feet around, felt them touch the cold floor then pawed the sleep from my eyes before reaching for my wristwatch on the nightstand.  “What are you doing up so early, baby?”

“You said we could do our Christmas today,” Bethany said, beautiful eyes blinking at me with an innocence I wondered if I ever possessed.  “You said since we had to leave we could do it today.”

I reached out carefully, cupped the side of her face with my hand and gently stroked her cheek with my thumb.

“Is Mommy coming soon?”

“Yeah, honey, hopefully soon, real soon.”  I moved across the single main room, slipped into the bathroom and stood before the mirror over the sink.  I looked old, broken, tired.  But my daughter was back where she belonged.  Back with her father and away from all that madness.  And while I knew it would be a tough adjustment, knew it would be a slow process, eventually she would come to understand her father loved her, and had only done what was necessary for their survival.

I looked down, saw Bethany in the doorway, smiling.  She raised a tiny hand, showing me the ivory snow angel I’d gotten her.  “I know her secret,” she said in a small voice.  She carefully held the figure with one hand, wrapped her fingers around the base with the other and pulled the bottom free to reveal a silver blade, serrated and shining even in the dull fluorescent light.

I smiled, struggling to keep whatever semblance of sanity remained in me, knowing I needed to be strong for Bethany, because only the strong survive.

I moved to the bathtub and slowly pulled the curtain back.  “And I know yours.”

Salivating, Bethany’s lips peeled back to reveal strong white teeth, her small chest heaving excitedly, the snow angel clutched in her hand, the blade trembling in her grasp.

In the tub below, Bambi’s vacant eyes, covered now with a thick film, stared back at my daughter, my flesh, my blood, my little angel.  Forever alive.

Forever dead.

The End

What the Dark Does

By

Graham Masterton

“Mummy -- please don’t close the door.”

His mother smiled at him, her face half lit by the landing light, the other half in shadow, so that she looked as if she were wearing a Venetian carnival mask.

“All right.  But I can’t leave the light on all night.  Honestly, David, there’s nothing to be scared of.  You remember what granpa used to say -- dark is only the same stuff that’s behind your eyelids, only more of it.”

David shivered. He remembered his granpa lying in his open coffin at the undertakers, his face gray and half-collapsed.  He had thought then that granpa would never see anything else, ever again, but the darkness behind his eyelids, and that was scary.

Darkness is only benign if you know that you can open your eyes whenever you want to, and it will have fled away.

He snuggled down under his patchwork quilt and closed his eyes.  Almost immediately he opened them again.  The door was still open and the landing light was still shining.  On the back of his chair he could see his black school blazer, ready for tomorrow, and his neatly-folded shorts.

In the corner of his room, lying sprawled on the floor, he could see Sticky Man, which was a puppet that his granpa had made for him.  Sticky Man was nearly two feet tall, made of double-jointed sticks painted gray.  His spine and his head were a long wooden spoon, with staring eyes and a gappy grin painted onto it.  Granpa used to tell him that during the war, when he and his fellow soldiers were pinned down for days on end under enemy fire at Monte Cassino, they had made Sticky Men to entertain themselves, as many as ten or twelve of them.  Granpa said that the Sticky Men all came to life at night and did little dances for them.  Sometimes, when the enemy shelling was particularly heavy, they used to send Sticky Men to carry messages to other units, because it was too dangerous to do it themselves.

David didn’t like Sticky Man at all, and twice he had tried to throw him away.  But his father had always rescued him – once from the dustbin and once from a shallow leaf-covered grave at the end of the garden -- because his father thought that granpa’s story about Sticky Men was so amusing, and part of family history.  “Granpa used to tell me that story when I was your age, but he never made me a Sticky Man.  So you should count yourself privileged.”

David had never actually seen Sticky Man come to life, but he was sure that he had heard him dancing in the darkness on the wooden floorboards at the edge of his bedside mat:  clickety, clackety, clickety, clackety.  When he had heard that sound, he had buried himself even deeper under the covers, until he was almost suffocating.

What really frightened David, though, was the brown dressing-gown hanging on the back of his bedroom door.  Even during the day, it looked like a monk’s habit, but when his father switched off the landing light at night, and David’s bedroom was filled up with darkness, the dressing-gown changed, and began to fill out, as if somebody were rising up from the floor to slide inside it.

He was sure that when the house was very quiet, and there was no traffic in the street outside, he could hear the dressing-gown breathing, in and out, with just the faintest hint of harshness in its lungs.  It was infinitely patient.  It wasn’t going to drop down from its hook immediately and go for him.  It was going to wait until he was so paralyzed with terror that he was incapable of defending himself, or of crying out for help.

He had tried to hide the dressing-gown by stuffing it into his wardrobe, but that had been even more frightening.  He could still hear it breathing but he had no longer been able to see it, so that he had never known when it might ease open the wardrobe door and then rush across the bedroom and clamber up onto his bed.

Next he had tried hanging the dressing-gown behind the curtains, but that had been worse still, because he was sure that he could hear the curtain-rings scraping back along the brass curtain-pole.  Once and once only he had tried cramming it under the bed.  When he had done that, however, he had been able to lie there for less than ten minutes, because he had been straining to hear the dressing-gown dragging itself out from underneath him, so that it could come rearing up beside him and drag his blankets off.

His school blazer was almost as frightening.  When it was dark, it sat hunched on his chair, headless but malevolent, like the stories that early Spanish explorers had brought back from South America of natives with no heads but their faces on their chests.  David had seen pictures of them in his schoolbooks, and even though he knew they were only stories, like Sticky Men were only stories, he also knew that things were very different in the dark.

In the dark, stories come to life, just like puppets, and dressing-gowns.

***

He didn’t hear the clock in the hallway downstairs chime eleven.  He was asleep by then.  His father came into his room and straightened his bedcover and affectionately scruffed up his hair. “Sleep well, trouble.”  He left his door open a little, but he switched off the landing light, so that his room was plunged into darkness.

Another hour went by.  The clock chimed twelve, very slowly, as if it needed winding.  David slept and dreamed that he was walking through a wood, and that something white was following him, keeping pace with him, but darting behind the trees whenever he turned around to see what it was.

He stopped and waited for the white thing to come out into the open, but it remained hidden, even though he knew it was still there.  He breathed deeply, and stirred, and said, out loud, “Who are you?”

Another hour passed, and then, without warning, his dressing-gown dropped off the back of his bedroom door.

He didn’t hear it.  He had stopped dreaming that he was walking through the wood, and now he was deeply unconscious. His door was already ajar, but now it opened a little more, and a hunched brown shape dragged its way out of his bedroom.

A few moments later, there was a soft click, as the door to his parents’ bedroom was opened.

Five minutes passed.  Ten.  David was rising slowly out of his very deep sleep, as if he were gradually floating to the surface of a lake.  He was almost awake when something suddenly jumped on top of him, something that clattered.  He screamed and sprang upright, both arms flailing.  The clattery thing fell to the floor.  Moaning with fear, he fumbled around in the darkness until he found his bedside lamp, and switched it on.

Lying on the rug next to his bed was Sticky Man, staring up at him with those round, unblinking eyes.

Trembling, David pushed back the covers and crawled down to the end of the bed, so that he wouldn’t have to step onto the rug next to Sticky Man.  What if it sprang at him again, and clung to his ankle?

As he reached the end of the bed, and was about to climb off it, he saw that his dressing-gown had gone. The hook on the back of his bedroom door had nothing hanging on it except for his red-and-white football scarf.

His moaning became a soft, subdued mewling in the back of his throat.  He was so frightened that he squirted a little warm pee into his pajama trousers.  He looked over the end of the bed but his dressing-gown wasn’t lying in a heap on the floor, as he would have expected.

Perhaps Mummy had at last understood that it scared him, hanging up on the back of the door like that, and she had taken it down when he was asleep.  Perhaps she had taken it away to wash it.  He had spilled a spoonful of tomato soup on it yesterday evening, when he was sitting on the sofa watching television – not that he had told her.

He didn’t know what to do.  He knelt on the end of the bed, biting at his thumbnail, not mewling now but breathing very quickly, as if he had been running.  He turned around and looked down at Sticky Man but Sticky Man hadn’t moved – he was still lying on his back on the rug, his arms and legs all splayed out, glaring balefully at nothing at all.

Whatever David did, he would have to change his wet pajama trousers, and that would mean going to the airing-cupboard on the landing.  Mummy always liked to keep his clean pajamas warm.

Very cautiously, he climbed off the bed and went across to his bedroom door.  He looked around it.  The landing was in darkness, although the faintest of green lights was coming up the stairs from the hallway, from the illuminated timer on the burglar alarm, and that was enough for David to see that his parents’ bedroom door was open, too.

He frowned.  His parents never left their door open, not at night.  He hesitated for a few long moments, but then he hurried as quietly as he could along the landing until he reached his parents’ bedroom, and peered inside.  It was completely dark in there, although he could just make out the luminous spots on the dial of his father’s bedside alarm clock.

He listened.  Very far away, he could hear a train squealing as it made its way to the nearest station, to be ready for the morning’s commuters.  But when that sound had faded away, he could hear nothing at all.  He couldn’t even hear his parents breathing, even though his father usually snored.

“Mummy?”  he called,  as quietly as he could.

No answer.  He waited in the doorway, with his wet pants beginning to feel chilly.

“Mummy?”  A little louder this time.

Still no answer.

He crept into his parents’ bedroom, feeling his way round the end of the bed to his mother’s side.  He reached out and felt her bare arm lying on top of the quilted bedcover.  He took hold of her hand and shook it and said, hoarsely, “Mummy, wake up!  I’ve had an accident!”

But still she didn’t answer.  David groped for the dangly cord that switched on her bedside reading light, and tugged it.

“Mummy!  Daddy!”

Both of them were lying on their backs, staring up at the ceiling with eyes so bloodshot that it looked as if somebody had taken out their eyeballs and replaced them with crimson grapes.  Not only that, both of them had black moustaches of congealing blood on their upper lips, and their mouths were dragged grotesquely downward.  Two dead clowns.

David stumbled backward.  He heard somebody let out a piercing, high-pitched scream, which frightened him even more.  He didn’t realize that it was him.

He scrabbled his way back around the end of the bed, and as he did so he caught his foot and almost tripped over.  His brown dressing-gown was lying tangled on the floor, with its cord coiled on top of it.

He didn’t scream again, but he marched stiffly downstairs like a clockwork soldier, his arms and legs rigid with shock.  He picked up the phone and dialled 999.

“Emergency, which service please?”

“Ambulance,” he said, his lower lip juddering.  “No, no, I don’t need an ambulance.  I don’t know what I need.  They’re dead.”

***

The red-haired woman detective brought him the mug of milky tea that he had asked for, with two sugars.  She sat down at the table next to him and gave him a smile.  She was young and quite pretty, with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“You didn’t hear anything, then?”  she asked him.

“No,” David whispered.

“We’re finding it very difficult to work out what happened,” she said.  “There was no sign that anybody broke into your house.  The burglar alarm was on.  And yet somebody attacked your daddy and mummy and whoever it was they were very strong.”

“It wasn’t me,” said David.  He was wearing the purple hooded top that his uncle and aunt had given him for his last birthday, and he looked very pale.

“Well, we know for certain that it wasn’t you,” said the detective.  “We just need to know if you saw anything, or heard anything.  Anything at all.”

David looked down into his tea.  He felt like bursting into tears but he swallowed and swallowed and tried very hard not to.  He was too young to know that there was no shame in crying.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he said.  “I don’t know who did it.  I just want them to be alive again.”

The detective reached across the table and squeezed his hand.  She couldn’t think of anything to say to him, except, “I know you do, David.  I know.”

***

Rufus said, “Did they ever find out how your parents died?”

David shook his head.  “The coroner returned a verdict of unlawful killing by person or persons unknown.  That’s all he could do.”

“You must wonder, though, mate.  You know – who could have done it, and why.  And how, for Christ’s sake!”

David took a swig from his bottle of Corona.  The Woolpack was crowded, even for a Friday evening, and they were lucky to have found somewhere to sit, in the corner.  An enormously fat man sitting next to them was laughing so loudly that they could hardly hear themselves speak.

Rufus and David had been friends ever since David had started work at Amberlight, selling IT equipment.  He had been there seven months now, and last month he had been voted top salesman in his team.  Rufus was easy-going, funny, with a shaven head to pre-empt the onset of pattern baldness and a sharp line in gray three-piece suits.

David heard himself saying, “Actually… I do know who did it.”

“Really?”  said Rufus.  “You really do know?  Like -- have you known all along, right from when it happened?  Or did you find out later?  Hang on, mate -- why didn’t you tell the police?  Why don’t you tell them now?  It’s never too late!”

David thought:  shit, I wish I hadn’t said anything now.  Why did I say anything?  I’ve kept this to myself for seventeen years, why did I have to come out with it now?  It’s going to sound just as insane now as it would have done then.

“I didn’t tell the police because they would never have believed me.  Just like you won’t believe me, either.”

“Well, you could try me.  I’m famous for my gullibility.  Do you want another beer?”

“Yes, thanks.”

Rufus went to the bar and came back with two more bottles.  “Right, then,” he said, smacking his hands together.  “Who’s the guilty party?”

“I told you wouldn’t believe me.  My dressing-gown.”

Rufus had his bottle of beer poised in front of his mouth, his lips in an O shape ready to drink, but now he slowly put the bottle down.

“Did I hear that right?  Your dressing-gown?”

Trying to sound as matter-of-fact as possible, David said, “My dressing-gown.  I had a brown dressing-gown that used to hang on the back of my bedroom door and it looked like a monk.  I always used to think that when it was dark it came alive.  Well, one night it did, and it went into my parents’ bedroom and it strangled them.  In fact it garrotted them, according to the police report.  It strangled them so hard it almost took off their heads.”

“Your dressing-gown,” Rufus repeated.

“That’s right.  Sounds bonkers, doesn’t it?  But there is absolutely no other explanation.  Unlawful killing by night attire.  And there was something else, too.  I had a puppet that my grandfather made for me, like it was all made out of gray sticks, with a wooden spoon for a head.  Sticky Man, I used to call it.  When my dressing-gown went to murder my parents, Sticky Man jumped on me and I think he was trying to warn me what was going to happen.”

Rufus bent his head forward until his forehead was pressed against the table.  He stayed like that for almost ten seconds.  Then he sat up straight again and said, “Your puppet warned you that your dressing-gown was going to kill your mum and dad.”

“There – I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.  Thanks for the beer, anyway.”

“You know who you need to talk to, don’t you?” said Rufus.

“A shrink, I suppose you’re going to say.”

“Unh-hunh.  You need to talk to Alice in accounts.”

“Alice?  That freaky-looking woman with the white hair and all of those bracelets?”

“That’s the one.  Actually she’s a very interesting lady.  I had a long chat with her once at one of the firm’s bonding weekends.  It was down somewhere near Hailsham, I think.  Anyway, Alice is great believer in crustaceous automation, I think she called it.”

“What?  Crustaceous?  That’s like crabs and lobsters, isn’t it?”

“Well, I don’t know, but it was something like that.  What it meant was, things coming to life when it gets dark.  She really, really believes in it.  Like your dressing-gown, I suppose.  One of the things she told me about was this armchair that came to life when anybody fell asleep in it, and it squeezed them so hard that it crushed their ribcage.  It took forever before somebody worked out what was killing all these people.

“What she said was, it’s the dark that does it.  The actual darkness.  It changes things.”

David looked at Rufus narrowly. “You’re not taking the piss, are you?”

“Why would I?”

“Well, I know you.  Always playing tricks on people.  I don’t want to go up to this Alice and tell her about my dressing-gown if she’s going to think that I’m some kind of loony.”

“No, mate,” said Rufus.  “Cross my heart.  I promise you.  I’m not saying that she’s not loony, but I don’t think you’re any loonier than she is, so I doubt if she’ll notice.”

***

They met in their lunchbreak, at their local Pizza Hut, which was almost empty except for two plump teenage mothers and their screaming children.  David ordered a pepperoni pizza and a beer while Alice stayed with a green salad and a cup of black tea.

When he started talking to her, David realized that Alice was much less freaky than he had imagined.  She had a short, severe, silvery-white bob, and he had assumed that she was middle-aged, but now he saw that her hair was bleached and highlighted and she couldn’t have been older than thirty-one or thirty-two.  She had a sharp, feline face, with green eyes to match, and she wore a tight black T-shirt and at least half-a-dozen elaborate silver bangles on each wrist.

“So, what did Rufus say when you told him?” she asked, lifting up her cup of tea with both hands and blowing on it.

“He was all right about it, actually, when you consider that he could have laughed his head off.  Most of the rest of the team would have done.”

“Rufus has his own story,” said Alice.  David raised an eyebrow, expecting her to tell him what it was, but she was obviously not going to be drawn any further.

“You know the word ‘shoddy’?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Most people think it means something that’s been badly made.  You know, something inferior.  But it can also mean a woollen yarn made out of used clothes.  They rip up old coats and sweaters to shreds and then they re-spin them, with just a bit of new wool included.  Most new clothes are made out of that.”

David said, “I didn’t know that, no.”

“In Victorian times, these guys used to go around the streets ringing a bell and collecting used clothes.  They called them ‘shoddy-men.’  These days it’s mainly Lithuanians who pinch all of those bags of clothes that people leave out for charities.  They ship them all back to Lithuania, turn them into new clothes and then sell them back to us.”

“I’m not too sure what you’re getting at.”

Alice sipped her tea, and then she said, “Sometimes, those second-hand clothes have belonged to some very violent people.  Murderers, even.  And clothes take on their owners’ personalities.  You know what it’s like when you try on another man’s jacket.  It makes you feel as if you’re him.”

“So what are you trying to tell me?  My dressing-gown might have had wool in it that once belonged in some murderer’s clothes?”

Alice nodded.  “Exactly.”

“But it’s not like I put it on, and I killed my parents.  The dressing-gown came alive.  The dressing-gown did it on its own!

David suddenly realized that he was talking too loudly, and that the two teenage mothers were staring at him.

He lowered his voice and said, “How did it come alive on its own?  I mean, how is that possible?”

Alice said, “The scientific name for it is ‘crepuscular animation.’  It means inanimate objects that come alive when it begins to get dark.  Most people don’t understand that darkness isn’t just the absence of light.  Darkness is an element in itself, and darkness goes looking for more darkness, to feed itself.

“That night, when your light was switched off, the darkness in your room found whatever darkness that was hidden in your dressing-gown and filled it up with more of its own dark energy, and brought it to life.”

“I’m sorry, Alice.  I’m finding this really hard to follow.”

Alice laid her cool, long-fingered hand on top of his.  Her green eyes were unblinking.  “What else could have happened, David?  You said yourself that nobody broke into the house, and that you didn’t do it.  You couldn’t have done it, you simply weren’t strong enough.  And your puppet man came alive, too, didn’t he?  How do you think that happened?”

David shrugged.  “I haven’t a clue.  And why should my dressing-gown have come to life then, on that particular night?  It was hanging there for months before that.  My mother bought it for me in October, so that I could wear it on fireworks night.”

“Well, I don’t know the answer to that.  But it could have been some anniversary.  Perhaps it was a year to the day that somebody was murdered, by whoever wore the wool that was woven into your dressing-gown.  There’s no way of telling for certain.”

David sat for a long time saying nothing.  Alice continued to fork up her salad and sip her tea but he didn’t touch his pizza.

“How do you know all this?”  he asked her.  “All about this – what did you call it – screspusular stuff?”

“Crepuscular animation.  ‘Crepuscular’ only means ‘twilight.’  My great-grandmother told me.  Something happened to one of her sons, during the war.  There was a lot of darkness, during the blackouts.  So much darkness everywhere.  She said there used to be a statue in their local park, a weeping woman, on a First World War memorial.  Apparently her son and one his friends took a shortcut through the park at night, and the statue came to life and came after them.  Her son’s head was crushed against the metal railings and his neck was broken.

“Of course, nobody believed the other little boy, but my great-grandmother did, because she knew him and she knew that he always told the truth.  She made a study of inanimate objects coming to life when it begins to get dark, and she wrote it all down in an exercise book and that exercise book got passed down to me.  Nobody else in the family wanted it.  They thought it was all cuckoo.”

To emphasize the point, she twirled her index finger around at the side of her head.

“I don’t know what to think,” David told her.

“Just beware of the darkness,” said Alice.  “Treat it with respect.  That’s all I can say.  And if you see a dressing-gown that looks as if might come alive, then believe me, it probably will.”

***

He returned home late that night.  The bulb had gone in the hallway and he had to grope his way to the living-room.

The living-room was dimly lit from the nearby main road.  He lived on the ground floor of what had once been a large family house, but which was now divided into eight different flats.  His was one of the smallest, but he was very fastidious, and he always kept it tidy.  Up until the end of last year, he had shared a large flat with two colleagues from work, and that had been horrendous, with dirty plates stacked in the kitchen sink and the coffee table crowded with overflowing ashtrays and empty Stella cans.  Worst of all had been the clothes that were heaped on the floor, or draped over the backs of chairs, or hanging from hooks on the back of every door.

He switched on the two side lamps, and the television, too, although he pressed the mute button.  On the left-hand wall stood a bookcase, with all of his books arranged in alphabetical order, according to author.  In front of them stood two silver shields, for playing squash, and several framed photographs of his father and mother, smiling.  And then, of course, there was Sticky Man, perched on the edge of the shelf, staring at him with those circular, slightly mad eyes.

When Sticky Man had jumped on David on the night that his parents had been murdered, he had terrified him, but David had come to believe that he had been trying to warn him, and that was why he had kept him all these years.  Hadn’t Sticky Men always been helpers, and facilitators – entertaining the troops in Italy during the war, and carrying messages under shellfire?  When David was little, Sticky Man may have frightened him by coming alive during the night, but he had only been dancing, after all.

“Hey, Sticks,” he said, but Sticky Man continued to stare at him and said nothing.

***

Although he had eaten only one slice of his pizza at lunchtime, David didn’t feel particularly hungry, so he opened a can of Heinz vegetable soup, heated it up in the microwave and ate it in front of the television, watching Newsnight.

Afterward he showered and brushed his teeth and climbed into bed.  He tried to read The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo for a while, but he couldn’t stop thinking about Alice, and what she had said about inanimate objects coming to life when darkness fell.  He still couldn’t remember exactly what it was called.  Crispucular automation?

Just beware of the darkness. Treat it with respect.  That’s all I can say.  And if you see a dressing-gown that looks as if might come alive, then believe me, it probably will.

After his parents’ murder David had been brought up by his Aunt Joanie and his Uncle Ted.  They had bought him a new dressing-gown, a tartan one, but on the day that he had left home he had thrown it in the dustbin and he had never bought himself another one since.  He never hung any clothes from the hook on his bedroom door, not even a scarf.  Even before he had talked to Alice, he had always kept his clothes shut up in closets and wardrobes, out of sight.  No jackets were hunched over the back of his chair.  No shirts hung drip-drying in the bathroom, like ghosts.

He switched off the light, and closed his eyes.  He felt very tired for some reason.  Alice had disturbed him quite a lot, even though he found it very hard to believe everything that she had told him.  The statue of the weeping woman he found quite unsettling.  And he wondered what Ray’s story was?  Ray was so pragmatic, and so straightforward.  What on earth had appeared out of the dark to frighten Ray?

He slept, deeply, for over an hour, but then he abruptly woke.  He was sure that he had heard a clicking noise.  His bedroom was unusually dark, and when he lifted his head from the pillow he realized that the digital clock beside his bed was no longer glowing.  There were no streetlights shining outside, either.  There must have been a power-cut, which might explain the clicking noise that had woken him up:  the sound of the central-heating pipes contracting as they cooled down.

As he laid his head back down on the pillow, he heard more clicking.  More like clattering this time.  He strained his ears and listened.  There was a lengthy silence, and then a quick, sharp rattling sound.  He thought he heard a door opening.

He sat up.  Something was outside his bedroom, in the hallway.  Something that made a soft, dragging noise.  It sounded as if it were coming closer and closer, and then it bumped into his bedroom door.  Not loudly, but enough to give him the impression that it was big and bulky.

His heart was hammering against his ribcage.  “Who’s there?”  he called out.  “Is anybody out there?”

There was no answer.  Nearly half a minute went by.  Then suddenly there was another clatter, and he heard his door-handle pulled down.  His door swung open with the faintest whisper, almost like a sigh of satisfaction.

He waited, listening, his fingers gripping the bedcovers.  What had somebody once said about bedcovers?  Why do we pull them up to protect ourselves when we’re scared?  Do you think a murderer with a ten-inch knife is going to be deterred by a quilt?

“Who’s there?”  he called out, hoarsely.

No answer.

“For God’s sake, who’s there?”

It was then that the power came back on again, and his digital bedside clock started flashing green, and the central heating began to tick into life again, and he saw what it was that was standing in his bedroom doorway.

It was his navy-blue duffel coat, with its hood up.  It looked like a dead Antarctic explorer, somebody whose body had been found in the snow a hundred years after they had died.

Beside it, tilting this way and that, as if it couldn’t get its balance right, was Sticky Man.  Sticky Man must have opened the door to the closet, in the hallway, so that the duffel coat could shuffle out, and Sticky Man had opened his bedroom door, too.  There was nobody else in the flat, so who else could it have been?

It was then that he realized that on the night his parents had been killed Sticky Man hadn’t been trying to warn him.  Sticky Man had been probably trying to wake him up, so that he too would go into his parents’ bedroom, to be garrotted along with them.

“You traitor, Sticks,” he whispered, but of course Sticky Man wasn’t a traitor, because Sticky Man was a creature of the dark, just as much as his dressing-gown, and his duffel-coat.  It wasn’t them, in themselves.  They were only inanimate objects.

David’s duffel coat rushed across his bedroom floor toward him.   He lunged sideways across to the other side of the bed, trying to reach his phone.

“Emergency, which service please?”

“– dark --!”

Then a struggling sound, and a thin, reedy gasp, followed by a long continuous tone.

It was what the dark does.

The End

A Sense of Belonging

By

Mark Towse

I’m here because my wife killed my son, and I killed her.

The trail is as beautifully nondescript as any other. Trees gently sway in the autumn breeze, and the fading light creates stretched and ever-changing shadows on the ground. Wildflowers sporadically interrupt the damp greens and browns, providing a burst of colour to an otherwise monotone landscape.

Since being a kid, I’ve been mesmerised by the heady cocktail that woodland offers. Life has always scared me, but nature has never let me down. It’s the smell of rotting wood, fallen leaves, and a multitude of other odours that signify dying or death but somehow come together in an arousing earthiness that makes me feel glad to be alive.

Nature’s perfume is what my father used to call it.

My stomach flips as I think back to the innocence of home and the adventures with Dad. We’d just take off, leaving my older sister to be happily spoiled by Grandma, returning a couple of days later full of gusto. At dinner, my sister and I would be in hysterics as Dad jovially recounted his encounters: patches of earth that breathed, gigantic spiders, mysterious songs that played on the breeze. I always caught his indiscreet winks towards Grandpa. Yes, Dad never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.

He changed towards the end, though—his moods became frequent and intense, and he started making more solo trips. He used to say his dark cloud was approaching and that he needed to outrun it. I never used to know what that meant. One day, he never returned.

Mother died giving birth to me.

But I can’t waste time with melancholy and nostalgia. I need to reach the peak.

The ground is soft and heavy-going, but I’m well equipped, and I’ve done this plenty of times before trying to escape my own cloud. In my backpack is a hipflask of whisky and a cigar. I have every intention to die out here, but my last hours will be comfortable.

Upping my pace, I hear the faint thrum of a helicopter, knowing the police will be looking for me.

Christ. Not now. Not now!

As another hallucination sneaks up, I reach for the nearest tree, my vision becoming tarnished with speckles of crimson like red rain against a camera lens. My eyes squeak like marshy ground as I rub them, praying for normality to return. I count to three and open them, but greens and browns have merged into a familiar pinkish hue, and there she is, naked, stepping out from behind the oak tree, stroking her stomach. She’s as beautiful as I remember but as ugly as sin.

My wife.

A small head pushes against her chest; I see the outline of the mouth and nose. She screams as thick black veins network across her belly. The unfiltered smell of death taints the air as the movements inside her become even more violent, limbs stretching her flesh. She reaches inside and brings the baby out by an ankle. The child swings from left to right, squirming and biting at the air.

"Take it. It's yours," she cries, lobbing the child towards me.

Instinctively I reach out my arms, but the child and my wife are gone. I double over, disoriented, heart thumping. These hallucinations haunt me, take me to the edge of madness and rage. It's a while before my breathing calms. Finally, the stench of death fades, woody scents beginning to filter through like a dose of smelling salts.

The light is almost gone. This will be as good a place as any to fix the tent.

It takes two attempts, but I get a fire going, just like Dad showed me. He made it look easy; the way he caressed the tinder and gently blew as though breathing the fire himself. We'd sit and stare into the glorious blaze as he told more tales of the weird and terrifying.

God, I miss him.

I assemble the tent and scout for more firewood, absorbing the sounds that fill the forest. The lack of a hum from above provides some relief. Dad tried to teach me another trick that involved slowing the breath process and focussing on the land. He told me that if I let myself merge into the carpet of the forest—truly let myself go—I would notice things not immediately obvious. Occasionally, I claimed to see things just to appease him. But I never did. Today is no different.

I throw two large branches into the flames and reach into my backpack for Dad's hipflask, remembering his eyes glistening after he read the inscription: Best Dad in the World. If only I could be at that dinner table again, observing each crease on his face as he entertained with ridiculous tales. We were so close. Sometimes it felt like we were in sync, the way we'd rub our eyes simultaneously or scratch the top of our heads. My fingers come to rest on the lid of the whisky flask… no, I need to stay sharp.

The hypnotic dance of the warm flames becomes too powerful, and I throw handfuls of dirt on the fire and retire to my sleeping bag. Tomorrow I should reach the mountain peak, and my journey will end. I pray for the courage to do it before the police finally catch up with me.

I focus on the sounds of the crickets, the wind through the trees, and the occasional distant hoot of an owl. Dad said it was the only music he truly enjoyed. The skylight in the tent allows me a stunning view of the stars, and even with a murder charge hanging over me, they do not disappoint. It doesn't take long for the soporific soundtrack of the woodland to work its magic.

***

She's writhing in agony, face twisted in pain.

"Make it stop, Jon!" my wife screams. There's blood on her lips where her teeth have bitten through. She wrestles her panties off. "Help me!"

No signal on my phone. I need to get her to the hospital.

"Don't fucking touch me!" she screams as I attempt to scoop her up. Frantically, she fumbles at the buttons of her pyjama top. "Get this fucking thing off!"

Hands shaking, I work at the top as she bucks and twists on the white sheets. Bloodied saliva foams around her lips as her movements become even more frenzied, her screams impossibly louder. The lights flicker with a fizz. The first movement is something I put down to sheer panic, my mind working too fast and playing tricks. But then I see it again—a brief expansion of her chest that looks like a—

The lights go out. We are in darkness.

A high-pitched shriek from my wife makes my stomach churn.

"Rachel," I whimper.

As the lights flicker back on, I see the tiniest of hands—bloody, but well-formed—emerging from her vagina. Her screams continue, and I step back, blood pounding in my ears, fighting a sudden urge to vomit. It’s pulling itself through the opening. As the small head forces its way through, I take another step back. He looks at me, eyes fiery red. In that instant, there is an overwhelming connection that I can’t explain, an unbreakable bond. He struggles out of her until he is completely free. There’s no crying or screaming. His eyes exude a knowledge—an understanding—that he is right where he is supposed to be.

Rachel gapes at the child in terror and disgust, with no signs of happiness for her newborn.

“It’s a boy,” I say softly.

My son shuffles forward. When he reaches the end of the bed, he jumps down and slinks across the carpet to the wall. Scrambling up the wallpaper, he twists his head, gazing towards Rachel, his eyes constantly flickering between brown and flaming red, his gums occasionally showing razor-sharp teeth. A gurgling laugh emerges.

“What the fuck is it?”

“Our son,” I reply. “Our son, Jack.”

The child crawls back down and makes his way towards Rachel. Cowering on the bed, she thrusts herself against the headboard as if trying to drive through it.

“Keep it away!”

“Rach, he just wants his mum.”

“Keep it away, Jon!”

The child is almost upon her now, a wrinkly arm outstretched.

“He’s hungry,” I say.

“Jon!”

“It’s okay, love. Just give him what he needs.”

"Please, no!"

The child stands and steps forward, both hands reaching for her. He lets out a series of guttural cries that I know are pleas for acknowledgement, for love. I feel the connection deep within my heart, just like with Dad.

She twists her head as the baby reaches towards her left nipple. "I can't do this!"

Gentle suckling sounds emerge as the child presses its hands against her chest and takes in her sustenance. I'm overwhelmed with the beauty of the moment. There are tears in my eyes.

My wife's face is white. "Bring me some water," she croaks.

I run down the stairs excitedly, jumping the last three and swinging myself towards the kitchen. Over time it will just happen; the mother-child bond is inevitable. I wish Dad were here to see it. He'd be so proud. To think, all the adventures the three of us could have.

Something is wrong.

The glass falls from my grip. The noise of it breaking is distant, as though on another plane.

Head spinning, I run back upstairs to find Rachel rocking my lifeless son in her arms.

"What did you do?" I whisper.

"I did what was best."

***

I wake up shaking, drenched in sweat, eyes burning, teeth throbbing. The top of my head feels like it's swarming with fire ants. Aren't dreams supposed to be reserved for fiction, not memories of trauma? Pushing myself through the tent's opening, I suck in mouthfuls of cool autumn air. The sun's coming up; time to move on. But then I feel an ever so slight vibration. I close my eyes and lower myself back to the damp ground.

Beyond the crickets and the morning songs of birds, I can hear leaves rustling and the gentle moans of trees. I'm sinking into the soil, becoming part of the forest. From somewhere far away, I hear the trickle of a stream. Now I can feel something gently skipping across the ground, perhaps a deer. Smells filter through beyond that of moss, pines, and dung.

This is what Dad was talking about. It's happening! It's really happening!

The bitter scent of forest berries carries on the breeze. It's intoxicating, overwhelming. The air—it's getting colder, and the light filtering through my eyelids is becoming duller. The vibrations are stronger now. And is that the faint smell of cigarette smoke?

They're coming!

After packing up the tent and destroying any evidence of the fire, I sling the backpack across my shoulders and run. I'm not sure how close they are, but already I feel safer, weaving between the trees. A vivid memory: Dad and I sat on the rocks at the mountain's edge, each with a pen and scrap of ripped-out paper from the map we never used.

"What are those?" I asked him as he wrestled two silver containers from his backpack.

"Just write something down, son. From the heart. Your hopes, dreams, fears."

We buried the capsules between the two rocks and made our way home. Something he said on the way back caught me off guard. "When I'm gone, son, if you ever feel alone, I mean completely alone, promise me you'll come here. I'll save you a seat."

The undergrowth is getting thicker, and the morning dew glimmers like diamonds. I force my way under low-hanging branches and clamber over large rocks. There's a steep cluster of boulders ahead. I plan my route, inserting fingers into the crevices. The climb takes me sixteen feet from the ground, allowing me to see the top of the mountain and the terrain that stands between me and death.

"I did what was best," she had said, as though she had put down a dog at the end of a long life. How could she do it? So much hate for our child. I can still see the fear in her eyes as I marched towards her. She knew. A garbled noise left her lips as my hand wrapped around her—

Blood pounds in my ears. The top of my head feels like it's on fire, as do my eyes. Every nerve ending feels charged. Dank smells of the forest blow over me as the sounds of flora and fauna amplify once more. The faint but bitter taste of tobacco lodges at the back of my throat as I swallow.

I take in a slow breath.

Closing my eyes, I feel the pull of the forest and let it take me.

The forest begins to change, losing its purity and replaced with something more menacing. I recall Dad mentioning it once. Nature's dark side. As the breeze takes my mind across the forest carpet, I pass through giant webs and burrows. Crows, the size of eagles, perch on blackened branches and watch with beady eyes. A loud mechanical exhaling surrounds me, and random patches of ground lift like drawbridges, emitting huge clouds of breath, their earthy lids closing shortly after. Footprints. Some human, some not. A cigarette butt squashed into the mud. There's a ringing in my ears that's getting louder, unbearable.

"Hello, friend," a voice announces.

It's shapeshifting; human one second and something else the next, constantly morphing between the two forms. The human face is perhaps fifty years old, with greying hair and heavy-set lines engraved on the forehead. Leathery skin suggests years of sun damage, but it's almost a handsome face- a chiselled jawline and large dark-brown eyes. A cigarette hangs loosely from his lips. The other form appears younger—yellow eyes standing out against pallid green skin. Two horns emerge from its forehead, one approximately ten inches long, the other broken. Thin blue lips chew at the cigarette. The stranger steps out, flickering between the two forms. Legs end in hooves. A large forked tail intermittently darts between tree branches, occasionally coiling around them and shaking down the remaining leaves. In the creature's right hand is a crossbow and in its left, a bolt.

"You were easier to find than your father," he croaks. "You're giving off a lot of energy."

I panic, and in a blink, I'm back in the real world, perched on the cold rock, looking out towards the trees. The forest remains drenched in dullness.

This man, this thing, did he—kill my father?

There's urgency in my movement as I push forward again. I expect he can feel my anger and fear, but that's fine; I came here to die anyway. There's a bolt of intense pain across my head, and my itchy eyes are pleading to be rubbed, but I can't afford to lose any time. The ground is becoming wetter and more unstable. Earth moves and rocks tumble as I slowly scale the slope, using branches, grasses, and whatever purchase I can find. The top of the mountain is close, but the path is even more treacherous. I don't remember coming this way with Dad.

Ahead, mud and grass give way to a sheer rock incline, smooth apart from a speckle of slippery moss. A few feet above, it changes to mud again.

I plant my fingers into the green dampness but can't get leverage.

"I'm close, friend," the voice rings in my head.

With weary legs, I try again but lose my footing. I'm afraid to commit, fearing I may slide back down and be unable to stop. I can hear and feel his footsteps, the snap of his tail, and the tobacco leaves burning.

I let myself lean against the rock and catch my breath.

A whistling melody floats down from the mountain's summit. Dad always said the forest has its own tune, but this one was his; I remember it well. He would whistle the tune as we walked. Right now, I can't imagine a more beautiful noise.

I weigh up the risks, finally launching into a scramble up the left side of the slope. Through blind luck, my fingers find a gap in the rock beneath a dense patch of green, and I heave myself onto the smallest of platforms.

Behind me, a gentle tapping noise. Glancing over my shoulder, I expect to find my hunter, but scrambling up the mountainside towards me is a giant arachnid. Its shiny black body is at least six feet long, and its head and pincers stand three-feet high. Red eyes menacingly fix on me. I freeze, unable to move. It's getting closer, legs navigating the mountain easily and quickly. The tune continues to call me from above, but I'll never make it in time. The spider's approach slows as though it knows it has me cornered. Its front legs lift from the rock, hairs catching on the breeze.

The spider screams, an ear-piercing and otherworldly shrill, and I swear the mountain vibrates. Just as I prepare for the worst, the arachnid buckles and begins sliding down, a black bolt protruding from its thorax. Another bolt hits. The spider screams again, loses traction on the rock, and silently plummets to the ground. I expect the voice in my head even before it comes.

"Your head belongs to me."

Another searing wave of pain explodes across my skull and sets me off balance. Letting the mountain take my weight, I tentatively run my palm across the top of my head, finding two pronounced bumps. Blood trickles through my fingers as I bring them down for inspection.

Oh shit. What the—

Urgently, I jump to the next small platform and scale the mountainside. It's getting easier. Instinctively choosing what I believe to be the better path, I glide from one ledge to the next without hesitation, as if I was born to do it. Looking down to see if my hunter is closing in, I notice my left foot is no longer human, but a hoof—it's a disorienting image that forces me back against the damp rock, clinging desperately to what little grip it offers. Another wave of pain explodes across the entire front section of my head, causing me to lose my balance. I'm slipping.

"Too easy, Jon," the voice drifts from behind.

And I fall.

As I flail and kick, the mountain passes by in a blur of greens and greys, but now it's my life passing in front of me. The pain in my head is unbearable, as though my skull will shatter. I close my eyes and pray for it to be quick.

My fall is broken with a jolt. I open my eyes to find my two hooves perched precariously on a thick branch protruding from the rock. Now I'm racing towards the peak again. I'm fast, elegant, dancing across mud and rock. The whistling below is getting louder, but I reach the peak, hauling myself onto solid ground and taking in a mouthful of air.

The burning sensation in my eyes intensifies, and the top of my head feels like it's ripping in two. I scramble towards the two rocks in the distance, haunted by an image of Dad standing near the mountain edge, whistling his tune. Gently placing the backpack down, I retrieve the small hand-shovel from the outside pocket. The first layers of damp earth come away easily, but it quickly becomes heavy-going and more resistant.

Come on! Come on!

Vibrations rattle up my arm, and my fingers are on fire as I work the shovel over and over. Come on! Come—

Bones crackle in my hands as they twist and stretch out of shape. I can't contain a scream as a fountain of blood sprays across the rocks, sharp claws shooting from my fingertips. In searing pain, I force the claws to scrape desperately at the earth.

There—a glimmer of dull silver!

Desperately, I wrap my fingers around the neck of the container and heave it out. The lump in my throat is instant as I twist off the top and retrieve the note.

Dad. I wish you didn't feel like you had to get away from us.

Tears sting my eyes as I return the paper to the capsule.

"Your scent is like your father's," the voice whispers in my head as I begin to dig again.

Nerve endings sing, and more bones crack as my body launches into an agonising series of spasms. I feel my spine extending and twisting, pain echoing through me with each contortion. Part of me wants to give up and throw myself over the edge, but I carry on, digging at the adjacent patch of dirt.

Found it!

Two notes are coiled inside my father's capsule. He must have come back!

Scrawled across the yellowing section of the map is his familiar handwriting:

Son. It’s never about getting away from you. One day you’ll understand, but in the meantime, you must take for granted that I love you with all my heart and always will.

The other note is written on a piece of newspaper, dated years after our last trip:

I’ve always tried to protect you and give you a normal life, but we’re not normal; we are half-breeds, demons layered with human emotions. I raised you as a human to keep you under the radar, passing on the skills your grandpa taught me to keep the demon form at bay.

For centuries, the male has been born this way. Some mothers have been able to adapt, to love—like Grandma—but others like yours couldn’t even bear the touch of their child. She took her own life only minutes after you were born.

Being human is a trial. I’ve suppressed my urges for so long, and recently they’ve started to spill over. I’ve been weak, slipping in and out of the dark world to satiate my instincts. Humans can’t see us until it’s too late to escape—they have no window into the dark world. I planned to tell you all of this when you came of age, but I fear I may not make it back this time. A half-breed like us has found me, sniffing out my trail of rage and hate. He’s been promised immunity if he eliminates any that are not true descendants of evil. We walk a fine line between these two worlds, son.

I hope you understand and that you can forgive me.

I must go. I can smell him.

Dad xx

My fingers tremble as I turn over the piece of newspaper. The headline: Four more hikers go missing in the mountains.

Shaking uncontrollably, I let out a howl that carries over the woodlands. I hear things shrinking back into the flora, whispers fading into the distance. I stand eight feet tall at least, my body muscled and scaly. For the first time in my life, I feel in control.

It’s time to do what I came here to do.

Clawing at the earth, I throw handfuls to the side until the hole is deep. The hunter is close; the taste of tobacco in my mouth is getting stronger.

I reach inside the backpack. Momentarily, I think about moving some of the wrapped blankets aside to take one last look at my dead son, but instead carefully and quickly lower him into the hole and place the capsules on top.

“We’re all here now, Dad. The three of us. Our only adventure together, it turns out.”

The tail feels like cold steel as it whips against my cheek. Even before I can raise a hand to the burning wound, it comes at me again, slicing deep into my thigh, forcing a shriek of raw agony. Relentlessly, the tail sweeps across once more. This time I snap it out of the air and sink my teeth into it. With a short and inhuman cry, it’s whipped away. The first pale hand reaches over the mountain’s edge, fingernails as sharp as knives feeling their way across the earth for a secure spot as my hunter begins hoisting himself up.

My jaw gives out a series of cracks. Pain rips across my gums and the inside of my cheeks, leaving the bitter taste of blood. Running my tongue across the sharpness of my new teeth creates a spark of adrenaline, and I launch myself at the hunter, working my hooves into the ground. We land on the ground in a tumbling heap, him on top, claws scraping against each other’s toughened hides.

“Do you know how many like you I’ve killed?” the demon-hunter yells, placing his hands around my neck. I fight back, yet his skin is like armour, covered in layers of impenetrable scar tissue. “You’re weak, just like your father,” he yells, spittle spraying across my face, sizzling my skin.

His yellow eyes glow even brighter, the veins in his arms popping. I try to pull his hands away from my throat, but he’s too strong.

To the right, I see my father sitting on one of the rocks, his words echoing in my head. “I’ll save you a seat.”

My hunter’s thin blue lips curl into a smile, revealing layers of pin-like teeth, some broken, others with small bits of flesh hanging from them. More acid-like saliva spills across my face.

"Even your whore mother couldn't bear the sight of you," he spits.

I rip at his eyes, but they are deceivingly hard, as impervious as glass. He squeezes my throat even tighter. Blood pumps violently in my ears. The pressure in my chest becomes unbearable.

"I'll look in on your filthy human sister for you," he says.

The rock that crashes against my hunter's back sends him tumbling towards the mountain's edge. Dad? He plants his claws down just in time as the rest of him disappears over the side, tail whipping angrily above. I gulp air and force myself to my feet. His face twists in anger as he pulls himself back onto level ground and charges.

We lock halfway, a violent frenzy of teeth and claws. This time, I draw blood as my claws penetrate his arms and chest. Surprise registers in his eyes, perhaps a little fear, and I feed hungrily on the short moans he provides. My new body no longer feels cumbersome and strange, just incredibly powerful. As we trade blows, blood flowing, bones breaking, it no longer feels like a one-sided battle.

I don't see the tail coming but feel the rush of air behind and the snap of its coldness around my neck. He lifts me from the ground and slams me with a tremendous roar. An explosion of pain shoots down my right-hand side. I flip myself onto my back in time to see the hoof approaching. He stamps my face. Sharp agony. White light. My nose crumbles as I feel my skull driving into the damp ground.

"And what do we have here?"

Helpless, I can only listen to the footsteps as he walks towards the hole. I try to push myself up, but the pain is crippling, and I only manage to raise my head. The hunter is a blur as he crouches near my son's open grave.

"No, please, no," I moan. "Please, I—"

The unmistakable cry of my son floods the mountain. He's still pleading for his mother's love. The cries are raw and getting louder, approaching an ear-piercing crescendo that rattles trees and sends rocks toppling down the hillside. The hunter covers his ears and drops to his knees, begging it to stop. The ground shakes violently. I arch my neck in time to see my son's grave opening up. As the hunter offers a blood-curdling cry, he disappears into the soil as if swallowed by the mountain.

"My son,” I cry. “My son!"

The hunter's muffled cries dampen as I painfully drag myself towards the crater. Reaching out for the rim, I lunge forward over the hole's edge, just in time to see the hunter's yellow eyes sinking into oblivion, my dead son's tiny hand clamped across his mouth.

Silence.

Finally, I let myself collapse into the mud and sink into my own blackness.

***

I'm not sure how long I've been out, but the hole is no longer, the ground completely level as though never disturbed. Sunlight bounces off fresh puddles of rain. If it weren't for the pain, I would put it all down to a dream. As the cold breeze wraps around me, I know before I look towards my feet that I am back to human form. For validation, I run my fingers over the top of my head. Hauling myself up, I reach inside the backpack for the whisky.

"To my father and son," I say, lifting the flask high. And I drink.

Once again, I recall my father's stories, tales of beasts and devils that perished at his hands. It saddens me that nobody will get to hear mine. I head to the edge of the mountaintop and look down at the trees and jagged rocks so far below. Extending a leg, I hover my foot over the brink and begin counting down.

Three.

The sound of crickets gives way to the distant creak of trees and the approach of many boots shuffling across the forest floor.

Two.

There's a faint bark of a dog. More footsteps, voices.

One.

Humans. I can smell them now. Sunlight disappears. My eyes begin to burn. The top of my head begins to itch. Smiling, I step back from the edge.

The End

Down, Bitch

By

Richard Clive

1.

Sandwiched between teachers, Callie sat up on a stage seasonally decorated with Jack-o’-lanterns, staring at her Dr. Martens boots.

Her phone was set to silent, but the handset repeatedly vibrated in her trouser pocket. Beneath her, an ocean of kids stared up, many stifling smirks.

The room stank. Kids, Callie had read, got smellier when they hit puberty. She imagined a miasma of airborne pheromones hovering in the air, secreted from hundreds of over-active teenage glands. It disgusted her.

“Does everyone understand what the word transgender means?” said the lady standing on stage. Callie had forgotten her name—Ruth? Something like that. The school had organised Ruth’s visit. She was from that LGBT charity.

A boy with floppy hair raised his hand.

“Yes,” said Ruth, pointing at him.

“Means you’re bent, Miss,” he said, an ostentatious grin spread across his unpleasant face. “You know, a tranny.”

Kids sniggered.

Mrs. Jones’ head snapped round to pinpoint the boy, her expression a ferocious scowl. “Joshua Timmons, I will see you after—"

But the woman, Ruth, raised her palms in a placating gesture, and Mrs. Jones ceased her reprimand, though her stern eyes never left the boy.

“OK, well, that’s one view,” said Ruth. “But do you think it’s acceptable to call someone—”

“Bent, Miss?” said Joshua again.

“Yes, bent… or a tranny, as you eloquently put it?” said Ruth. “How do you think that might make another person feel?”

Callie wanted the stage to swallow her. If they couldn’t accept her, that was fine, but was it too much to ask to be left alone? Another trans pupil – Dominique – had left the school. Dominique was bullied and subsequently hospitalised after swallowing three blister packs of painkillers, prompting the school to arrange this special meeting.

Again, Callie’s phone vibrated in her pocket.

Joshua shrugged. “My dad said you can’t say nothing no more. He said it’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

More laughter.

“Being transgender doesn’t necessarily make you gay,” said Ruth. “Transgender people don’t identify with the gender they’re born into. Gender can be more complicated than simply identifying as a man or a woman, and many people find that hard to understand.”

Adam and Eve. Callie wondered if that’s what her dad thought too. Who thought the use of the correct pronoun could determine whether you went home suicidal? Yet a blatant slip of the tongue was a brutal weapon in the arsenal of her tormentors—of which Joshua Timmons was one.

“I don’t understand,” said Joshua.

Yeah, right. All the other kids knew, and better than the patronising adults preaching this shit. The teachers said Callie didn’t need to be present for this… charade. But she’d decided to face her aggressors head-on. She realised she’d made an awful mistake.

“My little sister’s twelve,” said Joshua. “Does this mean when Caleb, I mean Callie, needs the bathroom, he—sorry—she will be using the same toilets as my sis?”

Ruth sighed, composing herself. “I’m told arrangements for transgender pupils have been made, and you have no need—”

“But there’s only him,” said Joshua, pointing at Callie.

Ruth’s eyes widened as she struggled to mask her frustration.

“Oops. Meant her,” said Joshua, smirking. He shrugged and made eyes at Callie.

Callie shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, feeling like some circus freak. Forget Halloween; this was a fucking horror show. And that droning vacuum cleaner in the corridor! Like an animal wary of predators, Callie’s senses had become painfully acute lately, and the noise, combined with the frequent high-pitched whistles from the sports field, made her head pound.

Joshua refused to let up. “Is Callie a ladyboy?” he said. “I don’t want to offend nobody, but is it OK to say that, ladyboy?”

Laughter.

Callie felt dizzy. Ladyboy, ladyboy, ladyboy, the word whirled in her mind like a fairground carousel. The crowd, the loud noises, the smells, it was overwhelming. She felt nauseous, the assembly hall a sea of smirking faces.

Not all, though. Some students lowered their heads as if ashamed.

Joshua said, “Do they have urinals in the transgender toilets?”

They had made it worse, the teachers, her parents… Ruth. They’d tried to assert control and lost. Callie didn’t want to be described as transgender. She didn’t want labels. She wanted to be herself. That was all.

Again, her phone vibrated.

The rules forbade students from looking at phones in school. But Callie didn’t care. Looking was almost involuntary, a means of distraction, her phone a portal out of this… freak show.

She swiped.

The TikTok meme featured a bearded ballet dancer wearing a pink tutu. The dancer was performing a pirouette, one leg high enough to expose the pink skin of his brain-like scrotum.

She was halfway down the corridor before the teachers shouted after her. Snide laughter echoed in the halls, chasing her all the way to the playground, where, gasping the autumn air, cold and alone, she wept.

2.

She walked beneath the tall trees, the low sun flashing through the canopy above. Leaves fell around her, drifting in the gentle October breeze, carpeting the forest floor. But she knew this path well. She’d trodden it before. Many times.

Scruff lived deep within these woods, and Callie had saved a piece of bacon from breakfast for the old dog.

Out here, away from the stresses of life, her solitude was intensified, but that was a good thing. To feel alone amongst the many was one thing; to be left alone was another thing entirely, something she savoured. Whilst this nature reserve offered her a refuge, the words of her tormentors remained stark in her mind.

Ladyboy… Ladyboy… Ladyboy…

Ahead the path split in two like a wishbone. The familiar route skirted the forest’s edge, eventually emerging in the leafy suburbs of an affluent street in a well-to-do neighbourhood. She was about to take the path’s familiar right fork when some kindle of indecision caused her to stall—and veer towards the unknown track. Once she was on the alternative route, she thought no more about it. She needed to walk an uncharted path, to leave everything behind.

Lured by the scent of bacon, Scruff would find her, and this way, she suspected, led deeper into the wood where the dog roamed. The path was narrower here, the foliage thicker, thorns snaring the hems of her trousers, nettles brushing her shins, stinging like spite. Clouds of gnats swarmed around her face, too, attracted by her light perspiration, biting under her clothes.

In the gathering dusk, the moon’s pale ghost brightened, the low sun casting long shadows but none as ominous as her own. On she walked, losing herself in the maze of trees. She could escape Timmons and his malicious gang of hangers-on, but she could never escape herself. For years, she had suppressed her feelings, her desires, even what she considered her instincts, to try to adapt to the expectations of others—of her parents, her teachers, the narrow-minded bullies…

Society…

Ahead, a rabbit darted across the path, and above, birds rustled the branches of trees, tweeting their crepuscular songs. Callie felt her inner animal stir too, wrestling to be free. She craved a simpler existence, one unburdened by labels, of gender or otherwise.

Suddenly she felt vulnerable. These woods were no place for a young girl to be alone. Daylight was fading fast. She could psychoanalyse herself all she wanted, but that would do her little good if she tripped and fell in the dark. The night was already cold. She could freeze to death out here.

Then something stirred over to the left. She listened to the brittle sound of breaking twigs and watched as the huge dog emerged from the trees, a silken shadow sliding out of the deepest depths of the forest, his eyes moon yellow, tongue lolling, breath clouding the sharp autumn air.

Scruff…

The old dog was thin and rangy but reached as high as her waist. She guessed he was a half-breed, perhaps part Alsatian or husky. All mangy fur and bad breath. But he was her friend. Her only friend. She placed the bacon on the ground before her and knelt, inviting him to eat. She moved slowly because she didn’t want to startle him. He was old, and the last thing she needed was another nip, although it had been nothing that a tiny plaster hadn’t fixed. The dog hadn’t meant it, of course. Scruff had been hungry, that was all.

The dog considered the slice of bacon and approached with caution before a gentle whine sounded within the trees, and three pairs of yellow eyes appeared in the dusky forest behind him. The bitch and her two pups advanced, tentatively sniffing the air, each as lupine as their father.

Scruff picked up the bacon with his teeth and tossed it toward the two hungry pups, who proceeded to fight over the single rind.

Callie smiled for the first time in a long time, feeling at one with the little family.

Her pack.

3.

She walked through the maze of school corridors, avoiding the gaze of curious eyes and sideways glances.

Kids chatted in doorways and queued for class. They formed their own little groups. Callie played a game; she would make up collective nouns for every clique: The Goths, all black hair, makeup and piercings, she thought of as a Murder, as in a Murder of Crows.

Bookishly awkward, the Nerds skulked around the corridors, a bespectacled faction of bad teeth and hair. Despite their small number, Callie thought of them as a Herd, only because it rhymed: a Herd of Nerds.

Then there were the brainless, the bigoted and the cruel: the Popular Kids. In America, they would be called Jocks, wouldn’t they? Callie dreamed up other names for them: A Clap of Cunts was one.

Callie envied them all. Even the Herd. Because they were not alone. There was nothing worse than being alone, than having nobody. Her mother was supportive, yes, or thought she was. Her father, though, struggled with Callie’s issues. But neither parent really understood. How could they? They were in their late forties. Fucking ancient. Work and bills consumed their energies, fuelled by copious bottles of red wine. She hoped she died before she reached such a tragic age. The few friends she’d had disappeared, not because she’d started wearing eyeliner, but because Timmons and his bigoted gang had scared them off.

Still, she did have one true friend, and maybe now three more.

The teachers agreed Callie could use the disabled toilet. And that’s where she headed. The toilet was near the school’s reception area. She navigated the warren of corridors, her head hung low, hair obscuring her face.

Because Callie was able-bodied, she felt self-conscious using that toilet. Once, after she’d relieved herself, she’d opened the door to find a younger boy in the corridor, his legs crossed in the wheelchair in which he sat. She’d apologised. He’d said, ‘No need’, and that tiny gesture of empathy had caused her eyes to flood with tears.

Callie reached the toilet, locked the door behind her and went about her business. She was reapplying her eyeliner and fixing her hair when voices boomed outside, followed by sniggering.

She pressed her ear to the door and listened.

Silence…

She waited another full minute to be sure, and then slowly she pushed the creaking door open—and found Joshua Timmons on the other side. He thrust a mop dripping with dirty water into her hands.

“Trick or treat?” he said, beaming.

Shock clouded Callie’s ability to think with coherence, and she stood, rooted to the spot.

Timmons stepped aside and a camera phone flashed from behind him.

He laughed. “Well,” he said, “better get on with it.”

“What?” said Callie, realising she should have dropped the mop and hurried away.

“You’ve pissed all over the floor, dirty girl,” he said. “Thought you might have learned to aim better by now.”

The Clap surrounded her in a half-circle, laughing and snapping pictures with their phones.

“I got detention because of you,” said Timmons. “All because you woke up one day and put on a fucking skirt. Makes me sick.”

More laughter.

Tears welled in Callie’s eyes. She dropped the mop and hurried away. When she reached the door to the yard, she tripped on its ledge, triggering another bout of sharp laughter that cut as deep as jagged glass.

4.

After school Callie headed back into the forest where the pack roamed. Sometimes she worried that the council’s dog warden might remove Scruff from the woods. But dogs were supposed to be wild. After all, weren’t they descended from wolves? She made sure she wasn’t followed, though. If Timmons and his vile gang knew about Scruff, knew of her friend, they might report the dog as a stray out of pure spite, or worse, hurt him in some way.

She carried a small plastic bag she’d filled with beef cuttings she’d saved from her school dinner. The beef was tough and chewy, but she doubted either Scruff or his new family would complain. What else were they going to eat but the occasional mangy squirrel?

When she found the dogs, she fed them the scraps, careful to ensure all had an equal share. This prompted another mild scuffle between the two pups before mum intervened.

Scruff nudged Callie’s hands with his cold nose. Callie giggled, and the old dog turned to his little family as if to give assurance that she was, indeed, a friend, whereupon the other three dogs approached, allowing her to roughen their manes and stroke their fur.

“Thank you,” she said, tickling Scruff under his jaw as he nuzzled her.

The night was falling quickly, and Callie was grateful for the moonlight because she knew she had a long walk home. Kicking her way through the carpet of fallen leaves, she headed back toward civilisation. She missed the dogs already, but the wild woods were unsafe after dark. Tomorrow would soon be here, and she could visit Scruff again and bring his family more leftovers.

She left the nature reserve and joined a winding footpath leading to suburban streets. Still thinking of the little family of dogs, she turned to view the wooded hills she had left minutes ago. Silhouetted against the black sky, the forest lay silent and dark. Then a doleful howl sounded from within the trees, the cry sustained and eerie. She smiled, blew Scruff and his family a kiss and went on her way.

There were two routes that would take Callie home: around the park, or through it. Every instinct told her to go around. But that would take three times as long, and she had an assignment due the next day. She dared herself to go through the park, willed herself. Why should she be afraid? These days Joshua and his crew most often hung around outside the village shops anyway. The gang seldom visited the park.

Groups of younger children wandered the streets, dressed as witches and ghosts and vampires, their pumpkins glowing with fiery eyes and crooked smiles. The kids dawdled from door to door in their game of trick or treat. She envied those children. They could still dress as they wished without having to explain themselves to others, free from ridicule.

The air was filled with the erratic bursts of flowering fireworks and the smell of drifting bonfire smoke. Guy Fawkes Night was only days away, and she wondered how the pups might fare, both now and during the deafening festivities to come.

The park’s path wound through grass turned mulchy with rotting leaves, the trees bare, the branches reaching like skeletal hands toward the star-studded night sky.

By the time she spotted the gang at the park’s far side, it was too late. They were perhaps a dozen in number and forty feet away. Crowded around the swings, their cigarette embers glowed, clouds of smoke and vape fumes obscuring faces shadowed under baseball caps and hoods.

She’d not heard them. Damn the fireworks, and the bonfire smoke that masked their cheap deodorant and sour sweat.

If she attempted to turn back, they would likely notice and follow, and anyway, to retreat was to admit she was a coward, and she still had too much pride to give them that satisfaction.

Head bowed, she marched with purpose along the path stained by globs of bubble gum. A steel fence encircled the playground the gang occupied. She doubted it would slow them. If she walked quickly enough, though, perhaps she could pass and reach the park’s exit before they were alerted to her presence. But move too quickly, and they would notice her.

Heart pounding, Callie hurried, wishing she was invisible. All she ever wanted was to be true to herself. All this attention, the assembly lecture, the counselling session for the whole fucking school, it was bullshit.

“Hey, look who it is,” someone shouted.

Callie turned. Wearing a baseball cap and hoody, the younger boy sat at the top of a climbing frame, pointing, as if he’d been employed as a lookout.

A tall boy leaped the playground fence ahead, cutting her off. She glanced behind her and saw two other hooded silhouettes approach. They surrounded her in seconds as might hyenas an injured fawn.

“Where you off, darling?” said Joshua Timmons, walking toward her. “Cruising? Meeting someone off Grinder?”

They laughed, all of them. They blocked her escape in every direction, some wearing cheap plastic Halloween masks too small to hide adolescent faces.

Callie tried to find her voice, but she was struggling to catch her breath. She was trembling too. “P… please,” she said. “I have to go.” Adrenaline was supposed to make you stronger, wasn’t it?

She tried to step around them, but their unit swayed as one, jostling before her. But their hostility was still a perceived threat rather than a direct one. She guessed she could break through them if she burst into a flat-out sprint, but that might escalate the situation. The last thing she wanted was to trigger their predator instincts, to become prey.

“Need to check you got your Tampax,” said Timmons, sneering. He snatched her bag and began rifling through her belongings. He nonchalantly tossed her schoolbooks onto the muddy ground, laughing as he did. “What we got here? Pens, markers, girls’ deodorant…”

She should’ve run.

“Ah, what’s this?” Timmons produced her lipstick. “Very fetching.” He threw it over his shoulder and shoved her hard in the chest. “Whoa, look, we’re at second base already.”

Callie fell back, then was immediately pushed forward by another gang member behind her. She stumbled, struggling to stay on her feet, lurching back toward Timmons. Pain flashed at her temple as it smashed into the bony ridge of Timmons’ nose. He bent over in pain, attempting to stem the bleeding.

Callie had never intentionally hurt another person physically and was compelled by the need to apologise. “I didn’t mean—"

“You filthy fucking queer,” spat Timmons—and punched her in the face with his already bloody fist.

Black flowers bloomed, swarming her field of vision. Her nerves registered the blow a split second later, and she fell to her knees, holding her face. But the shock was the worst thing, the invasiveness of such a violent attack.

Timmons was a notorious troublemaker. He was fifteen years old but possessed a lithe, sinewy physique. He’d been suspended twice for beating up other kids. Callie could never attempt to fight back. Anyway, there were ten of them at least. She cowered as Timmons raged at her.

“Was only having a joke,” he snarled, wiping blood from his nose. “And you fucking headbutt me.”

It was a lie. She knew it; he knew it; they all knew it. It was part of their sick game.

From the wet ground, she stared up at her attacker. Against the luminosity of the distant streetlights, Timmons appeared as a leering giant silhouetted against the dark sky. She felt dizzy, her face raw with pain.

“Headbutted by a fucking queer,” said a weasel-faced gang member, bursting into laughter.

“Fuck off,” Timmons said to his mate before he turned his attention back to Callie, pushing her onto her back with the sole of his shoe. “Down, bitch.”

Callie attempted to scrabble away spiderlike on her back, mud oozing under her fingernails.

“I ought to beat the shit out of you for what you just did,” said Timmons, observing the blood on his hands. “If you weren’t a—”

“—chick with a dick,” said the weasel.

“Why don’t we see if she’s got one?” said another boy, rolling a skateboard back and forth under his shoe.

Before she could think, a boy with sulphurous breath grabbed her from behind, while Timmons yanked at her trousers. She struggled and kicked. But the more she fought, the harder they pulled.

She turned on her stomach, feeling wet mud smearing her face, tasting the iron-rich blood on her lips. A wafting pile of nearby dog shit caused her to retch as the boys unfastened her belt, and she squirmed, too, when her arm brushed a used condom littering the filthy ground. The boys laughed, but the sound was strangely distant, and she blinked, blinded by bright white flashes from camera phones, her vision a blurring reel of cruel faces; hooded silhouettes; Halloween masks; laughing; white teeth; swirling orange streetlights; the yellow moon…

The Moon.

Many hands grasped at her. She heard the cotton of her blouse tearing.

Someone said, “Go on, Josh. See if it’s got a dick.”

She’d read about rape victims, how some escaped the immediate humiliation and depravity by disappearing deep inside themselves: an inner-body experience. They burrowed and hid, to survive. Callie burrowed and hid—and found the animal repressed.

The boys held her arms and legs, pinning her to the ground. The boy at the business end of her feet—Timmons—pulled down her trousers, revealing her underwear, stripping her of the last of her dignity.

While her limbs were trapped, her eyes were free; they rolled and again found the moon. It glowed as yellow as Scruff’s eyes in the dark. It was alone in space, yet its lunar phases influenced so much here on Earth: the tides, the wind, the seasons…

A distant, familiar howl carried in the night, and Timmons threw back his head and howled too in mock imitation.

Callie’s gaze locked on the moon as if drawn toward its gravitational force, as if the planetary mass exerted its own cosmic will. Her shaking became a series of spasms and jerks, and she feared she might enter a seizure. Her pain had been suppressed for so long, and it surfaced in agonising waves, every pit of her skin twinging, her blood burning. Then a memory returned to her: her father saying, take off that bloody dress. That had broken her heart.

Other things broke now.

Go on, Josh. See if it’s got a dick.

She became aware of her muscles contorting, bone cracking and stretching, cartilage reforming and knitting itself together whilst the keratin of her nails sprang from her fingers like switchblades. Her jaw unhinged, and a guttural roar exploded from the shell of her as her claws raked across soft skin, unzipping the boy.

The gang backed away, their stupid faces vapid with fear.

She was upright now, poised on her powerful haunches, hot breath ragged, bursting in the cold night air.

Timmons lay on the ground, his innards spilled like rotten, faecal-smelling fruit. He made a doggish sound too, a quiet yelping. His friends screamed as they fled.

A distant howl travelled across a night sky lit by the brightest moon, and under it, Callie was reborn, running as freely as the boy’s blood seeping into the marshy ground of the now-empty park. On she ran, seeking the safety of her pack.

The End